Getting Settled in Albuquerque
In just one day after arriving in Albuquerque, I secured myself a cheap apartment, unpacked my portable record player and a few other basic items I had taken with me, and my road trip partner jumped onto a plane back to Philly.
I lived in an old, Hispanic neighborhood and became acclimated to the Southwestern lifestyle right away. In fact, I grew to love it there! The people seemed more friendly and life was slower and considerably more worry-free than in the neurotic, fast paced Northeast. Albuquerque reminded me more of my country hometown in rural South Jersey (if you don’t believe that exists, check it out, “Vineland”).
There were many Albuquerque cultural customs I soon came to revere.
One was sitting on the front porch after dinner, but before sunset, shooting the breeze with my apartment manager, a sometimes gruff Air Force vet who perceived himself (as did I after a while) to be a wise old man with many “philosophizing” views. We hung out chatting and smoking cigarettes (which successfully helped wean me off the wild stuff so later I could quit smoking altogether). We watched at dusk the various neighbor couples stroll by arm in arm and greet us in Spanish as they walked slowly, followed by another couple and another in their wonderful “paseo” around the block, each then retiring to their own porch to in turn greet the others.
I came to love the wonderful local Mexican food, which I had never eaten before, that is, once I got used to it. At first, I ordered chili relleno, thinking a green pepper stuffed with cheese would be mild, but after one bite, I was so visibly on fire that the waiter rushed to me with a six pack of small, “pony” sized bottles of Corona beer to extinguish it!
I enjoyed the occasional Saturday nights out on the town, a true cultural phenomenon. Believe it or not, Albuquerque still had those saloons like right out of old Western movies, with the swinging doors, card tables, a dance floor covered in wood shavings, big long bar, piano player, cowgirl dressed waitresses, and a set of hooks on the wall inside the front doors to hang up your gun and holster! Yes, the real cowboys sauntered into the city once a week from the range, along with several of the nearby Native American inhabitants. Fortunately, no shooting took place inside the bar but pretty much every Saturday you could hear gunfire shot into the air as the drunken cowboys stumbled off into the night!
One time a cowboy invited me to come watch him the next day at the weekly Sunday rodeo (pronounced “row-DAY-oh”). I had never been to one before, so of course I accepted and it was there I witnessed, in near horror, as he tried to hang onto the back of a rampaging, wildly kicking bull (crazy!). I also made the mistake of sitting in that blazing desert sun for four hours, which resulted in a third-degree sunburn and painful blisters all over my face. It was then that I quickly learned the practical worth of a wide brimmed cowboy hat and went directly to the nearest dry goods store to buy a “Stetson”, which I wore gleefully as an honorary cow pusher for the rest of the summer.
Another great custom I came to love was Wednesday night picnics at the Albuquerque Dukes baseball games. (The Dukes were the AAA or highest minors team of the LA Dodgers and I recall I got to see Dusty Baker, Ron Cey, Steve Garvey and other future all-stars before they made it to the big league.) However, the major attractions of Wednesday night games were the $1 hot dogs and beers! The stadium had general admission, unassigned bench seats, so others in my apartment complex and I would sit facing each other, spreading out a blanket on the row between us and enjoying the picnic food that each of us brought, along with the cheap dogs and suds. The environment was breathtaking, a beautifully manicured bright green grass field sparkling under dim lights at dusk, with the outfield only having a short fence so we could see the mountains and the gorgeous colors of the painted desert as the sun went down. Sometimes, we even interrupted our socializing to watch the game!
My Serene and Uneventful Outing
with Rattlesnakes and Scorpions
One day, I decided to drive out to a very remote, beautiful, and serene part of the desert where I had hoped to walk around and spend some time in deep thought and meditation about my life path. I parked my car by the side of the road and when I got out could not see any other cars in any direction all the way to the horizon.
I lazily began to walk into the desert, observing the many different cacti and other unique plants, drawing in their hypnotic smell, and sat down for a while, enjoying the silence and a lack of any urban landscape electromagnetic waves buzzing in my ears. After a calm and introspective time there, I got up, walked back to my car and drove home, thinking what a peaceful experience I had. Until, that is, I returned and told my apartment manager what I had done that afternoon, to which he immediately barked, “Are you NUTS?! Don’t you know there are lots of rattlesnakes and scorpions out there that could have bitten you! Being that far away from civilization (and without a cell phone in those days) you would have zero chance of getting any help before the poison kills you!” He ran to his room and shoved at me one of his extra snake bite kits and told me to never go out to the desert again without it. I looked at this snake bite kit he had handed me, and it was essentially a razor blade and a suction tube! At that moment, I decided that was the last trip out to the uninhabited desert for me!
As time passed, I experienced many memorable, impactful events during that summer but now eight weeks had slipped away and I still hadn’t sufficiently figured out where my life was headed. I also was finally under some pressure to get my term paper done which would represent my entire grade (and I needed an A+ if my college was to give me credit and I was able to show my academic advisor and my parents, regardless of the fact they didn’t pay for this trip, that I didn’t waste my summer!).
So, I took a couple days off work wrapped around a weekend and holed up in my small apartment scribbling notes on pieces of paper scattered all around me, getting nowhere fast until I prayed for guidance, somehow tapped into a muse, got a brainstorm and wrote the entire paper late one night from 2 to 6 am, in longhand script (no laptop computers then). It was ostensibly a journal written by Columbus as he floated in and out of time and experienced U.S. history. A mumble jumbled farcical history of the U.S. from the Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria to Little Big Horn to the moon walk, all in Kurt Vonnegut style. It was far from a traditional term paper, so I was really nervous about it, but handed it in anyway as there was no time left. To my shock, the professor returned it with an A+ across the top, along with a rave review.
I was relieved that at least one of my goals for the summer had been achieved. However, my main objective of some inner “realization” and a plan moving forward was still unfulfilled. And I had only a couple more days left in New Mexico.
My Remarkable Experiences
at the Santa Domingo Pueblo
As I was packing up my things for my long solo ride home, I took down my black and white Ansel Adams photo poster of a small Indian Pueblo, which I bought at a gallery in the lovely, artsy town of Santa Fe, and I noticed it said in the corner in small print, “Santo Domingo”. I asked my apartment manager about its location and he said it was only about an hour or so away. So, I decided to spend my last full day going out to visit Santo Domingo.
My car had no GPS navigation system back then and after driving well over an hour I felt marooned in a bleak, barren stretch of desert, no settlement in sight. Suddenly, I caught the faintest glimpse of square shaped adobe houses on the horizon. As I got closer to what I presumed was my objective, a solitary Indian appeared out of nowhere right smack in the middle of the road! He waved me over to the shoulder and proclaimed bluntly that visitors were not permitted to drive up to the Pueblo and that I had to park here and walk, so I obediently did. When I got to the Pueblo, about three quarters of a mile away, I had my camera hanging from my neck and I was greeted with further disdain. No cameras were allowed! (I initially thought that it was to preserve their privacy and their likenesses, but I was later told that it was a common belief in Native American culture that taking photographs with a camera somehow would capture their soul!). I had to walk all the way back to my car to leave my camera there and I began to think these were all bad omens and maybe I should just leave. But I had a sense there was a reason Ansel and his photo had beckoned me there, so I persevered and walked back to the village a second time in the hot midday desert sun.
When I entered the village, I immediately felt oddly out of place, as the only white man there. The Native Indians did not seem to care though and went about their business, many with makeshift tables or booths trading their wares. I came upon the local jeweler, a weather-beaten, wrinkled old man with white hair pulled back into a ponytail. He sat cross-legged on the ground behind a slab of wood placed on two blocks at either end. Scattered about on this table were numerous silver rings of unusual, primitive design. I wasn’t that impressed since I had seen many like these at trading posts in town, until I noticed the ring on the man’s left hand. I tried to ask the price for it but he either didn’t know what I was saying or he chose not to respond. I then pointed to it and, after pausing, the man in turn pointed to the ring on my left hand (a fairly plain gold band). He then started to remove his ring and handed it to me, when I realized he was asking me to trade. So, we swapped rings. Suddenly a broad smile came across his chiseled expressionless stone face. (Probably thinking he got the best of that transaction, getting gold for silver.) At the same time, a smile appeared on my sunburned face (as I realized I got a genuine American Indian ring, worn by the maker, an elder of the tribe—priceless!).
Putting together my term paper in a few hours before the deadline may have kind of felt like a miracle, but little did I know that a true miracle was about to happen. The marketplace stood just outside the town’s perimeter. I began to hear some strange instruments, shaking bells and chants coming from the center commons of the village, but I could not see inside as it was surrounded by the houses. The old man then grunted and waved one arm in a motion toward the inner square, almost literally pushing me in that direction. When I entered the square I was taken aback by the intense vibration and cacophony of music and noises, as well as the images of about a dozen natives with strangely black and white painted faces dancing in a circle, playing odd looking instruments, chanting rhythmically and wearing very odd outfits. When I say odd, think of something like this.
They alternatively lifted their heads back, looking above and pointing to the heavens. I muttered to myself, “What’s going on here?” At that moment, a young tribal member, who I hadn’t noticed standing next to me, blurted out, “it’s our annual rain ceremony. We hold it only once a year, on this very day. You are lucky and blessed to be here!”
“Wait a minute”, I thought. It hadn’t rained an inch in the area all summer and there was not one cloud in the sky anywhere, in any direction. But I was captivated by the energy and sanctity of this event, so I stayed and watched a little longer. Suddenly, appearing out of nowhere, one small, black cloud floated overhead, stationary over the circle of dancers—and it began to rain! I thought I might be hallucinating but I had been clean and dry for months. (By the way, when searching online about this rain dance, I found stories of other visitors who also recounted their having seen it rain during such a dance!) When the rain stopped, I turned to walk back to my car and the young man smiled at me and slightly bowed his head as if to remark, “You had any doubts?”.
But that wasn’t yet the freakiest part! As I walked back towards my car, I noticed the rain drops had fallen only in the center of town where the dancers were. Once I stepped beyond that area, there were no visible signs of rain on the sand and when I finally got to my car, there was no sign of any raindrops on it either. I drove home stunned by the day’s events.
When I got back, I called the National Weather Service to see if they had any record of rain falling in that area of the desert today and they said no! I wondered what this experience was about and reflected on it. Here, on the last full day on my vision quest, I saw and experienced what can materialize when one has a clear, passionate desire or goal, plus a strong belief and connection with a higher power (a lesson I would later re-learn at various troubling times in my life).
But That’s Not the Whole Point of this Story
We all have certain times in our lives that serve as “turning points”. Those moments, days, weeks, months or even years that that set us on the course we seek.
I did get dry that summer and repositioned my head and heart back on the right track towards pursuing my education, which ultimately led me to law school—and the rest is history!
I also discovered something much deeper about life, something that I had heard before, but not fully understood. Life is a journey to be lived and enjoyed. As I often say, our life’s experiences and the wisdom we gather from them, communicated to our heirs, are the best legacy we can leave them (second only, of course, to a good estate plan 😉). Take the time to share some of your life’s unique experiences with your loved ones.
