Super Bowl Sunday

While most of the country is hunkered down on the couch in front of their big screen TVs, with beer, chili, chips, pizza and every other traditional Super Bowl fare, we are making our way down Burro Alley in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Santa Fe is the capitol of New Mexico. I love this city. Its full of art, artists, museums, boutiques, history, architecture, sculptures and restaurants. I am concerned with the latter. Burro Alley is where I found a French restaurant and bakery called, “Café Paris.” We found it last August. The alley is closed to traffic, so in the summer they have tables and umbrellas set up for outdoor dining. I can see the outdoor tables are no longer there. But there is a sign that says they are open!

This is the only French restaurant I’ve been where everyone spoke French. (Except of course, in France) We are hastily shown to a table by the window. There is one other couple in the restaurant. They are Germans living and working in Albuquerque. The waiter hurries again to hand us some menus and then hurries to the next room to help position a TV in that dining room. Seven French speakers are opening their wallets and putting money in a pool… they are betting on the SUPER BOWL! Sitting at a long table with glasses of Perrier or Red Wine they have clearly chosen sides. The men want the Steelers and French Polynesian wife of the owner of the restaurant is choosing the Seahawks just to make it interesting. Every time one of them leaves the room she calls to the back, “Touch Down Seattle!” This works one or two times and they come scurrying out to see the score. After that, they are wise to her tricks. She is laughing and joking with everyone. She looks over at us and suggests we join them. She is a traditionally built Polynesian woman. Her long black hair is pulled back in to a thick pony tail. She has a silk flower behind her ear. Her husband is in serious French conversation with two other men at the table. She comes up behind, puts her arms around him and kisses him loudly on the cheek. He continues talking, not missing a single beat in his discourse.

My favorite sins are French Pastries. The Café Paris has a dessert case full of irresistible temptations. I choose a 'Tarte Tatin'(apple tart) and my husband can’t decide between the a Tarte Citron(lemon tart) or la Fôret Noire(Black Forest). Finally, the Black Forest wins. Unfortunately, the Steelers are winning too. Our island girl is not so happy because she is losing her bet.

My idea was to get out of the house, away from all the Super Bowl hype. I thought I would be safe at a French Restaurant. I was wrong. But at least I got to watch un match de football américain avec les français.

Volcanoes

From the upstairs bedrooms of our house, looking to the west, there are seven extinct volcanoes. Someone told us they are called the Seven Sisters. More accurately, these are ancient lava spouts. Long ago before man, molten lava oozed from the earth’s hot core in this area and many others around Albuquerque.

I had been very curious about these bumps on the western landscape. One afternoon we decided to check them out.

I can assure you (and take great comfort myself in knowing) that these spouts have not seen any volcanic activity in recent centuries. They are quite asleep, if not just plain dead. RIP, please!

The Grass Is Always Greener...

“Just inland from Narbonne, where the train stops for half an hour, is a village where you can buy Bob Blooming saddles and saddle soap and bridles from a man who, in his head, lives in the American Far West. He teaches cowboy-style riding: how to bring your horse to an instant standstill from a flat-out gallop. There is no practical application for this skill, unless you have it in mind to go for gallops on the British Airways runway at Perpignan airport, or impress girls at the beach.” -----Helen Stevenson, Instructions for Visitors: Life and Love in a French Town.

Somewhere in south of France, there is a man who would gladly trade places with me. He spends his time longing for the American West, grooming horses and living like the Ringo Kid. I spend my days scented with lavender, learning French and painting my western kitchen the colors of Provence. The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.

Ms. Stevenson obviously has never attended a rodeo. The skill of bringing a horse to an instant standstill is just one of the many skills in horse riding and cattle roping competition. I’m sure my reverse twin in Narbonne could have told her that.



John Wayne plays a character named, "The Ringo Kid" in his first talking western.

Ex-pats

Today I got an email from Amazon Books. They like to suggest books and CDs based on purchases I have made before. I always like to look through these lists. I’ve noticed a pattern in the genre of books they suggest. There seems to be a good deal of fictional or non fictional accounts of Americans (and sometimes the British) buying houses in France. The story is always the fulfillment of a life long dream of living in a charming French village filled with quirky and interesting characters. I have read several of these kinds of books. But now there seems to be a flood of these kinds of novels. There were 15 on my list today. I think France is being invaded by American ex-patriates, buying up real estate and then writing about it.

I wonder if there are any French ex-pats living here in the states and writing about it? And would those books sell in France?

I know there are French people here in New Mexico. Just this weekend, I met a French woman who told me she had ‘escaped’ from Paris when she was 18 and had lived all over the world. She was selling her photographs at a Winter Farmer's Market here in Albuquerque. I didn't ask her if she was happy that she had landed in the western desert. From her photos, she had found many interesting things here to photograph. Three of her pictures are featured in a New Mexico 2006 calendar. I wonder if she's bought a house? I wonder what she'd tell French people about her life here.

Petroglyphs

Our neighborhood is next door to Petroglyph National Park. A petroglyph is a figure carved, pecked, chipped or abraded into stone. In this case all the Petroglyphs are carved into volcanic boulders. I’ve always been fascinated with this ‘rock art’ carved by some ancient peoples thousands of years ago. I’ve sought out rock art sites in several states to take pictures and just to stand there and wonder about what some prehistoric man was trying to say. Or was it just some ancient adolescent graffiti?

My daughter goes to Petroglyph Elementary School. When we first enrolled her I thought it was really lame that their school mascot was a Macaw. What did a tropical bird have to do with Petroglyphs or the south western desert of New Mexico? Silly me. I found out on my first hike through the boulders in the national park. There wasn’t just one obvious parrot on a rock… but there were many. The ancient ancestors of the Native Americans valued the feathers of the macaw. There is evidence they traveled and traded with the Indians in the jungles of Mexico and South America.

Also I found the famous Kopepelli. He’s the happy and often well endowed little flute player you can find reproduced on any South Western Décor. Well, on home décor they leave off the part that shows he’s happy to see ya.



Kopepelli...he's happy to see you.




An ancient drawing of a macaw

Albert and Me

This was fun to do. Gave me a good excuse to figure out how to put pictures on my blog. I'm just about ready to tackle this Blog project. I've taken a few pictures and come up with a few observations. Today for example,I climbed two extinct volcanos. Then I ate at this great New Mexican restaurant located in an old hacienda in Albuquerque. They have the best bottled salsa ever, in my humble opinion. Both of these adventures will be featured in up coming tales. I just can't wait until everyone goes back to school and work!

Overheard...

This little exchange was overheard at a shop in Old Town Albuquerque between a 4 year old girl and her mother. The mother was purchasing some items and said to the little girl, “We need to hurry and go home. Tonight your grandmother is coming to spend Christmas with us.” The little girl squealed with delight, clapped her hands together and jumped up and down, celebrating the news. Then suddenly she stopped jumping and a look of concern came over her face.
“Momma, which Grandmother is coming for Christmas? The one with the pretty hair or the one with the ugly shoes?”

Living With Muncie

I get asked all the time about my name, Muncie. Usually when I introduce myself I say, "Muncie, Mun see, like Muncie, Indiana." This doesn't help people remember my name, but they recall it is unusual or that I have something to do with Indiana.

My parents gave me this name because of my last name, Smith. My dad lived with Tom Smith all his life. My mom's name was Ann. Tom and Ann Smith. Whenever they checked in a hotel, the clerk always smirked as he handed the keys to “Mr. and Mrs. Smith.” They decided to give their little girl an uncommon first name so she would stand out from common Smith kids.

I didn't know Muncie was a peculiar name until I went to school. Kids generally didn’t have a problem with my name. It was the substitute teachers who gave me grief. Mrs. Bargeron was the worst. She would call the roll, get to my name and butcher it. She would say my name as though it rhymed with Eunice. “MUNICE SMITH? Is he here?” she would ask. The whole class would peal into laughter. I was a humiliated seven year old. I would ask my parents why they didn’t give me a normal name. You know, like Rebecca.

On vacation I could never find my name among the license plates for bikes or key chains. There were never any Muncie head bands or pencils among the Marys, Barbaras and Cindys. Once in Williamsburg, I had my name put on a horse shoe at the black smith's shop. The poor guy used three horse shoes trying to spell my name right. I finally had my name on something. I heard there was a Coca Cola bottling plant in Muncie, Indiana. I spent a whole summer checking those little Coke bottles until I found one with Muncie on it. It was somehow satisfing to have a bottle with my name on the bottom. It made up for all those key chains I never found.

By high school I started to see how an odd first name could work to my advantage. When someone yelled Debbie down the hall, several girls would turn their heads. When someone yelled Muncie, I knew it was me they wanted. People heard about me. I recently spoke to an high school acquaintance. He didn't remember what I looked like, but he recognized my name as someone he went to high school with. Too bad he never knew I carried a torch for him nearly four years--but that's another story.

About this time I would get unsolicited mail from the military declaring a need for men like Mr. Muncie Smith. I would toss it in the trash, feel insulted they thought I was a male and think “Yeah, I bet they'd like to have a ‘man’ like me in the barracks!”

I went to college out west. I wondered why those Idaho farm boys would call me Sister Shifter or ask if I had 4 or 5 speeds. I remained puzzled until one of them told me there was a transmission named Muncie. Great, I'm a car part.

Occasionally someone looked my name up in the encyclopedia and wondered if I knew what it meant. Of course I did. So I'd stand there straight faced as they told me, in-between giggles, that Muncie was a tribe of Indians that hunted turkeys. It meant turkey hunter.

As an adult, I still get all sorts of pronunciations. “Mu niss” is the most common, but I've also had a few “Mun keys.” It doesn't bother me. I just correct them. They usually are very apologetic. I can tell instantly if a caller is a friend or a sales person just by the pronunciation.

Actually, I have thanked my parents for giving me this curious first name. It has been worth the minor inconveniences. It is a great conversation starter. I consider myself up there with those other ladies who need no last name: Cher, Oprah and Mother Teresa. However, I have yet to convince anyone to name their child Muncie. My daughter tells me that she will name her little girl after me. By the way, I named her Rebecca.


Update: My daughter was just watching a Mickey Mouse cartoon. Mickey was dog sitting. The dog's name: Muncie.

I Coulda Been Somebody...

...so why not write like I am already somebody?

I'm living in a new place. New to me that is. Next year Albuquerque New Mexico will celebrate it's 300th birthday. It's gonna be a big party. Looks like I will be around to party with them all.

So, I'm charging up my digital camera and I'm gonna explore, the city, the state, myself and share my observations with this blog.

In the words of the Reverend Jackson, "I am somebody."