So, on Saturday we made another 560 mile jaunt (all of these big drives have been 560 miles, give or take, which is just about the limit of my driving attention. So thank you, cosmos) across some more desert to Santa Fe, New Mexico.
It’s mildly cooler than Nevada -but then so is Venus- coming in at a balmy 28°C, but with enough humidity to not desiccate low-flying sparrows.
We’d heard quite a lot about Santa Fe with regards to it’s culture and food (certainly in comparison to the casino-polluted cultural vortex that is Nevada) and we were rather looking forward to having a gander. It is definitely a very individual place, as the buildings -new and old- follow the Spanish/Pueblo Indian style of architecture. Broadly equivalent to the enforced mock-Tudor of Chester high street if it wasn’t shit.
They don’t have a WH Smiths though. Your move, New Mexico
We caught the market in the Plaza, where there were a couple of hundred stalls selling every possible variation of carved Jesus and other local crafts. You do realise something about yourself when you find yourself pondering the merits of a hand-carved $100 chopping board. I reckon it might not’ve fit too well with our baggage allowance, though.
All the wooden crucifixes in various degrees of horrific detail a man could ask for
Food-wise, they are all about the green chile around here. I came here looking for a green chile cheeseburger and there is fearsome local competition among the local restaurants to produce the definitive example.
Behold all ye mighty and despair
I managed to inadvertently eat green chile for three successive meals, including the above beast. I approve, and so does Gaviscon.
Kurzfassung auf Deutsch: Santa Fe war heiß, aber erträglicher als Laughlin. Die Leute da kochten alles mit grünem Chiles. Das gefiel mir aber nicht so viel meinen Bauch.
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