The Hills Are Alive

I believe I can now officially indoctrinate myself into the New Mexican Outdoor Hall of Fame.  It only took 11 months but I’ve made it and I’m mighty proud.  How you ask?  Well, it all began with a simple invitation to go on a girl’s overnight camping trip - sounds innocent enough.   I’d envisioned a picturesque campsite equipped with flaming fire, multiple bottles of wine and many chortling laughs before rolling into tents and sleeping bags then rising to make the short walk to the car park to get home and shower off the wilderness.  However, our little planning soiree put an end to that scenario.  As I dished out the plum tart I'd prepared in honor of our ladies camp meeting, I quickly learnt that this was going to be an endurance event.   ‘Strenuous’ was the word used to describe the 12 mile hike chosen by my outward-bound experienced chums.  We were to reach elevations that I had only previously reached in the comfort of a chairlift. 

I’m not shy of a little physical activity, I’ve completed the odd hike in my time but these were usually incentivized by a hearty meal at some pre determined dining spot with comfy chairs and larger on tap.  I truly doubted my ability to breath and walk with a pack full of necessities one would need for such a trip.  My pride, however, prevented me bailing out.   

The evening before we set off on our adventure I prepared for bed at 7.30pm.  Nerves and concerns prohibited me from sleeping as my body's pluming continued to remind me that these would be the final hours before I would see any lavatory facilities for almost 48hrs.   My head was full of questions I didn’t have the answers to.  Was there helicopter rescue for the unfit?   Was our tent bear proof and what was the procedure in the event of a mountain lion attack?  I chose to ignore the questions, rising early to make my final preparations that included shoving some homemade biscotti in my pack in case I was left out there longer than anticipated.   I had actually forgone extra clothing to save on weight, to hell with the bear attracting smell of food, it’s the one thing I can’t skimp on. 

Our group of 4 headed towards the Santa Fe Ski Basin to begin our hike.  Within 5 minutes of ‘hiking’ I had seen a snake, had my inhaler out and was unable to talk due to my inability to tackle steep inclines without wheezing.   As my hike-mates walked and talked I silently prayed that no one would expect me to talk through this pain and fear I was experiencing.  Then all of a sudden the terrain levelled out - hoorah - we’d reached a ridge and I was able to gasp the breath of life back into me.   The scenery was beautiful but bear fear still had a hold over me, why had I insisted on that damn biscotti.  After a few miles we stopped to tuck into some tail-mix and work out our whereabouts.  Within moments Gray Jays were coming to visit.  I held out my peanut filled hand and they came to feed, all of a sudden I was the Gray Jay whisperer!

That was the start of my wilderness wonderland.  We continued past bubbling springs and meadows until we came to Austria, more commonly known as Puerto Nambe in these parts but I felt as if I were an extra member of the Von Trapp family from the Sound of Music.  This picturesque area had views of peaks and the distant New Mexican desert and was apparently home to several free-range cows.   It was all I could do to stop myself from singing Climb Every Mountain. 

We set up our camp and went in search of a water source and planned an afternoon hike towards a serene lake sans hefty backpack – thank you!   I was very pleased to discover that my ultra marathon fit camp mates were just as enthused over the eating portion of the trip as I was.  Robyn had outdone herself in preparing pre-dinner hors d’oeuvres consisting of smoked trout, cheese and crackers, paired with a lovely glass of red served in tupperware cups supplied by me!  To follow we sat around the campfire and enjoyed our curry, rice and naan bread – hello this is not my idea of roughing it and I love it.  And to top off the meal we sipped hot chocolate with a heavy helping of peppermint schnapps, sadly there was no room left for me to try my first smore. 

The night was still and the stars were out in there millions.  I couldn’t have been more content.  In fact, I surprised myself with the level of excitement I felt at having the chance to tackle the massive peak that formed the stunning backdrop to our campsite.  I was the first to wake to the chilly clear morning, ready to light the fire and fuel up our crew.  After half an hour of lighting matches and failing to set fire to a twig, I was rescued by my more experience camp buddy before I used up our precious supply matches.  I went and retrieved the food from the trees; this was a far more achievable task for me (we’d hung the food the night before to deter the bears – good thinking).    Breakfast was yet another gourmet treat, coffee, breakfast burritos and I managed to fit in my first smore and let me tell you I’ll be having another one of those thanks. 

We set off in the direction of Santa Fe Baldy.  Baldy because it’s a bald peak that thrusts up above the tree line at a wind-swept altitude of just over 12,600 ft.  I had no fear; pacing myself, I admired the views as we ascended into the sky.  Lucky for me I came prepared with a fleece, as it was getting rather chilly once we reached the saddle that lead to the final climb.  Here is where the test began.  As the air thinned and my thighs strained over the rocks my thoughts came back to helicopter rescue facilities.  This was madness and it seemed to never end.  I watched my fit friends climb with ease and I was in need of motivation.  It was here that Jenny lent me her song of endurance, guaranteed to give perseverance in any tough hiking stretch.  I would like to share it but it really has to be reserved for moments of endurance failure.   Susan stayed close and reminded me of the prize at the top.  At this stage I didn’t think anything could be worth this amount of pain and energy.  I was wrong.  We reached the top and it was magnificent.  Words cannot describe the view and the pride I felt.  I was my own personal legend.  Who knew my legs could achieve that.  I didn’t want to leave.  I wanted to skype the world from where I was just to let them know I was there and I’d walked it.

We hiked 18.5 miles in two days and even though I have blisters and my body still aches it is certainly in my top 5 best weekends of all time.  It was beautiful and inspiring and I’m ready to do it again – just give me a few weeks to get over the small scale pain I’m still suffering.  I want to say a massive thanks to Robyn, Jenny and Susan for introducing me to the delights of the New Mexico mountains.   

My Oh So Tasty Apple

I haven’t really felt as though I’m missing out by not living in a massive metropolis.  In fact, the slower pace and simpler life has been, dare I say it for fear of sounding like an old-bag, a refreshing change.  There is only one thing I truly miss and that's my friends.  But hello, this is 2010 and with the aid of modern technology we’re able to sit and chat face-to-face without a painful subway ride or melting hot commute by foot in a billion percent humidity.  Now I can simply enjoy the experience from the comfort of my home with a perfectly unhindered view the mountains and a breeze wafting through the windows.  And if by chance I’ve neglected to shave my legs lately, who’s to judge if they can’t be seen – perfect scenario.

Obviously, there are other things I miss but I’ve managed to work through them.  Upon arriving in New York several years ago, I’d taken a long time to establish a list of places that produce great coffee. 

I rejoiced in my daily ritual of entering Joe’s Art of Coffee.  The uber-trendy staff could take up to fifteen minutes to make my simple order.  The waiting was part of the pleasure I discovered and not at all a test in patience - who am I kidding.  The longer it took the more one appreciated the skill and time taken.  My coffee was always lovingly decorated with foam artistry, well worth the wait and the money, that's what I told myself anyway.  With this pleasure also came the mental battle over whether or not to treat myself to a Donut Plant donut.  I firmly believe those round (sometimes square) baked goodies are actually laced with some addictive element that made them completely irresistible.   But the fact that the skinny twenty-something behind the counter would always say “go on treat yourself’ every single day as if she’d never seen me before kind of annoyed me. Were these really experiences to be missed?

The issue here is that I was apprehensive about my return to the city.  I’m now, for the first time in my life, a small-town girl.  I feared that perhaps the busy streets of NYC and what they held would no longer excite me but exhaust me.  On arrival the heat was hideous, causing my already thin hair to look anorexic but surprisingly this didn’t seem to faze me, neither did the fact that no one else on the street seemed to be experiencing the perspiration problems that I was (perhaps purchasing a hot coffee from Café Grumpy - no. 2 on the list of coffeehouse greats – wasn’t a great idea in 100 degree heat with 100% humidity or maybe I was adjusting after living in a humidity free high-desert for so long).  I found the smell and the booming street sounds welcoming and not at all deafening as anticipated.  The stroll through Chelsea, one of my favorite parts of town, was made even better with a celeb spotting, Ethan Hawke.  I have to say here that celeb spottings are rare in the mountains of NM; although, I do expect to see Julia Roberts in Taos at least once in my lifetime.

Thankfully the early evening was kinder to me, I no longer looked like I’d just stepped out of the sea.   We took the High Line towards the West Village.  This brilliant concept has undoubtedly become the best people watching in the world and I don’t mean watching those exhibitionists who choose to fornicate in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Standard Hotel, I’m talking about the cross section of locals and tourists who come to experience outdoor New York above street level while watching the sun set over that foreign land known as New Jersey.   

The High Line led us directly to Barbutto, currently one of my favorite New York eateries.  The one-time garage now operates as a market-fresh Italian restaurant and a rather cool one if I can say that without sounding uncool.  I embraced the crowded bar, straining my voice to be heard and sipping my chilled rose before it was spilt all over me by the increasing crowd.  

Many may see this as torture but I liken this to the coffee experience, the wait makes the end product that much more enjoyable.  Once you arrive at your table and you’re greeted by excellent service and superb food you’ve won the grand prize.   And at the end of all this there was the Other Room, a quaint little bar on a quiet West Village street waiting for our party to continue to solve the worlds problems while blanketed in the warm night air.  It hit me on our stroll back to the hotel that this is what I miss, the ease of an evening full of events where you know that getting home is not a problem, be it by foot, cab or subway.

The following morning, after a quick trip to Bob’s Bagels, I elected to visit MoMA to see The Original Copy photography exhibition.  Also on at the same time was Bruce Nauman’s interactive piece, Days.  The work itself allowed me to sit and relax on a stool while it transported my mind with sound.  While I listened to the voices articulate the days of the week in this chilled airy room the crowd seemed to diminish, I was cocooned in a bubble of voices that said nothing meaningful but induced a state of relaxation.  I like MoMA, even when it’s crowded there's always something that makes me feel alone – in a good way.  I was ready for lunch.

The Tuck Shop is the only place in the United States where you can experience a terribly tasty Australian meat-pie.  They never ceases to please and there are no crowded waits to experience this pleasure.   I arrived, seated myself and savored the taste of home.  The only thing that could top off this meal was a trip to Donut Plant – I just can’t help myself.  Walking back towards the throngs of Soho I felt the need to escape and the wonderful thing I’d forgotten about Manhattan is that there's always a place to provide solace; you just need to know where they are.  Mine is the Angelika Film Centre, a home of independent film.  Within moments I’m air-conditioned and removed from the city entering into another world on screen.  Once back out in the daylight, I was ready to rejoin the crowded streets.  It was time to feast again and Brooklyn was my destination.

As Brooklyn extends away from Manhattan it becomes increasingly laidback and if I were to return I think I might like to live there.  The rendezvous point was Jake Walk, located in Carroll Gardens. It's cosy and has a superb cheese menu featuring local and foreign selections or you could choose from a selection of small plates, add wine and this is my idea of heaven on a hot night.   

This pattern of friends, feasting and culture continued and I was surprised at myself, I was becoming more relaxed and this isn’t what I’d predicted.  I believe now, that perhaps I feared sensory over-load.  I’d forgotten my appreciation for this multifaceted town that houses the best of the best and at times, requires a sense of humor to cope with it. Within blocks you can indulge any whim and I did.   I think I might make plans for another visit – winter of course so my hair looks better. 

Window to a New World

I’ve been mulling over this post for far too long, some would call it procrastination, nevertheless, I had expected to inform you of the glories of the Santa Fe International Folk Art Market, an annual two-day market featuring selected artists from all over the world. The market has an international reputation that lead to Santa Fe being named a UNESCO City of Folk Art. While this all sounds very impressive, I really didn't feel I could boast for an entire post. Don’t get me wrong, it was well worth the visit but there was something that wasn’t sitting quite right with me and I couldn't put my finger on it until this weekend.

As they pitched it, the market really is a 'window to the world', and I will say this, I loved seeing the artists in their national dress. Coming from a country where the national costume is a stereotypical vision of board-shorts, singlet tops and thongs (otherwise known as flip-flops) the elaborate attire on display forming a kaleidoscope of color was an event in itself. These people know what it is to be festive and festive they were. The market was heaving with visitors all clamoring to see, be seen and purchase. I honestly don't know how the artists retained their composure with the throngs of people fingering their painstakingly made traditional merchandise and crowding in on them with umpteen questions.

I understand the merits of this event, providing insight and exposure to other cultures, allowing artists from mostly developing countries the opportunity to engage with their brethren from other points on the globe while selling their wears to an influential art savvy community. But for me, while I loved the work, the music and the interaction, I would have felt like a fraud if I came home with an elaborate, floor length traditional Afghan coat that I purchased for $1000 from a market in Santa Fe. I mean really, where would one wear such a garment in downtown New Mexico. When I posed this question to my friend she looked at me as if I were completely naive before saying, “next year’s market of course.” There was clear evidence of those who had purchased from the previous years events.

My personal thought was, If I'm going to purchase an original piece of traditional art, especially with that price tag, I want to have a bit of an anecdote and some experience of the place to go with the trophy. But that's just me and that was the problem I had, why were all these people going berserk over objects that had no meaning to them – yes they were beautiful but didn’t they want the story behind it.

It was this weekend while sitting in a raft on the Rio Grande River just outside Taos, NM that I understood. I'd been bemused as to why those people were in Santa Fe filling up on traditional art from other parts of the world when there were communities so close to them that could use their support. I'm in New Mexico for an experience and who am I to judge. These people might need a bit of a release from their surroundings, after all Santa Fe is home to them while it's a whole new fascinating world to me. That guy sizing himself up in his new loud silken Afghan coat might've, only last year been in Kabul and since then has been kicking himself for not making a purchase of something that would remind him of his time there. The point is, I could be doing the same thing if a Navajo artist went to Sydney in the future when my days in New Mexico are long gone. So I will no longer judge and keep my mind focused on my own adventures.

I must say that while I don’t have much in the way of tangible articles to remind me of my life here (note to self: need to save up for Navajo rug, although looking at the price tags that may take a lifetime) I do have wonderful memories and this weekend will be one of the highlights.

In our promise to ourselves to be ‘outdoorsy’ people, I thought I should book in a few weekends of outward-bound activities before returning to New York to visit and report back on our mountain way of life. Whitewater rafting seemed like an adventurous outdoor pursuit (you don’t see much of that on the Hudson) so off we went in search of rapids. I was glad the say that we caught the tail end of the season so the normally 3-4 class rapids were now 2-3 class and I could ease into the sport gracefully.

It was grey and slightly cool on the Rio Grande and we were informed that an electrical storm was fast approaching. This was no deterrent for outdoorsy me as a sunny day in the desert can be unbearable if you can’t access shade. We took off in our raft of four, plus our guide, down the river watching the lightening strike in the distance through the crack in the deep canyon walls. The thunder echoed off the cliffs and I felt truly adventurous. I don’t want to get the clichés out but I could barely take in the beauty of this place. As the rain began to fall and we navigated our way through the large rocks I imagined I was Meryl Streep in The River Wild, except Mike, our guide, was far too chipper to play the role of Kevin Bacon and my Husband being an ex-rower was more adept at this sport than David Strathairn’s character and of course me.

The water felt lovely and warm on my leg but that may be owing to the fact that after 20mins of rain my body temperature had lowered significantly, made obvious by the extra-large goose bumps appearing on my arms and legs. But I was happy with this as it and the act of paddling meant I was expanding energy that could be replaced by indulging in a massive gourmet meal later that evening.

At one stage we needed to eddie out (that’s rafting lingo meaning to pull up onto the shore) under a bridge, a very old construction of wood and steel. I must admit, sidling up to a steel pole while in water didn’t seem the wisest of moves in an electrical storm and my sense of adventure did falter for a mere second to become terror but we were off and away in no time surfing rapids with inventive names such as The Toilet Bowl. Big Rock was my favorite as we spotted petro glyphs from ancient communities that had once lived in these lands. After three hours I wasn’t ready to finish except for the fact that maybe mild hypothermia was setting in. I loved rafting and I can honestly say that, whereas previous attempts at outdoor sports were just ok at best (this would include hiking up steep mountains at altitude after a night of too much wine). I’m raring and ready to tackle the 4+ rapids of the Taos Box.

I’m extremely lucky that I have the opportunity to travel and I have to remind myself that not everyone has these opportunities but it doesn’t mean that they don’t want to experience different cultures any less. And for those who appreciate beautiful objects for reasons other than their utility or tradition who am I to judge your helping to sustain a cultural heritage and that’s all good.

Paradise Syndrome - I blame Florence

I’m beginning to suffer from paradise syndrome (PS). I’m not entirely sure if it truly exists but I recall reading an article where Dave Stewart of Eurhythmics fame once described his battle with it. The symptoms consist of an ongoing feeling of guilt from the good life you’re living that you feel you don’t deserve. Fortunately for Stewart, his therapist only had to enforce the common knowledge that he, unlike me, had a talent that allowed him to do what he loved and make a good life out of it. I’m having a little bit of trouble legitimizing the fact that my limited talents aren’t in great demand in this job-poor climate. All I can do is share my pain. This recent bout of PS resulted from a trip to Tuscany where my husband was giving a lecture. Can I just state here, that I don’t make a habit of accompanying him on his exotic business trips, probably because they’re not all that exotic but really, how many times in my life will I be unemployed and available to benefit from these euro jaunts. Actually, the way things are going, I may be available for some time but that’s another story. So off I went in a pursuit of food and wine happiness and I have to say I found it, however, the PS come down has been brutal.

Tuscany at this time of the year can be hazardous, what with the massive throngs of tourists arguing over directions in the middle of the street and forming massive unsightly queues outside the major attractions. I mean really! I of course am the other type of tourist, the absurd kind who feels she can blend in with the local crowd if armed with the right phrases and attitude. The reality of this foolishness became apparent when my life was almost taken by an Italian stallion on a moped. How is it that foxy Italian woman can walk out into a busy street unfazed and not suffer serious injury? Probably because they're foxy and I am not. So, I can admit that no nation will accept me as their own within a few days but I refuse to believe that I can’t truly experience any city and it’s delicacies without being caught in the tourist trap.

In order to ensure that my husband was not negatively affected by my presence, I selflessly planned my trip in advanced in order to fully occupy my time. Out of sight out of mind led me to scenic Tuscan villages. I realized how I had taken Europe for granted when I lived in the UK, and now, seeing these villages with fresh eyes I could marvel at the ancient architecture, the pace of life and best of all the lack of hideous fast food chains. It became very apparent to me that the reason Italians don’t have an obesity issue is because they have fresh whole food in abundance. Their approach to food is also entirely different. Time is allocated to food and sharing in its pleasure.

I wanted some of this cultural pleasure. I didn’t want to be the one lured in off the street by the English-speaking maître de flapping the English/Italian menu in front of my frazzled tourist face. Florence was my ultimate challenge in assimilation and I think it went rather well for the most part.

I put together my first day’s itinerary allowing me to marvel at art and rejuvenate with food and wine. After disembarking the train, I headed through the streets towards the Duomo and its queuing tourists. Just past it I located the Museo dell’ Opera del Duomo. To my delight the place was void of people, allowing me to absorb all the works without frustration. This museum is a marvel, housing spectacular pieces by Michelangelo and his contemporaries that were previously housed in the Duomo itself.

It was Donatello’s sculpture of Mary Magdalene that had me transfixed. Her skeletal frame also made me hungry. I ventured out into the streets strolling towards the Uffizi where I smugly passed the queues as I headed towards tranquil Ino for lunch. Located in a tiny street off Lungarno Corsini, this hidden gem offers paninis made to order from the finest ingredients and the meal-deal comes with a class of wine – sold. I sat at the window and took my time reading my book (I was channeling the local vibe) as I sipped my wine and contemplated my next move.

The National Museum of Bargello was the target, set in a stunning building dating back to 1255, this ancient ode to sculpture is an oasis in the Florentine summer. The museum, again almost void of people, houses sculptural works which include further examples of Donatello’s work including his almost comical vision of David which was, I believe, a renaissance scandal.

After a several hours, I was ready for my afternoon café and dolci and I found a perfect place in I Dolci di Patrizio Cosi. The bite sized pastries filled with flavoured creams, were irresistible, I stopped at 3, only because I knew there was more fine food to be had. To walk off the cream puffs, I made my way through the streets heading for the south side of the Ponte Vecchio where I would rendezvous with my husband for our pre-dinner drink and cheese plate. We chose Le Volpi e l’Uva, this place is tiny and tucked away in the Piazza dei Rossi just far enough from the crowds passing over the famous Ponte. And even after the afternoon indulgence, I still had room for one of the finest cheese plates I’ve ever sampled, I managed to was wash this down with a glass of La Doccia Chianti Classico Riserva as recommended by the barman - hello taste buds.

Although my day was near perfect, I still felt I was missing the Florentine food market experience. I’d passed a market that morning and had desperately wanted to go in, sample and shop but my limited language skills destroyed any confidence I might have had, especially after the moped incident. I needed a food-in, someone to guide me in the right direction and allow me peruse with confidence. My research led me to the lovely Christine from Taste Florence. As a rule, I generally don’t do tours but this one seemed to be tailor made for me. Christine, a proud Florentine native and, like the majority of her fellow Italians, a foodie, took me on a food and wine odyssey that lasted several hours and included a breakfast at one of Florence’s finest bakeries followed by an extensive tour of the Marcato Centrale, the very market I had been too shy to enter the previous day. Here we sampled everything from bollito (boiled veal) to cheese, bread, wine, olive oil and the list goes on.  I don’t want to give away too much of the Taste Florence itinerary as they've done a superb job in crafting a wonderful day that included a visit to the most extraordinary gelatateria. This place had the same effect on me as sampling my first Jelly Bellys at the age of 10. I couldn't believe the flavours produced! This was then followed by a relaxing end at a beautiful enoteca where more wine was sampled and ancient adages told. I felt I’d spent the day with a good friend who had all the inside knowledge you can’t possibly get from any guidebook.

I left Christine with a food and wine high, wandering the streets deliriously happy and fulfilled. I managed one last meal in Florence. It was a recommendation from Chrisitne. Coquinarius is a small, unmarked wine-bar/restaurant on via delle Oche. It’s warm and relaxed atmosphere was the perfect end to my Florentine food and wine festival. How can you top traditional Tuscan food and a bottle of Carmignano Il Sasso, I don’t think you can but that won't stop me trying. Now I must suffer the symptoms of paradise syndrome as I continue to explore my new back-yard of New Mexico. Ciao!

Summer Markets

I quote the not so lyrical Glenn Fry to describe the transition of this week. The heat is on, it's on the street. Really it is, I can no longer stand outside with bare feet due to the scorch factor. I never thought I would see it, only a month ago it was still snowing and I was pretending to curse the damn endless winter. The reality is, I loved it, sitting by the fire and procrastinating my life away while watching the snow, however, others in my household, who had to get up every morning and keep the country running, were not sharing my love of cooler climes.

This week when I thought New Mexico couldn't be more beautiful it came into bloom, the cactus grew flowers, the temperatures rose and the farmer's markets opened for the season - kumbaya!

I have to admit that I have taken my time getting into the New Mexican cuisine, they love a good dollop of green chilli in these parts, it appears on everything and every man and his dog is a connoisseur. As for me I'm learning to like it, although, I still get that awfully embarrassing choking sensation as a result of the heat but it is improving, I no longer need to directly spit into my napkin. However, things are changing in the state's cuisine repertoire with an abundance of fresh produce coming out of the local farms. I'm rather fortunate to be living in a state that respects its land and its produce. In fact New Mexico is one of the only states where Native Pueblo and Spanish communities still practice traditional farming methods. There was no jumping on the sustainability band-wagon here my friends, these guys have been practising it for centuries.

It seems that the local folk are well versed on sustainability and there are several farmers and artisan food producers who are celebrated for their concern and passion for the land and what they produce. And the bonus to all this is that it's done without pretence and everyone loves to share.

I'd just like to blow my own horn here for a minute as I have been part of this green community (no one needs to know that I burnt down my compost or killed my garden with a gallon of round-up. Those episodes were from my dark novice days). I signed up our household to a local CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) which provided us with organic and mostly local grown fruit and veg while I waited to plant my own round-up free goods. Now after my last volunteering experience I wanted to make sure I got something back from my giving - nice aren't I. Our CSA gave us the opportunity to work on the farm for a few hours a week in return for 50% off our veg - superb. At the end of the week, after a good work-out in the fields, I could say that I harvested that lettuce that appeared in our box and another 600 of them. I also managed to score a bonus of strawberries that went towards my first attempt at making jam (didn't really go as planned).

This weekends visit to the farmers markets brought out a whole new level of gasronomic loveliness and community. Firstly, we visited the Santa Fe Farmer's Market which is rather strict with it's guidelines - good to know - all products are local and morally grown and produced. And it really is an event for us to drive to Santa Fe, the Turquoise Trail is one of the most scenic stretches of road I have ever driven and after multiple journey's it continues to change in colour and contour. So after this therapeutic drive we arrive in this rather hip part of town that appears to be a hive of galleries, restaurants and beautiful people. Then I entered the mix and things changed. Now I'm not shy when it comes to free samples but I think the vendors were almost ready for a restraining order. The local goats cheese was so rich and insanely good and after months of searching for the perfect sausage we found not one but several varieties and all the beasts had lived a very happy and harmonious antibiotic free, grass fed lives.

This little excursion was a pre-curser to Sunday's adventure in the near 40C heat. I had heard from a neighbour that there was to be a small festival in the South Valley with local restaurants and producers coming together to show their wares. I was a little hesitant as the hideous heat was tempting me to sit under a sprinkler with some from or alcoholic beverage, and, there was always the risk that this 'festival' was just a guise for one of those redundant arts & crafts fairs, and I wasn't in the mood for face painting. We arrived to the sweet sound of a live bluegrass bland and the glorious scent of bbq and I was at once relieved and happy. This little festival was a community gathering of keen composters (as many of you know, I needed some guidance in this subject), gardeners, farmers, and chefs all willing to spill their secrets. And as for the food sampling, well, this went beyond sampling, it was more of a digustation menu. I tasted some of the best honey I have ever had the pleasure of tasting, not to mention Cindy's Salsa. There were lamb and beef meatballs and shredded pork served with salad and Heidi's Raspberry Jam and then for desert donuts that came in an abundance of flavours (I sampled at least 4 and no one raised an eye-brow).

This literally is just a taste of things to come. I have been swatting up on all the local restaurants who participate in the farm to table program and support local producers. I hope to report back from restaurants and markets throughout the area in the near future, sans restraining orders.

You only have one life to live

I mentioned in my last entry the pursuit of conversation with someone other than the local barista, who lets face it, had zero interest in my observations of the strange groups forming in his café, for all I know he probably promulgated this odd environment. I had therefore been researching volunteer opportunities so that I could contribute my time and valued skills to my new-found community and perhaps enter into conversation with someone who didn’t think I was complete loon with too much time on her hands.

Now, I’ll be honest, my aim in volunteering was not altruistic but completely self-serving. I had harbored fantasies of myself (looking tall and thin), waltzing into some salubrious arts establishment; naturally, they would fall in-love with my ease, charm and let’s not forget the accent. My obvious talents would render me irreplaceable and once my work permit came through they simply couldn’t risk losing me and a job would be offered.

I was of course delusional. And in all fairness to me, if I had taken in the scores of depressing tales covering those affected by the world’s worst recession and the fact that I was now living in America’s fourth poorest state, I might have slipped into a pit of despair, leading to days in bed, growing increasingly rank, and we don’t really want that.

I could barely admit it but I missed work, the challenges, even the hideous commute, that odorous, sardine like experience that made me feel alive and lets not forget those water cooler moments. The odd thing is I never used to watch much tele and now I find myself engrossed in the lives of Real New York Housewives and the Kardashian sisters which is probably a little unhealthy. Happily though, I found myself a nice little situation at a local museum. Apparently the Director was rather impressed with my resume. After only a few calls I was already an “impressive” addition to an organization and hell, why wouldn’t I be. Clearly, I didn’t want them to feel threatened by my brilliance so I took an understated approach informing them “I was available for any tasks required. Being new to the community, I just want to get a feel of the place and meet people – you know”.

Day one; I was a little disappointed after being introduced to the staff, who, obviously hadn’t been briefed about my arrival and who really didn’t seem to care. I was then ushered to the lower gallery reception area - where I was to spend the day – alone – at the front desk. Now, I don’t want to appear above my station, but I had paid a premium for parking and this was not a place for my talents to shine or more to the point for me to converse and make friends. I sat down in the cold open space. I noted the echoing sounds that resulted from my thumbing through the attendance book and it became apparent that this place wasn’t frequented as often as I was hoping. I’d gone from Nigel-no-mates in the mountains to Nigel-no-mates in the museum without the Ben Stiller excitement of dioramas coming to life. Not only that, I had to ask to leave in order to use the facilities! This was not what I had signed up for and quite frankly I couldn’t believe that these people didn’t have a better use of my FREE time. I needed an in into that office space, I needed exposure, being isolated like this didn’t give these people the privilege of getting to know me let alone abuse my skills.

I quickly devised a speech that would delicately point out how they might like to employ my time for their greater benefit, along with proposing a few projects they might like to let me explore. Thanks to my diplomatic ways, I was now promoted to work in the office on ‘existing projects’. I was overjoyed, however; this was to be short lived as I was shuffled into a room to complete an urgent data-entry task. Sure, I could use the loo when I wanted and the office was a warmer temperature than the eerie grey reception area but couldn’t someone else do this. I was letting my ego get the better of me and decided I would enter data to the best of my ability before making my impact and planning my next move.

The thought occurred to me that perhaps my suggestions were not welcome. Who did I think I was proposing all these improvements. Well, initially, I thought I was pretty good but in fact, I was blindly creating headaches for those on the pay roll and when I reversed the situation I realized how annoying I truly was. I was that irritating upstart from the city who knew better. I had to get over myself, therefore; I worked solidly throughout the morning to prove my can-do attitude. It was midday before I lifted my head to an eerie silence. I explored the office. I was alone and not only that, they’d locked me inside. Paranoia struck and that was followed by a pang of sadness and then sheer loneliness. Did they forget about me or did they choose to ignore me. I found my way out, taking my battered ego and my packed lunch to the cold quadrangle outside the museum.

As I chewed on my vegemite sandwich, I spotted the gang from the office laughing and walking towards me. Oh god do they see me? Is that why they’re laughing? It was too late for me to make a break for it and hide so I remained stead fast on the cold concrete bench. And apparently I’m not only irritating but also invisible; they walked right by without so much as a glance.

There I sat, alone, invisible and almost broken. I cleared the lump from my throat and pulled myself together, returning to the office with adult attitude in check. These things take time. Perhaps I had been too eager or maybe I was too subtle, whatever the reason I was ready to tackle this head-on. As I walked in with a confident smile on my face I was ready for some small-talk, surely one of them needed an update on Kim K’s relationship status with Reggie? Apparently not, no instead it was more crucial that I collect some stationery from the office supply store. Are you kidding! I decided that my ego and the parking meter needed a break. It occurred to me that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, well actually maybe I was. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to keep up this charade. It was back to warmth of the fireplace and the couch for more thorough planning and a good dose of reality TV. I have one life and I’m not going waste it.

Walk in, it's worth it.

As most people know when they shift to new frontiers, it's a good idea to get out of your comfort zone and put yourself out there. All very easy while in the planning phase. I looked at my move to the Southwest as an adventure, ignoring the warnings from friends who feared I might go bonkers from isolation. There were going to be no such issues for me. Even before leaving I was all set to bake cookies on arrival and do the introductory rounds of the neighbourhood. While waiting for my work permit, I would volunteer and get to know the community and research entrepreneurial opportunities. I'll be honest, it didn't quite happen like that.

I was quite diligent about this positive transition, getting myself out of the mountains and developing a routine of sorts, to ensure I wasn't still in bed with greasy hair and mounting depression when my husband came home. With one car between the two of us it was a perfect incentive for me to get out of bed and avoid the Today Show in order drive him to work and then explore the highlights of sunny Albuquerque and its surrounds. After exhausting all the major attractions alone, I began my days with a visit to a cafe on the main drag. Interesting place, that seemed to be an unofficial home to various hard-core religious group meetings, while also acting as neutral territory for local business managers to fire employees. It was a fascinating insight and I wondered if the religious groups realised their potential to recruit the newly unemployed and down and out. I wasn't about to facilitate, although; weeks of not speaking to anyone almost forced my hand.

This period of repeat visits to Costco (intriguing warehouse type establishment, everything is not only super-sized but then sold in bulk - you can get a 10 gallon drum of pretzels - who knew), I realised I was in serious need of some human interaction, especially when I found myself dining at the Costco pizza bar alone. I was beyond desperate for a a glass of wine and a chortling laugh with friends. I wasn't sure how this place ticked and my good intentions of greeting friendly neighbours turned to fear and paranoia. Who lived in these hills and were they on dubious wanted lists? It was then decided that a trip to 'the local' was in order, neutral ground from which we could observe and possibly interact.

During the search for the thriving social scene, my husband noted a flickering sign along old Route 66 that marketed what seemed to be the only bar in the village. The car park indicated that it had a healthy level of clientele. We settled our ride between the bikes and pick-ups. There were no windows to provide insight into this watering hole, just a sign asking patrons to wear shoes. Luckily, we had shoes. I'll be honest, I hesitated, I'm a woman from the city in my 30's not a 21yr old back-packer looking for adventure (I know I mentioned adventure before but I was well and truly over it at this point). After our initial hesitation, we entered the barn doors, yes barn doors. There were a few people scattered at the bar and tables and I kid you not, all conversation stopped upon our entry and we weren't exactly greeted with smiles. This place had obviously not had a re-furb in quite some time, the neon lights and sticky carpet giving it a rustic, vintage character if you like. Little did we know that this filthy place, would be our connection to a social life.

Once it was established that we weren't in-fact unwanted tourists in town for the Balloon Fiesta (Albuquerques #1 tourist attraction, and worth a visit might I add) but new members of the community, the bar-maid kindly introduced us to the locals who, at my relief, were keen to chat. We spent the next hour learning about the various events that take place in this community hall of sorts, weddings, pot lucks and even an annual chili cook-off. Then in came famous patron Robert. I have to say Rob looked a little threatening to me, he was missing teeth and could have easily been the third member of ZZ Top. Oh, I forgot to mention that the bar is generally a biker bar - yep. I can happily say that first impressions are not always what they seem. Rob was the most popular fella in the bar and after my initial reaction, I could have cried when he stayed to chat to us while all his friends clamored for his attention. He made sure we were aware of the plethora of great local bands that were scheduled to perform 6 days a week, every week, all year. He was a force to be reckoned with on the dance floor and I am happy to admit that I was on his dance card several times that evening.

So we ventured back to our welcoming biker-bar, avoiding the beer on tap because the keg had obviously not been replaced since 1967. On one occasion, I recognized one of the lads on the dance-floor, he happened to resemble the man who lived on the property next to us. A few drinks had provided me with enough social lubricant to say hello and wouldn't you know it, he has never featured on any dubious wanted lists. From that evening on we became part of the infamous Campo Corner, a truly wonderful mix of vegans, vegetarians and meat eating hunters who welcomed us into their crowd with open arms. Many of these new friends moved to New Mexico for the same reasons we had, adventure, space and outdoor living. Mind you, I'm still coming to grips with the outdoor living bit. I believe that part was decided after a third bottle of wine in a crowed bar somewhere in New York.

Without sounding too sentimental, I can honestly say that I have never encountered a group of people so accepting and inviting and I look forward to knowing them for a long long time.