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.

Can you take the city out of the girl?

Well, here I am, having lambasted the world of social networking sites and computerised novel reading. Who says people can’t change. I am starting a blog all on my own. It was a move from a big city to a small mountain village that corrupted and inspired me.

I'm currently on a hiatus from the daily grind of working life - woohoo. Otherwise known as awaiting a work permit. The past three years have been hectic, living and working in London and New York and I now find myself resting in the glorious East Mountains of New Mexico, sans employment while my poor husband slaves away for our living.

Initially, this move was a prospect for opportunity. I’m pretty much a city girl at heart with very little prior use for practical skills. What I love about big cities are their service industries, in particular, restaurants and transport systems. They kind of go hand in hand. You meet friends, eat out, perhaps have a few too many vinos and wouldn’t you know it there’s a cab, tube or subway to take you straight home. I’ve been known to create online restaurant maps of major cities I travelled to that provided me, and anyone who cared, with reviews of where to eat and what to expect. I love food but I have to admit my cooking skills were lacking a little lustre due to a lull in practise. As for plants and gardens, my meagre attempts at small apartment horticulture had resulted in early and unnecessary deaths (plant life only of course) not to mention massive disappointment. This however, was my opportunity to shine in the areas of life that had once eluded me.

So here I was, living the dream on an acre of land and then reality dawned on me like a filthy hangover. There was no local Waitrose or Trader Joe's to pop down to for that emergency milk (or more likely Snickers) run. I was out of my depth. In those early days of arriving in NM I was prepared to drive for 40 minutes to sit in a cafe and read a paper. This was clearly a mistake. As I read the New York Times from cover to cover I was constantly knocked by the realisation that I couldn’t attend those reviewed shows or those end of season sales – where was I and was I really prepared for such a change?

I recall my initial weekend in the Land of Enchantment, I eagerly donned a pair of old ski-gloves (my substitute for lack of gardening gloves) along with a can-do attitude and got stuck into our high desert garden, pulling out whatever looked foreign –pretty much all vegetation if I'm honest. This was obviously not productive or safe. I decided my focus would be better served if I did some research on New Mexican flora and fauna. Being Australian, I am well aware of the dangers of snakes and spiders and thought I’d better know them before they decide to get well acquainted with me. Plus that physical work really takes its toll. It was clear that my projects needed to be scaled down a touch.

The compost became my immediate goal. Sadly, this focus was short-lived and has to this day not been revived but a valuable lesson was had. After reading somewhere that wood ashes from one’s fireplace was a brilliant compost ingredient, I decided that the remnants of the previous evening’s cosy fire would be a perfect addition to the existing compost ingredients. As I left the home that afternoon, off to celebrate my accomplishments along with my birthday, I imagined my growing compost and the joy it would bring me in spring. Oh what a gardener and conservationist I would be. Joy was not to be had that evening. After returning home several hours later, I noted flames leaping from the direction of my home. High winds and high desert do not make a stable environment for cinders. I really should have read the fine print suggesting ashes should be left for considerable periods to ensure no fire hazards. In my defense, how long is considerable, they looked grey to me. Thankfully we had our first snowfall that afternoon which saved me from the wrath of the new neighbours who were very nearly victims of my poorly researched project. Needless to say, the house was ok the garden was not.

Although my motivation has taken a mild beating, these episodes and others have taught me a lot. I’ve learnt to embrace and love this new rustic lifestyle of frozen water pipes, endless snowstorms and road closures. And while the self-improvement I anticipated is taking a little longer than hoped, my practical skills are developing at a rapid rate. Fire-fighting? Check!