I’m guilty of guilty pleasures. I read People Magazine in the checkout line. Being in film publicity for the past seven years, it was an everyday habit and old habits die hard. So when I hear “Taos”, I picture Julia Roberts lounging around her fabulous southwestern spread, native art adorning the walls and designer landscaping; and yet there is always some sort of spiritual descriptive connected to anything one reads about New Mexico. Taos is no exception.
Arrival
Leaving Ojo Caliente at well over 265,000 miles on the odometer and my Rand McNally road atlas, I drove into Taos County from the south passing three doublewide trailers from which hundreds of car skeletons spill out in metal crop circle formations, the dormant airport marked by a lonely windsock and an Enterprise Rental Car outpost. Clumps reflecting bright shimmering sunlight appeared as an oasis out of the long deserted desert road one drives from Santa Fe. This is a Biotecture development known as The Greater World Earthship Community. These buildings could double as the set of “Dune” and are made of recycled material, mainly old tires. They self-generate enough energy to get off the grid. Even this section of Taos has its celebrity resident; Dennis Weaver of “McCloud” fame is a proud owner and hosts a promotional video demonstrating construction. I did not see him, or anyone for that matter, hauling rubber.
Past the eco-community is the seemingly unstable Taos Gorge Bridge, voted the “World’s Most Beautiful Steel Bridge” in 1966 by the American Institute of Steel Construction, proving that yes, Virginia, there is an award for everything. Spanning 1200 feet, canyon rocks spilling 850 feet down into the Rio Grande, the bridge is rumored to be haunted by a woman clad in blue jeans and a white t-shirt and a popular place to throw yourself over; fatalities averaging three per annum. Once over the span of death, I entered a valley surrounded by snowy peaked mountains, the town spreading out before me, adobe housing blending into the foothills.
Triple-A cites Taos as a “hippie haven” with an “anti-establishment influx” due to the “counterculture idealists” who flooded the town in the 1960s. As if to prove this, parts of “Easy Rider” were filmed here in ’69 and Dennis Hopper is one of the Hollywood homeowners. Despite these quixotic descriptions, Taos thrives on people with deep pockets. An April 15th 2005 travel article from the New York Times makes no pretense about the fact that Taos is ultimately a place for buying art, getting a massage and enjoying the natural surroundings. The grey lady is in most respects, correct, however, what she omits is that while Taos is destination tourist, local tolerance for outsiders is about 48 hours coupled with an underbelly of gangster wannabes, heroin addiction, and sordid crimes right out of a David Lynch movie including a decapitated developer left to be eaten by his West Highland terriers (OK, that crime dates back to 1929, but authorities never did find the head) and a local senator pummeled by his wife with a hammer after she found him with another woman. He lived and filed for divorce, see page one of the Taos News, May 16th.
One road connects the North side to the South side of town, known by several names, but commonly, "Main Road". Both begin and end with the small eatery, “Rita’s Tacos”, and “The Bean” coffee shop where, quoting “All the News That’s Fit to Print”, Julia can be spotted, disheveled and unwashed even! The smell of exhaust mingled with diesel fuel from monster trucks permeates the air like a busy street in Bangkok. There is an alternate route that the locals know about, secretively called “bypass”. The main street is unabashedly stuffed with art galleries and shameless tourist shops that proclaim “I Love Taos”. Sagebrush and surprising lilacs grow everywhere reminding me of summers on the east coast. There is no escape from the sweet, pungent scent.
The must-see tourist attraction is the Taos Pueblo, located on over 100,000 acres deeded back to the Taos Indians by Nixon. The Pueblo is over 900 years old, home to several multi-storied buildings housing cozy beehive fireplaces within, but to maintain historical standards, no running water or electricity has been added to the Pueblo proper. At least 150 people live within the traditional settlement and every tribal member speaks the Tiwa language. We are given a tour by a young Native American college student named “Ilona”, which as she informs us, is Hungarian. Given the bellicose history between the Taos Indians and the Spaniards, I’m surprised to discover that the pueblo is 90% Catholic, although they worship the Earth Mother and leave Christ off to the side in a child-size casket. The magical Red Willow River halves the pueblo’s center, but the surrounding meadow has been cleared for a parking lot. One of the elders sports a WWII Veteran cap and flashes the brightest blue eyes. These men group together, selling buffalo pouches and bolo ties. One of them asks where I’m from and promptly informs me that California is going to fall into the sea. He whispers that I should go live with them, although I wouldn’t be allowed up to the sacred lake. He confides that the Indians listen to the earth, and this I know, but I can’t help but think he is trying to seduce me or sell me something. This is the New Yorker in me, and while I acknowledge the cynicism, I’m not buying.
The Community
Over the two weeks, I talked to three transplants, each of who had been living in Taos for over ten years. All of them sort of arrived there and never left, either participating in a workshop, waiting on parts for broken down motorcycle or finding a lover that you just can’t quite leave yet. I can understand the desire. Taos lingers. It invites you to carve out a niche, find purpose, or disappear. Natural beauty abounds and the cache of local secrets I found devilishly attractive. I longed to puncture the tourist pleasantries and get down to the heartbeat
Triple A is also correct in printing that there are three distinct influences within Taos proper: Spanish, Native American and Anglo. Although the guide also states that they mingle, I learned otherwise. One of the folks I met told me that occasionally, someone well into their cups will curse him out ending with a loud “Whitey!”
I spend an evening out with Mark, our lovely concierge from The Indian Hills Inn, where we hop from the Taos Inn to the Adobe Inn, but even though I greet the baristas from World Cup Coffee, (simply the best coffee in the world and to which I’m an avowed lifelong fan and a twice-daily customer), they are not quite friendly in return. It’s as if you’re welcome as a tourist, but they don’t want you in their shit and they certainly don’t want you hanging out at their local bar. I don’t know if I could pick up and move to a small town on my own because there seems to be a bit of hazing involved with the process. First you’re a curiosity, then ignored until you can prove you have something to offer. The other fact I found unsettling was that virtually no one we met, with the exception of Mark, was interested in the fact that we were building for Habitat for Humanity or even knew of the Taos affiliate. The Saturday following our arrival, the local radio station heavily promoted volunteer orientation seminars for Habitat and I was disheartened to learn that only two people showed up.
There is definitely a disconnect, as though the many Taos websites cannot even use the influence of the Internet to create community. When my friend Lonn asked me what I thought it was, the word “heartbreak” came to mind. The land breathes an overwhelming sigh. It is a place for people to forget, be separate, belong, start over, start drinking again, become the artist they always hoped they’d be. Not surprisingly, there is a large amount of alcoholism. According to the Albuquerque Journal, “Taos County is one of the worst in the state for alcohol-related crashes.” For a town so small, the inhabitants keep to their own kind, everyone protecting their slice of reality or sanity.
The Build
Many people asked me who in Taos needed homes, since real estate is expensive, a surefire result when celebrity moves to town. From the pages of US Weekly, Taos appears to be the Malibu of the South West, however the medium income of its 7000 residents is $18,000, most employment being service-related, typical for a ski/summer sports town. Keep in mind that for a family of four, that’s the 2004 poverty level rate.
We are entrusted with the families' names and their stories, but I will tell you that a home will change their lives. For domestic habitat builds, it’s very difficult for the families to take time off of work, many of whom have more than one job. Such is the work ethic in the United States. When I was in Thailand, the entire family pitched in, including neighbors and tribal chiefs. I am there to build, that is the bottom line, but associating the faces with the houses is a very important part of Habitat, it gives the “humanity” portion of the company clear definition. Since a day off was impossible, we were invited to the pueblo where a dinner was held in our honor. It was incredibly moving, reminding me that I have not known real struggle. My parents worked in social service and didn’t really make any money, yet we had a house and a back yard that we loved for 27 years and never wanted for anything. It breaks my heart that people, native to the area with family surrounding them, are forced to move elsewhere because of the outrageous land prices. By the end of the evening, everyone shed tears. I felt blessed to be there, to be part of this and to be able to somehow make some small difference in the lives of these beautiful, courageous people.
The houses will not be finished by the time we leave. The first one is about 85% done and the second, 60%. We roofed, chicken wired, hung doors and sheet rock and secured the vigas that act as support beams across the roof. You would be surprised at how cool the homes are inside as opposed to outside, about 20 or 30 degrees. For days, all one could hear was the pounding of hammers and we diligently worked, I lost in my thoughts. Our site leader, Kyle, was the pure definition of positive energy and kindness. At one point towards the end of the trip, he asked me if I was staying, suspecting that I had felt the famous “Taos Pull”.
One of the group suggests the “Taos Hum”, a low throbbing sound from deep in the earth. I do some research and find the following "straight dope". But I know it is the heartbreak and the beautiful Rocky Mountains, the Rio Grande and big sky that draw me near like a strong set of shoulders to rest on.
It's true... Taos lingers. After a tearful goodbye to my new friends, I pick a bunch of lilacs to accompany me on my way back to Los Angeles.
Friday, June 03, 2005
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Will Someone Fill In Those Dang Potholes?
An old friend of mine was visiting from Minneapolis last week. I hadn’t seen her in six years, and was delighted to hear that “Kat Tales” had kept her completely up to date. However, as we walked little Lily through Madison Square Park, she revealed that she didn’t believe half of what I wrote. I stifled a guffaw and asked which entries she was talking about. “Well”, with a sideways look that reeked of skepticism, “the cowboy/roadie guy and the angry man? Is that for real?”
Her reaction wasn’t original.
People call, send private emails or publicly comment on the blog about my interludes with the opposite sex. One person even sent me a prayer card. If I had a chick lit book in the cards, I would call it Still Looking for Mr. Right, Still Sleeping With Mr. Wrong. It’s a good title.
Naturally, I take a tiny margin of poetic license. Let’s call it 5%. I’m certainly not James Frey here trying to pass off a work of mostly memoir and I don’t relish the thought of getting bitch slapped by Oprah, but I’d rather use my trip down the rabbit hole to entertain rather than subjecting you to the fine print. I replied to Andrea, and not a bit proudly by the way, that they were all true. Everyone has their cross to bear in this lifetime, mine happens to be relationships with men. OK, cigarettes could fall into this category… and when to say “No” to coffee.
For most of my twenties, “relationship” did not exist in my vocabulary. I was too busy, too self involved, too ambitious to allow any sort of intimacy in my life, but I seem to have fast tracked this path, getting caught up for all the years I’ve been on the career turnpike of life.
I don’t pretend to know that much about the male species. I try to think of behavior as gender non-specific, but there are some things that definitely fall into the X/Y factor. For example, there’s a “Sex & The City” episode where Carrie meets Baryshnikov, (who manages to grand jeté his sixty year old self over a taxi at least once during his romance with Sarah Jessica Parker). After declaring that she’s going to take him as her “lovah”, Carrie realizes that after multiple copulation engagements, it’s no longer a sexual relationship, but a pathway to a real one. “Nesting” as Carrie says, “is in our DNA”. As I marked over a 150 emails I had received since November, preparing to delete, I pondered over where it went wrong. How had I fallen into the same pothole again?
My current situation with the Soccer Hottie has abruptly terminated. I should have known what I was dealing with when he told me that he thought he was incapable of having a serious relationship, but it’s as if I have an invisible hearing aid and the volume has been turned down on. And when this sexy guy is saying the blah blah blah, but whisking you off to a mountain retreat in Vermont where you spend almost every last second not skiing, well, I’ve always been taught that actions speak louder than words. In this case, the words were loud and clear, the actions were… well, I don’t think I need to elaborate. When this same someone arrives almost twelve hours after you’ve touched down in New York with birthday cake and sweet nothings, it’s easy to go deaf. But when he later says to you, “I’m attracted to you. I’m attracted to a lot of women”, this is probably the right time to turn up the volume. My ex - the speedracer/townie/metrosexual - actually laughed right out loud at that sentiment.
The bitter end began when I pulled the girl card and brought up direction. Where was this going? I wasn’t sure how I felt, and after the past weekend, I wasn’t getting a read on his feelings either. When he relayed that the next time he visited, he would be staying in a hotel, feeling that we needed to put the brakes on; I’m thinking, and maybe I’m crazy, but I’m thinking that it meant he want to take things slowly; let it marinate, when the translation is I AM NO LONGER INTERESTED IN YOU. I WANT TO BE FRIENDS. My relationship hearing aid was beginning to hum and crackle.
Towards the end of a five-hour conversation spanning two days, (if you think I talk a lot, I have nothing on the SH), navigating this murky marinade while simultaneously consulting the ancient scrolls of mantalk, I demanded from the Soccer Hottie a clear explanation of his feelings. His reply, and I quote: “I feel that we’ve exchanged information. I feel that we have a rapport with each other.” These are not feelings. These are facts. And although I reiterated this during the course of this deranged and extremely tiresome circumlocution, I couldn’t help but push Mr. Hottie into a corner where he thrust this finality: he was not interested in me romantically, that he didn’t love me and could never be in love with me.
Well, thank you, it’s very clear now. There was a nasty last minute rant where colors were exposed; truly a notable spark of emotion, and the phone appropriately went dead. I don’t expect to hear from the SH; my repeated sentiment was that friendship had been taken off the table when he started adding spicy innuendo to the lengthy daily communication we had begun.
My approach to disaster relief: I spend the morning bleary eyed. Call back up and got both support and criticism. Two of my favorite reactions: “You can really pick them, can’t you?” and “What is wrong with you!?!” My sage, Dr. Crosby, reminds me in an email “Montaigne said you can't know a horse until you've seen it trotting in the street, charging on the battlefield, and resting in the stable.” Taking all this advice into account, I hop the 6 train to Soho’s DopDop Salon for a super chic haircut, reverse directions uptown for free Friday nights at MoMA where some of the worlds most incredible art hangs, including a few of my favorites, Chagall’s "Birthday”, Klimpts “The Park”, Hopper’s “Gas” and Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”.
Longfellow said “Look not mournfully into the past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the present. It is thine.”
Today, I decide on candy apple red lingerie and the fabulous mascara I have discovered (by the way girls, after years, and I mean years, of looking for the perfect mascara, I’ve finally found it, Benefit’s Bad Gal Lash), turn up the Rolling Stones’ “Made in the Shade” and dance around the apartment singing Bitch and Happy with the drapes wide open, letting in the rainy grey light.
Fully clad, I don my rose-colored sunglasses. This is how I prefer to see the world. And the next time I spot a pothole, I'll take a different street.
Her reaction wasn’t original.
People call, send private emails or publicly comment on the blog about my interludes with the opposite sex. One person even sent me a prayer card. If I had a chick lit book in the cards, I would call it Still Looking for Mr. Right, Still Sleeping With Mr. Wrong. It’s a good title.
Naturally, I take a tiny margin of poetic license. Let’s call it 5%. I’m certainly not James Frey here trying to pass off a work of mostly memoir and I don’t relish the thought of getting bitch slapped by Oprah, but I’d rather use my trip down the rabbit hole to entertain rather than subjecting you to the fine print. I replied to Andrea, and not a bit proudly by the way, that they were all true. Everyone has their cross to bear in this lifetime, mine happens to be relationships with men. OK, cigarettes could fall into this category… and when to say “No” to coffee.
For most of my twenties, “relationship” did not exist in my vocabulary. I was too busy, too self involved, too ambitious to allow any sort of intimacy in my life, but I seem to have fast tracked this path, getting caught up for all the years I’ve been on the career turnpike of life.
I don’t pretend to know that much about the male species. I try to think of behavior as gender non-specific, but there are some things that definitely fall into the X/Y factor. For example, there’s a “Sex & The City” episode where Carrie meets Baryshnikov, (who manages to grand jeté his sixty year old self over a taxi at least once during his romance with Sarah Jessica Parker). After declaring that she’s going to take him as her “lovah”, Carrie realizes that after multiple copulation engagements, it’s no longer a sexual relationship, but a pathway to a real one. “Nesting” as Carrie says, “is in our DNA”. As I marked over a 150 emails I had received since November, preparing to delete, I pondered over where it went wrong. How had I fallen into the same pothole again?
My current situation with the Soccer Hottie has abruptly terminated. I should have known what I was dealing with when he told me that he thought he was incapable of having a serious relationship, but it’s as if I have an invisible hearing aid and the volume has been turned down on. And when this sexy guy is saying the blah blah blah, but whisking you off to a mountain retreat in Vermont where you spend almost every last second not skiing, well, I’ve always been taught that actions speak louder than words. In this case, the words were loud and clear, the actions were… well, I don’t think I need to elaborate. When this same someone arrives almost twelve hours after you’ve touched down in New York with birthday cake and sweet nothings, it’s easy to go deaf. But when he later says to you, “I’m attracted to you. I’m attracted to a lot of women”, this is probably the right time to turn up the volume. My ex - the speedracer/townie/metrosexual - actually laughed right out loud at that sentiment.
The bitter end began when I pulled the girl card and brought up direction. Where was this going? I wasn’t sure how I felt, and after the past weekend, I wasn’t getting a read on his feelings either. When he relayed that the next time he visited, he would be staying in a hotel, feeling that we needed to put the brakes on; I’m thinking, and maybe I’m crazy, but I’m thinking that it meant he want to take things slowly; let it marinate, when the translation is I AM NO LONGER INTERESTED IN YOU. I WANT TO BE FRIENDS. My relationship hearing aid was beginning to hum and crackle.
Towards the end of a five-hour conversation spanning two days, (if you think I talk a lot, I have nothing on the SH), navigating this murky marinade while simultaneously consulting the ancient scrolls of mantalk, I demanded from the Soccer Hottie a clear explanation of his feelings. His reply, and I quote: “I feel that we’ve exchanged information. I feel that we have a rapport with each other.” These are not feelings. These are facts. And although I reiterated this during the course of this deranged and extremely tiresome circumlocution, I couldn’t help but push Mr. Hottie into a corner where he thrust this finality: he was not interested in me romantically, that he didn’t love me and could never be in love with me.
Well, thank you, it’s very clear now. There was a nasty last minute rant where colors were exposed; truly a notable spark of emotion, and the phone appropriately went dead. I don’t expect to hear from the SH; my repeated sentiment was that friendship had been taken off the table when he started adding spicy innuendo to the lengthy daily communication we had begun.
My approach to disaster relief: I spend the morning bleary eyed. Call back up and got both support and criticism. Two of my favorite reactions: “You can really pick them, can’t you?” and “What is wrong with you!?!” My sage, Dr. Crosby, reminds me in an email “Montaigne said you can't know a horse until you've seen it trotting in the street, charging on the battlefield, and resting in the stable.” Taking all this advice into account, I hop the 6 train to Soho’s DopDop Salon for a super chic haircut, reverse directions uptown for free Friday nights at MoMA where some of the worlds most incredible art hangs, including a few of my favorites, Chagall’s "Birthday”, Klimpts “The Park”, Hopper’s “Gas” and Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”.
Longfellow said “Look not mournfully into the past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the present. It is thine.”
Today, I decide on candy apple red lingerie and the fabulous mascara I have discovered (by the way girls, after years, and I mean years, of looking for the perfect mascara, I’ve finally found it, Benefit’s Bad Gal Lash), turn up the Rolling Stones’ “Made in the Shade” and dance around the apartment singing Bitch and Happy with the drapes wide open, letting in the rainy grey light.
Fully clad, I don my rose-colored sunglasses. This is how I prefer to see the world. And the next time I spot a pothole, I'll take a different street.
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