I've looked at clouds from both sides now....

When I meet people for the first time and tell them I just moved here from Portland, OR, they look at me in disbelief.  "Why?" they say, and my stock response is, "For the green chili stew and a library system that will hire me."  They laugh, but retain their skepticism, screened behind polite smiles and small talk about the city.  So many of them have friends and relatives in the Pacific NW, and they commiserate with me about the dryness, the heat, the lack of green.

They don't get it when I tell them I love the high desert.  I love the rocks, in all their fantastical shapes and colors.  Most of all, I love the big sky and the myriad forms the clouds take in that clear blue, the blue that seems to shimmer with light, the blue that goes from sky-blue to deep indigo.

Now, coming from the rainy city, I am no stranger to clouds.  But these clouds are something special.  Arching over a landscape as big and fantastical as themselves, in one day they can range from fluffy popcorn to towering fortresses.  They can be white cotton, scattered on glowing blue background.  They can be cumulonimbus clouds, louring over the mountains, sometimes shot through with lightning, sometimes streaming grey streaks of rain along the desert horizon.  They are so much more than a response to changes in barometric pressure and moisture.

The other day I came out of work into the early evening light.  Directly overhead, the leading edge of a cloud bank stretched in a slanting line across a clear blue sky.  To the east, the Sandia range was buried in grey.  To the west, the city and the desert glowed yellow-orange.  I stood at the demarcation of storm and sun, marveling.

During the monsoon season, the clouds come up quickly and dissipate even more quickly.  In the morning, I can watch the sun rise over the Sandia range, the thin layer of popcorn clouds turning pink, orange-red-purple, grey-white, white.  It's going to be a beautiful sunny day.  10 hours later, the dime-sized rain drops hiss on the hot pavement, splatting out of the overhead grey, heralded by thunder and lightning.  The parking lot becomes a lake, the arroyos and streets, rivers.  Waterfalls from the roof are framed by every window.  Customers huddle by the doorways, looking into the sheets of rain.  "I think I'll look for another book," they say.  Half an hour later, the lakes are rapidly-drying puddles, and a brilliant double rainbow spreads across the east, where the clouds and rain still linger.  The mountains are blue-grey, showing through the prism as a simple clean line.  The end of the rainbow seems close enough to touch.

There are times the clouds seem to be perfectly picked to outline the rocks and hills and reflect the sun.   They have that picturesque thing down.  And even when I am depressed with the petty details of my life, with the things that are not going right, I can't help but take in a deep joyful breath when I look up into those clouds.

Running on Empty

I've become used to the truck. Surprisingly, it has become "my" car. As is often the case, this change was financially driven. The Nissan gets worse gas mileage than the Honda. I'm only driving to and from work, while D is driving all over hell and gone, shopping, meeting his bosses, setting up appointments, meeting with clients. It made sense that I would take the gas guzzler, and, to D's surprise, I let that fact override my discomfort with the truck.

Although I volunteered for the switch, I wasn't expecting an easy transition. The truck is a total rattletrap, emphasis on rattle. I've learned to isolate discrete rattles, squeaks, and bangs: the sounds depend on what's in the bed of the truck, to some extent, but also indicate a loose canopy, a canopy door that neither latches nor locks, a shot suspension....you get the picture. Safety is also an issue. It's missing both bumpers, and hence has no airbag. While we replaced the balding rear tires, in a nod to the rear wheel drive, we still needed to change out the front tires. I suspect the brakes could use a once-over, and we need to remove the anti-freeze from the washer fluid well (chalk that one up to hasty prep for the move and D's confusion with the engine components.)

All that being said, however, it does get me to work, and it gives my arms a nice workout when I pull the manual steering into a U-turn. The latter happens less often, as I learn my way about the city, but I still have to maneuver into parking spaces, so my upper body has a nice taut future. I hope.

I've become used to it being a gutless wonder, and have learned to punch the gas when it falters upon takeoff. I've learned to ignore the sound of sliding boxes filled with bottles (the apartment complex does not recycle glass), and I have programmed the radio stations. I am comfortable with the truck.

So...last Saturday I was driving between branches, thinking about statistics and RFID tags and getting back to LT for lunch before I started covering desks. In other words, my mind was not on the drive. Dimly, I noticed a lurch, a slight deceleration, a sort of stutter in the engine performance, and I punched the accelerator. I turned onto San Pedro and noticed the stutter again. I thought, I hate that this truck has no acceleration, and continued on to Candelaria, at which point awareness trickled in and I glanced at the gas gauge.

Empty. Below empty, in fact.

Now, with previous cars I had a sense of how far I could drive before empty really meant empty. I had never reached that really empty state, so I didn't know the signs, but I suspected that I was observing them now.

Even though ABQ seems to be one long strip mall feeding into another into another, I happened to be on a main thoroughfare that was lined with homes, not businesses. Most pertinently, not gas stations. In growing panic, I urged the truck forward. I could see the stoplights of Wyoming in the distance....just a few more blocks, little truck, you can do it, please, I know you can.

The Nissan slowed, I put on the flashers, and in a moment of clarity, realized I needed to get off the main road.

Did you know that, when there is no gas, the steering locks up? Fortunately, I was already into the turn, and I coasted to a stop, just short of someone's driveway.

Of course, this was the day that D had borrowed my phone while I was getting ready for work, and I had decided to not interrupt his call to get it back. And of course, I was wearing shoes that were definitely not made for walking, along with a nice dress. And, of course, there are no pedestrians in this city. I felt very conspicuous, but walked the three blocks to Wyoming, where, praise be, there was a gas station right there on the corner next to me. I entered the station, and the tall tattooed blonde behind the counter finished waiting on her customer and looked at me. Yes? I explained my predicament, asking for a gas can. She said, we don't have one. I looked at her in disbelief and then asked if I could use a phone to call Triple A. She said, we're not supposed to, you'd have to promise on a stack of Bibles that whoever you call doesn't call us back. Really, it happens all the time, that's why we aren't supposed to loan out the phone. I said, I really just wanted to borrow a gas can. Her partner, a doofy-looking 20-something white male in a baseball cap, said, oh we have one of those.

Really?

It was red plastic, with a white plastic scrunchy hose and a black plastic locking mechanism. The doofus showed me how the locking mechanism worked, explaining I didn't want the gas to splash and leak out while I was driving. I looked at him. He said, oh, yeah, that's right, you aren't driving.

Right.

Although the gas can was probably worth $5, if that, they insisted I leave something for collateral, which was when I discovered I didn't have my ID, either. I left them a credit card, put 3 gallons of gas on it (and into the can), and walked back to the truck.

The locking mechanism leaked. I was dripping gas onto the ground. Magically, on this empty street, a car appeared. They had been driving past on Candelaria, seen a nice lady in a dress fussing with a gas can, and had pulled in to see if I needed help. By then I had figured out how to tighten the hose attachment, so I stood and watched the nice young man as he poured the gas into the tank without incident. But it was nice of them to stop.

I tossed the gas can into the back and drove to the station, pulling up at the only empty pump. I went into the station to retrieve my card and buy more gas, and the blonde said, forget something? Smart ass. I bought a Skor to tide me over and put $30 of gas in the truck.

And now I know

a. How far I can push the Nissan
b. How to put gas in the car, using a gas can
c. How to get by without a cell phone or ID

Three valuable lessons, well worth the 20 minutes out of my lunch hour.

Schizoid Sunday

I woke up to the scents of coffee, bacon, and toasted bread product.  D had been up for hours:  he drove out to watch the sun rise, explored Juan Tabo,  and then sat in the parking lot outside Einstein's bagels, waiting for them to open.  He bought cinnamon raisin bagels and honey schmear.  He toasted them to perfection, spread the right amount of schmear, made coffee, fried up some pepper bacon to the level of crunch I prefer (just this side of dead, please), put it all on the tiled tray, and sashayed into the bedroom.

He did decline to bring me the paper, and when he leaned over to give me a kiss he spilled coffee over the quilt.  But these are small things.  It was a lovely way to wake up.

We had a semi-leisurely morning before getting ready for 9:30 church.  The ministers are apparently taking the summer off, as is the choir.  So the service is run by congregants, and the music is provided by various small groups.  Today's music was jazz standards, e.g., Irving Berlin, played by a clarinet and electric jazz guitar duo:  quite lovely but I wanted to be sitting in a dark club, sipping on a nice red and holding D's hand.  It seemed more than a little odd to be sitting in a pew, looking out past the altar area into the sunny nature garden, trying to create a reverent mood.

The homilies centered on the concept of "service as a spiritual practice."  I pondered:  I spend most of my days working in a service profession, and it has never felt spiritual to me.  In fact, quite the opposite:  after a day spent fielding other people's stresses, I feel drained and useless.  Yes, I mainly enjoy my interactions with public and staff, but there is so much that doesn't work, both inside and outside the library.  I want to fix it, but I can only attend to the problem directly in front of me, and I can only use the tools I've been provided.  It does keep me posted on the cultural and societal norms and it does connect me to my community.  But I don't think you can count, "Please God, don't let him come back," as a real prayer.

The other day, I watched as a new colleague reprogrammed a hot pink second-hand Nook for an octogenarian who had purchased it as a gift for his granddaughter.  My jaw dropped when he handed her the gift bag and tissue paper, and it hit the floor when she wrapped up the Nook, flourishing the paper with a professional swirl and saying, "Let's add another one to make it look more luscious."  And she didn't blink an eye when he gave her the leftover wrappings to bundle up for him.  This does not constitute service, IMHO, nor is it a spiritual act.  It was a stunning display of lack of boundaries, and a clear indicator of the dearth of connections and social services:  didn't he have any family to help him?

I thought about that.  I thought about the other colleague chasing after the young man who set off the security gates trying to steal a book.  Why steal a book?  There are no fines, he can keep it for months without repercussions.  What caused him to fall to that place where it seemed easier to walk off with free materials rather than fix the problem with his card or do whatever was necessary to participate appropriately in a community institution?  Why did my colleague feel the need to safeguard property at his own personal risk?  Was he at risk?  Was this service?  Wouldn't true service be to find the young man some assistance?  What do you do, when confronted with needs and boundary confusion that seem insoluble?  How do you serve appropriately?

I don't know the answers, but I did decide it's time to find an animal shelter and serve there.  It will be a true spiritual act to walk a dog and pet a cat, I think.  At any rate, it will feel good.

After church, we had planned to get some sun by the pool, and then drive up to Las Golondrinas for the Santa Fe wine festival.  Sadly, things didn't work out that way.  The derailment began when I checked D's i-Phone for the address of Rebel Doughnuts:  more grease and fat and carbs were needed before we could even think of the next step.  En route to the map app, I found a text to D from K and an e-mail to me from B, and learned that all hell was breaking loose back in my PDX house.  This put me into a deep funk, which I shared with D.   Although we did get the doughnuts, I was unable to enjoy the weird ones (Rebel Doughnuts is Albuquerque's version of Voodoo Donuts.)

Clearly the first order of business was to try to attend to the situation, long distance. While I wrestled with e-mail, D began planting the tomatoes and basil and peppers he had purchased on Saturday. He discovered he did not have enough soil or pots for the job, and was on his way to Smith's. Ever the budget-minded person, I suggested we try the thrift stores on Menaul. While we did find Re:Tail to be a pleasant thrift store, no one seems to donate planters or gardening equipment. I found some much-need curtains for $4, and served my furry friends in that way, but after 2 fruitless hours of exploration, we ended up back at Smith's. It was frustrating: D loves to shop, but I don't, and neither of us wanted to be roaming the strip malls on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.

Planting completed and the house put in order, it was time to move northwards.  The drive up was beautiful, but marred by disharmony between partners, the second time in the day.  Or was it the third?  However, the wine festival was fun:  booths of wines, crafts, and foods, plus a stage of very loud hip hop, fortunately far enough away from most of our activities to provide festive, not intrusive, background music.  We were there in the last 2 hours of the festival, and you could tell the vendors just wanted to be gone, but they were gracious enough.  For $13 apiece, we got a tasting glass and free tastes at all the wine booths.  We discovered some nice wineries near Albuquerque and plan to visit the tasting rooms in the near future.  Most of the vineyards are in the Deming area, down by the southern border, so some day we may take a overnighter to the area:  check out Trinity site and then drown our sorrows.

Dinner at Maria's in Santa Fe, and then a silent drive home:  we can't seem to go more than 2 hours before a bone of contention arises.  And instead of burying that bone, we worry at it.  Stupid:  it doesn't do anything but hurt our teeth, metaphorically speaking.

Once home, I found another e-mail from PDX.  My home has been designated a pest hole, myself "white trash."  Or at least my yard, which has always been a jungle and still has stashes of junk left over from the March remodel and J's painting work.  It also appears that none of the leases and agreements that I have in place are holding up, and that will mean loss of vital income.  But I don't want to fight it.  Some of the unhappy renters are friends, and it costs money to defend against suits from those who are not. I am so weary of trying to keep on top of everything with limited budget, skills and time.  I understand for the first time how people can leave cars up on blocks for months at a time.  It seems that for every step forward, I get pushed back two.  I have been trying so hard to take care of business, but my efforts are clearly inadequate to the task.  It seems I haven't hit rock bottom yet:  I need to lose my house and the rest of my friends in addition to my job and my savings and my self-respect.

Maybe I just need to embrace my white trash self.

I tried to read and meditate and get back some of the good times of the day, but it was all too overwhelming and schizoid.  I bounced back and forth between joys and sorrows, and it took several hours to finally reach the middle ground of sleep.

And now I'm trying to figure out how best to spend the rest of my weekend.  I have a lot of business to attend to, but am not sure there is any point to it.  I posted this to FB:

Since there is no way

I can get ev'rything done,

Shall I do nothing?

Lisa says "yup."  I think I'll follow her advice.

My very first flash flood

Yesterday I worked at the Erna Fergusson Library:  it's 15 minutes from my home on a busy street.  The parking lot borders one of the many arroyos that snake down from the Sandia Mountains.  It's a complex engineering project, and I've been wondering how well it works.  I found out yesterday when I left work.

It had been a long day, and I spent my lunch hour trying to reach people in the HR department, so I had not gone outside.  But it was clearly as hot as it had ever been:  materials from the bookdrop radiated heat, and the solar telescopes on the patio were doing a roaring business.  (Sadly, I did not have the time to check them out, but I'm sure the program will be offered at other locations in my upcoming tenure with the Albuquerque library system.)

I sent a final e-mail, paper-clipped all the little notes and calculations, gathered up my stuff, and made tracks for the parking lot.  As I tossed my bags into the passenger seat, I glanced toward the arroyo.  Instead of the usual white cement-lined square ditch, I saw brown water, a few feet below the edge, running quickly from east to west.  A woman and a girl stood on the pedestrian bridge, looking down, and I joined them.

This was the fastest, smoothest, straightest waterflow I've ever seen:  no eddies, no backwater, no floating logs, no ducks.  The surface was littered with lines of light brown sprinkles, leaves and twigs I guessed, but it was moving too fast to know.  I looked east, and noted the entrance of the North Hahn Arroyo:  that arroyo was bone dry and a straight diagonal line in the otherwise smooth surface of the Hahn Arroyo water indicated the different depth where the two arroyos merged.

My fellow gawkers informed me that there had been a thunderstorm in the foothills, and that this was the flash flood from that storm.  Some gray-white clouds still hovered in the east, but where I stood the sky was clear, with a hot afternoon sun.  It was a little spooky, the water was so unnatural.

I drove home and didn't see any signs of storms until I reached Osuna Rd.  Then I noticed fast-drying water in gutters, and Bear Canyon's cement dams had brown water tumbling over them.  By the time I walked over from the apartment, the water was lazily trickling through gaps in the cement, and only the wet sand indicated the spate that had passed through.  Back home, the sidewalks had dried out in the few short minutes I had been gone, but the rocky gardens still held pools of water.  One of the water pipes into the parking lot dripped a few drops, and several large rocks sat in the lot:  another indication of the temporary hydropower.

When D arrived home, an hour after the floods, there was little evidence left of the event.  The air was humid, and a few clouds lingered.  And there were those rocks.

Apparently we are now officially in the monsoon season.

Being an Ostrich

I'm avoiding the computer, and I don't quite understand why, but I have some inklings. It's my main connection to the world outside my New Mexico life and it's also the main tool for organizing said life. Would I really rather just sit with my knitting and watch NCIS re-runs? Seems so. At any rate, the computer seems to have become my locus for ostrich behavior.

It's not as if I am avoiding everything. I've been here a month now. The work and people are becoming familiar to me. While I still don't have a landing spot in the library system, as of Friday I have an interim project (other than learning the similar-yet-different procedures and policies): I will be working on the RFID project. I met my partner on Friday and we interviewed the last 4 (out of 13) temp workers. We still don't know what the project really entails, but on Tuesday, when we are trained on the equipment, it will all fall into place. Hopefully. After all, how difficult can it be to organize placing RFID tags on every item in the system?

Despite the ever-changing job location, or maybe because of it, I am starting to get around without consulting Mapquest first. I know where the cheap parking lots are near the downtown library. Even better, I find myself singing along with the radio, watching for "my" mountains as I drive home, watching the clouds gather and disperse, noting the slant of light in the late afternoon.

It's an easy commute, regardless of where I'm going. The streets feel so wide and empty: blurts of traffic are followed by wide gaps, which gives me enough time to pull a U-turn at intersections when I find myself going the wrong way (and that still happens regularly.) I've left the Honda and its better gas mileage to D and have taken over the truck. It has manual steering and no pickup to speak of, and it's still easy enough to maneuver through traffic and onramps. I am developing a fondness for the frontage roads, but am not overly fearful of the highways.

Sadly, I was recently informed that I am living in a fool's paradise. Once school starts up in late August, travel time will triple in certain areas, and those spacious multi-lane hwys and main roads will fill up.

At least I'll get get my learning in while the traffic is manageable.

Discovery is the name of the game right now. I've found the classical radio station (which is so-so) and a terrific classic rock station (KIOT, pronounced Coyote.) My list of restaurants and things to do is growing and we actually had some friends over for dinner last week. The daily news focuses on the heat wave and the wildfires, and I'm starting to figure out where all those places are in relation to my home. I use the heat as an excuse to sit by the pool and read, and I've read 6 new books in the last 4 weeks.

From this perspective, it looks like I'm contentedly settling in. I have a routine and a comfortable place to be, both emotionally and physically. The finances are still a drag, but all the details are working themselves out, and D is very enthusiastic about his new job. I'm starting to lose a little weight and firm up a few muscles. I have a lot to be proud of and even more to enjoy about my life.

So, why am I still avoiding the computer? I started this post yesterday, after several hours of reading, cooking, and pool-sitting. I quit after 10 minutes, unable to sustain an interest in my own doings, unable to respond reasonably to my friends' postings and messages. I fought with D. When the BBQ with H got cancelled, I felt a familiar sinking feeling: I have no friends. Later, as D and I tried to get back on speaking terms, I broke down and sobbed, "I'm so lonely!"

Today's avoidance mechanism is different: I'm using the blog and FB to avoid taking care of business. In fact, I have spent 3 hours transcribing notes and tracking down links, when what I should be doing is paying my bills. And I'm wondering why I can't take care of myself and take care of business.  Why does my daily path seem to be a zigzag around things I just don't want to confront?  It seems no matter what I do, it isn't what I should be doing.

But maybe it's what I need to be doing.

Things to do in ABQ

D is learning the city through his job selling payroll systems and visa machines. Cards for restaurants, gift shops, and specialty businesses flutter onto table tops wherever he goes. He also brings me cards for hair stylists and yarn shops. He is into it.

My research is much more low key. For example, I was talking to TH in the break room, and in addition to discussing various cooking techniques for New Mexican cuisine, she gave me a list of restaurants:

El Martino (which I cannot locate, maybe it's Marino's? since she was giving me NE addresses)

Straight up pizza

Torino's

Garcia's: on 4th street. (She is not the only person to indicate that location is important with this local chain) This is apparently where I should go for sopapillas and green chili stew, but we haven't made it yet. D, however, keeps stopping by for fresh sopapillas, which, by the time I get them, are no longer fresh. The intent is stellar, but the execution is flawed.

Mary and Tito's (New Mexican)

Barb told me about Tim's Place, a cafe run by a guy with Down's Syndrome. Jenny recommends the Frontier, on Central in the Nob Hill area.

While I was in training, I got into a conversation with a Main security guard, and he suggested El Charritos on SW 47th and Central for good spicy New Mexican food. He was the 2010 first place winner for the annual salsa contest and gets his tomatoes from the Mexican market on Central, in the downtown district. Neither are high end places, but he vouches for their authenticity and quality. He promised me some home-made salsa, fresh from his kitchen, but it didn't happen before I left Main for the branches.

We already knew about 5 Star Burgers from our Taos visit, and on our first night we discovered Dion's for Pizza.

Of course, we've made our own discoveries....

1. After we drove to Sandia Peak to see the sunrise, we stopped at Blake's Lotaburger (a blast-from-the-past 50's decor) for breakfast burritos. The other day I heard that it made National Geographic's Top 10 burgers in the US, placing 4th. There's one a block away from home, so we'll have to give it a shot.

2. For our first nice meal out (to celebrate my first CABQ paycheck), we went to Yanni's for Greek food. Later I checked out the Best of ABQ guide, and there it was. But now I can't find the guide. If it's from the Albuquerque Magazine, you have to subscribe. The 2011 Best of Burque (from the alternative weekly, the Alibi) snubs Yanni's for Olympia Cafe. But suffice it to say, there is plenty of good ethnic food to be found.

3. On our first Sunday drive (to Placitas), the local art gallery AND the local real estate dude both recommended The Range in Bernalillo. There's one in ABQ as well, but we stuck with the original, which was located on the Main street/old highway. It had a gallery and gift shop and wine/tequila bar attached and took up the entire block.

4. When D asked for a good place for ice cold beer and burgers, the rangers at El Morro suggested nearby Tinaja for the Navajo Burger, served on frybread. I'm normally not a fan of frybread, but this really worked. The place itself was low-budget warehouse/diner decor, with tile floor, screen door, plastic chairs, light from windows and open screen door, and a TV showing Crocodile Dundee (in English with English subtitles). They actually had no beer, but they brought us bottled water with a glass of ice and a lemon and included a complimentary plate of juicy watermelon triangles. Just what one wanted after an afternoon in the high desert sun.

5. On the same trip, we also discovered the Cimarron Rose B&B, near the Continental Divide. It's a beautifully restored space, surrounded by fragrant juniper trees: we hope to spend our anniversary there.

6. To celebrate D's successful last hiring hurdle (setting 20 appointments), we had home-made pasta at Scalo. It's another local Best, and I was really looking forward to my leftovers, tagliatelle with a rich 3-cheese sauce. Sadly, they stayed at the table. We did, however, manage to remember to take home the wine, in a sealed plastic bag.

In Albuquerque

They give you doggie bags for

Your leftover wine.

Last week the library directors took me out to lunch at the original Hilton Hotel in the attached Lucia restaurant (I had a lovely chipotle Cobb wrap and peppery sweet potato fries.)

Lest one think I'm only into eating, I also grilled them about things to do. They all agreed that the 2.7 mile Longest Tram Ride in the World to the peak (oh yes, there's a restaurant there, too) was well worth the effort to overcome my acrophobic jitters. L suggested I stand in the middle and don't look down, and promises that the ride is smooth. Except when passing the towers. hmmm.

They also gave a thumbs up to the botanic garden/zoo/aquarium complex, aka the Biopark. It's a city service, and later in the day DS brought me free tickets for that.

J at Cherry Hills and H both talked about hiking into the hills. Apparently the Open Spaces are perfect for that, although homeless folks find other uses for those areas.  J says she's never seen a rattler up there, and as long as I'm prepared with sunscreen and water, I should be fine.

TG had some suggestions for craft and art, as well as hair stylists:

Tommy at the downtown Inspire has received local kudos
Village Wools at San Pedro and Paseo, and the Yarn Store on Nob Hill, will supply my knitting fix.
Papers (also Nob Hill), Longells art supply, Mama's Minerals, and Artisan Santa Fe will take care of the arts and crafts needs.

So now I just have to find the time and money to patronize these places. And maybe some friends to go with me.