I have a place in Santa Fe now.  This is good, even though I was somewhat looking forward to wandering the streets of hippietown with a bag full of CDs on my shoulder, looking for a place to circle and lick my hair before going to sleep. 
 

I will be living in a guest house.  My father originally misunderstood this term.  He thought it was like the servants' quarters.

 

My place is not far from the ironically named Santa Fe river, which is now nothing but a dusty culvert for most of the year.  The house is one of many bumps of adobe sown into the landscape of foothills, pebbles, tough and ugly bushes, long and angled shadows, and druggy college students.  I've seen a picture of the lawn.  It looks like a nuclear test site, and maybe it was.  This is New Mexico, after all.  The dirt has been baking all summer, and is ready to freeze and crack this winter. 

 

The nights are long in Santa Fe, and the bars are western-themed.  The moon frequently has a very pretty ring of light around it, the stars are far more visible there than in this smogy and bright area, and it's the first place I was able to see the Milky Way.  During the winter it was usually cold, but not too cold; and in the spring the sun shat its blinding rays upon us and I stayed inside for most of the day.

 

Anyone want to visit me next year?  I'll build a guest house to the guest house if someone comes.