Infanta Se

First things first. It is becoming increasingly clear that I am able to do only one of two things. I simply can not uphold the sparkling epitome of scrivened clarity that pervades these pages to a large degree, at least not while I am your man-on-the-ground and I still have my humble dignity.

So you will have to take your pick: would you have the worthy bard, elevating and transforming your very optic nerves by dint of descriptive voracity? Or would you prefer the to-the-quick investigative intuition that, by the glim of dripping wax candle set upon knowing green visor, illuminates and envelopes the truth in much the same way the nightly-daily enfolds a fresh flounder fillet?

One or the other, my friends, one or the other -- but stay, we shall suspend such a weighty interdiction 'til its moment comes.

In the meantime....

Friday signified Saturday, in much the same way Thursday signified Friday, and on FridaySaturday, it was off to Santa Fe; ole'! I drove down with Dale and his wife, to see the sights and poke the ruins, maybe nudge the odd celebrity rib or two.

We walked all over the old center of town, past the Palace of the Governor, past la Iglesia di San Miguel, past the seller of the seemingly plastic jewelry. My reflexes, still torpid in the brisk chill of the morning, were not what they should have been, and for the most part, you'll just have to take my word for it.

The church of San Miguel was built in 1610, with only stone buttresses added in the 1860's, a testament to the solidly smeared adobe buildings that still survive all over old Santa Fe. Directly next door squatted a humbly slung casa that was signed (next door, under the "Fine Jewelry Here and ATM") the oldest surviving home in the United States, its 3-foot thick walls dated to 1640.

From this heady history, it was onward to. . . .

the Toyota dealership. See, there was this sale going on, down at the mall, and Dale's son just turned 15, and. . .

Anyhoo, I test-drove a Scion XB, hum-ho-ing and what-what-here-ing, twiddling dials and feigning marked impress at the mighty grip of so unassuming an emergency brake, until I drove the poor lamprey with his clipboard to distraction, and then we almost ran out of gas. I am not the proud owner, although I said I would be in touch, and left him with the phone number of one Doron Taussig, my old stand-by. One keen aside; Rumsfeld's daughter looked downright shabby, haggling with the sales-eels over the trade-in value of her '87 Hyundai.

Following a brief wrestling match of the natural food variety at Trader Joe's, where I loaded up on healthy and tasteless grains to hump into the backcountry on wednesday, it was home again jiggity-jog, to Dales house and a fine dinner with his family. I stayed up until 10:30 playing basketball in the back yard with his 2 boys, 12 and 15, and their neighborhood friends. I had shaved that morning, and they were astounded and not a little perplexed to find I am not in fact 17, but. . . . It did take some of the triumph out of my thundering dunks over their whiskerless faces, but it was marvelous anyway; a wormhole back to Long Island and hot summer nights spent fiddling about under the street lamp with the whole bucktoothed group from the block.

Sabina, Dale's wife, gave me a pot of honey from her bees, and the scent of juniper and pinyon pervades the aroma. Then, laden with bruises, honey, and books, stuffed with cookies and beer, I was driven home to the dark welcoming whisper of my cabin, and without peeling the sticky shirt off my back, fell deeply, profoundly, asleep.