In The Cigar Box

South of Paseo De Peralta on the corner of Buena Vista and Old Santa Fe Trail stands the Inn of the Turquoise Bear where history casts a shroud of mystery comparable to any worthy haunted house. This old estate turned B&B has been the scene of extraordinary parties, a place where political influence was peddled and a redoubt for famous writers to find their muse or perhaps to privately imbibe. For a few hours after arrival we thought our shuttle driver had taken an erroneous turn and dropped us at the The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel .  In fact, Maggie Smith and Judi Dench may have drawn their character studies from guests at the Inn.  The general state of repair at the Inn was certainly better than The Marigold, but stories about purled sheets, rough towels, dim lighting, bottled water that costs a buck, a smallish shower, and unexpected rules were a bit inconsistent with the images created by the Inn's website.  It was later on our walk back from dinner that we n...

Some stories take time.  Some require you to close your eyes in order to see the scenes passing by.  This is that kind of story.   We boarded the Southwest Chief in Kansas City at about 10:30 pm on Friday night, two weeks ago.  Sixteen hours and eleven stops between Kansas City’s Union Station and Lamy, New Mexico where we would catch the shuttle up to Santa Fe for a few nights at a B & B in an historic Santa Fe estate.  Ralph and Robert, innkeepers and owners of the Inn of the Turquoise Bear, had showered us with guide books and local lore in the weeks before our arrival. Since the sun had set an hour or more ago, the walk to Amtrak car 331 traversed an elevated ramp, down a steep flight of steps and came to trackside amid an evening fog mixing its mist with the vapors emanating from under the locomotive.  The scene could have been penned by Agatha Christie to set the foreboding mood for Murder on the Orient Express .  Roomette 12 was up...

One Friday evening, years ago, when the hands on the clock were rising, a wedding was about to begin.   The weather of early June had already become humid.  The light streaming through the church windows was softer than the bright forenoon light during Sunday morning worship.  Hurricane lamps and candelabras sprinkled light on the petals of the yellow roses adding a golden glow to the sanctuary. My brothers stood with me.  Standing required great will for they were nervous and sweating profusely.  My task was to tease them and to tie their ties.  Blood brothers, soon-to-be brother-in-law, foreign exchange student brother – brothers all, then and after.  They were all there smiling and glistening – mostly from moist foreheads with an occasional droplet cascading to the carpet – my hope was than none would faint. The music started as, in the narthex, the bride’s entourage gathered for the procession setting the stage for the bride.  Al...