Oh dear, look what half-finished post I just found. From the Pre-Trump American Archives of Summer 2016:
Our next adventure took us west, out into the rugged desert to the Acoma Pueblo. I'd been there several times before and I'm sure it won't be the last time.
There were some pretty wet-looking clouds moving our way as we neared the end of the tour. Someone asked our guide if it was going to rain, which was quickly answered with "No, it never rains. I promise." To that, the sky replied, "Wanna bet?" and the clouds opened as we made our way down the steep mesa decline. We stopped for shelter from the downpour partway down the trail, huddling under an overhanging boulder while rain water trickled down the ancient steps and filled the hand-carved hand-holds in the rock wall. The water streaked down the cliff face, highlighting colors that are otherwise subdued in the stone. When it became clear that the trickle down the trail was becoming stronger as opposed to stopping, we carefully packed away electronics and followed the water's path.
A short time later, we got back to the visitors' center and lunched outside, though protected from the weather, and listened to the thunder crash and rumble. It made it's point, and then it left. As did we.
But before heading home, we took a detour farther west, to the Malpais, or badlands. There we stopped at the sandstone bluffs overlooking miles and miles of lava fields, and hopped around barefoot on the warm cliffs.
Later that evening: Old Town, New Mexican cuisine, quiet streets.
The next day took us north to Taos, in what I like to think of as the Toes of the Rockies, where a dear friend welcomed us into her adobe abode, treating us to the nigh-on spiritual experience that is her cooking and the warming comforts of her laughter and home.
One deep sleep later, after PJ'd berry pickings and a divine breakfast, we packed a picnic and headed up to the local ski valley for some high-altitude hiking. Buzzing, babbling brooks, hidden meadows, soft sunshine dappling through greenly needled branches.
A return trip through an artsy mecca with holy hollyhocks and damn good ice cream, and it was time to say goodbye. First farewell to our wonderful host and fabulous hoohah of a cherished friend, and then farewell to my travel companion from Hamburg, who I deposited in a parking lot on the north end of town to start his next adventure -- hitchhiking north and east, destination Minneapolis, and Toronto. (Spoiler: He survived. We cooked dinner together last week, then drank champagne and ate truffles while watching a movie in 3D, classy glasses over our glasses). I drove the 150 or so miles back to Albuquerque, on my own for the first time in weeks, scanning through fuzzy radio stations and trying to watch the road instead of the dramatic cloudscapes.
I had big plans for my final day in New Mexico, all of which were thwarted when I walked out to the car in the morning and realized I'd be changing a tire and hanging out at the mechanic's instead. After weeks of careful sunscreen slathering, the sun finally snuck its way into my skin as I put on the spare -- "Something to remember me by when you go back to Hamburg", it smirked.
The next day, Mom and I flew together to Boston, my point of departure and her point of conference for the next week. There we were met at the airport by Joshua (with whom I recently celebrated our 1-year Portugaliversary), who was a total peach to drive down from Maine just for the evening. Together we made our way to Cambridge, where we met up with family and picnicked in a park. My niece shrieked in bottomless, year-and-a-half-old delight as she streaked through the fountain, then insisted that I take my shoes off so that she could toddle around in them. A perfect evening to conclude several wonderful, family-filled weeks in the Heimat.
