Santa Fe – A Tapestry of Memories for me
My dining experience last night wasn’t exactly a second chapter to my “Table for One” that I posted almost two years ago, but it kept coming to mind during my recent time in Santa Fe, so I decided to loosely link the two. For those who have no idea what I’m talking about, reference my blog post dated 8/2023, “Table for One.”
I’ve returned to Santa Fe, a few months shy of my visit two years ago, when I was weeks away from my knee replacement. I was feeling sorry for myself— no longer able to hike and in pain with even short walks, so I decided to drive to Santa Fe, stay at the gorgeous Bishop’s Lodge that my daughter, Emery, had recommended, and have a few days of pampering. The lodge offered rides into the city square for those without cars or who preferred not to drive themselves. I had been diagnosed with the dreaded “bone on bone” with my knee, and walking farther than a few blocks was difficult for me. This was a hard realization for someone who has spent many vacations traversing large parts of Spain and Ireland on foot, but pain had lowered my expectations, and I set my pride aside and rode in the van from my hotel to Santa Fe’s Plaza. This was the night that I found myself at Cafe Sena with the woman seated next to me at the bar, drunk on frozen rosé, whom I referred to as Flo in my essay because, well, she looked like a Flo. Almost two years later and with a new knee, I returned to Cafe Sena, ironically, also with limited mobility due to a hairline fracture in my ankle that happened a few days earlier with a slip on wet grass and dog poop in my grandchildren’s yard. Seriously, I couldn’t make this up if I tried. So, once again with limited mobility, and a cumbersome boot on my right foot, I limped my way to Cafe Sena, only to see a notification that the restaurant was closed “until further notice” with the added sentence of “but we’re working on this as quickly as we can,” which gave me little confidence.
My second choice, still within walking distance with a boot, was The Shed. Anyone who has spent any time in Santa Fe has either eaten at The Shed or heard of it. It has been serving up plates heaped with tacos, enchiladas, and burritos served with red or green salsa (or Christmas if you want both) since 1953. As expected, and even at ten minutes before opening, the crowds had started gathering on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. I didn’t want to wait for what I was told could be two hours for a table, even after emphasizing I only needed a table for one, but then I realized how ridiculous that sounded, as there was no such thing as a table for one unless a chair is removed. The only other option, and without a wait, was to eat at the bar, which sounded like a good solution. Even better if I were seated next to a “Flo-like” character, which is always good fodder for writing.
I headed to the back of the restaurant where the bar was and squeezed myself into the one open bar stool. I was seated next to a couple who were deep in conversation with an exuberant man and his quiet wife, who sat on the other side of them. The overly exuberant man, whom I’m going to call Frank, was not drunk on frozen rosé like Flo, but he reminded me of Flo in the way he was enjoying taking command of his small section of the bar. Because I’m a self-proclaimed snoop, I began to lean in closer when I heard the woman seated next to me mention a knee replacement. This also caught the attention of Frank, who just happened to be an orthopedic surgeon. Unlike many in the medical profession whom I’ve met before, he was more than happy to jump in with stories, suggestions, and his professional opinion on both the surgery and the post-op. I was entertained just by listening and decided not to share my personal experience, at least not yet, as the exuberant and very loud doctor seemed unwilling to give up his spotlight in the conversation. After about 15 minutes, Dr. Frank and his wife left, and I found my opening with the woman with the new knee. I casually mentioned to her that I overheard the words knee replacement adding that I had been down the same road almost two years ago. I have learned since my knee replacement that there is a loosely formed club for those who have been down the same path, and knee replacement surgeries in a patient’s 50s or 60s have often replaced the childbirth stories of our 20s and 30s.
We talked in between bites of food and I shared with her the tips that helped me on my journey as she was only a few months out. Then she asked me if I had any children because it had been her daughter who had been so helpful to her during her early days home from the hospital. I realized in that moment that although I was in the same area with an injured joint, this trip was not at all the same, as my heart had the larger injury, and not my fractured ankle. I hesitated. I took a bite of my food, then asked if they were visiting or were they natives to Santa Fe, totally avoiding her question. My avoidance didn’t seem to be an issue and she and her husband, almost in unison, told me they were natives. There are times and situations where either not responding or telling a lie feels like the only option because at that moment, I was enjoying my dinner and the company, and I knew I couldn’t say yes, three children, two living, without crying or evoking further questions. I would have happily returned to a bone-on-bone knee as I had two years ago, with a heart that was intact, to where I was in that moment. I also wouldn’t be meandering my way home through Taos as I did two years ago, but instead, would be driving to Sedona the next day for a week of intense therapy focusing on grief.
Santa Fe is a city that has become a tapestry of memories for me, many of them with Emery. We took many spring break family ski trips to Santa Fe, with Emery realizing after one run that she hated skiing. I’d try my best to persuade Emery to stick with it because skiing really was fun, but she knew what she wanted and didn’t want and we’d end up driving back down the mountain to spend our day in town while the rest of the family skied. I loved skiing, but I also loved spending the day with Emery, wandering through Santa Fe, finding the off the beaten path stores, which ended up being where most of our furniture came from. Those times came to mind as I was limping my way to The Shed for dinner. My last time with Emery was 7 1/2 years ago, when Emery, baby Arlo, and I made a road trip to Santa Fe, and last minute my son Thomas and his wife, Brooke joined us. Shortly before dinner on this recent trip, I sat on the same couch in the lobby of the Loretto Hotel, where I had sat with Brooke and Emery, with baby Arlo in her lap. Stepping back into the tapestry of those memories is both painful and comforting at the same time, and I’m struck, once again, at how often love and grief have run into each other during my journey.
I said my goodbyes to the couple next to me, adding a specific, it will get easier every day with the new knee to the woman I had been chatting with. The bar chairs were very close together, and I slowly maneuvered my way out of my chair, while clumsily making my way away from the bar with my oversized boot leading the way. As I was leaving, the woman, who I think was named Christie, but I’m not sure, said, “Oh my gosh… what happened to your foot? You’re wearing a boot!” I had hoped to sneak out without explanation, but instead, stopped, shrugged my shoulders, and said, “Yeah, a boot due to a hairline fracture. Life has given me some challenges lately.” My jeans were bunched up around the top of the boot, giving off very pathetic and sad vibes. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Christie, or was it Chrystal? “Life can certainly be unpredictable, and you just never know, do you?” “No,” I answered. “You really don’t.” And those words would be the truest words I would speak all night.
I limped to the door, through the patio, and onto the street before realizing I was crying. It’s become so normal for me that it sneaks its way in without notice.
You just never know, do you?
No, you really don’t.