This story has two inspirations:
- Michael Odza of Gold Medal Wine Club, who just queried me to ask if I’d considering writing about the Gold Medal Wine Club:
- He also wrote: “Wine poetry — a long- and unjustly neglected art! Thank you for that.”
- He’s located in Santa Fe, New Mexico
- My memories of Santa Fe, New Mexico
- During my morning Yoga routine
- Which was the original inspiration for my recent poetry When It Was Like a Mirror, to which he was referring
Full circle, and back to yoga this morning, when all the pieces came together.
It was during my organized Blue Tooth Tour with my PSILY members, sponsored by Concannon Vineyard. Concannon paid for our motor home, which Russ Livingston (worked for Concannon at the time) drove for us.
Our 10-day Southern route:
- Los Angeles, CA
- Phoenix, AZ
- Santa Fe, NM
- Dallas, TX
- Houston, TX
When we got into Santa Fe, we learned that we couldn’t park the RV in the hotel parking lot, because there were no spaces big enough for this kind of vehicle. We were staying at the very lovely La Posada de Santa Fe Resort & Spa… My favorite place to be in Santa Fe.
So, I called the Santa Fe police department, to get a permit that would allow up to park on the streets overnight. “Sorry, ma’am, no can do!”
Aha… Santa Fe doesn’t need motor homes… “Best leave yours outside the city limits, pahtnas… Too posh for you.”
I could hear the cop thinking, “What, are you kidding me? This isn’t what Georgia O’Keeffe had in mind when she moved herself to Santa Fe for a respite and discovered its natural beauty in oils…. She’d not paint a motor home!”
Okay… what to do? The front desk people then suggested the church across the street had a parking lot. Maybe they’d let us park there. After all, the Posada wanted us. We had reserved five rooms for six of us. At about $300 a night ($1500 for the group of us) for two nights ($3,000 total, plus dining at this location for breakfast and dinners), it was in their interest to make suggestions that might pan out.
We always had the motor home, and could stay outside the city limits, but we were ready for the inn and spa. So, the inn decided to call the pastor for us, when we said that would be awesome.
The pastor was fine with it, with one caveat… We had to be off that lot on Saturday morning, because there was a wedding. Understandably, the last thing a bride in Santa Fe would want to see the morning of her sacred nuptial would be our motor home.
Cross our hearts and hope to die, we’d be off the lot on Saturday morning.
What we didn’t take into account was that Russ-the-driver would have found his soul on the streets of Santa Fe, and would go crazy Saturday morning shopping with all the Native Americans’ wares, lined up outside of the Santa Fe History Museum…
Yup… Russ blew our credibility, and that poor bride must still remember the day we ruined her wedding.
Meanwhile, the pastor was livid… I mean hitting High C and calling on all the demons to curse our bloody souls. We were in trouble with God.
“Russ, you got us into this mess. Get yourself over there and get us out of it, or we’re all going to hell!” I glared at him. I had spent an hour trying to track him down, and he had made sure to turn off his cell phone.
He dutifully went across the street, and reemerged about 10 minutes later with a huge smile on his face. It seems that you can buy yourself back into heaven with a case of Petite Sirah.