A Brit goes to my homeland and lives to tell about it, Installment 1. Not being there in the fall is one of the great disappointments of living in New York. Skyscrapers just don’t smell like burning cedar:
“The Rio Grande, fat from what New Mexicans optimistically call the “monsoon” rains of late summer snakes steel-blue across the earth in smooth wide curves, edged on either side by the tangle of trees that is the Bosque del Apache. The grid-lines of Albuquerque are dwarfed by Sandia Peak and appear tiny and lost in the vastness of the surrounding plateau. The plane descends and I watch truck headlights blink to life on Interstate 25, one of the state’s only three freeways. Red-gold evening sunshine floods into the cabin. I am home.”
