I’m in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
I need to get back to Albuquerque before nightfall, because I’ve rented out a little tiny wagon home for the night, before my flight out of the States the next day. I don’t know why I chose the tiny home in Albuquerque. Maybe because I liked how it sounded. Maybe because I knew one day, I would need an opening for this exact article. Maybe, I did it just because I felt like it. Just like I felt like getting the half-moon tattoo on my wrist that morning, still wrapped in plastic, the blood-red color of the New Mexico desert.
Por que no?
I love humans, I love connection, I love the kind of mind-bending conversations that crack open new doors into new worlds of thought and feeling.
Where are you from.
How long are you travelling for.
What do you do for work.
Where have you been.
Do you know so-and-so.
Anyway, here I am in Santa Fe, and at the last minute, I decide to take the train to Albuquerque after all.
Much as I don’t fancy making forced conversation with my seat passengers for an hour and a half, I fancy the eighty-dollar Uber fare even less.