I drove here. I saved up a little over $1,000, then I drove here, accompanied by my mother—because a drive from California to New Mexico merited a mother’s accompaniment. “What the hell are you doing?” she asked, but I couldn’t answer such an affront. I had no plans; equipped with a station wagon (oh, how I fit in) and an AA degree (that’s half a bachelor's), truth is, this was my last option.

I traveled too much. I would’ve moved elsewhere, but this is where I went, God knows why, and now I’m here. And Santa Fe isn’t what I’d thought it would be.

Sure, there are hippies and Native Americans and artists and chocolate tonics and piñon and mountains, but Santa Fe gave me direction. This damn city, the oldest capital in North America, with the oldest house (down the alley, just alongside Upper Crust Pizza) and that mysterious staircase inside Loretto Chapel (a $3 admission fee, and after viewing the wooden sculpture, you have to exit through the gift shop).

But it’s Santa Fe, and I drove here with my mom last March.

Oh, the roommates I had (the addicts and the astrologers); the jobs I had (the host, the waitress, the substitute teacher, the personal assistant); and then there’s Santa Fe University of Art and Design, which I hastily applied to the week before driving eastward. And Santa Fe isn’t easy.

The first month was a wreck; I got chased out of a rental (by a tenant that claimed I stole his bed sheets); I basically committed bank fraud (I opened a bank account for a random couple that befriended me—they were into vortices); I held four different waitressing jobs (I suck at balancing trays).

But point is, I’m here, studying Creative Writing at SFUAD, and slowly but surely, I'm getting a grip on this town. And that’s it for now.

Image via santafefiesta.org