indian Market

We’ve been to Indian Market once before, about 12 years ago.  For the last four years we have wanted to go back for the Market for my birthday.  And it finally happened!

I have to tell you about the first part of our journey.  First off, we traveled to Santa Fe on the Amtrak train.  We love train travel.  And it seems that everyone else does too, these days.  We hadn’t ridden the train since before 9/11 and it was quite the low key affair.  Well, aside from it being a little more crowded on the train, they certainly haven’t tightened up security any.  I mean, you still get your own bags on and off, you can bring your own food (which we do), pillows, a little blanket, or whatever.  There’s no one telling you to shut off your electronic devices upon take off, and you can walk up and down the aisles in sock feet if you like.  It’s really relaxed!  Oh, and no metal detectors, or wand waving quasi militant ATF workers who get a kick out of wanding your underwire bras and belt buckles or who take all your MAC makeup and Anthropologie perfume from your carry on because that lip plumper lip gloss just might be a bomb.  A lip gloss bomb.  A plumper bomb.  Like they could nick name me the Lip Gloss Bomber.  My lips would blow up.  Like botox!  Seriously!  Enjoy my stuff gals, I hate flying and it’s why I need meds to get through the whole process!  What shoes will I wear that are easy on, easy off, no studs, metallic doodads, sequins, glitter, or metal of any kind. Don’t wear a belt, and what’s that?  Get that watch off your wrist!!!  You could blow up the aircraft!!  Geez!  Shrapnel in your side from the last World War?  A hip replacement?  Steel plate in the head?  All that buys you extra scrutiny and painfully ridiculously thorough “wanding” by those agent people, who by the way, I don’t think even graduated high school.  I mean I didn’t graduate either, but you don’t see me in charge of securing our nation’s aircraft!

So getting back to the train. . . . it’s very “Going West”.  Very Bonanza.  Very Hell on Wheels, if you are a fan of AMC’s series (oh which I am!).

I sit looking out the window, listening to the chugga chugga chugga, half expecting to see wild Indians on horseback in groups of three or four, feathers waving in the breeze, as we fly by them.  Or bands of bank robbers with handkerchiefs over their faces running along side the train.

In Socal you can pick the #4 Southwest Chief up, every evening, either in Los Angeles at Union Station, Fullerton (my favorite), or San Bernardino.  The ghetto.  The pits.  Scaryland.  Of course that is where I booked our reservation from and then I called Amtrak to find out what we’d do with our car and they didn’t really know.  It’s a small station but they do have lots of overnight parking.  That you don’t have to pay for.  I don’t know there’s just something suspicious about that!  Too good to be true.  Oh wait, I’m having another vision of us getting off the train and dragging our bags to the car only to find it sitting there on the axles.  No tires.  No doors.  No window tinting.  All of it stripped and gone.  And because of that, I called my friend Donnie who graciously agreed to taking our van home with him to guard and protect for the week.  The sweetest part of this, is that he came back and picked us up at 6:30 a.m. when the train came into town the other day!  Really!  That is a good friend.  A super servant.  Thanks Donnie, yet again!

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