Living in Santa Fe?

I'm interviewing for a great job in a wonderful museum in Santa Fe next week!

I applied about a month ago and figured the position was filled by now, but the director of this museum sent me a charming hand-written letter last week apologizing for the delay in contacting me, explaining they were all so busy preparing for the huge, world-famous public event they sponsor every year in the Plaza. I immediately send a hand-written note thanking him for his refreshing courtesy, the high point so far in what has been a demoralizing and depressing job hunt.

When I mentioned the possibility of working in Santa Fe to a friend of mine, one of the people I supervise teaching English, he told me that he owns a quaint little adobe five-plex in a prime area just a short walk to the plaza in downtown Santa Fe, and that he would be delighted to rent to me - at a bargain rate! - whenever an apartment becomes available. Like me, my friend is an English instructor by default, having burned out on a great big guv'mt career, but unlike me, he picked up and retained some prime real estate along the way. He told me the location, and it's fabulous, along a road that runs by a river park, all shady and babbling brookish. And only a half-mile to the Plaza!

Now, folks, talk about having a gorgeous hand-painted Acoma pot dropped in your lap!

This is a scenario I can live with: a delightfully spare but sweet little adobe apartment on the river park, a brisk half-mile walk to the plaza each morning along the river, a cafe americano and a biscotti in a charming plaza hole-in-the-wall while I peruse the paper, a short scenic ride to Museum Hill (three miles away) on the open-air tourist shuttle, a productive day helping with member development for an important cultural organization where I would work with all sorts of artsy and creative people, and at the end of the day, the reverse (substituting a decaf iced tea for the cafe americano). Weekends could be devoted to practicing intricate pottery painting in the tradition of the indigenous peoples of the area, at which I expect to become brilliant, or for that matter, donning a turban and doing tarot readings in the plaza for gullible tourists. Ahhhhh. This is nice, eh? I can smell the roasting peppers now . . . .

Funny, but when I imagine this scenario I look just like Ann Sothern in A Letter to Three Wives - peppy and vivacious in a navy cashmere fitted jacket over a tailored grey wool skirt, wide patent leather belt and white blouse, a pair of kicky pumps and sparkling white gloves, my curls bouncing with every jaunty step.

"Good morning, Manuelita!" I cry as I enter the colorful plaza cafe.

"Buenos Dias, Senorita!" says Manuelita, obviously pleased to see me. "I make fresh sopapillas today, chiquita, just the way you like!"

"Oh, Manuelita, you darling angel, but my tiny waist won't hear of it!" And a shimmering cascade of laughter fills the air, like iridescent bubbles bouncing along to a steel band polka.

A distinguished man in shades, dressed in creamy linen slacks and a comically touristy embroidered hermanito shirt, sits alone at a tiny table, an exhorbitantly expensive camera around his neck, and a straw Panama hat on a wall peg nearby. He looks astonishingly like Cary Grant, because, well, he's being played by Cary Grant.

The man fleetingly sees just a glimpse of well-toned calf [close-up of well-toned calf] as I turn from Manuelita's tile-covered counter with drink in hand and comically slip on a coffee spill. The handsome stranger deftly jumps up and gracefully catches me around my tiny waist, then effortlessly sets me right (I'm such a petite thing) but in the tussle I've drenched the front of his shirt with my cafe americano.

"Oh dear!" I cry, "Look what I've done!"

"Don't worry about a thing, Miss," he says, finally releasing his grip around my tiny, tiny waist (did I mention it was tiny?) and removing his shades to reveal piercing blue eyes. "I don't mind a bit. This touristy get-up is all wrong for me, anyway. Permit me to introduce myself - I'm Buck Wheaton, roving reporter just blown in from the windy city."

"How do you do, Mr. Wheaton!" I say as I put my demure little white-gloved hand in his big manly paw. We shake hands vigorously and stare into each other's eyes just a little too long.
"My name is Jacqueline Brisk. Miss . . . Jacqueline Brisk, Curator of the Pancho Villa Museum of Art."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Brisk, a real pleasure! Say, I was wondering if you might be able to recommend a guide, you know, someone who could show me the sights around here, someone who knows all about art, someone . . . refreshingly charming . . . I mean, oh, I don't know, someone . . . [deep blush showing through his tan cheeks] . . . a little like . . . like yourself?"

My nipples harden.

"Well, no one knows Santa Fe better than Manuelita here, Mr. Wheaton!"

"Oh, Chiquita!" Manuelita says, giggling and holding her colorful apron in front of her face. "I couldn't leave my sopapillas - they are in the kiva right now!"

"I'm afraid you're out of luck, Mr. Wheaton . . . . unless . . . . "

"Yes?" says the dashing stranger. Towering a foot taller than me, he looks down as I look up, the angle so flattering to my chinline. He smiles, revealing a dazzling set of choppers, his jaw quivvering with manly strength, his chin dimple provocatively deep and dark.

"I suppose I . . . ." Why is my heart beating so? "Well, what I mean to say is . . . . "

Sensing my hesitation, Buck quickly hatches a plan.

"If you wouldn't mind accompanying me to my hotel across the plaza, Miss Brisk, so that I may change into some dry clothes? It would take just a second, and there's a rare hand-carved bunterero in the window of a dusty little tourist shop in the lobby that I'd like your opinion about. You see, I'm conducting an investigation into counterfeit goods, and . . . "

"As it happens, Mr. Wheaton, I'm somewhat of an authority on buntereros!" We laugh, just a little too heartily and too long, then stroll smartly together through the dappled shade of the plaza.

The music swells.

Cut.