Anna's Story

Anna sat at the bar, swiveling rhythmically while she waited for the drink that she knew would soothe her throat and her spirit. Both were in deep need of soothing. It was out of character for her to be seen in this sort of establishment. A dark dive that smelled of hops and must and sweaty patrons long gone. But the drive to nowhere in particular had become too long and the scenery repetitive. So, when this place had beckoned, she relented. That was her way. Anything that called to her, be it be man, a mountain trail, or the sea, she was likely to follow. Like the call of wolf to her mate. Like the dove.

Anna did not know exactly where she was. She did not know exactly where she was headed. But she did know that with just one long sip of the rich, fluffy foam she was waiting for, she would remember something. And for Anna, the hope of remembering just a little something was enough for now.

She watched as the beer spilled over in front of her. She hoisted it, offering up a silent toast to life, and what was to come. The glass felt warm to the touch. Right out of the dishwasher, she assumed. The lager itself must have been cold when it had been poured from the tap. It didn’t bother her that it wasn’t cold anymore, she remembered.

Years ago, she had traveled her way through some of the most popular spots in Europe and every beer she drank, in Belgium, Holland, France, Luxembourg, or Germany, had been served at room temperature. She had not only become accustomed to it, but she came to prefer it that way.

She sipped at first, then gulped down the rest, appreciating the taste and the anonymity of the moment. The little joint was empty, save for an aloof bartender and someone she could hear clinking around in the back room. She made no attempt at conversation with the guy behind the bar.

She set down her empty glass, tucked a $20 bill under it and walked out.

What do you do when, in your own mind, you’ve done it all? She had retired into an open space of nothingness, which at times, felt warm and freeing and just as often, felt cold and uninviting.

The road leading away from the no-name bar in the no-name town took her south that day. The setting sun blazed in through the passenger side, blinding and disorienting at first. But soon the ponderosa pines that lined the roadside hills tempered the glare. For a short while, she could see the road ahead with clarity.

Letting the highway take her, rather than taking any particular route, she exited at 284, Old Pecos Trail. Like a magnet, Santa Fe pulled at her. She had not intentionally set out to arrive there that evening, but when she ended up there, it came as no surprise.

Anna rolled down her car window and the October air blew through her rather than past her. The nutty scent of fallen leaves, burning pinon, roasting chile and wet pine—a whirlwind of sensory experience.

She pulled into a vacant lot, where cars were coming and going, drawn to the green chile roasters there. Large hot black tubes with crank handles, twirling around fresh green chiles, singeing them black on the outside, and putting off an eye-burning, mouth-watering scent. An old man with craggy face and baggy clothes did the churning, while a younger woman with two small children afoot filled burlap bags full, labeled either mild, medium, or hot. There were smaller bags for sale, too, so Anna chose one, medium, and began to consume one of the warm chiles on the spot. Sensing the vendor’s friendliness, she introduced herself.

“Hi. I’m Anna.”

The old man responded. “Buen dia,” while the others just smiled.

Walking back to her car, Anna stopped short of finishing off her chile. She remembered. Chiles were always hottest at the stem.

Yes, she had been here before. Memories of Santa Fe and nearby Albuquerque and fall. Of small children, mountain roads and the deepest friendship she had ever known. Of love and painful loss. The feelings attached to those times were as pungent as the aromas themselves.

It had been a long day. Anna turned in to the first sleeping place that looked welcoming. A quaint bed and breakfast.

Too tired to eat, she skipped dinner. She found her second floor room, and tumbled into bed without bothering to unpack, and longing for a hearty breakfast to come.

And that hearty breakfast was worth waiting for. Anna drifted downstairs to the outdoor patio. She filled her plate from the buffet offerings—scrambled eggs, red and green chile, pancakes, maple syrup, and in Anna’s mind, way more butter than was necessary. As she set her plate down, she sat amused, watching the butter disappear into the round cakes—just melting away.

Is that what she was doing? She wondered. The diagnosis had come at an inopportune time. She had brought her fulfilling work to a gentle ending and handed off her legacy. It was the writing life she was after now, a life she had set aside for years as she raised a family and built a lucrative career in service to others. Now she could finally write all the stories that begged to be written. After all, there was a story in everything, as Anna saw it--even in the relationship between pancake and butter.

Physically, she felt fine and chose to ignore what western medicine had so direly predicted for her. There was so much she would no longer be able to do, they had said. So much she would not remember.

Maybe now, her only true purpose in life was holding herself afloat. And to decide day-to-day, moment by moment, if she would choose to remember.

She pondered all that while sitting on the Santa Fe patio. But today, the morning air was chilly, and her coffee was getting cold.

And over the no-longer-hot coffee, she recalled all the over-questioning and over-protecting and over-working she had done in her life.

Eventually, she lay today’s over-thinking down and headed out into the Plaza.

Anna spent the day wandering the square where Native American women displayed their handmade jewelry on colorful blankets. Throughout the Plaza and beyond, red chile ristras, and statues. Santos and the Virgin Mother, made from multi-colored tile and precisely cut metal. Anna followed the brick walkways that bordered Santa Fe Old Town, paths so uneven, that she found it hard to keep her footing at times. A Native flautist played in the distance.

As the day rolled on, people seemed to dissipate. Anna noticed the activities in the plaza were winding down. The sun was low in the sky now. Time to make her way back to her Bed and Breakfast. Anna was pondering an evening of writing and dinner in her room, when the sweet aroma of a small quaint chocolatier shop got her attention. Inside, she admired the elegant glass cases and upscale antique furnishings and an equally upscale display of truffle flavors: Lemon, blackberry sage, strawberry rhubarb, coconut cardamom, all topped with a mirror glaze sheen of dark or white chocolate.

Anna ordered a specialty Gran Marnier hot chocolate, presented to her in a hand-crafted espresso cup. The drink felt silky on her palette. Alternating sips with tiny bites of a dark chocolate lemon truffle, she sat a green brocade comforting chair, immersed in the moment, the pace, the time. She was no longer concerned with writing and certainly not with dinner. Chocolate memories. Anna was astounded and slightly amused by how many of her life memories were apparently dipped in chocolate.

She thought of Valentine’s days, love letters, little children dressed for Halloween. She thought of Christmas mornings and how babies smell, and tousled hair and she thought about how good chocolate paired with tequila shots.

She thought about the rape and the chocolate-cherry cordials that she had washed down with Coors Light, pretending nothing had happened. She thought of the rocky road single cone from 31 Flavors--her first real meal the night she ran away from home at 16. She thought of the husband who had beat her because she left him for beating her. And the Godiva Assortment he left on her doorstep that very night—to apologize? Or so she would know he would always find her, wherever she tried to hide? She didn’t know.

But what she did know is that memories are memories, good and bad and she had to be open to all the feeling of life or all the feeling would elude her entirely and then life would be no life at all. That she did know. So at least for now, Anna would choose to remember.

The day was turning to dusk. Anna sat on a cold cement curb and dug deep into her purse and pockets to find some evidence of where the Bed and Breakfast might be. Her panic and feeling lost was short lived as she focused, almost mesmerized, by the traffic light just a few blocks away. The lights and their colors had a calming effect. Anna felt calm as she began counting the time between lights changing color. Green. Anna counted to 35, and then yellow light appeared. Anna counted to 6. Then red. Anna counted to 32. Then the light was green once more. She concluded that if she were to count out the seconds with accuracy and consistency, she could know exactly how long before each light changed color. There would be such comfort in knowing, precisely. And so it was that that throughout the night, Anna remained completely distracted from the October cold, the hard curb, and from the real danger that might threaten a woman sitting outside alone in the dark. She sat there unafraid until the sun came up.

And with the sun came the fading of the traffic lights, plaza activities, and the scent of fresh pastry and dark brew coffee. Anna’s body felt a little stiff as she walked toward the aromas that became stronger with each enticing step. She passed a local bookseller window display. What It’s Like to be a Bird, by David Allen Sibley. From Flying to Nesting to Eating to Singing.

At that moment, Anna did not know exactly where she was. She did not know exactly where she was headed. But she did know that with just one delicious bite of flaky buttery pastry, or with one long warming sip of rich exotic black coffee, she was likely to remember something. And for Anna, choosing to remember just a little something, was quite enough for now.