little known fact is that santa fe was actually the first capital of north america, claimed by Spanish conquistadors in the early 1600s.  like most cities of its day, its history was strife with violence in the struggle for independence.  more common knowledge would be the relocation of thousands of native americans to inhospitable reservations under the incongruous indian appropriations act nearly two centuries later.  but the fact didn’t occur to me as i boarded the southwest chief train bound for los angeles.  nor did it occur to me when i overhear the woman behind me remark that the train was late because someone threw themselves onto the tracks.  bet you it was one of those native americans.  they’re always getting drunk and wandering over to the tracks to commit suicide.  not that i’m judging, but that’s just how it is, she says.

just how it is.  and if i ever felt like i was standing on the rails watching a train come barreling towards me in the middle of muggy august in broad daylight, than i probably couldn’t say what it was that i felt than exactly.  only that i found myself staring hard at the lightening storms and the sun set as the train rumbled past the rio grande; than the red cliffs of new mexico; through arizona’s canyon diablo; past the south rim of the grand canyon; and than its final climb through the cajon pass over the san bernadino mountains before it will reach the sea.  and there i sat, between an aged cowboy and a disaffected boyscout, thinking how funny it all was as i took it in, drinking mediocre-five-dollar red wine and wondering where i fit in between the two, but glad to think that there was a future waiting for me–out of all things–at the end of the line.