Theater Boy is summons me to Santa Fe where it’s dusty and weathered, hot and beautiful.When I arrive, my eyes are scorched — in a great way.

I discover that purple sage is very real.  Maybe there are real cowboys, too.

The sky is John Ford vast, with muscular clouds riding low and tough.

I love the warm curve of adobe against the blue.

We do see a few cowboys, but not the sort I had imagined.

Desert signs are confusing — as baked as the landscape.

Desert art is quirky and delicious. My new art-crush, Bill Skrips, is a mad genius.

Wonder and amazement makes me thirsty — Santa Fe Pale Ale to the rescue.

Avocado shrimp piled at The Shed is cool and green — great with a Chicken Killer beer.

Ah. The serene desert home where Theater Boy resides and where I am his guest.

Honeysuckle actually blooms in the garden, unexpected and very green.

We immerse ourselves in O’Keeffe — a wonderful desert feast for our eyes and hearts.

Her desert home is truly high and dry — we share a wonderfully dusty day with friends.

Sweet flourishing apricots from O’Keeffe’s own tree! We savor them, wide-eyed, reverent.

I am deeply grateful for my trusty sun hat.

Evening brings swoopy architecture of Santa Fe Opera and Lucia di Lammermoor. Bravo!

Morning brings high- and low-end shopping. We try on cowboy hats and ‘tudes.

Generally ignore the turquoise jewelry.

And get blisters walking the million art galleries on Canyon Road. Ouch.

We pause to count our friends and good fortune on a desert abacus.

We sip.

We savor.

And explore.

Theater Boy works.

I don’t.

And at the end of our time in the West, it is just starting to feel like home.

Joan Didion said, “Part of it is simply what looks right to the eye, sounds right to the ear.”

Adiós, Santa Fe.