Senescence in Santa Fe

J-

The more I travel, the more I realize the ravages of aging.  For example, this was the second four or five hundred mile drive that did me in.  That never used to happen.  K and I could drive straight through to Santa Fe, or Jackson, or Sundance and hop out of the car, get a few drinks at the nearest friendly bar, hang out a bit, and then have a big dinner with a bottle of wine that night.  The next morning?  Nothing.  No big deal.  We'd go off on a hike or something.

But when we drove to Jackson Hole last month, I had to excuse myself from our dinner with David half way through the first course and I didn't fully recover till lunch two days later.  Of course, the bottle of Veuve Cliquot on the porch when we first arrived (a tradition we are not willing to forsake) and the Margarita I had in the lodge before dinner were probably contributing factors.

And then there's these last few days.  We drove to Santa Fe, hydrated constantly, stopped for small bites now and then, and peed at every opportunity.  In other words, all things were pretty much normal.  But then we got to La Posada de Santa Fe and things changed.  We had a couple of Margaritas (they were so good we had to order seconds) at the Staab House, did a little shopping on our way to the Cantina at Coyote Cafe, had some killer apps and, yes, another drink or two.  By the time we got back to the room it was early evening, we hit the sack, exhausted, both to wake sporadically through the night to vomit that day's intake.

And the next day I was on the verge of nausea all the way till the opening chords of RIGOLETTO.

RIGOLETTO, that brings me to the real topic of this post.  The opera was wonderful, but that's not what I want to talk about.  When we got back to the room and I took off my coat, I discovered that my iPhone was missing.  I instantly knew how it happened.  Gilda finally died after a few closing scales, the cast bowed, I stood up, and the lights rose.  Since, the walk back to the car promised to be chilly and damp, I took off my jacket and draped it over the back of my chair so I could put my hoodie on underneath.  The jacket promptly fell off my chair and I, with people impatient to get past, picked it up and threw it on in a hurry.  Unfortunately, my phone was in my inside pocket.  It evidently fell out and was currently resting under seat 103 in the second row of the balcony.

My first reaction was typical, I am told, of me:  "Oh shit, I lost my phone.  Oh well, fuck it."  That reaction never fails to infuriate, or at least frustrate, my long suffering spouse.  She, hopeless idealist that she is, has faith that a person, any person, encountering a lost iPhone would certainly turn it in to lost and found.  Make an effort at least.  In the spirit of full disclosure, her optimism is buoyed by the fact that my phone is so old nobody would want it.

She called the opera, told our (my) plight to some guy in lost and found and let him know that we would be back for that evening's performance of SALOME to see if it had been found.

My second reaction is always a little like Holden Caulfield's would be in a similar situation:  "I guess I just don't care that much about losing my phone.  It's not like anyone ever calls me . . ."

But I do have to admit, I was a little shaken by the idea that some creep could find my phone and start taking credit for my Lumosity scores.

Anyway, Kathie came to the rescue and saved me from my despairing nature.  And then when we got to the opera that night, we checked at the lost and found and there it was at the top of the drawer littered with more phones, a few sets of keys and a couple of jackets.

We walked back to the little food kiosk outside the main gates and I was floating on the largesse of human nature that Katherine always takes for granted, when I discovered that I had lost my debit card!  But again, I knew right where I lost it.  We had lunch at The Inn of the Anasazi just like a couple of boulevardiers because it was the first time our stomachs felt like they could handle it.  I had a great time and evidently left my card behind along with the bill.

My reaction was different this time.  More hopeful.  But when I told Katherine about my second losing incident in as many days, it was her response that ultimately gave me pause:  "Don't worry about it," she assured me.  "I should have been watching you more carefully."

"WATCH ME MORE CAREFULLY?!  Am I really that far along into my dotage?"  I didn't really say that, but I was a thinking it.

As we walked to our seats, I took umbrage in all the old men surrounding me who could barely make it to their seats and I realized it could be worse.  I'll bet their wives carry their check cards for them just in case and don't allow phones.