The Last Garment Maker in Denver’s LODO District

“The West is not a place. The West is a state of mind.”

– “Papa” Jack A. Weil, 1901-2008

A year before we moved to New Mexico, my partner Kevin visited Denver and brought me back a t-shirt from Rockmount Ranch Wear. It featured a bucking bronco and read “Styled in the West by Westerners.” You could say it stood out from the other t-shirts in my urbanite’s closet. He got himself a vintage Western shirt with saddle stitching, sawtooth pockets and white pearly snaps, which reminded me of something an Austin hipster might wear. Very retro. Very now.

At the time, I had never heard of Rockmount, nor did I know how many celebrities wear it. But when we drove up to Denver earlier this summer, I got a chance to find out what all the fuss is about. Turns out Rockmount is something of a legend – as was its recently deceased Founder and CEO, Jack A. Weil, who ran the company until his death in 2008 at age 107. His book, Ask Papa Jack: Wisdom of the World’s Oldest CEO, dispenses his famously opinionated lessons.

I knew I liked the guy when I flipped through his book at the Rockmount headquarters in Denver’s historic LODO (lower downtown) district – where gold was first discovered, industrial warehouses later sprung up, and more recently, trendy stores, clubs and restaurants have proliferated – and landed on a page where he was bashing Sam Walton, Wal-Mart's founder. “Sam Walton was nothing but a hillbilly."

Weil’s disdain may in part be personal – they were acquainted – but also professional. Rockmount refuses to sell to chains or discounters like Wal-Mart, and in fact, Weil felt those very outlets were responsible for ending clothing manufacturing in America. He may be right given that Rockmount’s historic five-story building (built 1908) in LODO is the only clothing manufacturer remaining in the area.

Rockmount’s finely tailored shirts, skirts, ties, scarves and more are still made mostly in the US. Accordingly, they’re not cheap – around $70-$90 a shirt. But as Kevin says, they’ll last forever. You can find more modern “relaxed wear” Western styles, and you can also find vintage fitted designs from the 40s, 50s and other eras, including "high wattage" shirts with hand chenille embroidery, fringes and rhinestones. The original bling. Recognize these two?

A trailblazer as well as a holdout, Rockmount introduced the sawtooth pocket and was the first to add snaps to Western shirts, now a common practice and part of the rockabilly aesthetic. The reasons were quite simple. Buttons come off, cowboys don’t like to sew, and it’s easier to wiggle out of a shirt with snaps if you get caught or snagged out on the range.

And that’s the Western state of mind, folks.

Why I Didn't Order The Vitamin Soup - And Stuck with Copywriting

I’m a freelance writer, and I telecommute from wherever I am at the time of the assignment. That’s what's allowed me to travel for longer periods of time, and consequently, that’s what enables me to write this little blog about the places I fall for.

When I say I’m a freelancer writer, most people ask, “What publications do you write for?” Then I have to explain that I’m not a freelance journalist, but a freelance copywriter. That I write websites, newsletters, emails, ads, brochures and “marketing stuff.”

At this point, their expression usually turns to one of disorientation or disappointment. But it's okay - I don’t take it personally. I understand that journalism has more romance than copywriting. It’s just that I like being paid on an hourly basis rather than per word.

Five years into my freelance adventure, I’m still okay with why I took the direction I did. I’m still self-employed, after all. I’m still getting to travel. And I even managed to buy a house…with another freelancer. (Different industry, same glorious uncertainty/flexibility.)

And if you’d like to know even more about why I didn’t pursue travel journalism after flirting with it, I’ll directly you to this painfully amusing excerpt from a former freelance journalist (now a staff newspaper writer). Sure kills the romance, doesn’t it?

Excerpt from “Seven Years As A Freelance Writer, Or How to Make Vitamin Soup" by Richard Morgan:

Freelancing is pitching two ideas to a new editor at the Times, after having written for the publication for five years, and being told (quoting exactly here): “I think you’d have better luck pitching your stories elsewhere.”

Freelancing means walking from the West Village to the Upper East Side and back because you don’t have enough money for the subway. Freelancing means being so poor and so hungry for so long that you “eat” a bowl of soup that’s just hot water, crushed-up multivitamins and half your spice rack (mostly garlic salt).

Freelancing is being woken up on a Monday at 8 a.m. by an editor who gives you the following assignment: “Put together everything interesting about all the city’s airports by Friday,” doing it, and then not getting credit when it runs… as an infographic.

Freelancing is having your mother send you a book called $ix-Figure Freelancing which lists as helpful resources, on page 198, the dictionary, thesaurus, and sree.net.

Freelancing means your editor will reject your pitch and then, seven month later, run the story you pitched—with the same language as your pitch—and then have it submitted for a National Magazine Award.

Freelancing is having an editor tell you that he really loves the story you’ve filed and wouldn’t change anything, and in fact suggests you expand upon the characters a bit—and also cut the story in half. Because, in an editor’s world, it’s possible to expand upon characters and not change the structure while you also cut the story in half.

Freelancing means having to chase down checks every time, even when that means waiting two years for $1000. It means having stories killed and being told that the editor-in-chief gave no reason, but that the same editor would love to work with you some more.

Following the Old Santa Fe Trail to Colorado

From Santa Fe, it’s an easy six-hour drive to Denver on I-25N. Back in the 1800s, however, this route – which parallels the historic Santa Fe Trail most of the way – was pretty grueling, thanks in part to the treacherous mountain crossing at the Colorado border. Today the most dangerous aspects may be avoiding hitting an elk or veering into another lane while admiring in the vast scenery.

Following this storied trail – which turned Santa Fe from an isolated outpost into a commercial center – gives you a lot of time to contemplate, given the countless acres of wide open grazing land you’ll pass, as well as several glimpses into history. A stop in Las Vegas (yes, that would be Las Vegas, New Mexico….not Las Vegas, Nevada), an hour north of Santa Fe, is one of the largest eyefuls. With its leafy colonial plaza and creaky storefronts, the entire downtown is like a living Western movie set. (Over 900 structures are on the National Register of Historic Places.) No wonder numerous films, including No Country for Old Men, have been shot here.

Founded in 1835 with a land grant from the Spanish government, Las Vegas was the last Spanish settlement established in the US – and soon became the prosperous epicenter of the Southwest, thanks to its location along the Santa Fe Trail, and later, the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railway. It had four opera houses and electric railcars. But it also had an infamous underbelly. Doc Holliday practiced dentistry and owned a saloon here – until he had to leave town after shooting a local. Wyatt Earp, Billy the Kid, Jesse James and every other outlaw passed through too, giving Las Vegas a reputation of harboring murderers, con men and bandits.

Storefronts like Tome on the Range and “OK Café” on Old Town's Bridge Street remind you of this colorful history. And of course, there’s the Plaza Hotel (built 1882), which is the epitome of the grand frontier hotels and the place where Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders held their first reunion in 1899. Still operating today, it is home to the Landmark Grill as well as Byron T’s Saloon. Many of the nearby buildings still need restoration, though, and hopefully someday someone will pump a few million into bringing them back to life.

Two hours north, Trinidad, Colorado, offers another turn-of-the-century flashback. Now known as the sex-change capital of the US (the phrase “taking a trip to Trinidad” has become code for such a procedure), this mining town was the place that weary wagon-bound travelers would pull into for supplies after making it through the Raton Pass at the Colorado border. It’s another Santa Fe Trail boomtown gone bust – and yet with hints of a comeback.

A prime example is Danielson Dry Goods, a sophisticated café-meets-gift store housed in the restored Five ‘N Dime store on Main Street. The owners wanted to help transform the depressed downtown area – and clearly, they’re leading the way. On the left side of the building, you can order the signature Corazon Chicken Salad and a sparkling soda and sit in a booth lit by a chandelier. On the right side, you can browse picture frames and greeting cards decorated with quotes (manufactured by the owners’ design company, now the largest employer in southern Colorado) as well as soaps, perfumes and more.

After stopping for breakfast or lunch here, you too may get inspired by seeing how the past can be preserved for the future. These two Old Santa Fe Trail towns are not yet widely recognized tourist destinations, but they have all the history required – and just need a little more revitalization. I know it’s possible after seeing my own hometown’s shuttered downtown turned around in two decades.

Find Your Slice of the (Clam) Pie in Cape Cod

Every year, my friend Laura and I take a weekend trip to a place we’ve never been. Last year, it was the capital of cool: Austin, Texas. This year it was the capital of summer: Cape Cod, Massachusetts.

You could say our theme is simply a “girl’s getaway.” But more accurately, it could be called a “girls’ gastronomic fling.” From start to finish, our itinerary is dictated by where and what we will be eating. And as a requirement, we do not consider the impact on our waistlines. That’s life back home – and this is a fling, after all!

Given that we’re both known for having a raging sweet tooth, our first stop was naturally Four Seas Ice Cream, known for its homemade Peppermint Stick ice cream. If you can think of something that tastes more like summer than this winsome pink scoop, I’d like to hear it. But trust me – you won’t. It was the most refreshing thing ever.

Unfortunately, it only made us hungrier, though. After dipping our toes into the surprisingly warm waters of the Nantucket Sound, we made our way around Lewis Bay to The Raw Bar (not the famed original location in Mashpee, but the Hyannis “Hyline Location,” referring to where you catch the high-speed ferry to Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard). Our mission: to consume what I’d read was “the best lob-stah roll on the Cape.”

Now, everyone has an opinion on that, but the lobster roll here is known for two things: a ridiculous amount of fresh lobster meat and a hefty price ($25). I can confirm both. But as I’d come to find out, it’s also known for its “purist’s” presentation: the only ingredient beyond lobster and the roll? Mayo. That’s it.

If you love the taste of lobster unadorned, this could be your dream meal. For me, though, it was incredibly bland. I mean, would a few fresh herbs mixed in with the mayo hurt? Or what about a little butter on the roll? (You see buttered rolls in other places, but “not on Cape Cod,” a local told me, indignant at the very suggestion.) I tried to feel nonchalant about disliking a signature item – but I was now a little desperate to try another.

Despite the rough start, it wasn’t long before I’d happily devoured some of the other favorite eats and drinks on the Cape. In touristy, gay-friendly Provincetown (aka “P-town”), prior to an unexpectedly hardcore bike ride through sand dunes, humid forests and cranberry bogs, we wolfed down all manner of lobster delights at the famous Lobster Pot at the wharf. Lobster bisque. Lobster ravioli. Lobster salad. All very tasty.

In Chatham, a charming, walkable village on the Lower Cape that was our misty home base for the weekend, the non-stop tour of Cape specialties included the stuffed quahog (a yummy clam appetizer baked with cheese on the shell) at The Red Nun (named after a type of channel marker, not a pious woman), the crab cakes, calamari and clam chowder at the boisterous Chatham Squire, a local institution that’s one of the few places to stay open late, and a cold pint of Cape Cod Red Ale and Wachusett Blueberry Ale, micro-brewed locally and in Western Mass, respectively.

The piece de resistance, however, was the Clam Pie at the unbearably cute Marion's Pie Shop. This may not sound appetizing to you. It didn’t to me, either. But after ingesting way too much saltwater taffy (in flavors ranging from Beach Plum to Cranberry) from the Chatham Candy Manor, I wanted something that wasn’t sweet.

Trying to look past the beguiling pastries and fruit pies, I asked Marion what pie put her on the map. “Clam pie,” she said. No hesitation. Huh. I bought one, figuring I’d bring it back on the plane for my seafood-loving partner, Kevin. And I got an Orange Citrus Roll, the largest I’d ever seen, to split with Laura. (Some things, especially a sweet tooth, never change.)

Little did I know how good it would smell heating up that little six-inch Clam Pie in the oven – or how the thick, buttery crust would be among the best I’d ever tasted. As for the insides? Perfectly seasoned, nicely textured (no chewiness to the clams) and not a whiff of fishiness. For someone who only came to appreciate seafood in her late twenties thanks to an early hang-up about “fishiness,” I was beginning to truly believe Kevin when he said fishiness only happens when fish isn’t fresh. I tried more seafood dishes in a 48-period in Cape Cod than probably ever in my life, and not one of them was “fishy.”

As if I need anything else to make the place seem dreamier. As a parting image, check out the little outdoor seating area in the back of our B&B when we arrived. The couple had two champagne flutes in hand, as if ready for their photo shoot. Life is just too good here.

Sane or Insane?

Back in the fall, I put up an anonymous poll asking: “What do you think of Amy moving to New Mexico?” The verdict was 66% of you found my relocation “insane.” It was a bit shocking that so many of you think I’m completely cuckoo, but hey, I asked.

Now that I’ve had time to look back at this life-changing decision, I thought I’d do my own analysis of the “saneness” of a geographic 180. I’m going to try to be as objective as possible (if it is possible). I’ll also try to answer those of you who’ve asked if I’ve had any “buyer’s remorse” or shall we say “mover’s remorse.” So here goes…

Arguably insane factors:
•Moving to a place where you know no one and have no family
•Going from a city of 11 million people to a hamlet of under 2,000
•Relocating to a different state that you’ve only visited four times
•Buying a house in this new place without living there first
•Choosing a town smaller than your hometown (which felt small)
•Leaving the world's best temperate climate for true winters

Arguably sane factors:
•Doubling our living space without paying more per month
•Fulfilling the dream of home ownership where buying makes sense*
•Invigorating our personal growth with a conscious lifestyle change
•Moving to a lower cost-of-living area where we can save more money
•Following our gut instincts about what places inspire and soothe us
•Taking maximum advantage of the benefits of our flexible careers

So what I see here is that this move was equal parts sane and insane. It’s a matter of perspective. Is it insane to want to both get more and save more? Is it insane to want the opposite of what you have? Is it insane to think you can make friends anywhere…at any age? Is it insane to crave space and tranquility after once dismissing it? Is it insane to want to buy a home but not stretch financially? Is it insane to seek to change yourself? Is it insane to just leap?

It may be. And it certainly would be – at different points in time. But for me, at this age and stage, it’s also the fullest realization of being a telecommuting freelancer. I’ve traded job security for the risks and uncertainties and financial fluctuations of “going it on my own.” But I’ve also bought myself the ability to live how and where I please…and now I’m finally capitalizing on that. It’s a way of paying myself back in intangibles that makes the equation fully add up.

As for mover’s remorse, we were frustrated at being snowed in this winter…three separate times. I had “a moment” during the last major snowstorm. But that’s about it. Because I already feel at home. I’ve already made some new friends. I’ve already felt a change in myself. I’ve already gotten used to the quiet. (A car alarm in Santa Fe this weekend was like a traumatic flashback.) And I’ve already fallen in love with the simple life again – in a way I probably never could have if I hadn’t lived and breathed the excitement of the big city.

Freedom means many different things, but to me, this is it. “You are free to move about the country,” as the Southwest Airlines slogan goes. It may sound insane (and it is, partially) to pick up and move somewhere you barely know, but I’ve never felt saner.

*See the New York Times' very helpful "Buy Versus Rent Calculator" to determine where it's smart to buy...and where it's better to rent. Based on our previous rent and current mortgage, as well as assumptions of a 3% annual rent increase and a 1% annual home value appreciation, we will save $29,697 over six years by owning here, with an average savings of $4,950/year.

Kidding Around in the East Mountains

Last month I got to experience “kidding season” for the first time here in New Mexico. This was not a month-long April Fool’s Joke, as it turns out, but the time of year when baby goats or “kids” are born and bottle-fed on goat dairy farms.

For reasons I have yet to uncover, the East Mountains area of Albuquerque is rife with goat dairy farms. This has turned out to be a serious perk of living here given that my partner Kevin is lactose intolerant and may well be the top consumer of all goat dairy products, including goat cheese, goat milk, goat yogurt and goat butter. We used to only be able to get these products at Whole Foods. Now we can now get them right down the road. Who said country living wasn’t convenient?

Our first tip-off was finding a surprising number of local goat cheese brands at Whole Foods and the wonderful Montanita Food Co-Op. After trying Old Windmill Dairy’s amazing Holy Chipotle Chevre, I went to their website (beyond my taste buds, they’d captured my interest with their cute tagline: “The Little Dairy on the Prairie”) and discovered they offered cheese making classes. I had barely uttered the words before Kevin agreed that we should sign up.

The following Sunday we drove down many, many dirt roads until we found our way to the Old Windmill Dairy a bit late. Fortunately, we were still in time to sample all of their chevre flavors – my second favorite soon became The Great Caper – and learn how to make goat mozzarella cheese. Bottom line: it’s not easy! They were still working out their exact recipe in fact before going into production.

Beyond yummy snacks, I also got a real appreciation for all the science involved – not to mention the pitfalls. Exact temperatures. Sterilized equipment. Very clean goat utters. There are a lot of things necessary to make safe, bacteria-free cheeses that taste great – and not “goaty.” One of them is making sure the male goats stay very far away from the females. Why, you ask? Because as Ed, one of the owners, explained, they stink (it’s their natural musk for mating) and like to pee on females.

After the class, we got to go see the baby goats, some only a few days old. My favorite moment was watching this bleating herd of kids chase the farm hand – their long ears flapping comically. (See the picture below.) But this was soon eclipsed by getting to bottle feed a baby goat ourselves two weeks later. Ed informed us that we actually lived on the same road in Edgewood as another goat dairy farm – South Mountain Dairy. We couldn’t believe our luck! And, as it turned out, they hold bottle-feeding open houses every Sunday in April.

So of course, we had to go to that too. Fortunately, the timing was perfect as we had friends visiting that weekend with their toddler, who loved playing with all the goats. We bottle-fed a fidgety kid, we walked around the high-tech goat housing (the owners of South Mountain Dairy both retired from Sandia Laboratories) and we eagerly bought all the products they had on hand, including drinkable raspberry yogurt, apricot chevre and lemon chipotle marinated feta. All fantastic. All different than Old Windmill Dairy’s product line (which you can buy in CSA fashion). Score.

So between these two dairies and an organic CSA farm called Frost Hill Organics that’s started up five minutes away, we should be able to buy a lot of what we eat from people we actually know. And, after watching Food Inc. (the Oscar-nominated documentary about the industrial food system), I’m pretty happy about that.

Riding Ten Thousand Waves in Santa Fe

I've learned that when you’re having a hard time relaxing, it never hurts to follow the Japanese example. No, I’m not talking about getting a karaoke room - although I know several people who would swear by that. I’m talking about soaking in some hot springs in the mountains (what they call onsens) until your skin turns pink, your mind clears and your entire body begs for a nap.

For my birthday this year, Kevin and I checked into a Japanese-style spa resort called Ten Thousand Waves in the mountains above Santa Fe. We had spent the two weeks prior clearing out the contents of his mother’s home. Upon returning to New Mexico, we were wiped. Recharging was clearly in order, but we needed something to help us snap us out of the “what has to be done next?” mentality.

Fortunately, Ten Thousand Waves had just what we needed. “The Natural” spa package promised “total transformation in just three hours.” Sold! Dressed in our robes, bright orange kimonos and spa sandals, we followed the stone path and climbed several steep sets of stairs from our suite to check in at the spa. After catching our breath and sipping some cucumber water (lest you think we’re pansies, I should mention the entire resort is 20 acres), we then ascended several more levels to our private outdoor hot tub.

Fenced just high enough for privacy – and just low enough to let you take in the scenery - our tub looked like a steaming cauldron in the cold mountain air. Snow covered the ground beyond the fence, and when the wind rustled the ponderosa pines, small flakes fluttered into the hot water for a kamikaze death. Disrobing was not something to take your time with. It was winter, and we were at an elevation of 7,800 feet. So we jumped in quickly and exhaled deeply. Before we knew it, our 50 minutes were up, and the attendant was at the gate beckoning us to the next treatment.

With noodles for legs, we shuffled indoors to a couples massage room for the “yasuragi” head and neck treatment. The name “yasuragi” means “comfort” in Japanese, and for me, this was truly the best part of the package. With warm camellia oil slowly dripping down my scalp, I was more than comforted. I was practically asleep. They say most people hold tension in their head and neck, and I’m definitely one of them. After the “yasuragi” was over, my scalp pulsated with a happy lightness, and I welcomed the mental blankness.

Next came the full body massages followed by a salt glow. Personally, I could have done with continuing the “yasuragi” and forfeiting all the rest. While most of the massage felt wonderful, parts of the salt glow had me alert with anxiety. On the thinner skin of my calves especially, I felt like I was being assaulted with sandpaper. Later, in the sauna, I asked Kevin if he found the salt glow as painful as I had, and he hadn’t. So go figure. Apparently I have sensitive calves.

It wasn’t enough to keep me from slipping into a near-narcotic stupor, though. We made dinner in the suite’s small but functional kitchen, lit a fire in the fireplace (with Buddha sitting above), passed out at 8 p.m. and slept for ten delicious hours.

When we woke, for the first time in many days, there was nothing we needed to do, other than make a pot of coffee and try out the complimentary organic granola in the fridge. That, and have a long discussion about our Warmlet, the suite’s Japanese-style heated toilet. I found it a bit startling. Was it turned up too high? Or was it just the cold temps that made it seem overly toasty? More importantly, what IS the optimal temperature for one’s behind?

After this ridiculous dialogue (although perhaps not so ridiculous given the warnings posted on the Warmlet above, including a note that the young and elderly should be supervised), we needed no further proof that our adrenaline rush was over. We were finally relaxed. Perhaps a little too relaxed. But let’s face it, sometimes mindlessness is bliss.

Relocated, Refocused, Rebooted

I’m baaaaaaaaaaaaaack. And I can hardly believe it’s been five months. Or maybe I can.

Between closing on our new house, packing up our lives, making decisions on every item we owned (keep, donate or throw away?), driving a 26’ Penske truck to New Mexico, unpacking endless boxes, shutting off and starting up a million utilities, furnishing the new place, figuring out what light switch worked what light and why the garage opener didn’t work, changing our address with everyone and everything, and dealing with all the other bureaucratic rigmarole, the process of getting our new life started has been all-consuming.

Add to that the unexpected hospitalization and – a month later – passing of my partner Kevin's mother in December, and you can see why all elective activities had to be shelved. As the executor of her estate, Kevin needed my help with the overwhelming legal, financial and emotional responsibilities he now shouldered, and I needed to be there for him. Beyond taking care of his well-being and many of his mother’s affairs, traveling to and from Charleston, South Carolina (where his mother resided), and keeping the pieces together with our new home, there was no extra bandwidth available for anything else.

Until now. Last week, I was driving east on Interstate 40 from Albuquerque to my newly adopted hamlet of Edgewood, and I saw the largest rainbow I’d ever seen. It started at ground level (which in Albuquerque is at an elevation of 5,000 feet) and jutted up over the 10,000-foot-tall Sandia Mountains to the east. Doing the math, I realized this rainbow was 5,000-feet tall!

I kept gawking and uttering sounds of idiotic amazement until...I saw another rainbow. Just as big. On the other side of the road. Unwilling to let the moment pass, I fumbled for my camera and found myself swerving into the next lane. Which was occupied by an 18-wheeler. Crap! I thought, is this photo worth risking my life for? Yes, I heard my subconscious respond. I need to put it on the blog!*

It was at this very moment when I knew that A) I had become truly enchanted with New Mexico, just as the motto on the license plate promised and B) that my bandwidth was opening up again. I hadn’t thought about the blog in months, and suddenly, I NEEDED to post on it. It was a moment of pure joy to find the urge returned – and one of many that I plan to post about. More regularly, of course. Because I sense that an insatiable discovery process is about to kick off within myself, and I hope you’ll come along for the ride. It’s time to see, do, find and experience a blitzkrieg of new things. The rough stuff is behind us, and the honeymoon phase of living in a new place is here.

So, thanks for understanding about my absence, and stay tuned as I reboot this blog from the cactus-dotted countryside. I’ll be sharing my deepening courtship with New Mexico, and yes, I’ll be hitting the road again soon too. Coming up: Denver and Cape Cod. Pull up your armchairs, travelers, and let’s wander.

*Sadly, my photo did not come out. The wipers got in the way. So much for my death-defying bravery.

Top Five Things I Will Miss About Los Angeles

1. My friends, hands down. (You all mean the world to me, and I WILL keep in touch. Fortunately, you'll be just one hour time difference and a short flight away.)

2. The weather. It IS the perfect climate. No matter where you go, it's downhill weather-wise from here. I have tried to prepare myself for this.

3. The beach. There's nothing as relaxing as an afternoon reading, snacking and dozing at the beach. Once I got an umbrella (ahem, fair skin), I was sold.

4. The walkability. From my apartment, I could walk to get coffee, a fresh croissant, gelato, Thai food, prescriptions, dry cleaning, a pedicure and a haircut.

5. The food. So many ethnic cuisines. So many great restaurants. So much money spent at them. (Okay, I won't miss the last part).

Oh The Places You'll Buy

I apologize for neglecting my blog over the last two months. It's been an unacceptably long gap. But I DO have a good excuse. My boyfriend and I were on a fervent house-hunting mission that involved two back-to-back trips to New Mexico, one rejected offer, endless mortgage paperwork and last but not least buying our dream home in Edgewood, New Mexico! (It's quite a good thing our "first love" house didn't work out, huh? Thank you, divine intervention.)

Yes, the big news is that I am leaving Los Angeles, my beau of the last nine years, and committing to a rural area 30 minutes east of Albuquerque and an hour south of Santa Fe. If you've got a bit of whiplash, you're not alone. It happened fast. At the same time, it's the culmination of things that have been building for a long while. They include: my long-standing crush on Santa Fe, my growing love affair with small towns, a ticking real estate clock, the high cost of living in Los Angeles, the "turnoffs" of an urban mate and, of course, the quest behind this very blog ("Where should I take my lance?"/"What kind of place is right for ME?").

Then there were all the omens, as Paulo Coelho would call them. Colleagues kept telling my boyfriend he should really consider relocating to New Mexico due to the booming film production. My results from Find Your Spot skewed heavily towards New Mexico. U.S. News & World Report named Albuquerque the Best Place to Live for 2009. HGTV announced their 2010 Dream House is in none other than the East Mountains of Albuquerque. Friends gave us the first season of "Breaking Bad," which is set in Albuquerque. It was uncanny.

So, we did it! We followed the signs and let the momentum take over. The funny thing is that all the feelings surrounding relocation - excitement, jitters, fear, optimism, possibility, reinvention - are awfully similar to what you experience with a new romance. In both cases, you are taking the plunge based on some information, yes, but mostly gut instincts and first impressions. It's the kind of decision that makes you feel hyper-alive.

Just as in the early stages of a relationship, I will have to get to know this alluring place that has drawn me in but still has many secrets. Stay tuned for the the good, the bad, the weird and the wonderful about Edgewood (population 1,800), Albuquerque (population 800,000), Santa Fe (population 75,000) and New Mexico (1.9 million).

There are other unknowns, too. What does it mean for a girl with wanderlust to commit to a place? (Let's face it, buying a home is a big geographic commitment.) How will this flip-flop-wearing urbanite fare in the country, where her new neighbors raise goats? Or in a high-altitude, high-desert area, where six inches of snow fell yesterday? And what about dating other places - can I be platonic when I travel, now that I've found a match? These are just a few of the things I will be addressing in the coming months.

All I know is that it's about to get interesting, folks.