The Secrets of Santa Fe...

I hadn't realised that going from LA to New York by train would be seen as quite an outlandish thing to do, but everyone - from waitresses to train conductors, chatty fellow diners and taxi drivers - have all had the same reaction.  "Wow." Eyebrows reach up to their hairlines.  "By train?.  That's some journey."

And so it is.  An eighteen-hour overnight from LA to Santa Fe first - and what a place that turned out to be.  You haven't seen the middle of nowhere until you've been to New Mexico, where tufted desert rolls out to the horizon for mile upon mile upon mile.  

The station stop for Santa Fe is actually Lamy (population: 157).  From there we hopped a taxi shuttle for 20 mins to Santa Fe itself...which turned out to be a surreal mix of Sergio Leone film-set, a Native American Covent Garden and art-loving retiree town.

Santa Fe is unusual in the US in that it boasts some real, proper history.  Founded in 1610, it's the oldest state capital in the country, home to the oldest church and house and all architecture - restored and new - has to keep to the traditional adobe structures that would have characterised the original pueblo.

The historic centre of town, with adobe-lined streets fanning out from the historic central plaza, is a tourist's dream; endless boutiques selling (supposedly) Native American jewellery, art galleries, former trading posts converted into antique shops, cafes and upscale restaurants.  On a Saturday morning, even in February, the square was busy with shoppers, and the crisp, thin air (its 7000 feet up) gave it the feel of a ski resort (there is skiing nearby).

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Browsing in the jewellery shops, we were slightly sceptical about the fact so many of them had 60% off sales (and such vast amounts of stock).  It all became clear when we got talking to Mr Cliff, who had a small stall on the main square selling beautiful photographs that were his grandfathers original, overlayed with 21st century colours and techniques.  "They're all Middle East owned," he drawled from beneath his cowboy hat.  "Sales on all the time.  Everything made in big factories out west.  If you want to buy, buy from the Navajo."

He pointed towards the Palace of the Governors, on the north side of the square, where a long line of Native America men and women sat on fold out chairs, with displays of jewellery laid out on cloths.   

I felt like a child at a birthday party; earrings, necklaces, bracelets all studded with semi precious stones and minerals - turquoise, tigers-eyes, moonstone,  most of it with a story from where it had been mined.

Second only to shopping in Santa Fe is eating - and even in February reservations are essential.  It's a very particular type of food - spiced meats bundled up in wraps or blue corn tortillas, swamped with green or red chilli sauce or refried beans, topped with cheese.  Huevos Rancheros - the classic breakfast dish - comes with two runny eggs buried among the general slick. 

Needless to say,  it wasn't for me - just watching someone else eat it was enough.

Perhaps what makes Santa Fe so unusual is the constant sense that that beyond the clutch of houses and businesses lies nothing; absolutely nothing, just pockmarked hills and barren desert.  It's an outpost, albeit an artistic and a foodie one, but one that drew me in, and made me want to explore further, across the empty wastes to other historic towns like Taos, steeped in Navajo history.  But there was, as ever, no time.  Forty-eight hours after we arrived we were back on the train for the 24-hour journey through snowy Colorado and Missouri to even snowier Chicago.

But there was something mystical, haunting, even a bit magical in those great empty spaces and that unique, historic town.  I'll definitely be back.