'At my age,' he says as we sample his basil, tomato, and artichoke quiche at breakfast, 'Santa Fe is a much better place for the soul.'ĭustin and I set out to see for ourselves. Just as we're starting to forget our lives back in New York, we meet Jeffrey, an artist who says he spent part of the 1980s in Manhattan 'running around in costumes.' He later moved to Santa Fe and became the manager and chef at Hacienda Nicholas. 4, two miles north of Jemez Springs, Santa Fe National Forest, 575/829-3535, fs.fed.us/r3/sfe I could probably match their snappy repartee, but I think I'd have to lengthen my skirt a bit if I really wanted to make the career change.ġ06 Faithway St., Santa Fe, 888/877-7622,, from $120ģ20 E. We finish off the night with Horny Toad margaritas atCowgirl BBQ, where I fantasize about becoming one of the sassy servers in cowboy boots and miniskirts. I have the enchiladas with red chili sauce (no problem deciding here-it's the house specialty), and Dustin gets thepolloadobo, blue tortillas served with red-adobo-marinated roasted chicken. Then we head straight across the street to the hotel's sister property,Hacienda Nicholas, to partake of the free spread of wine and cheese before eating dinner at a place with a mildly unappetizing name:The Shed. Taking a circuitous route through the mountains, we arrive in Santa Fe just before nightfall and check in atThe Madeleine, a gorgeous 1886 Queen Anne Victorian bed-and-breakfast. Soaking up the sun, Dustin lets out a totally relaxed sigh. Instead, we drive out of town and dip our feet in the cool pools atSoda Dam, where the water has created bulbous formations in the rock. With the temperature in the 80s, Dustin looks at me like I'm crazy when I suggest we soak in one of the private tubs, which are fed by springs as hot as 190 degrees. By midday, we reach the dusty town of Jemez Springs, home to a smattering of art galleries, sun-beaten cafés, and a bathhouse supposedly once frequented by Al Capone-according to local legend, he had a hideout in the mountains here. Under a perfectly blue sky, we drive north after breakfast toward the Jemez Mountains, passing red mesas dotted with bristly piñon trees and porous rocks that remind me of drip- sand castles. As for my fiancé, Dustin, he's so pleased to be eating spicy, sauce-doused food first thing in the morning that he could care less what color it happens to be.

I compromise by ordering both-'Christmas' style. Luckily, this is not a weekend, when the line snakes out the door at Albuquerque'sFrontier Restaurant, so I've got time to think. Still, having pored over many websites comparing chili sauces in recent weeks, I can't decide if my huevos rancheros crave the red variety or the green. No New Mexican worth her salt would hesitate to answer. I've been anticipating the question for weeks, determined not to look like a tourist. 'Red or green?' the girl at the counter asks me.

Marta bus pushes car