Touristism: Taos

I snaked along the Rio Grande in the empty van, dodging river rafters and folk artists.
The clean sun had trained the dusty dirt to play dead.
An electric tingling steadily vibrated my left arm.
I was having a spiritual epiphany in Taos.
Either that or carpel tunnel syndrome.

I poked around the Hacienda de los Martinez.
It's one of the few historic haciendas open to the public.
Tools and looms and guns and knives, all done up like it's 1889.



The ghoulish religion room stood out.
About fifteen bleeding, tortured, suffering Jesuses competed behind glass for your attention.
Kind of like a Jesus pound.

The unluckiest Jesus had his blood devoured in a chalice by an evil little woman, smiling greedily by his ribs.
Elsewhere, a long-haired skeleton in a rickshaw brandished a bow and arrow.
And a creepy female Grim Reaper smiled mid-whack with an axe.
I don't get religion really.
But if I did, I think I would go for this one.
It's like Army of Darkness.

Oh yeah.
And a picture of Norman Petty's recording studio.
Because the Taos people were big Buddy Holly fans. 

Hey, that Taos tingling went away.