Song of the Mockingbird: My Journey with Josefina

I tell them I want to go to the plaza with Señor Montoya. Josefina squeals and squeezes my hand, calling it the most exciting place in the world. Señor Montoya says he has important business there, so we can come along if we stay out of trouble. I nod hastily.

We drop Tía Dolores off at the door of a big adobe house that looks like Josefina’s, and she waves as we vanish back into the dust cloud on the road. Soon we pass more wagons and walkers, people leading horses and pack mules so close I could almost touch them from the wagon. The houses crowd together, stretching as far as I can see.

Then, ahead of us, an open space lined with adobe buildings on all sides comes into view, the plaza. Señor Montoya points to a long low building with a wide-shaded veranda taking up one whole side of the square. It’s the Palace of the Governors, where the officials work.

Josefina says it’s wonderful, her eyes shining beneath the rebozo drooped over her head. So many people, she says. You can see everything in Santa Fe here. It reminds me of how I felt going downtown back in Chicago. To her, this is the most sophisticated, modern place she’s ever been.

We ride right up to the plaza, and every thought I had about Santa Fe being sleepy and dull blasts apart. There are so many people and things I hardly know where to look. Josefina points out sights as we drive across the edge: priests in sober, black robes, people from the surrounding farms and ranchos leading goats, horses, mules, and oxen to sell, cages of chickens, dogs running loose with their owners. Along one side, men walk a line of horses, checking their necks and legs. Josefina says these are up for trade. Our wagon rounds a corner, and she points to a group of Pueblo Indians sitting on the ground with melons, pumpkins, and apples spread on a hide in front of them. Their hair is cut differently from Josefina’s family, with bangs straight across their foreheads and white shirts draped with shawls over one shoulder.

Josefina gazes across the plaza and says Señor García, who owns more land than anyone else, is coming. He rides in looking elegant on a bay horse, his saddle mounted with silver, wearing tight green silk pants with buttons up the leg, half of them undone to show off his white stockings. Josefina says that’s the latest fashion.

Another man rides in on a burly horse, with a bushy beard, long matted hair, and a big pile of furs tied to the horse behind him. Josefina says trappers like him live alone in the mountains and come down to trade the furs once they have enough. How could I ever have thought Santa Fe was dull?