SFe plaza liberated

Over the past several years, there's been some debate in Santa Fe about the role its old Plaza plays in the life of the city. Loyal preservation voices speak out on behalf of history and community-building potential, while others lament crime, litter, and the perils of unconfined teenagers and wandering musicians. During some of this time, its benches have sat empty, and its green spaces were left barren, dry, unwelcoming. I don't know if city policies have changed, the last year or so, or if I've just been there in the wrong season. A month ago, a visit showed lush new grass covering the open spaces between the sidewalks. However, "KEEP OFF" signs had sprouted among them like overbearing weeds, leaving the Plaza a microcosm of much of Santa Fe: aesthetically near-perfect, but not really habitable by actual human beings. One newspaper editorial suggested, a little bitterly, that perhaps the city should just fence off the entire downtown and tell people to keep out, in the name of preservation.

But yesterday, something has changed: everybody's there. And they're On The Grass! Out of a lapis sky drifting with luminous silverwhite clouds, sun dazzles all, filtering through leafgreen tree ceiling. The patchwork of grassy wedges is occupied by serious students with books, homeless men with backpacks, a woman in a wheelchair conversing with her family, and three teenage girls with perfectly tanned legs and crowns of yellow flowers in their hair. Two kids run by, pausing to pull up handfuls of grass, as the little boy exclaims, "This will be great to throw at them when they're not looking!" Voices can be heard in Spanish, French, British English, New York English. Across San Francisco Street, grannies in pink t-shirts enter Haagen-Das, arm in arm. A tall Native American goth/punk/metal guy, shirtless with bicep tattoos and hair flowing to his waist, crosses against the traffic, finds a spot under a tree, and begins a series of fantastical yoga contortions.

And there are musicians, appearing at equidistant points like brighter constellations in this people-space. At the center are 3 guitarists; off to one side are a pair who are rocking the gypsy sound with just a violin and an accordion. A fiftyish man pauses, asks, "That's Hungarian music, right? I was born there!" "Really!" exclaims the violin player with a smile. "Then teach us some more songs!" "I don't know any songs!" replies the man, and stays to listen.

A stout, bleached-blonde woman in black velveteen pantaloons and a long flowered jacket fringed in red takes the arm of a man in leopard-print pants, who carries a bouquet of mylar balloons in every color of the rainbow. He holds them high over his head, like a kid would hold them. A chubby dark-eyed girl rolls in the grass, as her mother and sisters eat roasted corn and frito pies. An elderly man, no youthful insecurities about his masculinity, holds his wife's hand while he carries her large pink patent leather purse in the other. The gypsy musicians are gathering a crowd. They attempt more and more complicated pieces, as applause grows and tips fall into their basket. The Hungarian man puts his arms around the waist of the woman who has joined him, whispers into her ear, smiles. Tourist of all ages, races, and income statuses point cameras at each other, leaving those of us who live and work here smiling just outside the frame. The birds of the air and the leaves on the trees laugh with delight, and recognition: just once in a while, the people finally get it.