Am I just being judgemental, or...

"Well, they say/ that Santa Fe/ Is less than ninety miles away,/ And I got time to roll a number/ and rent a car."
-Neil Young, "Albuquerque"

I have mixed feelings about Santa Fe. The city has strict rules regarding their architecture. Buildings absolutely must have that distinct southwestern style: Wood, adobe, and the occasional corrugated steel.

I admit, driving around Santa Fe is a unique experience. The consistent shades of brown are not always as ugly as they sound (the Southwestern style is an acquired taste) and I can imagine this charming the pants off of a visitor from the east coast.

But, when it comes to a place that is this strict about maintaining a certain, very specific image, many of its residents are bound to be hyper-pretentious. Sorry, Santa Fe, but this isn't only my opinion. You're kind of known for this. Plus, I was there for the NM Filmmakers Conference, and the film industry itself is infested with pretentious people, arteests in their berets and two-toned hair.

Don't get me wrong, though. I didn't look upon everybody I came across this weekend with utter disdain. On Saturday morning, we ate at Zia Diner, and our waitress was among the nicest I've ever dealt with. Unfortunately (and take my word for it, this food was GOOD), the meal was ruined by another customer, a woman that would not quit complaining. "Every time I come here," she whined to her poor waiter, "the food is only mediocre. It's just not worth the price." Blah, blah, blah.

Disgusted, Mike said to me, "Then why does she come here?"

On Friday night, we'd decided to go out for drinks. To our good fortune, we wandered upon a great blues bar, and the band was wonderful (so, Santa Fe, at that point you'd found some redemption). After this, we sought out "Swig," a club recommended to us by our cocktail waitress.

Swig seemed to be swarming with bouncers (not a problem, I'm 22 and with a valid ID). They immediately checked Mike's and my ID's, but upon heading downstairs--which seemed to be the hip-hop room (ick)--we found numerous young girls, obviously much younger than 21, dancing their little hearts out. Oh, and their dancing partners all seemed to be much older men with graying hair. Again, ick. These girls were too young for me. Didn't these bouncers have a job to do? Or were they keeping certain elements out that might be an obstacle for these predators?

This is when we headed upstairs, to the house music room, where a fortyish blond was dancing along with with a greasy-haired creep in his twenties. This guy looked like a cross between Jim Morrison and Smeagol/Gollum. Mike and I left when the blond invaded our space by attempting to grind against both of us.

By this point, we'd spent the majority of the night keeping ourselves occupied with the drinks in our hand. Now, stumbling along the streets of Santa Fe, we were to find our hotel. This is rather difficult when (1) you're drunk, and (2) every building in town is adobe adorned with luminarias.

At one point, we even went to the wrong hotel, and even took the elevator up to room 221, before we realized that the hallway looked far different than the one we were looking for.

Hours later, we finally made it back to the room.