Nov. 16, 2002

I arrived in Santa Fe at night, landing by chance at Dancing Ground of the Sun, an inn convenient for explorations the next morning. Bearing a name used by Native Americans long ago to identify what is now Santa Fe, this lodging was walking distance from The Plaza.

I checked in, found my 1930s era bungalow, and sat back to relax after a tiring day of driving. And then I looked around at the decor.

Five watermelon slices decorated the wall above the fireplace. Four more rested on the mantle. The lower two fifths of the wall were painted green. Bright green with zig-zag lines around the top of the green section, one bold red jagged up and down streak, and smaller ones in yellow, turquoise and purple surrounding those. A straight red line shot across the top of the entire pattern. Tiny pink crosses marked the lower edge of this border design. All of this ran the length of every wall.

Across from the couch where I sat, contemplating the watermelons and zig zags, a square end table was painted red, with a green zig-zag design around it, both at the top and the bottom.  Another end table matched. A third was reversed in color design, matching the wall.

The four chairs in the dining area were painted red, green and blue, with watermelon slices on the seats and assorted colors of crosses along the chair backs. Three figures of dancers graced the wall, all in a row, standing on one foot, wearing black stripes, each holding a watermelon slice.

Above the chair closest to the kitchen was another black-striped figure, this one sitting down, with a whole watermelon, minus one slice, on the ground nearby. He wore red boots, had yellow tassels on his pointed horns, and was about to bite into a bright red watermelon slice.

A full length mirror hung in the hallway, outlined in red and surrounded by a green, red, and blue zig-zag pattern with accompanying crosses. Above it a small painted figure decked out in black and white stripes sat, eating a slice of watermelon. His bright red lips matched his boots as well as the watermelon itself.

A wooden bench along the wall offered three painted figures. Each had black and white stripes from head to toe and wild black hair sticking out at sharp angles. Two held knives, one wore a mask, and one is held a watermelon.

There were no black and white dancers on the bedroom wall. Also no zig-zags or watermelon.  I closed the doors to the other rooms and prayed that I could sleep.

The  painted décor of this casita was not as scary in the morning. In fact, it was pleasing. The natural light of day seemed to tone down the drama of the colors and lines. Sipping coffee in front of the kiva fireplace, I decided the place was really quite cute. Trading Spaces fans will understand the terminology I’d use to describe it. This is a style I call “Frank was here.” Invigorating.

It was brisk outside, enough so that I walked carefully to avoid patches of ice when I stepped out to take pictures of the first sunlight hitting the the casita walls and surrounding trees. The location was ideal for strolling, and I took my time doing so. Eventually, I returned to the inn, gathered my belongings, and headed out, the memory of bright colors, zig-zags, and watermelon dancing in my head as I went on my way.