We Were High, All The Time...
Is that a brass spittoon on your face?
(Feeding the gray jays at 11,000 feet)
The bartenders try to warn the tourists, but do they ever listen?
No, they do not.
Santa Fe, New Mexico. The high desert. Way up there in the mountains. You know how they call Denver the “mile-high city?” Amateurs. According to my altimeter, our Santa Fe living room sat at 7,434 feet above sea level.
We were even higher than that, when we climbed the stairs to the bedroom.
That lofty altitude decreases your tolerance for alcohol, and increases the chances you will slump off of your barstool after two margaritas, jamming your face in a brass spittoon so tightly they have to bring in the Jaws of Life, just to pry it off.
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