Santa Fe is not America. It's not really New Mexico, either.

It's The City Different in The Land of Enchantment.

At least according to the brochures.

But no wonder so many people, especially women, who visit Santa Fe for the first time end up going home, quitting their jobs, selling their houses or condos, saying goodbye to friends and family and hightailing it back to that big high-altitude town for the promise of a far different and far more enchanted life.

Maureen Silvan was one of those women. With a full head of auburn curls, and a wardrobe of mostly black, petite and finely tailored outfits, she did not look anywhere near her 39 unmarried years, despite 20 of those years spent in hyperactive New York.

She had carefully worked her way up to director of a midtown fine art gallery, one that catered to corporate clients and was only open by appointment except on Fridays and Saturdays, and had cultivated a select group of midtown friends with whom she often went to the Met -- both Mets -- and tested the latest restaurants.

"I'd test the chefs, too," she often told her friends, "but if they're not married, they're gay. Too bad because they're always so cute."

And then they would all exhale a collective sigh.

Jamie Patterson was another one of those women. With shoulder-length black hair, green eyes and a three-year old wardrobe, she had been trying to make it as a yoga teacher in a city that had no use for stretching or meditation unless it was stretching the truth and meditating on how to get more pork for the folks back home.

She had ended up in Washington as a congressional intern straight out of college but now, at 38, still single and chronically broke, she was looking at a job at Starbucks or finally giving into her father and making a push to get back into the political scene through one of those PR firms around 19th Street.

"What I'd really like to do is get married and have a kid," she told a few friends over salad in Adams Morgan, "but ever since Paul left for Chicago last year, I can barely stand to look at another guy."

"It's a nightmare to be single in DC," one said.

"If you didn't come here already engaged or married, forget it," said another.

And they all shared a collective sigh.

That summer, for the first time, Maureen booked a two-week vacation to Santa Fe where she would stay at La Fonda on the Plaza. She rented a Range Rover so she could drive up to those quaint towns further north, especially Chimayo and Taos. In addition, she bought tickets for two performances at the Santa Fe Opera -- one a premiere -- and arranged for a full spa day at Ten Thousand Waves just a short jaunt up into the Sangre de Cristo mountains.

"I'm so excited," she told her friends about ten times the night before she left.

"We're so envious," they all said, practically in unison.

"Wouldn't it be great if I met somebody?"

They all toasted her trip with glasses of Merlot and secretly hoped she wouldn't meet anybody, least of all a good man.

Jamie also booked a vacation to Santa Fe for the first time, hers for four days, and reserved a room at the Days Inn on Cerrillos Road. She rented a compact car from Budget so she could drive into the desert and stare at the big sky.

She also found an old backpack from college so she could do at least one day hike into the mountains and maybe even camp out. And she hoped to do a late afternoon horseback ride through the pinyons and juniper if the group had a last-minute cancellation.

"I can't wait to get away from all of this concrete and feel that natural energy around me," she told her friends.

"And maybe you'll meet a gorgeous cowboy," one of them said.

"I hope not," she said. "I just want to be alone in the stillness. No distractions."

They toasted her trip with a mango lassi and secretly hoped she would finally meet a good man.

The next part of this short story will appear in the coming days. If not sooner. Or later.