When they come to New Mexico, people expect to see Indians in war paint wrapped in a blanket. They are about five hundred miles too far North, as the nearest Native Americans who dress like that are probably the Tarahamara Indians in the remote North of Mexico. About the closest tourists come is the kitsch at the Teepee Curio Shop in Tucumcari, the first city of any size in New Mexico, traveling West.

The Teepee is run by the Callens family, who’ve been hard after tourists for fifteen years. There you can find the pottery with Indian lady in a serape. They have roadrunners carved from ironwood, that tough, rangy tree that withstands the highest desert heat. It is found in Sonora and along the border. Road weary, I am feeling a little like Dorothy, only without the dress: wanting to get home, but clearly not done with the journey. America isn’t home yet, either, not yet arrived at its ideal of equality and each person’s dignity.

 Under the Cottonwoods in the valley of the Rio Grande, doves coo and the reverent sit in the shade of churches made of thick adobe. By the river, a potluck takes place: Indians serve posole, a dish of corn and mutton; Hispanics bring enchiladas; an Anglo pulls out smoked meats from a portable barbecue. Everyone helps themselves to a ladle of hot chile, red or green.

Such innocent feasts contain serious clues to life in 21st century U.S. New Mexico is the first of many "majority-minority" states, where Anglos are outnumbered.