| Nationlong Road Trip Journal: the Last Two Days. |
[16 Aug 2008|01:59am] |
August 11th, 2008. Day Five: Albuquerque to Sedona, Arizona.
The landscape became more and more wild—the elevation swooped gracefully, marked by mountains that no dermatologist would ignore. The plateaus herded up and became long red steps. The tree and shrub and boulder acne cleared up a bit.
It was about this time that we passed half a house on wheels. Naturally, it constituted a ‘wide load’ and intruded into my line, but not as much as the cargo truck ahead of it. Which means that a professional driver was out-driven by half a house. The other half was ahead, and as we passed, Mom stole the pie cooling on its windowsill. Then we slowed back down and left a fiver under a rock at seventy miles an hour. This ain’t your grandpa’s pie-jacking.
How do they decide which half of the house to send first? “Well, this side’s got my television and sofa, but I just had that enchilada and the bathroom’s on that side…better go with that side. I’ll need it sooner.”
The transformation into Arizona was as blunt as it had been from Texas into New Mexico—suddenly, we were on Mars. Everything went baseball field red, and the sky became more of a geological feature than the land. Rain columns sat in the distance, distinct as the mountains we circled.
“What do you think that is?” I asked Mom, pointing at a thin cloud of dust.
“Is it a fire?”
“No,” I stared. “It’s too cylindrical.” And lo, there were the dust devils. We saw five, and were attacked by two. They jolted the car’s alignment, swerving me onto the shoulder. The first one passed over us with a brief shadow and then dissipated, like a Legend of Zelda antagonist.
Gradually the foliage built and the elevation nudged higher and before we knew it, we were in a Canadian fucking forest. It lines the roads to Flagstaff and beyond and then—BOOM!—we’re at the top of a canyon. “Hi. I’m Arizona. We met earlier…?”
Oak Canyon exists to humble southeasterners. Picture Dracula’s driveway, wound like guts around a lush mountain. The curve of the road keeps Angus at thirty, even through the turns meant to be taken at fifteen. Break-pumping has made my right thigh as disproportionately strong as my right forearm. I imagine it’s breathtaking—the cathedrolic gulches and cliff walls are probably a naturalist’s wet dreams—but the only things I could see were the shape of my lane, speed limit signs, and the occasional six thousand foot precipice not two feet away. Harrowing.
Also, skunks love to be roadkilled here. They look like black and white road reflectors. And the smell’s been squished out of them, lingering around the body like a ghost.
Towards the bottom of the canyon is Sedona, which is set up like an amphitheater overlooking Arizonan-type mountains. The ones that look like they were carved by a sculptor on his first day of training. Like his trainer said, “Alright, today we’re just getting used to the tools and material. Don’t worry if it doesn’t look like anything when you’re done.”
One particular cluster of peaks is identical to Snoopy when he’s lying atop his doghouse. With luck, I’ll one day notice and popularize a mountain shape. “Hey! There’re the Lizzie Maguire peaks! Nevermind being a natural wonder, this thing’s a novelty!!”
We asked the locals for a nice place for dinner. Our stipulations: casual, with a view. Their response: find a restaurant in Sedona. The trolley driver recommended this bistro enthusiastically enough that we chose it.
He kind’ve lied. It was pricey. And honestly, what looked best was their grilled chicken sandwich, which is topped with bacon, smoked provolone, and avocado. But beneath the ‘Sandwiches’ headline on the menu, there was subtext: “Served with your choice of French fries or parmesan linguini. Sandwiches served from noon to 4:00 pm.”
We approached the maître d'. “Two for dinner?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, “but what I’d really like is a sandwich.”
He pulled back his mouth, as if to empathize with how rough I’ve got it. “We stop serving sandwiches after four.”
“Then nevermind,” I said with a smile and exited.
What the hell is that?
LARRY TALBOT: “I tell you I was bitten by a wolf!”
JOHN TALBOT: “But Larry, we found only a chicken sandwich with bacon, smoked provolone, and avocado!”
LARRY TALBOT: “That’s…that’s impossible! Although this gypsy did tell me this poem; ‘Even a chicken sandwich with bacon, smoked provolone, and avocado that is pure at heart/and says its prayers by night/may become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms/and it’s 4:01 pm.’”
Or maybe the good people of Sedona were getting plastered on sandwiches, and the state intervened.
CUSTOMER: “Gimme ‘nother paninininini.”
WAITER: “I’m sorry, sir, but we’re bound by state law to stop serving after 4:00 pm.”
CUSTOMER: “Fine! Seef I care! I’ll jus’ go home and eat one there!”
WAITER: “That’s your business, sir.”
Fuuuuuuuck that.
August 12th, 2008. Day Six: Sedona to Pasadena, California.
We awoke for at seven for a jeep tour of the mountains, which was easy, because time zones be damned…I know ten o’clock when I see it. It was a visual experience, and I won’t try to emulate it here. But I’m using the word ‘experience’ quite intentionally.
On our way out of Arizona, an S.U.V. swerved by, and its driver was paying more attention to his magazine than the road. And his magazine was some kind of bondage-themed Kama Sutra. It had big-time illustrations. Wa-wa-wee-wa. And we couldn’t help but notice the decal from Brigham Young University on his back window. Mormons: don’t ogle and drive.
At the Californian border, there’s an obligatory vehicle check. A goat-bearded officer (maybe Border Patrol?) asked where I was coming from.
“Florida, actually,” I said.
He gave me a look and continued, “Carrying any citrus in the car?”
It was then that I realized that ‘Florida’ is the worst, most ridiculous answer a person can give at a government outpost in the middle of fucking nowhere dedicated to deterring oranges. ‘Florida’ is the answer that goat-bearded officers jokingly say to their friends as they pass through on their days off.
But he let us through, into California’s eastern doormat, the Mojave Desert. It was—by far—the most disgusting site of the past six days. I pooped in the lone bathroom of a gas station in Gallup, New Mexico, and it looked more appealing than the Mojave Desert. Here’s what you can see: miles of overexposed dust and rocks, and mountains that range from ‘scraggly’ to ‘dirty,’ and nothing else. Music gets more lethargic, yawning happens as easily as breathing, and your eyes begin to chap.
“Welcome,” says Mojave. “You’re sure this is the place for you?”
Four days later, I think it might be. My room is set up, I’ve met a dozen sociable people, and my biggest problem is that my relatives want to spend so much time with me that I don’t know if I’ll be able to fit writing into the schedule. I’m finishing this journal four days after the events they’re documenting, after all.
But the words are flowing, a crazy Indian concert pianist holds classes in our backyard apartment, the trip is done, and the future is terrifying, strange, and bright. I’d like to do this again, but without worrying about a carful of belongings every step of the way. Then I could pay attention.
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