Tag Archives: travel

88 – Days Gone By (From Santa Fe to Tulsa)

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11/16

Ohh, it has been so long since the last time I journaled. A week spent in Santa Fe; and nothing. Then three days of little but eat, sleep, drive, over, and over, and over. To be fair, nothing of note occurred while in Santa Fe. My sole achievement being an eleven mile run to the top of Atalaya and back. Also, slacklined with a friend, Jacob, and made curtains (yet to be used) with Matt for my Outback. Began drawing. Ended drawing. I felt very much at home. Knowing Matt and Jacob would make it very easy to move there, but I don’t think it will happen.

Oh!, I nearly forgot about the contra dance I attended at St. John’s. Jacob organized it and persuaded me to attend despite my misgivings. I’m an embarrassment when it comes to any sort of organized dancing. The contra proved no different (though I did have some experience from years past square dancing with my ex). Gratefully, many others were inexperienced as well, and some less coordinated than I. Once the steps are learnt it’s not so bad, but the learning experience is fraught with confusion, near-calamities, and befuddled faces. I’m much too self conscious for my own good. Fun was had I think by all, however! And, ahh!, the beautiful redhead who I danced with at junctures! An expert, no doubt! Slender and willowy as a grass blade, with the skin and fine, well-sculpted features of a marble bust. Impeccable! And with a confidence to match!

 
Leaving Santa Fe I drove straight on to Amarillo where I stopped for an espresso at Evocation, then onward to Palo Duro Canyon where I camped.

I passed through the gates and took a short, winding drive around the rim before charging down the steep decent to the canyon floor where the campsites are. During all of this the sun had only just dissolved into the horizon (it was a red disc slowly sinking into distant desert sands when I arrived at the entrance to the park), and all around me the landscape was pitched into the blue-black of twilight.

Having pitched my tent on a clean, grassy spot along the edge of some vegetation—low trees and chaparral—I proceeded to cook my dinner to the quiet orchestrations of insects.

Through all the night was the velvet hooting of owls, and the howl and shriek of coyotes. The moon bright as a billiard ball—a spotlight glancing off its surface. An enormous eye so far away that despite its great speed in circling the earth appears to be floating overhead, fixed in place.

Woke up in the morning to a blinding, impenetrable sun creeping over the canyon rim, two deer nibbling their way across the campground, birds fluttering from shrub to shrub to tree—Redstart, Black-Crested Titmouse, Warblers—a roadrunner meandering in its start-and-stop way, the air alive with bird song and taut, blazing sunlight. Everything shimmering and weightless, carried on wings.

After taking an age to make a cup of coffee and get packed up, I drove up and out of the canyon, back towards Amarillo and the interstate, stopping on a few occasions to take photos of the western panhandle’s flat earth, vanishing point perspective roads, and a tumbledown house surrounded by an oasis of dead trees. The western portion of the panhandle is flat and lifeless (Palo Duro Canyon being a tremendous exception); fascinating in its own right, like, say, the way the lunar landscape is fascinating. The panhandle’s eastern half abounds with small canyons and rolling hills—vastly different, and far more interesting. One might even say, awe inspiring. This continues into Oklahoma, minus the canyons and awe inspiring, though the landscape does continue its trajectory of increasingly green lushness (I will have to wait until Arkansas until the term “lush” truly becomes apt though).

Stopped in Clinton to visit a couple who have recently moved their coffee business from the interior of an Airstream trailer to an actual brick and mortar shop front that they renovated themselves.

From Clinton to Tulsa where I stayed with another wonderful WarmShowers host who I’ve stayed in touch with via Facebook.

84 – The Face of Joy

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Having left Arcosanti feeling slightly regretful of having not stayed another night, I drove north to the comparatively colder (and wetter) city of Flagstaff. Temperatures were in the 40’s and the rain was coming down by the buckets full. I wanted to go for a run that day as there are trails all over, and so skipped stopping in Sedona unfortunately, but the uninviting weather that greeted me on my arrival at Flagstff discouraged running. I suppose that’s sort of an ironic way of killing two birds with one stone. Oh well. I was happy to check in at Motel Du-Beau, which nowadays is not just a motel but a hostel too.

The motel/hostel is an old, traveler’s motor-hotel (hence, motel, if you didn’t know) from the earliest days of the great American road trip. Opened in 1929 by a French Canadian, it’s original purpose, which it certainly still meets, was to provide a place for traveling motorists to lodge for a night, or several, on their travels across the country. The U-shaped, single story motel is classic in style, and reminiscent of a picture on an old postcard one might find in an antique store. Standing on the opposite side of the street one can easily picture those old, heavy, steel cars of the thirties, forties, fifties… parked out front of each door. Maybe someone is lugging crates of luggage packed full of clothing and souvenirs between a car and room. Others are standing around, slack-jawed, some turning in circles, heads thrown back, gazing up through a confusion of pine needles at the blue sky, smiles on their faces. Despite the rain that appeared with me, and would reappear in bouts throughout the few days I was there, this was how I felt during my time there. In fact, all of Flagstaff struck me as a magical place where one’s head must be thrown back quite regularly to smile at the sun when it’s around, or a bird or tree, the beautiful clouds furling and unfurling, appearing and dissolving, skating across the sky, some marvelous building, or one of the three tall hotel signs from decades ago that are still standing today.

For a city its size it manages to accommodate a much larger population than one might think. Permanent residents are outnumbered by students from the university during the fall, winter and spring months, and during the summer it’s inundated by tourists come to visit the Grand Canyon. What this means is that despite its small size there is a surprisingly large number, almost gratuitous, of restaurants, bars, cafes, and shops for one to peruse.

Despite its proximity to great outdoor adventures and sites, I went on none. Instead I spent much of my time working on this blog, exploring town with my camera, relaxing with a book, and hanging out with this older fellow I met, Marc. His is an interesting story, though short. He lives up in Buffalo and his girlfriend travels a bit as a performance artist. He was on his way here for the third or fourth time to visit her when in Colorado he sent his car several hundred feet down an embankment (incidentally, near where I was staying with my friend Doug, months ago). Somehow he survived this ordeal—he calls it a miracle, which seems to me an apt term—though his car was obviously trashed. Some way, after attending the hospital and apprehending a back brace (yes, that’s all), he continued his way to Flagstaff. I’m not sure how because I never asked, but he was in the room we shared when I arrived and immediately introduced himself, coffee in hand.

A coffee cup isn’t a mere detail with this man because there is nearly always one in his hand, as though he’d lost an appendage and affixed a coffee cup in its place. That leaves him one good hand for holding a cigarette, phone, set of keys, camera, etc. Perfectly fine. Anyway, he felt an affinity for me, and I for him. There was a kindness in his face, an affability, joy. A tiredness in the way he walked it seemed (though that could just be the bad back) that had me feeling a deep sympathy for him. When he smiled, which was often, it was that of a child, and his eyes shown brightly. He listened to me eagerly when I talked about my trip, when I talked about traveling in general. He’s retired and it’s something he wants to do more of. He also wants to leave Buffalo. Move elsewhere. I think part of his journey here was looking for that place. He really enjoyed Flagstaff. He talked about wanting to stay, but unfortunately with the accident it was important that he got home to his family who were naturally concerned for him. He took an Amtrak home the day that I left, though much much earlier in the morning. We said our goodbyes the night before with a simple handshake. Exchanged numbers. He implored me to call him. I haven’t yet, but I was just thinking about this earlier today. I should soon. There are few people in this world that I bond with so quickly. I can’t even say what it is that attracts me to him. He strikes me as a sort of saint. One who smokes cigarettes, is profoundly addicted to caffeine, and listens to a lot of classic rock, but a saint nonetheless. Despite that, I felt that I was the one imparting some sort of esoteric knowledge or wisdom, not he. I’m genuinely curious about what has transpired in his life these past two months since we parted. I still have a number of people to call and get together with here though, too. Well, all in good time! And Merry Christmas to him!, though I know he’s not reading this.

80 – At the Congress, Still in the Desert

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Staying at the Congress in Tucson tonight. Built in 1913 it still retains the charm of that era while being ever so slightly updated for this current century (wifi, a/c, and modernized, though small, bathrooms). Tonight it’s a lively place, and all dressed up for Halloween, people walking around with booze in their hands, a band playing in the concert room somewhere, and, judging by the menu, good food. At the reception counter a small, glass case displays candy and cigarettes. It’s only lacking chewing tobacco and a selection of handguns and knives to round the showcase out.

I’m sipping a Negroni, sitting in the reception at a tall counter away from the bar, while observing a woman who has recently staggered into the room and sprawled herself across a nearby sofa. Has been there ten minutes or so. Can’t for the life of me figure out for what or why. I consider striking up a conversation, but I have this here book that I’m reading (a very enjoyable one, I should add), and the light is really quite dim, and from twenty feet away I’m finding it hard to determine if she’s attractive or not, or how old she might be, or if she’s even coherent to carry a conversation. And now, while writing this, she’s roused herself and meandered back outside to the patio. For another drink, perhaps? (They are cheap enough.) Frankly, I don’t think she’s in need of an additional drink unless it’s water or coffee. I’m reading a Henry Miller which, as I stated, I’m quite enjoying, and so it seems a good thing indeed that I did not approach this woman. I think she’s having a fine enough night on her own, and I am have a fine enough night on my own.

The light in here is dim and warm and multi-colored, and my drink is cherry-red and the bit of neon that’s reflecting off the dark, polished wood surfaces of the bar is also glowing in my drink like there’s a festival taking place somewhere within, and the bitterness of the Campari coupled with the sharpness of gin and sweetness of vermouth is like a tonic as it trickles down my throat. I can’t think that there could be a better place for me, or anyone else for that matter, to be than right here, right now.

Soon after this woman leaves, a family walks into the lobby. Two ebullient little girls climbing all over the furniture, and a punk kid in his teens—studded denim vest and a Dwarves patch across the back. Trucker hat. Father in a plaid flannel and a cowboy hat. No boots unfortunately, and certainly no spurs. Mother’s drinking a glass of red wine. Why wine? I don’t know. I suppose she likes red wine. Strange, though. I can’t see anyone drinking wine in a place like this. Cocktails are about all that makes any sense here, and at $6 for some very high quality stuff should be the only thing that anyone is drinking (the bartender knows what he’s doing).

Before officially coming to Tucson, and by “officially” I mean not driving through, I drove down to Nogales today. It’s a border town most well known for the cross-border murder of an innocent teen, Jose Antonia Elena Rodriguez. What’s most interesting about the incident is that the border patrol guard was actually indicted on charges for the killing. it was the first time in the history of the country that had happened. I wanted to photograph the wall for my project, and I wanted to go to the spot where the murder occurred. I dictated some thoughts into my phone while walking away. I may post that up separately, later.

The drive down was somewhat shit though, because I was pretty much ready to just be in Tucson, and didn’t feel like essentially taking a four hour detour, however, the southeastern Arizona landscape is a magnificent place. Quite different from southwest/southcentral Arizona, which seems a desiccated, crippled beast to me, though no less able to lash out and kill if it so wishes. No, the southeast is almost lush in comparison. The hills and mountains inviting and majestic, not terrifyingly ruinous like some strange and frightening monster preserved in the rock, alive and biding its time, waiting for its moment to rise again with gnashing teeth and slashing claws. These mountains are friendly. They look like they harbor life, and are not preserves of death. They invite one in, and give what they can. Yet… still, I cross over dry river beds; the Santa Cruz, for example, is no longer a river but just an arroyo. Presumably it’s been bled dry to irrigate crops grown in a desert because that’s a thing happening, but I can not say that I know.

Mexico, looking across the border, peering through the gaps in the fortifications (to keep those dastardly Mexicans out!) looks to be a marvelous landscape. Almost makes me want to drop everything I’m doing and drive on in.

And a single woman out of a group of six begins laughing: unstoppable, clear as a bell, like a song in a musical. Quite lovely the way it jets upward like a geyser, and when she gets going how it bounds along like a big, happy dog, tongue hanging from its mouth and swept back. Mexico: the land of enchantment! Oh, wait, that’s NEW Mexico’s slogan. Nonetheless!

78 – When I Should be Camping, but…

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I stayed in Brawley the night that I left L.A., at a charming place run by an Indian gentleman: The Desert Inn. Only $40, immaculately clean, and with a mattress and pillows fit for a king. But besides all that, the guy stood with me a bit in the lobby —a tiny, fluorescent-lit, square room with a counter and desk; some maps and brochures—and listened to me speak about my trip, and then he told me about the road trips he’s taken his family on, and about his employer—the owner of the establishment. This man has been trying to sell the joint for years, decades even. I haven’t the slightest idea where he lives (I don’t think Mr. P knows either), though I don’t suppose it’s in town, or anywhere near it for that matter. Presumably he only works when his employee is away on vacation. Mr. P gets one month of vacation per year worked. He works around the clock, seven days a week. If he works two years without a break he gets two months off, and so on. At first glance the deal sounds alright, until one considers that with a regular two days off a week over the course of a year he would have acquired more time off that way than through his current deal. On the other hand, the job is obviously not terribly demanding, he gets to spend plenty of time with his family, and has the opportunity to leave for an entire month to do with that time as he will (in his case take the family on road trips around the country—they traveled over 11,000 miles last year on one excursion!—thus earning his children an excellent education beyond that of their general schooling). Clearly he feels any positives outweigh the negatives, and so it is an opportunity not to be passed up.

During the course of our conversation he made some recommendations, unnecessarily, of things to do in the area, places to visit, etc. He seemed to have no sense of direction though, pointing me towards a town north, from where I came, when I said I was going east, and then telling me the dunes I planned to visit were out of my way despite that they flanked both sides of the highway I would take out of town. Besides all that nonsense, it was a joy chatting and getting a feel for the town and this man’s life. The whole room smelled of Indian cooking, and at one point his son, of perhaps eight or nine years, came out from the door beyond and hung sheepishly on his father’s arm, alternating looking at the ground and up at his father.

When I left Los Angeles I had every intention in the world to visit Joshua Tree, though mainly just to run, but the gloomy, overcast weather put a damper on any enthusiasm I might have had the night before (always when I am most enthusiastic about running). It also didn’t help at all that I spent almost two hours at Go Get ‘Em Tiger when I had only planned to grab an espresso and maybe a snack to go. And yet, despite regularly disappointing myself by lingering over small joys in potential neglect of other planned events, and also in regards to my constantly fluctuating enthusiasm for running, much good always seems to come my way. No decision ever seems to matter.

So, having bypassed Joshua tree, I stopped near the Salton Sea at a medjool date farm instead (this is a region that produces a huge number of these sweets), adjacent to a fascinating, mountainous pile of boulders a city block long, a number of which were covered in graffiti, resulting in some pleasing photographs. Tucked in amongst these boulders, at one end of this ant hill, was a memorial to someone, complete with rows of candles and a statue of the Virgin Mary draped in rosaries, her head split in half and the piece of rebar poking up through her neck like the figure of a spinal column. I was only about an hour or so north of Brawley at this point, and the sun was dropping below the mountains to the west lighting up the sky in that direction like a fire cracker; and eastward the still, mirror-like surface of the Salton Sea—a sliver of silvery-blue glass lodged in a landscape of golden sand—clouds slowly scudding across the sky. One disappointment always seems to beget a joy. Why even bother to be disappointed at all? Knowing this you would think I would feel accordingly, and yet….

77 – Certain Places in L.A. Just Suck You in and Don’t Let You Go

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Attempting to leave L.A. for parts unknown. Impossible though. Swamped under by my attendant’s generosity at Go Get’Em Tiger. After buying the first of two drinks brings over a third, c’est cadeau. So now I’m just sitting here. Read a bit more of the Miller-Durrell correspondence. Sadly, nearly through. Talk with my attendant… I don’t exactly know what to refer to him as. Doesn’t make the drinks so technically not a barista. It’s really very unimportant. I wonder if I have a parking ticket*… Anyway, still need to get to Home Depot for denatured alcohol, then on to Joshua Tree for a run. And then? No idea where I’ll be sleeping tonight. Wal-Mart parking lot near Joshua Tree, or at the Algodones Dunes (or nearby Brawley).

Back to G.G.E.T., what an inspiration of a place! Exactly as I’ve wanted to run a cafe for years: counter service, very much like a diner, but more modernly designed and decorated with an attention to detail and quality that isn’t found in diners, traditionally. Long and narrow space with a poured concrete floor, white walls and curved red lamps leaning from them, gazing over individual high tables opposite the standing-room-only counter. Red accents, natural, light wood, and a lovely, sizable nook in a bright, windowed space up front with room for multiple people. The place is obviously a strong community hub, and the employees are the fulcrum upon which all this turns: outstanding! Willing to engage in conversation, beyond welcoming, great recommendations (easy when everything is likely so damn good, though). Use of iPads by the roaming attendants is tremendously smart, streamlining service and making ordering a breeze. It makes for an easier time funneling traffic, and keeps from a long register line forming. Do go there if you’re ever in the city (or if you’re a resident and haven’t yet discovered the place).

*I did. $63 for going over the meter, but when’s the next time I’ll be in California with that car and New Mexico tags?

71 – California Dreaming

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California, so far, is like a dream. Specifically San Francisco, Berkeley, Point Reyes, Marin County, the mysterious pacific coast shrouded in fog: in short, much of the Bay Area.

Point Reyes is a beacon of Earth’s agelessness and perfection. Of what is possible. Ancient trees tower above one like monuments, like ancient colossi. Douglas Firs with their ridges of bark as thick as one’s fist, like ropes to be climbed up. The hiking trail twisting its way up and down and through, soft and damp, spongy, loamy, guided on both sides by the lushest, greenest vegetation I’ve ever seen, all fragrancing the air with verdant, earthy aromas of  life and amazement, of how this world once was all over ….

I wish to put what I’ve seen into words, but how can I!? The magnitude of the task binds the gears of my mind and wrenches the cogs off track. How does one translate the colossal magnificence of such an ancient, prehistoric world (or anything, for that matter) into idea, into these scrawny characters that even when strung together into something greater than their individual selves are little more than a whisper in a  storm, that are not truly experience, but merely place holders for experience. How can one translate a piece of bark into a string of characters and somehow communicate all that is that piece of bark and what it means to be present to it?

Words are like fake fruits and pastries in a display case, but even more pathetic, because at least those things, as false and unreal as they are, maintain a resemblance to that which they imitate, but words, words are nothing. Just amalgamations of parts of an alphabet. Just attempts to translate a feeling, an emotion into a communicable symbol that still can’t ever communicate properly that which they must. They’re idea, and idea is only something in the world of idea. In the world of experience, which is Life, they’re just “POOF!” They’re even less substantial than the fog that rests just off the Marin coast, the fog that appears so thick, so heavy and luxurious that one would delight in wrapping oneself in it like a blanket, or weaving it into a sweater, or filling a pillow. Yet the world of idea is a fun world nonetheless, because it is an imaginary world. It is unreal and completely made up. And that, of course, is its virtue. And the challenge of describing something! All one has to do is read a few quotes from Giacometti on painting and sculpture to get the gist of what that’s like.

The trees were tall. Colossal like the dreams of history’s greatest thinkers, but greater and older still. Untouchable. Incomparable. Point Reyes, you stir something in me that I can only call awe, but what is that, and what does it mean? I’d like to smash it with a hammer…. The temperature cooled as I moved closer to the shore, like the Pacific itself was washing over me, and when I did finally gain view of that vast, empty nothingness that had no horizon but vanished into the fog like life into death, I could only stop running, and stare, thunderstruck. “THIS is what is meant by eternity, ” I thought. “This is immortality.”

It’s like digging a hole. Digging after something  buried there that can’t ever be excavated. But this isn’t a physical hole, it is a hole in my mind being dug. It is a metaphysical hole—the idea of digging the idea of a hole.

70 -Love and Hate, and Thinking

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I think I hate road trips. Of the vehicular kind. Not so much the self-powered-on-a-bicycle kind. There is, obviously, a greater sense of adventure, and a more seamless connection to one’s environment—the relationship is felt more acutely; the suffering, if there is any, is different (of course, one doesn’t suffer much sitting in a car other than perhaps from monotony and ennui, so maybe in this case they are similar), and the joys are greater, the pleasures more pleasurable. Less is lost, more is gained and seen. To stop for something, say, to take a picture, is a simpler task. You are not polluting…

Sure, in a car one covers more ground but feels like a slug. Just sitting. Sitting, sitting, sitting. At least today I hiked part way up a mountain. I think my photographs of the salt flats should turn out nicely.
The fifty or sixty year old waitress at the Black Rock Grill, where I’m having dinner, across the street from The Cadillac Inn (a homey, inexpensive, little place that I would recommend, run by a single mother) in Lovelock, NV, is having a conversation with a cook. “We’re shaking our cans out here!” she exclaims (she and the other server mercifully are not). But she is so mirthful. So friendly and amicable. Would that all the people of this world be like her on a daily basis.
The sunset. The Nevada landscape. Can one be separated from the other? They will forever be inseparable to me. I’ve recorded myself rhapsodizing over them… it, while driving.

Nevada is vast. It is like a piece of classical music, Beethoven’s 9th perhaps, become geography. All vertiginous highs and vast, yawning lows (that Great Basin!), and those highs erupting from the dry ground of the valley, apropos of nothing, like stalactites up, up, up! from the floor of a cave, nonetheless, projecting harmoniously, and all the while the shimmering interstate insinuating itself in thread-like fashion through the warp and weft of the land, winding on continuously over tall masses and plummeting back down again whatever the topography be.

A narrow scrawl on a limitless sheet of paper.

69 – Take My Home With Me

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Watching a spider wander through the grass beneath the small wooden table here in the yard, and thinking to myself wouldn’t it be grand if I could produce a thread inside of me and string up a cozy hammock anywhere I’d like. To carry my own house inside me wherever I roamed. It would keep me dry in a deluge of rain, cool during the heat of summers, and warm through the winter.

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Wednesday 06/08

Saw a cafe in the town of San Luis, CO (the oldest town in the state, according to a sign) so mistakenly decided it was a good time to stop on my way north to Frisco. The espresso machine is a beautiful, lever actuated, single-group, copper and brass piece, with an eagle perched on top. The espresso itself, however, is very bad—much too long for a single basket, thin, watery and bitter. Who knows how old the coffee is.

Driving is proving to be strange, and slightly unsettling. Obviously it feels like less of an adventure, but I’m a bit worried that the engine is going to blow up or something. I shouldn’t, of course, but the car is nearly twenty years old, even though it does seem to be really well cared for and the man I bought it from was enormously cool and, I felt, trustworthy. Anyway, I’m really eager to get to Frisco, which I think, along with my concern for the $1500 car, is part of the foundation for my general feelings of unease. That a mutual friend of ours is going to be in town this evening is also encouraging me to slow down and stop for little (not that one notices much to slow down for when zooming passed everything at such speed).

San Luis seems a rather dismal town. Nothing happening. Couple cars parked. Barber shop and a market across the street. Gas station on the opposite corner. The owner/employee here at the cafe seems utterly bored, and was absolutely disinterested in helping me. The abundance of grey sky overhead is not encouraging of any sort of joyfulness either.

The oldest town in Colorado. It evokes the sentiments of an old, a very old man or woman, decrepit, miserable, misanthropic, who’s lived too long and is really quite ready and willing to pass on. “Let me die already!” it seems to be saying. That’s how it feels sitting in this potentially cozy cafe. Potentially cozy. Maybe with a barista who cared, who wanted to be here, and with smiling people to serve instead of just the vacant air and the dull throb of a heart tired and worn out wanting to give up for the pointlessness of it all. The couch looks comfortable, the tables and chairs are okay, there’s art on the walls and shelves full of books. There’s just no LIFE. No music. Dead quiet. It doesn’t matter how many books you have on a shelf, or how comfortable the couch looks, or how good (or bad) the art hanging on your walls is, if there’s no heartbeat there’s no life. It’s like trying to dress up a cadaver. No matter how fine the clothes the cadaver’s still a cadaver. There’s no reanimating that. And that’s exactly what this experience is like: it’s like having a cup of coffee in a morgue, only less sterile. Deadman’s Reach Coffee. Fitting.

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Monday 06/06

With a knee injury (or, any injury for that matter) one has essentially two choices to make: abandon the trip and go home, or adjust things accordingly. I am adjusting accordingly. Thankfully, cars here in New Mexico are fairly cheap, and I have enough money in my account to cover the cost of one and its assorted peripherals. So, yes, adventure by Subaru Legacy Outback. It doesn’t sound terribly adventurous, and it’s certainly not nearly as physically demanding as cycling, but who’s to say what an adventure is or isn’t anyway? Besides, I may end up run/walking the west coast from Seattle to Berkeley, but that, at the moment, is neither here nor there.

The car, despite cutting into my “budget” (which can be solved by selling it later), makes me more mobile, and gives me greater flexibility and range of travel. I’ll be able to camp out of it and go on hikes, visit monuments, parks and forests I would not have otherwise. I’m actually quite excited, though that could just be wanting to get on the road after having been stuck in Taos and Santa Fe for the last two weeks. Just so long as it doesn’t break down!

Additionally, I’m going to spend some time around Breckenridge, Co (Frisco, specifically) where a friend lives, so who knows what I’ll see on my way to and from there. And then there’s the whole west coast, and house-sitting in Berkeley, and I’m really getting ahead of myself.