Went down to Tucson over the weekend for the 24 Annual All Souls Day Procession. The air was deliciously warm , almost balmy compared to Prescott.  The night streets were teeming with colorful flowers, art installations, lanterns, and of course everyone’s faces are unrecognizable in ghastly paints.  Apparently about ten thousand people show up to march in the parade and watch the grand finale with top bands such as A Tribe Called Red.  I almost didn’t go.  I was in distress a week ago at the realization that this trip would empty my pocket books profusely and completely. It did. I have .66 cents to my name until midnight tonight, when my work check miraculously makes its appearance as an online deposit. The money could not come at a sooner time; I have tea bags and quinoa in an otherwise empty cupboard. But the trip was well worth it. It was wonderful to march in the parade in full Dia de los Muertos attire, and participate in an event and day that is largely uncelebrated in many parts of the country

Today I met a boy who was afraid
He ran and hid behind thin walls
The other children laughed
They could still see him

His fear was translucent

Exposed

But it wasn’t them he was afraid of.

Fall puts me into a certain state; it’s a rare balance of pure contentment and anxious anticipation of winter. For all of you that know me, I battle winter like it’s my worst enemy. I make up excuses to never leave the safety of indoor heating and fluffy down blankets. If someone were to have a winter wedding I’d likely be the one to show up in knitted leg warmers and ear muffs. But the fall months, especially October, are magical to me.  The feeling of change that envelops the landscape produces the same effect on my heart; I feel a restless feeling, a desire to experience something different. Fortunately Prescott’s north enough to go through a fall phase. It’s majestic to drive down White Spar to work in the mornings. The leaves are all turning brilliant reds and yellows and Granite Mountain stands in the background.  I haven’t bought a pumpkin or even thought of a Halloween costume, but I’ve let the scarves and woolen sweaters emerge from the dusty boxes and sport them over my summer floral dresses.  

Oddly I feel most nostalgic during the fall months. I don’t really go to festivals during any other time of year, but I’ve gone to more Octoberfest’s and Harvest Festivals then I can count in the past few years. Over the course of my trip to Chicago last weekend I had a chance to go to my friend Lindsey’s hometown’s “Pork and Apple Festival”. It was delightfully rural and quaint, with hatchet tossing contests, wood carving, and homemade apple cider that tasted like the Midwestern version of the “nectar of the gods”. Walking around the festival that Saturday under the pure blue skies made me feel like I was right back home in Iowa. The town was so small, and honestly seemed just like every other small farming town, with cornfields flanking each side and old homes with wide porches. It had been awhile since I had the chance to return down memory lane like that.  However nice it may seem I always get the unsettling feeling that I could never return to that.

On a similar note, I’ve heard the Grand Canyon and the surrounding area is beautiful in the fall. It’s a shame really, this whole government shutdown thing. My friend Kristen works up there, she’s always wanted to be a park ranger up there and finally her chance came. Horrible timing government! On top of people going out of work, they took away so many outdoor enthusiasts hiking and camping trips to the National Parks, where it’s so beautiful this time of year. That just makes me sad.  I think I’ll just sit on my couch today and read a novel with some hot drinks, fall style.

I just got back from a three day trip to Tucson, Arizona. Tucson is about 70 miles from Tombstone and less than two hours from the Mexican border. The small city has an odd collection of hardened Republican cowboys, hippies, and college kids struggling away at academics in coffee shops. Somehow they all make it work down there and the result is a vibrant and wildly interesting place to discover. Based on appearance, I’d say it’s the truest form of the Arizona desert you can find, with blistering heat and a forest of Saguaros as far as the eye can see. I also say this because it’s probably the image friends back east conjure when I say I up and moved to the “wild west”.

On the drive back home we stopped at a friend’s parent’s house in Florence. They wanted to do a bit of target shooting out in an open range outside of town. We drove the pickup on an old gravel road with ruts and crevices, parked, and set up some folding chairs. Then we spent over an hour watching the guys and Mary Jo shoot at metal cans with a variety of guns I certainly don’t know the name of.  Let’s be honest, I spent the majority of the time crouched in the back seat of the truck, hiding with my hands over my ears.  But eventually I realized I was acting stupid because these people really knew what they were doing. So I ventured out in the open air to watch. Quite frankly, even though target shooting may not be a fun activity for me, I enjoyed the time because I just love being out in the desert. We saw coyote, long-horned cattle, and a roadrunner propel itself out of our way. 

The desert, it’s a magical place. I really can’t avoid being cheesy and sentimental about it. I guess I have a love affair with the desert. I’ve often told people I’ve had a magnetic pull to live out here ever since my dad drove me from Phoenix to historic Jerome during early childhood. There wasn’t much in Jerome at that time; it was just poking its head out to the touristy folks after a long time in deserted ghost town status. But when I stood on that little hill town and looked out at the expansive northern desert below I felt a deep and un-explained connection to the beautiful, resilient landscape. I was struck by the warm sunsets over the reddened rocks, the gentle hues of pinks and purples that always seem more brilliant than anywhere else in the world. Perhaps I never envisioned myself living out here, where you have to reapply heavy lotion every five minutes to prevent your skin from flaking off in huge heaps, and your mouth goes dead dry after twenty minutes without water. Instead, it was just somewhere to visit. Receive sufficient sunburn. Get poked by a Saguaro.  See a Horney toad.  Get freckles. Go back to Iowa.

Over spring break one year in college my friend Teresa drove two days in my Chevy Impala just to experience Cottonwood, Arizona. I now know Cottonwood is not the ideal place for a cheap spring break, its main drag is for people with at least a steady income.  The small river valley town is full of vineyards, wineries and fancy art galleries. I think I had a negative amount in my bank account by the time my car crossed the Kansas border on extremely low fuel. But it did renew my desire to be in the desert, and we did get plenty of free hiking in the Coconino county area.  Exploring in Oak Creek Canyon during that break told me I was made for this dry, arid climate. Why I grew up in the lush green farmlands of the Midwest is beyond me. Though I admit, even though the desert is great, there are some days I know I’ll probably end up going back there…

I had an amazing little getaway this past weekend when I flew to Florida for a friend’s wedding. All my friends are attaching themselves to someone else; it’s a beautiful and wildly expensive thing to do in our young lives. I’m nowhere close to this kind of attachment, but I do see the benefit. I’ve always wanted a white cake as tall as me with plastic faceless people on the top, and someone to shove delicious cream cheese frosting in my face. I’ve wanted that all my life.

I flew out very early Thursday to arrive on time for the bachelorette party in Orlando. To get to the airport I take the 5:00 am shuttle from downtown Prescott. To get downtown it’s about a 25 minute walk down the hill in the crisp morning air. It’s refreshing to be out at 4:30 in the morning, not a living soul is around. The shuttle is late, so I sit and wait. You can’t miss this thing; it looks like a huge silver spaceship. A hotel worker sweeping the steps of St. Micheals murmurs a good morning while I sit on the curbside with my backpack operating as a backrest. I’m sure he’s wondering what the hell I’m doing there, just jamming out to my iPod on a curbside at 5:00 in the morning. Oddly we aren’t the only ones up this early, a women in a black dress and tired eyes crosses the street like she has somewhere to be at this insane hour. The shuttle finally arrives.

The two hour drive to the valley is peaceful; I play music but can hear their conversations about the late monsoon and the irony that the Prescott golf course is in Dewey. Retirement talk, maybe someday I’ll join in. The sky is bright blue by the time we pull up to the sky harbor airport, I’m feeling groggy but in good spirits at this point. For some reason things take a drastic turn after I enter the sliding glass doors, because my coffee withdrawal kicks in full swing. The back of my head feels like it got hit with Thor’s hammer and my hunger isn’t making my brain work any better, it’s a mushy wreck. I’m a ravenous vegan Monster who only had lettuce and garbanzo beans the night before. I walk up to the closest food vendor which happens to be called Paradise Bakery. Not an ideal place for a gluten-free vegan but the need for coffee cancels out everything else. I get in line and order an oatmeal and small coffee. The lady at the counter tells me they don’t have soy or almond milk or any dairy free anything. This shouldn’t exactly floor me but for some reason it does and I have to ask five times before it finally sinks in.

By now the baristas and entire Paradise Bakery staff think I’m a freak. I can see it on their faces and I swear one of them rolls her eyes when they think I’m not looking. I resign to the idea that I will have to eat my oatmeal dry and my coffee black and wait at a distance for them to prepare it. The line goes on and several people get their food while I continue to stand there thinking I’d normally have conquered a full French press solo by now. When the lady light-years behind me receive her hobbits sized paper cup of oatmeal and walnuts my bitch panic button goes off unexpectedly. I don’t even have it under control I just blurt out:  “Wait a second why does this woman get her food first!” I say it and it sounds so horribly stupid and impatient. No apology was uttered by this coffee deprived junkie, instead I walked off and found a quiet corner to sit in silence and ponder what I just managed to do.

I’d become my worst customer service nightmare. The grumpy, impatient, bitch. I worked in the food service for years, as a server, a barista and even as a wine bar attendant. I’ve seen it all. I completely know what not to be, I never complain or send food back and I tip well because I understand how hard it can be on the people doing their best to provide service. I am a perfect, happy customer, painfully so.

So why did this Thursday morning in the Phoenix airport result in a full blown bitch fest? I think it was due to multiple factors, like no sleep the night before, the need for a coffee stimulus, the panicky feeling only Phoenicians bring about, anxiety about seeing old college classmates, the annoyance at the way my diet complicates travel. But honestly I think I think I needed to react that way to put a few things in perspective. We cannot expect ourselves to be 100% all the time. I can’t grieve over that moment of not being the nice Midwesterner. We all have our moments of raw honesty that lets others know we aren’t exactly content at this exact moment in time. And that’s ok. Because the next time someone reacts that way towards me I’ll know it might be a temporary thing, and that hopefully they aren’t always like that. But just so that never happens again, I’ll try to remember never to go on an adventure without drinking coffee first.