Shout Out #38 - Returning Home

• Hodizzle's Profile
• About this blog
• Entry from Fort Collins

Trip Start Jun 05, 2006 Previous
Entry Trip End Ongoing

  Fort Collins, Colorado, United States
Monday, November 17, 2008

Shout Out #38
I was in defense. Prepared to deal with pointless inquiries and abundant suspicion. What is the post-911 American Customs stance regarding 13 month absences? Is it deemed 'unpatriotic'? I hoped it meant anything but that. I imagined being branded with a big U and forced to go through a rigorous array of search and interrogation methods. Call me a communist, a red, an intellectual...call me anything but an Unpatriot. Getting into Vietnam and Laos was less frightening. I understood their corruption. The rules were clear. If trouble arises, money makes it go away. My uneasiness stemmed mostly from the term Homeland Security. When talking with someone who uses the term 'homeland' I feel anything but secure. What does Homeland Security even mean? What are the rules? How many flags do I have to wave to be Patriotic on an official level? The ease with which I made it through their procedure only heightened my suspicion. Given the current ideas about freedom and patriotism, I was hardly innocent. The agent only asked why I had so many stamps in my passport.
"The cartel sends me wherever the dirty work needs to be done...if you know what I mean." Whispering from the side of my mouth, "Between you and me, things got a little messy in Thailand." That was the cynical response I kept to myself. I was too happy to be back to make things difficult.
"Hi Honey." A man was talking on his cell phone on the Skytrain from JFK airport to the subway station. "Yes, I've already got my bags and I'm on the train." (Honey speaks) "Oh that's super Hon! Golly, I sure can't wait to get home." (Hon speaks) "Okay. Thanks a million! (Hon speaks) "Love you too."
Wow, that was awesome! He spoke in perfect Realtor's Voice! How long had it been since my last encounter with Realtor's Voice? I totally forgot about American quirks and nuances. Things that had once been familiar and unremarkable stood out boldly. I felt like a foreigner with insider information. A spy. Realtor Voice was surprising and bizarre but I had a catalog of WASPy stereotypes in my mental database. Created with a hefty dose of cynicism, I was trying to remain as disconnected from that database as possible. Familiarity would come quickly enough and I wanted to maintain an observer's perspective.
The subway was an entirely new experience. I'd never been on an American subway. In comparison to the trains in Sydney, Bangkok, and London, the New York subway was grimy. From the airport it passed through Brooklyn, went under the river, and at a stop near Wall Street, I switched trains. The mostly black ridership diversified as I neared my destination: Lexington Avenue. Having little to no knowledge about New York I expected to emerge from the subway into a busy crowd of pedestrian traffic. Not on a Saturday afternoon in Manhattan. The sidewalk was empty.
My suspicions had been aroused when Neil emailed only the address of our hotel. Walking down Lexington I came across a flashy place with flashy clientele and lots of slicked back hair. Having ignored such places while balancing a 12 month out-come budget, I instinctively kept walking...until I realized it was the place. This was 541 Lexington. With my giant backpack and my emaciated (according to Sarah) frame I got the key to our room at the W. Neil had played it perfectly.
My circle of friends is pretty small but the ones I have are tried and true. Neil's one of the truest. His reputation precedes him in just about every situation known to man and he still requires a lengthy introduction (which he's willing to perform on his own). Dubbed 'The Fattest Skinniest Whitest Guy in America' by Housley, another true friend, no other nickname comes close. As a welcome back gift he put me up in a nice Manhatten hotel.
After passing the Bar exam in Colorado, Neil moved back to Philadelphia. Between studying for his second Bar exam and working in his capacity as Dr. Neil D. Esquire (a.k.a. The Fattest Skinniest Whitest Guy in America) his spare time was limited...(to screening phone calls and downloading Widespread Panic set lists). He was due to arrive sometime mid-afternoon.
I hadn't slept in about 34 hours. Rather than succumbing to the joy of a plush bed I decided to shower and take a walk around the neighborhood. It was my only day in the city and sleep would come soon enough.
Once I'd eaten and taken in some of the surroundings I returned to the hotel and walked through the lobby. The elevator doors opened and Neil was standing there, talking to his girlfriend on the phone.
"Oh hey! Felice, I'll have to call you back. Ash is here." "Yeah, he's got Johnnie Dep facial hair." "I'll tell him." "Okay, bye."
"Hey! Felice says hi too."
"Hey man!"
"When I got in the elevator I thought that would happen."
"That I would be here when the doors opened?"
"Yeah."
"It's meant to be. Nice spot by the way. I almost walked by it."
Neil and I fell in stride quickly. We spent some time catching up- talking about the books we were reading and what was happening in our lives. I then grabbed a full half-hour of sleep while he showered and primped for our night on the town. It nearly put me down for the count.
A walk through a small stretch of Central Park helped me wake up. First, we came across a group of people Argentinean tango dancing in the cool, quiet night. The setting was idyllic, as if that corner of the park had been created specifically for tango dancers. We walked on and arrived at a group of drummers keeping time in another little enclave of the park. Neil was ready to jump in but we decided to hop a cab to Greenwhich.
To satisfy my craving we had a succulent, tasty, mouth-watering Mexican dinner before meeting up with his friend Campbell. We were going to a comedy show featuring Dave Attel. The affair started at 12:30 (5:30 AM London time) so I judged the comedians by their ability to keep me awake. 5 of the 7 did just fine. By the time we got back to the hotel it had been two full days since I'd slept in a bed. It had been a long, long time since I'd slept in a plush bed.
We had some time in the city before Neil needed to get back to Philly and his Bar preparation/Widespread Panic set lists. He could typically rely on our friend Hiraldo to keep him up to speed with Widespread but Hiraldo was also in New York. He was at risk of being out of the loop. We planned to meet up with Hiraldo after having a Mexican brunch. Neil and Hiraldo worked out the logistic. "Okay, you walk towards us and we'll walk towards you. We meet in the middle." Their conversation was entertainingly not that straightforward though.
We were walking towards Hiraldo when I spotted an organic grocery store. "Wait man, I've gotta check this out." Seeing an organic grocery store was similar to hearing Realtor's Voice for the first time. (Whoa, I forgot about all this stuff. How could I forget about things I used to buy daily? This is crazy.) "Neil, check it out man...Cliff bars!"
"Oh! I know what's going on here! I couldn't figure out what was so special."
"Yeah, look. Organic veggies, brown rice... Oh shit...Kombucha! How did I forget about kombucha?"
We continued on our walk towards Hiraldo just as a flamboyant parade came by. Groups of men were hitting volleyballs back and forth with varying degrees of skill. Other groups went- cheering squads, soccer organizations, etc. A transvestite walked down the middle of the road, seductively waving to the crowd. It was the gay pride parade. Two men standing near us caught much attention for a sign they were holding. Neil walked up and asked to see it. The couple had been together for 52 years. Their sign had pictures of them taken through the years.
"We live in Boston so we're officially married. How long have you two known each other?"
Neil and I looked at each other and both answered, "Since we were kids."
"Are you lovers? I hope so," he added eagerly.
"Oh, no we're just friends," Neil said.
"Well that's nice too."
We stayed and watched the parade go by before continuing our walk towards Hiraldo. The atmosphere was fun and lively and made for a good walk.
Ultimately, we ran into Hiraldo on our side of the halfway point. He was in true form. "So Ash... how was it? Tell me all about it."
I laughed. "It was great."
"So you're back huh?"
"Yeah, I made it back."
"Neil! We (he was with two friends) walked all the way from 120th! Where have you been?"
"Ash was infatuated with an organic food market and there was the gay pride parade."
"Oh yeah, we saw that too."
"We talked with a couple who had been together for 52 years."
"Did you see that Widespread played 'Smoking Factory', 'Porch Song', and 'End of the Show' for their encore at Red Rocks last night?"
"Damn! No I didn't see that. I bet that was such a good show. You were able to get on the internet? What else did they play?"
"'Airplane', and...oh yeah, 'Party at Your Mama's House'."
"Oooh, no way!"
"Is the Hippie Brotherhood ever going forgive you guys for missing a show at Red Rocks?" I asked.
"Hey, I came HERE to welcome YOU back," Neil replied. I couldn't argue that one.
Once we'd met Hiraldo (on our side of the halfway point) the five of us walked back towards our hotel. It was time for Neil and I to go to Philly.

I spent a few quiet days at Neil and Felice's place, mostly writing and walking around the city; reacquainting myself with many other forgotten features of American life. I then flew to Denver. My dad picked me up from the airport and we raced to the golf course. He was going to a concert that night with my step-mom and we wanted to get in a round before he needed to look respectable.
In the morning they took me to Greeley to see my grandma. She picked up where all our conversations in the past ten years had left off.
"Now that you're here (Colorado) you can stay and find yourself a nice girl and get married."
"I COULD do that. I doubt I will though."
"I don't think you're ever going to get married."
"You may be right."
"Oh honestly! What about my great-grand babies?"
"I don't even have a job yet. Even if that's what I wanted, who's going to have children with a homeless and unemployed 30 year old?"
"You're hopeless that's for sure."
"Exactly! That's what I'm saying."
"Oh honestly! I think you need me to help you find a girl."
"So you'll go up to someone and say you have a nice grandkid, he's 30, single, unemployed, and he's living at his mother's house at the moment... want to meet him?"
"No, I'll tell her I have a nice grandson whose kind of a smart-aleck and he needs someone to keep him in line."
"That's a pretty good approach. I'm still suspicious though."
"Why don't you go to church and find a girl there?"
"Church girls are boring grandma."
"What am I going to do with you? I don't think you'll ever get married."
"Probably not. I'm not too concerned about it."
We talked like that for much of the day. My mom and step-dad picked me up in the afternoon and took me to their house, the closest semblance of home in my world.

I've always had an inner restlessness. I know I'm not the only one but I don't know whether it's inherent in everyone. I'm aware of it only because I've occasionally dropped my guard, seeing through my defenses. I don't know where it comes from or even where it exists. Is it a deeply rooted ego device or is it something greater? The fact that I know about it gives me the opportunity to not react blindly when it comes to the surface. The urge to travel or remain uprooted is possibly associated with that restlessness. I can't say for certain. It's more like a restless night of sleep than a need to drastically alter my surroundings. I get the sense that there's something swimming in the deepest pools of my being. Something refusing to let the waters settle into silent stillness. I know there are people who've overcome this dis-ease but I also know it as a plague of the civilized world. A disease of busy-ness. In the chaos of civilized life it's easy to be blind to disturbance. After all, stormy weather creates turbulent water. Regardless of whether I knew it or not, when I split town, I was getting out of the storm.
While growing up I bounced around among the different groups of kids in the school. If asked, I wouldn't have been able to give a reason why. I just stopped hanging out with certain people and started hanging out with others. My interests changed. In this way I unconsciously tried out tons of different lifestyles, steadily circling around something that worked for me. With my closest friends it didn't matter much whether I was into smoking weed, buying beer with a fake ID, or talking philosophy. Whenever our paths converged we met in stride. Our common ground was deeper than our experiments.
Years later, when I lived in California, I occasionally flew home to see my family. I usually needed some time to adapt and find a common ground with them. Whether it took ten minutes or three hours I had to consciously acknowledge that my family had their ways and I had mine and that it's okay for it to be that way. Looking back, I see that it was my way of dealing with being restless.
Upon returning to the U.S., it took no time to adjust. My brain wasn't moving ahead, moving ahead, moving ahead. I simply enjoyed them for who they are. The trip wore me out and I was tired. But, perhaps for the first time in my life, I was also well rested.

The reunion with my belongings. Over the duration of the trip, the natural result of having only a few articles of clothing was that I grew pretty familiar with what I carried. I knew (and sometimes wore) those three shirts inside out. That was not true for the items I left behind. Before storing my things in Colorado I went through an extensive purging process. I thoroughly rid myself of clothes, furniture, sporting goods, house plants...everything I deemed non-essential. Upon reuniting with those essentials, I was stunned. Aside from a few choice items, I hardly remembered the things I kept. It was like looking back in the fog. Once past a certain range of visibility, the route leading to that point was vague and indiscernible. Even items I mailed home early in the trip felt as though they were sent from somebody else. These things weren't mine. It was eerie. I had no sense of ownership and only a small sense of familiarity.
It was a good opportunity to create a new relationship with materials. The earth's elements all possess inherent qualities and mass production makes it easy to forget the miraculous traits those elements have. It's easy to forget the resources we exchange for goods. Pulling a shirt from the pile of stored clothes I tried to remember when and where, and most importantly, why I bought it. They weren't easy things to recall. I realized that having more than that which is necessary is symptomatic of not knowing what one wants. It's consumption for the sake of consumption. That's not the kind of existence I want to have. I want to know exactly what it takes to get a shirt manufactured and to my door, and if I don't like that process I don't want to be a part of it. Not to say that I don't have more than I need. I only strive to be more wise when deciding whether a good is worth the burden of ownership.

A friend from high school was getting married the following night and people were flying into town to celebrate. Neil and Hiraldo arrived from Philly. Blake flew in from Thailand and many others came from nearby. Everyone was gathering at Blake's house in Fort Collins. On my first night in town I was able to have a reunion for everyone with everyone. It couldn't have been more perfect. We ate and drank and juggled fire before going into town and running into more people we knew.
I kept a low profile after having the reunion. I was content doing some work around the house and spending time with my mom and dad while looking for a job. It made for a less jolting re-entry process. Getting back into the flow of life in America was much harder than I expected. I felt like I was living in a parallel universe. In talking with people I didn't know well, I felt like my voice struggled to bridge the gap between two worlds. Like they were hearing a faint whisper and couldn't figure out where it was coming from.
I grew up in Fort Collins. The roads were all the same roads, the trees were where they've always been, and the people were the same. It was the same as it's always been. More people rode bikes than before but very little had changed. I consistently felt like everyone else saw the city differently though. It was the exact opposite feeling I expected to have. I was surprised when people spoke of how hot the weather was getting. Most summers get that hot. I remembered working in the hot sun during my summer breaks from school. They didn't seem any different than the days we were having that summer. To me they were the same dry, hot summer days. The difference is that everyone in Fort Collins was arriving on a summer that followed a spring and a winter. I was arriving on a summer without preamble. Memory was my only gauge and it offered a mushy conglomerate of all summers in Colorado smashed into one eternal summer temperature. That was the difference in all aspects of my life. I had just arrived from a non-linear course of events. Unless I was with my close friends or family, the hassle of trying to relate was discouraging. I preferred to keep quiet.

It took a couple weeks before I saw two of my closest friends, Chad and Mike. I went by Chad's house in Denver to pick him up before meeting Mike in Boulder. Just as I walked in the door his house phone rang.
He answered with a Latin-flavored accent. "Whaz hap-o-ning." I loosely filled in the other half of the conversation based on how he responded.
"Is Maggie Fee-lan available?"
"Naw, she just took off somewhere."
It was clearly a telemarketer. "Is she your wife?"
"Naw, she's just my roommate."
"But not your significant other?"
"I wi-ish...she's kind of hot."
It was definitely a female telemarketer. She chuckles but keeps her professional voice. I'm laughing and can no longer infer what she's asking. She ultimately loses the professional manners and starts to offer personal advice.
"So what, you think I should make a move on her?" he replied to something she said.
"Yeah. Why not?" I start to infer again.
"She's my roommate."
"You want her right."
"But she's my roommate an' shit. How'm I 'sposed ta step ta my roommate?"
I'm cracking up as this goes on. When he hung up he explained that only salespeople call on the house line.
"Do you typically not answer it then?"
"Sometimes Maggie's parents call that number so we still answer it." The phone rang again.
"Bueno. Oh hey Susanne." He looked at me with a guilty smile. "No, I think she went to her dance class." They made some plans and he hung up. "That was Maggie's mom."
In short time, I could see that Chad was living a full life. He's always been a solid individual but something had changed. He was a new man. It wasn't until I saw him and Maggie together that I realized just how much he'd grown. They both had. I don't know that I've seen a more inspiring couple. They continually amaze me, both as individuals and in what they are creating together.
The changes in Mike were also instantly apparent and even more dramatic. He was halfway through his education in Traditional Chinese Medicine. When he made the decision to go back to school it was clearly in line with who he is. Now well into the program, he was obviously doing something he loves. My friends were in good form.
Chad, Mike, and I spent a good portion of our free time enjoying the Colorado summer. Whether it was rock climbing, river kayaking, or hiking in the foothills, we always sought the outdoors when we got together.

The circuitous path back to employment first involved several road trips to see family and friends. I even spent a day with Mayuko who was visiting from Japan. Ultimately, I accepted an opportunity to return to my previous employer, Burton Studio.
Prior to leaving Colorado I bought an old Mercedes with a diesel engine and an amateur conversion enabling it to run on vegetable oil. With some clothes and some extra oil, I ventured west to begin the process of resettling in California. Having a fairly open schedule, I opted for a more scenic route going south into New Mexico. Several years earlier, upon returning from his own backpacking experience Chad said, "The trip never really ends." The two months leading up to the road trip had reinforced that idea. Everything was flowing just as it had abroad...perfectly and mysteriously. The process of adapting to a new existence in the U.S. continued to trigger many comparisons between how I was living, what I remembered of how I had lived, and the prevailing American habits. The road trip took a much different tone. One of a ramble through the mountains and deserts of the Southwest; seeing the country without thinking too much about my place in it.
Taking I-25 south I said my goodbyes to Colorado. It had been a joyous two-month re-entry process. Now it was time to work and I was ready. I needed it. I needed to have my own place with utility bills and spare light bulbs. I needed to produce...to make a daily contribution to society. One of the most difficult aspects of being a lone wanderer was finding creative outlets. Ways to be of service in the world. Yoga, meditation, cycling, rock-climbing, Cambodiafund...serving life was the primary motivation behind all these pursuits. Ultimately, writing was my best outlet. Writing added much to the depth and freedom of my experiences. Sharing what I was thinking and feeling with everyone I knew caused me to think and feel with more honesty. Everyone who has come into contact with these words has directly contributed to that process. Together we contributed something to the world. The process was not complete when I returned to the U.S. I continued to tell the story for my own benefit.

On June 5, 2006 I flew from Los Angeles to Papeete, Tahiti. Before boarding the plan I sat down in a corridor and cried. I don't know why. My best guess is that at some level I knew I would never be back. On June 24, 2007 I landed in New York. On September 1 I arrived in San Diego, making the circumnavigation complete. I am now one rotation ahead of the calendar. My birthday is obsolete. I am not the same person who left. I am not the same person who returned either. I am the one who is sitting down to draw these chronicles to a close.

The stretch of I-25 between Fort Collins, Denver, and Colorado Springs isn't remarkable. Unchecked development is creating, as George Carlin would say, "A big fucking shopping mall". Obese homes are crammed on tight lots in stretches of land too remote to associate with any surrounding urban area, other than the fact that they're jammed between shopping malls. Stone veneer and kitschy ornamentation does little to mask the boxy mass of the monstrosities. The Front Range has become the back page of an outdated lifestyle.
As I traveled through the sprawl, the mountains to the west were constant companions standing against the blue sky. The Colorado sky on a clear day is a deep, crisp blue. In my mind, the sharpness of the hue will forever be associated with the equally crisp air. Whereas Southern California has a much softer, almost pastel feel, Colorado is bold and rugged. Though I was leaving, the mountains are in my blood. They will always be with me.
In south Colorado Springs I pulled off the freeway to find some breakfast. Acquiring edible food on an American interstate is a test of one's will. The options are nearly 100% fast food; fried things vaguely resembling animal or vegetable parts. On this particular stop I hit the jackpot. In a small community of old, well preserved homes I happened across a farmer's market. I could buy organic fruits and vegetables from the people who grew them! Better opportunities do not exist on an American road trip. Rather than huffing exhaust at a drive through, I strolled among the people of the community and bought food unique to the season in that region.
The southernmost portion of the state becomes more rural and scenic along I-25. Once through Trinidad, crossing into New Mexico always feels like heading off into a new frontier. The land is hilly, vast, and arid...and I'm no longer in Colorado. The state line is the first landmark.
Several miles past Raton (Spanish for rat) I veered off on a two-lane road headed for the southern end of the Sangre de Cristo range. On a straightaway I floored the accelerator to see what the Benz could do on vegetable oil. This trip was a test run. Making a desert run in the summer was a way of putting it through the ringer. I needed to understand how the car got along. In due time it hit 100 and I backed it off. I was tuning in to how it accelerates and how it handles at high speeds. So far so good.
As it ascended into the mountains, the straight open road began to meander through forested slopes. I steadily climbed a mountain pass and began descending, ultimately arriving in Taos. Taos is an attractive little ski town. I pulled onto the main road in need of lunch and used vegetable oil. A comfortable Thai restaurant looked to be a good option for both. I waited several minutes while a Thai lady took the order for a couple sitting near the front window. They were the only customers in the restaurant. Once she was free, I explained that my car ran on vegetable oil and asked if they had any waste oil I could use. She showed me two five-gallon plastic containers behind the kitchen and let me go to work. I thanked her and somewhat filtered the oil as I poured it in the tank. It was enough to keep me going for a while. I then washed my hands and sat down for a delicious lunch.
Sensing that the man and woman in the front booth were watching me leave, I averted their gaze. Not that I was opposed to being friendly, I often like keeping to myself.
"Excuse me, are you from England?" he asked with an English accent.
"Ah, no." At first I didn't understand. Then I remembered I was wearing a t-shirt with a Banksy stencil. The image was inspired by a well-known photo of a few policemen arresting a man known as 'The Streaker'. It was taken in London 20 or 30 years ago and became famous due to the unique resemblance The Streaker had to Jesus.
"We thought you had a good vibe and I couldn't help but notice your shirt as you got up from the table."
"Oh thanks. Are you familiar with Banksy?"
"No, I can't say that I am." Turning to his lady-friend, "Are you?" She wasn't.
"He's a well known graphiti artist in South London. I saw the manifesto on his website a few years ago and it blew me away. It's worth reading."
"Are you an artist?"
"No. I like to write and I'm getting back into architecture." When not in the mood to explain things further I say I'm an architect rather than a landscape architect.
"Oh really? We're both highly involved in architecture. We have a project where we studied the minimum amount of space humans require without feeling constricted. Take a look at our website."
"Sure, I'll look". I did ultimately check out their project but I didn't like their concept from the beginning. Personal space is a personal concept. Reducing our impact on the earth is important but imposing one's personal lifestyle doesn't work in any circumstance.
"So where are you returning to architecture from?"
"I took some time off to travel."
"Splendid!"
"Yeah, it was pretty nice."
We've been traveling around North America."
"That's cool."
"We've put over 6000 miles on our car. When we find a place with a good energy, like here, we'll stay awhile. We trade healing services for accommodation or money. When the time is right we'll move on."
"Sounds like a good way to get around. Well, gotta go. I hope the U.S. treats you well."
"Thanks. It has so far."
I made my exit and continued down the road. It was time to make a phone call. "Dylan! What's up man, this is Ash."
"Yo Ash, what's goin on?"
"Well, I'm leaving Taos and I'll be in Santa Fe in a couple hours. Are you around?"
"Yeah man, it's going to be a special night. Me and a few friends are going to a peyote ceremony with a Mexican shaman. Want to join in?"
"Whoa. What? A shaman?"
"Yeah. He's doing a ceremony tonight."
"I don't think I'm up for that one man. When are you meeting him?"
"We're going right now."
"Why don't I call you tomorrow? I think I'll be in the area still."
"Cool man. Talk to you later."
From Taos, I wound my way out of the Sangre de Cristo range. I was descending into the Sonoran desert.
Adobe homes sprouting from the dry soil marked the outer fringes of Santa Fe. Few, if any places in the United States compare to Santa Fe when it comes to having vernacular architecture. Utilizing an old Spanish planning practice, the original city was constructed around a central plaza, the roads set in a radial pattern extending from the center. Government buildings were set off the main plaza. In the latter half of the 20th century the small city established a strong art community. A feat almost certainly related to the beauty of the city as well as the beauty of the surrounding desert. Butt-ugly suburban gated communities don't generally attract people whose work entails craft and a strong social and aesthetic sense.
I drove to the center of town and began my search. The car needed fuel. Collecting oil in the downtown area wasn't a great idea but I couldn't go to Santa Fe and not see the galleries and architecture. Even if it was just to walk or drive by. Central Santa Fe is nice precisely because the businesses are geared towards pedestrian traffic. Oil vats weren't going to be kept out on the sidewalk. They were most likely kept in closets off the alleys. I took a walk around town and watched people going in and out of the restaurants at dinnertime. I needed to stretch my legs and it felt good being out in the cool evening air.
When the time was right I returned to the oil hunt. For my purposes, the one positive aspect of the model suburban restaurant floating in a sea of parking is the readily accessible oil drum stored in an indiscreet trash enclosure. It's easy to drive up, connect my pump to the car battery, and suck the vat dry. With a little effort I found an upscale restaurant near the downtown area. Cleanliness is another important factor in the oil collecting business. Shitty restaurants that make shitty food have shitty oil. It's too nasty to deal with. Chili's and its ilk are out of the question. This prospect was an upscale Asian restaurant with an accessible storage location hidden in back. Perfect!
I went inside, told an employee my situation and asked if they had any waste oil. He walked outside with me and said he has a friend who also drives a diesel on veg oil. He opened the gate to the trash and oil storage area and said, "There was some oil in here the other day. If it hasn't been collected feel free to take it." I lifted the lid and the drum was empty. "I guess they came and got it already."
"Oh well, thanks for your help."
It was time for a trip to the 'burbs. I could look on my way out of town. In short order I spotted another Asian restaurant, this one located in a strip mall. The restaurant was closed so asking permission wasn't an option. Two 50-gallon drums in the trash enclosure were full to the brim. With much haste, I took what I could and began my career of oil thievery.
With a full tank and enough reserves to get me well into the desert, I continued down the highway. I wasn't ready to stop for the night. After a few more quiet hours on the road I made it to Albequerque and got a hotel room on the outskirts of town.
Early the following morning I crossed into Arizona before the sun started to bake the dry earth. Like the Rocky Mountains, the southwestern deserts are in my blood. Their discreetly complex nature comes from the harsh simplicity of sun and rain. The extreme temperatures and minimal precipitation warp everything, including time. The processes of the desert are often slow to the point of being imperceptible. Yet in response to a five-minute monsoon the land changes overnight. Flowers bloom from some unknown sources and the dusty soil puts on a thin green coat.
Cruising along at 85 with the air conditioner fighting the heat of the mid-day sun, the vast scorched terrain melted away into the peripheral blur in the car windows. A few miles shy of Winslow the engine started to lag, struggling to maintain speed. With two-tank veg oil systems, the car is started with regular diesel while the vegetable oil is being heated. Once hot, the driver can flip a switch and start running on oil. I switched to regular diesel when the car started to lag. The car regained some composure but the engine was heating up. I pulled into a station in Winslow just as it began to overheat.
Such fortunate timing is hard to ignore. The roads between Albequerque and Flagstaff are mostly vacant. I can't begin to discern what Winslow, Arizona brings to the world, but on that day I was grateful for its existence. There's a purpose in everything. In ignoring the reality of the desert and my experimental transportation system I was given the slap on the wrist. I made the mistake of getting comfortable. The car had been performing well and I was able to find oil. It was time to proceed with caution and awareness. Scorching along in 100-degree weather with the air conditioner cranked as high as the stereo wasn't going to work. I wasn't driving a new car running on regular fuel.
With my untrained eye I was able to discern the fact that my car had overheated, the radiator was empty, and that it overheated because the radiator was empty. Why the radiator was empty? No idea. I filled it back up and continued on. The engine still lagged with vegetable oil so I kept it running on regular diesel. The air conditioner was off; windows and sunroof open wide. I gauged very nuance of the vehicle, listening for missed beats in the clacking diesel engine, feeling the vibrations through the seat and steering wheel, and checking the gauges with religious fervor. Time began to slow down.
What felt like many hours later, heading up the hills into Flagstaff, my car started to overheat again. Again, I made it to a town before it acted up. Like Santa Fe, Flagstaff is located in the high desert so the temperatures are much more moderate. The tallest mountains in Arizona are within 15 miles of the city. It was a good place to take a break. I parked the car under a tree and went into town, letting the engine cool down in the late afternoon.
Flagstaff is a quaint little city with a hippie-ish flavor. I ate lunch and spent time watching people at my favorite local café. All sorts of people, old and young pass through that particular café, but the kids returning for the fall semester at N.A.U. livened things up. It was a good distraction from my car worries.
When I returned to my car and the shady tree I took a closer look at the engine. That's when I spotted it...one of the fuel lines for the vegetable oil had blown. The veg lines were run through a hose connected to the engine coolant. The hot coolant kept the veg oil hot before hitting the engine. When the line blew the coolant leaked, draining the radiator and causing the car to overheat. I raced to the auto parts store just as they were closing for the night and convinced the guy to sell me some fuel hose meant for bio-diesel (essentially vegetable oil). In the parking lot, I replaced the fuel line but couldn't handle the coolant leak. To keep it running I had to occasionally refill the radiator with water.
With that situated for the time being, it was time to get more oil. A nearby Asian restaurant had the right set-up. While pumping oil from the trap, a Native American man rode up on his bicycle. He was not 'on the wagon' that afternoon.
"Can I ask you to do me a favor?" I wasn't sure I liked where this was headed. "Do you mind dripping some of that oil on my chain here?"
"Sure, I don't mind." I wouldn't use veg oil as a lubricant but I didn't mind letting him try it out.
"The chain's a little dry. It's a good bike and it was really cheap. I got it at the reservation. It just needs a little oil on the chain."
I left Flagstaff with enough oil to get to California. Preferring two-lane roads to highways, I veered off towards Sedona, taking the long way from the mountains back to the desert. The back roads also kept me close to little communities where I could stop if the car acted up.
The sun was setting when I parked in a canyon near Sedona. Dusk is the perfect time for a short hike. Trails ran with the river through the canyons. Reinforced by the soft evening light, the walk was especially tranquil. Even as a brief visit, the atmosphere was mesmerizing. Sedona's good reputation is well earned.
I returned after dark and drove onward. Winding out of the mountains, I went through Cottonwood and started up the steep hill to Jerome; arriving and overheating right in front of the Connor Hotel. The proprietor gave me a room just as he was closing for the night.
By the end of the 19th century the little mining town was the image of a lawless wild-west settlement. At mid-century the mines were all closed and the population fell well below 100 people. In 1976 the town was designated a National Historic Landmark. Currently, arts and tourism feeds a population of about 400 people.
The Connor Hotel has a time preserved appeal. As in the movie The Shining, I imagined having conversations with ghosts in the corridors. Unlike the movie though, the ghosts would all be friendly. They would be part of the ambience, doing their best to make my stay authentic. My room faced the main road, overlooking the weeknight bar traffic. People went from Bar #1 in the Connor building, to Bar #2 down the street, and sometimes back to Bar #1.
I went down to my car and refilled the radiator. A man stopped and asked if I needed any help. I told him I could keep it running but I needed to replace some coolant hose. He gave me the name of two trustworthy mechanics in Cottonwood and continued on to Bar #2.
In the morning I went to one of the mechanics to see if he could fix some of the flaws in the vegetable oil conversion. Fortunately he understood the idea of running a diesel engine on oil. He told me a story of how his friend ran out of fuel in his diesel truck so they went to a grocery store and bought enough Wesson to get them to a station. I was back on the road by mid-day, going through Jerome to Prescott, then descending back into the desert.
The roads wound out of the hills and ventured through a few small agriculture towns before merging onto I-10. After 10 miles on the freeway I exited onto a frontage road in order to catch state highway 95 south towards Yuma. A few small businesses line the frontage road at the interchange; one had a large BOOKS sign over the entrance. I drove past it, thought twice, and turned around. The incongruity of a bookstore at a little highway community piqued my curiosity. I parked in the gravel in front of the semi-permanent shelter and let my car idle for a few minutes before turning it off.
The store was essentially a large tent-like room with books tucked away in different shelves and bins, all organized by genre and author. A small music section featured only old blues albums. Nobody else was in sight. I spent a few minutes looking through the blues CDs near the store entrance and started to wonder who was tending shop. There was a little shuffling noise in the back of the room and a man appeared to my left. He was on the short side of 5'8", wearing a leather hat with leather strings tied under his chin, reading glasses, sandals, and a pouch over his cock. Covering only things that dangled, he was essentially butt naked.
"Whoa-ah, hi." (There you are...literally.) Thoughts were running through my mind. (Did he just put that on for me? Was that the cause of the delay? What is this place? Is he just keeping cool?) I decided to ask. "Staying cool in here?"
"Yeah, it's not too bad today." He put one of the blues albums on the stereo. "Are you looking for something in particular?"
I hadn't thought that far ahead. Books. Definitely I was looking for books. (What have I been thinking of reading? I always forget the titles when I'm in the store. It was that one book I read in high school. The only one I can remember reading in high school. Oh yeah!) "Razor's Edge by Somerset Maugham. Do you have that?"
"It should be in those bins over there. That's where most of the classics are."
He had a great selection of paperbacks. I thumbed through several titles by Hemingway, Steinbeck, and others. All were in the $3 range. He had Razor's Edge and more obscure books by Maugham as well.
"How do you get your books?"
"I have friends who pick them up in garage sales and things like that. Sometimes people bring them here. The CDs are all new so they're more expensive."
I bought five books and a CD and spent less than $30. Outside the front door I noticed a sign I hadn't seen when I walked in. It was a caricature drawing of him, his hat, glasses, and pouch and a speech bubble saying "I'm picture friendly". Indeed.
I left with a smile. The naked guy in the desert was living his life. That's real freedom. The truth of 'We the people...'. It's not about imposing our morality on others and establishing frivolous laws. It's simply a matter of being who you are and letting others be who they are. If I lived in 110-degree heat I'd probably have a cock pouch too. How can I not appreciate someone who's unafraid of baring it all?
With the air conditioning off, the windows and sunroof wide open, I put in my new CD, Memphis Slim and Willie Dixon performing live in Paris. The sun was starting its descent. I enjoyed the straightforward sound of a piano, stand-up bass, and drums. The recording picked up faint sounds of people talking in the background. They traveled halfway across the globe to play in small clubs in France and took only what they needed. It gave the album a timeless quality.
Like music, humanity may only be the balance of time and proportion. While we may get along briefly with our burdens, the rotation of the earth will always remove impurities. The sun dropped behind the horizon, winding down another phase of the daily rotation. Waiting day after day after day for the next little drop of moisture, desert plants don't have large branches and dense canopies. More often, they have thick skin and a low profile. It's the balance they've created with the elements. In harsh circumstances they flourish knowing every day is a day in the sun.

Post your own travel photos for friends and family Pictures

01	02	03	04
05	06	07	08
09	10	11	12
13	14

Slideshow Print this entry Share Fort Collins hotels

Previous Entry