Cherokee to the Highway

Let me start off by saying that we had a great time touring in Arizona and New Mexico last week. We'd been traveling under a cloud for 5 months, carrying the bad weather with us, but that is nearly impossible to do in the American southwest. It boasts a superabundance of sunshine and hot, dry air, as well as a scorching wind, probably the result of all of the beans in the local diet. Paul theorizes that the settlers of California didn’t cross the Rockies by choice, but were propelled there by a strong tailwind. Bostonians are known for their own bean cuisine, of course, but the cooler climate helps them keep it under wraps, so to speak.

We knew that this trip would involve some long travel days, so we decided to break the bank on airline miles and use them all to purchase two first-class fares from Boston to Phoenix and Albuquerque to Boston. This was our first time flying first class, and to quote Jerry Seinfeld, “I can’t go back, I won’t.” In truth, it’s not all that different from Coach Class. The seats are a little wider and the wine flows freely. The biggest advantage is the order in which you board and deplane, which is to say, first. The only surprise was that there was no meal service on either outbound flight, even though the Detroit to Tucson leg took 4 hours and coincided inarguably with the dinner hour. We brought sushi on board with us and I even upgraded my usual Ellis Island travel outfit to a Cambridge Casual ensemble: sandals and thin socks, unstained cotton capris and only two shirts instead of five.
Nothing could have prepared us for the heat in Phoenix. If it’s 104 degrees in the sun and 97 in the shade, you at least have the illusion of relief. However, at night, when there is no sun or shade and it’s still 97 degrees out, you feel like you’re constantly in the exhaust stream of a bus. The body struggles to find some contrast, some respite from this violent heat, but it cannot. I took my little flying socks off before I soaked them completely and tied them around the strap of my purse. At the rental car desk, a smiling agent informed me that I had been upgraded from the full size “Impala or similar” that I had reserved to a black Jeep Cherokee. “Don’t they use a lot of gas?” I asked suspiciously, my Ellis Island roots revealed. “No more than other SUVs,” he replied cheerfully. “What if I just want the Impala?” I challenged him. “We traded them all in for SUVs,” he oozed, implying this was my lucky day. I confessed to the agent that the last time I had rented an SUV, I had been imbued with such a heady mix of power, entitlement, and anger that I ended up yelling at a cop in Oakland. He laughed lightly as though he hadn’t heard a word I’d said. I stopped short of asking whether I could be downgraded to a mid-size and then get upgraded to the full-size car I wanted. Got to cover up those roots sometimes. Besides, Paul was waiting with all the luggage back at the airport.
We stayed in Phoenix the first night and drove to Tucson the next day. Our only gig that day was a workshop, and we were lodged for the next two nights at the Hotel Arizona, the lobby of which bears a small sign saying “Welcome to the Hotel Arizona.” If you now can’t get the Eagles’ “Hotel California” out of your head, you’ll know how I felt for those two days.
Next: Stop Singing that song already!