I'm not sure why, exactly. It may have just been contrast, after a relatively easy ride into Tucson--and a quick shot up the 10 across the Oro Valley--that the sudden nest of interchanges and tunnels may have caught me by surprise. Or it may have been the drivers--most of the Zonies I met told me that Arizona drivers are crazy. They certainly go a little fast. But on the other hand--in 'Bama they took the slow lane like they were on the Talladega Speedway. And the folks in Atlanta drove like Parisians--like Angelenos with half the sense.
Or maybe I was just tired--but, for whatever reason, the thirty minutes between Tempe and the city center were some of the most hair-raising of the entire trip. And I did, mind you, hit an ice storm in Louisiana, snow in the Smokies, and a hellish strip of black ice--glistening in the moonlight--most of the way from Dallas to Odessa.
The car skidded out on a bridge, and I nearly swerved into the only other car for a half-mile in either direction. Somewhere about an hour outside of Forth Worth, the semi's started to appear. At the point, I was driving a tooth-clenced fifty-five, and the trucks went howling past me. The truck-driver I met in Tucson explained that trucks can drive faster on ice, because they're heavier--so that they get better traction. I though that might have been it--he said that no one thought that I was lame for being cautious. It's expected, he said, by professional drivers. It's nice to know that the semi-folks--who own the roads everywhere it runs beyond the sprawl--weren't *judging* my.... ah... "skills".
... at any rate, in some ways, getting into Phoenix was worse. Although, I did see my first sign for "Los Angeles" halfway through the greater metro area. Which says quite a bit about what's between Phoenix and the coast--nothing, more or less.
The 10 eventually belched me out into the sweltering desolation of Down Town. Two days ago, when I woke up in El Paso, it was 26 degrees at 7:30 in the morning. Early afternoon in Phoenix was 85. And bright. And dry.
In some ways, this part of the city reminded me off some of the housing divisions that grew up in the further suburbs out of San Diego. A complex of massive buildings surrounded by dusty emptiness. In this case, the large complex of stores and hotels gave way into empty lots, and then a little island of "artistically" decorated buildings... and then subsided into a gradually denser neighborhood of one-story houses backing onto the freeway. About half-a-mile down, it could have been any semi-urban neighborhood in a southwest city with a large Latino population. There was a Ranch 99 Market--with dubious canned goods and an excellent hot bar.
I was looking for the hostel, which I finally found--tucked into the nest of houses, and empty--so early in the afternoon, of guests. Except for one quiet, rather drawn (in that healthy way) gentleman who was there for a marathon. He had a duffel bag and a pair of really excellent hiking boots, and was polite in a way that made think that he, too, was probably gay.
It's hard to tell what you're getting into when you pick a hostel. Some are small and inviting, some are large and buzzing--some are sketchy and impersonal, some are claustrophobic. The one in Phoenix seemed a little... elitist? Like you might be staying with some people, who are much cooler than you, and who you don't know very well. But that may have been my mood. I was not getting into Phoenix. Too flat. Too dry. Alien and alienating.
I'd picked this particular place because it was cheap--but also because it was supposed to be in an "arty" part of town. As it happened, the arty bit was the rectangle of interestingly decorated buildings--surrounded by lots--that I had passed by looking for the hostel.
... usually areas like this grow up on the edges of cities, in neighborhoods were the rent is cheap--or in run-down areas of down-town. But this particular cluster seemed to grow straight out of the dirt--like a little oasis of flax-seed muffins and bespoke espresso. Very strange.
The next day, when I was talking with the owner of one of the little cottage-shops--selling a variety of off-the-wall knick knacks. I was particularly drawn to a purple tie, silk-screened with yellow octopi--but was there, really (and running low on funds), to pick up a hostess gift for my sister.
As it turned out, she and her husband had had a lot to do with the "rejuvenation" of this particular area. Things were going swimmingly, and they had just cleared out the trannie hookers and meth-heads--and gotten some good contracts for mixed development--when the city decided to build a stadium in the district which they were currently inhabiting. Most of the surrounding building were razed, but this little area--just a rectangle of three or fours streets really--fought the city. And won. With the end result that these cafes and galleries persists--but that the little neighborhood which nourished them was destroyed. The "hip" part of Tucson felt like a busy town on the edge of the frontier--this part of Phoenix felt like part of a post-apocalyptic landscape.
... I'm not sure how well places like this thrive on too much reality. You almost need a greater concentration of activity--or, at least, a little more shade.
Arriving too early--I made good time out of Tucson, Zonies *do* drive fast--I went looking for a cup of coffee--to wait out the afternoon until the hostel opened. I went through a few cafes, looking for a real coffee shop--until finally, a soft-eyed burnette, working the counter in a converted cottage, covered with vines and with a great deal of brightly painted plywood in the back, took pity on me and directed me towards a place serving espresso. It was, as it turns out, just a few "houses" down. Places like this can be hard to navigate unless you're a local...
... I settled in with an iced Americano, at a table out front. Not a bad place--there were other people working on lap-tops, in the red dust of the yard. And an exuberant pit-bull which managed to tangle itself its legs, the leash and the table it was attached to in its attempts to obtain human contact. Nice doggie.
I thought it might be good to take in a little local color--so when the owner and his friend--each in varying stages of "beard", settled down with their coffee, I waved at them.
"Hey! Hey--I'm from out of town... what's good around here?"
"Oh--where from?"
"DC. I'm driving cross country..."
"... damn." A whistle. "What are you into?"
"Ah. I'm only here for the night but--some coffee... music?"
They thought it over--and then the owner spoke up.
"This is pretty much it, actually. Coffee... food... there's a venue down the street in a converted garage--it's cool, though. There's a show there tonight... my friend's band--they're really good..."
"Yeah?--maybe I'll have a look."
"Yeah? Maybe I'll see you there."
"Would be cool--thanks a lot, man."
Would have been cool--but in the end, I finished up the evening with a sandwich made of Mexican canned tuna and a conversation with a semi-autistic man about trolleys, back at the hostel. I was tired. I sank into my bunk in the semi-twitchy silence of the common dorm with my boots still on--and woke up at six the next morning, with a headache and an uncommon craving for Mexican food.
And this, at least, Phoenix excels in. It was a Sunday morning, and the Ranch 99 was bustling with family's getting a good hot breakfast. After two years away from all the good things that come out of the Mexican kitchen--pan dulce, chilaques, tortas--I spent a good long time just staring at the menu. So long in fact that a dignified older gent came up to me and asked me if I needed help.
"No, man--thanks. There's just so many choices..." With a gusty sigh.
And so, finally, a chile relleno plate--covered with chopped onion and cilantro and tomato and salsa from the self-server condiment bar... and gigantic tub of watermelon. And another excellent iced coffee in the dust and early morning light. There are worse ways, yes--to begin your trip across the Mojave.
