Sedona
keeps calling us back. Emily and I were just there a few weeks ago.
And we also, for some mysterious reason, honeymoon there. We never
really thought about it the first time, or the second time. And this
third time, it justs seemed right.
It was
dark when we reached Sedona, and it was festooned with Christmas
lights. Like before, Google Maps got us lost. We had to ask
directions at a fast food joint with a flying saucer out front, and
they didn't know anything. Eventually we found the Baby
Quail Inn.
The air
was cool and crips, the sky was full of stars. We had burgers at the
Cowboy Club.
The next
morning, the huevos rancheros at the Coffee Pot had my mouth tingling; then it spread to my ears . . . there may have been some psychoactive
effects. We ate inside this time, the décor would be great in a
post-Apocalyptic Spaghetti western: giant kachinas and wild west
landscape murals in glowing colors.
The Baby Quail Inn had Wi-Fi. I got on Facebook, mentioning our being in UFO
country and seeing a hummingbird. Rudy Ch. Garcia said, "They don't
enter the airspace . . . " That had me thinking about sugar-powered drones
that look like hummingbirds. Looks like there's no escaping sci-fi
paranoid fantasies these days.
The
truly spectacular red rock landscape eclipses the town New Age
commercial silliness. Schnebly Hill Road turned out to be too
primitive for El Troque, but was an incredible hike.
We found
the Mystical Bazaar to be a good landmark for finding our way back to
the hotel.
With my
new iTouch, I took pictures along the main drag of Sedona. There's a new
kind of funkiness, almost sci-fi, Wild West stuff. Maybe it will
eventually replace the old Yuppie New Age pretensions.
We did a
scenic drive in the changing afternoon light. There was a mist over
the mountains. And subtle visual magic that you can't really catch
with a camera.
When we
had tacos for two at Oaxaca I could hear Lalo Guerrero singing in my
head. The restaurant was playing tropical music mixed with tracks of
Christmas songs in Spanish. They had a painting of fat people
dancing, but it was signed by somebody other than Botero.
In a
mineral shop – they called it a “crystal” shop – they were
selling pretty rocks at high prices because of mystical properties:
“They absorb negative emotions. Just put them on your stomach, but
be sure you wash afterwards . . .”
The next
morning, while checking out and getting free muffins, we met the
actor Dick Curtis, owner of the Baby Quail Inn. He was telling a story
about Admiral Byrd and a penguin.
After
another breakfast at the Coffee Pot – I had buckwheat pancakes this
time, we stopped at Red Rock State Park, and hiked past the sign
about rattlesnakes, along the tracks of deer and mountain lions, down
a trail lined with poison ivy.
The
storm that has just pounded California blew clouds and cold air our
way as we headed back home. In Jerome, women were hanging tinsel
decorations spelling out “HO.” We stopped in Prescott, and had
burgers made from “locally-grown” beef, then we took scenic routes
back to Phoenix.
We kept
seeing cattle that we may eat someday.
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