I am preparing for my trip from L.A. to New Mexico, which begins Saturday.
I have taken lots of road trips and always feel ridiculously excited, and a little bit scared, and somehow also a little bit solemn. All travel to me is part of a larger pilgrimage and has deep metaphysical significance and entails the undertaking of various kinds of danger and the certainty of at least one kind of death (and we hope, resurrection) because when you return, even if the trip was only for a week, you are not the same person you are when you left.
You have been changed, somehow, even if you can't see or feel the change.
I bought my trusty '96 Celica in 2001.
Together we have been to the coast of New Hampshire and back; through Yellowstone, Cody, Wyoming, and to the South Dakota Badlands and back; to the Gulf Coast of Texas, the Natchez Trace to Nashville, and on to Spencer, West Virginia, and back; and twice so far to Taos, New Mexico, so this will be the third time I've made that particular pilgrimage.
That's not counting the countless trips to the Central Coast of California, the wine country, the Anza Borrego desert outside San Diego, and Sonoran Desert.
I've had several automobile mishaps over the years, most notably, perhaps, the time en route to a retreat at a Cistercian convent in Sonoita, Arizona, that my radiator blew at some God-forsaken rest stop on the 10, I had to pay $175 bucks to be towed to the metropolis of Quartzsite (pop. 3397) and, while the one mechanic in town sent for a new part and fixed the damn thing, I spent two nights, in about 150-degree heat, at the local Super 8. (Here's the NPR story I did about that little event).
The odds of such a thing happening to the same person twice are astronomical, right?
|JOE AND AGGIE'S CAFE, HOLBROOK, AZ|
Les Paul and Mary Ford: Vaya con Dios