Dear Prudence

...won't you come out to play?

Ah, it's been a while, hasn't it? Seems like a cannon (apparently named "Prudence" by someone on the USS Constitution) is the proper way to break such a prolonged silence.

 

After over 10 years living in metro Boston, I finally made it to the penultimate stop on the Freedom Trail (and finally have a legitimate opportunity to use "penultimate").  Past attempts were derailed by tired feet and sudden thirst--coincidentally occuring near the same stretch of pubs around Quincy Market or the cozy restaurants in the North End.  Thanks to our friends visiting from Atlanta, we finally crossed the river into Charlestown and climbed aboard Old Ironsides.  An impressive old boat--worth the difficulty in trying to figure out if we could take the Leonard P. Zakim Bunker Hill Memorial Bridge on foot (we couldn't) and then navigating a meandering set of walkways across a dam and a series of locks filled with cormorants.

Next time, maybe we'll make it all the way up the hill.

#306 (mostly)

May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome,
dangerous, leading to the most amazing view.

May your mountains rise into and above the clouds.

- Edward Abbey
(from Earth Apples: The Poetry of Edward Abbey)
^^^^^^^^^^

I spent my last evening in Phoenix, sitting at the bar of the Pointe in Tyme Grille drinking a margarita and listening to a group of locals talk about accidents their wives got into with their pick-up trucks, "those Chinese" and "those Mexicans," and the Barrett-Jackson Collector Car Auction. 

The auction, held in neighboring Scottsdale, was on most of the televisions in the bar and seemed to have held the attention of the tourists and the locals alike.  One particular group of locals, a bit overserved at this point, tried to include me in their conversations about the cars being showcased.  It started by me asking if this auction was a "big deal" (I got some blank, "well, duh" stares on that one) and ended with everyone trying to guess the final bid on each vehicle.  The drunkest/friendliest of the group kept over-guessing by about 50-thousand dollars, which immediately brought to mind those people on The Price Is Right who would inexplicably guess the price of a toaster to be ridiculously more than any reasonable person would expect.  Maybe they were drunk, too.

I left after my second margarita, to the dismay of the over-guesser who seemed to have taken a liking to me, as I needed to get up early to take advantage the first sunny day in a week and my last in Phoenix.

Hoping to get caught up in the desert spirit, I brought an Edward Abbey book with me on this trip.  After two rainy days stuck on a mostly unoccupied resort complex, I was ready for the desert.  It was a crisp, cool morning and had a few hours to kill before I needed to head to the airport. 

At the edge of the resort was a gate.  On the other side of the gate (which was locked at dusk "to protect hotel guests" according to a sign"--I imagined packs of coyotes invading the resort after dark and carrying off small tourists) was the North Mountain Preserve, a large area of protected land in metro-Phoenix with several hiking trails. 

I took the Shaw Butte Trail, or #306, as it was listed as moderate to difficult and 4 miles seemed easy enough to finish with enough time to make my flight home.  The trail was nice--not too rugged, not too easy--but it certainly wasn't Abbey's desert.  Every scenic view was of civilization, the endless sprawl that is Phoenix, though there was usually a big cactus in the foreground.  We don't see many of those in Boston.

The trail system in this little park is simple enough, yet somehow I got a little confused at the top of the butte and then ended up going the wrong way on trail #100 at the bottom.  Nevertheless, I eventually found my way back to the hotel with enough time to grab lunch and a beer at the bar by the pool before heading to the airport.     

Self-portrait with cactus and sprawl
(hair made awesome by desert wind and hat)

Non sequitur

Zamboni

Constant Drizzle in the Valley of the Sun

I came to Phoenix for the sun and heat.  Okay, that's not exactly true: I came for a conference for "Advanced Graduate Admissions Professionals," but I was especially looking forward to the sun and the heat.  This is the Great American Desert, after all, in a state that borders Mexico, for crying out loud. 

Alas, Mother Nature had other plans and decided to dump 50-60% of the average annual rainfall for the area, all in one week.  She even sent in high winds that forced officials to close the airport temporarily and caused local news teams to endanger their carefully styled news-hair by scattering throughout the area to investigate potential tornado sightings. 

Thus, I spent most of my time gazing out of the conference room windows at the many vacant hotel pools (in addition to the rain, it was also pretty cold) and sandbags stacked throughout the resort to keep the water from flooding the lobby, gift shop, and workout center.

In spite of the conditions, I did manage to pass a pleasant half hour in the hot tub (I wasn't quite brave enough to attempt a swim in the unoccupied pools) and wander off the resort where I encountered many wet cacti and vestages of the Old West.

Cheer up, Dear Reader (that's you, LSB), the rain eventually stopped and the sun came out.  The temperature even made into the mid-50s. 

The Overhead Bins Were Full, Too.

"We are 30 minutes outside of Phoenix and...uh...that's a good thing as our lavatories have reached their capacity and are no longer flushing.  So, if you can refrain from using them, except in the case of an extreme emergency, we would appreciate it."

- Announcement by a flight attendent on US Airways Flight #94 (BOS-PHX)