1.18.21 :: Hoover, Damn

Everyone seems to be coming up with a word for the new year. Intention. Forgiveness. Listening.

I'm no good with following through on things long-term (hence, the six year gap in posts on this blog) unless I really take them to heart--or they feed and clothe me. But one word has kept popping up throughout the past week--from the moment the valley first revealed herself to me coming around that rugged pass, to the basketball I played in honor of the kids who grew up in Manzanar on their deserted white dust court, to the many, many truckers I passed or gave way to as I shared the road with them over 1,000+ miles. Respect. 

Sometimes, I think, being a Northeasterner makes me too anxious to give a situation the respect it deserves. We're always in such a hurry. We're competitive. We've been hardened by blizzards and a New York Napoleon complex and navigating old cow paths that make no sense to anyone but us (but, god forbid, should an outsider make a mistake and need to change lanes, they are doomed and shall be publicly shamed with a slam on the horn).

Today, I had to pee. (No surprise there.) A couple of times. And, man, but the pickings are slim on 93 North--a very different version than the one that leads into New Hampshire. First, I stopped at a very all-American gas station where the men were polite, but mask-less, and all wearing camo. After Wednesday's insurrection, I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could, but it's a one-way, one-lane route back to the highway, which forced me to take stock of this tiny town. People had clearly lived here for years. Well into the 19th century. I wondered how they'd survived in a hamlet of maybe 25 houses and more beat-up cars than working front doors. I don't think I could have made it. 

Farther down the road, I pulled off the highway and into Chloride. (Yup!) 

Jeeps with fishing rods everywhere. Two battered SUVs on patrol--one at the highway turnoff into town, the other a few miles in. Chloride is a literal time capsule of an old Arizonian mining town, population roughly 350. In one glance, you'll get a gas station that pumped the brakes about 60 years ago, a classic 70s race car, five RVs ranging in age and dementia, and the original tiny house in bright purple and yellow. The visitor center's been boarded up but the one restaurant is hopping. Everyone and their wife had pulled up by the time I arrived, and a big birthday party had taken over the one long table. While waiting for the bathroom, I warily read the Christian cross-stitches in the foyer and tried not to stare at the cowboy mannequin in the rocking chair.

"He's got his hands over his, you know, because he's got to go!" said a lady who was dancing on her toes because she had to go so badly.

"Just go in the men's room--it's a single!" I said. She did. It was nice.

I can be a judgmental brat. I'm busy. I'm tired. I don't have time. (If I have time to watch 30 Korean dramas in 10 months, I have time.) And more often than not I'm incredibly wrong. Look at Death Valley. I got two steps in and was convinced she was going to eat me alive. But a week later, after a reckoning of "it's not you, it's me," I'm here to tell the tale and even fell a little bit in love.

I may have been to Europe more times than I can remember, to Asia, to so many imaginary worlds thanks to the countless books I've read. But I'd never been to this corner of America. I had preconceived ideas. In some ways, I was proven right: the Grand Canyon is majestic. In others, I was sorely wrong. And so today I've come away with the idea of trying to be more respectful.

With all the remembrances of Dr. King, it only seems fitting.

With that in mind, I tried to take a closer look at my surroundings on the drive back to Vegas. I turned down the music and noted how the colors mirrored Van Gogh's cypresses, and took a mental picture for safekeeping when the snow holds me captive next month. I took a second look at every truck I passed--Amazon, Libby's, Walmart--and silently thanked the drivers for the sugary snack cakes, the latest novel, the fuzziest socks they were hauling from coast to coast. And I noted all of the Native American tribes listed on markers and signs to research when I get home.

It's been a trip. And while this chapter is closing, it's far from over.

Aloha, my loves. xx

P.S. I also visited the Hoover Dam in all it's art deco glory and damn. Doesn't it remind you of Dr. Evil? Like, is this where he's building his submarine army? Is Mr. Bigglesworth going to meow right out of an underground elevator?? What HYDRA holdout is hiding down there???