Fifteen hundred miles to White Sands (3/3) December 30, 2002 - January 1, 2003 about Karl May's books, missing occupants of the first American tenement block, snobby Sedona Vortex, bar regulars and dirt-cheap accommodation in Phoenix

	Cat Mountain (7277 ft) overlooked our journey towards Rio Grande, New Mexico

	Mile 99 on Highway 380, NM some fifteen hundred miles away from home

Good night's sleep, finally, did us well. Thus relatively refreshed we became restless and after Sid stated that he'd refuse to travel yet again through those detour-rich seventy miles between Alamogordo and Las Cruces, New Mexico, we had but one option - to go the other way. Knowing we were to reach Phoenix, Arizona, by the end of the day, for Péťa's flight was leaving from there on the following morning, we could plan for a whole day of a sightseeing drive.

New Mexico is rough and large; black lava fields opened before us north of White Sands, a result of ancient volcanic fury, at this time of year rimmed with snow-tipped mountain ranges. Textured heaps of black rock, similar to those in Northern California and in Idaho, are quite tough to photograph: no matter how much you try, they always turn out like a detail of an industrially abused landscape, or at best like a heap of old cow dung. By noon we were passing by a seemingly endless array of radio telescopes, those made famous by Sagan's book and later sci-fi movie Contact. Those, too, rendered only as specks on a horizon. And for a triple disappointment, Rio Grande, the big river songs were written about, sulked in its bed, pretending to be an irrelevant wash. Nevertheless, all the time we were surrounded by an amazing landscape -- desert simply manages to be endlessly different.

	Salt River, Arizona flows through breathtaking country in Fort Apache Reservation

	Beaver Creek, Arizona Sinaguas picked this place well, and we will never know why they left...

Towards the evening, we crossed into Arizona, where a part of our journey winded through Apache Reservations. It brought us memories of a fictitious Apache chief, Vinnetou. We, Europeans, have grown up with the name of this particular Indian nation, which came to us through a completely imagined, famous stories by a German embezzler Karl May, who spent his time in prison writing American frontier adventure books. They were all pretty much out of touch with reality for he had never seen the real America, yet they turned quite popular. Nobody in the U.S. seems to know May's books (and films that were made of them), yet for many European kids they have been their first image of the Wild West, although real Apache Indians would possibly be quite bewildered at their distorted image. After all, even the real Apache landscape turns out different; it is quite more rugged than the groomed Plitvice Lakes National Park (Yugoslavia) where the movies were shot, and it features red sandstone and desert, not white limestone and forests.

Thanks to our sightseeing detour and numerous picture taking stops, we reached Phoenix after dark. Our attempt to find food and bed in one of the sprawls failed, as bars in every window and store fronts turned us away. It did not look healthy. So we began to search for Kaddy Korner Bar & Grill again. It seems easy enough, knowing the name of the street (Central) and the fact that it is parallel with Seventh (7th). But which seventh? If you're not from Phoenix, you may not know that Streets count up east of downtown, while Avenues increment to the west. Very schizophrenic. Sid, praised be his food-sensing snout, figured it out somehow and found the place.

	Montezuma Castle, Arizona is really just a series of interconnected caves, improved by a clay building tucked in a rock wall overhang.

	A detail of the "castle"

Bar staff welcomed us like long lost sons (and daughters), exactly following owner's theory that a good restaurant should be personal, and that people working there should know their regulars, chat with them and generally create a friendly atmosphere. I can't say we would get treated badly elsewhere, this does not happen much in America, but after our experience with a barred 'hood nearby it felt good to feel "at home", even in only a bar. The owner came to chat with us again and he and Sid resonated; as far as I could follow, they mixed up everything - from politics, taxes, to own life stories. Perhaps I'm lucky we don't live in Phoenix -- my husband might become a real regular there. And maybe it's to our detriment, for we don't know any such a friendly place in our overpopulated Valley.

We also asked them for an advice, which way to seek a better area with motels. This we received, but we did not want spend too much, and that made us hesitantly choose some "Star of Bombay Motel". I was tired (and had had a beer), hence I let Sid with Péťa arrange our accommodations. Sid said that it really was a cheap motel, and quite horrible, but we would survive it. Thus I was prepared, but obviously not enough. The look of our room shocked me.

	Cathedral Rock, Sedona, Arizona

	We took pictures like crazy... although Sedona landscape includes something you can't quite capture.

A broken drawer hung pathetically from a beat-up cabinet, cup-bottom sticky circles glimmered on bed table top, rubber-like curtains drooped over greasy windows, an unbelievably filthy carpet rotted at out feet, beds were dominated by bleached throws with many burn marks...
In Thailand, I had slept in much more humble conditions (a bamboo hut with plank floor, a simple mattress, with a toilet - often just a hole in the ground - behind a partition), but it was never this FILTHY. I don't mind poverty, I don't have to sleep at a five-star hotel, but I object to neglected muck. Sid and Péťa refused to move, though, and so I had to choose -- sleep in our car, or put my sleeping bag on top of the bunk (as much the bedding looked washed, it did not convince me).

I survived the night, but I skipped (most of) my usual morning ritual - the bathroom looked just as attractive as the rest of it. Still the motel appeared better in the morning. Also it dawned on me why it was so quiet at night (not counting the freeway, and railroad). Most guests were not random travelers, but permanents. People who have no time for night life, for they must go to work in the morning, people who cannot afford to live in a rental house (one has to usually start there by putting down a cash deposit amounting to two months of rent), and so they live at the cheapest motel in town, paying discounted weekly or monthly rates. A rusty cat watched me through a window of a room next door, a very worn-out, limping poodle did its morning business outside. A fat geezer came back in his horrid deathmobile, bringing McDonald breakfast back to his "apartment". Gray, tired receptionist peeked out of her room, still wearing a night robe, and walked out barefoot to take our keys. This, too, was America, the back yard kind -- and I'm afraid that those back yards amount to a bigger part of the U.S.A. than all Hollywoods and Silicon Valleys combined.

	Oak Creek Canyon, Arizona

	Winter Skies, Arizona.

Having dropped Péťa off at an airport, we traversed Phoenix to the north and put our wagon into an oil change place, finally gaining time to have a leisurely breakfast. A clerk at the repair shop recommended Mimi's and obviously knew his neighborhood. After a night at a horrible motel, I needed to recover by way of multiple coffee mugs, and a serious food in a clean, light, friendly cafe.

Going home, we simply could not go straight. Meteor Crater and Petrified Forest were, sadly, out of our range for now, be we still wanted to visit Sedona. On our way there, a roadside sign lured us to Montezuma Castle. Naturally it's no real castle, but a five story dwelling, constructed over generations by Indians of Hohokam, Hakataya and Sinagua tribes. Last inhabitants left it whole hundred years before Montezuma was born (~600 years ago). The complex had total of twenty living quarters, so it was a predecessor of a tenement housing block. I must say that they picked their location quite well -- a sun-warmed, south-facing rock wall with an overhang, overlooking a round valley with a creek. Indians even built an irrigation system, simply an ideal spot for some agriculture and hunting, a pleasant climate and no worries about roofing. Too bad Péťa was not with us anymore to see this attraction, for she was quite into Indians. Perhaps this dwelling would improve her wary impression of Apache lands.

Stopping at Montezuma meant that my Hippo began to grumble about being hungry before we reached Sedona. A Vortex of various natural energies is said to be located nearby. A place where Indians allegedly used to bring their sick to heal, is now transformed into ultra-rich, snobby small town with golf courses and similar attractions. You can find here an endless array of psychics, meditation groups, spiritual guides, courses, books and miscellaneous assortment of all thinkable stuff, all major credit cards welcome.

	Hippo's old red T-shirt blends into Sedona red dirt -- now I know why he likes to wear it: it's desert camouflage.

	Nameless hills somewhere in the middle of a deserted stretch of Interstate 40, Arizona

We came prepared for hordes of "ethereal" elderly ladies, students wearing beads and braids and ponchos, and sharp young managers in sports suits in search of spiritual aura. I must say that we were not disappointed in this regard. And since it was New Year's Eve and Sedona happens to be one of the places where any respectable person of a high class must not be missed, we got crowded in pretty badly, even though we stopped just to have lunch. I still need to mention that surrounding landscape IS indeed very impressive and strange, and that it contains "something", which CANNOT be -- unfortunately -- captured in pictures. So if you don't believe me and want to find about the influence of the Vortex, you'll have to go for yourself.

A mysterious Sedona became another item on our ever growing list of "places to visit more thoroughly some other, better time", and we began to swallow the first portion of remaining eight hundred miles, which separated us from our home and our going back to work on January 2. By six o'clock we crossed California border and the time boundary as well, dined in Barstow, California, at a peculiar combination of an American bar and excellent Chinese restaurant, eventually finding our beds in the one before last room at our favorite Travelodge in Tehachapi. Having come from Arizona, which was one hour ahead, we reckoned nobody would notice if we exchanged Happy New Year wishes by Mountain Time (and not by local, Pacific Time), and fell like dead.

A jolly, quite obviously intoxicated geezer disturbed our New Year morning, 7 a.m., for he chose to sing loudly on our motel's corridor while he searched for his nighttime companions in surrounding rooms. There was nothing we could do but accept the fact that some people at least once a year indulge in a hysterical, organized partying, and then need several days to recover. A giant waffle with a heap of strawberries and whipped cream, washed down by multiple mugs of coffee, exhumed me somewhat, and then we easily slid through the rest of our three thousand miles, which we accumulated on our Wagon, going after White Sands and back.

Copyright © 2003-2005 by Carol & Sid Paral. All rights reserved.