Nowhere Person

The transatlantic move and Great American Road Trip have ended.  We’ve arrived at our destination – California.  Now comes the tricky bit.  Moving from one state to another in the U.S.A. is a headache, to be sure.  But moving from overseas and establishing yourself outside your home state is bureaucratic transcendence.

Take health insurance, for example.  Moving from England, we couldn’t pre-register for health insurance because the insurance company bases its policy on the laws of your resident state – I don’t have a resident state.  Yet, traveler’s insurance only covers you if you intend to return to your point of origin – in my case, England.  And I happen to be sorting this out during the roll-out of Obamacare AND a post-government-shutdown reshuffling.

Months of living in a state of flux has unhinged me.  I wonder if my sense of home has become permanently unfixed.  If I’ll forever be just off kilter, flitting eyes over the landscape, searching.  Maybe the idea of “home” is the mirage, and what is fleeting is real.

The address on my Virginia driver’s license was four moves ago and now doesn’t exist.  The housing development was demolished.  If I’m not careful, I could make a metaphor of this.

The Last 800 Miles

From Flagstaff, Arizona we make a slight detour north to see “the strip” in Las Vegas, Nevada.

strip1I hope this stuff looks less goofy all lit up at night.

strip2

I couldn't resist!

I couldn’t resist!

 

The journey from Vegas to Reno is…eerie.  We pass miles of land littered with U.S. Government restricted access signs in varying degrees of unfriendliness.  Just as the sun starts to set, a heavy, solemn cloud starts smothering the mountains, diffusing light in patches.

Sm_SAM_4049

Sm_SAM_4055The ethereal show adds to the Mystery of Nevada.

It’s getting quite late, and we’re dog tired.  Looking for a hotel is hard work – we stop in a tiny town and all of the motels are booked.  There’s a big job or something nearby, and seasonal workers have swarmed in.

Then, suddenly, we’re in Death Valley!

I'll bet there are some great stories in that bar.

I’ll bet there are some great stories in that bar.

The next day, a freak snowstorm makes the passage to Reno precarious, but lovely.

8am, snow on the desert road to Reno...there's a haiku in there somewhere

8am, snow on the desert road to Reno…there’s a haiku in there somewhere

We drop in on my cousins in Reno, who kindly show us the big city lights. Just a few hours later the next day, we are pulling into Palo Alto, California – our destination.

Horatio sighs as Sal switches off the ignition.  It’s time for a rest, for all three of us road warriors.

 

Grand Finale

I have written and erased many words trying to capture my first glance of the yawning mouth of infinite rock that is the Grand Canyon.  And several hours later, watching a slow and glorious ballet of color dancing over the canyon as the sun set.

I find the experiences I most want to capture in words evade me entirely.

Photo courtesy of Sal

Grand Canyon, South Rim. Photo courtesy of Sal

I can, however, offer some practical advice:

1. Bring a good pair of hiking boots.  You’ll walk for hours and not realize it.  I have discarded 85% of my wardrobe in the process of moving from the U.K. and lacked even tennis shoes to wear.  I shopped for hours in Flagstaff, AZ for a pair of women’s hiking boots with no luck.  I finally settled on a pair of men’s hunting boots that we found in Wal-Mart.   Not great, but they did the trick.  Better to bring your own.

'Merica!

‘Merica!

2. Stay for sunset or come for sunrise.  Sunset at Lipan Point (South Rim)  was downright phenomenal.

Nearing the end of our transcontinental adventure, I can’t think of anything more grand than this finale.

Sunset at Lipan Point - the Indian Watchtower visible to the right

Sunset at Lipan Point – the Indian Watchtower visible to the right

Sunset at Tipan Point, Grand Canyon. Photo courtesy of Sal

The Badlands

Crossing the border into Arizona, we stop on a whim at the Petrified Forest National Park.  This is not your average Route 66 stop.  It’s a geological goldmine – a sliver of the famous badlands called the Painted Desert, with Triassic-era fossils just littering the ground.

The Painted Desert

The Painted Desert

Sal slows Horatio to a crawl and we stare in silence at the bizarre, twisted rocks and black piles of stones.  We stop at nearly every pullout – the panoramic views are terribly beautiful and otherworldly, like shots from the Mars rover.

painted3

There is a quiet to this land that settles into my chest.  My thoughts are snuffed out and I can only stare numbly at the alien land.  I feel like a space or time traveler, treading over logic boundaries.

This wood is also rock.  It’s incredible.  I can’t show you in this photograph; you have to touch it yourself.  It’s a freaking rock.  I’m touching a 200 million year old tree rock.  It glimmers quartz colors and sublime glory.

Hunks of petrified wood just laying around.

Hunks of petrified wood just laying around.

Deep down in this ravine, there is a stone where our ancestors carved shapes.  They mean things, mystic things.  One of the symbols is a triangle man with bendy arms – I used to doodle this man in my notebooks in geography class.  I am looking at my own triangle man, but it is thousands of years old and carved in a rock.

The triangle man is visible just under the shadow on this rock.

The triangle man is visible just under the shadow on this rock.

Hours elapse before we escape the Painted Desert.  Miles and miles later, the quiet strangeness lingers.

Our road trip across America is supposed to be a homecoming, but it is feeling more like an expedition.  Everything out here – the way people speak, the slope of the hills, the color of the land, even the smell of the wind is strange to me.  I curl up in the passenger seat of Horatio, and stare at the red earth and quiet, wind swept sky.  London feels very far away, and too, my sense of home.

Curious incident

My dear readers, I am terribly sorry for the belated post.  I have no idea what happened the last couple of days.  It’s a complete blank!

Let me think.  The last thing I remember…we stopped in Roswell, New Mexico for a bite to eat and met this lovely gentleman…a fellow roadtripper, I believe…

curious gentleman

Don’t recall a thing after that.  How curious!

Blue corn dreams

It’s hard not to glamorize New Mexico.  The scenery alone draws a sense of drama and romance from your soul like no other place.  Nature paints from a different palette out here – all pinks and ruddy browns, clear blues, and dark, troubled green.  We pass stone hills that resemble piles of black lava.  Just beyond them, layers of dusty pink and smoky black mountains rise and fall in clean-cut steps, as if shaved with a celestial scalpel.

Billboards advertise serapes, moccasins, Indian tacos, fireworks,  and casinos.  However, the adverts are blissfully sparse along Interstate 40.  Trains run alongside a stretch of track that parallels the highway for miles and miles.

Santa Fe shops

Santa Fe shops

At twilight we pull into Santa Fe and wander  in and out of art galleries and shops.

After breakfast, we make a beeline for the Sunday morning farmers market.

farmers market

I wander Santa Fe like a woman dreaming.  I buy atole blue corn mix, eat blue corn doughnuts, gaze at the gleaming turquoise and silver, flit from one stall to the next with wonder at everything.

A man gives me a sip of Hopi tea, some sort of Navajo herby elixir.  I sip it and think, we could park Horatio here forever, under this big sky, and live an adobe blue corn dream life.

I’m in love, maybe.

The Palace of the Governors in downtown Santa Fe hosts a number of different tribal vendors

The Palace of the Governors in downtown Santa Fe hosts Native American artists from many different tribal communities

Samples of hot atole drink hand ground for you as you watch! At the Santa Fe Farmers Market

Samples of hot atole drink hand ground for you as you watch! At the Santa Fe Farmers Market

doughnuts

The fanciest doughnuts I’ve ever had. And let me tell you, I’ve eaten some doughnuts, people! At the Santa Fe Farmers Market

Star-aligned cars of sublime mystery

It takes us a good 20 minutes and several wrong turns to find it.  There – just ahead – something shimmers against the cold, grey sky.

We made it.

Entrance to Cadillac Ranch

Entrance to Cadillac Ranch

“I wonder what the ancients were thinking,” I shout over the wind. “What divine purpose this was serving.”

Spray cans are littered all around.  Sal picks up one and gives it a curious shake.

“I don’t know,” he says.

There are a half dozen Americana pilgrims on this sacred ground today, at 10 am on a Saturday in late October.  Our guide book says the cars are aligned in the same configuration as the Great Pyramid of Giza.  I climb on one, rubbing spray paint onto the toe of my shoe.

Its mystery is exceeded only by its sublimity.

Its mystery is exceeded only by its sublimity.

A fellow Route 66 road tripper offers to take our photo for us.  She and her husband are in their fifties or so, bundled up in identical red windbreakers.  They also lived in England for a few years.

“I wasn’t that impressed with Stonehenge,” she says.  “Every time someone came to visit, they made us go back to those rocks.”

“Have you been to Foamhenge in Virginia?” Sal asks.

She laughs.  “No.  I hear there’s a carhenge too.”

We run back to Horatio, panting from the wind and cold and mystery.  Cadillac Ranch, in that unassuming field of yellow grass, leaves us with more questions than answers.

Sal makes his mark at Cadillac Ranch

Sal makes his mark at Cadillac Ranch