~Soaking up America~
Part 5 (Green Chile Land)
Texas has a way of really getting to the depths of your soul, it sort of drills its way in with a constant dull pressure that is maddening and slightly intriguing. As I entered Texas for the first time I was blasting full speed from New Orleans on my way to Austin, an 11 hour drive. The swamps of the south started to blend into desert, sage brush and crumbly dirt. Every on ramp unloaded dozens upon dozens of huge roaring Ford trucks in my lane. Texas is the land of gigantic trucks I decided, anything less would just be un-patriotic. I was heading straight towards Houston in the middle of rush hour. Slammed into the crowded traffic game once again. The city loomed in the distance like an industrial glowing blob, a murky haze plastered the air as the cars kept squeezing in and in and in. Once again bumper to bumper. I really couldn't see why anyone should want to live there, but I'm totally bias towards cold, small towns in the far reaches of the country. It was too hot to drive with the windows up, Veronica has no A/C so they were all rolled down, except that rear driver side that doesn't budge, but all old cars have that stubborn uncooperative window right? The southern stickiness had welded my back to the leather seat, sweat dripped down places I never knew I had while the sun was setting its beautiful ominous glow through the smog of that big Texan city.
(cotton fields; I thought they were just a myth of the past...they do exist)
In Austin I stayed a few days with an old friend from college. I was lucky enough to see some great live music at this elegant old-timey saloon, a rustic place that prided themselves on cocktails of the last century that nobody has ever heard of. I ordered a gin and tonic mainly because I couldn't pronounce the other options. Standing awkwardly for some time trying not to make eye contact with the steal-eyed beauty in the slick black dress at the corner of the bar, I just drank my drink like it was water after a hot sauna. She glanced her deep Texan glare towards me as if it was a burlesque dancer kicking and crashing its way across the top of the bar. I quickly ordered another drink before her glare pierced through me. Maybe I've become just plain awkward in my old age, maybe my confidence has drifted off with my life from Hawaii, or maybe she was just too damn hot for me to say anything; whatever the case was I didn't do a thing, I didn't talk with her, I never gave her a flirtatious glance back like I may have done several years ago. I just stood there like a penguin on Valium holding my small gin and tonic with extra limes. To be honest I wouldn't know what to say to a woman of that caliber, of such royal esteem with radiant lips of silent sexual verbose. What would she even want to say to me? "Where the hell are you from you dirty liberal hippy? Heading back to the land of milk and honey are we, my little lost timid traveler with your ginger beard and unflattering pants?" I envisioned those words slithering out of her gentle mouth with that big Texan drawl as she sipped her whiskey old-fashion without taking her knee-buckling stare off me. I was startled and spilled my drink a little when my friend Ben grabbed my arm and dragged me off closer to the musicians, although quite thankful to be out of that beautiful vixen's trap. And as I walked away for some reason I couldn't get that song out of my head "all my exes live in Texas."
Jazz: the worst music to dance to but absolutely mentally blissful to listen to. The piano player was off the hook. We sat right next to him, so close I could have given him a wet willy (which I tried my hardest not to). His improvisational finger-work down the keys was something else, something unworldly, something that made me think that this is all this man has been doing his whole life. The quickness and strange perfect timing brought an element of depth into the sound, the bass player lost in his rhythmic trance, and the drummer holding the constant beat with wire brushes like the invisible spine of the piece. At some points the piano player would be leaned up on two legs of his chair with such intensity in his eyes, sometimes even on one leg pivoting around as he'd twist and slide his fingers down the white fake ivory keys. It's was truly amazing, I've rarely been so close to such talent. And I quickly forgot about the lustful lasers of the black dressed lady.
I left the next day, after what seemed like eternity driving westward across Texas I made my way up to Santa Fe, New Mexico. A gorgeous, quaint town with mandatory adobe buildings, Indian art and green chile salsa. Rolling high desert, orange earth and sage bushes surround the place. The altitude is around 7,000 ft and a simple deep breath is fairly difficult. But here in this sweet Southwest capital is where the journey seemed to make a drastic turn for the worst. The sound coming from the rear of the car was becoming worse and worse. Sounded like a loud constant sporadic clacking and clunking like someone put Legos in a blender on high. There was no ignoring it anymore. Something had to be done. My friend Quinn knew a mechanic guy so we took it to him. Upon lifting the car we found that not only the cv joints were totally ripped and falling apart, the differential was making a strange sound as well. I only wanted to be in Santa Fe for a couple day ( not a week) and then mosey on towards Sedona, AZ where I've been wanting to visit most of my life; I've heard countless praise about the raw beauty and energy of that place. BUT! It looks as though I'm not going to make it there. The car is being fixed just enough to drive it to Santa Barbara to my father's Mercedes specialist, the god father of his formidable fleet, the doctor to his dilapidated diesels, and snake charmer to his shaky sedans. So that means Sedona and it's mesmerizing deserts is off the agenda. I kicked and screams at first, but I've come to terms with it. I didn't want my journey to be altered by another force besides my own, but such is life. I've been on the road for a month and the thought of stopping this personal parade is slightly panicking. Each place I get to I enjoy it but in the back, well maybe the front, of my mind I keep thinking about the next place, the next town. I feel at ease once I'm behind the wheel, the road sliding under my tires, the landscape dealing out multitudes of mountains and forests, cities and towns. I've become addicted to the road. I crave it. The freedom it gives me is my only sense of grounding, the groundation of constant change. But it's ok, all addicts need a dose of withdrawals before they can relapse back into their unstoppable addictions. Anyway, things happen in life, and it's up to us to flow with or fight against those "happenings". I'm getting the car back today. I hope she's got enough life in her to get to California, or else I'll be stranded in the Mojave Desert until vultures or bandidos......or AAA finds me.
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