The West

I just came back from Arizona. I've never been before. I almost didn't come back. I loved all of it. I loved the lack of trees but the proliferation of cacti. I loved the rocks and dirt and absence of mud. I loved the dry wind, the dry air and my dry sinuses. I loved the way the margaritas taste a little bit tangier, the beer a slight bit wheatier.

I got lucky on the planes there, for the most part. No one next to me on the first flight. But the clouds kept me from seeing the ground. And Denver? From the east? Is mighty flat. And boring. And then, all of a sudden? There's a airport! Right there! In the middle of BFE. I remember reading about this airport when it opened. No one got their luggage. The baggage carosels never worked right. I hoped that they'd gotten things straightened out in the interim, because every liquid I owned was in my checked baggage, down to hand lotion and chapstick. Because it resembles plastique. Or something.

Flying to Phoenix, I couldn't see the ground--someone else had the window seat. But, on the way out, I got to watch Arizona and New Mexico pass underneath me to my heart's content. It was like watching a Rand McNally map go by. Completely amazing, for someone who grew up in the gentle greens and browns of the midwest, with a quick nod to Georgia's red clay. I imagined Mad Max driving aimlessly in the desert wasteland below. It was gorgeous.

Of course, the man in the seat in front of me for the entire last leg insisted on putting his seat all the way back. And I was in front of the exit row, so I couldn't recline at all. His adult son sat next to me, so I couldn't even kick the back of his seat with impunity. Very disappointing. I had to content myself with imagining garroting him with my headphone wires.