Day 7 - Memphis (con't/Pt.2): The Civil Rights Museum

Memphis is Beale Street--all neon and tourists, sweet, soulful blues, a photograph of two women in the 1920s or 1930s--one in furs, the other in white--dressed up to have their portrait taken. Memphis is Jacqueline Smith, a beautiful Black woman cloaked in a black scarf that adorns her dreadlocks. She checks herself in a mirror after I ask if I can take her photograph. Ms. Smith is the first person I encounter when I walk up to the Civil Rights Museum. She is sitting at a table in front of the Lorraine Motel, the sign draped across her table reads in big, orange lettering: "Gentrification is an Abuse of Civil Liberties." She is asking for people--for tourists--to boycott the Civil Rights Museum. I stop and talk to her for a bit, ask her why she is against gentrification of the neighborhood.

"Don't you think it provides more opportunities for people in the area?" I ask.
"Not when it forces out all the people who used to live here. This is for all the rich, Yuppie folk. The Civil Rights Museum doesn't care what happens to the people who used to live here. They don't represent what Dr. King stood for. They just want to commemorate his death--not his life, not what he stood for."
"I'm surprised that they don't have some kind of foundation or allotment of funds for people in the area."
She laughs, "No funds. No nothing. They forced people out of their homes."

She directs me to several pamphlets on her table, an article written about her in the local newspaper, a sign that records how many years and days she has been in protest. I read some of the article and pamphlets. Ms. Smith was one of the original residents of the Lorraine Motel after Dr. King was assassinated and before it was bought by the Civil Rights Museum. She and many other residents of the motel were forced out of their homes--the rooms in the motel--so that the museum could be built, so that I and the many other tourists who visit would have a museum to go to.

I ask her to please forgive me, but that I am going to visit the museum and thank her for doing what she is doing.
"Everyone needs to do what they need to do," she answers, giving me neither judgment or mercy.

I acknowledge her with some grace and gratitude as I bid farewell, take a few photos of her and the 1950s or 60s sign that reads "Lorraine Motel." I am thankful to have met her because it gives me some insight into the plight of the people and to what is happening immediately, locally in the neighborhood despite the refurbished signs and polished facades of stores and restaurants, coffee shops, motels and loft buildings. I am a little bewildered, though, because I did not expect to meet her and I am bracing myself with anticipation for the journey through the Civil Rights Museum. As I walk toward the familiar balcony, I am filled with trepidation and fear--this is sacred ground. Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated, died, on that balcony before me.

I take a few photos of the memorial. I notice a few tourists on the second floor, grazing the inside of the window--307; there are two vintage cars from the era parked below; a fresh wreath hangs at the corner where 306 juts from 307; a marble epitaph states that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., died here. I am sad. I feel forlorn, quiet, and respectful.

I go into the museum. A proud, older Black woman (hair did, make-up done, her voice easy and friendly) dressed in an usher's uniform welcomes me. I take note of it because the same thing happened to me when I visited the Clinton Presidential Library in Little Rock--only it was and older White woman dressed and welcoming in a similar way. Southern hospitality, I think. Ushers--people at museums--don't welcome visitors in the same way in Los Angeles... or any other big city, for that matter. Visitors are not usually welcomed by women in large cosmopolitan cities, usually they are welcomed, if that, by large men in uniform, sometimes with friendliness and hospitality, other times with a quick pat-down and order to go through the security check-point. Although, when I think about it, I did have to go through a security check-point at the Clinton Presidential Library. However, all the same, the security guard there, in Little Rock, was friendly and hospitable, not bored or distracted as so many other security guards at check-points can be.

Once I pay the fee ($13) and give the other usher or attendant my ticket, I begin to journey. I notice that all the people who work there are attentive and helpful, kind and courteous. They thank me, help to direct me, show me the way, and do it with a smile and a true feeling of generosity and spirit. I opt out of the narrated, pre-recorded tour; instead choosing to go through the exhibition myself (and also because I am cheap and trying to save money), and I am glad I did so. Narratives from the museum might give you a guided tour or insight into parts of the museum that you might know or would have known had you not heard that part of the story, but if you go on your own then you are able to have the full experience of your own insights and recollections.

For me, it was this: a broadened view, a deeper understanding, reading the fine print--the quotes from slaves and early Black politicians; examining the faces and dress of these early truth-seekers and doers, learning, trying to process and understand this history before me. Going through this time period, getting a Coke from the vending machine as I listened to a conversation between an older, White Southern woman fat in comfortable walking clothing talking to an older, White Southern gentleman thin in comfortable walking clothing:

"Oh Elvis..."
"Did you see him in those early films?"
"Oh yes, I just completely loved him in 'Love Me Tender'...."

I get my Coke, check Facebook, my email....listen, wait, the ushers announce that the film, "The Witness," is about to start. I turn my phone off, go into the theater and wait with the others as I quietly open my Coke, sip on it and wait for the movie to begin.

"The Witness" is something everyone must experience. Reverend Samuel "Billy" Kyles, probably after so many years of grappling for why he was "there," why he did not die when he came so close to sudden death, why he lasted and stayed on this Earth after experiencing such a horrendous, troubled moment in time. He bore witness. He was there. He was there for a reason; he was there to tell us--so many years later, so many generations after--to say what had happened. He, Mr. Abernathy and Dr. King sat in Room 306 talking "what preachers talk," getting ready in an expected, but natural, unknowing ritual for dinner at his house as Dr. King talked buoyant and happy with men in the parking lot after "The Mountaintop" speech almost didn't happen (bad weather, Dr. King traveling back to Memphis after the first attempt at a peaceful boycott for the Sanitation Workers Strike erupted in violence, determined to show and model what non-violence protest is all about ). Reverend Kyles stood on the balcony with Dr. King, turned for a moment, and then the shot rang out. The shot that stopped a moment in time--for ever after.

The photo of the men pointing in the distance. The image of that balcony of the Lorraine Motel. The sight of that balcony, the motel, the men pointing in the distance--There! Over there!! That's where the shot in time came from!!! Time stops. I stand later, in that same place that I saw the tourists in 307, but inside now and just feet away from the spot where Martin Luther King, Jr. died. Died. He died there. He died right at that spot, a few feet away from me, and I am filled with grief and respect, gratitude and a quiet I have not known. I can only stand there and gaze at the spot---taking it all in and just feeling the moment of being there. He died for us. He died for the sanitation workers. He died so that we could have the freedom that we all enjoy now. Barack Obama would not be in office if not for Martin Luther King, Jr. I would not be able to take this trip as I have for the last week as a single, Asian American woman. My parents--quirky and Japanese American--and then later, divorcing in the 80s and marrying a Mexican American woman and West Indian man, respectively, could have done so many years later, with such little protest or judgment. These privileges and decent, everyday experiences would not be possible if not for the life and death of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

A light dies and then something opens for the others that are meant to come after them... the pathway is illuminated.

With all due respect to Ms. Jacqueline Smith, I learned more that day, going through the Civil Rights Museum and reading all the fine print, standing on hallowed ground, meeting her and listening to all the voices that came before me, than any or all of the textbooks I read or books and articles I may have come across. That land is sacred. For the people who lived in the Lorraine Motel after Dr. King was assassinated, for the people (like me) who visit from out-of-town, for the many who will come to experience and understand why they are there or what is happening or had taken place on that land, the Lorraine Motel is sacred ground. It is ground to be tread across, to be experienced, to be understood and acknowledged and shared with any or all who might be open to knowing what our history is all about. We are the Civil Rights Movement--it is still happening today and we must not forget to understand or acknowledge the arduous, sometimes horrific and at times victorious journey that our American ancestors fought for and died for.

After going through the museum, I sat for a good fifteen or twenty minutes on the curb, across from the motel, just staring, simply staring, at the place where Martin Luther King, Jr., died. That is all I could do.

Do not forget him. Please watch "The Witness" if you can. Please visit the Civil Rights Museum (I think for any good American, it could be considered a Mecca or necessary pilgrimage for someone who values our history), Please speak with and talk to Ms, Jacqueline Smith... please, maybe, do more than I was able to do during my visit there.

There is still so much to do. Please don't get comfortable yet...

Day 7 - Memphis (Pt 1)

It's taken me some time to write about Day 7, about the time I spent in Memphis, because I experienced so much there and I've been trying to get settled and adjusted to Ragmar's Kingdom. And what a lovely kingdom it is. After sleeping deeply for a full 8-9 hours (the best sleep I've had in weeks!), I awoke this morning to Ragmar's voice in the kitchen, telling me that I should join him and his friends at the Gathering. I climbed out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen. Ragmar chuckled as I appeared sleepy-eyed and hair askew in my pjs and offered me some tea. A young, fresh-skinned White boy named Atlas said good morning to me and gave me a hug. We had some fresh goat cheese and honey on Texas toast for breakfast and visited while I put the dishes away.

So, now, Memphis...

Memphis is not just Graceland. In fact, I didn't even bother to go. I drove by it when I entered the city because I had booked a room close to it, thinking that I would visit. The idea of Graceland was exciting when I was in LA, but after being inundated with Elvis memorabilia at the overpriced motel I stayed at, viewing the imposing white Colonial Revival mansion on the hill festooned with garish colored lights and debating whether I should pay the $30 entrance fee that the locals joke "support Priscilla and Lisa Marie," I decided not to. I had seen enough of Graceland. Maybe I'll go if I visit Memphis another time.


Instead, I wanted to see other parts of Memphis, thinking that I might only have less than a day there. The night I arrived, I made my way to Beale Street--the home of the Memphis Blues. I called ahead to B.B. King's Blues Club to ask if they were still open. It was Sunday and nearly 11:00pm. I spoke to very helpful woman who called me "Ma'am" in every sentence she uttered and I told her I was a single woman traveling alone and would it be safe for me to go to Beale Street by myself.

"Oh yes, ma'am."
"I won't have any trouble?"
"Oh no, ma'am, there's policemen at every corner. And it's Sunday, ma'am, there's probably eleven people or so on the street right now."

I felt safer after speaking with her and drove the fifteen or twenty minutes in a light shower to Beale Street. A surge of excitement built in me as I drove past the Mississippi River and turned into the neon lights and music blaring into the streets. A one-block area is closed off to motorists and throbs with the energy from the lights and loud music. I found parking in a structure not far away and wandered around, looking for a good juke joint. Although the streets were empty, many places were still open and filled with people: a large, high-ceilinged pub-like place was doing a karaoke night, another club that looked two or three stories high blasted mainstream hip hop, a tiny little local watering hole that the B.B. King waitress recommended I go to was littered with tough-looking pierced and tattooed guys. I wandered into a smaller bar where a live blues band was playing--a trio of three older Black men playing some hard, dirty blues. The lead singer's deep, hearty voice poured into the mike and filled the bar, eliciting screeches and shouts from the drunk tourists who were shoulder to shoulder and barstool to barstool. I ordered a pint of Blue Moon (which they gave me in a huge 32 oz plastic cup) and found a table by myself after a group left. After a few minutes of taking lots of pictures and finding my shoulders and neck loosening to the sounds of The Dr. Feelgood Potts Band, two clean-cut White men approached the table and asked if they could sit with me. They seemed nice, one of them was very good-looking, and the good-looking guy pulled up the chair next to me. We discovered we were all from California and talked about out travels to Memphis. They were finance brokers on a boys outing for the NASCAR race in Taladega. I talked a little about stocks and finances (the little that I know!) with the other guy and about food and the beauty of Northern Cali with the cute one. They bought me a drink. We talked some more, then the bar closed down and the bouncer said I could take my drink with me, so we toddled around for a bit and then they walked me to my car and we said goodbye.

The next day I went to the Civil Rights Museum and spent the afternoon wandering the exhibition and sitting on the curb across from the motel room where Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated. I sat there and could only stare at the balcony, sobered by the weight and legacy of history before me. My time there was well spent, but it deserves its own blog entry. For now, I'm needing a walk and some company. I'm going to walk the two miles to the Gathering and join Ragmar and his friends.

Day 8 - Finding Liberty

I arrived in Liberty tonight at nightfall as a full moon rose in the Tennessee sky. The 40 East wound into a smaller highway which turned into an even narrower two-lane highway. I entered into farmland and rolling hills and nearly passed the road to the area my friend lives in. My friend, Ragmar, and I spoke on the phone as I drove slowly around curves, a mist curled around the lights from my car, a few dogs moved out of my way as my car rolled past them. Ragmar came to meet me in his car and led me down the graveled one-lane road to his farm.

It was dark by the time we arrived--a short distance from the highway. Suddenly I was among tall trees and emerged from my car into the deep silence of night. I instinctively pushed the button on my keychain to set the alarm on my car and Ragmar laughed. "You won't have to do that for days... maybe months."

We visited for awhile and he showed me around the house. We walked out onto an enclosed sleeping porch adjacent to my room and he picked up a conch shell. "I'm going to sound your arrival..." and he blew on the horn several times as it let out a sounding that echoed through the hills.

He left me to settle in and went back to the Gathering being held a few miles away. I, again, instinctively went for my phone and called my stepdad and my beaufriend. Neither of them answered or texted me back for awhile. As I waited for them to call me back I thought, "Oh my god. I'm lost in the hills. I won't be able to get through to anyone!" Panic set in for a moment and I tried writing a blog entry to occupy my time, but nothing would come out. Another friend called and I texted with another and then felt more at ease, knowing I was still within human contact. Finally, Indigo Boy called me back and we talked for an hour or so as I sat on the porch outside and smoked cigarettes. I think I might be quitting soon, though, because I've entered into a staunch non-smoking, vegetarian household and I do want to honor their lifestyle. I don't think smoking is going to be conducive to this world that I've landed in. As we sat on either ends of the country, I could hear the muffled sound of music in his apartment, the distant beat of drums from the hills beyond, wind rustling through the trees and nothing else.

I am about to shift gears. Down down down. Is there another gear lower than first? I'm still wound up from the last two days spent in Memphis (of which I MUST write about... will do in the next day or so) and a week spent in my car driving east east east. And now I'm here. I haven't found "liberty" yet... that is to be found still. But I made it safe and sound to my destination and feel very good about it. I feel like I'm on the right path. I feel like I may, after all, find liberty because I am here.

Day 6 - One Day in Four Different States

All right... if you don't have a lot of time, then don't bother to read this post. I have a lot to write about. I've just spent two days in five different states and clocked in about 13+ hours of driving time. Lots on my mind and lots that I've experienced!

Yesterday I spent the day in New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma and Arkansas. Weird, right?... to say that I spent the day in four different states? Being able to say that, however, makes me realize how easy it is to traverse time, space and distance if only we make the decision to do so. Some people travel all the time and surely get a sense of that if flying. I met some people tonight from California who flew to Memphis and it took them 3-1/2 hours. Not bad. But when you are driving... or walking (I wonder what that might be like...), you really get a sense of the land you are traveling across and the people who inhabit it.

So, yesterday (Day 5 of my journey to Liberty), I left Tucumcari, New Mexico Tucumcari is the Historic Route 66 Motel--Mike and Kathy, transplants from Philadelphia who sold their belongings in PA and moved to NM, bought this motel, renovated it, and now spend their days tending to it like a child: waking up everyday to clean and make sure its visitors have enjoyed their stay, paid, are safe, know what they need to know to go on their way, then have maybe a few hours to themselves before the next round of needy travelers park themselves at their spot and ask them where they should go or what they should do; Tucumcari is also a windswept, dusty town--time stands still, it is bygone days of 50s Chevrolets passing through, 60s Plymouths and 70s Fords, neon signs and pretty, leather-faced waitresses, slow cowboys, and bright mornings.

I left the Land of Enchantment and embarked to my final destination for that day: Fort Smith, Arkansas. I swept through New Mexico, entered Texas and was immediately struck by the change in landscape . The flat lands and plateaus of red mesas gave way to flatter plains and open vistas--save for God. God was resplendent in Texas and he showed himself, plainly, to me there, almost as soon as I entered the state. I was full of fear and warning for the tornadoes and hail storms that were forecasted for the weekend. According to CNN and the Weather Channel, this would be the worst storm to hit the Southeast this year... and I was on alert. Indeed, Mother Nature hit the Southeast with a gailstorm of weather--terrible tornadoes and unforgiving weather on Saturday (and I lie prostrate to those who suffered because of the terrible storm that hit on Saturday--those, especially, in Mississippi and Alabama--I hope you are okay and that you will overcome...).

Then I managed to drive through Texas with nary a bad sign from Mother Nature and entered into Oklahoma. I didn't mean to stop there because I was looking forward to having pho in Fort Smith--at a place that I had read about on Yelp, but my daylight hours were dwindling and I knew that I would probably be hungry by dinnertime because the last time I had eaten that day was a scrappy meal I put together before I left: Trader Joe's instant maple and brown sugar oatmeal and yogurt. By the time I got to Fort Smith--the longest hours I'd clocked in yewt driving (8 hrs straight), I was famished. I stopped in Oklahoma City at Pho Lien Hoa, yet another place I read about on Yelp. I was not disappointed, Actually (and how crazy is this?), I think it was the best pho I've ever had(!!): clear, rich beef broth. Most of the time I order seafood pho, occasionally beef with rare steak and "beef balls", but I had had too much beef recently and was needing something different to mix it up. Not only did I get the best "crab" (which I usually don't eat because the imitiation crab is too watery and bland for my tastebuds), but they gave me real, authentic fresh mussels in my pho,! Fresh mussels, shrimp, flavorful "imitation crab' (just fishstuff for anyone who doesn't know), and fish balls (like "beef balls"... you don't know exactly what it is, but it just tastes good!).

The clientele was a decent mix of White natives, Asian immigrants or natives, and one black man! I almost took a picture of him, but I didn't want to offend his normalcy. I was stopped twice during my excursion to Pho Lien Hoa: both because of the book I carried--Anne LaMott's "Bird by Bird." The first time from an older White man who simply acknowledged, "That's a good book." The second time by another younger White man who asked, "Are you into ornithology?'

I managed to capture a mesmerizing sunset as I traversed the Oklahoma/Arkansas state line and found my way to my final destination: Fort Smith, but was then waylaid by a glitch in my reservation. I had booked it online and the motelkeeper wasn't able to access my reservation. It took a half and hour to figure the whole mess out and even though I was tired and feeling ornery as fuck my threshold must be way lower than most because I had to endure the irritating come-ons from this toothless fuck from Wisconsin who had moved to Fort Smith because the "girl he took care of" (what the eff does that mean??) was born there. He was a mess. Unable to figure out the computer system his motel had, answering the hotel line on one ear while the other ear waited for the Experian representative to get on the line, apologizing to me and asking me where I was from, getting mad and angry at the Experian people on my behalf (although I calmly managed to get a $100 voucher and $25 refund to my credit card for the inconvenience), and trying to flirt with me here and there. I wasn't having it. I was tired and irritated and he made me feel unsafe and uncomfortable. I had to go back to the front desk after he finally checked me in because the room he checked me into smelled like cat piss. He glibly said, "Ah, you're back! I was hoping you'd come back to see me...". Then he called me after I settled into the new room he gave me and said, "Is everything okay? Please come see me if you ever come back into town...". All right. I had just enough of this guy. I complained to my mother about it and she advised me to bar the door, which I did before I slept. The, I talked to Indigo Boy for an unsettling and finally settling hour before I could go to sleep...

I awoke fine the next day... (although intermittently throughout the night and then finally at 5:30am that morning). I managed to get a little more sleep and then got myself and my stuff together to leave by check-out. Got on the road finally by 11:45am (had to get gas, make sure my car was good for the next leg of the trip) and was highwaybound for Little Rock and the Clinton Presidential Library...

I hope I have more time to write tomorrow, although it's going to be another busy day. I'm going to the Civil Rights Museum and then have a 5 hour trek ahead of me to Liberty. I'm bummed, though, because I wasn't able to write about my night tonight in Memphis on Beale Street and the friends I made tonight (two guys from Cali who asked to sit at my table... one very cute from Marin, the other from LA--both finance brokers enjoying a boys excursion to NASCAR in Talladega)... I don't know if my thoughts will ever catch up to the time I have to write... xo

Day 5 - Tired and Annoyed by Stupid Men

I don't have time for a detailed blog entry tonight. I'm too shitass tired as fuckin all hell goddam. 8 hrs straight drivin on the road is not the biz... and dealing with creepy ass motel keepers hitting on you when you just want to check into your room and go to sleep is NOT cool!!!

Feel a lil better after bringing my stuff up, getting some fresh air and pacing the parking lot while I talk to Indigo Boy to wind down and try to settle down enough to sleep. My mom tells me to bar the door--to put a chair up next to it, which I think I will do.

I'm all about budget lux, but not this kind of crap. This is budget, but defintely not lux.

Little Rock and the Clinton Presidential Library awaits me tomorrow! then a night in Memphis. I managed to avoid the the tornadoes and hail... everything else is good. And I think Liberty is just around the corner! :-)

Day 4- Tucumcari, NM

So, last night's blog entry was a little haphazard. I thought I would only be here one night so I tried packing in as much as I could, thinking that I would be leaving again early in the morning and driving for most of the day. Mother Nature intervened yet again and I was stuck in Tucumcari for another day due to severe tornado warnings and forecasts of hail the size of baseballs. Yeah. Not so much. Love Mother Nature, but I don't want to get in her way.

So, I spent the day in Tucumcari. I had an amazing breakfast at Kix on Route 66 (two eggs over medium perfectly runny on the inside, and bacon and hash browns all done perfectly crisp), researched a little bit of weather and rescheduled my hotel stays. Then took a quick drive down Route 66--the main hwy that runs through town--and visited Timeless Treasures, a vintage curio store that the owner of Historic Route 66 recommended. I wandered into the shop and took my time looking at the random collection of things. An older gentleman sat behind a makeshift office area in the middle of the store. A younger heavyset man sat near to him but outside of the makeshift office area. A chopped trunk of a tree festooned with vintage cowboy hats stands in the front of the store. My eyes float from a white cast iron baby carriage to 50s vases and milk glass, an impressive antique bed, small heavy bound books, a soup tureen from the Occupied Japan era, contemporary tchotchkes littering the heavy wooden furniture, rocking chairs, several nice complete sets of vintage dishes. The older gentleman sitting in the front of the store calls out to me as I wander around.

"Would you care for some water or soda?"
"Oh no thank you. I'm fine. But thanks."
"I can make some coffee, too, if you'd like that."
"Oh no, really. I'm fine, but thank you."

I continue poking around, but soon circle through the entire store. The older man continues to talk to me.
"So where you from?"
"Los Angeles."
I hear a sound of surprise acknowledgment come from the younger man.
"Really?" the older gentleman continues. "And where are you headed?"
"Tennessee."
"Ah, that's a good place. I have relatives there."
"My friend has a farm there. But I've been waylaid because of the storm. But I love it here. Tucumcari is so charming!"
"Too-cum-carrie," he corrects me. I've been saying it wrong. I've been pronouncing it Too-cum-kahr-ee.
"Oh! Is that the way you say it?"
"Too-cum-carrie," he says, nodding his head. "And do you know how it came to be called Tucumcari?"
"No, I don't."
"Well, there was a chief who had a daughter named Cari and a young brave named Tucum and another brave, but I've forgotten his name. Anyway, they both wanted to marry Cari and the chief made them fight for her. Tucum was killed up on a ridge somewhere and Cari followed him and died, too. A little like Romeo and Juliet."
"That's a great story. So there's a great love story behind Tucumcari."
"Yes, there is."

We talk for awhile. He's a charming man. A little later into our conversation we're interrupted by the phone ringing. I hear him saying something about going to get barbeque. He hangs up the phone and asks if I like barbeque. I tell him that I'm going to have to start liking it because I know that that may be all I have to eat where I'm headed. He and the younger man both laugh and my new friend asks if I'd like to join them. He says that a local guy and his wife have started making a great barbeque that I simply can't pass up. I've just from breakfast so I tell him that I'd have to do so later, but that it sounds great. He gives me directions: "You see the Chinese restaurant on 66? Well, there's a street right there called Lake Street. L-A-K-E. Just make a right and then go up about a block or so. You'll see a tractor supply store on your left and then a little ways down a cow feed store. That's where the barbeque is. He's got a little orange tent set up and all the regulars go and sit on wooden benches and eat their barbeque. You don't want to miss it." I thank him and take note of his directions. Before I leave, we joke about how I need to find a cowboy hat and he gets up from behind his desk and helps me to try on the various cowboy hats hanging on the trunk of the tree. I find a great cream colored felt Stetson with the most beautiful, light little feathers in its brim. I stick it on and fall-in-love with it, but I can't shop right now. I'm running out of money because of this damn storm and I don't have the guts yet, anyway, to go traipsing around in a cowboy hat. We say our goodbyes and I go on my way.

Later, I do check out the barbeque and, once again, I'm enchanted by the store. It's a mishmosh of cowboy gear, auto and tractor supplies, local food items and lovely perfumes that I covet (there's a honey scent and honeysuckle one that I love), colognes for men with names like "Silver Spur" and "Stampede," leashes for dogs, beef jerky, a stuffed bobcat, an elk head and a two-headed calf. I wander around as the courteous man at the counter goes to fix me a plate of barbeque. I have to wait awhile, but I am not disappointed. I think it's the best bbq I've had--tender and juicy. And a gorgeous helping of peach cobbler to bat. I'm definitely going home 20 lbs heavier.

I go back to the motel to eat my dinner because the winds are too strong to eat outside, even though it's sunny and beautiful outside. I kill some more time on the Internet and then decide to go back out and take some photos of the "historic downtown area." I'm beginning to love anything with the name "Historic Downtown" because the area speaks volumes of times past and that are no longer. The historic downtown area is just a few blocks away, but unlike the "busy" main highway of Route 66, it's practically deserted.

I love this place, but admit that I'm itching to get back on the road. Went a little batty tonight trying to kill time, but I tried to make the most of it preparing for the drive tomorrow. The farther I travel the farther I am from my loved ones, too, and I'm feeling that more accutely as well. Indigo Boy is sustaining me through my travails on the road, so that's nice to know that he hasn't forgotten me. I took a bath in my dead sea salts to soak away my troubles, but only because I came prepared with a sponge and a bottle of Method tub & tile cleaner. I also gave myself a pedicure and did a mud mask and felt a little bit like fresh Me again. I think I'm ready to brave the weather tomorrow and drive to Fort Smith, Arkansas. I'm getting closer to my destination, but boy does it feel like a trek!

Day 2/Day 3 recap - More Exhaustion!

Mission accomplished: arrived in Tucumcari, New Mexico at around 8:45 this evening. Although there's now an hour time difference--strange, weird, wonderful. I definitely feel like I'm traveling now. A time difference, a battle with Mother Nature, leaving my loved ones behind...

My mother says I am writing too much and that blogs should be short so I'm going to try to pay heed to her speak and keep this brief. My reply to her, however, was that this is all I have to do right now! I've got lots of thinking time on my hands and all I want to do is stop so I can write my next blog entry.

So, how do I keep this brief?

Well, that's it. I love the motel I'm staying at tonight (the Historic Route 66 Motel it's called and hope that I'll have time to write about it more later), but I'm tired as hell.


I awoke to a beautiful sunrise in Flagstaff and just drove through the gorgeous vistas and red mesas of New Mexico, another round of snow, Albuquerque (couldn't wait to get out of there although I had a lovely green chile chicken posole soup and side salad), hectic, expansive skies that reached for days to the horizon line, a biblical sunset, and a quick, decent meal at Del's in Tucumcari. I spent the evening taking an amazing HOT shower on full blast, sorting through my stuff, talking to my Mom and Indigo Boy (no longer upset with him) and planning my day tomorrow.


I have a full day of driving ahead of me. According to the woman who owns the motel, there are reports of tornadoes in Amarillo... one of the areas I'm driving through. Won't that be exciting? ;-)

Musichead - Part I

I'm on my way to Tucumcari. Made a brief stop in Albuquerque for a quick bite and to just take a break from driving. Listening to lots and lots of great music: Tribe Called Quest's Low-End Theory and People's Instinctive Travels, Ryuichi Sakamoto's Sweet Revenge, 10,000 Maniacs In My Tribe. I started out with Hole's Live Through This because I was a little pissed off and frustrated this morning at Indigo Boy (of which I may or may not write about later). I guess it's been an 80s/90s musical throwback today.

The last few days I've been listening to a lot of female artists from the late-80s and 90s: Sinead O'Connor, Tracy Chapman, Suzanne Vega and 10,000 Maniacs--all women who I "came up" with and women who I think have shaped who I am. I haven't listened to their music in a very long time, but I was struck at how compelling and intelligent these woman are. I remember emerging from my childhood spent in the San Fernando Valley, listening to KROQ before I slept at night (to Rodney Bingenheimer and the Poorman when he still hosted "Lovelines" with Dr. Drew, who I think is a total charlatan). I grew up with Newave and disco--fun, flighty, freaky music that made you dance or spaz out.

I think around my senior year in high school, my art teacher used to play Tracy Chapman while we drew. My best friend, Andrew, and I would listen to the tape over and over again in my car. Her voice was beautiful but haunting--so much depth and pain, like Nina Simone. Around the same time, Sinead O'Connor started getting airplay. Now she was something! With a voice as bold and stunning as her looks.

Sinead and Tracy, along with Suzanne Vega and Natalie Merchant from 10,000 Maniacs all shared a socio-political conscience (exposing child abuse: Vega's "Luka," and 10,000 Maniac's "What's The Matter Here?"), wrote about women escaping the confines of their limited roles or world they lived in (Chapman's "She's Got A Ticket") and also sang evocative narratives that places the listener right at the table next to them (Vega's "Tom's Diner" and 10,000 Maniac's "Verdi Cries"). And all of them, most of all, Sinead sang songs of self-reflection and brave exposure. I didn't know it at the time, but I think every time I listened to their music, the intent behind their music dug deep into my psyche and shifted the internal workings of the woman I was becoming.

For anyone who knows me well, I can be pretty certain that you know I'm a total musichead. There isn't any one type of music that I wouldn't listen to, have listened to, or probably like. One of the things I want to do is list the music I've been listening to as I drive because each song, CD, era, or playlist always inspires my thinking. I have an ongoing future playlist running through my head since I started my trip called "Jump!"--taken from Madonna's song by the same name on her Confessions on a Dance Floor CD. Maybe this playlist has been brewing for awhile because I can recall a number of beloved songs by various female artists that all share the theme of following your dreams, taking a leap of faith or emerging from your shell. I'll create the playlist when I feel like I'm finished with it. For now, I'm still listening to music and taking notes.

When I was still feeling upbeat and revved up (I'm feeling a little glum and drained right now), I listened to a bunch of fun songs--one of them being Cyndi Lauper's "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun". I usually discount that song as being superfluous and silly, which it is in so many ways, but I also listened to the lyrics as it played and found it surprisingly fitting to my situation of the last three months in a humorous way:


I come home in the morning light,
My mother says "When you gonna live your life right?"
Oh,mother,dear,
We're not the fortunate ones,
And girls,
They wanna have fu-un.
Oh,girls,
Just wanna have fun.

The phone rings in the middle of the night,
My father yells "What you gonna do with your life?"
Oh,daddy,dear,
You know you're still number one,
But girls,
They wanna have fu-un,
Oh,girls,just wanna have
That's all they really want.....
Some fun....

When the working day is done,
Oh,girls,
They wanna have fu-un,
Oh,girls,
Just wanna have fun....

Girls,
They want,
Wanna have fun.
Girls,
Wanna have

Some boys take a beautiful girl,
And hide her away from the rest of the world.
I wanna be the one to walk in the sun.
Oh,girls,
They wanna have fu-un.
Oh,girls,
Just wanna have
That's all they really want.....
Some fun....

When the working day is done,
Oh,girls,
They wanna have fu-un.
Oh,girls,
Just wanna have fun...

...and it goes on like that for some time. Suffice to say, the last three months have been a little like this song and listening to it made me think of my poor parents. I think Cyndi may have quoted them in her song!

Salsa Brava

Before I left for my trip, I spent a night looking online and researching different places to stay, eat at and check out. I stumbled upon Salsa Brava in Flagstaff, a Mexican restaurant featured on Guy Fiore's show on the Food Network "Diners, Dives and Drive-Ins." The restaurant got great reviews on Yelp and was also mentioned on the Travel Channel website, so I decided I would check it out my first night in Flagstaff. As all of you know, though, I pulled into Flagstaff last night at around 10:45. Salsa Brava closes at 9:00, so I thought I'd have to pass it up. Mother Nature intervened, however, and I was able to enjoy a nice meal tonight.

I have a weakness for fish tacos. When I ordered I asked the waitress for her recommendation between those or the Cajun shrimp tacos and she preferred the latter. The service all-around was friendly, efficient and very helpful. I think my designated waiter wasn't available when I walked in, but the aforementioned waitress quickly and calmly took my order and then my assigned waiter apologized profusely for having kept me waiting. They gave me a generous helping of corn chips (which were a little overfried--too hard, even though I am sure they were fresh) and small ramikins for the salsa bar, which, I think, in and of itself is a reason to visit Salsa Brava. The pico de gallo was a perfect mix of tomatoes, onions, cilantro and jalapeno peppers; the mild version still had tons of flavor. The fire-roasted chipotle salsa was perfection: smoky, piquant, and not too spicy. The tomatillo sauce also good. I ordered a strawberry margarita, too, which was on special for $4 all night.


My food came within fifteen minutes. It looked great: black beans sprinkled with queso fresca, Spanish rice, and delish-looking shrimp tacos! Sadly, the black beans and rice were a little bland; they could have used a little more seasoning, or maybe it was because my tongue was still exploding from all the salsas I just sampled. The shrimp tacos were great, though: plump little shrimps glazed with cajun spices on a crisp bed of shredded cabbage, just enough mild pico de gallo, melted cheese and a generous brushing of jalapeno tartar sauce. Good stuff. I'm stuffed!

Although the food was a little overpriced ($9.50 for a plate I could probably find in LA for $5 or $6), it was worth it. My bill still came under $15 for dinner and the friendly service certainly made it worth the visit. Anyway, it was nice to feel like I was in gringo Mexico for a minute as the snow continues to fall in Flagstaff.

Saved by a Meteor Crater!

Well, I had my lovely morning at Macy's and hit the road around 11:30am. It is 44 degrees and hailing when I Ieave Flagstaff, but about 15 minutes outside of the city the skies clear and and it is sunny with great puffs of clouds rolling across vast empty plains. I notice a haze of pink dust in the distance and find the image strange. The open road fills me with giddiness, though, and I put on my upbeat playlist from work that features MGMT, Lil Mama and the like. I'm cruising down Hwy 40, ready to keep driving until I hit Tucumcari, New Mexico, my next destination when I notice a sign off the side of the road: METEOR CRATER. Then another sign: Tune to 1610 AM for info. I tune in and an emphatic radio announcer beguiles the lone Hwy 40 traveller: "Visit historic Winslow! Take a picture with the flatbed girl!...Experience...the Impact! Visit Meteor Crater! Over 2-1/2 miles round! 4000 feet across, 550 feet deep! It's NASA's official training and test site!" I think, why the hell not? I've never seen a meteor crater and it's only 5 miles south of the highway.

I take a two-lane road off the freeway and pass a bunch of cows. I spend maybe five minutes at the welcome center after I learn that admission to see the crater is $15. Meteors craters are cool, but not that cool. Plus, it is windy as hell; I'm nearly knocked over as I walk back to my car. As I near the highway, I notice that all the cars have stopped in their tracks. No one is moving anywhere. WTF? Was there an accident?


I turn around and drive into a gas station in the shape of a something space-like. There is a Hole Enchilada and an old biker dude with a ZZ Top beard decked out in a leather jacket and chaps covered in patches from, what I can only guess are his many travels. I ask the woman at the counter if she knows what's going on on the highway.

"They've closed the road."
"What?"
"They closed it down."
"Howcome? What happened?"
"Too windy."
"Is that what that pink cloud is?"
"Yeah, red dirt."
"How long will it be closed down for?"
"Until at least 7:00 or 8:00 tonight."
"Tonight??!"
"Yeah, that's what they did last week."
"So what happens to the people who are stuck on the road?"
"They're stuck."
"You mean they're stuck there until 7:00?"
"Yeah."

Wow. Thank god I turned off the highway when I did! I would have gone absolutely bonkers if I had been stuck in one place on Hwy 40 for seven or eight hours. I decide to drive back to Flagstaff and spend another night there. It's supposed to continue to rain and even snow a little bit, but I'll have another night here to explore the city and also get something good to eat. I'm starving. I haven't eaten a solid meal since I left Los Angeles--just snacking on food I brought from home and the breakfast croissant I had at Macy's earlier this morning. I hear there's a good Mexican restaurant, Salsa Brava it's called, and I'm curious about the historic downtown area of Flagstaff. I'm not really dressed for the weather because I wasn't anticipating a winter storm, but I think I'll be fine. I might even go to a free yoga class I read about online later tonight...

A Perfect Cappuccino in Flagstaff, Arizona

Okay coffee chains... take note: lattes are not just watered down milky coffee drinks with a coating of frothed milk on top. Lattes and cappuccinos, when made properly, should have a thick layer of warm foam on top--foam thick as a pillowtop mattress! This is what I am drinking now. After waking up at 6:30 and only getting about four-and-a-half hours of sleep, I decided to wake up. I thought about a conversation I had with Indigo Boy about waking up at sunrise while I travel. We used to work together and have to occasionally get up at the crack of dawn. After quitting my job, I missed having a reason to wake up so early and he suggested I do so while I travel. So I rose at 6:30 this morning and made my way to Macy's European Coffehouse, a cafe I read about on Yelp and Travelocity. Plus, I am having a good hair day.

So far, there are two things indispensable items I have with me on my travels: the old-fashioned AAA Triptik I printed out before I hit the road and my iPhone. I don't know what I would do without my iPhone. I use it constantly to update my Facebook profile, check my email, make phone calls, check the weather, listen to music, take photos, and figure out where the hell I am. No such luck this morning with the last function because it actually got me lost... or, no, I inputted the wrong address from a wrong address listed on Yelp. I was able to see a bit of Flagstaff, though, and I became immediately enchanted by the turn-of-the-century frontier architecture and small town feel. I manage to navigate my way to Macy's European Coffeehouse, but have to wait for a train to pass. Large droplets of rain begin to fall and something hard starts bouncing off the windshield of my car. Hail? Cool!


After parking, I make my way inside and the first thing I see are two painted portraits of an elderly gentleman wearing something that looks like a turban. Then I glance at the patrons having breakfast and a man who bears an uncanny resemblance to the gentleman in the portrait sits below it. I wonder if it is him. I wonder if he knows that there is a guy right above him who looks like him. I take a picture. What do you think?


I am now drinking a delectable cappuccino with chocolate and cinnamon called a Cafe Bohemian. These are trained professionals. Baristas who take their jobs and coffee seriously. When the server handed me my drink I almost didn't know what to do with it. The dusting of chocolate and cinnamon created a coating like a layer of paint. To drink it one has to almost penetrate the top layer, only to discover the pillowtop mattress of foam underneath. This was a cappuccino unlike anything I've tasted before. Perfection!

Even though everyone I encounter is very friendly and courteous, my radar is starting to heighten; an awareness is growing that I am the only non-White as I travel farther east on Highway 40. Nary an ethnic face greets me inside the coffee house. There are older men who either look like leftovers from the frontier era or professors from the local college and lots of young outdoorsy Patagonia-types. A tall guy in his twenties approaches me and asks what I am writing. He is handsome in a sun-bleached, full-bearded kind of way. He looks like he should be wearing Patagonia, but he is wearing a very cool motorcycle jacket. We chat for a bit and he introduces himself--Destry is his name--before he wishes me well and leaves me to my writing.

I'm feeling a little sleepy, but there's rain in the forecast for the next few hours and I don't want to drive at night.

Day One - Exhaustion!!

I'm exhausted. Seven hours on the road after not-enough sleep the last three to four days. After nearly three weeks of delaying my departure (for various reasons: withdrawal from my sweet Indigo Boy, reality checks from my family, and a mad dash to contain the entrails of my things that seemed to have spread from basement to downstairs guest room to my sister's childhood bedroom). Packing is a bitch. And I'm so organized now it's unsettling.

BUT I did it. After a sweet, but too brief last goodbye to Indigo Boy late yesterday evening, I returned home, slept like a log, woke up at around 9 and spent the morning packing up the rest of my things and cleaning the rooms I overtook like a nice Japanese American daughter should before she leaves on "vacation." This is not a vacation, though. I am taking this journey to get down to work. As I packed for my trip I had to very discerning about what I would take with me. I had to go through quite a bit of writing and computer files. I have a lot of work ahead of me.

I left Los Angeles as a light drizzle begins to fall. Ruby, my mother's ridiculously adorable Jack Russell, sits in my car for the last hour as I cart bags and stuff back and forth from the house to my Toyota Corolla. We have to coax her out from atop my pillows in the backseat so I can leave. I take one last deep inhale of her sweet Ruby smell, give big hugs to my parents and finally hit the road.

Although, in true Me fashion, I don't actually leave at 1pm, even though I left my mom's at 1pm. I have a few stops to make. I buy two packs of Nat Shermans at the local liquor store, thinking that I wouldn't be able to find any on the road and I only want enough cigarettes to last me the car trip and maybe a few here and there once I'm in Tennessee. (The goal is to quit soon. My family, Indigo Boy and the Mayor, my ex-boyfriend, all want me to quit and even though I'll be thick into the writing process, I'd like to stop smoking. But more on that in a later post...). I also drop off a pile of books to Goodwill and then spend a good twenty minutes or so at a Shell station, trying to put air in my tires. A kind Middle Eastern man helps me and teaches me to read the pressure gauge on the air pump. He also releases some of the air on my right rear tire that I filled up with too much air.

""It's a wonder your tire didn't blow!"
"Oh? But I just filled it a few moments ago," thinking of the gauge I used: my eyes. I just kept filling it until the tire looked full.
"That's the quickest way to blow your tires... too much air. Air expands once it gets hot. Just fill it between 40-50."
I take mental notes and thank him for his kindness. By the time my tires are properly pressurized and full, it's 1:45pm and the rain is coming down harder. Steam rises from the pavement.

It takes me awhile to get out of LA. All the major arteries in the city are clogged. Freeway is a misnomer in LA. Not to mention that it's raining and whenever it rains in Los Angeles, something close to panic overtakes its inhabitants. The traffic finally starts to clear as I head toward the 10 East from the 101 South. I snack on a few onigiris that my mother makes for me before I leave. Yum. The ones with umeboshi inside are the best! Like a Japanese rolo or something, except it makes your mouth pucker.

Patches of blue sky begin to appear as I pass through Ontario and take note of the familiar brand names: Westfield, Target, In N Out, Starbucks. I merge onto the I-15 toward Barstow and Las Vegas and the sky clears even more. The mustard flowers and blue skies lift my mood as I head up toward the El Cajon pass. As my car snakes up the mountain (I am surprised, too, at how sturdy my little Corolla is. Full of all my stuff and she still climbs mountains in the rain! I am so proud of her!) I notice veils of water dangling from pregnant clouds, dancing a little against the bright blue sky. The higher I get up the mountain, I feel like I am driving an airplane. The clouds are eye level and I can see above and below them.

I make two stops: one at a random Chevron station just to stretch my legs around 4:45 and another to get gas after I finally make it to the 40 East--my guide to Liberty. Gas is $3.99/gallon at this strange RV pitstop where a bug-eyed chihuahua sits at the glass doors looking at the tumbleweeds rolling across the parking lot. A desert woman (thin, leathery skin from too many cigarettes or days in the sun) wears a black Bebe t-shirt that barely contains her wrinkled cleavage and is almost startled when I give her my card to fill up my tank. Two men sitting in an eating area are eating something and watching something on television. No one moves very much.

I fill up my tank and take a few photos. Faux Greek or Roman statues saluting and gesticulating in various states of repose line a large dry, empty pond-like, swimming poolish thing. It is windy and the fronds of the short, fat palm trees rustle madly.

After crossing the Arizona state line, I notice the sun going down behind me and a long train traveling parallel to the road. The speed limit changes to 75 mph. I try to figure out how long it will take me to get to Flagstaff and I realize I have another 2-3 hours. It takes about an hour for the sun to set and I turn my headlights on. My eyes try to adjust to the dark and I tell myself I will not drive again after the sun goes down. There are no streetlamps and I can't see the landscape anymore. As I get closer to Flagstaff I sense that there are trees around me, but I cannot see them--only can make out their shapes and silhouettes. I pass many, many semis on my drive down the 40, but I am unusually comfortable driving next to them. Most of the time, I hate their lumbering, imposing figures that create a strange vacuum as you pass by them, but I've learned to hold onto the steering wheel a little tighter and to turn a little to the left. They seem like large, loud elephants that you just have to avoid as best as possible. I wish I was in the passenger seat because, like an elephant, I want them to toot their horns when I give them the tug tug signal.

I finally pull into Flagstaff around 9:45, just as Indigo Boy texts me. I have already made a reservation at the Travelodge because I read online that they have nice East Indian owners who keep the motel very clean. The room is very clean (and spacious, I might add). I call my parents after checking in and almost jump into the shower. It takes me awhile to get motivated to write my first blog entry, but I force myself to do it. How am I ever going to be a real writer if I don't write?