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.
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