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One of my most vivid memories is of camping on
the rim of the Grand Canyon in 1990. The moon
had been up when we turned in, gone down as I
slept, and when I scooched out to pee the night
air was so clear and stars so bright I reached
up like a primitive to touch them. We'd hoped to
camp near Flagstaff last night but after a day
of fighting 50+ mph gusts on the drive from
Albuquerque we pulled off for gas and were
tempted by Flagstaff's classic tourist strip of
bowling alleys and motels. One good thing
Arizona has going for it is you can buy liquor
in grocery stores. Guns and booze, no problem,
but when SB 1070 takes effect on
July 28, even looking Latino will be
cause for detainment. We opted not to bowl,
bought some Bulleit and a 12-pack of Negra
Modelo for $8.88--less than you pay for a 6-pack
of same in Seattle--and found a charming
"American-owned" family run motel which exceeded our
expectations. My notebook tells me I spent
$15.75 for a motel near here in 1990. Last
night's stay was $59.95, a fraction of season
peak price $159. Sarah turned on the heater when
we entered, causing diaphanous gold curtains to
billow like something out of Arthurian legend.
It snowed at night and the morning light pooled
at base of serpentine drapes filled me with
something more than the peace of a good night's
sleep.
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