Two weeks since I left my beloved Austin, and I finally arrived. It didn’t happen till this afternoon when I was driving home, basking in good news,
accomplishment,
yes, I did.
I realized I hadn’t reached California, and I wouldn’t until I passed it to the West. And so I did,
So you’ve seen the hummingbirds. I’ve never seen so many goddamn little buzzing, whizzing critters in my life. As I sit here there’s at least 25 of them whirring around the feeders and I can hear the squeaks of countless more in the trees surrounding the deck.
Living in California has turned up a few California moments. For instance, Sunday I stood shoulder to shoulder with Slash at a fundraiser for a Wildlife Center and watched a veterinarian release a hawk back into the wild that had been injured by a BB gun.
The Rig
Yesterday:
Austin > Lampasas > Coleman > Sweetwater > Lubbock > Clovis > Ft Sumner > Santa Rosa > Albuquerque > Gallup > Winslow > Flagstaff
I’m in a cheap motel in Flagstaff, Arizona, sipping a cup of cheap motel coffee that claims itself as such more on account of its color and temperature than the bean from which it was brewed. And I like it. I’m sitting at the little two-top table in my room with a view of a PT Cruiser in the parking lot and my U-Haul beyond, owning up to the fact that I like a good cheap motel.
This one, like another where I stayed in Bend, Oregon, is run by an Indian family. I think that’s the key: find the local motel that’s run by (East) Indians. They are (in my experience) clean and well attended and typically safe. One thing’s for sure, the national chain motels that cost the same (about $50 a night) are going to be flea bags. The last time I made the mistake of staying in Motel 6 was in Vicksburg, MS and I’m pretty sure someone had hosted a crystal meth & bukake themed party there the night before.
Question is, how, when you’re rolling into town from a long day on the great American highway, do you find the Indian-run motel? I don’t know. I’m going to work on that. Is there an app for that? The instinct is to look for the cheapest name-brand motor lodge that hotels.com will turn up, but that’s a crap shoot and likely to wind you up in shithole like the one I found in Mississippi.
If we’re getting down to brass tacks, here’s my working model: search for two-star motels but look for a user rating of 3.5 stars or higher. Eliminate any with a recognizable name. That’ll give you a good pool of possibilities. When in doubt, give ‘em a call and listen for that distinguished accent. If you hear none, ask the owners name. If the clerk is a Yank, they’ll be sure to butcher the last name of an Indian owner, so you’ll know you’re in good shape.
Fine hotels are great, when the occasion calls for it. But transcontinental journeys just aren’t one of those times. Sometimes you just need a place to shower and crash without the risk of waking up pregnant or a meth addict.
Today:
Flagstaff > Prescott
Shot I came across in my friend’s place from when I was a cologne model, twelve years and thirty-five pounds ago.
The mighty Shasta (anachronistically presented).
Everyone is beautiful in (Nordstroms) LA.
Even the mannequins have collagen injections in Hollywood.
In LA, discretion is everything.
Movin’ on…
