There are few experiences as humbling as realising your insignificance. What's more, there's no more frequent emergence of such emotion than when traveling through the wide open spaces of a seemingly endless countryside.
En route to the Vegas via the Grand Canyon was one such experience, with the drive through the desert a mere forbearance to the vastness that is the Canyon. Indeed, once I recovered from being charged $44 to see it, there was a certain tranquility I experienced gazing upon such a tremendous vista - that is, when I could manage to do so around the people posing in a witty variety of stances for their collection of happy snaps.
I am a self-hating tourist, it would seem.
Nonetheless, I could have sat down and stared expansively for hours, mind bereft of distractions or concerns in the comforting awareness of my insignificance. Indeed, this was a feeling I'd become familiar with as we travelled from Indio to Austin, with the sheer space of America something I hope I'll never get used to.
On a less pseudo-philosophical note, on the road to the Grand Canyon we stumbled across the Last Stop gas station-come-restaurant, the subtle delights of which I will not soon forget. Encouraged by the all-American enthusiasm of the hostess, it was here that I supped on the finest burger I've experienced in America. A delight for all the senses and of the style such that one requires a shower post-consumption, I would readily return simply for another delicious mouthful.
From the Canyon we went to Las Vegas - an experience previously detailed - after which we undertook one of the larger driving periods of our trip as we made our way to Austin. First stop was Flagstaff, a rather charming little town an hour or so past the Canyon. Driving here was slightly testy, as Kip had warned me not to can too heavily as I would need to drive the next day. As it was, sunglasses on and passed out in the backseat, I desperately tried to recover from my bacchanalian excesses to avoid furthering the scope and fury of his passive-aggressive wrath.
Arriving late at Flagstaff and all quite wearied after the 300 odd mile drive and Vegas, we sought respite in sleep. Thus it was that Flagstaff, we hardly knew ye.
Next stop was a 400 mile drive to Albuquerque in New Mexico, a city I mostly associated with the brewing of crystal meth thanks to watching too much Breaking Bad. While I failed to see any telltale plumes of green smoke, the sleepy city was pleasant enough. While here, so exhausted by the low quality highway-stop food we'd supped thus far, it was time for some down home style cooking, the excitement of which around the hostel led all its occupants - grandmas and a shaman - to comment on the delightful smells issuing forth from the kitchen.
This was definitely where the party was at.
Judge not too soon was the lesson, however, as Ken the Shaman was quite a pleasant room mate, even if a slightly sozzled Otto mistakenly engaged him in a lengthy conversation regarding his series of youtube videos, which, it turned out mainly consisted of him emerging from hot springs drying his beard. On the plus side, a future collaboration between Sleepmakeswaves and Shamanizing could well be on the cards.
We also met traveling grandma Eileen, who - as far as we could ascertain - has no home and just travels around the US pursuing her children and grandchildren - and also eating the pasta sauce of enterprising travelers. Being engaged by her in conversation proved far more fruitful than anticipated, as our planned route to Odessa was apparently one plagued by fierce winds and wild fires. She also claimed to be able to drive to Austin via "San Anton" in one trip, something which, if grandma could do, so could three (strapping) young lads.
Thus it was that we embarked upon an 850 mile one-day road trip through New Mexico and Texas to Austin, crossing two timezones and driving until the wee-hours of the evening. Rotating through the backseat for restorative naps and with the driver getting to choose the tunes, it was a 7:30am-10:30pm balls-to-the-wall drive come singalong of the most disconcerting variety. This was particularly the case during Kip's periods at the wheel, his eclectic selection on his 'USA cruisin'' playlist an affront to all.
We also met John the McDonalds manager who befriended Otto on Facebook with the anticipation of their becoming "the best of friends" and Otto being his tour guide when he comes to Australia to explore his family history. Sounds like fun.
Of all the characters we met on the road, however, perhaps the most perplexing was my anonymous Mexican friend. Frequently calling my mobile, the novelty of our conversations soon wore off as the endless calls, chiefly substantiated by confused exchanges of "hello?"s, soon, by weight of contact, led to my increasing curtness and lyrical use of Spanish. "No hablo espanol" and "numero wrongo", while grammatically dubious and no doubt mildly racist, seemed to at least slow the tide of calls. Oh well.
On the plus side, by the end of our drive we ended up in Austin in time to experience Saturday night on 6th street, and it was definitely worth it.
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