In Illinois, forests overgrow in green lush. In Arizona, deserts sprout millions of cacti, a succulent water supply for the hills and water life. When I say millions, I literally mean millions. Every where your eye can turn is a thick cacti forest, sprung into every possible patch of dusty mountain. A stunning site, it is hard to fathom without witness. And the mountains can be seen for 50 miles on, with layers of distance stacked behind the nearby terrain. And of course you are thinking of the saguaro cactus, the classic stigmata that you painted in art class or saw in old film. But the species of cactus in the desert are numerous. Almost every thing that grows in the desert is a type of cactus, as they have to fend for their own water supply and provide nourishment for various thirsty varmints.
Breathtaking allurement in every direction. A securement of solitude to know you are miles away from civilization. A history book of ancient hieroglyphs in mountaintop. And rest and relaxation like a snoozing javelina.
Wednesday, September 25, 2019
Tuscon sequester
Tuscon, the city where snowbirds fly to during winter months. Full of retirees in mobile homes, mostly of Republican mindset. There is an interesting clash and assimilation into the Mexican heritage of Tuscon. They enjoy the sun, the food, the clay buildings. But there is a sense of mild fear towards the unknown the crime, the surrounding poverty. Without personally experiencing any hardships, they live some prejudices, as simple as locking their car doors only in certain places. And they may not be wrong all the time, as homelessness or drug use will often be a motive to steal. But I sense the MAGA agenda growing as these worlds collide.
They come to retreat from society and they are met with a bit of culture shock of an Arizona city. And the sequester to a gated community of mobile homes.
They come to retreat from society and they are met with a bit of culture shock of an Arizona city. And the sequester to a gated community of mobile homes.
Reflections of the airport
After a day or so, I realized I left put some airport gems. First of all, teenagers have retreated back to the 80s. A blonde Caucasian girl looked about 15 years old. Her hair was wavy, worn down but parted way over to make it swoop. She had a full denim outfit. The faded blue Jean jacket with a rainbow pin on the left pocket. Her blue jeans were tight but straight, not skinny, and cuffed at the bottom. She wore a white polo shirt under the jacket and white oval flat tennis shoes. And to top it off, she sported a scrunchie on each wrist! Then there was a teenage boy, maybe 16. He wore his hair medium length and somewhat unsettled. He wore a Bowie t-shirt and basically the same blue jeans as the girl, but in mens. Cuffed at the bottom and all. I am a 90s baby, so I just assumed we all agreed that the 80s styles were frowned upon and never to be repeated. I think we let them watch too many John Hughes movies.
Then there were the airport runners. While I sat there and drank that impeccable bloody mary, I noticed a runner every 3 to 5 minutes.
I recalled the time I was an airport runner. O'Hare is huge and sometimes you only have about a 20 minute layover, meaning they are already boarding your flight when you land. The anxiety of missing your flight seeps in and you run. Like the sports car that recklessly changes lanes on the interstate, you pick up your luggage and zoom in and around people and cross you fingers, hoping you make it.
Now back to the bloody mary. Out of peripheral vision you could spot one of these runners in existential dreams every few minutes, in full sprint. It made my 3 hour layover feel leisurely.
Then there were the airport runners. While I sat there and drank that impeccable bloody mary, I noticed a runner every 3 to 5 minutes.
I recalled the time I was an airport runner. O'Hare is huge and sometimes you only have about a 20 minute layover, meaning they are already boarding your flight when you land. The anxiety of missing your flight seeps in and you run. Like the sports car that recklessly changes lanes on the interstate, you pick up your luggage and zoom in and around people and cross you fingers, hoping you make it.
Now back to the bloody mary. Out of peripheral vision you could spot one of these runners in existential dreams every few minutes, in full sprint. It made my 3 hour layover feel leisurely.
Tuesday, March 12, 2019
The Traveling
Sitting on my left hip with the burn of a broken coccyx, I am on a flight to Tuscan, Arizon. I've decided to start another travel blog, so feel free to follow my journey and live vicariously.
First, I planned the trip. I requested vacation for mid-March months ago, without any specific idea of what I would do. I have family scattered throughout the US, which I prefer to see if I'm traveling alone, because then I can typically get free lodging and some free meals. 5 days before takeoff, I purchased tickets while on a break at work. It had been a difficult day at the hospital and i had vacation on the brain. My grandparents on my mother's side are snow birds. They travel to Tuscon every winter from Ohio, to avoid the cold.
The planning wasn't great, I must admit. I threw some clothes in the washer last minute before work, convinced my parents to babysit my fur-children, and could not find anyone to cover my shift prior to the flight. As a nurse, I've adjusted to odd hours, so I decided I would make it work. After already losing one night of sleep Saturday, due to daylight saving, I worked until almost midnight, shoved some clean clothes into a used black Von Maur duffel I recently found at goodwill, and set an alarm for 0420.
Anxiety-stricken, I tossed and turned until 0200, so the 'Good Morning' ringtone was not welcomed when it arrived. I popped out of bed, woke my roommate, threw on the most comfortable clothes I could find, and hopped in my car towards Peoria airport. It always feels nice to get a ride to the airport, and I did not want my car in airport parking for a week.
I do not enjoy that airlines and *people in general* assume I am a functioning adult that knows the rules of flying. I arrived at the airport for the first time in almost a decade and scanned the lines of people, reading the signs of various airline Check-in and Ticketing. Everyone else effortlessly curing up, and all I know is I printed an itinerary but no ticket in hand. I found a digital monitor to attempt sign in, as it is always less embarrassing to show your confusion to a monotonous automaton than a sassy airport employee at 0445. Especially pre-caffeine. Tickets printed and when I was first in line I was greeted with "headed to Tuscon?". "Yes!" I must have gotten something right. There were options for different sized bags you could haul around yourself and take from layover to connecting flight. Many details of shape, size, and weight requirements seemed overwhelming, so I checked my medium-sized black duffel and brought 1 small reusable tote towards security.
I'm not sure if you've traveled lately, but airline security is no joke. I was asked for ID. Removed my blue and gray tennis shoes, teal winter coat, and red flannel shirt. All placed in separate gray bins, to conveyor through some kind of X Ray. My tote in it's own bin, stuffed with my purse, blanket, cellphone, and memory foam neck pillow. The uniformed man asked "do you have any toiletries, food, liquids?"
All I could think is damn I under packed! I wish I had brought all of those things. "No, thanks."
Then I scooted and slid along in my fuzzy socks towards some huge 3D metal detector. I stepped into it, thinking about sci-fi B films, when they prepare an individual to time travel or transform into an animal. I placed my socked-feet on yellow place holders and assumed the position. Erect, with arms extended to the ceiling and palms facing forward.
The scan identified an area of possible threat- highlighting a yellow spot on my right ankle. Transportation Security Agent pulled me aside, patted down my ankle, and I was back on my way. I mozied up to Gate 12 and sat in an uncomfortable-lightly cushioned straight back chair, connected in rows to many others and I waited to board.
Entering the first plane, Peoria to Chicago O'Hare, I saw a familiar face. A fellow Eureka High School 2010 graduate was also taking this flight to Chicago with an 0600 departure. The world is extremely small at times.
One row back and to the right, I set eyes on a middle-aged, affluent Caucasian with sandy blonde hair. She met my eyes in return and offered a cruel and disapproving look, as I stated. "I have the window seat buddy, nice to meet ya!" She left an awkward silence as I attempted to read if she was even going to stand up to let me in. She had her legs crossed and was reading today's paper, clearly comfortable and not expecting a seat companion. Finally I said " So... want me to crawl over... haha?!" And she coldly replied "I've been trying to stand to let you in but you're in the way."
Blood boiling as I take my seat, I start an inner mantra of "She isn't worth it. Don't even respond." Ignore the snarky remarks of people who are entitled based on their up-bringing, even though we paid for the same tickets. Besides, it was only a 36 minute flight. I distracted myself by watching the tiny lights at ground level. Monday rush hour traffic that I could see backed up for a mile, really gave perspective.
Walking off the first flight was a breakfast bar and tap. I ordered a $12 bloody mary and a Jameson pickle back at 0700 for the helluvit. Then I started packing "concourses" trying to find a map. My ticket did not list a Boarding Gate, so I had to first find out which gate and then locate it. I was to board at B7 and I was currently at F8. The map even showed me directions, but I still got lost 3 times before locating the gate. Dodging around people who were both fast and slow, focused and glued to their phones, I had to walk defensively, as if I were driving on the highway. Along the way, I passed a Coach bag store, inside the airport. Which I simply found excessive. The final hallway to my boarding gate was illuminated with large decorative orbs, an alluring site to see while on route.
I did locate a "comforts" store near my boarding gate and bought a bottle of water and advil PM. I found a seat in the waiting area and popped two advil PM qnd starting dosing off before hearing the announcement that our boarding gate had changed to B12. It was nearby but there were no chairs, so I stood and intermittently head bobbed for the next half hour until I was on board the connecting flight.
This flight I had another window seat (I paid extra to sit in the window seat on every flight because of my wanderlust.) This plane was bigger so I sat by 2 passengers this flight, a mother in her mid 40s and her teenage daughter. They were friendly but not very talkative, which was perfect.
Time started drifting out of focus. I was fighting sleep to watch us take off, but we were stalled in turn for too many minutes. The sandman closed my eyes. I opened them to the sound of a cart squeaking through the aisle and a sweetened voice whispering "want a drink?" I smelled the oil of hot food that a passenger had been delivered behind me and I wondered how long I had napped for that time. It was difficult to tell because Arizona doesn't follow daylight savings, so their time compared to Illinois time varies. I also had no idea what time zone we were in. I was disheartened that I missed the food cart, but I'm also sure it would have been expensive and overrated.
Blinking, and I'm drifting to sleep again. Turning every few minutes as the lack of cushion pushes hard plastic again't an injured coccyx bone. I laid my neck pillow here, against the window. It vibrated my head until the pillow slipped out. I placed it directly behind my head, but my lame self couldn't sit on my butt directly for long. Pillow against the seat in front of me, with elbows draped on the stow-away table. Nothing is comfortable. The pain is getting sharper and deeper. I hear "35 minutes til arrival" and I order a diet coke on ice from the flight attendant. Soon, my digital cellphone clock turns back to 1159. I know we are close now. Listening to those around me speak, I realized my hearing was distorted at this altitude. Then a downward jerk of turbulence to the airplane. I imagine us all drifting like a paper airplane, hitting every wind current on the way to the ground. Finally, peaking out the white, rounded airplane window I can see mountainous terrain.
The jutting impact of wheels landing on the runway. Then in the Tuscon airport, down the escalator I spot a lanky, older Caucasian gentleman in a white button down shirt and yellow tie, holding a tablet with "Grace Watson Welcome to Tuscon." Feeling VIP, I asked for a picture before he helped me collect my checked bag and offered me a complimentary water.
His name was Lionel, and he had a foreign accent. I started having Batman flashbacks, as Lionel was a classic butler type. I thanked him for picking me up and he cordially stated, "That's what I do." He immigrated here from New Zealand. I thought, what a polite guy, but when he struggled to get into the gates community I heard a frustrated whisper of "this damn thing" and I smiled at the human moment.
Upon arrival, Tuscon was sunny and 82 degrees. The airport was decorated with cacti and palm trees. The alpine landscape back-grounding the entire sky, a landmark skyline of sorts.
I arrived at Wagon's West, my grandparents' desert oasis retirement trailer park. Complete with a heated pool, Jacuzzi tub, gym, clubhouse, and library.
Lionel got lost trying to find my grandparents' trailer, not that I blamed him. We were in a sea of akin trailer homes, all decorated with cacti, hibiscus flowers, and tumbleweeds. My grandma waved her arms until Lionel found my destination.
My grandma is a petite, spry woman. Classy and slim in her leading years. Her boisterous laugh greeted us, followed by a firm and loving embrace. She wears her hair in a blonde bob, quite the modern look for 84. She was a school teacher and a mother to 4, so she constantly offers help to those around her. I call her Nana.
My grandpa stands towering over my grandma. He is ornery, says it keeps him young. He has a stern side to him, likely old habits formed in his army days. He spoils me though, won't let me spend a dime while I'm here. I call him Papa.
First order of business was to visit the clubhouse and get my VIP Wagon West pass, so that I can have full access to all the retiree amenities. There were a group of seniors playing scrabble and cards when we entered. They watched me with curiosity, and it made we wonder if their grandchildren every make visits this way. It only cost $2 for me to have full access for my entire six day trip and I got a name badge!
Nana and I went to a salad buffet called Sweet Tomatoes. It was impressive how swarming this restaurant was with customers. The largest salad buffet I have ever witnessed, with crisp, fresh vegetables of every kind. The buffet also had six kinds of fresh soup, three kinds of pasta, three kinds of pizza, a spread of breads and muffins, and soft serve ice cream with all the toppings. I had not eaten all day (other than half a package of maple wafers on my first flight). Needless to say, I overate like a vacation champion should.
Papa had set up the pullout bed, furnished with brand new and freshly washed sheets. He knew I had a long day of traveling and thought the carbs would make me drowsy. He was right. I napped for about 3 hours and was right back up to seize the day.
Nana and I sauntered out to a late night hot tub dip. She was complaining of the wind and cold, but the 55 degree breeze felt warm and comforting to my Illinois winter soul. We chatted and prospered from the massaging jets. It was a cold trip back to the locker room though, I will admit. I finally got a hot shower and shampoo and washed the dirt of traveling from my frame. We walked back to the one bedroom trailer together, trying not to joke too loud for the sleeping neighbors.
First, I planned the trip. I requested vacation for mid-March months ago, without any specific idea of what I would do. I have family scattered throughout the US, which I prefer to see if I'm traveling alone, because then I can typically get free lodging and some free meals. 5 days before takeoff, I purchased tickets while on a break at work. It had been a difficult day at the hospital and i had vacation on the brain. My grandparents on my mother's side are snow birds. They travel to Tuscon every winter from Ohio, to avoid the cold.
The planning wasn't great, I must admit. I threw some clothes in the washer last minute before work, convinced my parents to babysit my fur-children, and could not find anyone to cover my shift prior to the flight. As a nurse, I've adjusted to odd hours, so I decided I would make it work. After already losing one night of sleep Saturday, due to daylight saving, I worked until almost midnight, shoved some clean clothes into a used black Von Maur duffel I recently found at goodwill, and set an alarm for 0420.
Anxiety-stricken, I tossed and turned until 0200, so the 'Good Morning' ringtone was not welcomed when it arrived. I popped out of bed, woke my roommate, threw on the most comfortable clothes I could find, and hopped in my car towards Peoria airport. It always feels nice to get a ride to the airport, and I did not want my car in airport parking for a week.
I do not enjoy that airlines and *people in general* assume I am a functioning adult that knows the rules of flying. I arrived at the airport for the first time in almost a decade and scanned the lines of people, reading the signs of various airline Check-in and Ticketing. Everyone else effortlessly curing up, and all I know is I printed an itinerary but no ticket in hand. I found a digital monitor to attempt sign in, as it is always less embarrassing to show your confusion to a monotonous automaton than a sassy airport employee at 0445. Especially pre-caffeine. Tickets printed and when I was first in line I was greeted with "headed to Tuscon?". "Yes!" I must have gotten something right. There were options for different sized bags you could haul around yourself and take from layover to connecting flight. Many details of shape, size, and weight requirements seemed overwhelming, so I checked my medium-sized black duffel and brought 1 small reusable tote towards security.
I'm not sure if you've traveled lately, but airline security is no joke. I was asked for ID. Removed my blue and gray tennis shoes, teal winter coat, and red flannel shirt. All placed in separate gray bins, to conveyor through some kind of X Ray. My tote in it's own bin, stuffed with my purse, blanket, cellphone, and memory foam neck pillow. The uniformed man asked "do you have any toiletries, food, liquids?"
All I could think is damn I under packed! I wish I had brought all of those things. "No, thanks."
Then I scooted and slid along in my fuzzy socks towards some huge 3D metal detector. I stepped into it, thinking about sci-fi B films, when they prepare an individual to time travel or transform into an animal. I placed my socked-feet on yellow place holders and assumed the position. Erect, with arms extended to the ceiling and palms facing forward.
The scan identified an area of possible threat- highlighting a yellow spot on my right ankle. Transportation Security Agent pulled me aside, patted down my ankle, and I was back on my way. I mozied up to Gate 12 and sat in an uncomfortable-lightly cushioned straight back chair, connected in rows to many others and I waited to board.
Entering the first plane, Peoria to Chicago O'Hare, I saw a familiar face. A fellow Eureka High School 2010 graduate was also taking this flight to Chicago with an 0600 departure. The world is extremely small at times.
One row back and to the right, I set eyes on a middle-aged, affluent Caucasian with sandy blonde hair. She met my eyes in return and offered a cruel and disapproving look, as I stated. "I have the window seat buddy, nice to meet ya!" She left an awkward silence as I attempted to read if she was even going to stand up to let me in. She had her legs crossed and was reading today's paper, clearly comfortable and not expecting a seat companion. Finally I said " So... want me to crawl over... haha?!" And she coldly replied "I've been trying to stand to let you in but you're in the way."
Blood boiling as I take my seat, I start an inner mantra of "She isn't worth it. Don't even respond." Ignore the snarky remarks of people who are entitled based on their up-bringing, even though we paid for the same tickets. Besides, it was only a 36 minute flight. I distracted myself by watching the tiny lights at ground level. Monday rush hour traffic that I could see backed up for a mile, really gave perspective.
 |
| Monday Morning Chicago Rush-hour traffic |
Walking off the first flight was a breakfast bar and tap. I ordered a $12 bloody mary and a Jameson pickle back at 0700 for the helluvit. Then I started packing "concourses" trying to find a map. My ticket did not list a Boarding Gate, so I had to first find out which gate and then locate it. I was to board at B7 and I was currently at F8. The map even showed me directions, but I still got lost 3 times before locating the gate. Dodging around people who were both fast and slow, focused and glued to their phones, I had to walk defensively, as if I were driving on the highway. Along the way, I passed a Coach bag store, inside the airport. Which I simply found excessive. The final hallway to my boarding gate was illuminated with large decorative orbs, an alluring site to see while on route.
I did locate a "comforts" store near my boarding gate and bought a bottle of water and advil PM. I found a seat in the waiting area and popped two advil PM qnd starting dosing off before hearing the announcement that our boarding gate had changed to B12. It was nearby but there were no chairs, so I stood and intermittently head bobbed for the next half hour until I was on board the connecting flight.
This flight I had another window seat (I paid extra to sit in the window seat on every flight because of my wanderlust.) This plane was bigger so I sat by 2 passengers this flight, a mother in her mid 40s and her teenage daughter. They were friendly but not very talkative, which was perfect.
Time started drifting out of focus. I was fighting sleep to watch us take off, but we were stalled in turn for too many minutes. The sandman closed my eyes. I opened them to the sound of a cart squeaking through the aisle and a sweetened voice whispering "want a drink?" I smelled the oil of hot food that a passenger had been delivered behind me and I wondered how long I had napped for that time. It was difficult to tell because Arizona doesn't follow daylight savings, so their time compared to Illinois time varies. I also had no idea what time zone we were in. I was disheartened that I missed the food cart, but I'm also sure it would have been expensive and overrated.
Blinking, and I'm drifting to sleep again. Turning every few minutes as the lack of cushion pushes hard plastic again't an injured coccyx bone. I laid my neck pillow here, against the window. It vibrated my head until the pillow slipped out. I placed it directly behind my head, but my lame self couldn't sit on my butt directly for long. Pillow against the seat in front of me, with elbows draped on the stow-away table. Nothing is comfortable. The pain is getting sharper and deeper. I hear "35 minutes til arrival" and I order a diet coke on ice from the flight attendant. Soon, my digital cellphone clock turns back to 1159. I know we are close now. Listening to those around me speak, I realized my hearing was distorted at this altitude. Then a downward jerk of turbulence to the airplane. I imagine us all drifting like a paper airplane, hitting every wind current on the way to the ground. Finally, peaking out the white, rounded airplane window I can see mountainous terrain.
The jutting impact of wheels landing on the runway. Then in the Tuscon airport, down the escalator I spot a lanky, older Caucasian gentleman in a white button down shirt and yellow tie, holding a tablet with "Grace Watson Welcome to Tuscon." Feeling VIP, I asked for a picture before he helped me collect my checked bag and offered me a complimentary water.
His name was Lionel, and he had a foreign accent. I started having Batman flashbacks, as Lionel was a classic butler type. I thanked him for picking me up and he cordially stated, "That's what I do." He immigrated here from New Zealand. I thought, what a polite guy, but when he struggled to get into the gates community I heard a frustrated whisper of "this damn thing" and I smiled at the human moment.
Upon arrival, Tuscon was sunny and 82 degrees. The airport was decorated with cacti and palm trees. The alpine landscape back-grounding the entire sky, a landmark skyline of sorts.
I arrived at Wagon's West, my grandparents' desert oasis retirement trailer park. Complete with a heated pool, Jacuzzi tub, gym, clubhouse, and library.
Lionel got lost trying to find my grandparents' trailer, not that I blamed him. We were in a sea of akin trailer homes, all decorated with cacti, hibiscus flowers, and tumbleweeds. My grandma waved her arms until Lionel found my destination.
My grandma is a petite, spry woman. Classy and slim in her leading years. Her boisterous laugh greeted us, followed by a firm and loving embrace. She wears her hair in a blonde bob, quite the modern look for 84. She was a school teacher and a mother to 4, so she constantly offers help to those around her. I call her Nana.
My grandpa stands towering over my grandma. He is ornery, says it keeps him young. He has a stern side to him, likely old habits formed in his army days. He spoils me though, won't let me spend a dime while I'm here. I call him Papa.
First order of business was to visit the clubhouse and get my VIP Wagon West pass, so that I can have full access to all the retiree amenities. There were a group of seniors playing scrabble and cards when we entered. They watched me with curiosity, and it made we wonder if their grandchildren every make visits this way. It only cost $2 for me to have full access for my entire six day trip and I got a name badge!
Nana and I went to a salad buffet called Sweet Tomatoes. It was impressive how swarming this restaurant was with customers. The largest salad buffet I have ever witnessed, with crisp, fresh vegetables of every kind. The buffet also had six kinds of fresh soup, three kinds of pasta, three kinds of pizza, a spread of breads and muffins, and soft serve ice cream with all the toppings. I had not eaten all day (other than half a package of maple wafers on my first flight). Needless to say, I overate like a vacation champion should.
Papa had set up the pullout bed, furnished with brand new and freshly washed sheets. He knew I had a long day of traveling and thought the carbs would make me drowsy. He was right. I napped for about 3 hours and was right back up to seize the day.
Nana and I sauntered out to a late night hot tub dip. She was complaining of the wind and cold, but the 55 degree breeze felt warm and comforting to my Illinois winter soul. We chatted and prospered from the massaging jets. It was a cold trip back to the locker room though, I will admit. I finally got a hot shower and shampoo and washed the dirt of traveling from my frame. We walked back to the one bedroom trailer together, trying not to joke too loud for the sleeping neighbors.
 |
| Nana enjoying hot tub! |
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