Ach Mein Gott, bringing a hot pot (thanks, Shana and Dave!), coffee preparation devices, and a pound of Peet’s coffee really starts the day in a correct fashion whilst on the road. We may be bourgeois idiots, but Molly and I just can’t believe the vast sea of mediocre coffee out there.

Sadly, all the coffee in that sea couldn’t remedy the fact that I tossed and turned for a couple nights in a row, and was feeling a little frayed as we hit the road — this time, going southward with the intent of getting to Phoenix. I was behind the wheel and unable to take shots, which explains this photo:

This is Molly’s handiwork. I kid, of course — she didn’t have a chance at getting good shot of the red rocks of Sedona as I shot us through the area, lickety-split. We weren’t feeling Sedona at that particular moment (even though the landscape is incredible). I’m sure it was our own fault — we just weren’t zeroing in on the Energy Vortexes in the area (see the don’t-call-them-vortices site), or maybe we got a little annoyed at the relentless SOUTHWEST!!-ness of the place, complete with a McD0nald’s facade re-envisioned in adobe-pink and kokopelli-aqua arches.

We were in need of an attitude adjustment, stat, and so we stopped in Jerome, a former wicked wild west mining town that clings, a little hapharzardly, to the side of the mountains between Flagstaff and Prescott. It’s filled with artists and galleries but isn’t gaggingly precious like some boutiquey tourist towns are. And there was a minimum of dreamcatchers and howling wolves.

M and I seriously dawdled in Jerome in the beautiful spring sunshine, shopping, wandering and eating — having (delicious, non-beige) lunch at a restaurant called the Asylum, which made me mad because I wish I had a restaurant called that, on top of a hill. In Arizona.

It was hard to tear ourselves away.

But tear, we did. We moved on, stopping in Prescott for a cuppa and a quick WiFi hit at Cupper’s. I asked the ladies at the Chamber of Commerce if the summer camp I went to near Prescott still existed but the answer was no. Alas.

Prescott is pronouced “Presskit”. Do not pronounce it any other way. It’s a cute town and more dawdling was tempting, but we were late to get to Phoenix, especially since we had remembered the time change only that day, and were already an hour behind the master schedule.

Poor Molly. As we got closer to Phoenix, I regaled her with more and more anecdotes about my youth (which was spent in Phoenix). Fortunately, she’s never been to Arizona (save for the Grand Canyon) and the truly fantastical landscape kept her eyes occupied.

Gads, the Arizona desert. So incredible. It was amusingly green; 99.9% of the time this desert is brown brown brown but the rains (quite welcome after a NINE YEAR drought) have been spiffing things up. M’s mind was a little blown at all the flora that was new to her, including the mighty cartoon cactus, Saguaro.

Once in Phoenix, we stayed with Jo Ann, a dear old family friend, who resides in a fortress-like retirement community that is fabulous. She’s a great human with a fascinating past. We caught up as M, again, endured Phoenix insider talk.

Fun fact: my mom played tennis regularly with Sandra Day O’Connor! The only thing I remember about her is that she had an awesome trampoline in her backyard.

The scrapbooks were busted out. Here’s me (on right) as flower girl for Jo Ann’s wedding. That’s my bestest best friend Francine on the left, and my glamorous mom in the background.

Oh, man. Some science tomorrow. So excited.

Last night’s dream: we discovered that the Grand Canyon Caverns were a fraud; that the elevator was just stationary box that the tour guides shook to simulate the descent into the earth.

Molly’s quote of the day:

I’m already SICK of this red!

(referring to the rock formations in and around Sedona)

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