Bread in the Desert

On the road for weeks in the Utah desert, I've noticed how my normal routine gets whittled down. I'm stocked with essentials: water, sunscreen, a layer. I don't have a cooler so am eating mostly dry goods. It's temporary, and a worthwhile sacrifice when a trip to the grocery store means going a couple hours off-course. It's an attitude accrued from greed, an insatiability for the wonder around you, to take a piece of it while you can.

Following a waiter's recommendation for a Capitol Reef hike I realize I've bitten off, oh, let's say a little too much. Do other people start a twelve mile hike after lunch? It's rugged, stunning even, but I'm feeling it. On the out-and-back, I finally shortcut the endeavor by reaching an outer trailhead and hitchhiking back to my start. But the campsite is still far away.

Driving north, the twisting landscape of towering red rock, sage and slickrock turns to desert grey, from cracked, ashen earth to tawny mountain buttes, naked of any vegetation, stark mineral against blue sky. In springtime, its redemption is a carpet of bee-plant yellow blooms, a glow that hovers over the valley floor. Emptiness surrounds. Not where you would expect to find a farm stand.

I pull up to Mesa Farm Market, herded in by a grinning Aussie shepherd whose name I'll learn is Zeke. There I meet Randy, a farmer whose idea for a sustainable lifestyle brought him to this unlikely fifty-acre patch of earth. His greenhouse produces organic lettuce and vegetables, an outdoor oven fires up whole grain loaves and goats produce French-style chevre and the harder, buttery tomme. The transaction isn't just commerce, we exchange history, ideas on fencing and goat laments. All to say, the desert is not empty, and for the creative and hardworking, it can even provide, and gloriously so.

At Randy's suggestion, I skip my faraway destination and make camp on BLM land by Factory Butte. Dinner is a heap of greens mixed with mandarins, bread and cheeses, a meal, that even after weeks of restaurant research for a guidebook, is the most satisfying I could imagine.

It seems no lark that I've been reading The Man Who Quit Money, by Mark Sundeen. It tells the story of Daniel Suelo, a man who gave up money in 2009, lives in caves around Moab, and leads a rich life. As a friend said, "it brings all sorts of questions on religion, commerce and happiness." How possible is it to go back to the essential, and live as our ancestors did? To some degree, very. But modern problems--like dentistry, and aging, put a snarl in the simple life.

Few would go this far, though by Suelo's blog, it seems the appeal is growing. Spend any length of time in the desert and your needs will adapt, simplify and ultimately respond to the elemental. Bread and cheese.

A Moment in Transit

I often think of flights, buses and connections as dead space. Sure I can catch up on a good book or luxuriate in a long, uninterrupted phone call to a friend while waiting in a terminal, but I don't expect too much out of the experience.

But I may be wrong about that since, particularly when travel gets hard, it gets interesting.

On a connection in Miami the other day I was forced to cross the entire airport. Think of a horseshoe: D is on one side, J the other. There is no shortcut. Between them, travelers must exit security and wait in line once again. Time ticks away. Suffice it to say, you are practically a prize-winner if you don't get lost or miss your connections.

First I followed the signs, until there were none. I asked the only person available, a woman mopping the floor, for J terminal. "Sorry no English," she said. So I had the pleasure of asking her in Spanish.

According to her it was at the end of everything. "Go and go and keep going. But first you take the Skyride two stops." A Brazilian with his small son arrived and asked for more details, then a couple of Argentine women. As we hopped on the Skyride (which whisked us about a thousand feet), I had to convince them that the first stop wasn't ours (the benefit of not being a native Spanish speaker: I actually listen).

Then I got to talking with these two spunky Cordobans, well-dressed and tan in the opposite season, dragging their purses and heavy duty free bags through the whole airport while gushing about their visit to New Hampshire and the lakes. It turned out we had a lot in common, and that the directions were good. I'd like to think that my shepherding saved us some time. Unfortunately, we had long since lost the Brazilians, who had taken the first sky ride stop.

Fast forward twelve hours and I am in Chilean customs trying to clear a bottle of crushed red pepper to make my next flight an hour away. As with every foreign edible in a country where agricultural exports are king, it causes something akin to a Senate debate. I announce my predicament to the customs official, who happens to be listening. He then does what no customs official has ever done: he whisks my cart out of inspection, jogs down the hallway and hails us an elevator to the second floor. He doesn't stop until he has me to the ticket counter.

And no, he doesn't leave his phone number.

I'm ashamed to then find out that my flight is delayed and I will spend another hour in the airport. But the goodwill in transit has had its effect. Sometimes, when you are lucky, the real connections are still there.

How travel prepares us for The Crisis

Honestly, not many people seem to care about the plight of vacationers in these times. Why should they? Even the word smacks of arrogance. Who are these people whose single purpose is leisure?

Though I became a travel writer, I did not grow up vacationing. My family spent vacations visiting my mother’s family in rural Quebec. We never stayed in hotels but occasionally ate out at the kinds of places that also served pancakes for dinner.

Yet I became a traveler and a travel proponent. And I’d like to say that travel prepared me for today’s crisis.

Travel can go beyond vacationing. Yes, it can teach you to live skinnier. Becoming a traveler meant the usual—dining on crusty bread and cheese, rickety buses, moments of extreme penury and mild discomfort exchanged for raw experience. And then, a moment of insight, chatting with child buskers who cleverly tackled the impossible task of hustling religious trinkets to atheists and convincing tourists to shine their (unfortunately nylon) shoes.

But beyond what happened to me, your average American used to a full cupboard at home, there was what was happening to them.

I returned to Buenos Aires, a city I’d taught in, in the middle of their Crisis. The discord and desperation were palpable. My memories were of cinemas that served champagne.

But people kept going about their lives. The cafes were full. True—beverages were deftly nursed—but there were the Argentines, rain or shine, communing with one another. As if it were indispensable. I found El Salvador similarly pluckish. For every headline of gang wars, I witnessed numbers of grandmothers who donned a pressed floral dress every Sunday in the pursuit of anonymous goodness.

When The Crisis spread like a virus a few months ago, an Argentine friend commented, “You Americans talk like the world is over. But we have been through this many times. So maybe it’s easier.”

Seeing how people around the world function through dysfunction can teach and sustain us. Don’t get me wrong—I can’t tell you that goodness lies in poverty. The fact that money can provide solutions, well, that’s obvious. But in the absence of it, how do we go about our lives? That’s something worth figuring out.

Stranger in my own Land

For an expat, coming back to the States you realize you've lost some sense of cultural ease. Whatever's in, you didn't know it yet. Like in L.A., where there's botox ads on the radio and the guy behind me at the checkout counter observes, "that's a lot of carbs."

But then I went back to Boulder to buy a car to travel west this summer for work.

I know Boulder. I lived here for seven years. So it doesn't take me by surprise when I call a number for a 1988 Subaru wagon and I get a guy--typical flake--saying, "Does it drive well? I imagine it would. I haven't driven it in a couple years. The women have taken over you see..."

It didn't sound promising. But I didn't have other prospects.

He told me I should just come over so I drove out to Louisville to meet him. "Oh, hello," he says.

"The car?" I ask.

"Oh. There's a car?" His creased blue eyes peer out the screen door. "Well, there is! A red car!"

I still think I am being toyed with. I enter his house, with a soothing mix of Asian art, Buddhist prayer flags and family photos. No one else is home. Can I drive the car?

"Ah. Drive the car. Of course!" Does he have the keys?

"The keys...." and he starts to putter about the kitchen, moving things. He grabs a stack of cds. Mahler, Debussy, Mozart...not here!" I start to notice things. There is a large note written in marker with a name and number that says YOUR ROOMMATE. At eye level there is a note SUBARU LEGACY IS FOR SALE, with details of the car. I start to put it together. He doesn't remember anything.

"Can we call your wife? Does she have a cell phone?"

"Oh yes! My wife. She has a cell phone. Very good."

The doorbell rings and he's off. I overhear, "here for the Subaru." Despite its age, the Subaru actually looks pretty good. I hear the man do his thing. "A car?" He might as well be helping me, stalling for time. After a look around I see a copper pot with 2 keys. LYNDA'S SUBARU they say. Bingo.

He's back. The woman went away. I will not be so easily deterred. "Shall we go for a ride?" I ask. I feel like I am kidnapping him.

"I don't see why not!" He's beaming.

I find out a few things about Jim. He used to be a physicist. He does puzzles now. He loves the flowers that fill the front yard ("You call them irises? he asks me with all seriousness). He has great affection for the car but is a calm co-passenger, even when the Subaru stalls out (my stick shift driving is kind of rusty). Unfortunately, the right joint that's faulty according to Lynda's note makes a clenching noise in any right turn that makes you think the axle will snap. Not good. Not good enough for a road trip to Wyoming.

When we get back Jim shows me his wedding picture ("at least I think that's me"). We chat a bit. I leave a note for Lynda, so at least she knows what happened today. Jim will return to his 1000 piece puzzle. "You should come back," he says.

Just when I am sure the encounter was more for me than for him, he's standing on the porch as I leave. I roll down the window to hear him. He's waving his two fists in the air, scrawny arms up at right angles."

"I SAID, ENJOY IT. LIFE!"

That night his grown daughter calls me. She's seen my note. "My father has Alzheimers. I hope he didn't bother you. He didn't make you any promises, did he?"

Not at all. In fact, I'd been thinking about the encounter all day. And I figured out what was so strange and wonderful about it. These are the kinds of encounters we make in foreign lands. Where strangers might not treat each other as such. I never have these kinds of experiences when I am back home. And maybe this time I've only had this one because the other party has lost his mind.

At least that's what they think.

A Country Without Turistas

The plane to San Salvador is decorated with holly and the duty free shops are giving out shots of rum. It´s thirteen days til Christmas. Almost no one deboards in El Salvador, I spot no guidebooks and only one passenger with skin freckled enough to double-check. Am I the only one? I admit I am here because I have to be but there is that underlying curiosity: what´s this place about?

The immigration official is frowning. ¨Tourism,¨ I say. After delving into my date of birth and profession he asks again, ¨What´s your reason for being here?¨

¨Tourism,¨I repeat. Is it that hard to believe?

He gives me 60 days grudgingly (the limit is 90). I mention, ¨Is the limit 90 days? Because you gave me 60.¨

¨Yes,¨he says, ¨it depends on the case.¨ I´ve barely landed and become a case. Interesting.

The customs guy was another story. After briefly glancing at my passport he slips in my name, ¨Tienes unos ojos muy lindos, Carolina.¨ Then he translates it for me. That´s what I like, as a former English teacher, a bilingual come-on.

¨Thankyou,¨ I say politely, still afraid someone will revoke my tourist card.

How long am I here for? ¿Tan poco? I have to press the button on the baggage traffic light, the traveller´s Wheel of Fortune.

Green.

¨Ah, te vas Carolina!¨ This is my welcome. He lets me go, out of the airport (clammy and swarmed at dusk by parrots) and into San Salvador.