Sedona 101

Close acquaintances and fellow countrymen may be shocked to hear this, but I have officially procured a new pair of moccasins. I wish I could say that I found them after searching long and wide, but it was more like I stumbled across them in a cheap strip mall in Sedona. Minnetonka moccasins to boot. And on sale. I was pleased. Although, I must say, they're a departure from my standard footwear of the past 3 or so years. Instead of well worn brown suede, they appear to be black deerskin. Or just cowskin, who even knows. They're black, maybe sort of a pastel black. My mom was impressed with the fact that they matched my black Hawaiian shirt, which made me feel immediately and foolishly like a woman I encountered the other week in Minneapolis. This woman, I swear to God, had matched her sunglasses with her pants, the most hideous color of seafoam green the kindergartners at Crayola have ever developed. I mean, I cannot claim to be fashion acute (note the aforementioned Hawaiian shirt and moccasins), but it literally must have offended every single person she encountered. Either that, or it just provided excellent fodder for people who appreciate the art of people watching, simpletons as they are. Probably some pointless material for some worthless blog as well.

I'm officially in Sedona, Arizona, a land of bizarre rock formations and unrelenting desert heat. It's the sort of landscape where I look outside and half expect to see Wily E. Coyote chasing the roadrunner with an ACME rocket strapped to his ass. The land you envision yourself on when you take that great American road trip that you never seem to get around to. A land full of winding roads that snake through red rock canyons, an endless blue sky enfolding around you. Nothing but yourself, your Chevrolet, and the open road spreading into infinity, daring to tread upon nature's splendour. And if you're in Sedona, a maze of art galleries far beyond your budget, expensive eateries, tour companies, and the same sort of cheap t-shirt and souvenir shops you find in every American tourist destination. There has to be some sort of conglomerate that owns these places, selling shirts that say stuff like "The Man, The Legend," with arrows pointing up and down to correspond with the apparent truths. However, any establishment that sells beautiful, new, half priced Minnetonka moccasins is pretty alright in my book. To drop the cynicism of tourist culture though, this place is stunningly and quite unbelievably beautiful. It's my first time to the southwest, to this great American dreamland, and I am not disappointed.

I am not the sort of traveler used to having excessive downtime. In traveling Europe, I tended to exasperate a few of my companions, always needing to be on the move or going to see a new museum or monument. I remember silently judging a friend for what I deemed an unproductive few days in a Mediterranean city. But it's possible that they may have been on to something, bitter and judgmental as I was. Maybe not the route I would typically take all the time, but in this situation, it is quite relaxing to simply just be. Lazing by a pool, reading books, having a beer, etc. I think tomorrow we might go hiking in nearby Red Rocks State Park, which I'm excited for. If there's one thing I learned from M and C, Bill Bryson, and the English people, it's the value of walking in the countryside.

It's nice to be a gentleman of leisure, if only for a week. A trip to the Grand Canyon here, a day spent in Flagstaff there, possibly a jeep tour, plenty of time outside, some exercise, some unnecessary spending (this place is so fucking expensive). You know, the usual.