Amanda Rae Was Here...

Last week I visited the Titan II Missile Museum in Sahuarita, Arizona, home to launch complex 571-7, the only one of 54 U.S. sites that remains in the same condition as when it was decommissioned in 1982, near the end of the Cold War.

I’m Switzerland on the topic of nuclear weapons—they exist, that’s the unfortunate reality—but I was blown away by what I saw:

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I was told that I’d pass right by the great Arizona Meteor Crater on my way from Flagstaff to Albuquerque, so as I approached the exit, I tuned my radio to AM 1610 to hear the spiel.

Then I drove the six miles from I-40/Route 66 to the visitors’ center. But when I got there,  I lost momentum suddenly. I didn’t feel like paying $16 to rush through the “experience” of viewing the most well preserved Earth divot left by a meteorite some 50,000 years ago. (I was on a tight schedule to be in ABQ—250 miles away—by 6:30 p.m., with ample time for multiple stops along the way.)

I left without even getting out of my car.

(I love that I can make these snap decisions and not ruin someone else’s day.)

Instead, I snapped a picture of this quirky themed Mobil station at the access road entrance:

And as I emerged back onto Route 66, I recalled my visit Sunset Crater National Park two weeks ago when I first arrived in Flagstaff, before the Grand Canyon adventure:

I had been on the road for almost 6 hours, from Palm Springs. When I pulled over to take a picture of a sign, I was sort of in a daze, and it took me a few moments to notice THIS:

Hardened lava flow, stretching for miles, dating to the volcano’s eruption 1040-1100.

Also, I remembered the even more magnificent Crater Lake in Oregon.

Meteors, volcanoes, natural shifts of the earth: as far as I’m concerned, a crater is a crater.

“Phoenix—hands down, bar none, the best pizza in America is at Pizzeria Bianco. Prepare to wait in like for 60-90 minutes, or show up an hour before it opens to (hopefully) get in with the first group.  If you’re alone, sit at the bar and watch him work. Order the Rosa and pick another one that looks good to you. This place is a church of pizza. “

So wrote JPC, he who recommended awesome food and drink in no fewer than a dozen locations across the country (Blue Bottle coffee in San Francisco; Kogi truck in LA). He is my Anthony Bourdain reference for all things food, and I haven’t had a mediocre eating experience after taking his suggestions. Dude, thanks a million.

As instructed, I ordered the Rosa (above): a white pie layered with Parmigiano-Reggiano, garlic, olive oil, thinly siced red onion, chopped Arizona pistachios, and a sprinkle of fresh rosemary, plus some locally made fennel sausage thrown on there for good measure. I didn’t miss the sauce—which, I was told, is so fresh that it cooks right on the pizza in the brick oven.

It was a crust to trump all crusts--crispy all around, yet slightly chewy in just the right places.

And a perfectly charred posterior:

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Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about belonging. I’m ready to settle somewhere out West for the longer short-term, but I’ve had a tough time deciding on a place where I think I’ll fit. The right spot.

But really, what is the “right” spot?

Exactly.

I’ve considered a variety of scenarios:

I toyed with the idea of inhabiting a shack somewhere on the California coast, a tiny writing bungalow with windows open to the sea—maybe with an all-seasons outdoor shower!…but as much as I enjoy the temperate climate in, say, San Diego, I shudder to think that I’d miss the rest of snowboarding season by being on a cool beach. Not yet.

Vancouver, oh, my number one ultimate dream destination: sparkling city, sea, mountains…if only it wasn’t festooned with a big fat bow of red tape. Work visa, taxes, and inevitable headaches a la Verizon Wireless…count me out. Canada is not worth the hassle. (No offense, PDW.)

I pondered moving to a bucolic, mile-high city in which I always have a good time, but I couldn’t shake the sour feeling that crept into my body when I imagined living there. There was no logical explanation; I’d have family there. I’d have many old friends there. It’s full of young, full-time professionals/part-time party animals, the living is cheap(ish), and the weather is sunny and mild…so, what’s the problem? All I can can come up with is that it’s too familiar. I want to roll into town and feel that scary exhilaration of not really knowing anyone. That might be the most loner statement I’ve made here, but it’s the truth. It’s what I need. For now.

Of course, these internal debates have played out while I’ve been criss-crossing the Arizona desert. After visiting Taliesin West, and after hearing a few old high-school buds gush about happiness in a hot, dry climate, I even thought, This would be the ultimate change: a landscape so foreign to a native New Englander that her skin cracks up when she thinks about it! No.

For now, I can’t fight it. I won’t fight it. I belong in the mountains.

[Mount Lemmon Highway, Arizona, January 29, 2012]

INDEED.

THERE IS A SKI AREA IN SOUTHERN ARIZONA, and it’s called Mount Lemmon.

You can see the desert from the chairlift. I can’t make this up!

Located just shy of 40 miles from Tucson, in the Santa Catalina Mountains of the Coronado Forest, Mount Lemmon Ski Valley is the southernmost ski destination in the United States.

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