Dec. 10/09, midnight, Phoenix AZ

Quiet day, but it passed. Thankfully with minimal brain activity.

Woke up this morning in the midst of one of the most vivid dreams I've had in years. It began with a couple of short scenes I've since forgotten about but the main thrust was that I ended up at a comic/record/candy/ice cream shop run by the girlfriend of a high school friend. I don't remember if that friend was around at all, I think not, but I showed up in the morning before it was even open and went inside to hang out with this girl for a spell. It was odd and interesting, like we had some kind of familiarity we probably don't and may never have in real life. Eventually the store filled with her friends and family, all employees, and they got ready to open. Terry Fucking Hincks dropped by for some reason to congratulate her on the opening, which is probably one of the least likely scenarios I can think of.

Golfing was interesting today. I played terrible up until the last couple of holes. I'm pretty sure I was trying to work out some pent-up aggression by swinging way too hard way too often. I mean I swung so hard I started getting some pretty distinct pain in my shoulder blade area by the time I calmed down some. It was also kind of self-perpetuating because it just made me more frustrated that I was performing badly and compounded everything. I need to learn to deal with that better, not let that kind of aggression build up.

Getting a better view of the class divide down here. Grounds staff and day labourers in this community are almost uniformly Mexican, many speaking no English at all. Dad said the crew he hired to landscape their yard was technically the same that Gerry and Sherri used, but the personnel was very different; apparently a few of the guys got picked up by ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) and deported. The other workers say they'll be back in a few weeks, so apparently they know something the U.S. government doesn't. Kind of shows you the futility of the war against illegal immigrants.

Perhaps the Canadians can see it because they aren't so close to the situation, but there seems to be a consensus amongst these retirees that the economy, at least in the southern states, would grind to an absolute halt without illegal workers. They seem to be doing all the work in Arizona, anyway. When they work, that is; they clearly have a different mindset about urgency and the length of the work day. Gerry and Sherri are getting their back yard re-done and the workers didn't show up until 11;30am (they were expected before 10:00). While waiting for the porch bricks to be delivered they sat in the back yard, ate their bagged luches, even had naps in the sun since it took longer for the truck to show up than they expected.

Dad and Gerry talked with a hint of amazement in their voices about how much more they could get done if they worked harder for the full day and were better planned and organized (they ran out of bricks on two consecutive days before getting the porch finished). But the Canadian retirees don't seem to consider that there might be cultural differences at play, or at least a different mentality about work. Maybe (obviously) they aren't there to work 12 hour days and make more than they need, maybe they take on a job to cover their expenses and that's enough for them. Maybe they have a more austere lifestyle that doesn't necessarily call for all the comforts and conveniences we seek. Maybe its worth it to make a little less if your hours are a little less gruelling, if you're a little more relaxed, if you spend a little more time with your family, a little less time being stressed out. They likely couldn't even maintain the level they work at for a full eight hours; they have to use a pickaxe just to break into the desert soil to dig. They dig all day long with a goddamn pick axe and tamp dirt and bricks with a hand-made wooden pile driver. I would probably need a nap too.

You certainly don't need to make much money here though. Looking through the newspaper today and seeing the flyers for groceries and electronics was downright shocking. I know we have to import an awful lot of produce and other products to Saskatchewan but the price differences are immense nonetheless. The exchange rate alone can't explain it, that's for sure. Dad says they've seen gallons of milk on sale at times for 75 cents. That's astounding. I haven't seen a single cow since I got here! Where's all this cheap milk coming from? There are cows all over our province; how does this make sense? Meat is a stark example as well, literally a fraction of the price charged back home. The per-pound price for chicken and beef here is roughly equivalent to some of the 100 gram prices for fancy deli meat in Regina.

Pa says Part of the reason is that the state lacks the marketing boards/councils that dictate prices. For example, Christmas-sized turkeys, the 30 pounders, can be purchased for five dollars or less depending on how close to the holiday you get. Back home the Saskatchewan Turkey Producers' Marketing Board would set a higher price so that every producer gets a more even slice of the market. There's no regulatory body working for producers here, so they get into their own little price wars and things get super-cheap. It makes a big difference.

Price points follow the same trend for clothing, electronics, and other consumer goods as well. Big-name brand shoes are a third the price I'm used to; I got a brand new pair of New Balance running shoes for $39. I saw a 52" plasma hi-def TV on sale for $600; my dad got a smaller plasma screen a couple of years ago for $2,800 and it was a steal. Blu-ray DVDs sell for half or better of what they are at home.


It might seem a stereotype to us Canadians but excess definitely seems to be the call to arms here, especially when it comes to two of the most stereotypical American recreational aides: liquor and guns. We stopped at the Cabella's shop in Phoenix, a massive "outdoor outfitter" that older gentleman are quite fond of. The building is the size of entire shopping malls at home, large enough to include dozens of taxidermied animals posed on a faux-mountainside that reaches two floors from floor to ceiling. There's even a "museum" of sorts in the back of all the different animals that inhabit the region. That someone has killed. Anyway, we passed by the firearms area and the number of rifles on display was astounding. But that wasn't the half of it; meandering through the footwear section I glanced at a flyer left open on a bench and saw the big sale item this month: handguns! There was a full two-page spread of different pistols available for purchase just steps from where I was standing. I was agog. They were just there, all different styles, price ranges, and "stopping power." They were in Wal*Mart and in small, independent sporting goods stores. It reminded me that, while there is some loose regulation, that shit could be lying within arm's length of any home or person down here. I can't believe with the kind of availability there is anyone actually commits crime; I'm afraid just to look at people funny after seeing that. There's no way I could commit a crime and risk someone "defending themselves" against me.


Liqour is the other big one, as I mentioned. It isn't like some Alberta cities where they're overcompensating by having a thousand "beer stores" on every big street. Its just everywhere; advertised on TV, in grocery flyers, even drug stores carry booze. Its in every kind of store and in every advertisement. The first thing I saw when we went into Costco yesterday (yeah, my folks still shop at Costco, even though its just the two of them) was huge pallets of booze stacked at least 20 feet high. The prices seem insane, 1.75 litre bottles of tequila for $20. Sales are evidently so high at Costco the company has expanded their own in-store brand (Kirkland, I believe they call it) to cover booze. They have Kirkland "French gourmet" vodka, Kirkland 10 year-old Tawny Port, even several varieties of wine. And its littered throughout the store, not just in one back corner of the store where there was at least a dozen tables of product. There was an incredible juxtaposition in one aisle: all the floor-level products were sporting goods, balls, bats, weights, etc. But the entire aisle on the upper levels of those shelves, from eye-level up, was even more alcohol. Mostly beer. I'm not saying there isn't a tangential connection there, but they seem to be at odds.

But we didn't really venture outside the walls of "Sun City" today so there isn't much else to analyze. I think we'll probably end up going to Casa Grande tomorrow for a little shopping and a look at the Hohokam national monument the town is named after. Should be good to do a little learning during this adventure.

Dec. 8.09 10:00 pm Arizona time

Like I told the Twitter, I just don't get monolithic cities. I can't understand the mentality that one enormous, sprawling land mass encompassing the territory that was once divided into a half-dozen cities is a superior concept. Maybe it works for NYC but I don't get it in this context.

That being said there is a sort of twisted, masochistic beauty to the constantly intermingling, arching, curving levels of highways that converge in some areas of the city. The infrastructure here is both technically impressive and possessed of a certain austere loveliness. Everything is very terra cotta, uniform in its tans and browns and greys but there's also a subtle aesthetic value to the constant barrage of over- and under-passes and sound walls. There is also quite a number of active agricultural sections of land here, interspersed with all the concrete and desert. I'm sure it can't be easy or cheap to produce things that are actually green in this environment (besides cactus), but seeing a large patch of produce lying in the midst of a university campus or adjacent to a highway next to an industrial site is almost reminiscent of home. I can get why Saskatchewanians flock here; its like home in reverse, a climate that is at times inhospitable but they persevere in spite of it.

There's a lot more duality in the state than I remember. I was talking to Dad about it and a spin through the evening news illustrated it: the northern "high country" is basically the Banff to the southern region's Vancouver. There were areas in the north that saw up to 3 FEET of snow in a 24 hour period a day or two ago. The pictures on the newscast were incredible. It was like the blizzard up in Saskatoon a year or two ago except it started melting quicker. But there's a distinct line where the elevation plummets and all those southern regions like Phoenix get rain instead of snow. Quite a bit of rain actually, the first rain in 90 days, but still just rain. That's likely why things are looking so green right now, my old man says. I don't really remember a lot of green aside from the less-friendly shades of aloe and cactus plants.

I'm split on the location of Mom and Dad's new dwelling. It lies a full hour's drive south-east of Phoenix, quite literally in the middle of nowhere. Florence reminds me of the fictional Agrestic, from that Weeds program. Its a community apart from the greater society, an oasis of well-to-do development in the midst of inhospitable lands and mountains. It is highly suburban. Everything, down to the sidewalks and the waterpark and the goddamn pickleball courts (?) is brand new. The homes are tightly-packed with no walls or fences to divide the yards. The fuse boxes for each house are placed on the outside walls, recessed into the outer wall of the home, unsecured. Any hoodlum that can hitch a ride out here could disable the power and alarm systems (which most probably don't even have) with barely a thought. But I guess that's the point of a place like this, that the lowest common denominator is nowhere to be found.

Its a very lovely place though and stone-quiet so far removed from any city. Standing outside on the back porch barbecuing tonight the silence was prevalent. Not even the neighbours made a sound. Apparently the closest thing they get to a disturbance in these parts is the howling of coyotes at night and the occasional tuft of feathers that are left behind in the cold light of morning to signify something has been killed and eaten during the night. It makes sense for those prairie kids from Canada who made their fortunes (or as close as they're able) to seek out a place like this, one that sits comfort within that sense of pastoral serenity we see in Saskatchewan's countryside.

The drive out illustrates the difference between locales. The horizon, both far and near, is dotted with Arizona's "mountains." They are a treacherous-looking yin to the Rockies' gently fir-covered yang. Not only are they covered with dozens, sometimes hundreds of cacti but each formation seems to be the result of a surfeit of jagged, loose rocks that seem to have been dumped on top of each other from high above. They look as though a raindrop in the wrong spot would result in the whole precarious Jenga pile crashing down. They lie for miles incalculable in the distance, painting a vaguely menacing yet familiarly-beautiful backdrop into the state's canvas, a darker counterpart to its disarmingly beautiful (and very familiar) blue sky. If not for the ranges in the distance you really feel like you'd be in the Canadian prairies (except for Phoenix itself, which -- I'm sorry to belabour the point -- has like 15 Costco's).

The constant cacti is different though. We have nothing as distinctive and evocative as the cactus. I tried to get photos of some during the drive (thanks for nothing, automated shutter speed) but I'm hoping to carve out some time during the golden hour this week to shoot some more of them. The ones along the highway, which lies mostly on Native American reserve land, are astounding. Most have more than the stereotypically-familiar three-pronged body with arms, their gnarly fingers developed at a snail's pace, sometimes over as much as several hundred years. Some have more than a dozen arms stretching in each direction, branching off in a way that defies logic or consistency. Each has its own character. Some look to be at least 15 to 20 feet tall. Its truly incredible, especially amongst the rest of the sparse vegetation, which seems to be little more than more-evolved tumbleweed at first glance. The only indication of their potential danger comes when a loose plastic bag or other piece of trash that has been carelessly dumped by the roadside (and there was a lot of it; this area of the state lacks recycling facilities of any kind) gets pierced and trapped by their needles.

My Dad's cousin Gerald, who lives a few blocks over from my folks, was along for the ride with my old man. The three of us couldn't decide why there was a fence lining the inter-state and regional highways. It likely has something to do with the reserve status of the surrounding land, as there was no livestock to be seen. The only cattle in the southern part of the state seems to be at dairy farms where there isn't a lot of room to roam. Perhaps it serves to protect some less-aware travellers from running themselves into a cactus and getting jabbed.

So there's a stark contrast between the unyielding and untouched natural surroundings and the incredibly engineered farmlands and the suburb I find myself writing this from. For instance, local farmers go to great lengths to capture what little precipitation falls here just to irrigate their crops; we passed some green fields bordered by culverts that are constructed slightly above the level of the produce so the producers can run tubes down to the fields, allowing gravity to flood the field in controlled sections. They have to work very hard to get as much natural moisture as possible to their crops. Meanwhile, a five-minute drive away in the odd little community my folks live in outside Florence visitors are greeted by a large brick sign complete with a massive, cascading waterfall spilling out of it. In fact its one of several inside the "town," although the apparent laissez-faire attitude towards what is usually considered a valued commodity in desert climates is not localized there by any stretch of the imagination. Phoenix boasts numerous questionable uses of what should be considered a pretty precious resource in a year-round desert climate (including a professional football stadium with a real grass playing field that literally rolls out of the side of the building and needs to be constantly watered). My parents' little community also boasts a full-sized waterpark for residents, numerous indoor and outdoor pools, and an 18-hole golf course. This is, I assume, only feasible because homeowners are required to xeriscape their yards and are outfitted with brand new, Energy Star compliant appliances.

The largesse of the development isn't necessarily a bad thing, I suppose. This isn't a real town, its a collection of homes with a basic service or two located nearby. The closest thing it has to local flavour or culture seems to be a Chinese restaurant. Its kind of a nebulous thing; homeowners answer to the developer, while I suppose in theory the developer answers to the county. But the company made sure to get all the infrastructure in place ahead of time and provide for every possible want or need their customers might have. Its the exact sort of thing people like my parents want and deserve. They have little to no stress and after 35 years and four kids who too often took them and their hard work and sacrifice for granted it is exactly what they should have. A life of absolute leisure for as long as they can afford to sustain it. It may not be an ideal situation as far as my liberal guilt is concerned but it could probably be worse. At least they aren't driving all over the hemisphere in a huge RV, constantly on the move and clogging highways and rest stops, blowing out CO2 and making people angry. The sustainability of what they've chosen could be better but it could also be worse.

And they're so happy. Maybe they're just happy to see me but it seems like there's far less pointless bickering and far more togetherness and getting along. My impression of retired life is that it has absolutely everything to do with planning for dinner, night in and night out. They plan meals with Gerry and Sherri and other folks in the neighbourhood days in advance, sometimes a week or more. They share a freezer with G&S and they plan their dinners out in advance for each night. They seem to be eating less, reducing their carbs, and getting more exercise. They ride their bikes everywhere, every day almost. I can't even remember the last time I saw them on bikes. They're also golfing more here than they have back home the last couple years combined. The development's "activity center" or whatever they call it also has a satellite campus for the University of Arizona so my mom is taking a genealogy class there. Yeah, my mother is now a student at America's #1 party school. Maybe not the highest reaches of academia, but she's advancing her education! How cool is that?

Conversely, however, I've also rarely seen so much liquor in one private residence before (that includes their Regina home, which has always been hugely stocked). That's probably because they still shop at the Costco, which in America carries every kind of booze imaginable at prices roughly a third of what they are at home. They sell so much liquor the company has their own brand of wine, vodka, and other products. Dad insists they drink less than they do at home, despite the volume present in their pantry. He insisted they have a one-bottle limit for each colour of wine at dinner. I think he was joking.

I think me being here right now might actually be more for them than for me. Obviously I do need this right now, of course, maybe more than I will any other time in the short to medium term. But while they have had visitors in the time they've been here I know they're missing the kids a lot. Its pretty evident I need to do a much better job of staying in touch once they return after Christmas. But I think having one of us kids come down and see what they've done with the place, how proud they are of it, really means a lot to them.

I guess on some level I'd hoped this trip might help me restore my faith in relationships. I don't know if that's happening though. I love mom and dad and they're obviously my most immediate touchpoint for long, successful unions but it may not be what I need in a more immediate context. There's still a huge part of me that's feeling lonely and desperate, like I might never get to that point or even the point I thought I was at before it all ended. Regardless of the past or what the various women in my life I still have functional relationships with tell me I've never had a ton of success in tracking down eligible ladies and figuring out when they're interested. I'm still trying to figure out how to completely shut this all out of my mind, at least until I have a sex drive or even a desire for human connection and interaction again. There will be plenty of worrying about that once I get home.

I sat for the better part of 16 hours today. My knee is totally pissed at me and I need some sleep. Vacation, do your thing.

Dec. 8.09 11:45ish in some time zone somewhere

It looks like we're flying over the Arctic or something. All I see is just fluffy white clouds. The blanket of puffy white is breaking up ahead, I guess. Might see some ground today.

Baby got quiet at some point; I think we both drifted off for a spell. I woke up while they were passing out drinks. I foolishly asked for a Coke, forgetting all soda here is high-fructose corn syrup-based. Tastes like anus.

Dec 8.09 11:25 Mountain time, still en route to Phoenix

Word of advice: don't sit anywhere you can see the wing of your plane while it is taking off from Denver International Airport unless you have a total disregard for how ludicrous and insane flying really is.

See, I'm aware of how ludicrous it is that man actually flies. It goes against all of nature. It is an abomination for land-dwelling mammals to reach 35,000 feet, regardless of what anyone tells you.

The pilot warned us that take-off would be a little choppy. He failed to mention those seated on the wing would be watching it shake in the breeze like a sheet of tin being used to create thunder claps in a stage production of King Lear.

Oh well. Seeing the first blue sky of the day now that we're above Denver's snowy cloud-cover. A spot of turbulence has the plane heaving and yawing like a kite in a stiff breeze.

If someone doesn't shut that baby up, incidentally, they'll be arresting me when this fucking thing touches down.

Just kidding. Babies rule.

Dec. 8.09 11:00 Mountain time, en route to Phoenix from DEN

"Thanks for your compliance."

That's what they say on these flights. Compliance. Like you aren't a paying customer, rather a potentially troublesome complainer waiting to happen. Wasn't flying once a gentleman's pursuit? Didn't they once treat passengers with courtesy, not curtness? Sure, you may have had to pay an arm and a leg to fly back in the day, but by god it kept the riff-raff out!

There are at least two toddlers and an infant on this plane, a Boeing 757. There is already crying happening. Not to be excessively snooty or anti-child, but I don't want to hear kissy noises, crying, or little feet running up and down the aisle of my plane. Not ever.

I ate some American McDonald's for a quick lunch BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT YOU DO IN AMERICA. As the Romans do. Or something. I barely finished half of the mess. I'd rather not get fatter, especially when I've been losing weight lately. We'll see how well I stick to that once I'm eating red meat for every single meal. That's how my family rolls.

More crying baby. iPod is coming out for the rest of this leg.

The person next to me either didn't show or they didn't sell the seat. I've got a buffer. It's a relief.

Dude is saying "peek-a-boo" to that infant now. Louder than necessary. I'm irritable.

My heart feels strange after that McDonald's. I should probably start seeing a doctor. I guess I'm getting old.

I've got a wing-adjacent window seat. I'll be among the first to see the engines flare out if we have a catastrophic disaster. That sure would simplify things, wouldn't it? Blah. Let's get this over with.

Dec. 8.09 10:00 Mountain time, at DEN

Arrived at Denver International Airport. It is big.

I really would've loved to get some photos of the massive tunnels leading from the jet bridge through to the security gates. I wish I would've stopped even though the signs insisted that photographs were prohibited in that area, but I'm a nervous traveller. Heaven forfend I break a rule. The tunnels were incredible, all arching and desolate once my fellow passengers had raced away in front of me. There are several connected hallways, all of them a significant incline so that you cannot look ahead, you have to look up to move forward. The floors are wide and arched, leaving the middle a fair bit higher than the sloped sides. It was a very lonely kind of beautiful, very grey and institutional, but the arch and elevation imbues the suprisingly long journey with a sense of hope. Like salvation or companionship is just on the other side. What a perfect metaphor for life, considering the multiple Customs and Border Services/security areas are all that lie immediately ahead.

The scope of the rest of the buliding is just as massive. After the customs checkpoints you pass through a "great hall" where the TSA security gates are set up. There had to be a dozen diffent screening lines and numerous shops lining the walls, all underneath a giant fabric/fibreglass canopy roof. The atrium is 900 feet by 210 feet. The fibreglass ceiling lets light in during the day time. An acquaintance of my father's tells me that when they first built it the roof actually collapsed because the heft of accumulating snowfall wasn't taken into account; there was no effort undertaken to combat the city's natural climate. From there passengers take an honest-to-goodness subway train to the three departure concourses. It spans a lot of distance and they're moving a lot of people through here. The number of passengers is remarkable, considering this is likely a lower-traffic day and time of day. The concourses even have big ol' shoe-shining stands.

I'm nearly the only person waiting at our terminal that isn't on their laptop or cell phone right now. It is crazy. What did people do to kill 45 minutes before technology? I guess write in their notebooks. I am officially an anachronism in this moment.

The number of restaurants and shops here is a little overwhelming as well, considering this is only one floor of one concourse at one airport. There are probably more stores here than in most Regina shopping malls. Good thing, considering I need to find one selling memory cards since I forgot to throw one in my camera before I left.

Should see if I can text mom and dad to let them know I'm on schedule. Maybe get some food. As has been the case for the last month and a half I'm not hungry now, but it might make the next plane ride easier.

Dec. 8.09 8:30am, en route to Denver International Airport

There doesn't seem to be a sunrise when you're flying in an airplane at the time the sun is supposed to come up. There is only ascent, the culmination of which will take you high enough to see the sun one way or the other. Either that or I managed to fall asleep at exactly the wrong time without realizing it.

U.S. Customs forms are complicated when you're only half-awake.

I'm on the sunny side of a 24 seat plane in the window seat. The right side of my face is very hot and it appears the sleeping gentleman seated uncomfortably near to me is on the verge of seeing his head tilt and land on my shoulder. I fear drool may be imminent.

Dec 8.09 6:30am, YQR terminal, waiting to depart

WestJet ladies are funny.

I'm sitting outside Gates D and E at Regina International Airport and it has been a few years since I flew anywhere. I'm getting a feel for it again. Regina isn't an issue; the airport here is pretty simple to navigate and logically laid out. I'm more concerned with Denver's massive, sprawling facility. I know it is enormous and a colleague that recently went to and arrived from Australia via Denver said they do full Customs checks regardless of whether you're heading in or out. Sounds like a hassle and given my recent frame of mind I am not particularly in the mood for no hassle.

I wish I'd gotten more sleep last night. Staying up that late was a huge mistake (even though ripping vinyl records to my iPod is of paramount importance when leaving home for any length of time). My brain is feeling just a bit sub-functional, throbbing ever-so-slightly inside my skull, and my eyes are very heavy. I walked some 20 blocks in roughly -30 degree Celsius weather just to drop off a mitten at a friend's house. It needed to be done but I could have also just gone to sleep and worried about it later. No matter; sleep is the one thing I've never really needed.

I don't know how to feel about all this. It's going to be a great trip, I'm sure, but I'm so goddamn broke right now I'd probably be better off if I just stayed home and worked some shifts at the coffee shop to scrape up some extra cash and work on my debt.

There's a sleepy dude sitting a row over, closer to Gate D. Hopefully he's not the Paul the funny ladies at that Gate have been paging the last 20 minutes, the one whose plane just left without him because he either can't get to the airport on time or can't stay awake once he's there. Regardless, it looks like someone named Paul is having trouble getting to Calgary today.

I'm excited at the chance to decompress for 10 days. At various times in the last month I've felt like I was on my way to an ulcer, a complete mental breakdown, or both. I just want to see my folks and not think about anything. I don't want to think about the break-up, the make-out, my job(s), how I'm going to re-arrange the furniture in my apartment to make it seem less familiar, my debt, my car, my goddamn duct-taped boots, or any such thing. I need some time to be carefree and be alone with my brain. I need to let it run loose and just relax the fuck out.

Hi. I'm in Delaware.

I'm currently sitting in the kitchen of my parent's condo in Florence, Arizona. This is where this blog was born.

In this space over the coming weeks I'll be posting excerpts from my vacation journal. In the span of just six days in the sky and on the road I've eked out 5o pages of thoughts and observations about myself, the places I've travelled to and through, and the situations and sights that I've seen and experienced. There is a surprising amount of personal analysis happening here, so that will make up a significant component of this work.

Its a place to keep track of how travel can change you and your perceptions. And of course, by you I mean me.