#19 / 2003 Tour 2: This is Living

LOVING LIFE ON THE ROAD

#19 

I don’t know about others, but I feel like a grand adventurer as I travel cross country, passing folks on the road with local license plates, knowing they have jobs to go to, responsibilities to fill. Children especially look at us and point at our VW bus and give us the peace sign. We float through a space that seems special unto the two of us.

“Yes, yes, you’re right. This is living,” just like my Aunt Crittie used to say.

It’s a week day and Joe and I are spending the day, just as we have done since the first trip we ever shared in New Mexico, checking out Indian ruins. It’s early in the morning and Joe has spotted a new Anasazi ruin state park never seen on the maps before.

Homolovi Indian Ruins State Park has only been in operation since the late 1990s. It is so early in the day, well before nine a.m., and we feel like we are the only people on the road to the park. But no matter how far remote we get, we always encounter other unexpected people. When we get to the Visitor’s Center we are greeted by a sweet small little lady who obviously was born and bred somewhere very near Brooklyn. That accent is unmistakable. But obviously she has chosen to live out her days in the Southwest as a volunteer at an ancient Indian site. She offers us coffee and some local information on the difference between Hopi Indians and Navajo Indians. The Hopi were more sedentary folks, staying put for the most part, while the Navajo were more migratory, often wandering onto and infringing upon lands of other tribes. I might also explain here that Anasazi is a generic term referring to all the Indian civilizations in the Southwest that became extinct in the 1300s, long before Columbus arrived in the Americas.

We set up out in the van to have some breakfast before heading out on our expedition. Deciding to go back inside to enjoy some of the coffee the little New York lady offered us, I noticed a silver motorcycle parked outside in the early morning light.

There inside the center, getting his own coffee was a man about seven feet tall, looking just like Yani, the singer. His black leather pants came up to my bust line, his legs stretched so far. He had long black hair that appeared to need just a few more weeks before it settled into dread locks. He told the purveyor of the coffee that he was from Yugoslavia. Feeling not nearly so special and unique, I extended a hand and waved to him as he slowly pulled out of the parking lot, sans helmet, with a long cigarette in his mouth.