And on the seven(teen)th day, they rested
09/26/2009 at 23:45 from (32.166668, -110.883331)
After so many arduous days exploring, we felt we had earned a down day. Jennifer hugged us goodbye and headed off to her reunion and Mike was still on his hunting expedition, so after an hour or so we had the run of the house.
We spent the entire day asleep or on our computers, consolidating information, uploading photos, and plotting out the next phase of our trip. We had discussed with Jennifer earlier the possibility of staying with Brett and Laura instead of passing right through Tucson. We didn't like the idea of only being in Tucson for a few waking hours, but visiting relatives was a must.
The next day, we packed up and prepared for the long walk from the eastern suburbs of Flagstaff to the Greyhound station downtown. We printed off a map, put on our hats, and set off down the street, stopping occasionally to snap a quick photo or seek respite from the already intense sun. Along the way, we encountered well-camouflaged frogs, a pine forest that served as a fine latrine, and a gang of moped bikers.
By the time we arrived at the bus terminal, I was covered in a slick sheen of sweat and we had only a small amount of time before we were scheduled to leave. Marijana fetched the tickets while I pulled out the postcards we had carefully written the night before. I had volunteered to mail them that morning and, now that we were downtown, I had mere minutes to complete the task.
I tore out the door, down the street, across the tracks, up a few blocks, took a left, and arrived heaving at the post office steps. In spite of the blast wave of frigid air that greeted me when I threw open the doors, I continued to sweat puddles as my circulatory system struggled to catch back up with the amount of exercise I had just exposed myself to.
I fumbled with a plastic bag filled with little articles of clothing and crap that we had decided to send home, stuffing it all into a flat rate envelope and shoving drenched dollar bills at the disgusted clerk. He gingerly handed me back my change, rinsed his hands with alcohol sanitizer, and then pushed across the stamps for the postcards. My time running out, I slapped a stamp on each postcard, pushed them into the slot, and took off back to the bus terminal.
It was only when I arrived that I realized I hadn't put sufficient postage on the postcard headed to Croatia. Marijana was devastated by the news, since she had taken considerable delight in crafting so personal a note from so enviable a location. A little depressed, we lined up and (after some confusion) boarded the bus bound for Tucson. The quarters were cramped and the seats were tattered and worn. A zip tie held the remnants of the air conditioning unit's cover on and the driver sat encircled in bullet-proof glass. We began to doubt our dedication to transcontinental bus travel.
But as the trip wore on, the people around us began chatting amiably. We passed quickly through scenic mountains and plains covered in cacti. As we neared our destination, saguaro began to dominate the view out our window. Marijana gawked at the bizarre shapes they struck and the incredible heights to which they all seemed to grow. Almost too soon, we arrived at the bus station in Phoenix where, after a short wait, we jumped on a new bus bound for Tucson.
The sun was dipping below the horizon when we stepped out into the hot, dry air of the Tucson night. We waited nervously in front of the station, uncertain of who would meet us or how. As I paced the curb, a tall, scruffy-haired young man with a cute girl at his side strode purposefully up and said, "Brian?"
Brett, a little taller and with a lot more hair than I remembered, hugged us both and helped us pile our stuff in the back of his truck. He introduced us to his friend and asked us if we were hungry. When we hinted that we were, he told us to sit back, relax, and enjoy our ride to his favorite Mexican restaurant. Along the way, we listened with increasing pleasure to the Oregon State v. Arizona football game. The commentators made no attempt to hide their bias toward Arizona and, as a number of critical calls were blown (PAC-10 referees, baby!), amused us with their exasperation and anger.
We remained in the car, idling in the parking lot until the game was over (Arizona won by a nose) and then strolled into the restaurant and sat down to a memorable meal of handmade salsa, enchiladas, and more margaritas than I typically drink. After a filling meal, we headed back to the palace that Brett and Laura share with two other housemates. I managed to offend, in mere seconds, one of these housemates before we heaved our bags up the stairs and almost immediately fell fast asleep on Laura's magnificent bed.