A’Wonderin’ (pt. 9 of 10)
*Dear Reader,
My last post was in February 2025 and as of this writing it is now almost July. I know that’s too long, but perhaps you’ll cut me some slack, as I do have a pretty good reason: I was getting sober, which I am presently writing about and will publish on that subject very soon. In the meantime, for your summer reading enjoyment, I’m publishing a series of travel writings I made during a two-week RV trip with my wife and friends to the American southwest in August of 2023 that I originally posted on my social media accounts but have been asked to repost here. There’s a few references to my drinking, which obviously do not represent my present-day lifestyle, but that I left in for historical accuracy and for comedic and literary effect. I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I enjoyed living them, and then writing them.
A-Wonderin’
Note: As previously reported, I got behind on these daily RV trip posts due to there being so damn much awesoming going on and sometimes being so tired that I would pass out before finishing writing, having to finish it when time allowed the next day, which became less frequent in the last third of the trip. It may also be of note to the reader that all of these writings up to now have been created on an iPhone 14 by heat-swollen sausage-thumbs that make frequent typos, and have to be corrected while traveling on roads in various states of rock-damaged, flood-eroded and roadkill-strewn disrepair, in a giant, wobbly metal box at 60-70 mph. These final ones, however, are being written from a stable, full-sized HP laptop keyboard, as we have now arrived back in NC (to full work schedules) so I am writing post-transit from my apartment, in between sessions with my tele-therapy clients and bouts of lying on the floor wondering what the hell just happened…..
Aug. 18, 2023 (day ten): Santa Fe to Roswell, NM. The earth flattened, widened and yellowed as we descended from the mountains of the north to the desert brush and dry grasses of southern New Mexico, and the temperature rocketed upward in a way that would define the last days of the trip (as previously mentioned, our A/C was useless while in motion). Driving in upper 90s temps with virtually no shade, we at one point had to let air out of the tires of the bicycles secured to the rear of the RV so as to prevent them from exploding. Believe it or not, these were not the highest temps we would encounter (more on that in the next post).
These conditions necessitated a distraction strategy, so the playlist established itself as the sixth member of the committee, charged with the crucial task of keeping us sane and above despair. On Day One, I had toggled a Spotify setting so that the songs played alphabetically by title, as a way to “shuffle” but not repeat songs. The deeper we got into the trip, the more we enjoyed the nuances of this choice. For example, the selections’ timing was sometimes serendipitously cinematic, as on the occasion of hearing One Tree Hill by U2 while looking out at this expansive desert scene, which would then be followed inappropriately but nevertheless alphabetically by Only In My Dreams by Debbie Gibson, which has not, to my knowledge, ever made a single list of top one hundred songs one longs to hear while traversing a solemn, sprawling southwestern landscape.
This spontaneity kept us on our toes and sense of humor (quite necessary for said sanity) intact. Other notable and hilariously discordant pairings include the bluesy, soulful road-vibes of Part Of Me by Tedeschi Trucks Band yielding to the cheeseball 80’s synth-funk of Party All The Time by Eddie Murphy, U2’s Where The Streets Have No Name fading right into Tag Team’s Whoomp, There It Is and the masterfully random “Mister Trilogy” created by the algorithm that paired two bonafide singalongs- The Killers’ Mr. Brightsides and Counting Crows’ Mr. Jones then faded into the redonkulous farce of Mr Roboto by Styx- Too funny!
We survived the three plus slow-roast hours to southern New Mexico, arriving at our campsite at Trailer Village RV Park, just outside of Roswell, which, while spare and no-frills, graciously included the shade of one of the very few trees in the whole park. As the sun went down, the temperature dropped enough for Kelly and Sam to grill some delicious burgers for dinner and for Booker and I to fit in a couple games of Foosball* in the rec room that we enjoyed all to ourselves.
*Booker wishes for you to know that he completed an epic comeback for the win after being four goals down at one point.
**Matthew wishes for you to know that Booker’s deficit-overcoming was assisted by the occurrence of several “own-goals” by Matthew.
***Booker wishes for you to consider that SO WHAT these still count.
The next morning while sipping my coffee in a folding chair in the shade of the aforementioned holy tree, I spotted a Camper-Van across from us with a stylized decal that said @lanceandlea and an Instagram symbol. I looked them up on my phone and found that they were a young, vintage-countrified musical duo with an interesting story that was touring in that van and had played Roswell the night before. I ran into Lance in the men’s bathroom, recognizing him from IG and introducing myself, striking up a conversation about music and travel that he graciously continued even after I took to a stall. (Note: In my book, it takes a man of high character to cordially converse with a pooping stranger. I suspect the future just may be safe with his generation.) I left him to finish his impeccable facial-care routine (evident in his effervescent press photos- nice work, my dude!), wishing them the best of luck and promising to listen to some of their music on the road. He left us with a good recommendation for lunch.
We drove into main street Roswell to find a quite different vibe than Taos and Santa Fe. Home of the International UFO Museum, Aliens are to Roswell’s aesthetic and signage what mountains are to Asheville or palm trees are to Myrtle Beach or cheese steaks are to Philly. Campy, corny and wonderfully weird, Roswell has gone all-in on identifying (and marketing) as the site of the 1947 “incident” that amplified the American (and global) fascination with UFO encounters and the conspiracy theories of their cover-up. The museum itself is housed in what looks like a classic cinema or community theater and arranged in a chronological format that starts by detailing the U.S. governmental military activity that preceded the event, then the disparate accounts of the event itself and finally, the aftermath, which covered everything from the other well-documented accounts of contact with aliens to the influence of the events on popular culture and entertainment. All of this information was enhanced by full-sized, artfully constructed figures of the green/gray men in various dioramas depicting flying saucer landings, abductions and alien autopsies. Bottom line: it’s a real good time and will really get you a-wonderin’.
We followed Cowboy Lance’s recommendation and got a table at The Pecos Flavors Winery and Cafe, which to our delight, just happened to be in the middle of a sunday “Jazz Brunch” that featured a live band of sweet-looking grandpas playing Dave Brubeck covers in Mexican barber’s shirts with, despite the conditions outdoors, a collective chill rating of like 100-below. Yet another serendipitous find, I enjoyed this scene more than I expected to. This trip has allowed me to explore a new strategy in my public outings- observing the aged people for inspiration. It has made such a difference. I hadn’t realized how constantly following the goings-on of the audacious young and gratuitously tattooed was fueling my irritability and self-judgment and that looking to the over-50 folks is offering me a pathway to maybe being alright.
As the Sunday Brunch Boys eased into the rhythms of “Take Five”, I caught the eye of the white-haired polar bear of a keyboardist, receiving a “What’s shakin’, Daddy-O” smile and giving him a respectful nod as if to say “Hey cat-thanks for the inspiration. I hope to be something like you in about 25 years”.