Four Corners to Amarillo

“I’m sure he’ll get tired soon,” I said, attempting to console my daughter.

We arrived at the Four Corners only to discover a young Native American in full regalia dancing on the four states marker medallion.

My daughter wasn’t happy. “This is so awkward,” she said, “How am I going to stand in all the states with him dancing there?”

In an effort to circumvent further deterioration in Euro-Native American relations, we encouraged Allison to shop at the surrounding booths while we waited for the little tyke to tire.

“You can stay here in New Mexico, I’m heading over to Colorado,” my easy-going son said, moving from my right side to my left. “Enough of that. I’m off to Utah,” he called with a wave.

If you’ve never been to Four Corners, I can assure you that it in no way resembles my daughter’s childhood images, which she says I have reported inaccurately. She pictured four major interstate highways converging at a massively dangerous intersection, not the four pastoral streets intersecting at a pole-mounted traffic light I insinuated. This is probably no surprise to regular readers who may have noted her propensity toward morbid fascination.

In any case, when I mentioned that by-passing Four Corners might help preserve whatever distorted images she may wish to retain, she looked at me in horror and said “Why would I ever want to do that?”

Although it was “exactly” as my son imagined--he did independent research-- the conglomeration of arts and crafts booths surrounding a medallion with an overlook wasn’t what my daughter was expecting. She claims that she’s not disappointed, but it was “a little weird.”

Meanwhile, we’re making up for lost time by setting a new record for hours logged in the car. I’m composing this post as we travel through Texas en route to the Best Western du jour.

In food news, I’ve been meaning to report that there’s a box of Spaghetti Western pasta at large somewhere between a gift shop adjoining the restaurant and the south rim of the Grand Canyon. In an unrelated event, an entire box of dry pasta was discovered scattered across the back of the van mere seconds after the loss of the boxed dinner was announced.

In further irony, my sister reports via blog that there was a near simultaneous pasta spill in her home. The simple quirk of fate brings to mind the Dom Delouse dream sequence of the early 90’s, when I told my sister one morning that the previous night had been filled with dreams starring the heavy set cook. She gasped in shock. Her dreams had revolved around an event that had to be cancelled because Dom Delouse failed to show up.

At this late hour, I don’t really care if any celebrities show up for my dreams. My sister can have them all. I just hope no one is dancing on the bed when we arrive at the hotel. I’m pretty tired.

Today's stats:

Total miles to date: 6933
Creature list: mouse
Total states to date: 22

Note to regular readers: The Grand Canyon post is now up, with pics from the professional photoshoot