Fact and Fiction in Arizona

Instead of hiking in the Sonoran Desert, I elected to run on Speedway, which is the only paved road to the ranch. Speedway is a kilometre from our casita, and as I jogged beside the saguaro and prickly pear, the barrel cactus and jumping cholla, a hawk swooped down and I saw, for one brief moment, a pair of eyes raking the ground for prey – maybe a rabbit, a lizard or titmouse.

By the time I turned and headed back to the ranch, it was near sunset. The low glancing light cast pockets of dark shadow along the flanks of the Rincon Mountains, separating each hollow depression from its neighbour and conjuring, out of this scrubby land, a vast sea of rumpled blankets. A giant had just climbed out of bed and high-stepped it over the mountains, stretching and yawning into the gathering gloom.

That was yesterday. Today, I took a long hike (23.5km out and back) to Douglas Springs Campground. Not a camper to be seen up there. Just a forlorn hitching post and a chemical toilet. But still worth the effort, I reflected, as I peeled an orange and rested my legs before heading back.

The hard climbs are within the first six kilometres, then it’s easier going over the long rolling hills. It’s winter and the desert is asleep. But for a few weeks each spring, I’m told, the rains begin and the desert bursts with colour. The normally taciturn saguaros are wreathed with hummingbirds and woodpeckers, wear fancy hats and boutonnieres, and pose on bright carpets. Rattlers and Gila monsters leave their hidey holes and frolic together. As in a biblical illustration, all of God’s creatures, normally at each other’s throats, are joined in fellowship.

Right now, though, all this is a dream. For right now, the sleeping desert wears a muted coat of dusty greens and browns, greys, ochres and yellows. Above, startling blue skies. And everywhere you step, scattered igneous stones streaked with palaverous marmite.

To tell the truth, I don’t know a thing about rocks. I just like the sound of “igneous,” so I use that. Same with titmouse. I plucked it out of the air because it’s impossible to say titmouse without immediately thinking mouse tit. And from there, well, you can’t help but see a wee clothesline fashioned from thread and matchsticks, with tiny brassieres fluttering in the breeze.

Getting my stories straight

I looked it up and apparently a titmouse is not a mouse at all. Sorry to say, it’s just a bird. I wish they’d get their stories straight. Not that I, personally, let facts get in the way of enjoying life and travel.

When abroad, I’m fact free. I don’t sign up for guided tours, read books, compile a list of must-see sights. For instance, I don’t remember a thing from the Picasso Museum in Barcelona. Except, we bought two really nice throw pillows on the way out. We toured the Sagrada Familia, although I’m undecided whether it’s fabulous or ugly or something else altogether. One day we passed a sign for the Jewish Quarter. Also, somewhere, a huge arch made entirely of brick. We ate patatas brava, which reminds me of a Greek dish, except my mother added eggs.

Now here’s what I do remember from Barcelona. An attractive young woman in full makeup, scarlet lips, a silky ponytail emerging from her ballcap. She’s wearing green overalls and dangling from the back of a truck. The truck lurches to a stop, she jumps off and begins to heave recycling bins into the truck’s rear end. Now there’s something I’ll remember forever.

But it’s not a fact, is it? So you can’t tell me it’s not true.

* * *

Straight from Park Ex

In Park Ex, in the apartment directly below ours, Euripides and Socrates are sitting on either side of the stereo and shouting over an insistent, deafening clarinet. It must be a saint’s day or something, for every seat is occupied by men smoking cigarettes, and on the coffee table there’s a platter of mezedes — fried meatballs, stuffed grape leaves, slices of sausage, cubes of hard kefalotyri. Lemon wedges are ranged along the platter’s edge, and alongside are saucers of olives and feta, a basket of bread.

Euripides has a small convenience store one block away; Socrates fixes cars by day and cleans offices with his brother at night. They’re married to a pair of sisters — formerly the Maragos sisters — and have been drinking. Which usually means they’re getting in each other’s face.

“If you’re so smart, my dear Socrates,” says Euripides in a strangled voice that tells you all you need to know, “please inform me, if you please, where Josef Stalin was born.” When Greeks become argumentative, honorifics and endearments land like grenades.

“That is an easy one, my love. He was born in the Soviet Republic of Georgia. In the city of…”

“Well, everybody knows that,” Socrates interrupts in exasperation.

“If it was so obvious, my dear friend, why did you ask? But allow me to pose this one: How many Stanley Cups has Detroit won? Go ahead, if you please.”

The Maragos sisters are devoted to each other, and so the two families spend every weekend, holiday and vacation together. They also live in the same apartment building, two blocks from this one, and their kids are constantly running riot in the stairs and slamming doors. The younger ones have only a vague notion of who their parents are. Another thing: Euripides and Socrates would step in front of the Number 80 bus for each other.

“Let’s see, now. How many Stanley Cups has Detroit won,” Socrates muses, pretending to stroke a long beard. “Wait, now I remember! The answer is, who cares?”

Off in the corner, Socrates’s brother, Themi — it’s his apartment we’re sitting in — cradles a beer in both hands and grins. “Detroit!” he shouts over the clarino. “Where is that?”

At this point, toddlers wobble into the living room, grab handfuls of mezedes and drop them on the carpet. The men erupt in laughter.

“Frosso!” Themi calls to his wife. “Get over here and manage your kids!”

In apron and high heels, Frosso sweeps in, wipes up the mess with one hand and steers the kids out with the other.

“The longest river in the world,” announces Euripides.

“What about it?” sniffs Socrates. “Everyone here knows it’s the Nile.”

“You are mistaken, my dear little bird. The Amazon is longer.” They glare at each other.

“Spyro, where are you?” I’m in the same room, of course, and have managed to stay out of it by pretending to watch a quiz show on TV, even though the sound is off. They repeat the question.

“The Nile or the Amazon,” I say, glancing back and forth. “Hmmm. I don’t really know.” The entire room stares at me.

Among the thirty or so people crammed into this third-floor, two-bedroom apartment on Ogilvy Street, my education — I’m still in high school — is already years longer than anyone else’s. Maybe longer than anyone else in the building, too. So how is it possible that I can be so stupid?

“I will find out, though,” I say.

We live in the apartment directly below, and in the bedroom I share with my sister is a bookcase containing the Encyclopedia Britannica — a lavish purchse, and an essential tour stop whenever my father shows the apartment to visitors. As music thumps from the ceiling, I pull out one volume after another, checking and cross-checking.

“The Nile,” I report back. “Longest river in the world.”

“Cairo!” shouts Themi. “Where is that? Ha-ha!”

* * *

Last dance

It’s our last day, and I’m sitting in a large reception room at the dude ranch. Country music plays here around the clock: George Jones, Randy Travis, folks like that. In the evening, vendors set up displays of western-themed silver jewelry, polished turquoise, and tooled leather belts. During the day, though, the room is mostly empty, except for me. It’s where I write.

Around three in the afternoon an elderly couple in jeans and down vests wander in. At that instant, Anne Murray’s Could I Have This Dance starts to play, and time stops. Without a word, the old gent takes his little lady tenderly into his arms, and tenderly they dance in small steps, until the very last note. Then, still holding hands, they wander over to study tonight’s menu. But the old gent can’t be bothered. He leans over and kisses his wife. Stares at her for a long while. Can’t believe his luck. On their way out, they smile and nod to me.

This, too, is something true, and not a fact. Something I will always remember.

Tomorrow we leave for home.