Travel Biography - Week 62.

In a Midst of a Contrast.

All photos here are my own, taken in 1995.

This week's blogger post, like any other, was written on an ordinary weekend, except that this time, we're amid a rather spectacular contrast between two women who have made or will make headlines in the media. One is Sarina Weigman and the other is Lucy Letbe. Maybe, you're not so familiar with Sarina. She's the manager of the England Lioness national women's football team. And for the first time after 57 years, she has succeeded in leading England to reach the World Cup finals. And so, by tomorrow afternoon, we'll know whether or not England won the cup by defeating Spain. (Final update at footer.)

The other female is graduate Lucy Letbe. By contrast, she has already made headlines after the jury convicted her of seven confirmed killings of newborns during her five-year career as a nurse in a neonatal unit of a Chester hospital. The destinies of these two couldn't be any different. One is destined for national glory. The other will be locked up for the rest of her life. According to the media, she would never be freed and will die behind bars.

Downtown Flagstaff.

I have opened this blog with such news, as both occurred on the same weekend. And amid such a contrast, I stand in the middle, perhaps, knowing full well that on one hand, I will never lift a trophy high among a crowd of happy, cheering supporters and TV cameras. On the other hand, neither would I ever see the inside of a prison cell for committing a crime and suffering as a social pariah and outcast.

Maybe, I'm like an imaginary flat plain of a wide landscape wedged in between a very high mountain range and a deep valley like the Grand Canyon. With either landscape contrasts, both extremities attract attention and have become well known. A featureless flat plain may not be so well known or touristy, but at least it is put to good use - whether by nature itself or cultivated by man.

And here, I'm referring to the semi-desert of mid to south Arizona, especially on the route between Flagstaff and Phoenix. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

At Phoenix, Arizona.

Arrival at Flagstaff from Grand Canyon NP.

That evening in September 1995, I alighted from the coach that had stopped at Flagstaff bus terminal and checked out the Greyhound Bus departures for the next day. One was destined for Phoenix, leaving mid-afternoon. I booked a seat for the next leg of the journey. Next, I began to look for accommodation preferably a hostel, to spend the night. The Motel de Beau was a suitable backpacker's hostel that catered mainly for those who are on their way to or back from the Grand Canyon. I entered and enquired whether a bed was available, not forgetting my failure to find a hostel bed in New York City due to student and gap year tourist overcrowding.

I was offered the last bed available, and I took it without hesitation. After locating my bed in one of the dormitories and preparing it, I went to the kitchen and I was told that free coffee was offered at all times. I almost jumped for joy, declaring, Wow! This is just like in Jerusalem! - I remembered the availability of free coffee throughout the day at the New Swedish Hostel in the heart of the Old City, and therefore I was able to compare.

I felt elated as I strolled through the street of Flagstaff to buy some groceries, just as the last of the daylight was fading. I was also looking forward to a bed for the night. I had not slept in one since I left Huckleberry Finn Hostel in St Louis, Missouri, and that was five nights previously. Whether I did this the right way or not, this was backpacking on a shoestring, spending five consecutive nights either seated in a Greyhound Americruiser or as with the case of the Grand Canyon, sleeping under the stars or in a trail rest-stop hut. Despite the roughness, I believe all this made the whole experience a lot more adventurous and rewarding, let alone saving money. After all, I would have never felt fascinated by the display of stars above me had I slept in a hotel room, or even in one of the huts at Phantom Ranch.

The following day, after checking out of the hostel, I strolled through the town of Flagstaff. It wasn't a large settlement but more of a spot on the road. I entered a bar and watched two players at the pool table, the loud crack of the coloured balls struck gave an atmosphere of a Western movie.

On to Phoenix.

That late afternoon, I boarded the Greyhound Americruiser for a three-hour journey to Phoenix. Unlike most of the stops, this was a new place to visit. It had the right climate for cacti to flourish abundantly, and Papago Park Desert Botanical Gardens, near Scottsdale, proved a worthwhile visit. Throughout the route, as it was a daytime ride, I was able to see plenty of cacti, mainly of the tall Saguaro species, flourishing in the otherwise semi-desert countryside. Such a scene provided quite an astonishing difference in roadside vegetation from a typical English scene of Oak, Silver Birch, Spruce, and other native trees and hedgerows. 

Indian Park, Phoenix.

After arrival, I found Metcalf House Hostel which was HI-AYH affiliated. The property, an average-sized house in a residential estate, was owned by a single middle-aged lady, who reminded me at the reception that duties were carried out in the morning by all guests. But unlike Huckleberry Finn Hostel in St Louis, this one was clean and well kept as well as more comfortable. Again, I stocked myself with groceries and settled in for the evening.

After I had dinner, I sat in the lounge with the owner and some other hostellers, including a couple of young Jewish men. We talked for a good part of the evening and then came a bit of a shocking surprise. The owner wanted to go out for an errand. She said she will be out for quite a while. Then she asked me to do her a favour and take charge of the hostel whilst she was away. It was a bit of a shock, having just arrived. But I said that would be okay and took on the responsibility.

All I had to do was make sure that everything was secure before retiring to bed. It meant a tour of the whole house and ensuring all was well and the kitchen was in order. Later that night, the bed was a welcoming sight.

The Ride to Papago Gardens.

The next morning, which happened to be my birthday, I made breakfast before I was assigned a duty by the owner. Earlier, before breakfast, I made use of one of the shower cubicles, as was my custom when travelling. There were two cubicles, and she asked me to clean the inside of one of them, the one I used earlier. This task has set a record for being the most remote hostelling duty I had ever carried out. All other hostel duties were wholly within the United Kingdom. However, not everyone favoured these duties - I believe one of the main causes of hostel decline and the need for change, as narrated earlier in this Biography. Therefore, it came as no surprise that before the rest of us got up that morning, a couple of hostellers arose, dressed, packed their bags and sneaked out, thus avoiding the duty altogether. 

 

Saguaro Cactus, Papago Park.

After the duty was done, I set out to check out the city. At the shopping plaza, I was impressed with how the square was laid out with shops, palm trees, and a decorative canal winding through, the clean pebble bed seen through the clear water flowing above it. However, for the first time, I saw notices displayed in some shops warning us that a shirt or top must be worn when entering the shop. I felt a slight unease. Being hot, I was wearing a singlet, a coloured vest. Was that permitted? Apparently, it was, as I was browsing, no one approached to turf me out or to chide me. It became apparent that it was toplessness that was forbidden - perhaps due to a strong Spanish/Catholic culture in the city.

That afternoon, I strolled into Indian Park, a series of low buildings baking in the sunshine, the whole environment giving an impression of Little Mexico. Although the square was deserted and the shops closed, I was half-expecting to come across a sleeping gentleman reclining outside his residence, the huge-rimmed Mexican hat shielding his face entirely from the sun. But no such luck.

General view of Papago Park from the trail.

In the evening, after dark, the city was alive with people attending a free open-air concert, like the one I saw at Tulsa. As I looked around, the scene was so like that of a Western movie, that I could almost sense the ghosts of old-time cowboys riding into town on their horses, with the leading rider holding a rope and swinging a lasso. The sensation was strong enough for me to wonder whether the atmosphere was really telling me something, as the historic square had that authentic look and feel.

The next morning, after a second night was spent at the hostel, no duty was assigned to me this time. Maybe this might have been due to having completed the duty once, and instead, they were assigned only to first-nighters. However, I didn't complain! Instead, I saw her talking to two students I saw for the first time. They were asking the warden about where to visit a botanical garden. The hostel had some bicycles stored for hire. When the two students accepted the idea of riding into town, I felt keen, and I asked them if they minded me accompanying them. They seem keen and said that they were about to visit the Papago Botanical Gardens near Scottsdale.

The three of us set out, and we rode on the path which parallel the straight road. It was already sunny and warm as I followed the lead rider, as he seemed to know where the park was. I certainly didn't.

The walk around the gardens was a worthwhile experience. Here, cacti grew to their full size, and there were a variety of species, from the impressive Ball Cactus to the tall Saguaro variety. There were notices explaining how water, being naturally scarce, is maintained through conservation methods. But what intrigued me most of all was the walkway through the gardens. Here in Phoenix, the path was known as a trail. Yet, when I imagine a trail such as the Bright Angel down into the Grand Canyon, this looks nothing like it.

Ball Cacti - spectacular.

After the walk around, we had some refreshments at the site's cafe. However, maybe it was due to being old enough to be their father, or perhaps not, but no special friendship developed between these two students and me. Maybe, I was seen as a hanger-on or someone who couldn't gel into their way of thinking or feelings. But they weren't hostile and made sure that I was okay. Whilst riding both to the park and back to the hostel, they made sure that I didn't fall behind. After returning to the hostel, we parted, the students went their way and I went mine.

This was to be my final evening at Metcalf Hostel, as later in the evening, I was due to board the Greyhound for an overnight journey to San Diego, another "virgin city" that is, I hadn't visited before. As I will find out, for me, San Diego was the best city I had ever stayed at in the whole of North America, and second only to Jerusalem in the world.

Once again, I found myself preparing for another night spent sitting upright in a seat instead of lying flat on the bed and my head resting on a comfortable pillow. But by now I was well used to it.

The following morning, the bus pulled into San Diego Bus terminal, back then located at Broadway. I freshened up and walked west towards the harbour. There was a large building, once a military centre, but by 1995, it was bought by the YMCA. However, on one of the floors, perhaps the third one up (from the ground, as in America, the ground floor is also the first floor) was the HI-AYH hostel, a set of bedrooms surrounding a common atrium. The hostel, like all other hostels, included a kitchen and dining room combined, and a large, military-style shower and bathroom. I checked in and paid for the next five nights. This hostel will set the pace for future travel.

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Update on Sunday, August 20th, 2023: England lost to Spain by one goal to nil. Therefore, Sarena Weigman won't receive her honours in full glory, as predicted above.

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Next Week: Life in San Diego.