There will always be a Phoenix.

In the famous words of the late Governor Ann Richards, you can put lipstick on a pig and call it Monique, but it's still just a pig. That's kind of how I feel about Phoenix. You can bring in all the palm trees and esperanzas you want, fill the streets with Beemers and Volvos, and paint all the houses in earth tones, but it's still just a big, dusty flat spot in the desert.

It's not much of a tourist town, by any stretch. The attractions here are more geared to those who are here year-round, or at least through the winter months. People who live here, at least all the ones that I've met, enjoy it. The dry heat really is a lot more comfortable to those who venture outside than the relatively moist air of San Antonio; yesterday it was 104 and I thought it was very comfortable ... lying in the pool. But still.

And getting around is pretty easy, except where the traffic gets really bad. All of the through streets are wide and straight, and the entire Valley of the Sun is a grid of evenly spaced thoroughfares bracketing architecturally cohesive subdivisions, each with its monumental entrance, its water feature, its theme of colours and edificial gewgaws (Cupolas! Niche windows! Pilasters!). And where the population has reached a certain critical mass of density and prosperity, the appearance is one of comfort and order: a sort of regimented riverless Rhineland.

And of course, it's a very, very large city, with a large middle class, so it's full of good restaurants, and probably has a first-rate nightlife, for those who want that sort of thing. There are jobs here, and a sense of opportunity and promise. It may even be a very good place to raise your kids, though I'm not sure what the criteria for that is; honest small-business owners and con artists seem to come from all backgrounds equally.

But driving around the city yesterday, on the way to the vistas of Dobbins Point and South Mountain Park, I felt a certain je ne sais quoi, a feeling that the pleasant and promising aspects of Phoenix are unreal, that this massive sprawl of urbanity and civilization is more than just artificial; that it is an interloper in this desert, that it will eventually move on to places more suited to human habitation (please, God, not South Texas!) and leave behind the crumbling hulk of Spanish tile and concrete, like so many cicadas.

But that's not really going to happen, is it? No, as long as there is electricity to power the air conditioning, and gasoline to power the pick-up, and as long as there is snow in the Rockies to fill the canals here, Phoenix will survive, and prosper. So I'm thinking I should buy some land here, maybe a dusty half-acre on the Scottsdale side....

Reconsidering things

Earlier today, while we were stopped at the Texas Canyon rest area, I thought about my comment yesterday, about how boring it is driving through the West, and I decided that that was not entirely accurate.

It is true that going from Point A to Point B is a mechanical exercise; that's equally true in the East. Had I had the luxury of time, I could have made the trip from San Antonio to Phoenix, and presumably on to San Diego, much more interesting than it is when we just get on I-10 at Hildebrand and get off at the 202. I could drive west out of San Antonio to Camp Wood, and up the South Llano River, or over to Langtry and up through the Big Bend Country or the Davis Mountains; I could cut across the corner of New Mexico, through Cloudcroft and Alamogordo, and up through Silver City and into Globe. It'd take a long, long time, and it's all country I've covered before. It still wouldn't be as fascinating as a simple drive through any nondescript part of eastern Tennessee or Kentucky; but it'd be a nice trip.

But as it is, having to be in a certain place at a certain time, the freeway is really the only practical option. And on this particular freeway, once you're past the Hill Country around Kerrville, you've really only got that spot in the Transpecos where the Davis Mountains are to your left, and the Guadalupe Mountains are to your right; and Texas Canyon.

Now, I've never really spent any time at Texas Canyon. There's a rest area there, and that's about it. But it's clear from the graffiti on the rocks nearest the rest area that many people have gone climbing in the rocks. They remind me of Vidavoo Rocks in Wyoming, up in the Laramie Mountains not far from where I used to live. I'm not much of a rock-climber -- never done it, in fact -- but the shapes of the rocks are so weird and other-worldly that even us flatlanders are fascinated by the scenery. Maybe one of these days I'll take a few hours to wander around the rocks in Texas Canyon. Until then, it remains the only point of interest on an otherwise dull trip across open space.

We have two days of masterful inactivity planned here in Phoenix, and will probably divide our time between watching TV and swimming. Maybe I'll go wander around the town some, looking for things to photograph. (Today I got only the one shot at Texas Canyon, of a rock that looks like a lizard, before my battery died; I must've left the camera on.) Or maybe I won't. I would go for a drive, but I've already been to every county in Arizona, and I know from sad experience that I want to stay as far away from the traffic in this town, especially to the North, where all the most interesting scenery lies, as I can.