Thanksgiving
A light drizzle was falling on Flagstaff the last Thursday in November. It was the morning after a crazy Wednesday, a night of open-mic, 25c drinks, sand-speckled beer that had been down the grand-canyon and back and finally the couch of a sweet half-swedish girl. She’d made me feel great about my Swedish, more than any real Swedish person could, “Snakke du Svensk?” “Ja!”
These memories were floating through my head as my phone rang. It was cousin Ed and Ms. Watson calling from Atlanta, wishing me a happy thanksgiving. Alex across on the other couch started talking to her mum too, and I could hear that on the other end, the phone was being passed around, and over and over the sentiments of this American holiday were being expressed. I give thanks for you every day, she said. I felt inexplicably joyful.
The day before I’d been offered to eat thanksgiving dinner with some of the fine locals I had met in that little mountain town. I had declined. Vegas was calling. But now it was Thursday and outside the rain was falling. I was tossing how best to spend Thanksgiving; eating too much turkey, or getting wet with my thumb out. In the end it was a no-brainer.
Dinner was scheduled for 1pm. But after the crazy night, the hosts were still in bed at two. I went over to help with preparations; my role was chopping onions and then getting out of everybody’s way. I drank beer and a little pipe was being passed around. We played games. Dinner was served at 6.30pm. The turkey was great. The mashed potato was delicious. The stuffing was unbelievable. Everyone was so full of food, and we continued playing games, and singing along to the guitars and the mandolin. Occasionally I looked outside where it was still raining and where hardly a soul could be found. I was still contemplating hitchhiking. It would be miserable, nobody on the road, and that endless drizzle, while inside was warmth and joy. I’ll catch the Greyhound bus at 2am, I told myself, arrive in Vegas in the morning. The guitars kept singing, and then, the bus, if it existed at all, was past. At 5am I fell asleep on another couch.
Marching with Confidence
The rain had stopped and it was getting light. I had slept two hours but felt fresh as I marched out towards Interstate 40. Once again I hadn’t done my research very well. The spot had only about 10% of traffic heading in the direction of Kingman. Most cars were speeding past on their way South to the big city of Phoenix or East to New Mexico. And nobody heading in my direction stopped. I waited an hour before I decided to find another spot, possibly on the historic Route 66. There are only bits and pieces of that famous highway that remain, but the main street of Flagstaff still bears its name. I walked back into town and toward the 66. On route I stopped at a service station to get some advice. The first local I asked thought the 66 wasn’t the option. He said that where I had been standing was the best spot.
Another Hippy goes out of his way
The second local told me: “Get in.” He was a proper mountain hippy, in his 50s with a little white beard and the kind of hat that you could imagine on a real-life wizard. He was spending the day taking some photos. It was his hobby, although he confessed that he had some talent. A woman had given him the Infinity we were driving in, for example, in exchange for five of his photos. He didn’t really care where he took photos, so although he hadn’t been planning on it, he would take me to Williams.
We were already at 7000ft, but as we drove along he asked if I wanted to get high. Then the cab was hazy and we talked about life and politics. He’d tried to leave Flagstaff a few times, but he always ended up coming back. He was left-leaning, as hippies tend to be, but with a certain degree of cynicism and a lack of tolerance for bullshit, the kind of qualities that often come from spending a long time on the planet. I was very grateful for his company.
A Frog
I walked from where I’d been dropped off to the on-ramp of the freeway. And lo-and-behold, there was already somebody standing there. Could it be? It was. Another hitchhiker. Finally.
He was Etienne, a French dude riding his bike from New York to Los Angeles. The rain had trapped him in Williams for two days and now he was behind schedule. He was trying to get a lift with his bike and all, but without much confidence. For a while we stood together, then he very kindly offered me to stand separately from him, since I could get a ride in anything, whereas he needed a pick-up truck. I moved my bags down the road, but still drifted back and talked to him. And in the end we got a ride together.
Christian-Classic-Rock
A father and son tried to spend thanksgiving riding their 4-wheel motorbikes in the mountains. But their car broke down. Now they were on their way back with a massive trailer, room for an extra bicycle and all our gear. Then we were rolling along. They asked for a song so I took out my guitar and played a few as we drove. The son was about 14, a sweet kid, full of curiousity about Australia and France. The dad was into classic-rock, and he told me that he also played guitar, and wrote music. Christian Music.
When we stopped for a toilet break, he played me a number. Try to imagine a guitar riff in 2/4 by Eric Clapton in the Cream years or The Rolling Stones, that goes (starting on the off-beat) Nah, nana, nah, nah, nana. So the song went:
He’s the King…
(Nah, nana, nah, nah, nana)
The King of Kings
(Nah, nana, nah, nah, nana)
He’s the lord…
(Nah, nana, nah, nah, nana)
Of all things
(Nah, nana, nah, nah, nana)
It was still stuck in my head long after I wished goodbye to the three of them in Kingman.
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