On our road trip, Darrel and I talked about the cars we have owned. As men of our age are wont to do.
I laid down a challenge -- that I could name all of the cars I have owned. And then dared him to do it. I won.
But the contest was not fair. I have only owned nine cars. He has easily owned double that. One for only two days. The longest for 14 years.
Because my list is short, I thought I would share it with you. The subsequent conversation should prove to be interesting.
Car #1. You already know about this beauty. My 1967 Oldsmobile Cutlass convertible that I wrote about in not my father's oldsmobile. I drove it through my first years in the Air Force.
I suspect I sold it to be certain the driving tales associated with it would disappear along with the title. If you buy me dinner, I might share a few.
But you would hear the best car tales about my 1973 240Z -- Car #2. For a number of reasons, it is still my favorite car. Certainly for the time I had it. You read about the car in on the road with donny datsun three years ago.
It accompanied me on assignment in Greece for one year. Where I would regularly drive it on the Greek expressway at 120 miles per hour. At least, according to the speedometer.
To be in your early 20s is to doubt that death exists. Just writing the number 120 is enough to bring back great memories of that Spartan little sport car.
After Greece, the 240Z and I took a road trip through Greece, up through Italy, across France, and into the United Kingdom. Where both car and driver stayed land-locked for two years. With the exception of a loop up through Scotland, across to Northern Ireland, down through the Republic of Ireland, and over to Wales. Where I was repeatedly treated as I was an IRA sympathizer.
And because it was the 1970s, my speed dropped, though my love of driving did not.
Car #3 -- a 1981 Datsun 200ZX -- came along as a matter of practicality. I had opened a law practice with a friend from law school, and extravagance was not what I needed at the time.
My memory is that, even the car was new, it could be classified only as utilitarian. But hardly memorable. Well, other than the fact that I purchased it with a brief case full of cash. But that is a story for another day.
Car #4 -- a 1983 Pontiac STE -- started a trend for me with new cars. The body looked like almost all of the GM cars of that model. But it had the soul of a sport car.
With a 3.1 litre 6 cylinder engine that provided an amazing amount of power and a suspension and steering capability that would have made an Astin Martin driver smile.
But my heart was quickly won over by Ford's then-new sedan -- a 1986 Ford Taurus LTE. Car #5.
Its handling was not quite as good as the Pontiac. But its dash had enough readouts to satisfy a Microsoft employee.
In the 1970s there was a Shell commercial that showed a very primitive computer calculating miles per gallon as a car drove along sucking Shell gasoline out of a laboratory beaker. I had lusted for a similar calculator in my car. A decade later, there it was.
With its computer and leather seats, I felt I had arrived as a successful almost-young lawyer.
Until Car #6 came along. My law partner was interested in buying a BMW as a safety car for his growing family. His first son had just been born.
I agreed to accompany him to the dealer. But I was not interested in a new car. My Taurus was the love of my life.
While he looked around at hardtops, a red 1988 BMWi sitting in the showroom caught my eye. By the time he was done looking, I had purchased the convertible, and I was tooling home -- with a new innovation. A CD player. And the Taurus was on a used car lot.
For sheer driving pleasure, that car almost matched my memories of the 240Z. Unfortunately, I could not really compare them properly. Where was I going to drive 120 MPH in Oregon?
The BMW was the only car I leased. When I took a job that added 100 commuting miles each day, I knew I needed to find something different. Or I would go broke paying for excess mileage at the end of the lease term.
And I did find something different. I held onto the BMW and bought a second car (to save money -- you can stop that sniggering). The stepchild of my car ownership. Car #7. A used brown Ford Taurus.
I almost forgot about it. It is that forgettable. By that time, the Taurus had turned into the standard rental car. And they were everywhere. I eventually gave it to my father.
Car #8 got me back on track, though. I traded the BMW in for America's 1990s answer to the Japanese luxury sedans that had cornered an entire piece of the American market. A 1995 Oldsmobile Aurora.
It had the lines of its Japanese competition. And great handling for a car of its size.
The day I bought it, I had to be at a political meeting in Portland. There was a slight drizzle, but I could not figure out why everyone was driving so slow. I looked at the speedometer: I was driving 100 MPH. I pulled back on the throttle.
By this point in my career, the car fit me. A middle-aged attorney in his big car. Not to mention, that Jiggs loved the luxury of the lather seats.
The Aurora came to an untimely end in 2001. We were T-boned by a Jeep driven by a dad who was rushing his young son back to the ex-wife following a custody visitation. The car was totaled.
Having had my fling with larger and larger cars, I decided to try something new. An SUV.
Ford had just been released the Escape in 2001, and that was car #9. A truck that would become known in Mexico as the Shiftless Escape.
But you know those stories.
I am now ready to buy my tenth vehicle -- my eighth new vehicle -- in Mexico. A vehicle that will reflect my personality in my seventh decade.
And you are going to get to share in the adventures as they occur. But that means getting back to Mexico. Something I will do in a week or two.
Let me cut to the end of the chase. We made it to Bend from Melaque in just over four days.
I have written about some of our adventures, let me sum up with a few observations.
First, traveling with my brother is pure joy. Not only does he get most of my quips, he serves up his own that are far better. That is one thing that makes him my best friend.
The past week was too action-packed to share it with someone who could not be bluntly honest with me. The fact that he shares my joy in living means there is little need for bluntness.
Second, the trip north is beautiful. Several times I commented that I would like to spend time photographing sights along the way, but we blasted north without stopping. Even when I was the guy driving. That is just who we are. Our father's sons.
Third, both of us really enjoyed spending the night with my friends Roy and Nancy in Reno on Thursday night. Having tender prime rib for dinner and well-constructed Eggs Benedict for breakfast made our two days of Oxxo ham and cheese sandwiches simply disappear from our memory.
I miss very few things about The States. But good food tops the list.
Fourth, the trip has sharpened my eye a bit. We stopped in Lakeview, Oregon (just north of the California border) for a Subway sandwich and to fill the gas tank. While the attendant was busy with the hose (because Oregon, like Mexico, still relies on people to fill your tank), I wandered over to the street corner. To find this.
I drive thousands of miles to find Mexican food. Irony is my fate.
On Monday, I intend to drive over to Salem to close out my credit union account and deposit that money in an account to be transferred to Mexico. All of that to effect the purchase of a new Escape.
As for the Shiftless Escape, it has found a new home with my brother in Bend. As we were driving north, we reminisced about our various stops with Professor Jiggs on the trip south almost exactly four years ago.
Jiggs is gone. And now the Escape will be gone, as well. It is a time for transitions.
Note: I am considering stalling on purchasing the Escape. The peso-dollar exchange has worsened over the past few months -- by almost twenty percent. On the other hand, it may not get much better in the near future. I will keep you posted.
I may not spend much time here, but I have returned to the state I now call my legal residence.
We left Bullhead City (in Arizona) Thursday morning around 8 and arrived in Reno just before 6 PM. That is one of the joys of Nevada. Being able to travel long distances at high speeds -- and feel relatively legal. It is no wonder libertarians are attracted to the place.
Along with other sorts. I realize this photograph runs the risk of being labeled cliché. Tourist traps and brothels are not everything about Nevada. But even the rankest stereotype is based on some truth.
Well, truth may not be the correct word. Take this tourist trap.
It is on the main north-south highway in western Nevada. The fabled Area 51 is in eastern Nevada. But that does not keep clever entrepreneurs from spinning fables about the huge tracts of federal land in the state.
Of course, there are some identified flying objects that can conjure up real and imagined fears. We were pulling into Indian Springs when Darrel noticed this object.
It is a Predator drone. About to do a touch and go on the local Air Force landing strip. Another was on its final leg.
I could have spent the full day watching them climb and dive. What I did not know was where the location of the "pilot." It could have been anywhere in the world. And, unlike Rand Paul, I find them a bit comforting. They could be the precursors of commercial flight.
But that is far in the future. My more immediate future includes a quick trip to Bend tomorrow. And an end to our little automobile shuffle adventure.
We were in the middle of the great Sonoran Desert when Darrel said: "This isn't the desert. Well, what we thought was the desert when we were kids. Deserts are supposed to have sand dunes. Like the Sahara."
The Sonoran Desert is what we thought was cowboy and Indian country. With mountains and cactus. The type of place Roy Rogers and Gene Autry would roam.
Of course, it is not cowboy country -- despite what Hollywood tries to show us. On our trip yesterday through the heart of the desert, I saw one lonely Brahma-mix cow wandering through the cactus looking like an alcoholic searching for a drink at a Mormon convention.
I suspect I would never live in the desert by choice. Even a lovely desert like this.
And lovely it is. The cactus were just coming into bloom. The mesquite wore yellow flowers. All against the background of craggy hills and as orderly as a cultivated garden.
I would have added a few more photographs, but when the Cotton boys drive, there is no stopping. Not even for photographs.
We come by that obsession honestly. I told you about our first (of two) family vacations in the road to freedom. On our road trip from Detroit to Powers, my mother asked Dad if we could see the Grand Canyon. He said no. Because we were headed back home. And "it was just a big hole in the ground."
But he did stop to let us see the Painted Desert in Arizona. By pulling over to the side of the road and announcing: "There it is."
And that was how our day went yesterday. We were up at 6 and drove from Navojoa up through the border crossing at Lukeville. Through Arizona and a bit of California to Bullhead City where we spent the night.
Not bad. All in all that was about fourteen hours of driving.
The Escape is holding up better than the two of us. But, if all goes well, we will be in Reno (to accomplish some home town paperwork) by Thursday evening.
And then Bend.
I suspect both of us are going to sleep in when we finally arrive in Oregon.
Every good road trip needs a good road. And Mexico serves them up complete with garnish.
There are two major routes to begin a trip north from Melaque. Head south through Manzanillo and take the cuota (toll road) to Guadalajara -- and then steer north. The alternative is to drive the coast road north through Puerto Vallarta and join the cuota at Tepic.
I have always driven the coast road. Not only does it have beautiful scenery, but the hill portions of the road make you wish you could don leathers and mount a Norton. Driving the Escape simply does not fill out the dream. But it is good enough.
Darrel and I left Puerto Vallarta around 7 AM and enjoyed the coast road for most of the morning. I had fun practicing my power on curve technique. My brother would probably give me a "C."
But, it was at Tepic that we really got serious about driving. Mexico's toll roads are some of the best in the world. And they seem to be constantly under renovation.
That is a good sign. Just look at California's freeways to get a good idea what can happen when the maintenance carousel comes to a stop.
Even though most of the toll roads are posted at 100 or 110 kpm, the average speed is much higher. It is not unusual to be passed by an expensive car going at least 100 miles per hour.
After 12 hours of driving, I pulled over in Navojoa (in Sonora) for the night -- just as the sun went down. No driving at night in Sonora for me. We will be on our way between 6 and 7 tomorrow morning.
Like most road trips, this one is not inexpensive. For the two days we have been on the road, we have paid $896 (Mx) ($73 US) in tolls; $2501 (Mx) ($205 US) for motels; $2165 (Mx) ($177 US) for gasoline; and $1046 (Mx) ($86 US) for food.
And this is just day two. We still have approximately four or five days ahead of us before we get to Bend.
But that is simply money. What it cannot buy is the joy of this trip.
The feeling that I have just spent a full day on the equivalent of an autobahn -- complete with being passed by automobiles I could never afford.
The contradiction of multiple police, army, and fruit inspections along the way that balance out the efficiency of driving on the cuota.
Of course, there are the humorous moments such as a semi, having passed the fruit inspection, driving through (and snapping) the station's security barrier.
But my favorite was our brief rest stop at an Oxxo. A tour bus, several Federal Police vehicles, and a line of circus trucks had all stopped at the same time. And the Oxxo was filled.
Beautiful girls in shorts. Armed policemen. Tattooed carnies. It could have been a moment out of a Robert Rodriguez film. We quickly moved on before the clerks turned into vampires -- or before El Mariachi showed up.
And now -- it is time for bed. There will undoubtedly be similar scenarios just down the road.
The echos of vices past clung to the hotel bedspread. It did not matter to him. Old vices were as close to him as last night's baked beans.
Tourists to Puerto Vallarta claim to find magic. Instead, he settled for sterile commercialism. Spreading his new identification card and decoder on the bed. Ready for an adventure that held as little resemblance to the sad bedspread as had his charmed life during the past three months.
Cut! What is it with the film noir narrator, Steve? How about filling us in on what you are talking about.
Fair enough. Let me start at the point where some of this may make sense.
You already know that the good folks at Immigration called me on Friday to tell me my permanent resident card had arrived -- and I needed to be at the office on Monday morning to pick it up. (ye, of little faith)
Darrel and I had planned to be on our way north by 7 AM. Instead, we belted ourselves into the Escape and headed south to Manzanillo where we were second in line at the Immigration office.
In a few short minutes, I had my new card. For some reason, the photograph makes me look as if I am a former Black Hand assassin in a witness protection program.
No matter. I now have a visa that will not require annual renewals. Well, until the law changes again. But, for now, I feel liberated. And that is good enough for me.
The smart thing to have done would have been to head north through Guadalajara. But we had to return to Melaque. And that is the second part of the story.
Last week I tried to get the email address of my bank manager to assist me in transferring my payment for the new SUV to the dealer. Getting the address was like pulling teeth -- something I hope not to learn much more about. And when I tried the address, it would not work.
So, back to the bank I went. The very helpful staff member told me I could do all of that from my online account on my own. But I needed an internet key.
That is it at the top. It is a rather simple logarithmic code generator. Not much more sophisticated than a Little Orphan Annie decoder ring.
Rather than bore you with more details, let me summarize. I spent three days talking to two bank employees for a total of three hours. After all of that, I still could not get into my account to set a new password.
Darrel and I drove back to Melaque from Manzanillo solely to get my account operating. After waiting for two and a half hours, we were told that certain combinations cannot be used for passwords -- even though the web site does not say that.
I thought we were done. But I needed two more passwords to get to the page where I could set up a transfer account.
The bottom line is that my decoder is cool, but I still have no idea whether I will be able to effect the transfer before I return to Mexico.
But Darrel and I had both had enough. We ate lunch and drove to Puerto Vallarta. Stopping at the Comfort Inn near the airport where I always stay. Note to self -- always buy the internet reservation deal and save nearly 50% over the at-desk reservation price.
I am writing this late on Monday evening. You will get to read it early Tuesday when we will be back in the truck.
Now I will rejoin my little film noir fantasy and pull the time-grimed bedspread around me. We intend to be up and on our way to Mazatlan -- or beyond -- early in the morning.
See you on the road.
Someone should have seen it coming.
Especially in the United States of Hypersensitivity. A country where the president has to apologize for complimenting a brainy, beautiful woman on being -- brainy and beautiful.
Well, "brainy" is OK. It is the "beautiful" part that put him in the compliance hoosegow.
But there appears to be as much danger on the other end of the spectrum.
Target -- the American department store -- has long tried to escape its reputation as the tiny sister of Walmart. Often by touting the "designer" lines of faux celebrities. And if you want to upgrade your image in America, what better way than to clambor onto the ecological bandwagon of lovable mammals?
So, Target invented a color that would make any consumer ooo and aaa. Manatee gray. Named after the endangered gentle beasts that are involuntarily tattooed by the propellers of Florida cigarette smugglers. Rumored by lovesick sailors to be the origin of the mermaid myth.
Target then slapped the color on place mats, rain boots, towels, and countless other products -- including clothing. Men and women's. And with that last application, trouble was set a'brewing.
One of several pieces of clothing that were offered in this Greenpeace-like color was a dress. In what is now called, in the language of the politically correct -- "plus size." A rather stylish dress.
But the petite size was called "dark heather gray." The plus size? Yup. "Manatee gray."
An eagle-eyed reader of Target's site tweeted: "What the. Plus sized women get 'Manatee Grey' while standard sizes are 'Dark Heather Grey.'"
Target pumped up its PC radar and went into corporate overdrive. In quick succession:
- "Manatee Gray" disappeared from all plus sizes
- Target issued a mea culpa for "any discomfort" caused by its mistake
- And then earned its PC chops with a smarmy: "We'll use this instance as a learning experience so we can do better moving forward."
Now that is a company that knows the seas in which it swims. The woman who originally raised the concern complimented Target: "I work w/large brands & appreciate T's quick & direct response to their customers."
But it is sad that the whole exchange had to occur. Target was wise to act as it did because someone would have turned an imagined insult into a broader attack upon women.
In my former working life, a team of us were tasked to teach a course on new legislation concerning workers' compensation coverage. If you read that without yawning, you have more stamina than our group.
Early on we decided we needed a hook to make the topic more interesting. So, we wrote a little play -- complete with well-defined characters and witty repartee. If you did not get the hint, I wrote it.
At the start of the first "performance," I stood up and announced: "Welcome to our little theater. If you attend one of our local stages, this is the point a self-important, overweight actor will step forward and tell you about the performance you are about to see. Today, that is me."
The presentation went as well as we expected. But, the moment I got back to my office, a supervisor from another division called to tell me see needed to "talk with me." In that same tone of voice my mother would use whenever I brought the car back with a nearly-empty gas tank.
When I got to her office, she asked if I was aware I had jut insulted several women in the audience by calling them "fat."
I hadn't. And I told her exactly what I said.
She then suggested that I send out a written apology to improve the "self-image" of the employees who had conjured up the fantasy.
Unlike Target, I refused. And I will skip the remainder of our exchange other than to say that I, the overweight actor in question, kept the line in our play.
Several bloggers have written on what is happening with thought and language control in Canada and The States. I cannot say it is the reason I left, but it certainly figures into it.
I cannot imagine a Mexican woman taking umbrage at a color. In fact, the Target story would most likely be the center point of many a Mexican woman conversation in the street.
Me? I will continue wearing my stage black. It is so slimming. Doncha know?
