the tortillas just hit differently out here...

or when you say "merci" instead of "gracias."

Mar 05, 2024

last month, the hubs and i flew out to arizona.

he, for an oil painting workshop at the scottsdale artists’ school (a workshop on edges), and i, for a self-imposed writing retreat.

and while scottsdale was nothing like paris, it was still a banger.

the sun was shining. i’d escaped 40-degrees & raining in south carolina for the low-seventies and sunshine in the desert.

within half-a-mile walk from our hotel, with sidewalks aplenty, i had access to a number of coffee shops, a whole lot of tourist gazing, and two of the most delicious things i’ve ever eaten:

the breakfast burrito* and then, for a last hurrah, the cinnamon roll from what, after a week of writing-location-hopping, turned out to be my favourite writing spot: berdena’s.

*”are your breakfast burritos pre-made, or can you hold the bacon?” “no, they make them in the back. you want it vegan?” “no, i like the cheese. just not the meats.”

like a croissant or baguette or macaron {who are we kidding? at least one of each} ends up in your tummy every day you’re in paris, out there in the west? at least one (or three) tortillas ends up in your tummy everyday. and i have NO complaints about that.

on our first night there (as a reward for surviving the flight, obviously) we ended up at los olivos restuarant, which had been recommended to us by a friend.

the friend remembered it looking like something out of star wars inside. which turned out to be accurate, at least in this funky-skylit nook.

i returned to los olivos later in the week, trying to catch their lunch specials.

the room we’d eaten in on our first night (retractable roof, twinkle lights) was overrun with literal cowboys in town for “western week”—spurs and dusty jeans included.

i ate out on the porch on this final visit, living what i hadn’t gotten to do in paris: dine al fresco because it was warm enough.

alas, it didn’t have the same vibe.

the wait to be seated for a late lunch on a friday (semi-chaperoned school groups! actual cowboys! family reunions!) had fully ruffled my anxiety, and while i was eventually the only diner left outside on the patio (and mostly blissfully ignored by the waitstaff after they’d brought my fajitas), i lacked the chillaxed-joie-de-vivre of the parisians.

i didn’t feel welcomed to linger. i didn’t feel like i could read and journal and keep poking at my fajitas until finally giving up on the sizzling mound and taking the leftovers back to the hotel mini*fridge for nathan to nosh on later.

after lunch on the los olivos sidewalk. sure, it wasn’t paris, but wowza, that sky, right?!

unlike paris, well: i still hadn’t figured out how to BLEND here.

what exactly was the scottsdale vibe?

i was all about the sunshine.

being able to walk for miles without sweating or shivering.

the sky was blue, and the clouds were fluffy.

walking up the street from the indie bookstore, i found the fancy side of town. i pretended for a hot minute, then got out of the mercedes-laden chauffer lane outside of the world’s-largest-nordstrom before i got too self-conscious.

here, the busstops were sculptures of patinaed bronze and local desert fauna.

the “museum of the west” was free admission on the day i flaneur-ed in and beheld more saddles and spurs and cowboy hats than i’d ever seen.

this room in scottsdale’s museum of the west was a costume designer’s dream! (or if you need some children’s book illustration reference!) hundreds of spurs and cowboy cuffs, dozens of saddles and rifle holsters and saddle bags and chaps… i had no idea!

at least on friday’s lunch visit to los olivos, a week into the trip, i did not do what i’d done on our first day there:

said “merci” when the waiter brought me my meal.

the restaurant had been there since the 1940s. the family that (still) runs it has been in the area since before arizona was part of america. when it was still mexico.

my waiter did not speak french. he spoke spanish.

like paris, i was trying to be kind to the locals in their language. trying to express my gratitude for being able to visit their home.

but out of my own south carolina-local-ness, my nerves defaulted to the last time i traveled out of my comfort zone. well-intended, perhaps, but wrong language.

the old adobe mission: the oldest still-standing catholic church in scottsdale. more than 100 years old, and nothing like a parisian cathedral. but just as holy. at least holier than the overpriced hipster bar pretending to be a taco restaurant next to it— also called “the mission.” (which we passed on our way to the much yummier, more historic, and authentic los olivos instead.)

things i’m overwhelmed with when i travel: how little i know.

the only way to learn something is from the people there. and the stories they know from those who were there before them.

while i never managed to BLEND (scottsdale holds the local, working class; the wealthy; a palm tree-lined thoroughfare of 40+ fine art galleries; and then the feels-like-river-street-in-savannah-if-it-were-a-cowboy-movie/disney world’s adventureland touristy bit), i did at least get some writing done while i was there.

remnants of a rose cardamom latte at berdena’s. my trusty baby yoda, my writing desk mascot, made the trip in my glittering minnie mouse backpack, too.

as in anywhere i travel, i tried to pretend like i wasn’t a tourist.

i went to the local sandwhich shopppe voted “best sandwich in america,” and ate on the sidewalk watching the (other) tourists walk by trying to decide where to eat.

the window behind me confessed the said review was bequeated by AOL. so take that motto for what it’s worth to you in 2024.

i walked briskly, not making eye*contact from behind my sunglasses, as i passed the gen Z videographers outside of jeni’s ice cream trying to catch “the right” people for their commercial. (“that last couple was almost it, but let’s try again.”)

i gave an awkward “yo” and a chin bob to the shoppe attendant lurking in the doorway in his dope tea-length coat as he tried to lure in customers with his smirky “hey.” (apparently my new-yorker-ness kicked in when i saw his non-arizona-esque clothes?)

i never figured out the scottsdale vibe it’d take to blend, but i had a book to write.

so, as i do when i travel, i “walk with a purpose.” chin up, eyes ahead, for of course i know where i’m going—that’s because i studied my iphone directions 20x before i walked out of the hotel room.

let’s take a moment for a big exhale here, for my FoMo-fears of berdena’s running out of cinnamon rolls before i got there on my last morning in scottsdale failed to manifest.

as i partook in this cinnamon roll made of oh-so-holy bread, a delivery dude wheeled in (v.) large dog mattress-sized bags of king arthur’s flour to the back. so that must’ve been part of the magic.

and thank goodness.

aside from the breakfast burrito i’d had there the day before, this was indeed one of the most delicious things i’ve ever, ever eaten. (and it wasn’t even made of a tortilla! or croissant materials!)

seated in the breezeway outside the coffee shop, new book open, i fully embodied the gusto of george costanza eating his ice cream sundae at the u.s. open. but i didn’t even care. i wasn’t gonna see these people again. ;)

worth it.

all week, i’d been wandering off the beaten path, trying not to take the some route twice.

although, just like in nyc, where you inevitably somehow end up in times square more often than you’d like? well, here, it’s this:

the (pineapple?) horse fountain.

no matter which road i took (in my case, the favored coffee shop in which to write), it seems i ended up here. at this intersection:

ken’s disappointment with the patriarchy, spoutin’ water into the tiny roundabout.

so arizona wasn’t paris.

but i still want to go back. i loved it.

loved it.

i got to walk nathan to class in the morning.

my hunny bear, outside the scottsdale artists’ school.

i found the mystery-heavy indie bookstore.

i worked on my new book, ate nearly every meal outside (pizza; tacos; two breakfast burritos; and, as i’ve mentioned, that blessed, best cinnamon roll i’ve ever, ever had the privilege to come near.)

before i flew out there, i thought i’d be coming home with pink birkenstocks as a memento. (thanks, weird barbie, for making me think i might actually want a pair now.)

but after our trip, i think cowboy boots might be more an arizona thing than birks.

^above, nathan caught some of the western week demonstrators on the road during his friday lunch break. some of the same cowboys that stressed me out at lunch, but you know: horses.

i came home with neither birks nor boots.

but i saw art out of my usual taste.

the museum of the west’s (v. small) sculpture garden. i gotta stop comparing things to the louvre, but they didn’t have cowboys playing violins, so there’s that.

i wandered and found a stunning public park complex. the glory of which was, of course, the library—complete with giant floating gold quill pen.

i sat in the sunshine (and the occasional gazebo) and wrote (a lot of) words.

i walked under the palm trees and the bluest sky kronk has ever seen, and will keep dreaming about warm winters and cinnamon rolls, and how travel just makes food taste better.