Arizona, Day 1

Yesterday, as we juggled piles of luggage, two carseats, and huge crowds of people seeking a spring break, I began writing in my head. There were four pairs of shoes to remove at the long line in security (yes, a one-year old must have her shoes x-rayed now), and a bit of a pause as a woman with white gloves inspected my purse.

--Ah, she said, pulling out a bottle of hand-sanitizer. Yes, you have to have a baggy.

--A baggy?

--Yes. Do you want to go back out and get a baggy?

I gawked at the long security line. Elspeth, perched on my hip, kicked her sock feet.

--Well, I'll just throw this out then, said the woman. Next time, don't forget your baggy!

Standing in my sock feet, I felt as though I were in kindergarten. Take off your shoes; don't forget your baggy.

The plane from PA to Chicago was packed. We arrived in snowy, cold Chicago late and ran through the airport. As we panted at the gate, a very sleepy Merry burst into tears.

The flight from Chicago to Pheonix was jammed with people, and most of those people seemed to be having a much better time than we were. Behind us sat two young women, one of whom was about to be married and was quite voluble. Seating about the plane was a positive gaggle of bridesmaids who joined said bride in the aisle for drinks and stimulating conversation.

Holding a writhing, screaming Elspeth, I listened to the uninterrupted--and I do mean, no-breath--conversation behind me. The wedding women sounded as if they had memorized sitcom scripts, and the bride held court, regaling her b.maids with endless and varied information about parties and drinking and old boyfriends while sipping beer (ordered from the very attentive bald flight attendant).

Merry slept in a hump on the arm of my seat; Elspeth breastfed and then screamed almost constantly propped up on the other. Both girls were crusted over with evidence of messy colds. Add to this that I had almost completely lost my voice and could barely order a drink or say thank you for peanuts. Yes, I felt rather like an alien with four antennae in that plane full of chatter and beer and shiny, sparkly bridesmaids. Please let this flight end.

And unfortunately the women lowered their voices conspiratorially any time they got to any juicy tidbit that might have compensated for the endless potato-starchy-prattle that they subjected the rest of us to. The best line I heard was delivered by the bride who said, "So guess what my grandmother served at Thanksgiving. Okay. She served stuffing, but she sliced it. Have you ever heard of slicing stuffing? Omigod."

I could tell you about the many endless things we did after our flight landed--I could tell you how Merry and Elspeth and I wandered up and down dirty white flights of stairs in the parking garage--but I will end with this beautiful picture: both girls asleep at the hotel and Martin and I scarfing down a sandwich over the sink in the bathroom before dropping into bed ourselves.

And today, the west pulled at our spirits as we opened ourselves gladly to the expanse of the brilliant sky.

We ran down narrow trails in the Little Painted Desert, where our shadows were far away and tall. If we jumped high enough, would we ever come down? Would our shadows rise and stripe canyons, buttes, mesas until we met the sun?

The sun is strong, and the land is wide and the roads long and straight. Buttes rise up around us; cacti grow like trees; first, second and third mesa glow in the setting sun.

What is it about the west that makes you feel as if you could give away all you own, buy a beat-up old pickup, and disappear into the warm expanse? Reinvention. The idea gets into your blood, and suddenly anything seems possible. The sky, the land, everything is so wide and startling that you feel as if you are flying, even when you are standing small and firm on the ground.

Pictures tomorrow.