La pluie en Espagne

SEDONA, Ariz.—Even more unsettling than the dark wall of rain clouds swirling in the northern skies the morning of our second day of vacation was the unease with which our short, squat native American waitress attempted to ask me what I wanted for breakfast in what appeared to be strained French. Mixing the Diné language with French is a little like mixing Pig Latin and German. The result is poisonous-sounding and discordant. It is something that should not be attempted unless under extreme duress.

I was puzzling over why the waitress would piece together such an odd mixture of phonemes so early on a Saturday, particularly to me—a man with no hint of French or Navajo in my genetic makeup—when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror across the restaurant. I was overwhelmed by horror. Hotel shampoo and conditioner had deeply accentuated the peculiarity of my new haircut, and, as I had fearfully suspected the previous day, I indeed now bore a striking resemblance to a French tourist!

I waved my hand and told the waitress I spoke English and she appeared relieved. When I asked her for a recommendation off the menu, she remarked that I spoke the language "pretty good."

"I think you mean pretty well," I corrected.

She ignored my remark and listed a few items that I might be interested in.

"We've got French toast and French fries!" the waitress exclaimed cheerfully. "You might find those to your liking."

"Yes, perfect!" I said, glancing beyond the waitress and into the mirror that reflected the shame of a wasted $15 dollars at a barber shop that was now hundreds of miles beyond my present reach. "I would like to order a la carte! Please bring me French toast, French fries, and a side of French dressing, si'l vous plaît."

The waitress giggled as Caroline pursed her lips with disdain. Our stocky little food server fanned her faced and then mustered the courage to say, "French always sounds so sexy, even at eight in the morning."

"Oh stop it!" I barked. "I don't speak French! I'm not French! I don't want French toast or French fries or any stupid French dressing! I'd like chicken fried steak and eggs! Si'l vous plaît."

The waitress wrote the order and stomped away from the table.

"Told you he was crazy," she said to the hostess.

The Fat Shower

Staying in hotels these days, I've noticed that most modern lodging establishments now have what I call Fat Showers. The shower or tub itself isn't any larger. Instead, most modern-day hotel showers have curtain rods that curve out well beyond the confines of the sidewalls of the bathtub—ensuring a pleasant bathing experience for humans packing the girth of an adult hippopotamus or unfortunate souls with hips as wide as the rack on a cape buffalo.

While it's true that I'm no midget when it comes to the midriff, Fat Showers are cavernous relative to my size. I can only wonder just how big the average American is these days? On the other hand, thinking of a really big person getting all soapy and then sticking to the shower curtain and then having the shower curtain stick to me is enough to make me skip bathing altogether. I'm thankful for the Fat Shower, but revolted by it just the same.

Here comes the rain again

With the certainty of rain ruining our riding plans in Flagstaff, we headed down south to Sedona, Ariz., in an attempt to perhaps hit the trails and check in with our old friends at the Bike and Bean—one of Arizona's friendliest bike shops. But alas the skies had opened up there as well, and by the time we arrived, everything was soaked. The rain didn't scare away the throngs of traffic, though, and we found the customary Sedona traffic jam waiting for us as we crept along main street at a stop-and-start snails pace.

Nevertheless we popped into the Bike and Bean for a hot cup of coffee and some trail advice. When I started acting familiar with the staff, they were put off for a moment, until I introduced myself.

"Oh!" exclaimed the mechanic. "We didn't recognize you with your new haircut."

With that, it was apparent the day was going to remain a total washout.

The saving grace was a couple of rolls of good Sushi at a strange little restaurant called Hiro's Sushi, located in an obscure and crumbling strip mall on the western edge of town. The sushi was good and no one made any presumptions about what language I was going to order in. The miso soup counteracted the chill of the rain. And the Rosetta Stone company had one more "Learn French" lesson canceled.

See you on down the road.