Your note hit my browser just as I was checking google mail. I'm staying in Venice Beach these days; it's cool. Just helped a pair of French girls move their stuff into a beach hostel this morning. We posed for pictures together; really want a copy of these, but it was one of the girls' camera. Had to break the ice somehow; the girls are not good English speakers and, being from Paris, a little stand-offish.
I am totally missing Santa Fe. 10000 Waves was incredible; so much better than hanging with Sarah, who wasn't exactly the most gifted conversationalist. She could have socked us for a lot of items; the spa allows you to walk right up to the outdoor 'sendo' and gives you a Japanese style robe and a key. All services are charged to the key number, including massages at 75 dollars the hour. A room full of snacks and meals and drinks, all of them chargeable to a key number, welcomed any and all to the spa area.
Instead, I met a few kicking chicks; better, in the hot, bubbling ozonated and irradiated water, my new kicking chick friends wore a bikini or better, meaning less than a bikini. One woman named Julia had just broken up with a boyfriend, live-in, who had shared the mortgage note. She had a business as a massage therapist, popular, but not as good as her practice in Atlanta. If I had stayed in Santa Fe one more day, I could have asked Julia to rub my shoulders in her in-home massage room. She had worn a sting bikini, and one could bounce a quarter off her hiney. One day, I might just retire to this outdoor sendo, a hot tub and a plunge and an indoor locker room with a shower my only real needs, washing my body with lavender soap after the purification of the waters. If it is hot enough, ones skin feels a little singed.
I called Sarah as I was leaving town; I wanted to come over with a six of beers and at least sleep in her couch. First call, she asked if she could call me back. "Sure," I said, thinking I was brushed off. So I go to fill up with gas for the road ahead. I drop my keys by accident into the trash can and had to pull out all the sticky, moist garbage to grab them at the bottom. I had just pulled the keys from the slime when Sarah, true to her work, called me back. I was surprised, but I shouldn't have picked up until I could clean my hands.
I was at a Giant gas station with plenty of beer and wine; I was chatting her up with all the varieties of six packs as I tried to hold the phone and wash my keys and my hands. She had an oblique way of talking but she was talking in more literate sentences by then. Everything wasn't just "dope" now that she had sobered up. "Nothing's going on tonight," she said after I offered to bring a six of Blue Moon to her door. To me, that means downtown is slow and no event's are scheduled. To her, that meant she was still thinking, "Never with him", like she said repeatedly in the truck. Blast it, that's when my cell phone tumbled from my wet, now clean hand to the tile and clattered; maybe she thought I had thrown it. When I finally recovered it, she was just hanging up. She wouldn't pick up when I buzzed her back twice, and on the third time I left a kiss-ass message. By the time ones left a kiss ass message, attraction is gone.
I gave up and drove onto the I-25 towards Albuquerque, and I napped for two hours in the lot of a Flying J on a mesa looking east over Albuquerque's sea of lights. I didn't stop again for sleep until I overnighted in Las Vegas, staying in a modest hotel north of the Fremont Street Experience, a Best Western booked through Priceline for 40 bucks.
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