from Phoenix to San Luis

On Thursday, I returned to Yuma. As I drove through the familiar streets, on the way to a meeting with our farmworker clients in San Luis, it seemed so strange that I lived in this city just two months ago. It seems like years. My life is so good now- so good. Not perfect by any means, but I am free from the loneliness that will always mark my Yuma memories. I was kind of excited to be there- look, there's where I lived. There's my favorite taco stand! There's the wine store with the friendly owners where Melissa and I went every Friday afternoon after work!
And then drove on, down the highway to San Luis, passing company buses full of workers returning from the fields, fields full of people bent over harvesting the food that mysteriously ends up in my big shiny grocery store every week. Look, what name is on that bus? The names of the employers we are suing became real, the faceless clients we represent became flesh and blood. We entered the dusty brown and bright green world of migrant agriculture. We drove into San Luis, Arizona, passed Del Sol market and Food City and endless run down shops advertising in Spanish on the windows- llanterias and supermercados and Venta! hoy! and I was struck by the reality of it all, how these names I have pored over in depositition transcripts and pleadings are real places. For the first time, I met the quiet, brown men whose names I know by heart from reading their stories. Thrilled by the realization that I have not forgotten how to speak Spanish in these two months, I greeted them and translated the other attorney's explanation of trial and settlement possibilities. For 6 hours, we talked with these weathered men, and then exhausted, drained, we headed back to Phoenix. We left the fields and Spanish-saturated air and returned to manicured lawns and skyscrapers and English. It was a good day- it made the sterile monotony of my day to day work a bit more bearable, to know there are real people on the other side of it. I was left awed by our ability, in this time, to change worlds so quickly, in the space of a day.

a mystery gift

Amid the routine of daily life, sometimes strange things happen that make me pause. This is one of them:
On Monday, I had a group of new friends over for a Mexican cookout. Great people all; we laughed and told stories and played the Ungame. At some point there was a mention of my lack of four wheels... which is why the next day, when I came home from work and found a model Harley Davidson motorcycle, complete in original packaging, by the back door, I thought it had to be someone from the FFH group. But after a few phone calls, I realized I was either being very convincingly lied to, or none of my visitors had any clue what I was talking about. Chalk it up as one of life's little mysteries...
The next day, 10 minutes after getting home, I had a visitor. At the front door was an ancient little man seated on one of those golf-cart like contraptions for the feeble, complete with wire basket on the front. "Can I help you?" - I was thoroughly confused. "Did you find that motorcycle I left by your door?" he asked. Well yes, I did. Meet Mr. Morris. As he explained to me from his seat a foot off the ground, a while back he ordered one Harley model for one of his grandkids, and they sent him six. So when he saw that I rode a "motorcycle", he thought he'd give me one. "I realized that I should have left a note or something so you would know who left it." He lives in the Pepto-pink house across the street. His wife died 5 years ago. His son comes to visit every week or so, but he lives all alone. He turned 90 in February. He has a pacemaker, the battery died a while back and he had to have surgery. "Are you a doctor too?" No, I'm a lawyer, my housemate's a doctor. "Oh, well I sure hope you don't sue doctors or nurses. I've been in the hospital a lot, and they always take real good care of me. Please don't sue any doctors. No one should sue doctors. You know, there was one nurse who took good care of me. She went to Germany and died in a train accident. I found out later that she was single. Such a nice woman, if I had known she was single I would have asked her to marry me. You know, I'm 90 years old. I lived through the Depression. My dad died when I was 15. I shouldn't still be alive, but I am. Sometimes I wish I weren't, I'm ready to go. I shouldn't say that though, I'm sorry."
Mr. Morris and I (well, mostly him) talked for a good half hour, him seated on his little scooter on the porch. I was so touched by this sweet slightly sad man who is remarkably alert for being 90 years old. I picture him sitting inside his pink house watching the neighborhood go by through his living room windows, the kids every day on their bikes, the guys next door with their paint business truck, the people out walking in the evenings. And I resolved to make some time to go visit him sometimes. To return his simple, inexplicable and slightly bizarre offering of friendship.

ode to Phoenix

I am loving life. And by life, I mean all of my living breathing daily existence except for my job, which I am not going to talk about here. Change-- all in time.
Phoenix has seriously grown on me in the past month. Sure, it's a sprawling car-driven suburban disaster with no coherent growth plan, pathetic public transit, scary numbers of immigrant-hating bigots and a sheriff to lead them (anybody heard of Joe Arpaio?), but at the same time it's got a lot going for it.
I feel the potential in this city- and I do wildly and irrationally love potential. First, LOCATION. Within the city limits are at least 4 mountain preserves with hiking trails, unspoiled wilderness areas of sahuaro and orange wildflowers, and stunning views. The snowy mountains (skiing and snowboarding!) of Flagstaff are a 2.5 hour drive away. Beautiful red rock hippy town Sedona is an hour and a half. Actually, a million beautiful outdoor areas, from waterfalls to canyons to desert mountains, are within easy reach. Arizona is so much more than desert- come see for yourself! And then, there's the city itself. Turns out Phoenix is not all shiny new soul-less subdivisions. Central Phoenix is a fascinating maze of historic neighborhoods, great swathes of them undiscovered and neglected. Then there's a scattering of little restaurants, bars, coffee shops, and music venues housed in beautifully restored Craftsman style houses tucked away in corners of neighborhoods, hidden from the intrusion of uninitiated suburbanites. There's 16th street, little Mexico, strewn with mariscos shacks and taco stands and quincenera dress shops and a fantastically huge Mexican market. Downtown is inexplicably scarred by huge vacant lots, prime real estate destined to become condo skyscrapers once the economy turns around. And there are stirrings of life. There's a light rail line going in down Central, due to open in December. Classical music concerts take place in a fantastic venue that was an old icehouse by the railroad tracks. The city is really trying to reinvigorate the downtown area, long neglected. And rising gas prices are only going to speed the migration back to the center of the city.
I'm excited to be in a place where the first green tips of a daffodil emergence are poking through the snows of city-flight neglect. (is that an inappropriate analogy for a desert city?) I want to stick around to see what happens. I want to buy a big old house in a sketchy neighborhood in the heart of downtown and fill it with kindred spirits and the smells of homemade food and plant bouganvilla and basil and rosemary in pots and watch the city transform itself around me.
I also want to kick Joe Arpaio and his legions to the curb, but hey- change comes slowly sometimes. But I think I'm willing to wait for it here, for a while.