1997 Arizona: Phoenix (Arrival)

  Locations of visitors to this page
be notified of website changes? subscribe
Grand Canyon

 

Arizona

desert

Grand Canyon

panoramae

Phoenix

arrival

hotel

the Rez

dust storm

Tempe

Tucson

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

1997 Arizona: Phoenix (Arrival)

Seatbacks up and the trays in the upright, locked position...

This is my third trip in four weeks. First it was Manhattan, to visit the United States headquarters of my new employer, Memco Software, Inc. (a wholly-owned subsidiary of an Israeli computer security company). Then, after a week "off" in San Francisco, setting up a new fax machine and reading product documentation, I was off to Phoenix, Arizona to visit a customer, a continent-spanning telecommunications giant whose name I can't divulge.

This week I'm flying Southwest Airlines, an experience I'm finding much more pleasant than last week's uncomfortable minimalist adventure on America West (which the locals - Phonecians? - deliberately mispronounce as "America's Worst"). The snacks are healthier (mmmmm, raisins), the airlane more comfortable (a 737-200!?! not enough room for my 22-inch carry-on bag?!?), the in-flight telephones actually work, and the staff are more relaxed. Of course, each plane took off over half an hour late. So it goes. (Actually, I have this theory that all airlines publish a bogus "departure time" half an hour before they ever plan on leaving and budget more in the flying-time category, making the "on-time" statistics representative of nothing more than booking manipulation.)

We just flew over Hetch Hetchy, the damned (and therefore flooded) valley north of Yosemite National Park from which San Francisco gets its drinking water. (In the early 90s I took a wonderful three-day trip through Hetch Hetchy, one I hope to repeat shortly with a digital camera in hand.) After Hetch Hetchy came Yosemite, then Mono Lake, and now I'm enjoying - according to the map in the in-flight magazine - the desert just west of Las Vegas, Nevada. It's great seeing snow atop the Sierra Nevada and dried-up lake beds (and salt flats?) on the desert floor.

The pilot announces that we're coming over Death Valley, the lowest point on Earth. Heavy clouds roll in, obscuring from view any details. The cosmic joke continues. The airline coffee is acceptable, although not up to par with the Starbucks coffee United Airlines is now serving. It really is the little things in life. Now I'm looking down on Las Vegas, Nevada. Another grid painted on the desert floor. The meandering streambeds and occasional razor-straight roads through the desert look more interesting from this vantage point at 35,000 feet. There's a fractal lake just to the east of Las Vegas with a very fractal Colorado River running south, under the path of our plane, and then through the Grand Canyon (of which we can see a bit)

And then we start tilting downwards, making a long coasting descent into Sky Harbor Airport, Phoenix. It's a clean, modern airport, with long slidewalks (slide + sidewark) to help one cover the vast expanse of wings and gates. As we approach I can see Native American designs writ large on the desert floor, groupings of black rocks assembled to welcome arriving visitors. Each time I visit Phoenix (or Tucson) I have a very pleasant tingling experience the first time I see a saugharo (sa-WHAR-oh) cactus or an ocotillo (oc-oh-tee-yo). "You're on our turf now, city boy", they seem to say to me. That and a scorpion in your boots in the morning make for a memorable daybreak.

We drift lower and lower, the desert scrub becomes distinct to the naked eye. (Of course there are plants in the desert, flowering ones at that. And birds beyond count. Even hare and coyote. And scorpion and mad dogs and Englishmen, the latter two frequently seen in the midday sun.)

They're going to ask me to put my PowerBook to sleep shortly, so that it doesn't interfere with the on-board electronics during landing. Despite an investigation the US Federal Aviation Administration was unable to establish any interference from compact disk players, laptops, and the like. I wish I could take my laptop to a store, certify that the radio-frequency energy it (and all other electronic devices) leaks met standards, get a big, bright sticker to slap on the case, and have the flight attendents and the flight crew be happy in the knowledge that I'm not going to cause the aircraft to flip upside down by previewing this page in a browser. Just a thought. It occurs to me that I often see travellers leave the gate, flip open their cellular phones, and conduct business. I guess onboard electronics are protected from cell phones piteously calling out, trying to find a cell site with which to speak.

A hard bank to port, another one to starboard, a slow drop, and we enter into the domain of the clear-air turbulance generated by the desert floor heating the air. The dregs of my coffee show the circular vibrations used so theatrically in the movie of Michael Crichton's Jurassic Park. Passengers shift and wiggle, planning their exit strategy, fingering their seat belts in order to rip them away once the plane touches the tarmac. I love watching this ballet, its steps well rehearsed, dictated by tradition.

The engines slow, the flaps extend, and I can see individual homesteads in the pockmarked ravines. Six-lane superhighways appear. I think of President Dwight David Eisenhower and the defense act that caused our highway system to exist as it does, planned with moving nuclear missles around to thwart the red menace. And to long-haul pineapples and semiconducters.

Whoa, suburbs. Subdivisions. Swimming pools. I must be getting close.

On the ground

Last week the difference in temperature between San Francisco (70 F) and Phoenix (110 F) was a mind-blistering forty degrees Farenheit. The Phoenix air is so hot and arid that I can feel my nostrils drying on inhale. Items left in a rental car bake in minutes; I leave all the windows rolled down a bit whenever I park the car. Today I'm taking Ghiradelli chocolate to some of my co-workers; the bars will stay in the heavily air-conditioned driver's compartment to save them from melting.

It's just past midnight, and the temperature is still just under 90 F.

The following Monday, 22 July 1997

The Private Jet

This is my forth trip in five weeks. I'm back on a Southwest Airlines Boeing 737-300 with 13 other passengers and a flight crew of five. The 2045 flight took off just in time to see a spectacular sunset - the kind of vertical ribbon of hot reds and oranges tucked under a clear starlit field of deepest blues. I'm seated in the first set of six seats, arranged so that three seats face fore and the othe three aft. I have all the cluster of six seats all to myself. In fact, looking around, I seem to be the only passenger on the entire airplane.

previous   next

Have you found errors nontrivial or marginal, factual, analytical and illogical, arithmetical, temporal, or even typographical? Please let me know; drop me email. Thanks!
 

What's New?  •  Search this Site  •  Website Map
Travel  •  Burning Man  •  San Francisco
Kilts! Kilts! Kilts!  •  Macintosh  •  Technology  •  CU-SeeMe
This page is copyrighted 1993-2010 by Lila, Isaac, Rose, and Mickey Sattler. All rights reserved.