the place within our hearts

lone pine, california was one of those small towns with one main street and visible burros 2 hours away from death valley national park. we stayed there the night before we entered the desert, and caught breakfast on our way out.

i stepped in the diner, and it became painfully acute how out of place i looked. there i was, a triple threat ethnic amalgam of chinese heritage, indian tunic, and swedish footwear, tattoos and piercings on full display, an oh-so-artistic camera bag slung over my shoulder. fuck. i'm such a city slicker asshole. fuck. how did this happen to me when i grew up among the weeds of backwoods texas, wandering through hayfields that stretched for distances?

later, after we finished in the park, we stopped in adjoining nevada and stopped at a saloon for dinner. the locals neglected to mention that this was a true saloon, with upwards of two mustachioed cowboys decked out in ten gallon hats, studded vests, and mother-of-pearl revolver handles peeking out of their belt holster. it was the first time i had seen someone carry a gun. they swaggered in, harassed some swedish tourists (who were getting a fine introduction to america), drew guns on each other, and then retreated to the bar behind the restaurant. we heard loud popping sounds midway through our meal. fireworks, tonight? no, just some cowboys shooting at each other behind the saloon, the waitress reassured us, they do this often.

we paid our bill and left. a man with an emblemed jacket was revving up his motorcycle next to our car. we made it home in 6 hours. i was happy to see the city.