The Insider’s Guide To Sedona

We mostly stayed outside of downtown proper.  West Sedona.

Saw a coyote

The Real Inn is the real deal.  Anything happens to the young redhead, the old man is headed straight back to Sedona.

Figure Elizabeth and Kris can draw straws.

New Day Spa. Your Private Retreat. “An Inner Journey towards your True Nature.”  Organic, wildcrafted and indigenous.

The young redhead got a massage and a body wrap and something else real expensive.  Like a Shakra MRI.

Her body is smooth and creamy.

The twenty minute tarot reading is practically free at forty dollars.  Something about angels with bright feathers.  Full of good luck.

Something about two feathers of inner peace.

The old man is a dive bar enthusiast.  No surprise, I suppose.  Welcome to the Sundowner.  Sedona’s only Five Star Dive Bar.  Kerrie Sue, your middle of the day middle of the week bartender.

The old man had come to this mystical city looking for signs.  Place decorated with’em.  Don’t drink and drive.  You might spill some.  We don’t have a town drunk.  We all take turns.  A balanced diet is a drink in each hand.

For a small town, this one sure has a lot of assholes.  I’d slap you but shit splatters.

You cannot say the joint lacks attitude.

Lunch at a local’s favorite non-tourist establishment-  The Cornville Country Club is code for the Grasshopper Grill + Spirits.

If estimable Esther is there, tell her Crazy Jack sends his love.  She pours Tito’s vodka like it’s a benign soothing syrup of nature.  Which it is.  [The Travel Writer is hoping for some product-placement revenue. – ed.]

He ate all of his shrimp fajitas (Grilled Onions, Bell Peppers, and your choice of meat or seasonal veggies served on a sizzling plate. Served with hot Tortillas, $15.99) and half of whatever the lady next to him was having.  It’s a good day when you want to smell your own fingers.

Drove through the Verde Valley.  The greenest it’s been maybe a couple of decades.  There’s a train ride you can take.  We didn’t.

We drove through Oak Creek .  Crowded this time of year.   The old man doesn’t camp.  Don’t camp.

Went for a walk on a trail amid the red rocks.  Almost got run over by two fat white boys in a loud knobby-tired all-terrain vehicle.  Smiling so much, you’d think they were telling fart jokes.

The old man didn’t rent an ATV.  The young redhead was not over the Death Scooter of Key West.

But that’s another story.