The contrarian in me wanted to like Phoenix, and for the first twenty minutes I did like Phoenix: The airplane view of a Dr. Seuss-ian landscape of jagged red rock mountains plopped randomly amongst an endless street grid, the clean spacious airport with the cheery cashier who swapped a twenty for singles to use on public transit, the free Sky Train that glided me to the light rail station, the cool afternoon air on the platform wrung empty of any oppressive east coast humidity.
Before I could figure out how to pay, my train arrived so I hopped on it. Chris Arnade Walks the World is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. That was the high point, and within a minute it all started going south, kept going south, until I was so broken, despondent, depressed, and ill, I turned tail and went back home, barely batting an eye at burning a round trip ticket to the Philippines. A wrote a minute, but it probably was only twenty seconds before the guy sprawled over three seats directly across from me, who smelled of shit, piss, sweat, and alcohol, started yelling at me.
Telling me to stop looking at him, to get out of his face, and asking me why the fuck I was near him. He was a black guy, which I only mention because he mentioned it many times while also pointing out I was white.
I was still optimistic and content. Phoenix has a muscular low-slung minimalist beauty, especially towards sunset, when the dust that coats everything gives back a little, turning the sky a soft red. The crepuscular lights hide a lot, and like a bottom rung strip-club, Phoenix especially benefits from that. Ten minutes later, about a mile from my motel, I was off the bus, feeling queasy from the odor of weed mixed with an undetermined burning plastic smell that seemed everywhere.
Anyways, I was happy to walk the last few blocks and maybe find a place to eat that had a bathroom. But there were few appealing places to sit down and eat, and no place with a bathroom that I could slip into to pee quickly — all were locked tightly. I quickly understood why. I was in an open-air drug market that extended the six-miles length of my bus ride, with dealers and users lining the road, their stalls being shopping carts piled high with boxes, bags, electronics, jugs, stuffed animals, mops, shovels, tents, and dirty clothes.
