Desert Time Travel
It could have been 2021 or 1971. I pulled up a seat at the long wooden bar at a haunt along the Turquoise Trail in New Mexico. I was the only one there, minus two locals playing pool. The bartop was etched with initials, immortalizing decades of memories. Many of which I suspect its patrons didn’t actually remember. Everything about this bar, the people and the town felt frozen in time. It was unclear exactly what time that was.
I drank a beer and listened to The Doors play overhead. It was a live version of one of their classics. I decided I must’ve stepped into the 70s. I smiled in relief. I felt more at home here than the 2020s.
A combination of beer, time-travel and being on the road nestled me firmly into the elusive state of mind I only get when I’m traveling solo. The best way to describe it is that my purpose comes into crystalized focus and every stranger I meet becomes a messenger. It’s like I’m starring in a movie and a cast of unlikely characters make guest appearances to further me down my path.
Earlier that day I woke up drenched in sweat from a series of dreams that felt more like an exorcism than REM sleep. In my dream hangover, I walked to the coffeeshop and grabbed a cafe au lait to enjoy on the deck of my AirBnB.
Being rid of my dream demons and sitting in the foggy mountain sunrise made me feel light. I felt more possibility and purpose than I’d felt in months. It was at this moment I decided I didn’t want to waste any more time. I wanted to create a new life for myself. A life that allowed me to stare at beautiful landscapes while writing, drinking coffee and almost exclusively wearing hoodies.
I wanted a career where I had the freedom to be anywhere. To talk to interesting people. To write. To make a difference. I felt resolved and ready to invest in the foundation this life would be built upon.
At the empty bar, I scribbled in my journal about my morning and the loose action plan I was putting in place. I almost didn’t notice the man who sat two seats down from me. He had friendly eyes, wavy chin-length hair and was wearing a flannel shirt. In fact, everyone I encountered in this town was wearing a flannel shirt. Maybe I was in 1994?
We talked about Pink Floyd, puppet shows and tater tots. He reminded me of a combination of every boy I knew in high school, which is to say, I felt like I’d known him for ages. He told me about the musical projects he’d been working on and obstacles in his way. I explained my newly discovered purpose and my possible next steps. Our conversation bounced back and forth without a pause. I was reminded to never underestimate the power of spilling your guts to a stranger.
After I said goodbye to my friend, I gathered my things and walked out of the 1970s into the dry desert air. As I walked the ragged asphalt back to my place, a local waved out the window of his truck and said hello to me. He was wearing a flannel shirt.
