Here we are in Tucson, Arizona… Wish you were here!
Nothing like a hole-in-the-wall diner to cure a Sunday morning hang-over. Note the bullet hole in the window next to the table where we sat tucking into some of the best huevos rancheros in Tucson.
It’s a “mixed neighborhood” as they say. The hardscrabble side of town. Sure, there are plenty of trendy, up-scale places to dine in Tucson but I don’t want to blog about those. I’m not a food critic, a Yelper, I’m a novelist. I collect characters, settings and interesting little details and then sit back and watch what happens when you put them together.
Life is a novel, a rather messy one at times. Always a random fly buzzing around, a tired eyed waitress behind on her rent, a sinkful of dirty dishes, and a drive-by shooting when you least expect it. But what Frank serves up out of that greasy kitchen tastes sooo good, fills our bellies and cures our hang-overs. Now I’m ready to go back to The Page, to do the day’s work.
Except I don’t know what’s going to happen. Where’s this story going anyway? Outlines don’t mean shit some days.
Just get out and walk. Find some hole-in-the-wall restaurant, open your eyes, fill your belly. Listen to what Frank is saying to the waitress, and note the way she laughs but rolls her eyes. Smile at your partner across the table, that man you love. Remember this moment.
Nothing says charm as a good authentic bullet hole in the window pane.
In some respects Pima County is still the wild, wild west. Although last night we discovered a chic, intimate bistro called The Dish, tucked away inside a liquor store with no windows, called The Rum Runner. You would have thought we were transported to some far-away city. It reminded me of that speak-easy you told me about in Manhattan…
Tucson is filled with ironies and living in this hotel makes it easier to write. (No housework, if you can imagine such a life!)