Here is the next installment of my drive across the country a few years ago.  I did the drive in my Ford Explorer with my beloved pooch, Ibo (pronounced EEE-boo).  We started in Sausalito, California and were headed to Philadelphia.  In case you missed the first few installments:

Part One      Part Two      Part Three     Part Four

When I last left you, I was in teeny tiny Bluff, Utah.  Ibo and I left around 9 in the morning from the Kokopelli Inn, taking the back roads to the Four Corners monument.  The monument was somewhat of a disappointment.  The scenery was not nearly as stunning as what we had experienced (or what we were about to experience).  Don’t get me wrong, it was no Nebraska (more on that later), but all that was there was the monument (there were also some Native American stands, selling jewelry and pottery, but you know what I mean).

We (Ibo and I) hung around the monument watching several older people make fools of themselves, down on all fours (trying to be in all four states simultaneously).  One rather defiant teenage girl (defiant teenage girl? who would of thunk it), refused to assume the position and her father became incensed.  The had a shouting match and left in a huff.  I think they got into the Family Truckster and took off to WallyWorld.

Then there was the French family.  Now, anyone who knows me is well aware of my Francophile tendencies, but this whole situation bothered me.  They went through the whole all-fours routine (in French, of course), taking way too many pictures.  My first question: “WHY?”  To whom are they going to show these pictures?  Some toothless grandmother in Provence?  I doubt that she has even heard of Utah, let alone care that they were there.  I have also heard that the actual monument is in the wrong place!  So all the photos for Nana back in Toulouse are rather pointless, but I digress.  The real reason these dorks pissed me off is quite simple.  I asked them (in French) if they wanted me to take the picture for them (so that all four of them could be in it–Mon Dieu! Think of the endless combinations!).  When I asked the question, the mother, father, and daughter were playing some sort of complicated Twister game — all three were trying to be in all four states, while their genius son was trying to figure out how to work the point and shoot.  The mother (who was trying to do all of this while smoking a cigarette), refused my offer rather bluntly.  After they finished their human origami, I took Ibo up there, sat her down on the four corners and took a quick photo.  The Frenchie father went nuts, he seemed to think it was the funniest thing in the world (get a grip papa).  But I took this as an opening.  I had figured to just move on and ignore her somewhat rude refusal, but this made me think that I might have been a bit hasty in dismissing these frenchies.

This is not my photo. Sadly, I can’t find any photos from the trip. I looked in the basement for a bit, but then just grabbed a bottle of wine instead.

So I went up to the mom again and asked where they were from (in French).  I was still riding the high from the day before when the frenchies I spoke to thought I was French.

“Paris”, she replied.  And then she said: “you don’t speak as poorly as most Americans.”  I must have had a confused look on my face (I was trying to determine if I, indeed, should take this as an insult), because she added (much slower this time, and somewhat patronizingly): “Did you understand?” (I nodded) “Oh, you did?  You must have studied French, yes?”  I just nodded again and left.

B*tch.

Off to Durango.  We continued on the small highways up to Cortez, Colorado, and turned east toward Durango.  I decided to stop at Mesa Verde National Park.  There had been a massive fire just a few weeks before, scorching a very large portion of the park.  The fire even burned through the posts that held up the guard rails on the road, so driving up the Mesa was quite interesting.

An amazing place.  The Pit houses were fascinating (some of the first permanent dwellings in this country — some as early as 200 AD), and the Cliff Houses were fantastic.  I also could not help but think that it would be an awesome place to ride.  I saw quite a number of cyclists, and I was envious — long climbs, nice roads, beautiful scenery.  But that is just like Philly, so what am I worried about, right?