Tucson this year

Everything is so big, and so American. There are cactus and palm trees everywhere. The streets are so wide, and the sidewalks are made of gravel. There are beautiful blue mountains surrounding the city, which is a little shock of emerald green laying peacefully in the valley of five mountain ranges.

Quails run across the road. A dead javelina slowly bloats on the shoulder of Sunrise Drive near Skyline, and coyotes wait patiently in the hills for nightfall to drag it away.

The sky is clear and blindingly blue, and everyone wears scarves when the temperature dips below sixty degrees Fahrenheit. Everyone smiles and says 'hello,' and if you buy something, they wish you a nice day.

It takes nearly an hour to drive from one end of town to the other, but in the same amount of time you can find yourself in the middle of a saguaro desert or on the top of a pine-covered mountain, or in Mexico.

In town on a Friday night, the low buzz of the ghetto bird can sometimes be ignored, but its spotlight illuminating the darkness around you surely cannot. In the bars, local celebrities belt out rockabilly originals with contorted faces.

It is sunny more than 300 days a year. The trees are green all year long, and the bougainvillea in my mother's back yard is still blooming on Christmas day.