Travel Diaries Continued
We arrive in Colorado Springs around 4 p.m. mountain time. We drive around for a half hour looking for the Quality Inn we stayed in two years ago. I finally acknowledge that we’re lost and stop at a gas station. A young man, a big guy, muscular with black hair and black rectangular glasses, is pumping gas. “How do we get to the Garden of the Gods?” I ask. He thinks a moment and nods. He gives me directions in a very exact manner. After thinking about it, he shakes his head. “No. Do this. Go down to 25 north, and up a couple miles, Go past this exit and then to. . . no… take exit 23. . . bear right at the second light. . . .”
While he’s giving directions, I’m pumping gas, trying to keep the lefts and rights and exits straight, and studying him. Writers may not remember names or what they did an hour ago, but they can tell you a stranger was about 35 years old, had thick wavy black hair, a dark shirt, a clean black pickup truck, thick, muscular hands and no wedding ring.
When the man finishes he gets in his truck, starts to pull away and sees Leigh as she gets out of our car. “Do you want me to give them again? You know men and directions.” He laughs and I laugh. He gives them again. We talk a minute. Leigh asks what he does.
“I work over there,” he says, pointing to a big church. “I’m the caretaker there. I take care of everything. Everything from the grounds to the heat, water. Everything.” He says it with a matter-of-factness filled with a quiet pride. He was born and raised here and is the caretaker of this church.
We say goodbye and thanks several times before he roars out in his big black pickup.
We get back onto Rt. 25. Colorado Springs is overcrowded and getting bigger. All the lanes are jammed. Leigh keeps watch for the exit, which she spots just before we get to it. I find an opening and yank into the right lane just as we get to the exit. Maybe some Americans like driving in crowded suburban and city traffic full of grumpy drivers. For me, it’s purgatory.
We find the motel, a three story Quality Inn, and after a long wait, get our room and key.
While we’re waiting, a middle aged woman is complaining about the lack of light in her room. The clerk shrugs. There’s nothing she can do. No. No extra lamps. “Nothing we can do.” She doesn’t even say “sorry.” Just “Nothing we can do.” We get to our room to find one beaten down, apathetic looking lamp with a dim light and one spotlight in the ceiling. The lights in the bathroom are dim, which might be considered erotically suggestive if it wasn’t so dangerous, and the bathroom was cleaner. The carpet is torn and dirty, which is probably why they don’t want to put more light in the rooms. Leigh calls the desk to see if there’s another room. No, said girl at desk. “How about another lamp?” I knew the answer to that. “No. There’s nothing we can do.” Quality Inn in Colorado Springs? Avoid it. It’s bad and will be out of business in a year or so.
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