Journey to the Northern Lights

The first leg of my journey to Anchorage, Alaska, started with a drive from Oro Valley to Phoenix, Arizona. The idea of moving from desert to glacier in a manner of hours tickled. Mild winds prompted tumbleweeds to smash against the Prius' grill and brake into tiny sticks commemorating the mortality of the material word. As I rushed west on Tangerine Road, “Am I crazy?” I asked myself, turned on the cruise control, and mentally roamed.

The radio’s weather red alert brought up the realization that I have just left Pima County on time. It was hailing heavily in Tucson. From the driver's window, I could spot the cumulus of gray clouds in the distance. As I approached the interchange, the last remnants of the monsoon gained force. While climbing the I-10 ramp, the sun hit my left arm. I drove by the parakeet tent, the ostrich farm, and Picacho Peak. No complains so far.

After checking in at the Phoenix Airport Radisson on 44th Street, my guest arrived for dinner. Pam gave me the ride to Best Buy. The polarizing lens I had bought earlier sparkled inside the garage. It managed to escape the traveling bag. I ate pickles and pineapple, the only things my stomach could digest, while she enjoyed a Cesar salad with grilled chicken.

After discovering that the bed was covered with dawn pillows and comforter. I called the front desk. Johnny apologized. They did not have more hypoallergenic pillows. Luckily, the rooms at the Radisson are more like a suit. The living room was separate from the sleeping area. I made a pillow out of a complimentary shower bathrobe, covered myself with the other and curled on the sofa in front of the large screen TV. Those things don't make me sweat.

Later that evening, I heard the buzz. Arabic coffee-colored eyes stared at me from above with undeniable urge. Expertly coated sinuous lips delivered a rich, dark and full-bodied kiss. I woke up wired up from head to toes. Although I travel by myself, I am never alone. I returned to REM mode.

Minutes later, I walked inside a cabin in a rustic hotel tucked in the woods in Alaska. Inside the room, the wood in the fireplace was covered with ambers. I picked up a log and feed the thinning fire. It crackled in a welcoming manner as the hungry flame enveloped it with dancing frenzy.

In my lucid dream I could smell the scent of burning cedar. I walked into the bedroom where the wood floors conversed with the open window, looked out, and spotted a pack of dancing wolves. On the bed, I found a nice leather jacket my size -- heaven only knows I need a new one, mine is eighteen years old -- assorted nice clothing (I have not bought new clothes in seven years) and a bag full of 100-dollar bills tied in bundles.

I returned to the front desk. The owner of the inn stepped out of his dark cubicle.

“Someone left these in the room.”

“No one forgets a pile of stuff," the stout men with the lumberjack flannel shirt and a beard so thick it could nest a family of Sanderlings said and winked.

“Ms. Oddie always leaves stuff for the next guest. Consider it a birthday gift from the universe."

I woke up. What an auspicious dream.

Mariel Masque