Phoenix, Day Two

Saturday morning found us somewhat rested and refreshed, but disappointed that though the rain had stopped, it was 48 degrees and overcast. Determined to take advantage of Arizona weather even though there wasn't much to take advantage of, I spent an hour or so on our friends' patio, wearing a fleece vest, my hands wrapped around a mug of hot coffee, reading. Eventually, everyone else got themselves out of bed and we headed to breakfast at Great Harvest Bread Company in Tempe.

Like Pita Jungle, Great Harvest has a bit of a latter-day California counterculture vibe, makes a lot of whole-grain and fruit breads, and is known for its community involvement. Their crowning achievement, however, and the main reason we found ourselves there Saturday morning, is the Savannah Bar – a soft, chewy, cookie-like whole wheat crust topped with tons of fresh fruit, nuts, oats, and heaven knows what else. It sounds more “good-for-you” than “good” on paper, but it is actually the best of both worlds – sweet and rich-tasting, yet nutritious enough to fuel you for a few hours. I should have asked if Great Harvest was willing to share the recipe.

The sun had made a brief appearance while we were on our way to breakfast, but now it had become cloudy again. Sunday's forecast, for what little it was worth, was more promising, so we postponed our original plan – a hike in the Superstition Mountains – and headed instead to the Desert Botanical Garden. The Garden is a far cry from faceless rows of plants annotated with plaques in cryptic Latin. Instead, it is a stretch of Sonoran Desert, full of many varieties of cactus, ocotillo, palo verde and other plants native to the Southwest US and most of Mexico. Surprisingly green for a desert ecosystem, it was made even more lush by the recent rains. The succulents were plump and the tiny desert grasses that normally lie dormant until they get enough water to sprout covered the ground underneath with a vibrant, deep emerald green. Although technically we had a month of winter left, a few impatient ocotillos were showing the beginnings of their flowers. We walked around, chatting a bit, taking in the landscape and enjoying the air that, thanks to the rains, was spectacularly clean (normally the smog in Phoenix is frightening). The only disappointment was the lack of wildlife. In the past, we had seen lizards of every size and color at the Garden, including, once, a three-footer that hissed and changed colors at passers-by, but evidently it was still too cool and damp for them, so we had to content ourselves with a flock of fat Gambel's Quails hanging out by the snack bar.

By the time we left the Garden, the sun came out for good and we finally felt like we were in Arizona. We headed to Old Town Scottsdale, a tourist trap par excellence redeemed by its performing arts center and a beautiful park. J. wanted to see the Old Adobe Mission – a church, not old in the grand scheme of things (built 1933), that most recently served as rehearsal space for the Scottsdale Symphony Orchestra, of which J. was a member. Good thing we did – turns out that shortly after we moved, a group of volunteers started a major restoration project for the Mission. It is nowhere close to completion, but according to J. (I had never seen the interior in its former guise), it already looks vastly different than it used to. The most interesting part was the stained glass windows (PDF). They are the 1933 originals that for several decades have been languishing in the garage or a rapidly aging local gentleman. Had a few more years passed, they may have been lost forever. As it is, they have been cleaned and installed in their original locations. They are quite beautiful in an understated way – the designs mostly blue and yellow, befitting their desert environment, but even without the deep greens and reds of traditional Gothic styles, they stand out against the stark white of the walls.

After seeing the mission, we walked around a bit, had a snack at the Grapevine, an old Scottsdale institution with a giant rooftop patio, then headed back. We had plans to meet our friend Jane (not her real name) and her husband for dinner at Portland's – another old favorite – downtown. Originally, it was going to be all of us – I was eager to have Jane meet C. as they are both graphics designers by trade. Unfortunately, S. was feeling under the weather, so she and C. stayed behind while J. and I headed downtown.

I have fond memories associated with Portland's – I remember when it first opened, and J. and I became semi-regulars quickly. Downtown Phoenix was just beginning to rouse itself from a forty-year slumber, and aside from generic chain hotels, Portland's was the only place where you could eat and drink after concerts and plays at downtown theatres. It was run by the trio of Michelle, who worked the front of the house, her husband in the kitchen, and her younger brother Rick at the bar. Rick was a consummate wine and beer geek and a hell of a nice guy. He knew he had a captive audience and every time we showed up he not only had a story about some exciting new wine he had discovered, but usually had a sample for us to taste. He left around the time we moved, but Michelle (and presumably her husband) is still there. On Saturday, she met us with a vague “you look familiar” expression on her face and we reintroduced ourselves.

When it first opened, Portland's hit on a successful balance of creative, New American cuisine, and staples that a non-foodie wouldn't turn down. On this occasion, Jane, her husband, and J. all went for the latter (pizza and pasta), but I couldn't resist the ostrich tenderloin. It became briefly fashionable to ranch ostriches in Arizona some years ago, and apparently enough are still grown to supply local restaurants. This one was delicious – the meat was fairly dry, but extremely tender, and had a distinctive flavor that wasn't similar to anything else I know. It definitely did not taste like chicken. Portland's served it over polenta, finished with a cherry-red-wine sauce. The polenta was a bit gloppy, but otherwise everything was delicious, including the gulf shrimp appetizer we started with. The only disappointment, ironically, was the wine. Jane insisted on having some Pure Evil cab from Australia just because of the name, and even though it was available by the glass, we figured what the hell, and ordered a bottle for the table. It wasn't bad in an objective sense, but was more than a little thin and astringent for my taste, with not nearly enough fruit. A pity – wines are Portland's forte, and I am sure something much better was lurking on their list.

During dinner, Jane caught us up on the goings-on in their life, and in Phoenix in general. They talked about their house in Mesa, which they affectionately call their money pit, the biker bar parking lot it abuts and the things that go on there on Saturday nights, and how the Mesa police department is underfunded because Mesa is the only major city in the US without a property tax. Jane is full of dry sarcasm that I love in people, and hearing her and her husband talk about these things was quite amusing, but a part of me couldn't help wondering why they chose to live it every day. Surely there must be something about their neighborhood that attracted them there besides their 1981 cinder-block ranch with leaking pipes in the bathroom and revving Harleys next door. Jane's husband gave us an update on Arizona State, where he teaches on an adjunct basis in addition to his job at the Arizona Republic. The short of it is it's growing like a weed. In addition to the main campus in Tempe, which is growing steadily Eastward (we saw several large new buildings and even an entirely new street on our way to Chandler the day before), it is all but taking over downtown Phoenix. Several major new buildings have gone up along Central Ave., and apparently work is in progress to turn a couple of old hotels into dorms.

Inevitably, the conversation turned to the largest project Phoenix has experienced in decades – the light rail. There were rumors of it back in 2003 when we still lived there, but Phoenix seemed so opposed to mass transit at its very core that my reaction at the time was “I'll believe when I see it.” Well, I saw it. It is almost done, and it's scheduled to open in December of this year. It consists of a single long line that runs from the Mesa/Tempe border in the East, through ASU, downtown Tempe, West on Washington Street, past the airport, into downtown Phoenix, north on Central Ave. to Camelback Rd., then West again to Crisstown Mall. About 25 miles to start. There are vague plans for additional lines in the future. I am somewhat skeptical that Phoenix as a whole will embrace it – even Phoenicians who believe in mass transit in the abstract are too attached to their cars in practice, I think – but just the fact that it is happening it great. Smog and traffic will choke Phoenix if water shortages don't, even with the rail in place, but just having an alternative to driving, especially for ASU students having to travel between campuses, is going to go a long way towards making Phoenix a more livable city.

After dinner, we lingered over coffee, discussed Jane and her husband's upcoming trip to China, and made some very vague plans to have them come visit us in DC. J. and I then drove back to Chandler.