Return from the Burn
Not as easy as it sounds. Tom and I headed to Reno on Tuesday in our rented Mazda 3, tidily packed with playa crap. We went grocery shopping that night at the ghetto fabulous Sak 'n' Save, a favorite cheapass locale of ours since 2001. The car was organized, and not only did everything fit, but we could actually see out the back window. We had water, beer, and Cuthbert the playa chicken. All was right in the world.
Filled with smugness and coffee, we set out for the playa on Wednesday morning. We had just reached the ass-end of nowhere (AKA the desert between Nixon and Gerlach, for those who know) when Tom started shouting, "Pull over! Pull over!" No, he didn't suddenly get the urge for a pre-playa quickie while we were both still clean. We had blown a tire. Ugh, ugh, ugh. We unpacked the car, strewing everything over the desert, and began the enjoyable task of changing the tire of an unfamiliar vehicle in gazillion degree heat. Actually, Tom changed the tire while I acted as Jewish princess backup by squealing and not knowing the names of any of the mysterious and dirty car bits. Parody in motion, I tell ya.
We got the damn thing changed, but here the thing that truly ticked me off. There were tons o' Burners passing us (they're easy to spot, just look for the bikes and the water) and only one person stopped to ask us if we were all right, or needed help. Luckily, we were fine, but I found the apathy towards fellow Burners not only disappointing, but contrary to the idea of the event. Are we only a community once we reach the playa, but en route all bets are off?
We were too far to turn back, so we just headed to the playa on the spare. I gather these things are only supposed to be good for about fifty miles, but distance is, after all, irrelevant at Burning Man. So we drove there at 40 MPH, undoubtedly pissing off everyone behind us, and getting passed by RV's, which is incredibly humiliating. We made it at last, found our camp, and - appallingly - drank Crown Royal to wash away the day's vehicular trauma. I guess I should say Crown Royal followed by several margaritas. I don't remember much after that, except that I offered to let one of our neighbors shave off all of Tom's body hair, and in fact begged him to do it then and there. Tom rebelled, however, possibly seeing the itchy regrowth that would have been in his future.
Sunday night after the Temple burn, we headed out late at night for Reno. We had acquired another passenger and were all crammed into the car in yoga-esque positions, surrounded by playa debris and cereal. We'd spent the week terrified of the drive home and how we'd make it to Reno, as there's really nothing in between there and the Burn, and no cell phone coverage. But this time the playa gods were smiling on us - not only did we not blow the spare, but we got to Sparks, found a room promptly, and were sound asleep by 5 a.m. There was no Crown Royal, which I am sure was for the best.
And we never did shave Tom.
Filled with smugness and coffee, we set out for the playa on Wednesday morning. We had just reached the ass-end of nowhere (AKA the desert between Nixon and Gerlach, for those who know) when Tom started shouting, "Pull over! Pull over!" No, he didn't suddenly get the urge for a pre-playa quickie while we were both still clean. We had blown a tire. Ugh, ugh, ugh. We unpacked the car, strewing everything over the desert, and began the enjoyable task of changing the tire of an unfamiliar vehicle in gazillion degree heat. Actually, Tom changed the tire while I acted as Jewish princess backup by squealing and not knowing the names of any of the mysterious and dirty car bits. Parody in motion, I tell ya.
We got the damn thing changed, but here the thing that truly ticked me off. There were tons o' Burners passing us (they're easy to spot, just look for the bikes and the water) and only one person stopped to ask us if we were all right, or needed help. Luckily, we were fine, but I found the apathy towards fellow Burners not only disappointing, but contrary to the idea of the event. Are we only a community once we reach the playa, but en route all bets are off?
We were too far to turn back, so we just headed to the playa on the spare. I gather these things are only supposed to be good for about fifty miles, but distance is, after all, irrelevant at Burning Man. So we drove there at 40 MPH, undoubtedly pissing off everyone behind us, and getting passed by RV's, which is incredibly humiliating. We made it at last, found our camp, and - appallingly - drank Crown Royal to wash away the day's vehicular trauma. I guess I should say Crown Royal followed by several margaritas. I don't remember much after that, except that I offered to let one of our neighbors shave off all of Tom's body hair, and in fact begged him to do it then and there. Tom rebelled, however, possibly seeing the itchy regrowth that would have been in his future.
Sunday night after the Temple burn, we headed out late at night for Reno. We had acquired another passenger and were all crammed into the car in yoga-esque positions, surrounded by playa debris and cereal. We'd spent the week terrified of the drive home and how we'd make it to Reno, as there's really nothing in between there and the Burn, and no cell phone coverage. But this time the playa gods were smiling on us - not only did we not blow the spare, but we got to Sparks, found a room promptly, and were sound asleep by 5 a.m. There was no Crown Royal, which I am sure was for the best.
And we never did shave Tom.