Culture shock – past meets present

It might be that the lure of marathon road trips diminish with age.

When there’s a call to climb into a car and dart a thousand miles over hill and dale… you do it, knowing that obeying the unction is paramount. Because, if the unction is ignored, regret will certainly set in.

That was why two ladies packed a few necessities for a 16-hour blitz down two-way highways in the straightest line manageable to join a multitude gathering to honor a Christian martyr. The route crossed the West’s desert highlands just as the fall equinox was arriving, allowing the travelers to view the beauty of a single day’s sunrise and sunset through a bug-spattered windshield.

The driver’s mettle was tested for sheer hardiness, and the navigator for double-checking GPS’ recommendations, not all of which were reliable.

All things considered, arrival at the predestined (and prepaid) hotel came without incident. It was the vintage look of the sign that first caught our eye. The inn had the appearance of a derelict building that had undergone a rapid, and cheap, remodel. You know, the kind of spiffing up where spackle and paint cover a myriad of age-accumulated blemishes.

Back to the sign… It dated back to the age of motel marquees where neon lights outlined images of animals, plants, or, say, cowboys leaning against a barn wall. This one was supposed to give the impression of an exotic palm shading an oasis, much like what dotted highways in old Palm Springs or, in this case, Phoenix. It was probably the original sign, cleaned up and lit but not brightly enough to clearly see the minute parking lot and drab, circa 1940s-50s motel in the background.

It was late, the driver was exhausted and, however the frontage looked, it was home for the night.

The shock was delivered when the driver peeked inside the accommodations that were supposed to be designed for handicapped individuals. Peering around in the dark, she noticed no easy access to lighting and had to go back to the office to locate the lamp switches. Once the manager directed the occupant to the lamp stand, she flicked on the light and “voila!” The interior was illuminated to uncover the strangest décor that the new occupant’s reaction, filtered through exhaustion, was one of frank disbelief.

Returning to the car, she informed her travel companion that the room would be a surprise. Considering the dated and somewhat dilapidated look of the building’s exterior, the comment didn’t bode well for the interior.

Gathering up a couple things from the car, they walked to the room and clasping the items by their handles, their reticence to deposit them inside became evident.

The furnishings could best be described as a collection of “Goodwill Grunge.” Nowhere could the term chic, as in the popular concept of “shabby chic,” be applied. If someone thought the chest of drawers, end tables, odd lamps, and dingy rug were “vintage,” they were misled to confuse that with just plain old. Retrimming the drawer pulls with white plastic facsimiles of a nose, ear and a foot, didn’t improve the impression.

Greeting the guests was wall art hearkening back to the hallucinogenic 1960s that biased historians (mostly progressive college professors) conflated with an era of ‘free love.’ At first, the conglomeration of song titles painted on the wall appeared to be haphazardly, but artistically, in an odd sense, positioned. Standing back from the mini-mural, a face could be distinguished. And then standing back further, the visage became identifiable. There was Jim Morrison, staring us down, a reminder of the wild life that led to an early demise from an overdose.

The thought was, “well, that’s a pleasant how-do-you-do.” Only it wasn’t. At that point it was noticed that the décor was supposed to elucidate a golden age of music that ended more rock stars’ lives in drug overdoses than any other period we could determine. A happy thought indeed.

Taking in the tight quarters of the handicapped room, a wheelchair-bound guest would have trouble maneuvering around the bed and one-time trendy, egg-shaped chair that occupied the corner. The chair, and the only one in the room, posed a problem for the agile to climb out of its sparsely cushioned confines, let alone being a choice seat for the disabled.

Then there was the bathroom. Likely due to the compact nature of the facility, it was an open space that housed a shower head, sink and toilet without any curtain or enclosure to keep the water from saturating the whole room. Sanitation was debatable.

It was the new guests’ considered opinion that the refurbishment of the scruffy motel must have been jobbed out to stoned design majors at the local university. Because upon final inspection of the interior, they noted one of the highlights of wall art was a stencil of the iconic “love” box that Philadelphia has since adopted as the city’s insignia. Only it was upside down in the lettering: “ve” on top of “lo,” mystifying them as to how anyone could possibly misspell “love.”

To top it off, the large window that would have overlooked the erstwhile patio was permanently blocked by a shade sporting a not-so-hip rendition of an orangey-brown star, which image was repeated on the outside. Sunlight was undesirable, apparently. Probably to facilitate sleeping off effects of an over-indulgent evening.

If the mismatched, crossing up of multiple decades of design hallmarks (everything from vinyl dinettes, Scandinavian coffee tables, to death-head symbols) hadn’t been so bizarre, it would have been hilarious. In fact, it was. As the two travelers sat down outside in the party yard, next to the seedy version of a beach bar, they laughed as two employees, half-hidden behind the bar, thought they were being discreet smoking dope.

The irony of the whole scenario was that these two women, who, as youngsters, had observed the 1960s heyday of acid-dropping, free love (mostly spelled correctly), had driven to Phoenix to honor a young man with opposing mores. This motel, designed to pay homage to a dissolute period of our history, via a cut-rate retro incarnation, was the last place the road-weary pair expected to be spending the night.

What is sad, is that there are young people, and old hippies, who look back fondly on a time when personal virtue wasn’t thought worth achieving, but self-indulgence was encouraged, even to the point of losing one’s life.

That is what Charlie Kirk spent his short life trying to warn youth about. Sharing how greater things in heaven guide a fulfilling life on earth, he spoke to how serving God satisfies the spirit, imparting joy, while gratifying fleeting emotions will leave a person empty.

There’s a lesson to be learned here. There are many who’d enjoy environs that lionize the past’s loose lifestyle, chasing momentary highs that finally leave a void. Seekers have found that a void like that needs God’s presence to be abundantly filled. Charlie knew that and wanted others to know it, too.

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