The first day of July dawned with a splash of white gold across the clouds. My eyes fluttered open, my neck refused to move for a few seconds, and I realized with relief that I had managed to sleep a whole 1.5 hours in the van. I slid the door open as quietly as I could and hopped out into the cool, breezy morning.
We were in the "Kansas" part of Colorado: huge wind turbines wheeled nearby, and flat green fields stretched out as far as I could see. I could feel the sleep deprivation dragging at me, but I also felt a bit smug that I hadn't allowed my circumstances to dictate whether or not I could be happy. A great-tailed grackle flew down in front of me, cocked its head sideways, and loudly cackled.
After everyone got shots of coffee, we took off on the road, heading to Wichita. Adrienne got on Priceline and booked a hotel that would be ready for us as soon as we got to town, and I reveled in the knowledge that I'd get the chance to take a long nap before the show tonight.
The unusually rainy year for the Midwest made Kansas greener than I had ever seen it: I remembered most of the state being a barren brown flatland, but this time it was a feast for the eyes (well, for someone who appreciates the Midwest, at any rate): cultivated green patchworked with unplowed brown and golden grain, with drifts of milkweed growing in the ditches, and cricket pumps, windmills, and grain silos dominating the flat landscape. I looked out the window and daydreamed about the farmland converting to an edible perennial prairie ecosystem (which the Land Institute, based in Salina, is working on). The weather grew hotter and more humid, and soon I was soaked in sweat.
We pulled into the Days Inn a little after 3:00, and walked to a nearby Mexican restaurant. We crammed into a booth, sticky with sweat despite the air conditioning, and munched on tacos and quesadillas while talking about Enneagram types. I felt relatively awake for the conversation, but my eyes started to droop as we walked back to the hotel; I desperately needed sleep.
Back in our room, I was ready to collapsed. Tyler and Adrienne got one bed, and Jessie and Nolan the other, and I staked out the corner by the air conditioner where I could pile all the available blankets into a sort of nest. After I took a shower, and had an unplanned and short-lived tickle war with Tyler (beginning with him taking a flying leap to shoulder-slam into me, and ending with me falling off the bed laughing hysterically in defeat), I crawled into my nest, put in earplugs, and slept for three hours straight.
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| Jessie playing his set |
Our show that night was at a tiny bar, crammed with locals who listened in rapt attention— a welcome change from the sparse and rather distant crowds of the past two nights. One artist sat at the front and sketched with pens for our entire show, ending up with an illustration of two armadillos toting a shotgun, which somehow seemed perfectly appropriate. The band who played after us had a cello and a banjo, so of course I was excited about that!
The show started and ended late. I stepped outside, listening to the roar of the cicadas, looking at a nearby mimosa tree in bloom under a streetlight, and feeling the sticky air on my skin. It was still stupidly hot, even at two in the morning, but it felt good. It felt right. It felt like home.
After buying groceries at Walmart (is it possible to not feel like a zombie when you're wandering around Walmart at two in the morning?), we regrouped at the hotel room, threw back some hummus wraps, and crawled into our beds, giggling at some stupid joke that someone said that probably wasn't funny but was hilarious at the time.
I realized that tomorrow would be my last show with them. I gulped. And then I immediately conked out.
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