We started at Kiss the Cook. I had the special, a chili and beans omelet. Delish.
Having survived our Covid Christmas, we headed north. Snow dusted the mountain tops as a bomb cyclone closed in on the California coast, bringing rain that would catch up to us soon.
We stopped at Walnut Canyon. It was cold and snowy. The Island Trail was closed. No climbing down into the Sinagua cliff dwellings this time.
Then on to Sedona, which was below the snow line. Low clouds gave it a Shangri-La feeling.
Breakfasted at the Coffee Pot. Three buckwheat pancakes are enough for me these days.
Then it was to Prescott and the Hassayampa Inn. The clerk told us that our room was on her favorite floor, the fourth, where the ghost of a woman who killed herself in 1927 “lives.”
Down Whisky Row, I got a T-shirt at The Palace (“The Oldest Bar in Arizona”) where the likes of Wyatt Earp and Doc Holiday used to hang out.
No visit from the ghost that frosty night.
In the morning we had coffee in the lobby while Cab Calloway played on the overhead. We had the whole, spacious Art Deco joint to ourselves.
Soon we were back home, which, as usual, looked different in the new year.
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