Higway 40 East

Las Vegas to Albuquerque through Sedona. The red chiseled rocks that wrap the small artsy, outdoorsy, touristy town are the reason to drive to Sedona.


Then the road along Highway 40 east cuts through the Navajo and Apache country. What’s left of the tribes in the eastern part of Arizona and New Mexico?
Countless Indian markets selling rugs, pottery, moccasins, jewelry, and ironically dream catchers, advertising clean restrooms to the truckers and cross-country car drivers alike, and fried bread.
A storm brews above Gallup. Lightning briefly zigzags in the distance. A few fat raindrops splash on the windshield where suicidal insects have met their fate.
Only a few hundreds feet away from the highway, little kids, barefooted in the dirt, chase a dog or a ball. Houses with plastic sheet covering broken windows and flat-tired cars sit, next to each other, waiting for a handyman and a tow truck that won’t ever come.
The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, although set in Spokane, has never tasted so right. 
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