The Strangeness of Winslow, Arizona

After 5 hours of non-stop driving on the highway, we finally decided to pull into the town of Winslow, Arizona. The scene up until then had been apocalyptic. The skies were grey, and we had caught several short bursts of rain. The sun was setting, with yellow and dark orange beams breaking through the ominous clouds. Over the horizon, blending in with the fiery sky, were several processing plants with skyscraper-like chimneys spewing out black smoke and flames.

We were 4 days into our 6 day cross-country road trip. My brother and I had planned the trip just enough to appease our concerned parents, but not too much that it would ruin our sense of adventure. To our parents, traveling to Los Angeles by way of the American South held all kinds of peril: highway accidents, thieves, cheap motels, scammers, and guns, lots of guns.

Having always been the more cautious son, I had purchased a “survival bag” on the internet comprised of hand-powered flashlights, a radio, 4 MREs (military-style “Meals Ready to Eat”), a large space blanket, and other miscellaneous items that you might like to have if you ever found yourself stranded on I-10 in the middle of the night.

With the survival bag in the trunk and a full tank of gas, we left Fort Myers with some last minute advise from our mother, “If anything feels strange, or out place, if you just get a bad vibe, leave.”

We stayed at a motel right across from a penitentiary and got conned out of $40 in New Orleans. We slept through what could’ve only been a drug-deal gone bad in the room above us in Abilene, Texas. We had even spent an entire day in Roswell, New Mexico, and yet nothing had felt weird or out of place.

Until we pulled into Winslow, Arizona.

The town of Winslow appears out of nowhere when you’re West-bound on I-40. Seen from above, Winslow is literally a bump in the road. It had stopped raining at this point, but the roads were all still glistening. We pulled into town hoping to find a motel for the night. Once the sun had dipped below the horizon, all that was left was a dark cloudy sky that cast the entire town in a deep blue light. We could feel the stares from local residents as we drove slowly down Winslow’s main street. It was as if something had given us away as intruders: our unfamiliar faces, maybe our out-of-state license plate. Whatever it was, it was clear that we were not welcomed.

My brother and I were silent for most of this time. We agreed that getting some food before deciding on a motel would be the best idea. We found a Checker’s near the end of town, and pulled over to order from the parking lot intercom. We sat quietly as we waited for our burgers.

“So, remember when Mom said that thing, about bad vibes, right before we left?” my brother said to me from the driver’s seat.

“Yeah”

“I get what she means now. Is that just me?”

“Nope. Not just you,” I said to him.

We could see our waitress on the rearview mirror roller-skating over with our food. My brother rolled down his window, took our food, and thanked her. She smiled at us and gracefully skated away.

We quietly unwrapped our burgers and sat there, listening to the new Death Cab for Cutie album that had just come out 2 days ago; We had found a single copy of it, miraculously it seemed, at a Hastings in Abilene.

“This is stupid right? It’s just a small town. I’m sure it’s fine,” he said.

“I guess so. It feels odd.”

“Well, let’s maybe just drive past the motel, and we’ll see how we feel then.”

I had found a motel on Google Maps only a few blocks away. We finished our burgers and hit the roads of Winslow again. The stares continued, with pedestrians now actually stopping to look at our passing car. We see the motel up ahead on the left. It’s a small, white, 3-story building with a completely empty parking lot. We’re able to briefly look through the window of the main office, where an elderly white man sat by himself in very dim lighting. My brother decided not to stop, and just as we passed the entrance, the motel office keeper looked up from his papers at us.

At that moment, and without a single word from either one of us, it was decided that we would not be staying in Winslow. We drove back East for a couple of miles, and found a Holiday Inn off the highway.

The next morning we drove as far away from Winslow as we could, heading towards Las Vegas, and finally to our destination in Los Angeles. We never really understood what happened back in Winslow, and we certainly didn’t speak of it until after our road trip had ended. We frankly didn’t know whether something bad would happen, or if we would simply spend an entire sleepless night wondering.

My brother decided to stay in Los Angeles for a while, and I hopped on a plane back to Florida. It was only then, at my arrival dinner with my parents, that I recalled our experience in Winslow.

“It felt strange and out of place. We got bad vibes, so we left.”

My mom, now having her own words of advice being repeated back to her, sighed with a mixed sense of relief and concern. I can only guess that her relief came from the fact that we had acted on her advice, and that her concern was for the many other Winslow, Arizonas we would encounter in our lives.