Let’s not go overboard about Arizona, UD. Phoenix in January at eight in the morning still has a chill in the air. Yet the innkeeper just escorted me from one of the inner courtyards (huge red and orange ceramic containers full of madly thrusting agave, thick fruit trees heavy with yellow fruit, triangular shade sails) to the front of the inn (solar heated pool, shrieking birds in the bushes, black burbling fountains) which is directly in the sun, and damned if it hasn’t already warmed up.
January 6th, 2012 at 4:25PM
sounds like the makings of a Barbara Kingsolverish essay