It’s why my office has a vintage covered wagon lamp, and a Prairie Schooner planter sits static in our gravel backyard next to a prickly pear, dangerously off-course in its sojourn to Oregon. I couldn’t help myself-whenever I saw a wagon, I had to have it. The entrance was a spell, and I halted, staring at the mess of them. The wagons, with their mousy wood and dust-spackled canvas covers, seemed to be doing their best wallpaper impressions.īut then, most people in the world aren’t fucking obsessed with wagons. To most people coming in and out of the store, the wagons were probably filler on the way to the loud, bright Oaxacan animal carvings and Day of the Dead skeleton tableaus and sugar skulls. They ranged from infant models the size of a palm up to scales large enough to crown a bookshelf and pose Grumpy Cat inside. The store’s narrow entryway was filled with shelves of miniature Conestoga wagons. Relief eased my nerves as the gluttonous music buffered into the background. To save my brain, I bolted into a brightly lit doorway leading to a Mexican art shop. The bagpipes, though majestic, were relentless. As Tecate and margaritas poured from the bar, a 25-piece orchestra of bagpipers serenaded a crowd huddled underneath a mammoth Arizona oak tree, its trunk and limbs bedazzled with white twinkle lights. On a Saturday night in downtown Tucson, somewhere between a Spanish mission courtyard and an apartment complex painted in Brazilian day-glo pantones, I wandered into an open-air cantina. Previous installments include The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time ("Fifty Shades of Lelda") and Super Mario 64 ("The Last Star").īy September, I was beginning to sense that Portland didn’t have the nation’s monopoly on weirdness. Tabitha Blankenbiller is revisiting the games of her youth, replaying them and writing semi-regular column for us.
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