On Saturday we (ahem, I) drove eight hours from Albuquerque, New Mexico to Scottsdale, Arizona. Although it was a terribly long ride, and I became slightly delusional towards the end (listen, you would too if you were coasting along dark and winding mountain roads, listening to a man lecture on methods of astral projection), it was most definitely worth it when we woke up yesterday in what is probably the prettiest natural surroundings I've seen since we climbed Mont Sainte Victoire in Aix-en-Provence.
Because the car was a rental, we had to return it at a nearby hotel: the gorgeous Marriott Camelback Inn. Signs it was extra fancy: tall blonde WASP-y type toddling along in 4-inch heels at 11:00 AM, holding an empty champagne glass and clutching her Louis Vuitton bag like it was the center of gravity. Also: day drinking rules. After leaving our keys with the concierge, we stepped out into the glorious sunshine . . . and saw Vince Vaughn.
We didn't make a fuss because I think it's kind of awful when people make a fuss over celebrities. Besides, it's Vince Vaughn, not, you know . . . Fox Mulder. Who I would straight up molest if I could. Not David Duchovny . . . FOX MULDER.
Then we walked four miles through the desert back to our motel because we didn't want to take the bus for 45 minutes. Also: we're crazy.