The Plaid Pladd

If you drive forever down Highway 70 in New Mexico, just the sort of place you’d expect to run out of gas or break down at the start of a Tex-Mex themed slasher film, you’ll pass some missile testing sites, an inexplicable border patrol check point, and White Sands National Monument. I’ve wanted to go ever since Josh Langsfeld told me in a postcard that it was “like being on the moon.” Which I guess could be true, if Josh’s version of the moon involves being blisteringly hot and sledding down sand dunes, the two principal activities at White Sands.

Aside from my obsessive worries that we would run out of gas, the first part of our trip was okay. We passed the checkpoint without being accused of smuggling swine-flu infected illegal immigrants in our sleeping bags and bought an overpriced sled at the gift shop. Steven was filled with childish wonder at the whiteness and the silent expanses. The actual sledding… not so much:

To be fair, a Floridian and a Texan are not the crack team you need to really ace the Sledding World Finals. Especially not on sand. It also probably would’ve been better if we hadn’t visited during the absolute hottest part of the day. As we were walking back to Trixie–which I thought must be a mirage for awhile–I realized I’d lost my car keys. Luckily, Steven also has a copy but we went back and dug through all likely piles of sand to try to find them. No such luck. Then Steven tried to film my sweating, gnat-covered misery. I was not happy.

So I decided to lash out publicly at Josh Langsfeld, whom I hold personally responsible for everything.

Happily, there was a Volkswagen dealership in Las Cruces. Not so happily, they said they needed to order a new key from the factory instead of copying Steven’s and that it would cost $290. Instead, I decided to keep a very, very close eye on the one copy we still have.

Don’t worry, though. I decided to soothe my wounded spirit by checking into a hotel with an indoor pool and nice pillows. And while floating, breathing in the too-chloriney smell of my childhood and staring up at the inexplicable hot air balloon mural on the ceiling, I found it within myself to forgive Josh Langsfeld. FOR NOW. If something goes wrong in Albuquerque, you KNOW whom I will hold personally responsible.