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On Location: Tucson, AZ
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Hiking the glorious hills is only part of this city’s thrills—as our fearless writer discovered
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BY JAMES VLAHOS
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| A cowboy wrestles a calf to the ground during a rodeo in Tucson. |
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Best Faux Western
Tucson lacks star power. Singer Linda Ronstadt and author Barbara Kingsolver are frequently touted as famous residents, though Kingsolver hasn’t actually lived here since 2004. But virtually every celluloid cowboy has been filmed at Old Tucson Studios: Gene Autry, Burt Lancaster, Ronald Reagan, John Wayne, Charlton Heston, Clint Eastwood and more. Once a movie backlot, it’s now operated mainly as a theme park. On a Friday night my girlfriend Anne and I wandered up the dusty street of its faux Western town (“Arizona’s Hollywood in the Desert!”) and entered a barn to watch singing saloon girls dance the cancan.
Then we went down to the corral for the rodeo. People in the stands wore light-blue Wranglers and cowboy hats. On horseback, a man holding the American flag rode out for the national anthem but had to dodge an escaped bull midway through the singing. The angry beast was one of many to be ridden by unworthy men that night; barely anyone could stay on board for more than a few seconds. “Little slamming and banging going on!” called the announcer. A chute then opened and something white streaked out: a sheep with a five-year-old kid on top. The boy squeezed his legs and clutched the rope as the sheep bolted toward the middle of the ring; even though his torso tilted until it was parallel to the ground, he held on dearly. Finally, he dropped to the dirt. “Ladies and gentlemen, that is some real mutton-busting action!” the announcer said, and the audience cheered.
Best Bar, Bar None
I was born in Berkeley, California, went to college in Eugene, Oregon and live in New York City, which makes me a Blue State elitist, the very sort of coastal iPod-user vilified on AM talk radio—with good cause. I’m a snob, especially when it comes to bars. So I wasn’t expecting much when Anne and I wandered into Tucson’s Hotel Congress (hotelcongress.com) one morning.
The ambiance is Deadwood City saloon meets San Francisco tattoo parlor. John Dillinger slept here. The 40 guest rooms have antique cast-iron beds, vintage radios and no TVs. Club Congress, the hotel’s medium-sized performance space, presents rock, alt-country, Latin and ska bands, as well as story-telling nights and drag queen revues.
Above a doorway in the main lobby the words “TAP ROOM” are spelled out in red neon. We stepped into a small room to see a long wooden bar backed by paintings of cowboys on bucking broncs. At one end sat two men on stools topped with black leather. At the other was an old-fashioned machine filled with glowing yellow popcorn. The jukebox spanned Sinatra to the Sex Pistols. The air smelled like cigarettes and spilled drinks, not unpleasantly. A dingy bar is generally the last place where you want to spend a beautiful morning, but this snob wanted to stay. It was hot out and, stupidly, I almost ordered lemonade. Instead we got beer, cold and delicious. Lunch could wait.
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Published: September 2007
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Photo: Metropolitan Tucson Convention & Visitors Bureau
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