Evidently, while visiting Salt Lake City, Utah today, my boyfriend Alex visited the Mormon Visitors Center and became acquainted with three young Morman missionary women who tried to turn him on to the Church of Latter Day Saints. (They don't call themselves Mormons, and they believe that there have been several saints after Jesus who have imparted teachings, starting around 400AD.) It sounds like some sort of setup for a religious porn flick; he dubbed himself an "Interstate Playboy." Anyway, he abstained, his Buddhism intact.
He's driving now on the old 40 transcontinental highway. It was raining this morning in Salt Lake City. He ran into a snowstorm on the way to Park Slope, home of the Sundance Film Festival. Now, he's safely ensconced in Vernal, where he's gotten the last room in town -- a suite at the Motel 6 -- due to a livestock show somewhere in the vicinity. He is, he says, in the middle of absolutely nowhere.
How do you know when you're in Utah? "When there are two packets of coffee with the coffee maker in your hotel room, and they're both decaf," Alex says.
Big milestones: today, he visited Muir's Jerky Factory, to stock up for the trip. Tomorrow: Dinosaur National Monument. But first, a sampling of the local cuisine...
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