It's tourist season in Sedona, Arizona. A few days ago, I was moving the hoses outside my mother in law's house, when several bike riders rode past on the road next to the place. Two of them pulled off onto our dirt road and rode up to me. Two guys, shirtless with nice tans and smiles asked if they could refill their water bottles.
"Sure! Where are you from," I asked.
"Norway," said the shorter of the two men.
"Are you enjoying your visit to Sedona?" I asked trying to direct a steady stream of water into their Arrowhead bottles. I looked up and felt a little strange talking to two guys on bikes with sunglasses - an intimate moment without the intimacy.
"What kind of water is this," asked the husky one.
"Well water," I reassured him.
"We heard there is a bike path into town from here. Do you know of it?" Mr. Husky asked.
I directed them up the paved road about two miles and then to 89A.
"Just follow the signs," I advised.
They argued with me a little about the route for some reason. Then they asked about how to get to the Grand Canyon from Sedona and argued with me a little about how long it would take. I was relieved when their water bottles were filled and after showing me their cuts and bruises from a recent crash, I wished them well and went back to moving hoses around. I can't figure out why they argued with me about my directions - maybe a cultural thing, or a language thing, or just for fun.
I'd better get familiar with this area and how to get to and from places - maybe my directional insecurity shows more than I thought.
