The guy at the front of the Reno Trader Joe’s checkout line catches my eye and chuckles “A thousand bucks man. Eight days worth of Burning Man chow. For our whole camp. Crazy.” He and his buddy slap down their credit cards on what seems an impossible amount of food to consume in those days, even for people hardlining for some organic, free-range style munchies.
This is hallowed ground. Indigenous America’s Mt. Sinai. It’s Sea of Galilee. The birthplace of the Messiah, of late 19th century Indian Hope, and, as always (always) despair.