Talking Story wit Arlo
A Rolling Stone’s Desert Tea Dance
I’m 58 years old, a beatnik with a heart that beats to the rhythm of the open road and a soul that refuses to sit still. They say a rolling stone gathers no moss, andI’ve made that my creed—keep moving, keep grooving, or the world’ll bury you under its high-speed chaos. These days, though, that world’s a whirlwind of iPhones, text messages, and websites, and I’m just a slow-rolling boulder dodging the moss of modernity.
But last weekend, under the vast Arizona sky, I found a pocket of peace—and a proper cup of tea—with a woman who reminded me that life’s sweetest moments don’t need a password or a plug.
Picture this: me and her, knee to knee in the desert, sipping tea like it’s just the two of us in the whole wide world.
It all started at the Lake Havasu car show, the last weekend of the month. Every final Saturday, the gearheads roll in—hot rods growling, muscle cars flexing, Ferraris gleaming, Teslas humming, and my kind of ride: a 1968 VW dune buggy, yellow as a sunbeam slicing through the dust.
Lake Havasu is located about 100 miles south of Las Vegas in the middle of the Mojave Desert.
I paid my entry fee, found my spot at the Historical London Bridge convention area, and settled in for a day of petrol-fueled chatter.
The place was steeped in English flair—Union Jacks waving, shops peddling scones and Earl Grey. My roots run deep in London—both sides of the family—and I was raised a proper Englishman, even if I’ve spent decades bouncing across the States like a tumbleweed with a grin.
Lake Havasu plays up its London Bridge gimmick hard, and I soak it up every time—a little taste of home in the desert sprawl.
The crowd was a kaleidoscope: Native folks with quiet wisdom, Californian beach bums with sunburned swagger, hot-rod boaters revving their toys, and European tourists mad for the arid wilds.
I figured I’d be the lone Brit in the mix, but then a ’69 VW dune buggy—yellow like mine, with a built-out engine and trumpet headers—rumbled up beside me.
Out stepped a woman whose license plate read “Doris Day.” I swear, her name was Doris Day, and she looked like she’d waltzed off a silver screen into the Arizona heat—middle-aged, radiant, with an accent thick as fog over the Thames.
We clicked like two old records spinning in sync, trading tales of London Bridge oddities and the rowdy car-show crowd—loud music, louder engines, cold beers, and a friendliness stitched together by our shared love of wheels.
As Saturday afternoon crept in, I took a leap. “How about a desert ride next weekend?” I asked. “Maybe a picnic by the Needle Mountains?” She smiled, handed me her number—her voice a melody of home—and I felt a spark I hadn’t known I’d missed.
There’s nothing near us, no one to see or hear, just the promise of a day alone with her. A old rolling stone doesn’t get many chances like that, especially not with a British gal who could pass for a movie star.
The next Sunday, we met at the London Bridge, our yellow dune buggies parked side by side like twin suns. We hit the dirt roads—not some wild off-road bash, just a gentle cruise through the desert’s quiet veins.
I’ve got a favorite spot—a perch with a sweeping view of the Colorado River with the Needle Mountains stabbing the sky like jagged teeth. We pulled over, hauled out our picnic baskets, and set up a little table.
I’d packed cucumber sandwiches (crusts off, of course), egg salad on soft white bread, and a thermos of Earl Grey with a splash of milk chilled in an ice chest.
Doris brought scones, a sugar-dusted cake, and a pot of Irish Breakfast tea. It was a proper English high tea, right there in the desert sand, with no friends or relations to interrupt our weekend escape.
We sat there, just me for her and her for me, the world fading to a hum. I told her how I keep rolling to survive—how a stone like me can’t stop, not when the modern age is a freight train and I’m a horse cart clopping behind.
I don’t own a computer, never learned the digital dance.
I’ve got life in my veins, a mind that still fires, and legs that’ll carry me—but keeping up? That’s a different beast. The world’s a rocket, and I’m a slow roller. It’s not moss growing on me—it’s just that I’m 58, and survival means moving at my own beat while everything else zooms past.
Doris nodded, her eyes crinkling with understanding. She’s no tech guru either, but she’s got a phone—said she had to, or she’d be lost in this text-and-email jungle. We laughed about it, two Brits sipping tea while the digital age roared on without us.
She teased me about my thermos, saying I’d wake with the day and bake a sugar cake next, just to show off to the boys back at the car show. I grinned and shot back that she’d be the one raising a family of scones for us to share. The banter flowed easy, like the river below us, and the hours melted away.
As the sun dipped, painting the Needles Mountains gold, we packed up. She gave me a hug that warmed me to my beatnik bones and said, “Let’s do this again next week.”
My heart did a little two-step—oh, can’t you see how happy we could be? Then, out of nowhere, a tune slipped into the air. Not loud, not showy—just a soft hum between us, a song about tea and two souls finding a moment.
🎶 Just tea for two and two for tea,
Just me for you and you for me .🎶
Just me for you and you for me .🎶
We didn’t belt it out, just let it drift like the desert breeze as the day faded to dusk. Nobody knew we’d traded numbers, that we’d stashed away a telephone to keep this going. It was our little secret, a promise of more Sundays to come.
I don’t need a smartphone to feel alive. I don’t need emails or websites to keep rolling. What I need is motion—dust under my tires, a good yarn, a friend like Doris. The world can race ahead, demanding I log in or sync up, but I’ll keep moving my way.
The car show folks might think I’m a relic, but I’m no fossil—I’m a rolling stone, and Doris is proof there’s still groove in these old bones.
She asked about my dune buggy, how I keep it running in a world of Teslas and touchscreens. I told her it’s simple: oil, grit, and a refusal to park.
She laughed, said her ’69 is the same—a relic that won’t quit. We’re alike that way, dodging the moss of stagnation. The desert stretched out around us, vast and timeless, and for a moment, I didn’t feel 58. I felt like a kid dreaming of a boy for her, a girl for me—a family of memories we could build one picnic at a time.
As we drove back, the sun gone and the stars peeking out, I thought about next week. Another ride, another tea. The world’ll keep spinning, faster than I can roll, but I’ll survive.
Ive got my buggy, my stories, and now Doris—my desert tea partner.
A beatnik doesn’t need to chase the future—just a good brew, a friend, and a road that stretches on. No moss here, just a slow dance to a tune we both know, humming softly as the miles roll by.
Groove is in the Heart - Arlo
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