They build their houses inside cages made of tall walls. They give their cages beautiful names, they call them Paradise Valley Ranchos, Desert Hills, Equestrian Manor. These cages sit along wide roads where cars rush past, airplanes roar overhead, and the sky stretches out farther than it ever has in Germany.
They pay their lawyers. There’s one who is either paid far too much or plans to be paid far too much: every third billboard is a “RAFI! ACCIDENT ATTORNEY” sign, with a photo of Rafi next to it. Rafi smiles like someone who has just been paid a lot of money. I hope I don’t get into an accident.
They sell their cacti. At every intersection there’s a handwritten sign saying Cactus Nursery, sometimes with the note: Yes, you can take me on a plane!
The cacti that grow huge along the roadside are more than impressive, they look exactly like the ones in the comics I read as a child. I want to touch them, but instead I walk into an antique shop and find a cactus‑shaped pin for 99 cents. I clip it to my handbag. The shop owner asks where I’m from; I tell him, and he asks whether in Germany it’s considered polite to hold the door open for others. My confused look makes him pause, then he says: Oh no, yeah, that was in Japan.
They keep their ghosts. In Goldfield Ghost Town, under the breathtaking backdrop of the Superstition Mountains, I am almost run over by a small tourist train. The train honks, everyone laughs, and my Garmin asks if I’m feeling stressed.
I’m reminded of Las Vegas. A man in a cowboy costume asks me, Where you going, beautiful lady, and I can only manage a weak smile, my German heart still hasn’t grown into the American one. Everything feels silly, like a movie set; every crooked wooden shack is a gift shop.
Is this really an old town that was preserved?, I ask a woman in period costume.
Of course, darling, all of this is real, she says. I don’t believe her, feel briefly annoyed at my own skepticism, and then Google it back at the hotel:
“Early in the 1970’s [sic] Bob dreamed of someday owning his own ghost town in the desert. (…) When he finally found his way out to the site, all that remained of the old settlement was a few old foundations, a rickety water tower, a rambling old shack used for a living quarters, and a small metal building.” (1)
I text a friend: The fucking “ghost town” is from 1988. You can’t make this up.
Source: (1) https://www.ajpl.org/apache-junction-history/stories-of-the-superstitions/building-a-dream-goldfield-ghost-town/ (last accessed March 14, 2026)