THE MUSIC IN MY HEART Chapter 2

MUSIC, SUSHI & KOSHER COFFEE 

Friday 28 December 2007

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Before the trip , we head first to learn how to make sushi, our joint Christmas gift from my wife Christina (Steens). The Japanese couple, who give the course from their home, live in Golders Green. 

While waiting for the course to start, we kill time in a kosher coffee house, as the area is overwhelmingly Jewish. 

We are the only goyim in the shop, a fact made obvious by: 

a) our looks and 

b) the dumb questions I ask about why some of the croissants are in a section marked parve and others in one called milki. 

This, I am explained by the girl at the counter, is due to the fact that meat and dairy cannot be eaten at the same meal. Parve means neutral in Hebrew, neither meat nor dairy. Obviously, the milki ones contain milk (or butter).

Our Jewish lesson is cut short by a phone call from Steens, who informs us (via a relayed call from Mr. Matsunaga, our teacher-to-be) that we have illegally parked. We rush off, and arrive at our sensei's house. 

Mr. Matsunaga is a tall (by Japanese standards, not Toby standards) 

combination sushi chef/acupuncturist. 

Not too many of them, I imagine.

 

His wife sits us down after we have removed our shoes and donned our white sushi jackets and we chat over green tea. We then adjourn upstairs through the dark panelled wood interior (think Tudor castle in a semi-detached row house) to their kitchen. 

 Our lesson is divided into five parts, a fibonacci number. 

 1) PREPARING THE RICE FOR COOKING Washing (6 times) until the water is clear, achieved by massaging it. 

 2) COOKING 15 minutes in a Japanese rice cooker, followed by 15 minutes "rest". 

 3) CHOPPING RAW MATERIALS These include fish: in our case sake (salmon), ebi (shrimp..already prepared), and suzuki (sea bass). There are also many vegetables to prepare: cucumber, avocado, takuan (the yellow pickled radish or daikon). There is also tobiko (orange flying fish roe). 

 4)PREPARING THE RICE (AGAIN) This consists of mixing the rice and vinegar (sushi, in case you didn't know, means vinegared rice) in a large wooden bowl like a cut-off barrel with a wooden spatula in a chopping motion and mixing the wasabi paste from powder and water. 

 5) ASSEMBLING THE SUSHI This last part is the crux of the whole enterprise. Using the same raw materials, (and I mean raw in the literal sense), there are innumerable types of sushi, all of which involved assembling the component parts in some unique fashion. Just as the Italians boast of their infinite types of pasta, there are tons of different ways of making sushi. We learned just a few. 

We concentrated on:

1) maki, or sushi rice rolled in nori (seaweed); and

2) nigiri-sushi, which are the lumps of rice with a bit of wasabi inside and a sliver of fish on top; We did not attempt the other two; and

3) inari-sushi, or sushi rice stuffed into a tofu pocket; and 

4) chirashi-zushi, which is fish on top of rice in a bowl. 

 Did you ever see the movie Desperately Seeking Susan? 

There was a great exchange between Madonna (yeah, I know...) and a taxi driver about sushi. Says the cabbie: 

"Sushi? Yeah I tried some sushi once. Took it home and cooked it. Tasted just like fish."

 Lest you think that what we attempted in 3 hours is a dawdle, it takes 5 years of apprenticeship in order for a sushi chef to become a ita-mae, (literally before people) or a chef who can step in front of the customers. 

 MAKI SUSHI 

 There are basically three sizes of maki sushi: 

hosumaki, which are the small rolls, 

chumaki, which are medium, and 

futomaki, which are large. 

Kappamaki has the nori, or seaweed, on the outside. 

Uramaki has the rice on the outside (which is why it needs to be sticky, and is dipped in sesame or other seeds or spices or roe. 

There are also regional variations, from Tokyo: temari maki, which is rolled up into a ball in cling film, or oshi sushi from Kyoto/Osaka, a variation which is jammed into a box and comes out perfectly square.

THE CHOREOGRAPHY OF NIGIRI SUSHI 

 Like most things Japanese, there is a correct way of doing things, honed over the centuries. Think you can just take a blob of rice and make nigiri-sushi ? Nuh uh.

You have to do it right, and in the right order. Those with fumbling fingers and little patience need not apply.

We emerged after three hours, a little wiser, perhaps, but rank amateurs. We did however, have a huge plate of sushi which we duly took home and presented to Steens. Guess what? Tasted just like fish, even without cooking it.

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THE MUSIC IN MY HEART Table of Contents

For Tobes and Steens 7th April 2009 Click on image to go to chapter

THE MUSIC IN MY HEART Chapter 13

WHEN THE RUBBER MEETS THE ROAD

Monday 21 January 2008

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We have one more task to do before I leave: buy Tobes a desk. 

We ask some people's advice, but the best we get is Staples or Target. 

I look online for USED DESKS, USED OFFICE furniture, ANTIQUE DESKS, HOME OFFICES etc. 

I quickly find that most of modern office furniture (at least in the States) is big, cubicle-like, ugly, designed for computers, prefab, and probably short-lived. 

No point in buying cheap junk, and limited by the size, I finally come upon Wertz Brothers, a big warehouse which buys all sorts of furniture from estates. 

It has been around for a long time, and has that distinct made-it-through-many-economic-cycles look about it. 

It is also located on Santa Monica Boulevard, on which we have spent a bit of time. 

Decided then.

We arrive to a large two story warehouse. 

They have been there since 1920 something, confirming my Depression Era Business suspicion. We head upstairs to look at desks, tables, drafting tables, and writing desks. 

We are limited again by Toby's size, realising quickly that desks, especially antique desks, were made for people with short pegs. 

Toby needs at least 30" clearance, which immediately eliminates most desks. 

Most of the eligible tables are stacked on each other, and we begin taking them down to try them out....until we drop one. The guy who has been helping us comes running over. No harm done, but he implores us to cease and desist, in a nice way though. What he meant to say was: cut that shit out, or I'll lose my job.

Finally we find a medium sized writing table, antique oak, for $200. 

Brilliant. 

We let him carry it down and go. 

While we are paying, we hear a parrot squawking HELLO! We walk over to the loading bay, and sure enough there are not one but two parrots, and not in cages either. They are huge, perched on a bar, motionless. 

The bigger one looks at me with a cynical and practiced eye. 

For some reason, its reptilian eyes remind me of that smoky quarter girl in the Burger King in New Mexico. 

Both ignore our requests to speak, even when we call Steens in London to describe the scene. 

We fit the table in the CM...barely. We then drive home to Toby's; unload it and voila, that is it then.

We call Joel, meet him at an Italian restaurant on Sunset, where we recount our voyage and a bit of Toby's new life and reminisce about our long distant past. 

Time is now hurtling forward, and in what seems a matter of minutes we have gone to Joel's flat, picked up my stuff, and then we are gone. 

We decide to go shopping before going to the airport, and find a supermarket nearby.

Suddenly it hits us both. I am not sure who it hits harder. 

Being a parent is a strange journey, a long trip which marries your own journey of self-discovery with that of your son. 

You start off with little idea of where you will go, how you will cope. 

You are at the same time preoccupied with your own battles, your own career. 

You are pretty much making it up as you go along. 

Your guidepost or map as a parent is how you were raised by your own parents, and if you are a male, it is how your Dad raised you. 

Even so, we are all different, and how you were raised is only a guide, an internal compass. 

The journey is one's own, and no matter how close you are (and Toby and I are very close) you must each make it on your own.

I always tell the story of how my Dad shook my hand at my college graduation and told me: 

"Er-bear (his name for me), this is the $25,000 handshake. It has cost me $25,000 to educate you. Now goodbye, and good luck."

When I tell some people this, they wince. 

Perhaps they don't believe that he meant it (he did). 

Perhaps they think he was cruel (he wasn't). 

He was from a generation that had it tough, real tough. 

Depression. 

War. 

No safety net. 

His Dad was a junkyard dealer and he was the only person in his family to go to college.

But that, even to me, was ancient history. 

Just as my life is of interest, but of no more relevance to Toby. 

As I said before, how well can you ever know someone, even someone you love?

So anyway, you muddle through, raising your children (or child) trying to give them the tools (but not the ready-made construction) to get through life. 

If you are extremely lucky, as I have been, the lecturing, the cajoling, in some cases the ass-kicking, will be minimal. 

If you are lucky the laughs will have more than balanced out the tears; the stories... the lectures; the victories... the defeats; and the ups.... the downs and the great in-betweens. 

And when your offspring is ready to fly the roost, you will have succeeded in raising what must be the greatest accolade: someone you can count on.

And that moment when they finally take wing, when all that you have given them is now going to be used practically.....well...that is one hell of a moment.

And the realisation that THIS was that moment came on us like a freight train in that supermarket.

Forget the handshake speech. All I wanted to do was to outfit Tobes with all the basics and the things, lightbulbs, washing up liquid, condiments, and household goods...anything to string this moment out as long as possible.

I was busy distracting myself from the end of our trip when all of a sudden he asked me: 

"Do you you have diarrhea, Dad?" 

 "No," I said. He said: 

"Gotta go," and sped off.

But I knew what he felt, and why. All of a sudden I felt that surge of nervousness that grabs at the gut. It was like being in a play, in the moment just before the curtain goes up, when you suddenly realise that this is no dress rehearsal, this is not something you can walk away from, or interrupt to start over. This is life, without any second chances, and it is happening right now.

Toby returned, and after paying we got silently in the car.

"You know, Dad. I'll miss us tomorrow."

"I know, Bud. Me too."

My head was swimming and I concentrated on the distraction of navigating to the airport.

Toby was quiet.

At one point I looked over. I said nothing but reached over and wiped the track of a tear off his cheek, his eyes hidden behind the sunglasses he and Steens had bought for the LA sun.

Then, as now writing this, I found it difficult to breathe, and mumbled inanities until we reached the airport.

There are moments that perhaps should not be written about, and perhaps I am wrong for doing so, for the mere fact of writing cannot capture their essence. We sleepwalk through much of our lives, and there are truly very few moments that will live with us forever. These very few are so intense that even thinking about them can trigger the same feelings, perhaps not as fresh as the first time, but equally real.

We got out of the car at the airport at Departures, and I fumbled around with my knapsack trying to take stock of the requisite possessions ( I tend to leave stuff behind). Passport. Camera. Glasses.

"Bud." I said.

Then we hugged each other. "I am glad you are my Dad."

I heard his disembodied voice, coming from on high. It was too much for me. 

 "I am very proud of you, son." 

I tried to get it out, but the emotion rose up from deep in my gut and choked me off. 

"I love you, Bud."

"Luv ya, Da."

Then we hugged, a real hug, not a man hug if you know what I mean.

Strong, firm, like a handshake. 

"Go get 'em, tiger," I said.

I stepped back as he got in the car to drive away, and snapped a photo as I gave him the thumbs up.

And that was it.

There I was, he heading off into the traffic and a whole new adventure, and me back to London and a life far away.

I wondered what he was thinking, in his new car....a new life, a new job...lots of mountains to climb in a strange city.

I thought of hugging him and of how big his arms are. 

He calls me Little Dad and next to him, I am. But I still remember that moment when he came into the world. 

The first words he ever heard were mine, through the tears of pure pure joy. 

"My little bud. My little pal." 

 And two nights later I fretted listening to his desperate crying, from hunger and thirst as he lay on my chest. (The au naturel nazi mid-wife insisted that he only be fed breastmilk whereas it was obvious he was hungry, born 4.7 kilos, already a strapping lad). 

Exhausted and desperate, Steens and I finally gave him two bottles of glucose which he sucked down in seconds flat. 

Who ever knows what is the right thing to do? 

Who ever knows?

Where does all the time go? 

One day you are a youth, and then suddenly you are an old man. One day he is a baby, and the next day a bearded behemoth. Oh, what a journey!

I get on the plane, and the flight is half empty, I have four clear seats to lie out on. 

I am exhausted, and after a quick dinner, I wrap a blanket around my head like a bedouin and get under another. 

There is an asian kid at the end of my row, but he makes no move to take any of the seats (the 777 has five across) and so I am stretched out, and I fall asleep with my iPod on.

A plane is a noisy place, the constant throb of the engines acting as a cocoon in which you can envelope yourself, especially if there is no one sitting next to you. 

You can sneeze, fart, burp.. and no one can hear you. 

In the dark, you can also sob.

I wake up crying. 

I am listening to one of Tobe's songs: Ascent to Paradise. 

The blanket is over my head, and the tears are running down my face as if the snow is melting in the springtime sun: cold, then warm. 

When I breathe, the tightness in my chest slowly unravels in shudders. 

These are elemental feelings, uncontrollable.

I let them flow, a mixture of sadness, joy, memories, loss, hope... The last time I cried like this was about my Pops.

This goes on for a while. Finally, I get up and go to the bathroom, and wash my face. No one is any the wiser, and I am alone with my feelings.

I go back to my seat. I say a little prayer for Tobes, for his new life. 

I say a little thanks to my Mom and Dad and for Steens, who brought this all about.

The trip is over.

I write down these words in the dark, the whoosh of the engines all around me.

I am lying in the dark 
I am flying through space 
And I am falling

Falling 
I hear his voice 
I am glad you are my Dad 
I am in his arms and I am falling

Falling 
I hear his voice  
I am glad you are my Dad 
I am crying 
I am crying 
I am crying 
I am falling 
I hear his voice  
Again and again 
I listen to his song 
And I am falling 
I listen to his song 
And I am listening to the music in my heart.

THE MUSIC IN MY HEART Chapter 12

BIG CARS, SMALL DOGS

Sunday 20th January, 2008

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I await Toby below at Joel's building, eyes peeled for the distinctive grille of the CM coming up Sunset, as Tobes and I have been invited to Charlotte's for brunch. 

The sky is brilliant, and I am chatting away in Spanish to the doorman, who remarks upoon the Castilian twist to my pronunciation. 

I am flattered. 

At least there is a twist. 

There is a steady procession of big cars (4x4s, but only the big ones-Escalades, Land Rovers, Porsche Cayennes, Volvos) into which step an equally steady stream of big sunglassed 50-something big haired women. 

"Hi, I yam Nicole Feldman, how are yah?" says one. 

Transplanted New Yorkers, only tanned. 

There are three of them accompanied by little dogs. 

You know the kind I mean....really little. A good sized boot laid along the back would pretty much go from head to tail. 

One comes up to me and seems to considering whether or not to use my leg as a lamppost. He's named Jock....a little Scotty. How do I know? 

"Oh, Jock.", says the women. 

No apologies or even acknowledgement of the owner of the leg/lampost. 

She has dressed him in both a little earmuff warmer and a fetching little gilet, both in a green and red tartan. It is 50 degrees for chrissakes. You want cold? 

Knock off the zero and see if the little thing could fly across the Grand Canyon in that bitter air, I think uncharitably.

I am saved from these murderous thoughts by Tobes, who drives up majestically in the CM. I'd take that over an Escalade any day.

Yes, I think I would have trouble with the LA scene, but no matter.

Tobes is in fine form. 

He went out to some rathole club with his housemates.

 Probably not going to do that too often (not his scene and also expensive), but he is already sampling the sights.

We arrive at Miles and Charlotte's where she has laid out a table outside with a log fire, and is in the midst of whisking eggs whites for unbelievably light waffles, fresh pear compote, fresh fruit, fresh squeezed OJ, fresh coffee....you catch my drift? I play with the kids. 

Juliette is very smart and mature for a five year old. 

Miles has some terrific songs from a Melanesian choir who sang in The Thin Red Line. 

We have a sumptuous breakfast outside in the middle of January, and suddenly LA is looking more attractive again.

After breakfast Tobes and I decide to go to Venice Beach. 

As it happens, mapless, we actually go to Santa Monica, where there is all sorts of activity; a huge ultimate frisbee tournament, volleyball, biking, rollerblading, outdoor gymnastics (some incredibly muscled Chinese guy is swinging and twisting on the rings with one arm, which no doubt would have twisted mine cleanly off at the shoulder.)

We rent bikes for an hour and pedal up and down the beach. 

Then we go to yet another pedestrian street where there are street performers, including a Mexican three cup and ball guy who was brilliant at both sleight of hand and banter. 

To wit:

"Here we have two up and one down..

PAUSE ..just like prison..

PAUSE..no I never really was in prison...

PAUSE.....the charges were dropped.... 

All with exquisite timing.

He picks people out of the crowd and then gently deals on them. We escape.

Everyone is pleased to give him money at the end.

Down the street a 12 year old black girl is doing a serviceable impression of Beyoncé, and a totally ignored guitarist who I thought pretty good is ignored by all. Toby says dismissively: That's how I played the guitar... Obviously going to Berklee upped the ante.

We eat at a sushi bar owned by a Korean...terrific, especially the soft shelled crab chumaki (newly acquired knowledge!).

Then it is back to Joel's as it gets dark and we watch the Giants-Packers game before going out to the churrasceria mentioned before.

A spectacular LA day, with a bit of everything, the good, the bad, and if not the ugly, the ridiculous (see Jock).

Go to Chapter 13

THE MUSIC IN MY HEART Chapter 11

THE NOT SO UNITED STATES OF LA

Saturday 19th January 2008

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From my limited time in LA, I had the impression that instead of a melting pot where hundreds of differing nationalities, languages, religions, races, sexual orientations and lifestyles mixed together, LA was more like a tray with individual test tubes which really don't mix. 

The only common thread seemed to be the slightly surreal nature, or money or the lack of it. 

One minute you are in a fabulous neighbourhood, and three blocks later a dump. 

Sunset Boulevard is a microcosm of the place, where you can go from the up and coming (read multi-ethnic) Echo Park to Beverly Hills in a few miles, from Salvadoran pupuserias, a pupusa apparently being a stuffed tortilla (or slang for the female pudenda ) to Rodeo Drive, the mecca for conspicuous consumption. 

Of course you could argue that this is true of all cities, but having lived in a lot of the world's biggest (NY, Washington, Boston, London, Paris, Geneva, Tokyo, Seoul, Bogota, Caracas, and Hong Kong) I think that LA is perhaps a bit different.

 

And everywhere billboards, lights, neon churches, and signs in foreign languages (Spanish, of course, Korean, Russian) to remind you that this is a fount of a lot of the world's pop culture AND frontiers of human expression. 

What starts on the streets of LA can appear a week later in Shanghai, Lima, or Bamako. 

This is true for fashion, the vernacular, culture. 

Also, unfortunately, for Brittany and Paris.

My first impressions are at night, where the glitter and the glitz of the light shows gloss over the hard reality if you pass in the daytime. 

The next morning, however, Tobes and I set out on our quest to buy a car, the sine qua non of California culture. Without wheels, you are nothing.

 

We have a budget of $10k, $3k coming from Toby and the rest from me. 

I ask Joel for some help as to where I might buy a car for this amount. He laughs and says: "I have never bought a car for $10k."

Having done some research on the web from London, we have established that it is possible however, and quick research brings up a few possibilities at Carmax.com in Burbank, including one, a white PT Cruiser which caught both Christina and my eyes, but which Toby had sniffed at due primarily to the colour. 

We navigate out to Burbank, and arrive in the brilliant morning sunshine to be welcomed at the door of the pristine car lot by a shy Filipina named Sharina.

Carmax.com is the antithesis of a typical used car lot. 

Their salesmen (or women, as it happened) are masters of the soft sell, mainly because of their ironclad policy of NO HAGGLING. 

You pay what you see on the sticker. You have 5 days to return it and a month warranty. That's it.

Big point:

Carmax.com is one of those places that prefer cash, or at least a cashier's check.

We ask Sharina if she has any cars for $10k. Lo and behold, she directs us to the exact car I had seen on the web from London, the white PT. Upon closer inspection, it is not white but cream, potentially an important distinction. It is a 2004 model with only 35,000 miles on the clock.

Buying anything with Tobes, clothes, shoes, beds, etc. is a challenge because he comes in extra large: 6'6" with size 16 feet. 

The first question, always the first question, is: does it fit?

We get in. NO problem. There is a least six inches clearance and the steering weel tilts away from his knees and is adjustable. We take it for a spin. So far so good.

The only problem is the distinct smoker's smell.

We decide to press on and look at alternatives. We try Hondas, Pontiacs, Nissans etc. They all fall down due to criteria #1. 

They are also a) more expensive and b) have more mileage on the clock than the PT.

We kibbutz and then tell Sharina we like the car but "we would like you to do something about the smell." 

She says they will clean it again and use some magic potion (not really, but some stain/smell remover).

We provisionally agree to buy the car, and adjourn to the showroom.

One thing that America is really good at doing is separating you from your money....PROVIDED that you have ticked all the boxes.

This means that

a) you have a driver's licence in the same state

b) you have a prior insurance record

c)you have CREDIT in some form, or CASH.

Luckily we have all of the above, Toby having gotten a California licence the summer he spent with Charlotte.

We are informed of this fact by Sharina's manager, a black woman with a plastic smile and a paint by numbers hail-thee-fellow-well-met manner. 

"Good morning/afternoon/fill in the blank, Mr. Pettigrew (the NAME always the NAME), a pleasure to see you this morning/afternoon/fill in the blank."

Sharina is obviously new at this selling cars gig, and Ms. Friendly but Firm instructs her how/where to accompany us to get the aforementioned cheque (since I had no briefcase with unmarked bills, but more about that later).

We get into Sharina's car, a stolid Honda she did NOT buy at Carmax (but I would have had I been working here, she says) and we hurry over to the nearest BofA branch, a branch staffed by Russians, Armenians, hispanics, and blacks. I guess a mirror of their clientele.

GOOD SAFETY TIP. 

Always speak to people as if they are individuals and not drones providing you a service in WHATEVER capacity they are acting. I will elaborate later.

Our teller is Mary Avadessian. I ask her if she is Armenian, and then proceed to tell her our whole story of our trip, moving, Tobe's new career, and our car buying expedition while she withdraws the money from both of our accounts and prepares the cashier's cheque. She is very efficient and motherly and we emerge to go back to Carmax.

We give the cheque to Ms. Friendly But Firm, and put the finishing touches (together with Sharina) on their automated if slightly flawed computer system (it wipes out previous entries without saving them cumulatively, so each minor amendment effectively means starting over....oh those programmers are such cards aren't they?). This prolongs the process, obviously.

Suddenly, Ms FBF returns, her smile replaced by a regretful facial shrug. "I am SO sorry, Mr. Pettigrew, but there appears to be a minor glitch."

"Glitch? What glitch?" I ask.

"The cashier's cheque is dated the 22nd (ie. Tuesday)."

Today is Saturday. "But it is a cashier's cheque drawn on BofA," I reason. "Surely they are good for the money on Tuesday."

"Our system won't take it." There is a finality in her tone.

"So what are we going to do?" (I am flying out on Monday).

"You can go back and exchange it for cash," she offers up.

"Cash?" I say incredulously. "$10,900?" (By the time you throw tax, hidden costs, annual dues to the Scientologists, the original $10k has morphed into this figure).

She nods and shrugs her shoulders. It is the only way. "Your son can stay here and finish up the paperwork. You can go with Sharina." She gives Sharina the nod.

I have no choice.

Sharina and I trudge back to the branch, where there is (of course) a long queue.

Reasoning that I need to go back directly to Mary, our Armenian teller, I wait for her queue to clear.

"What happened?" she asks. I tell her why I need real cash. She says : "Well, all our cheques are dated the first business day, which happens to be Tuesday, the day after Martin Luther King day."

"Hmm. .." she says. "Don't tell anyone, but I will reverse everything and then redraw money from both your and your son's account."

I quickly understand her point. She of course has no authority to withdraw money from Toby's account without his card/pin or his orders. Otherwise I could easily fleece him if I weren't telling the truth.

And that is why treating people like people has paid off (unintentionally). This saint of a woman proceeds to reverse all the transactions, give me $10,900 is $100 bills, and then rebalance ALL of the money in her tiller to make sure she has done this process correctly. I can assure you that this is no mean feat. It takes about five minutes and I am very very grateful. Thank you, Mary Avadessian. May some day you take your right place in heaven. You have restored my faith in the kindness of strangers.

I then emerge nervously from the bank, clutching a fat wad of bills, and make a beeline for Sharina's car.

On the way back I ask Sharina her story. She fesses up to have only recently joined Carmax.com. She is from Cebu (where Steens and I had gone in 1981)and had arrived in the States three years ago with $100 in her pocket. She had worked as a caregiver for the elderly, a job which she really liked but which did not pay enough. She was a kind, gentle soul and pointed out where a horrible accident had taken place in the past week, sort of a gentle reminder for Toby to drive carefully.

Anyway, we arrive back for the final stage, handing over the readies to a team of a ditzy blonde and a fast fingered Mexican guy to make little piles of the $100s. 

"So," I offer, "either you guys feel like bank tellers or cocaine dealers." 

The Mexican looks at me sideways. 

Toby looks at me embarrassed if not incredulous. 

Oh Eric. Such a wag.

All is in order, however, the next thing we know our car is delivered to us, the smoke smell magically banished.

We pick up the alternate key and Toby starts the engine. After 4 or 5 seconds it cuts off. He tries it again. Same result.

I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Toby looks pale.

We draft in Sharina for an explanation, and I begin painfully reversing all of the morning's steps in my head. She has no idea what is wrong, and scuttles off, reemerging with a technician (ie. mechanic).

He doesn't look bothered. "Oh. You need to reprogram that spare key," he says. "It stops people from stealing your car."

Toby tries the other set of keys. RELIEF all around as it starts and purrs along smoothly. We decide to leave the UHAUL in the parking lot while we search out lunch. Bidding farewell to Sharina, we drive along the streets of Burbank looking for eateries.

When we stop to park, Toby observes: "It's not really white, is it? It's more cream......like cricket flannels."

Perfect. The car fits him like a glove, and standing there in his sunglasses and van Dyke, it fits his persona. I take a photo.

In a morning, a car which called out to us in London has become his, and the Cricketmobile has been christened. He is now, presto chango, truly a resident of the City on Wheels.

THE CITY OF SHATTERED DREAMS

We adjourn to an Asian/fusion restauant called Wokcano, yes I know, dumb name, where we proceed to share bites of a delicious wonton salad, sashimi salad, and shu mai (pork dumplings). We rake over the coal's of the trip's campfire, congratulating ourselves and thank the Big Man up there for our good fortune and safe passage. 

The Cricketmobile just felt right.

Our waitress, a perky brunette with piercing blue eyes starts to chat with us, hearing (of course) about Toby's plans and his upcoming job with Didier, and confides wisely: 

"Well, if you find good people out here, stick with them. God knows there aren't many of them around."

She has been in LA three years, an aspiring actress working as a waitress (seen that movie?) and she has had just about enough. She came from a small town in Missouri. 

We told her a lite (sic) version of our thoughts about Lebanon, leaving out the gory details. 

She hasn't figured out what to do with her life, but my money says it won't be as an actress, and certainly not in LA. 

She says that she has found out about herself. She has obviously banished her illusions (and perhaps her dreams), but she at least retained her shining eyes and her soul. 

Good on her, and good luck.

Both of us listen intently; Toby as a new participant in the LA game and me as a more than just interested observer. A cautionary tale; no doubt the rule rather than the exception out here.

It is now Saturday afternoon and we are shattered. 

We decide to go to Joel's, who lives in the tallest building off of Sunset Bulevard, a condo on the edge of Beverly Hills and Hollywood with valet parking and a key that awaits us. Our plan is as follows: nap, dinner, movie.

We arrive at Joel's and everything goes as planned. The Cricketmobile doesn't look too out of place. Joels' place is on the 25th floor. In LA parlance: the VIEW OH MY GAWD THE VIEW. 

Hollywood Hills to the right, all of LA to the left. The flat  is pristine, tasteful, and slick. Uh oh, I think. We will have to take special care here. I call Joel, up in Palm Springs, and relay Toby's one word reaction to the apartment to him: WOW.

So this is what happens whe you stick it out and make it here. 

Joel is a lawyer, unmarried. 

Exquisite furniture, art, kitchen. Lucky we have always been a shoes-off in the house from our days in Japan. 

We find blankets (so much for the LA wardrobe I packed, it is chilly now). We collapse on the sofas and count ourselves damn damn lucky.

Upon Joel's recommendation, we head to Farmer's Market for dinnner. 

Tobes is comfortable in the CM, and I am firmly now just a navigator. 

Now then, forget frou frou restaurants in LA. Go to Farmer's Market. We did. Twice in the next two days. Even in this so-called winter, you sit outside under heaters and can have any manner of good wholesome food.

We have thin sliced corned beef sandwiches that would put a New York deli to shame. Just the right amount, a full meal with the pickle. No alcohol at this counter, but I stroll over and get a couple of draft beers in plastic cups. 

The next day we came back and went to a Brazilian Churrascuria called the Pampas Grill where you pay by the weight for fresh palmitos, okra, aubergine, collard greens, sausage, lamb, beef or chicken. We throttle back but my oh my it was good.

We discover one thing about this not-so United States of LA. Our good meal count starts to increase, and we are talking about GOOD, HEALTHY food. Lots of greens. Reasonably sized portions. There is no end of variety, and it is, by London's standards, cheap. 

I feel better about Toby's prospects. 

Because they are not trying to cater to middle America but perhaps to their neighbour from back home who is visiting from the old country (wherever...Laos, Peru, Brazil, Korea) or for their neighbour here who IS from the old country, you get the real McCoy. 

If the food has changed it has turned into fusion..what they have done to Japanese cuisine deserves the Mr. Oh* award for out-Babing the Babe.

(*Suduhara OH was the Yomuiri Giant who held the world record (in the days before steroids) for home runs. Never mentioned here, of course, in the place where the World Series doesn't include any other countries.)

Nicely refueled and now on HOLIDAY, we head off to the movie theatre in the Grove, a pedestrian shopfest adjacent to the Farmers Market. 

The movie theatre, as one might expect, is cutting edge, with God nows how many films. 

A sign of technology gone haywire is the computer screen you queue up to have to touchscreen your food order before having to queue up to fill up your own drink. 

All to save a few bucks or to prevent some high school kid (the old days) or illegal immigrant (nowadays) the chance to either earn pocket money or survive.

Sometimes I wish we could get the people who dream up this shit (like the automated phone systems which are the bane of modern life) to be caught in an endless loop of their own creations, or at least endure a five minute session with an amateur thug with a baseball bat.

Speaking of endless loops. We get caught up in one. 

Apparently Daniel Day-Lewis is going to be awarded an Oscar (he wasn't thankfully) for his portrayal of an oilman in There Will Be Blood, a three hour vehicle for his ego which ends with him beating in a guy's head with a bowling pin, by which point I had long since stopped caring about the character, the movie, the delicious meal, the will to live....anything but the foldout bed in Joel's flat under not one but two duvets and sleeping the sleep of the dead, which I gratefully did.

Go to Chapter 12

THE MUSIC IN MY HEART Chapter 10

A DIFFERENT COUNTRY 

Friday 12th January 2008 

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Having missed sunset the previous night, we resolve to see the sun come up over the canyon, and with a somewhat tenous estimation of sunrise (and no internet or phone signal) we collapse into bed. 

I set the alarm for 6AM. 

 Our plan is to rise (we are staying in Tusayan, having entered and exited the park to get to our hotel), go to the park, and then return to the hotel for breakfast before continuing on. 

We arise at the appointed hour, and with only a modicum of grumbling from the non-early riser between us, drive back to the park in the pitch black and bitter cold. 

The thermometer reads 5 degrees Fahrenheit (-30 degrees Celsius). Oof. 

 This time we have to pass through a manned gate, or rather a womanned gate, as the ranger is a female with the classic Smokey the Bear hat. 

We pay $25, and ask to the best place to see the sunrise. 

She says Hopi Point (pronounces it Opie Point) and indicates on the map where it is, 11 miles off. 

We head off into the dark. Before leaving we ask her at what time sunrise actually is. 

She says 7:38. Okay, we are off as usual. 

But it is okay. Better early than late. 

We arrive at Hopi Point, and we are the only people there. 

 The light appears way before the sun, and by 7 o'clock the eastern sky has changed colour, and we can start to make out the variegated hues of one of the world's truly amazing places. 

Even I can't exaggerate (as I am prone to do) the size of this gash. 

I said 5 miles across. 

In some places is it actually 10. 

The shortest walk down and up on a trail is 24 miles. 

To go by road to the north rim is 200 miles. 

Far below, we see the Colorado in the dim light. It is clearly frozen in spots (no surprise at 5 degrees). 

We are woefully underdressed (sound familiar?). 

I have no gloves, and a toboggan I bought at a gas station in Jicarilla for $1.98 does a disservice to the word useless. 

I shiver and get back into the cab from time to time. 

We keep the engine running. 

 By 7:30, a German couple, some Chinese, and two fat Georgia bells (their shape, not their type) show up.

 "It don't get no colder than this." says one. 

 Everyone ignores each other, caught up perhaps in the cold or perhaps the anticipation. 

The sun eventually comes up and we snap photos. 

It is exciting. 

Primeval. Magnificent. And cold. 

We get back into the truck to go to the next point and hike a bit out to a promontory where we join some Hare Krishna monks and take some more pictures. 

I think to myself: I hope these boys have long underwear under their robes or they are really in trouble. 

We then return to the hotel for showers and breakfast.

I also spend some time shaving Tobes, sculpting a magnificent Van Dyke more keeping in LA than his bearded woodsman look. 

We have been truly enriched by this experience. Cold but rejuvenated, and raring to go. 

We call Joel, who says it is not convenient to come a day earlier than expected as he has a houseguest. I had already changed dates on him once, true to my nickname in grad school...Wadhead...(I allow this gratuitous insult making allowances for the fact he went to Carolina). 

 We calculate the distance ,accurately this time, and realise we can easily make LA. 

We hesitate between staying somewhere outside LA and then coming in the next morning as planned. Instead I call Charlotte, with whom Toby had stayed two summers back while he worked for Miles, Charlotte's husband, a successful screen writer (Smallville, Spiderman, Lethal Weapon, Jackie Chan etc.). 

Charlotte, who is a dear soul full of joy and laughter (I was her first boss and I hired her on her birthday) and who will always be on my list of favourite people, says of course I could stay the night with them. 

That's it, then, Tobes and I decide. 

Today is the day. 

Right here. Right now. 

 We are now hurtling towards a surprisingly green and mountainous Arizona, heading for California and our target, one day early. 

It is still chilly outside (40 degrees) as we cross over some mountains. Suddenly we are crossing the Colorado River, and after going through a checkpoint where some border police (yes border police) rifle through the back of our trusty steed to see if we had any contraband, we are in California. 

Last time I looked, both Arizona and California are both in the US, a fact lost on Arnold, I guess. 

We are now apparently in a different country. 

 No I mean it. The first thing is that temperature is suddenly 20 degrees hotter. 

No I am NOT exaggerating. We stop for lunch. People are in T-shirts. 

For us, recent graduates of the school of freezing our butt off only 4 hours earlier, the contrast is surreal.

The desert outside is deserted, as the name implies, but the whole place has a different feel to it. 

More developed. More diverse. The woman behind the counter ( a Taco Bell) seems genuinely interested in explaining the different products. 

The food is surprising fresh for a chain. Tobes takes over driving a short while later at our next Frisbee stop, 1 1/2 hours outside of LA, where suddenly civilisation comes onrushing at us in droves. 

As does the end of our trip. We reach and pass Barstow, and when we come over the San Bernadino mountains and see the brown haze, we are closing in on the denouement of our voyage and a new beginning for Tobes. "I'm nervous, Dad." Tobes says, and it has nothing to do with the steady increase of traffic and lanes. 

" I'm scared." 

 "I know, Bud." 

We have talked a bit over the trip and Toby has been girding himself for this new challenge for the past year, arming himself with studies of psychology, persuasion, negotiation, magic...anything to prepare himself for entering into a brutal and competitive world. 

When he was talking over Christmas to Steens and me, it sounded sometimes like bluster and arrogance, but I thought then and know now that it was his way of erecting a shield around what is his sensitive core.

I go back to my past and reassure him by describing my days in NY in the Chase training programme. I tell him about a tree in Brooklyn, where overcome with nerves on an Easter Sunday that I was going to have to spend in the office preparing for a pass-or-get-fired presentation, I blew grits against a tree (I will never drink pineapple juice again), and had to make a decision...do I go back to Steens and our houseguests or do I continue on? 

And how in that pivotal moment I gritted my teeth, said to myself that the bastards were not going to beat me, and pushed on, where I muddled through a horrible day and a miserable week but eventually came out okay. 

Not great, but okay. 

All this by way of issuing a gentle warning. 

It ain't going to be easy. 

 Normally Toby would have probably feigned interest in one of my countless stories, but not this time. 

We discussed money, strategy, and managing his life. 

Mainly I told him that he was going to sink or swim as himself, and that himself was plenty good enough.

I tell him how his ability to touch people will eventually pull him through, and that in the initial stage it will be tough, plenty tough, but that what he has to do is keep his eye on the prize, his goal, show up each day to play, and play each day to the final whistle. 

But mainly that win or lose, he has two people who love him. 

God I love that guy. 

Then all of a sudden there we are in LA, almost unbelievably. 

The other side of the four lane freeway has been blocked for 10 miles as everyone heads out for the long weekend (Martin Luther King Day). 

On our side, drivers come by willy nilly, sort of like dodge 'ems and total concentration is required. 

We call Billy Kennedy, one of Toby's new roommates (4 Dukies, 3 of whom are runners). He gives us docking directions. 

It is 5 o'clock, six and a half days and 3500 miles after leaving Boston. 

We have arrived at our destination, and the start of Toby's new life. 

 We pull the van up behind the house, which is off West Sunset, first going around the block. 

The plan is for Toby to go on Sunset, find the hidden key, and open up the back gate for me. 

On our first pass I see some neighbourhood kids playing football in the back alley. 

Oh good, I think to myself. We approach. 

Not neighbourhood kids....neighbourhood GANGS. 

Oh.....good thing about the iron gate. 

Toby goes around to Sunset, and appears shortly thereafter to open the back gate. He mentions that there is a girl in the house (this is unexpected) but that she hasn't said anything. 

What? I ask. 

She is working on her computer apparently. 

 We enter the house through the kitchen at the back and walk through the dining room into the living room at the front of the house. 

Lights are at a bare minimum, and sure enough, there is a girl lying on her stomach on the sofa, lost in thought/music/Facebook. 

When she sees two strange men entering, she gets up. 

Her name is Sefira, or some such. 

She goes to Wellesley (ironic, since that is where we started our journey from the Engels) but has just returned from Australia. 

She is a friend of Alex Romero, one of Toby's new roommates. 

She is thin with one of those emo lawnmower-gone-wild haircuts. 

One skill she has obviously not perfected in the Outback is self-preservation. 

If I was sitting in the dark and two strange men came waltzing in, I think I would take more than a passing interest. 

 Oh well, never mind. 

Tobes and I proceed to unload the truck into his room in jig time while Sefira takes her place on the sofa again, lost in iPod land. 

By 6PM, that was it. 

Done and dusted. 

Mission accomplished. 

 As we are leaving for Charlotte's Alex arrives. He has on a hoodie with bright orange curls protruding from the sides, and slightly manic eyes. 

He goes in the house after brief niceties. 

I look at Tobes. 

Up go the eyebrows.... Alex then reemerges, sans hoodie and sans wig. OK, a jokester then. 

He turns out to be a very interesting, you could even say extraordinary person. 

He goes to Cal Tech out of Duke. 

He and his brother have run the San Francisco marathon barefoot . 

Nuff said.

Tobe's room is a big step up from Brookline, and the house is relatively clean. 

On y va.

We stop off on Gower and buy Charlotte and Miles a nice bottle of wine. 

A wasted effort it turns out, since both are Christian Scientists and don't drink. No matter. Toby and I toast the completion of the journey, before going out for a nice meal. 

We now have three days to buy a car, get him settled, and explore LA. 

He returns to his new digs in the truck, and I retire to the palatial surroundings of Miles and Charlotte's guestroom.

What a day. From 5 degrees to 70 degrees in twelve hours. Go figure. 

What a place, America.... eh? 

A different country.

Go to Chapter 11

THE MUSIC IN MY HEART Chapter 9

SCENIC ROUTE ...WRONG SCENERY 

Thursday 17th January 2008

Return to Table of Contents

With the mileage ticker over 2100 on the heels of two straight 600 mile days, we got cocky. 

As we had done in previous days, we calculated distance to a destination (in this case the Grand Canyon) which via Mapquest, was 400 miles. 

A dawdle, or so we thought. We looked at the map, and decided to take the scenic route, heading northwest from Santa Fe up to the Four Corners (Colorado, Utah, New Mexico, and Arizona) before heading down through Monument Valley on 160, a route I (mistakenly as it happens) remembered going down with Steens to the Grand Canyon. 

Toby was utterly determined to see Monument Valley. 

Flushed with our Hotwire success, we booked a hotel in Flagstaff, as we assumed we could go up on the secondary roads, down to the Grand Canyon to snap some pics of sunset, and then drive down to Flagstaff for a well-earned rest. 

 This little itinerary was at best, delusional. 

At worst it represented a fantasy on a par with the most practised opium smoker. 

However, like naive and optimistic rookie voyagers (who should have know better) we took our time with breakfast, didn't fill up the tank, returned on second thought to Santa Fe after having driven five miles up the road, and then set off again under brilliant blue skies that in London one can only dream about to head up into the New Mexico mountains. 

 Yes, you heard that right. Mountains. 

Now then, what happens in mountains in winter? 

It snows. And if the sky is blue with no prospects of clouds BUT the temperature is 5-10 degrees fahrenheit and the sun beats down during the day, what do you get on the road? 

How about ICE? 

 Our timetable was immediately in jeopardy as we wound our way through deserted roads amidst spectacular scenery. 

At one point we saw two cars in sixteen minutes. 

We also entered into Injun territory, where we would spend most of the day. (My apologies to native Americans. I only say Injun because it makes it sound like driving a car is some sort of adventure). We first were in the Jicarilla Apache reservation , and then the Navajo reservation. 

When we turned to head into Jicarilla land (jicarilla means little basket in Spanish), we began to notice what happens when the federal government cedes you land. 

It is a case of no tickee no washee. 

The feds say: okay, you can have your land, but you can forget about getting our first team road builders up there. 

The difference between jicarilla roads, with turns cambered at the wrong angles (ie. the bank, unlike a Mercedes test track , is either flat or slopes with the curve) meant that on some corners there was a real risk of whipping off the road. 

A few shrines of flowers proved this point. 

Also, in the shade of the mountains, there was ice. 

Thus mountains plus ice plus crappy roads meant our progress was slow. 

Given the lack of people and the cold I was forever thinking that one f***up could be problematic, to say the least, and so drove defensively. Finally, we emerged from Jicarilla nation, which I should say was gorgeous and unspoiled, and trundled on into Farmington, home to a prison up on a hill, one of a plethora of barbed wire enclosures we happened by out West. 

A little known fact; there are 2.1 million prisoners in America (population app.300mln). Compare this with the UK (pop 66mln-82,000 prisoners), or Sweden (pop app 9mln- 7000 prisoners). 

So don't believe those unemployment statistics. 

Faced with a lack of restaurant choices (surprise, surprise) and ravenously hungry, we decided (perhaps for the last time ever, at least that is what we subsequently said) to go to a Burger King. 

Standing in the queue in front of me was a girl who smelled of stale cigarettes and weekend old clothes.

Her hair was long and tangled, and she had a poor complexion, a nose which looked as though it had been recently broken, and scratches on her face. 

She was, what one could charitably call a real piece of work. 

She made eye contact with me in that cynical come-hither way, and then turned to talk to the woman behind the counter.

 "How's work?" she asked. 

 "Honey. I been working 143 hours in the last two weeks and I'm tahrred," said the woman, with a big deep fat fryer tush.

 "You need help?" asked the girl. 

 "We always need help." 

The woman pointed disinterestedly to a stack of employment applications on the counter. 

 "You know me. I'm a good worker." said the smoke girl, a comment followed by a pointed silence which made both seem unconvinced by this assertion.

"Where you been, girl?" asked the woman. "I was in for seven days with that good for nothing boyfriend of mine." 

She didn't elaborate, but we all knew what she meant. Then all of a sudden she turned to me. "Can I borrow a quarter? " she asked with a practiced smile. 

 "Uh....okay" I handed it to her, thinking she was really hard up. 

 Her thank you turned with her head. 

The next thing I knew, she whipped around to a guy standing off to the side, a guy with a marine corps haircut who I originally thought she had come in with and said: "Here", and handed him my quarter. 

She then took her fries (no sandwich) and sauntered off. 

I looked at the guy briefly but he did not acknowedge me. I was the chump, and he had just received some chump change from a cockroach intermediary masquerading as a woman. 

 The burger, full of the onions I had specifically stated three times to omit, left just as sour a taste in my mouth, and with each subsequent rancid burp I just wanted out of that town. 

Ditto Toby. BAD CALL. NO. SCRATCH THAT. TERRIBLE CALL.

The day got worse. Rt. 160, which passes by Shiprock NM and heralds the start of the Navajo reservation which runs a couple of hundred miles through the Painted Desert, does not run through Monument Valley, the whole reason for taking this detour. Instead it runs through a thoroughly depressing Navajo reservation, where housing is in maroon/brownish pre-fab squares. 

The women are fat, and if the two Indian (er. ..not Injun) men we encountered are anything to go by, the warriors have given way to a generation of panhandlers or drunkards. 

Of course we had a limited sample, but at the first gas station we stopped at to refill, we got a drunk and ornery Indian who yelled at Toby in the washroom (remember, Toby is 6'6") and then staggered out to lambast us both. 

This was at 1PM. We felt like aliens, which I suppose we are. 

Our mood remained sour as it became clear that we were NOT going to make it through Monument Valley, a fact which Toby did not tire of pointing out was my fault. 

He was right of course, but while he pouted I saw not a young man but a big child who had not gotten his way. 

Eventually we got to Kayenta, after a long stretch across the Painted Desert (painted a uniform beige, as far as I could tell). 

 When it became clear that I had definitely taken the wrong route Tobes said: "I told you last night it should have been 163, and you said you knew the way." 

He was right of course, but I told him that if he knew he should have insisted, for that route was a good 80-100 miles out of the way and most likely we never would have come that way in the first place.

 Then for some reason, we both suddenly realised that we were no longer father and child, but that we were equals, and our decisions were joint decisions, the responsibility both of ours, the consequences borne by both of us. 

We also, without actually saying it, realised that our ill-thought out and casual decision had wasted a day, that there was no way we were going to make the Grand Canyon before nightfall, and no way we were going to recoup the $60 we had laid out on Hotwire for the hotel in Flagstaff. 

Instead, we stopped at a Holiday Inn, cut our losses, and reserved a spot at the Grand Canyon South Rim....still a ways away. We then agreed to divvy up the driving the rest of the way (I had done all the driving through the ice). 

The air cleared, at our next changover at the other end of the Navajo nation, we stopped off to throw the Frisbee, our de rigeur tradition to clear out the cobwebs and refresh ourselves. 

We needed a good outlet for our frustration, and after a good session in the pre-sunset light in a parking lot, I was suddenly approached by an Indian. He was small, with greasy hair and a wispy moustache, probably mid-40s. 

 "Hi." he said. "You're throwing the Frisbee." 

 "Yep." I responded. "Where are you from?" he asked disinterestedly. 

 "England," I said. 

 "Oh," he said. "I'm from Shiprock, New Mexico (we were now in Arizona). 

 "I've been there," I said, noncommital. "My named is Ray," he said, and stuck out his hand. I shook it reluctantly. 

 "Hey, you don't think you could give me some gas money..." he said...."you know, to get back to Shiprock." 

 There was no car in sight for this phantom gas. 

 I looked at him. 

There was no shame, no feeling, no humanity. 

I was just another chump in a long series of chumps. 

Sometimes you just know. I reach into my pocket and pulled out all I had. 50 cents. "Here..." I said and handed it to him. "Now push off." 

He didn't say anything and slinked off, taking with him any residual goodwill I may have had towards him.

Now both of these experiences could well have been isolated, but I doubt it. I can't blame either of these small timers, but I found the whole day's experiences profoundly depressing. Just how cheap is the human soul anyway, and how do you pay for the years and years of mistreatment of these people at the hands of people like me. 

Chuck them 10% in a casino for their chiefs? In this barren land, the only economy seemed to be panhandling on both an individual and societal scale, with a nice school and courthouse in Shiprock and precious little elsewhere. 

The ubiquitous pawn shops were also there for all to see, except parked behind them were a lot of pickups. Who pawns their pickup unless they are really desperate? 

Just survival seemed to be difficult in these parts. Toby and I discussed this as we went towards the dying sun, leaving the Navajo reservation and heading for the South Rim. 

We listened to the political debates on NPR, and I could only think of the difficulty of keeping the system in this vast country humming along with so much inequality, simmering history, and different peoples under an overlay of opportunity clearly NOT available to all, despite the rhetoric. 

I wondered about a woman who had to work twice the time that is mandated in France just to survive. 

Of another who is clearly on a day to day schedule and whose scale of handout asking is down to a quarter, or an Indian whose horizon is the next bottle of MD2020. 

I think I would scream or give up as well. How do you fix this mess? 

 We arrive at the Grand Canyon National Forest after dark. 

We go right through the unmanned gates devoid of rangers. It is freezing. Really freezing. The air is crystal clear. The stars as bright as they will ever be in a land with absolutely no light. 

We stop the truck, get out and breath the clear air in big gulps and yell at the top of our lungs as an empty wilderness. 

 It is the end of a long day of discovery and frustration. 

We then get back in the truck, a team who has just been exposed by their nonchalance. 

We find our hotel (having to exit the park again), and settle on the cheapest restaurant in Tusayan called WE COOK PIZZA AND PASTA, (no kidding) where we drink a beer, scarf a pizza, and watch a private girl's school's basketball team stroll in, some of the girls in shorts and flip flops in this brutal dead of winter. 

They are from Flagstaff, our original destination, and are completely oblivious to the irony that only 50 miles away, some Indian schmuck is easing his shivers with a purloined bottle of rotgut partially financed by a Frisbee throwing plonker who passed there by mistake.

  Go to Chapter 10