Date: Wed, 8 May 2002 18:01:03 -0500
Subject: Neal and Jack and Henry and Lisa and Me

Dear Friends,

As I type these words, we are eastbound on I-40 somewhere in central Arkansas. We have just enjoyed a hearty lunch at the Cracker Barrel in Fort Smith (I swear, you can not make up these kind of details), and with Henry and Lisa in the back playing Destruction Derby 2 on the PlayStation (yes, the bus comes with a PS2 -- more on that later), I suddenly find myself with a few minutes to tap out this meager dispatch.

First, the bus. It is huge, an enormous, copper-colored behemoth finished in a style our driver refers to as "NASCAR." When it first backed onto Woodhill Canyon Road late Thursday morning, it was like the shot in Fellini's AND THE SHIP SAILS ON (now available on DVD from Criterion) when the ocean liner first steams into frame. We're talking monstrous.

Inside, there's a lounge with a 35-inch flat-screen TV, satellite dish and DVD player, a kitchenette with a cooktop and microwave, four Pullman-style bunks, each with its own little fold-down TV screen (Henry has already staked out one of these as his favorite place on earth), two bathrooms, a shower (!?), and a large rear bedroom with a double bed, vanity, ANOTHER 35-inch flat-screen TV with satellite dish and DVD player AND the aforementioned PlayStation 2.

We love it.

Our driver is Arnie Knapp of Nashville, Tennessee, and a kinder, more thoughtful gentleman you could not hope to meet. He also knows how to pilot this leviathan through 30 mph crosswinds, narrow parking lots, and hairpin mountain roads, and to our enduring gratitude, he verbally dressed down with the officious rent-a-cops at the Meteor Crater in Arizona when they tried to make us park in the lower lot on a broiling-hot day.

People gape at us as we pass. On the rare occasions we choose to disembark, their faces are creased with disappointment as they realize that we are not, in fact, NSync or Britney Spears (the people who are using this bus before and after us, respectively), but nondescript Jews from the San Fernando Valley.

We've fallen into a particular rhythm since our departure last Thursday. Typically, we get up around nine, have breakfast somewhere locally, then hit the road around 11:00. Each day's driving is around five and a half hours (we're averaging around 350 miles a day; the driver's contractually limited to 450). During the drive, Lisa frantically combs the AAA Guide to pick our lodging for that evening. We pull into Town X around dinnertime, check into Hotel X, stroll around town, dine, then return to our room around nine p.m. to close out the day with reading, computer games, maybe a movie, and bedtime around midnight.

Our first stop was Las Vegas, a place I swore I'd never go again, but which conveniently fell five hours out of Los Angeles. Checked into the Mandalay Bay (crummy room, knobs falling off the dresser), had dinner at the Wolfgang Puck restaurant (pretty good), visited the M. Bay's Shark Reef (MUCH better than I'd expected, on a par with the Long Beach Aquarium's similar exhibits), then closed out the evening with a cab ride up and down the Strip to show Henry what happens when money outpaces taste.

(Right now, in the back of the bus, I can hear Henry squealing "My girl likes franks, not pork and beans / I wanna wax that girl right out them jeans" -- from the Beastie Boys' "I'm Down" -- as he smashes cars on the PlayStation. Suddenly I have a teenager.)

Day 3 took us to Sedona, site of the Cosmic Convergence (or whatever the hell they called it), beautifully set amongst the towering red hills of Arizona. Walked around, tried to find myself a non-Western belt (the one thing I forgot to pack) -- no luck. Pretty town, though -- reminded me of Cambria on the California coast.

Day 4 -- Santa Fe. Arrived to find that the hotel had cancelled our reservations, and with every hotel in town booked solid (Cinco de Mayo?), they offered to put us in their "sister hotel" on the other (read: wrong) side of town. Like, there literally was a tattoo parlor next door. Hungry, tired, cranky, yet disinclined (read: scared) to venture out with a four-year-old into a decidedly dicey-looking neighborhood, I walked down the block to pick up dinner from a promising-looking pizza place, and the folks at Primo Pizza were so friendly and hospitable that it totally turned my mood around. Judging from the FOR LEASE sign on the building, they're probably going out of business soon, so patronize them while you can -- these good people deserve it.

Other than that, our two days in Santa Fe were fairly undistinguished. We had an excellent breakfast at Cafe Pasqual's in town, stopped in at the Georgia O'Keeffe Museum to see how many different ways vaginas can be metaphorically rendered in paint, perused an excellent tile & porcelain place called Rainbow Gate and bought a coupla plates... But overall, I really didn't get what all the Santa Fe hype was about.

Day 6. Had a nice lunch at the Lake City Diner in Santa Rosa, New Mexico, rolled on to Amarillo, checked into a hotel conveniently located next to Hooters, then retired for the evening. Didn't really feel like doing too much exploring -- the May evening smelled like we were downwind of a slaughterhouse, which, in Amarillo, I guess you always are.

On the way out of town, we stopped for a photo-op at the Cadillac Ranch (TOTALLY worth it), and then it was on to Oklahoma City, which turned out to be the most delightful surprise of the trip thus far. As the song goes, Oklahoma City IS mighty pretty -- the recently-reinvigorated downtown, highlighted by the Bricktown area, is clean, pleasant, and reassuringly monitored by a subtle but definite police presence. As we strolled around, trying to choose from among a wealth of dinner options, we suddenly happened on... a ballfield. Turns out the AAA Oklahoma City Redhawks, the Texas Rangers' farm team, are playing the Las Vegas (N.M.) 51's in exactly one hour -- and Henry's never been to a baseball game before. So we grab a quick dinner at the Bricktown Brewery and head back to the game. Our $12 seats turn out to be in the second row, right on the third-base line -- I love minor-league ball -- and the ensuing hours are as perfect a father-son dream as I ever could have hoped for. When Henry puts his hand over his heart for the National Anthem, Lisa bursts into tears, and it just gets better from there. The home team falls behind early, but Henry stays with the game all the way, and when the 'Hawks rally late in the 8th, his interest is reignited, so that by the end he's yelling "Go, you Redhawks!" and "Come on, you Redhawks, hit it!" with the rest of the 8,000-plus faithful. They lose, 5-4, but who cares?

Now we're on to Little Rock, which from the looks of things is major Southeastern city with no attractions to speak of. I'll keep you posted.

Your intrepid pal,

Jeff