I'm sleep deprived, time zone confused and hungry. But leaving Las Vegas only makes me want to return. This time for longer, time enough to not just see both the naked boys from Down Under and local but to spend time out in the desert, drive past the great swath of America that's punctuated by stark, unwelcoming landscape, never ending horizons, sweltering heat that slaps you in the face without warning, Route 66 dotted by vintage gas stations and hick towns, spectacular dawns and sunsets.
As usual, my IQ of 129 is no match for my hand/eye/brain co-ordination and I contemplate my return leg with an aura of disappointed karma. Vegas. Phoenix. Philadelphia. London. Looks like I'll be taking the scenic route. A delay in Vegas means I'm just in time to board for Phoenix and a brief chat with a relatively well travelled young man who introduced himself as Matthew. Well, Matthew and I have enough time to swap a few geographies, before I find myself seated next to a rather dapper John, offering me his bucket of Oriental mix. John's on his way home to Detroit after some training the military kindly offered him and we share a companionable four hours with much discussion about what's he's going to do when he visits India. Before I can recover from Matthew and John, the wide smile introduces himself as Jesus. Matthew, John and Jesus. My smiles matches his and I don't bat an eyelash as I tell him I'm Magdalena.
What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.
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