SCAREDY CAT

AND ONWARD: APRIL 8
I traveled deserts in my youth, was shot at, broke free of ambushes. In my thirties I rode trucks the length and breadth of the Indian subcontinent and, in later years, drove and rode horseback across much of Afghanistan, hid from Russian gun ships, mislaid my false teeth in a mountain stream. Now I am old – and a scaredy cat. Or grown more sensible? Washington DC can wait. I crossed the Appalachians on Route 211. I bypass Washington on Route 15 to Harrisburg and head for safety.

REAP AND WEEP

ROAD TO WASHINGTON, DC: APRIL 8
I am finally north of the Appalachians. Washington, DC, is a rock thrown into a vast economic puddle. Ripples flow outward. White clapboard houses are bigger, better maintained. Mercedes, BMWs and Porches are common as flies on a Third World butcher's slab. I catch glimpses of red brick mansions sheltered by parkland. Riding stables abound, paddocks protected by white picket fences. Horses are as plentiful as hand guns and bare the same romantic mystique. I am crossing the political heartland of the Land of the Free whose early heroic Presidents, General George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, were slave owners.
The slaves have rebelled.
Reap and weep.
Or move to the suburbs and gated communities...

WEST VIRGINIA DINER

APPALACHIANS: TUESDAY, APRIL 6
I am being mothered by the waitress in the diner. The waitress is medium young and blond. She has a genetic advantage in remaining slim or avoids fried cat fish in crisp batter accompanied by equally yummy fries. The servings are vast. Outriders escape. Add tomato ketchup and my plate is soon encircled by a scarlet-spattered war zone.
The lunchtime crowd packs the diner and double doors keep the heat in. The waitress helped pry me out of my bomber jacket and I have shed a couple of jerseys. Warmth seeps through the remaining layers. My hands stop trembling. I feel good. I ponder on the politeness of people here, their friendliness. And I ponder at their lack of curiosity. Or does questioning a traveler breach etiquette? Are people nervous of what opinions they might encounter, nervous of betraying their own opinions, nervous of disagreement?
It is very different south of the Rio Grande. South of the Rio Grande, I would be in a discussion. The discussion would begin with the standard interrogation. How old? Where have I been? How does my wife feel at my being away? What do my children think? Which country did I like best?
We would drift into accounts of the economy and on into local politics and, inevitably, someone would denounce President Bush as ignorant, arrogant and stupid - and denounce the United States as racist.
In the Appalachians, I have met only one Afro-American. That was yesterday, the up-market dealer in up-market Bonds, the driver of a 4x4 Lexus. Or was he an FBI agent or a lawyer with the IRS – or a holidaying hit-man? Or chaufeur for his ill-dressed Caucasian American companion?
I have no idea.
People south of the Rio Grande are close kin culturally to Europeans. They are familiar to me. A few minutes talk and I can write a reasonably accurate summary of their place in society.
Our sharing of language with the United States provokes a delusion of commonality. Dig a little deeper and we are very different. The United States is unknown territory...