THOUGHT CRIME

GALVESTON, TEXAS: MARCH 16

Years ago I went spear fishing with a Frenchman. France had withdrawn recently from Algeria. My fishing partner was a hard right ex-colonist. I discovered this while we were in his inflatable. Had the Frenchman known my opinions, he would have been tempted to spear me in the gut and dump me overboard. This was a cold morning and I wasn't comfortable.
I am equally uncomfortable in Texas. I hold the wrong views. In Bermuda Beach, I have hit on a clandestine cell of Democrats. Carol is easy to talk with. She is an Obama supporter. So is Ed. Ed's wife, Terry, backs Hilary Clinton. Ed and Terry own the next house. It has a great sea view from the deck. They have a studio apartment at ground level. I am to stay in the studio apartment.

GALVESTON BAYWATCH

davies dogs


GALVESTON, TEXAS: MARCH 16
I met Carol and Peter Davies at a road-side pizza joint on Panama's Pacific coast. Carol and I talked politics and publishing for thirty minutes. We have exchanged Emails on politics. We don't know much about each other. I am invited to speak with Carol's students at Texas A & M and be the Oldie at a 70th birthday party for Peter's mother. Peter is head man at Galveston's Beach Patrol – Mister Baywatch. Late Sunday evening of Spring Break weekend and he is way down the beach searching the sea for a missing girl. He has been there two hours. No news is bad news. The Davies' two-year-old daughter, Kai, is asleep. Carol and Ed and I drink beer and speak quietly.

PUG DOG AND CORONA BEER

GALVESTON, TEXAS: MARCH 16
Galveston beach is a thirty mile housing development. Developers have named different sections. Bermuda Beach is unpretentious. It is liable to flooding and houses are raised on pillars. A hurricane removed thirty meters of sand and most of the front line of homes a few years back. At high tide, survivors have their feet in the sea.
Carol and Peter live two houses back. Carol is waiting at the gate beside an antique VW camper in bright green with red and black shell borders. For company Carol has two dogs and a fit white pony-tail in his fifties. One dog is a pug. The other is questionable. The pony-tail holds a cold Corona beer. Carol introduces him as Ed.
Carol has beer in multiple-choice for the Brit. Choice in beer is less stressful than a Starbucks coffee-house menu.

STUDENT-SPEAK

bermuda beach

GALVESTON,TEXAS: MARCH 16
A chill Spring Break weekend in Galveston. 7 pm and a few crazies are in the surf. A few throw balls on the beach. Thousands spill out of a rap concert. Cars and bikes crowd the beach road. Kids sit out of car windows; in convertibles on seat backs; on car roofs, feet dangling through sun roofs. A majority are black. Age is unity. All are high on mirth. They shout joyfully in a foreign language, foreign to an Old Brit on a Bike: student-speak.
A kid throws dollar bills from a 4X4. The chill breeze grabs the bills. Kids give chase. The chase is competitive. A people carrier swerves across the road. Chaos!
I sneak through gaps. Five miles to Bermuda Beach where Carol and Peter live...

GALVESTON, TEXAS

GALVESTON, TEXAS: MARCH 16
Galveston is a small city built on a sand bar a couple of miles out from the Texas coast to which it is connected by a causeway. By nature of being a sand bar, Galveston has beaches. The seaward beach is forty miles longs and has reasonable surf on a good day. The landward side is protected and has excellent wind surfing, good fishing and dinghy sailing. Five million tourists visit Galveston during the summer months.
I ride into Galveston in early evening and head for the city center. Four Black men in a smart car draw along side at each red light intersection. The man in the back is filming me. The others try for a conversation. The lights turn green and drivers behind immediately hit their klaxon. So it goes, so it goes, all the way down Broad Street to the Catholic Cathedral. I make a U and halt in front of the church where a Latino family are taking photographs.
I ask if they are Catholics.
Sunday, would doing a good deed make them happy?
Do they have a cell phone? Could they call Carol Davis for me? I have the number.
The mother calls Carol and tries to hand me the cell phone.
I explain that: a) I am deaf and can never hear over a cell phone.
b) That I need directions and Carol's address.
The mother writes directions on the back of a hymn sheet.
I am in business.

EVIL MUSLIMS

TO GALVESTON, TEXAS: MARCH 16
Yes, well...My apologies, readers, if I occasionally write what I feel. We have had Homeland Security PR, coffee, Malls, obesity and politics. Here is a return to travel. I have 650 Ks to ride. Edinburgh to Galveston is flat. A highway fly-over rates as a hill. Cloud hides the sun – fortunately, no rain. Other dangers lurk: primarily, an Old Man's stupidity. I take on gas midway. Three Harleys cruise into the gas station. I ask permission to touch the big, broad, leather seats. Heaven!
Excitement makes me forgetful. I run short of fuel 150 Ks from Galveston and discover that I left my billfold and address book on the gas pump at the last halt.
This is bad.
Actually, this is very bad.
I am almost out of gas. I am staying with Carol and Peter Davis in Galveston.
I have their telephone number. I don't have 50 cents for a phone call.
Very bad...
The gentleman manning the cash register at the gas station is an immigrant from Karachi, Pakistan. Yes, he is one of those evil Muslims. I relate my predicament and offer my camera for a gallon and a half of gas. He is unimpressed by the camera.
He says, “This is something that happens to everyone some time in their lives.” He takes six dollars from his billfold. “Is that sufficient?”
“More than sufficient.”
I ask for his address. He tells me not to be silly.
This is my thank-you letter to a dear kind sweet man....And, of course, one of those evil Muslims.

BOUNCING PASTOR

EDINBURG, TEXAS: MARCH 15/16
I write much of the day in my motel room. Edinburgh is a good place to write. The alternative is visiting a couple of Malls (no great temptation). Between writing I watch TV news. FOX and CNN are delirious with joy. They have grabbed an opportunity to destroy Senator Barak Obama. Obama's pastor is the weapon. FOX and CNN broadcast endless repeats off the pastor bouncing up and down while fueled with rage at the suffering of Afro Americans. “God damn America,” the pastor yells.
God has saved MacCaine, breathe Republicans.
God be blessed for passionate Afro American Christianity, breathes Hillary Clinton.

TEXAS WADDLERS

EDINBURG, TEXAS: MARCH 15/16
I am in Edinburg, Texas. I feel slim. People here waddle rather than walk. Obese is an understatement.
A Chinese restaurant in Edinburgh, serves a great buffet: all you can eat for $6.95. The buffet contains four different shrimp dishes, stuffed crab, calamares and every kind of meat. A notice hangs above the buffet: PLEASE TAKE ONLY WHAT YOU CAN EAT.
Customers serve themselves mountains.
I prefer Asian food to European. Latin America doesn't do Chinese. It tries – the result is inedible. I serve myself at the buffet both days that I am in Edinburg. That one meal is sufficient intake for the day. The food is excellent. The Chinese lady who runs the restaurant has a sweet smile and is happy to chat.

ROYALS, LEDBURY AND LUGGAGE

EDINBURGH, TEXAS: MARCH 15/16
We live in a small village back home. Ledbury is our local market town. The route to Ledbury from our cottage runs through country lanes and over hills and through ancient woods and glorious green pastures. My wife, Bernadette, tailors hand and travel luggage. She numbers movie stars and Royals amongst her clientèle. Her work is exhibited at Ledbury Market House. The Market House was built in the 13th century. This is not a digression. I am writing of coffee. An Italian coffee shop serves great coffee upstairs on Ledbury's Main Street. The coffee shop is the same distance from our cottage as MoonBean is from my Edinburgh motel. Ledbury is a pleasant drive from our cottage. Riding to MoonBean is a procession of Malls. I want to go home.

Find photographs of Bernadette's luggage and of me talking with one of her Royals in the biography section at www.simongandolfi.com
OR VISIT www.bernadettesbags.com

STUCK-UP STARBUCKS

EDINBURG, TEXAS: MARCH 15
I ask directions to Edinburgh town center. Edinburg doesn't have a center. Edinburgh has Malls. Drive enough miles in any direction and you are in the next town which is also Malls. I ride 7 Ks to a Starbucks. Starbucks considers itself superior. So do its staff. I need black coffee. I am faced with an incomprehensible menu. Bewilderment merits a sneer and half an inch of black liquid in a ceramic cup. WiFi Internet connection is an extra.
A woman whispers to me that Internet is free at MoonBean. MoonBean is on the next block in a neighboring Mall. Staff are friendly and relaxed. Coffee comes in a beaker. Customers talk to me. I am happy.

STUPID, STUPID, STUPID...

EDINBURGH TEXAS: MARCH 14
A patrolman at Border Patrol recommends Motel 6 for a cheap clean room. Motel 6 in Edinburgh began life as a Holiday Inn. I have a room the size of a South American small-town hotel. Towels would bandage an army. I am due Sunday in Galveston, Texas. I am way behind with writing. I book in for three nights, drag out the waterproof purse that hangs round my neck on a steel wire. Where in Hell is my credit card? Have you suffered the same disaster?
You hunt through every pocket.
Then you hunt through every pocket.
Finally you hunt through every pocket.
The reception clerk comes to my aid with a bright suggestion: “Have you checked your pockets?”
Don't snarl – the clerk means well.
"Where did you last use it?” the clerk asks.
How would I remember? At 75? Close to the end of my journey and I got careless. That is the truth. Stupid, stupid, stupid...
I pay cash for the room, dump my bag on the bed and cool my brain in a shower. Then I call the bank to cancel the card and call Bernadette to wire me money through Western Union.

NASCAR IS COOL

EDINBURG, TEXAS: MARCH 14
Border Patrol PR is a misnomer. The PR man for Border Patrol is forbidden to discuss illegal immigration, illegal immigrants, coyotes, progress building the frontier fence.
These are major points of discussion amongst ordinary and extraordinary citizens of Texas and New Mexico, Arizona, California, Washington politicians and candidates for the Presidency.
Accompanying a Border patrol is illegal (I might get shot).
A poster of a Nascar saloon decorates the office. The car is sponsored by Homeland Security. Racing cars are cool with the type of kid Homeland Security hopes to recruit. Has the car won races? Is that a forbidden subject? Is PR superfluous?

HOMELAND SECURITY AND ILLEGAL MUSIC SITES

BROWNSVILLE, TEXAS: MARCH 14
I expected to wait in line at the Brownsville border. I was through to a Customs bay in minutes and through to Immigration with equal speed. Immigration takes a while. Back home I understand computer delay: our sons download music from weird sites and collect viruses. I don't like to ask the woman official what Homeland Security downloads. Perhaps the computers are antique.
I want to ride with an agent from Border Patrol on a night hunt for illegals.
The head office for this sector is north in Edinburg.
The PR man will be back late in the afternoon.

STRIP CLUBS - MEDICAL PROCEDURES

MATAMOROS/BROWNSVILLE: MARCH 13
Lunch with the newspaper editor takes a while. I reach the frontier town of Matamoros in early evening - easier to cope with border formalities tomorrow morning. Matomoros is an interesting town. I had expected streets of strip clubs and massage parlors. Cheap sex has been supplanted by cheap medical treatment. Clubs and massage parlors have given way to hospitals and doctors' surgeries.

COYOTES AND ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS

TO BROWNSVILLE, USA: MARCH 13
Edward James was a wealthy and eccentric Englishman. He spent much of his life designing a series of interconnected follies and having them built in the lush forest near Xilitla. I am an Englishman and vaguely eccentric. I am not rich. I don't stop in Xilitla. I do reach Ciudad Victoria. I find a room on the cathedral square and relish a final prawn cocktail in Mexico. From Ciudad Victoria to the border at Brownsville is one vast flat field of sorghum. The field is 200 miles long, God knows how wide. Rains are late. I read, over breakfast, that farmers are in panic.
I take a break midway to the border. A middle-aged Mexican admires my bike. He is editor/owner of a local paper. He invites me for lunch. We discuss bikes, politics, the border. Smugglers of illegals into the US are called coyotes. US$1,500 is the fee for smuggling an illegal. The fee carries a guaranty. The US Border Patrol catches an illegal, the Immigration Department returns him or her to Mexico. The coyote takes him across again and again and again - until successful.

A LAST VISIT TO THE CARTER BAR

JALPAN, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 12
I am heading for the US/Mexico border at Brownsville. I will cross tomorrow. Today the road north climbs up through the Sierra Gorda. I look down on clouds for the last time in Latin America. A dry
stone wall divides a small paddock of rough grass. The wall ends at a fast-flowing burn. Broad-leaf trees grow on the banks. Pines grow further up the slope. Wall, burn, trees, the quality of the hill grass, all are reminders of the Scottish Borders - even the wet mist. The US lies ahead. The US frightens me. It is foreign territory in all but language. I long to be home...

ONE MORE POSSIBLE HOME

JALPAN, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 12
On this journey, I have walked the streets in so many towns, made friends, imagined how life would be, what street to live on, which house would be closest to perfection. Jalpan would be a fine place. It is the right size in which to become accepted, has a great climate, beautifuil architecture, wonderful country, good fishing. My bag is packed. The bike is loaded. Staff join me for a photograph. One more farewell.

JALPAN CHURCH DETAIL

JALPAN, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 11
Share a table in the late evening at the hotel with the owner and his wife, her sister and brother-in-law.
I will miss Mexico. I will miss Latin America. Some weeks, most weeks, I have spoken only Spanish.
We change character when we change language. We have history in our native language; we have absorbed prejudices from the cradle on. Those of our own nationality recognise from whence we come and judge us by the opinions they presume we hold. Shifting into a different language frees us. I am a nicer person in Spanish than I am in English. I am less self-conscious, less defensive, less aggressive in my arguments, curious of others rather than judgmental.
This evening we talk of the US Presidential race. We hope for an Obama victory.
The sister says, “They will never elect him...”

OLD MAN FOR THE TRASH HEAP

hotel owner

JALPAN, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 11
I have spent much of the day writing in the hotel. Why am I so tired? Tired is a misnomer. Exhausted is an understatement.
Being away ten months and on the road, vulnerable on a small bike; seemingly endless series of packing and unpacking; at night, trying to recall in each new hotel room which direction the bathroom is and where the light switches are – all of that is counterbalanced by warm, interesting, kindly people, by superb country and wonderful buildings.
So why so exhausted?
By nature, I am an optimist (aged 75, only an optimist would attempt this ride). Holding on to one's optimism is hard. Country to country, the endless tales of coruption are depressing, the belief so many have that the system is too entrenched, that there is nothing anyone can do, that even trying is to waste one's life. Yes, exhausting.
There is a further factor: my editor/publisher is in adminsitration (bankrupt used to be the word). I had a three book contract. The first of the trilogy was due for publication in May. I had a young enthusiastic intelligent editor. Yes, I am suicidal...

TOURISTS ARE RARE

JALPAN, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 10
Tourists are rare this month in the Sierra Gorda. Mexicans arrive for Easter week. The road over the mountains may scare people from the US – and lack of beach. This evening a married couple sit at the next table in a taco place round the corner from my hotel. They are in their late fifties to early sixties. He is a University Professor. His field is Urban Studies. They visit Europe regularly. This is their first visit to Mexico. The wealth of historic architecture surprises them. I am surprised by their surprise.
The Professor and his wife have flown direct from a New York winter. They are very white. He immediately questions me on racial attitudes in Mexico. The US obsession...