Tucson—A Long Days Journey Into Night:

We leave New York on a Friday and hit the rush-hour traffic into the Holland Tunnel. How people do this on a daily basis never ceases to amaze me, as does the lack of random homicides at the tunnel mouth every night. Everything today is late and I sit sullenly in the front seat of the van watching the traffic inch down Broome Street, quietly wishing slow, public deaths on every muncher blocking an intersection ahead of us. At one point I get so antsy that I get out and walk a block because sitting staring at the back of the immobile truck in front is driving me to distraction, and murder.

We make the airport with three minutes to spare in which to check-in. I pay the skycap the requisite two dollars per bag for the curbside check-in, then I tip him. I’m very English and I am frequently resentful when tipping. I understand tipping in a restaurant, and tipping someone who takes your coat, or tipping someone who delivers something to your house, but tipping someone to check-in your bags after you’ve paid? Or tipping someone to pour a two-dollar cup of coffee? I mean, what does the airline ticket pay for, or the subsequent curbside check-in fee? And the two dollars for the coffee? I feel guilty about feeling so cheap but at the same time I feel as though walking down the street can give you a nose-bleed in America. It’s not that I mind paying for things or rewarding service per se, but these are such quasi-obligatory tariffs for something that seems part of the initial service. Everyone’s working an angle. And I know that people don’t get paid what they should either. But couldn’t everything just cost what it costs to produce / provide—or am I being naïve? I half expect coffee houses to start charging for cups next—and I’ll wager they will slide it in as a discount for anyone using their own coffee mug first; within a few months the coffee will be cheaper but the cups will become more expensive (just like with headphones on planes—the movie is 'free' nowadays, but the headphones aren’t-altough that could have been a response to all the walkman headphones people have. Conspiracy theories...I love 'em).

Why only bring Scrooge out at Christmas, I say? Bah! Humbug to May, June and July too.

At Dallas/Fort Worth Airport (DFW) I learn our connection is delayed – at first by thirty minutes, and then by nearly two hours. Suddenly everyone becomes an expert on travel planning, on how we could have missed the rush hour, on better airports to fly into (because, like, storms in the southwest notoriously only affect DFW…. every other airport has clear skies and smooth landing 24/7/365—everyone knows that; except me, of course). Everyone is pissed-off, it is turning into a long journey. There’s not much open at any airport at 10pm at the best of times, at DFW there’s even less. Finally, settling into TGI Fridays with a leaden sense of resignation (TGI F***ing Fridays!) I order some food—although it seems half the menu isn’t available; between us we try several times before being able to order anything beyond an oversized maguerita.


Seated next to us are some new Army recruits. They're fresh out of basic training and en route to Tucson to start their training proper. They are all to a man and woman pleasant people. They are friendly and eager to chat—I think nine weeks cooped up on an Army base without any outside contact has given them a thirst for contact with anyone--and of course they get to meet a rock band at the airport. I am sure we are as curious to them as they are to us. (I’d think so if I ran into David Bowie at TGI Fridays in Dallas, or Beyonce at Sizzlers in Fort Lauderdale. I did run into Nick Cave in a coffee shop in Brussels once nearly a decade ago, and I can still remember it. I couldn’t think of anything cool to say so I said nothing, which was the right thing to do. It was an uncharacteristic response on my part. Normally, I’m a garrulous twonk in such situations.)

A couple of the soldiers seemed quite lost, as thought they’d be doing nothing if they weren’t in the army. I wonder how many recruits are in a similar position? I feel sad talking to them—aware that in a few months they might be killed in a car bomb outside Basra. The one thing that does strike me is how specific their vernacular is—they talk of "helping-out" and going “over there” to see what they can do. Certainly they don’t view themselves as anything but a positive presence over there. I’m ignorant, maybe they are going to be helping-out, but it’s the only time I’ve heard words like “helping” used in context with the conflict there. They certainly didn’t seem overly idealistic about the situation, but they viewed their role as a positive one. I’ve never encountered such an attitude elsewhere.

I hope they all get the education they seek in the Army, and find a sense of purpose, if that’s what they are looking for. Mostly I hope they get to grow old to enjoy a future with their families and all their limbs. Really I do. They seemed like good people.

I don’t recommend anyone arrives in Tucson at 2AM. When I finally get to my room--which I know is the last room available in the hotel—I discover that someone had indeed just been sleeping in my bed. The room hasn’t been cleaned since the last occupant left, the bed is unmade, the towels sop on the bathroom floor. My shoulders drooped to a curve and I hauled my luggage back to the elevator and down into reception where I politely, through the tighest whitest lips I could muster, requested someone Sort. This. Out. Now. As evidence of a God with a sense of irony, the hotel discovered they had double-booked one of my group and, proving that two negatives make a positive, I got a room.