Hello everyone. The chronicler is hoping that the weather where you're currently being held is simply pleasant. It's a different story for him. He has landed in the forecourt of hell in more ways than one: In Mesquite, one hundred and thirty kilometres from Las Vegas. He arrived here around half past three, with an hour to spare, the last on this journey, and stepped out of the bus into a hellishly hot air. The black tarmac of the car park topped off the official air temperature. He had set his crossing of the continent at 38°, but latitude and not Celsius!
How do fat people cope with this?
Now panic is creeping in about tomorrow, he not only has the wind as an opponent but also the thermometer.
The further south, the smaller the bus
He started by getting his bike ready in the car park, the man watching him was from Dortmund and was travelling in a hire car. He had stopped here on his round trip to watch the team from his home town lose against Real Madrid. It's strange how economical compatriots abroad sometimes are in their speech. When asked, he sent the chronicler round the corner to a huge hotel with an adjoining casino, where he discovered another limbo at reception. A huge room full of colourful slot machines.
Who comes up with something like that? How can you spend hours, days in it?
He hadn't expected this until Las Vegas. Women and men stared at the flashing discs like children at a smartphone. The chronicler wouldn't want to swap places with them for ten minutes. Or should he give it a try? The hotel is cheap because the rooms are probably co-financed by the slot machines. He can even relax his body in a large pool. Mesquite is already in Nevada and is a border town to Utah. Gambling is prohibited there, and the largest bank is called Zion Bank!
Politically, the chronicler has nothing to offer today. He suspects it's getting boring anyway. It would perhaps be more interesting if he could find out more about the history of his counterparts. People are always interesting.
He would like to tell two more things about today. Almost directly from his hotel, a tram took him the 22 kilometres to Salt Lake City International Airport, from where the bus departed, for really little money.
City tour for little money, but the majority still drive a car
And he was able to enjoy this spacious, green, modern city at his leisure and marvel at the brand new, stylish airport. Then he sat in two different buses for over six hours and was once again reminded how huge the country is and how deserted it is.
Left out of the window, right out of the window
Especially here, where nature is so hostile to humans. Lean dry grass, sage bushes, man-high shrubs that the chronicler cannot identify from the bus. And yet every now and then, in between, there are large industrial or commercial facilities.
At the end of the day, the chronicler in Peggy Sue's 50 Style has eaten scary food, bought nuts and water at the supermarket and some chocolate, which is good for writing. The alarm clock is set for four in the morning and the sun rises shortly after five. By then he has to be rolling along the motorway. He really wants to get to the Atomic Style hairdresser in Las Vegas before closing time.
Take care.
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