LA international airport is no better or worse than most other airports.  It is, of course, very big, but you only see a small part of it coming through.  Immigration was slow but relatively simple and all was going through on the nod, until the, generally friendly officer,  asked me, “How long will you be staying in the United States?”  “About six weeks”. Shock, horror and astonishment, all in one. “Six weeks?”  “Yes”. “OK”. My case was waiting at the carousel, so I picked it up and headed for the next queue, customs.  This moved along quickly.  My turn.  I hand my form to a tall, thirtyish, fine looking, uniformed young man. He looks at it. He looks at me. He looks at the form. He looks at me.  “What part of Ireland do you live in?”  “Dublin”. “Oh yeah?  I used to live in Ballsbridge”. “Nice part of town”. “Yeah. The embassy was paying for it. Enjoy your stay”.

If there is anything unusual about LAX, (that’s the airport, by the way), it’s the Arrivals lobby.  It is tiny.  That’s where Ed picks me up and we drive to his house in Burbank. My first view of LA as we drive along.  I can see the Hollywood sign on the hills but I don’t mention this as I don’t want to appear too much the green tourist.  A couple of beers in Ed’s and it’s 8pm.  I realise that that is 4am Irish time and I have now been up almost 25 hours.  I get 3 hours sleep, then up for 2 hours, when Vicki arrives, then complete physical shutdown. I’ll wake up tomorrow sometime.