Blog from the USA. Part I: Befuddled in Afflulandia

I began my five-week sojourn to the U.S. the way I always do – navigating my way through immigration and customs in the Miami Airport, then heading to the bagel store in the airport food court. Old habits die hard.

I've done this ritual so many times over the years that the Jamaican guy behind the counter almost remembers my order (tuna salad on a seedy, heavy on the red peppers). He insists that I look like John Kerry and always points me out to his co-workers. "Look mahn, eets John Kerry." Among the other unfortunate results of George Bush's 2004 reelection is that I lost the opportunity to get free food and drink by passing myself off as the President's younger brother.

I am happy to report, however, that it is still possible to bring bagels through airport security, provided that you are willing to submit the bagel to an x-ray and potential strip search. When bagels join bottled water and tweezers on the banned list, then we will know that Al Qaeda has beaten us. But for now liberty reigns.

Where the Vehicles are Huge, the Dogs are Tiny, and the Gardeners are from Chiapas

A full week in the Southern California suburban barbeque belt – I haven't done this since I moved away from here thirty years ago. People here are friendly, cheerful, generous, and family seems to be a big center of life. There are however, some points that left me confused.

First, let's talk cars, trucks and vehicles. Just how much bigger can they get?

These are definitely not the Ford Pintos, Chevy Impalas, or even pick-up truck camper vans of my suburban youth. The pick-ups have tires almost as tall as the Opel two-door I drove here my senior year in high school. Their massive hoods tower to eye level. Almost every driveway I passed on my morning walks seemed to have one or two of these behemoths parked in it.

But these are by no means the biggest vehicles in the hood. The award for 'truly, incredibly, stupendously large' goes to the new species of RVs that populate the region. We have vehicles this size in Bolivia. We call them 'flotas' and they are used to cart 50 people back and forth between Cochabamba and La Paz, and other cities, while entertained with badly dubbed Jackie Chan movies on a poorly functioning TV screen behind the driver's seat. These monster RVs, which make the campers of yesteryear look like mere toys, allow their occupants to enjoy all the comforts of home for the small price of five miles to the gallon. Some houses have huge second homes built just to shelter these immensities from the sun and rain.

In the middle are the new military vehicles disguised as family cars. There is the Hummer of course (16 miles per gallon) and a host of somewhat smaller knockoffs from Honda and others. One bore a bumper sticker that I assumed was a message to people following behind who might have concerns about world climate change: Stop Global Whining.

This inspired me with an idea that I know is a sure money maker, a line of bumper strips for those eager to flaunt their gasoline consumption with pride: Melting the glaciers and loving it! or In the time it takes you to read this I will have burned a gallon of unleaded. Maybe I'll donate the profits to Greenpeace.

In inverse relation to the size of the vehicles, oddly, seemed to be the size of the dogs. People driving vehicles big enough to transport a small platoon, have dogs that almost fit in the glove compartment. These are the kind of dogs that might sit on your lap while toodling about for groceries. I found this puzzling and still don't have a theory on it.

Each morning on my visit I walked the neighborhood (an oddity in itself) tugged along by a borrowed small dog. The only other people out on the street to talk with were the gardeners, Mexican immigrants one and all.

"De donde es usted?" "Chiapas."

I wondered if any of the homeowners inside the houses with the well-trimmed lawns and sculpted bushes had been among the forces calling in anti-immigrant sentiments to radio talk shows, even as the burly men from southern Mexico were gathering up clippings. Perhaps not.

To be sure, affluence here buys many advantages. The refrigerators, amazing things, are vast in size and equipped with little devices in the door that drop ice (crunchy or cubed) into your glass in a few seconds. Even my mother has one of these. Our refrigerator in Cochabamba makes ice too, but the kind that builds up like an arctic cave on the inside until it finally blocks the door from shutting. Removing this ice is called 'defrosting" and you should never do it with a sharp object. I learned this one morning to the sound of escaping freon. In Southern California defrosting means removing the icing from cake.

Starbucks also abounds in the land of large vehicles and small dogs. A relative of mine calls it 'Four Bucks', which I quite like. That is what it cost me to go there for a large cappuccino with an extra shot. My niece thinks I am a hypocrite for going to Starbucks. I mainly think I was overcharged by $2.

Making Sense of it All

I continue to be befuddled by the land of affluence. Really, I am trying not to be judgmental. I did, after all, go to Starbucks. Near the end of my visit I met a fellow, a keen observer of Southern California suburban life, who was able to help me make sense of it all. He was sitting in front of a McDonalds on a wooden bench, decked out in resplendent yellow and red. We also shared the same shoe size.

Jim: Ronald, all this confuses me. The affluence, does it really make people happier?

Ronald: Well they have bigger cars.

Jim: Yes, but is a bigger car happiness or just a bigger car?

Ronald: Well, it's sort of a Zen question isn't it? Some would say that the bigger cars are a sign of self-expression, of power. Others would argue that it is a matter of safety. If you are going to be in a high-speed collision between a Corolla and a Hummer, better to be in the Hummer. But I think it is really about something else.

Jim: What's that Ronald?

Ronald: I think it is about the end of drive-through pick up. I mean, have you ever seen a Hummer try to make it through the drive-through. Someone takes out our drive-through microphone here once a week or so. We are talking about a potential extinction of a whole drive-through culture.

Jim: Unless you make the drive-throughs bigger.

Ronald: Bigger drive-throughs! You are a genius! Here, have a Happy Meal. It comes with a plastic Spiderman this month.

I left Southern California the way all good Northern Californians do -- headed up Highway 5 driving ten miles above the speed limit, with a keen eye cast on the rearview for the Highway Patrol, and listening 37 times to the soundtrack to Beauty and the Beast. We pulled off midway in that magic point where south meets north, Kettlemen City, a place where the food selections are vast: from McDonalds to In and Out. After careful negotiation, my family agreed on Taco Bell.

On my way out I stumbled across something new in the small arid town where cows give the air a special smell – a familiar mermaid with long flowing hair enshrined in a circle of green. Starbucks Drive-through the sign read. The bored young man in the mini-mart next door told me he thought the grand opening was only about two weeks away.

Even this ritual, the long schlep up Highway 5 will soon enter a new era. Mocha Frappachinos at mid-way, and with a modern drive-through lane wide enough almost for the flota from Cochabamba to La Paz.

Next Stop: A visit with the Let's Impeach George Bush Pet Masseuse Coalition of Marin Country