The Grand Canyon trip didn’t work out at all as planned. But after the plans had changed twice I’d already let go of the idea of the trip I’d had in mind. In the end it was a flight to vegas, 6 hours’ messing around there, then a helicopter ride “be one of the privileged few to have ventured below the rim of the canyon” and an evening in a genu-wine western ranch.
The helicopter ride was great, you got to wear mickey-mouse headphones with a cool boom mic. Our combination pilot/tourguide/comedian explained a few of the bits and bobs around the landscape and we buzzed the Hoover Dam and on the the Grand Canyon. It was pretty impressive. We were shown the point where some cowards got out of Powell’s boat (here, click “August 28″) clambered up the side of the canyon and got murdered, only a couple of days before they rest of the party came to the end of their three-month ordeal shooting the rapids.
At this point, they mentioned they weren’t allowed to go into the canyon proper, so we turned south to the West Ranch “a real working ranch” for some cowboy hospitality. A pleasant evening was spent in the company of a whole bunch of brits, a couple of Danes, an Indian (from india) and some merkins. A bit of horseriding, a hearty meal a lot like you might get in yorkshire, and a campfire singsong, then down the 7-mile rough track to the main road, and the 2 hour trek home.
So technically, I’ve been to the Grand Canyon At Sunset but it doesn’t really count as the canyon’s 10 miles wide and the part I saw was only 2, and sunset happened while I was in a ranch on the south rim … but miles from the actual rim.
Shucks, looks like I’ll have to come out again!
P.S. Vishwanadh figured out that my friend from Sunday morning was probably a Lady Of The Night. I had detected a sense of general defeat and bitterness from her, but I just figured that was what living in vegas did for you. It’s probably an indictment of Essex that I was quite used to getting that kind of vibe from girls there…
I’m writing this sitting outside the Tropicana hotel waiting for the airport bus. I got up at 5 to allow a margin for slacking but there was none so i have time to watch the adverts for the Eagles gig and Phil Collins’ farewell tour on the side of the MGM building… A pair of red boot-cut hipsters just strode over on 3 inch heels and parked next to me. The girl in them announced from behind mascara curtains that she’d just blown $400 in 10 minutes waiting for her friends to pick her up. I said something sympathetic.
“you’re from England right?”
“right! Can you tell?”
“where’s London?”
“?”
“where’s London? is that in england?”
i can’t complain really. If someone told me they were from Bucharest i would have to guess where they were from. But you like to think that England has a more significant place in the mind of the American than somewhere like finland (ba-dum).
I gave her a hot tip not to call a scotchman* English, and the conversation stumbled on a while, fell over, twitched a little and finally lay still.
* i KNOW