An overnight stop-over and an interesting drive West to San Diego and we arrive at the home of Amos and his wife. The traffic has got progressively heavier, as you'd expect, so I have done the last of my share of driving on the wrong side of the road.
Amos lives in a lovely spot away from the busy parts of the city. He's up on the roof. I'm thrown for a bit because the photo I have of him shows him at his computer and I don't expect to see him doing handy-man things. We take to each other immediately, all three of us - four when Amos's wife arrives home. I take what proves to be an extremely silly-looking photo of Amos pointing to the CD I've just given him. We have another great home-cooked meal and then settle in to a song session. It's a beautiful night. Cool and starry out on the back porch. We sing into late hours. Reluctantly, because we all have to be up early - well we can sleep in a while, we say goodnight and goodbye. I wake up next morning just as the coffee has brewed itself. How do they do that? (Stilly River Sage managed the same trick, I remember! Both times - we wake to coffee set to the exact moment.) On the kitchen bench is a goodbye note, breakfast possibilities, and some treats for the trip. We pack the car for the last time. We've given Amos all the left-over bits and pieces. I put all the film we've taken, neatly stashed all together, into my carry-on bag. Hildebrand says, No! No! Scatter it in among the clothes in our suitcases. So I bow to a higher intelligence and do that!
    Back we go along the crowded highway. A few brief glimpses of the sea and some pretty hills, and then it's L.A. again. Hildebrand is looking forward to getting home. Strangely it's me who feels more at home in this country. I dislike the cities, and I understand the problems here, but still - I'm drawn to the place in a way that he   isn't. It will be fun to get back and tell our friends about it all. Give them their presents. In my pack I've got Apache tears and arrowheads and pictures and all sorts of little treasures.
    We line up with dozens of other people in hire-cars. The car that's been our link with L.A. and the way home, goes back to become someone else's. No more will we have to worry about it missing us in the night and getting into hysterical blowing of it's horn. No more will we have to remember its funny little foibles. I pat it in a friendly way and say thanks. Goodbye. We've booked into a motel for the afternoon and early evening. It's a good idea. We know about the lack of comforts at L.A. airport.