I have just come back from my first visit to New York. My equally addictive traveling companion took a photograph of me standing and smoking next to a big fat chimney which belched creamy  steam into Lexington Avenue to give our kind of zap sign to their ever so clean mayor, Mr Bloomberg.

Our hotel room was of course non-smoking so we dangled our arms out of a thin slit in the window to pollute the high sky and not our room for the sole reason that we were told that the hotel would fine us 250 dollars to de-tox it. Read the rest »

It was the fall of 1987 when we drove over Moki Dugway to access the Valley of the Gods road. We didn’t know that Moki was not suitable for an RV or that it grew narrower as it went. On that trip, we learned not to follow all the wheel tracks we saw. 

We chugged southbound on SR 261 in our old ’78 Titan and faced Moki Dugway without hesitation. Our first tremors came during the set of switchbacks, but gravel roads without rails and a 1,000-foot sheer drop-off shook us up more. Halfway to the bottom, we came face to face with another motor home whose occupants were equally as ignorant – but hey, they were on the inside track. All they had to do was watch us go over the edge and report a fatality. Read the rest »