I got into Dallas via Love Field. Dallas is a rich city glutted with the fruits of modern industry — tall beige towers with brown bands windows made of one-way glass, jukeboxes plumped with the hits of the 80s, and a Starbucks imposing itself like an obnoxious white toothed suitor on every corner. The wax museum in Dallas has a religious tableaux and a chamber of horrors – the feted lynching of four murders on the run, and a harrowing scene of Indian retaliation against the white settlers, and, best of all, ‘Lee Harvey Oswald, named assassin of President Kennedy … He holds an exact duplicate of the rifle and scope used in the slaying’. Then of course there’s the Book Depository in Dealey Plaza – now a museum full of unbelievable kitsch, woolen ‘Jack & Jackie’ puppets in their wedding clothes and pen holders modeled in JFK’s image – as though being shot wasn’t bad enough. The hotel there was straight out of the Jetsons, that is, slavered with red and pink plastic and chrome; the next motor lodge I stayed at was “the Last Frontier” Motel on Highway 80, near Dallas, with all of the furniture looking to have been roped together with leather straps in some indefinably primitive fashion, and inexplicable primitive artworks dangling over the bedhead like a Chinese gong or warrior masks – both varieties of motel proved to be exactly the wrong type of place to eat a cap.