Stepford Wives live on in Kingman

There's not much will get Karen up at dawn, but as we had a long drive, our room at Monument Valley faced East and the light would have sneaked through the curtains anyway, we set the alarm for ten minutes before the sun came up. Dragging ourselves out of bed, groping, bleary-eyed for the camera, we threw clothes on and went out into the chilly, pre-dawn air and waited.

It was a spritual opening to the day. The pictures are below.



To 29 Palms from Monument Valley, a drive of 500-odd miles (and some of them very odd) wasn't (thankfully) very scenic or we'd never have got here, such is Karen's propensity to slam on the brakes and exit the car for a photo.

However, this is not to say that the trip wasn't memorable for other reasons. Here, we mention our server at a well-known diner en route to 29 Palms, who was so unrelentingly cheerful, we were looking for the "on" switch between her shoulder blades. Slightly more scary than our sunny server were the two ladies in the booth behind us, who responded in the same syrupy tones. For cynical Brits, this was a sterotype gone mad - and (once we'd got over the shock) hugely enjoyable. Although even now, we're not sure she was real. Her seemingly geniune response "That will be my pleasure." had us glancing around for hidden cameras - she'd not last five minutes in Streatham. Or fifteen in Crouch End.

A little way along we hit the legendary Route 66. Well, we thought it was Route 66, all the signs appear to have been nicked and it seems a bit under-repaired, even given California's parlous finances.
We stopped at Roy's gas station to be asked by a chap who obviously wasn't expecting us if we wanted gas.... This was when the sun was going down, so perhaps he thought something more exciting was happening.

Finally reaching 29 Palms felt like bliss. Eight and a half hours is a long time to drive.