and by Dos Amigos - that's the wife and I hop on the GS and get the F*$K out of dodge for a few weeks. We don't really have culture here in the United States. Everything we have is borrowed from the Germans, the French, Irish (etc).... or Spanish. Having grown up in California, my culture is actually largely Mexican and Spanish. The only real American thing we have is Thanksgiving and Jazz.... but our street names are Spanish, our architecture is Spanish, when you go out to dinner there is usually salsa on the table....hell there is a Mission in my hometown. I've spent most of my life listening to people speak Spanish, and I've been correcting tourists' pronunciation of the word "Cabrillo" for as long as I can remember. As my wife and I ride near the border, I try to make sense of the massive walls. I understand that there has to be some sort of official way to bring people into the country but the active struggle to keep people out of the country is just un-American. This entire country is made of immigrants - it's not a question of IF you family immigrated, just WHEN they did. A song plays over and over in my head; "Another idiot comes on the box Breathing privileged air Preaching to the fair Rallying one muscle under God Leading on the cheer Leaning on our fears This state of ignorance means nothing to the faithful God is with us now they disregard the world beyond the wall" On the other side of that wall are people, with kids, and cars and jobs. We are all no different. If my head gets cut off, I will die - just like someone from the far side of that wall. I have no desire to erupt a political debate but things like this piled on top of working way too much, family politics and the astonishing culture of consumerism that has been build around Christmas makes my wife and I want to get the hell out of California for awhile..... ironically on Thanksgiving and into Mexico. ....BUT first we have to filter through the 17,000,000 assholes in Los Angeles order to begin the journey of 1000 miles. This is our first step.