I am in the desert and a musical gathering is just ending. The young people are there with guitars and banjos--mostly guitars--sitting around and waiting... My son Reynaldo and I watch new arrivals, especially a "New York psychiatrist" who is dressed in shiny shark-skin dark blue metallic suit and a hat with a snappy small brim--too tiny to be of help in the desert sun. No one notices him, so he sounds excessively happy--like an actor who demands the limelight--"I love young people and their music." The small hat has a brush or feathers in the band like Bavarian or Alpine hat. While most sprawled asleep, a truck pulled up to take them home or back to town or to bus or airport. It was a combination camper and British two-decker bus. It filled quickly top and bottom. Reynaldo and I climb onto trailer it pulls as it moves. The trailer suddenly becomes a long mattress with a person here and there on its large space. It is as wide as the highway, but about two to three blocks long. I wonder how engine of the bus can pull it. It rolls over rocks and road signs and guardrails easily ... and bends easily over hills and curves. The bus stops at a destination, and it switches back from long mattress to trailer carrying machinery that is sharp, dangerous and gun-metal blue. Same color as NYC psychiatrist's suit. Reynaldo is impressed how nimbly I climb over the machinery and get to the ground before him. I know it is experience at railroad and mountains, but do not say so to him.