The sky rules. It's a clear-blue holiday-sky, stretched wider and higher than at home and pulled smooth behind low ragged hills. I see plunged-down sky wherever I turn. I cannot say why I like the color of these hills; they sport a sort of brown and a sort of green either of which when I consider separately I do not like. Near me, through the window of the cab, shrub, short desert plants, tall Arizona cactus, light-colored gravel, and a sense of clean I have not felt in even the affluent spots in India. And this is a desert town.
My destinantion is the Biltmore Fashion Center. The Apple Center belongs very well in it. I linger long and ache before the iPhone, but I can buy only the Touch—Apple won't say when the iPhone will work officially in India. And I lift and weigh and hug and squeeze and open and close the Apple Air, again and again. I say “no, thanks” to many offers to help. At Borders, I sip cappuccino and skim Three Cups of Tea and I buy my first Noam Chomsky: What we say goes. I am introduced by the large bearded man at Information to Truman Capote, and I add Tiffany's and Portraits and Observations.
I've enjoyed the short visit and today is the day to leave and I'm filled with that I-don't-wanna-go-home feeling.