Some other observations. This one is so big, huge in fact, that I might have mentioned it before. American’s like things to be large in every way. Cars, the amount of food on your plate, leading up to the size of their clothes, room dimensions, cups which hold enough coffee to fill a bath, beds, televisions, furniture in general, the list can go on. I have a theory that this attraction, magnetism to the grander scale, has something to do with the size of the country. I’ve noted before how I don’t like the Illinois countryside. But we’re currently in the Utah desert, and it’s fantastic – and huge. Massive rock walls, impossibly balanced stacks of rocks as red as crimson, under a sky so infinitely, well, big (I’m running out of large scale adjectives here). I love it – the shapes and colours, the promise of exciting explorations, hiking, mountain biking, wholesome outdoor life (I may be confusing what I want to do with what we are able to do with a four year old and a two year old).

Use your mind’s eye to imagine settlers arriving here for the first time. Coming from crowded cities on the East coast or Europe, space must have seemed vast. And so everything grew bigger to ensure proportion. Big houses, because land wasn’t an issue, needs big furniture, which needs big plates to fill it, and big meals. Roads are wide, so cars are bigger. We’ve just been to Las Vegas where an advert on the side of a van said it all. Elvis, in all his glittery Vegas glory, was asking you: “Why walk when you can hire a scooter?” The word “obese” has been redefined here. I’ve never seen so many people that I would be scared to bump into in case I never see the light of day again.

Vegas was an education into all that is glutinous. I don’t like the gambling culture to start with so I was never going to be in my element, but it was a culture shock. In the middle of the desert, there are huge pyramids, rollercoasters on the main street through the city, gold lions the size of a building, a fairy castle, dancing girls, stage shows. Everything is plastic, loud, gaudy, glittering. It’s toy town and the only rule is you must have fun. It’s a strange place to be, especially with children. We were staying at the Four Season Hotel, which given the other hotels we visited, was an oasis. It wasn’t tacky. It wasn’t noisy. There were fewer tattooed, surgically enhanced people. It was an interesting contrast after the natural rural life we had been living for the past two weeks, where we hiked the national parks of the Grand Canyon, Arches, Canyonland, Natural Bridges, and my favourite, the pink sandstones of Antelope Canyon, just outside the town of Page. 

We had fun, but now I’m sitting in the safety of the airport, on our way to San Diego, I think three nights in Vegas was just about right. We could have done more, and that leads me to another rant. As soon as you have children, who absorb all the spare cash you have, why does everyone hike up the prices? It’s more expensive to travel during school holidays, you have to pay for more seats on planes, more food, more beds. I can see that. But if you want to have a break from sitting in your dark hotel room, waiting for the children to go to sleep, you need a new mortgage. You might think getting a babysitter isn’t a big deal. It’s expensive, but a treat, and where else to have a treat but Vegas? I don’t mind spending $50 to someone I know and trust to look after my precious girls. But I do mind spending $180 ($45 per hour for a minimum of four hours if you please) to a stranger at a babysitting service promoted by the hotel. And then there are the show tickets on top of that. Surely shows could do family deals to get bums on seats, offer babysitting coupons on the quiet days? Do they want me to write their business plan for them?

So today I’m writing to you from San Diego, in the dark. For all America’s excesses, we are three hours into a power cut. There is no light to see, no electricity to cook, and no Wi-Fi to surf. But there is a kind of Dunkirk spirit to be fair. I haven’t heard anyone complain. We were in the Old Town when it happened and luckily managed to find a mediocre restaurant that was not shutting its doors in the face of this adversity. So we’ve been fed, watered with margaritas and are now wondering what to do. I’ve downloaded Disney’s Princess and the Frog on to my laptop for the girls but it hasn’t yet come to that. 

Our worst powercut was during the Chicago blizzard last February, when people panic-bought bread and milk. Despite four feet of snow we had been dug out of our home by our friendly snow removal company by three in the afternoon. The power, however, was off for 14 hours, which meant all the food had to pass the sniff test before being consumed, and we were about to have to deploy the sniff test on each other too – we have well water so rely on electricity to pump it. So no showers. How could we have survived?! (Actually, I was more worried about what we were going to drink, but we had a frozen lake at the bottom of the garden as a last resort! And lots of snow.)

San Diego is an interesting place. It’s sort of American but really Californian. The Californians are half tribal/Mexican, half Spanish, and the place definitely has a different style. We visited the Old Town today, which is more of a monument to the past with tourist stalls selling “antique” pottery and ponchos. It’s based around the original town square of the first settlement here and dates back to the 1820s in spirit, but not quite in reality. It looks impressive and authentic and, for a moment, I thought my historic needs could be satiated. But not quite. It is mostly rebuilt and remodeled and signs discreetly tell you about the history of how it was, rather than how it is. Still at least I had the chance to peak into the past. It’s so close to living memory it’s almost tangible. But to Americans it’s something they can’t get their head around. And why should they? Just 190 years ago there was nothing here. Not even trees. The Kumeyaay had moved along the river’s edge for centuries, upping sticks when natural resources ran out, only returning when the flora had grown back. Then the Spanish staked its claim at the end of the 18th century, and then it was Mexico’s turn to look after the city after its independence from Spain in 1821. Finally the area fell into American hands in 1846 when the United States declared war on Mexico. The gold rush of 1850s sucked people in from all over the country, chancing their luck; the Vegas of the 19th century. But it was still a small town.

Today, San Diego is sprawling. It’s doesn’t have to huge city towers of many American cities, but the Spanish villas cover a large area of the coastal lands. It’s pretty, it’s vibrant and all of a sudden trees have popped up all over the place.

It’s very dark now, and the power still has not been restored. I can see one bonfire and the headlights of a few cars. But I think I might retire for the night before something unseen decides to take a bath in my wine. Fingers crossed we don’t have to deploy to sniff test tomorrow morning. The darkness seems an apt place to close this American chapter. The bright light of the morning will have Arabian promise.