One week ago. Houston International Airport. The endless line of wheelchairs on the gangplank as we exited the aircraft was the first sign of things to come. After a week in England, where I literally saw no wheelchairs, people movers, guns or obesity, here in Texas things were different. This was an eight-foot guitar/sculpture entitled 'Final Approach,' and no doubt commissioned for an absurd amount of money:
My alternate title: 'This One Needs Repair.' Note diamond-tread pickguard and high string popping out of the nut:
After writing some scathing impressions of Houston (and by extension the U.S., from being outside for a week) based solely on airport observations, I boarded the next flight, to Portland. A couple of Houston locals I met (on each flight) so defied my juvenile and shallow observations as to humble me completely. This is the importance of travel. But that guitar still needs repair.
My alternate title: 'This One Needs Repair.' Note diamond-tread pickguard and high string popping out of the nut:
After writing some scathing impressions of Houston (and by extension the U.S., from being outside for a week) based solely on airport observations, I boarded the next flight, to Portland. A couple of Houston locals I met (on each flight) so defied my juvenile and shallow observations as to humble me completely. This is the importance of travel. But that guitar still needs repair.
