Our first stop was the desert community of Amboy, referred to as a "desert community" because "ghost town" is a bit harsh (it does have an operational post office). Just west of town we passed the section of desert where people traditionally write their names, initials or short messages in the sand with rocks. We wrote "Shandel" just to the right of "Timoch," which is further proof that nobody who drives Route 66 speaks English.

We stopped in Barstow for lunch and ate at "Gil’s for Fine Dining," a restaurant that occupies an awkward space with a high ceiling and a stage clumsily converted into, well, a former stage. Our waitress, when asked how she was, explained that she was "fat-legged and sassy, thank you," and she gave us sandwiches that were three parts mayonnaise to one part meat.

The next part of our day was incredibly stressful due to poor directions. Our book, which had earlier referred to an interstate entrance as an "exit," forgot to mention to get on the interstate in Victorville. So we followed the directions in the book and ended up circling around a parking lot until we decided just to head west and see what happened (the compass in the ceiling of the car has been our most useful instrument). We got on I-215 into San Bernadino and skipped ahead in our directions to where it said to get off at Devore Street and make a left. We did, and the road circled up into the hills, past some grazing livestock (llamas, we suspect), and back to where we started. So we figured maybe the book meant "right" when it said "left," a mistake it has made more than once, and we ended up at the entrance to a national park, possibly owned by Blockbuster Corporation. These things happen in California. The woman at the national park entrance, who was eager to get back to the phone where she was discussing her recent failure to meet a friend at the mall, explained that the book, when it said "left," had actually meant "straight."

Fifteen minutes later, we were back on Ocean Boulevard and headed to Westwood, which is about 5 miles away (2 hours by freeway). We pulled up to the house at the same time as Laurie, who had with her, my sister Julie Raskin and her son Alec. The double arrival led to circuit overload for my friends as they were introduced to thousands of relatives at once and we had to keep introducing Baker to people because he was incapable of doing it himself. He listened to each person’s name and never realized that he needed to tell them his own. Alec skipped the introductions and dove directly for my stomach.

Laurie prepared me a second birthday dinner, which means my relatives are 2 for 2 so far. We had pasta, which Rachel had been craving since mid-Oklahoma, and a birthday cake that Alec picked out. The candle played a high-pitched, electronic "Happy Birthday to You," and Laurie wouldn’t let me blow out the candle until it went through its third and final cycle of the song. She then realized that Alec had been out of the room for the candle ceremony, so she re-lit the candle and it shrieked "happy birthday" three more times.

We had Julie with us, so we went back to her room (and mom’s) in their hotel in Westwood (of course Julie and mom are in Westwood the same two days we are). We fell asleep to E.R. until my mother came back and freaked out because her goal had been to avoid us while we are here for fear of "ruining our trip." So she hugged us, gossiped to us and sent us on our way back to Laurie’s, where we did things very quietly to avoid waking Alec.

Alec was asleep, which gave us less of a relaxed feeling than one of being in the eye of the storm. There was an eerie calm, but we could hear trees being uprooted, houses flying by, witches bicycling, etc., and we knew that he would return.