We are resting for three or four days. The town has been badly dilapidated by the recent floods. One goes in to a shop to ask for something--and ever the same reply: “Our stock was washed away by the flood--we cannot supply you.” We drove out to the Breckenridge Park and beheld with amazement the impudent little stream that caused the havoc. There is nothing to do in this semi-American, semi-Mexican town. But the hotel is pure American, full of standardized American luxury. It seems wonderful. I ring the bell of my bedroom and ask the room service to send me a jug--(no a pitcher I have to call it, else they don’t understand)--a pitcher of lemonade. I don’t always want the lemonade but I love to see it when it comes. The glass jug is a real object of beauty--a work of art. It is full of sliced oranges, carmine cherries, ice and green leaved herb. It is a riot of color, a delight to the eye. I might be drinking in a dream the sap of irridescent precious stones! I am making use of those quiet days to try and tame Dick. At present he is a savage. He keeps on hitching his trousers up as one unaccustomed to wearing clothes. He exclaims: “Jesus!” when unduly stirred. He learnt it from the Texas boys in camp. He is not sure what he may or may not eat in his fingers and is very clumsy with his fork. To counter-balance this he has acquired a useful knowledge of things. For instance one of his games it to lay pipe lines--oil of course. He knows something about locomotives, and what the very newest type is like inside as compared with the old (the Baldwin locomotive representative took a fancy to him). He has a smattering of knowledge about gods and things you find in the earth. But he isn’t (at present) fit to tea out at five o’clock in a drawing room with any of my friends’ children. OCTOBER 3, 1921. _Ambassador Hotel, Los Angeles_. I asked how long it would take me to get to Los Angeles. They said three days. I had expected it to take ten hours. I cannot get used to distances in this country. So this is Los Angeles! For two months, at breakfast, lunch and dinner, Mr. Washington B. Vanderlip used to tell me, at Moscow, about Los Angeles. He would not listen to anything about Russia. The Russians would have been interested to hear about America, but he did not tell us about America, he always talked about Los Angeles. No matter how remotely conversation drifted onto other subjects, he always brought it back to Los Angeles. Finally, one day at breakfast, about the end of the 5th week, I suddenly realized I hated Los Angeles, and when he began again I put my hand on his: “stop--” I said, “and let me say something about London.” He could not bear it, and left the room. And now here I am, as I never expected to be, actually in Los Angeles.