Luke-warm night, yellowish night. Few books and a few scattered newspapers on the back seat. First avenues, first palm trees, first traffic on Highway 405, heading for Westwood. Six tracks on each side. Long sliding into night.
Traffic flows freely.
We speak a little about my journey, about the organization of my stay, of the few lectures I'll give at the U.C.L.A. Profr. C. comes from Switzerland. He speaks with a strange accent, half Californian, half Waldensian, obviously very happy to be here and to have exchanged his cable car tickets for an unlimited Green Card in a huge cinema house. Along the motorway, always the same low constructions with neither charm nor perspectives. Nothing delights the eye nor startles it, but the gigantism of ad posters.