"Left New York in nineteen forty-nine
To go across the country, without a dad-blame dime
Montana in the cold cold fall
I found my father in a gamblin' hall

Father, father, where have you been?
I've been out in the world since I was only ten.

Son he sez : Don't worry about me,
about to die of pleurisy

Cross the Mississippi, cross the Tennessee
Cross the Niagara, home I'll never be

Home in ol' Medora, home in ol' Truckee
Apalachicola, home I'll never be

Better or for worse, or thick and thin
Like being married to a little woman

God he loves me, like I love him
I want you to do just the same for him

Well, the worms eat away
Don't you worry, watch the wind
Well the worms eat away
Don´t you worry, watch the wind

So I left Montana on an old freight train
The night my father died in the cold cold rain
Rode to Opelousas, rode to Wounded Knee
Rode to Ogallala, home I'll never be...Home I´ll never be."

Jack Kerouac - On the Road (poem)


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I got my father´s letter on a Friday. "I want to talk to you" it said more or less. We hadn´t seen much of each other in the last 10 years. And the last time we talked, at my sister´s wedding, things got so bad I had to put 15 000 miles of land and a continent between us just to keep us from each other´s throats.

Needless to say I was on the next flight out (or rather down). Way, way down deep into Southern South America. Past Mexico, Central America, Venezuela, Ecuador, Peru , Chile (then a hard left over the Andes) across to Argentina.

There they were I could see them far below through the plane window , adrift in the Atlantic like a couple green spiders : The Falkland Islands.

Touch down. Passaengers spontaneously start clapping.

"Please remember to take off your hats once you exit the aircraft"

The blast of arctic wind ripped through the fuselage like flames of menthol.

I was standing at customs in Mount Pleasant International Airport in Port Stanley. Just a couple of hangars strung together by roads here and there. Very Mayberry.

"H´low. Weucome t´Pou Stanley."

She smiles. I slowly manage a furled lip, a jetlagged smile as I remove my sunglasses. Customs lady looks like a plump Merryl Streep. Rosie cheeks and rose button lips. Cute in her blue uniform.

"Coonei see wuzin the bag ?"

I raise my eyebrows turning an ear. Hard to get use to the accent.

"The bag" she says
" Oh, sorry. Yes of course"

Zips it open rifles through some shirts, socks, pair of shoes. Couple of novels. Note pad. Sees my two bottles of Canadian Maple Syrup.

"Wots this?"
"uh, that´s Maple Syrup ma´am. Flapjacks"

Make pouring motion in the air onto imaginary pancakes. The officer follows my hand like a kid
watching a magic trick.

Now she raises her eyebrows

"For my Dad"
"Oi see"

She gently zips up my totebag. Giving it a gentle pat.

"Hova pleasant stay sir"
"Will do"

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" Yes father " , I shake my head in regret as I look out the car window
" I lost the house "
" And Cynthia, the kids ?" my father asks, as we drive down one of two main roads on the island. His taxi radio crackles to life every now and then.

" Gone"
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