Eventually, he emerged from the bathroom, toolbox in hand and, in very calm clear English, declared the job done. He had me sign some papers and turned to leave, but suddenly found himself in the mood to tell me about his various trips to America.
“I was there before,” he says. “Lots of times. Florida. Uh, … Orlando. The place with all the parks.”
“Oh yeah, like Disney World?” I say.
“No, not Disney World. That’s for the little children,” he says. “I like the, uh … Harry Potter World! That was cool! They have this one ride—you feel just like you’re flying! Flying with Harry Potter—I loved that!”
“Phoenix wasn’t my choice,” he says. “I wanted to go to that place where they have the bridge. The big red bridge.”
Red bridge in Arizona? Maybe he means red rocks, I wonder.
“Sedona? Or the Grand Canyon?” I offer.
“No, the big red bridge. In California, Francisco.”
“The Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco?”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s it,” he says. “But the tour wasn’t going there. I go to the red bridge next time.”
Sounds like a plan.