The Tonight Live Show. With David as Letterman and Sean as Leno. Features an impressive prosthetic chin and dental gap. Rated CBS/NBC.

12.42 p.m.

Heading out of N'awlins on 10 West, a freeway passing by stilled carnivals, empty houses clapping in the hot wind, sidewalks full of rubbish and weedy growth covering everything like a brown-green cancer. Au revoir, New Orleans. Goodbye South. Hello West.

THE CAJUN KITCHEN. MULATES - CREOLE AND SEAFOOD. THE CRAWFISH KITCHEN. MISS HELEN'S CAJUN SEAFOOD. KETTLE KITCHIN - HUGE PORTIONS! GOODY'S GUMBO. JAMBALAYA PALACE. CHEF ROY'S ACADIE CAFE. CAJUN HAVEN. CAJUN CONNECTION. CAJUN DRAGON - SEAFOOD, STEAK, GRILL. CAJUN TALES SEAFOOD RESTAURANT.

3.30 p.m.

The highway has big irritating bumps every .8 of a second that cause weird humps in our conversation and give us mild stomach aches. Or maybe that's from the cajun smoked cajun chicken cajun sandwiches we had for lunch. It's pretty misty and kind of scary in western Louisiana, like the strange, wet brightness before a hurricane. The wind bends the weak, old trees and birds tumble out of the sky like little feathered cripples. I peer into the bayou country that frames the highway and wonder if, just a few miles away, there are lots of cajun guys, talking patois, playing zydeco, eating 'gator and shooting people they think are from Maine. Or would they be more likely charging tourists five bucks a throw for a look at their lousy teeth?

We've just cut out of a town called Sulphur. On the radio a preacher is reading rather disinterestedly from Matthew: `We are all but ghasts in the house ahf Gahd.' Following the liturgy is an awful song; the only words I can make out are `Jesus', `love' and `come and die'.

`What do you know about Texas, David?'
He accelerates as we begin to overtake a car with a `Purple Heart Veteran' tag on it. `Apparently it's big,' he says.
`The second biggest state, I think.'
`Which is the biggest?'
The driver of the Purple Heart car is wearing a military beret. As we flank him, he turns and snaps off a quick salute. I nod and smile politely. `Either Rhode Island or Alaska. How long will it take us to drive across it?'
`I'm not quite sure. But long.' `Texas Rangers, Texas Longhorns, Texas T, Tex-Mex, Tex Avery, Texasville, "Texas Flood".'
`What are you doing?'
Behind us, the veteran slows to turn into a cemetery driveway.
`Acclimatising.'
`You forgot one: Don't Mess with Texas.' I can hear the stern capitals in the words.

4.38 p.m. Texas

The highway improves as soon as we cross the border. A sign says `Drive friendly - the Texas way'. Awrighton! We pull over to take a look around and I survey the scene by standing on the roof of the Neon. They're right, it really is bigger than Texas.

`Where will we stay?'
`Galveston, probably.'
`Sorry, where?'
`Galveston.'
`Oh, Galveston.'

5.26 p.m. Gas and Food (No Lodging)

Because we've stopped at a gas station in Nowhere, Texas, and because I cannot think of anything better to do I've bought a packet of Hostess Twinkies. They are, after all, an American institution and the favourite food of Zippy the Pinhead. And if they're good enough for him, they're good enough for me. They are, however, so sickly sweet that there should be a warning printed on them: `See your dentist after every bite'.

Snapshot

The Gulf of Mexico is a hundred yards to our left. The landscape is flat and cheerlessly etiolated, marked only by an infinite line of telegraph poles disappearing into the dusk that is our destination. White birds stand on the backs of cows, hitching a slow ride to nowhere in particular. David is taking photographs; holding the camera in his left hand outside the car, steadying the wheel with his right. A police car flies past in the opposite direction, its red and white lights dulled in the dingy sea air, its siren silenced by the wind. There are no houses or stores, just bleak flatness all around and an oil tanker up ahead. I suggest to David that we stop and let off some firecrackers. He shakes his head, still searching for the perfect firecracker place, which I suspect exists only in his mind. The Twinkie taste won't go away.

6.45 p.m.

A ferry is taking us to sandy Galveston Island; its deck of black tar creates the effect of a floating road. A no-longer-young blonde in a red convertible is being ogled by a group of Hispanic teenagers leaning out of a minivan on the upper deck. They are too far away to see that she's old enough to be their mother's best friend. All they can see is her hair colour and her sporty car. It's enough.

8.07 p.m. Galveston Island

We briefly discussed the idea of crossing the border into Mexico. But why should we? We haven't done anything wrong.

Westward Ho . . . tel! Rated

Checked into an Econo Lodge with a view of a car park and a drugstore. The room is tiny and smells of putrid mould. There is one towel between the two of us, the toilet flushes itself constantly and the complimentary Econo-pencil is a stumpy little number that you couldn't finish a laundry list with. But there's cable TV, so I'm fairly happy.
The teenage receptionist who checked us in asked, `You guys Aussies?'
`No,' David said, pointing to our car. `We're from Maine.'

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