Rohan suggested that we should go to the Smokies over Christmas. It had three great things to recommend it—the most visited national park in the US, part of the “American South”, and a range of the Appalachians, which had been giving me siren calls for a long time. I was thrilled. My “am going to visit all the honky tonk bars I can,” made headline news at work, as it was discussed in a staff meeting with great amusement. But two days before Christmas, Rohan gave me the bad news. “I need to work on the 26th, so Smokies is off,” he said. I was bitterly disappointed. “Come over, we’ll find something else to do,” he tried to be reasonable. “I’d rather go somewhere warm!” I huffed. The month had been unseasonably cold. “But wouldn’t you lose money on your tickets?” he asked, forever the practical man. “Doesn’t matter—what would I do in Cincinnati?” I said with ill grace. But 24 hours of trawling the net and bugging my cousin in Santa Clara made it abundantly clear that the travel Gods didn