Composer Nico Muhly is filing dispatches on America as he transports the contents of his late grandmother’s house from Tuscon, AZ, to the East Coast.

I just came from England, where I spent a week eating nothing but stodgy British food, so I had the most insane craving for nachos—such a profound craving that I ate nachos supreme at the airport in Las Vegas. I did not eat Flatbreadz, because the name sounds like a girl who has been cast out from Flavor of Love. Later, I saw a sign featuring some sort of transsexual holding a machine gun. Is it possible that I can see her nipples through her pink tank top? It’s a pity they couldn’t issue her some matching pink firing-range headphones. At my grandmother’s house, I found some kind of ointment called Unguentine in the bathroom cabinet. On the tube, a hand that has either been burned or flayed raw is poking at the capital “U.” They don’t make labels like this anymore.

KEYWORDS: America, Nico Muhly, Travel