Williams, AZ

To be fair, the mention of my next destination doesn't quite set tourists' hearts racing in the same way that Los Angeles and Las Vegas do. Nevertheless, Williams is not without its own unique charms. It's a mere hop, skip and a jump from the Grand Canyon, the motels there are rumoured to have free wireless access and my father has spoken in reverent tones about a diner there that makes dessert pies to die for. And I'll be damned if those aren't three bloody good reasons for visiting any neck of the woods.

Our 250 mile drive from Vegas takes us through some pretty interesting country, too. Much of the drive traces the path of historic Route 66. The "Main Street of America" and "The Mother Road" as it is affectionately known, Route 66 took millions of immigrants westward to greener pastures - literally and figuratively - during and after the Great Depression. It is also the road on which Mick Jagger famously claimed that one could obtain one's kicks. We'll soon find out, I guess.

Our first stop is at the Hoover Dam, half an hour South-East of Vegas. The largest dam in the world when completed in 1935, the dam still represents an impressive feat of engineering today. Indeed, at 221m in height and 379m in length, it seems most deserving of its place among the seven architectural wonders of the United States, even if I don't know what the other six are.

We park the car and walk along the crest of the dam, marvelling at the art deco plaques and furnishings. Everything, right down the toilet doors, is finished in brass and even the spillway towers would not look out of place in the Manhattan skyline. Since the Colorado River, which the dam spans, represents the border between Nevada and Arizona, it is also possible to stand halfway between each end and enjoy the odd experience of having one foot on each side of the state line, a novelty that lasts a good few seconds. I regret to say that our very own Clyde Dam is not a patch on this architectural marvel. I suppose the one thing you could say for it is that it isn't quite as overflowing with busloads of lumbering Americans at 9.30am on weekday mornings.

In the early afternoon, we turn off the interstate and drive into the town of Seligman, Arizona (population 436), curious as to how a Wild West hick town managed to procure a Jewish name. The answer isn't quite as exciting as I'd hoped: it is named after the wealthy Seligman brothers, who financed the railroad south in 1905. A quick consultation of my travel guide reveals that this may be my sort of place, or at least it was 100 years ago:

"At the turn of the century, Seligman was populated primarily by cowboys working the large ranches of the area. Along with these rough and ready men, came a piece of the Wild West, complete with shootouts on the streets. At this time the saloons and brothels outnumbered the churches three to one".

There's little evidence of any such mirth and debauchery in modern day Seligman. This is a one-street town if ever I saw one, overflowing with souvenir stores selling genuine Route 66 memorabilia. Parked outside a rusting vehicle garage are two Ford Edsels, widely considered to be the ugliest cars ever built. Fifty years of sitting in the blazing sun has not done them any favours either.

On a street corner I see a run-down old diner with a sign out front that says "Burgers - Tacos - Malts - Dead Chicken". Instinctively, I go in. There's a crowded little waiting area, every surface of which is plastered with old photographs and brochures from a bygone era when whores, cowboys and priests ruled over the town in equal measure. On the frame next to the serving window is a sign that says: "Lord grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to hide the bodies of those people I had to kill because they pissed me off".

Turns out I've stumbled upon a precious little piece of Americana. I'm in Delgadillo's Snow Cap Drive-In, being served by self-styled comedian John Delgadillo. In 1953, his father Juan, along with Juan's father and brothers, built the premises out of scrap lumber he collected while working for the railroad. A much-loved member of the community, Juan worked in the diner every single day until his death in 2004, aged 88. Now John has picked up exactly where his father left off, right down to amusing his guests with irrepressible goofball humour. The whole situation is kinda neat, I think. I decide to introduce myself formally.
"Are you Juan's son?", I ask.
"That's right, sir. John's the name".
"Nice to meet you John, I'm Max". I shake his hand.
"Nice to meet you too".
Then, realising that I have not much more to say to him, I thank him again and bid him farewell by way of a friendly wave. If you're ever in Seligman, this is the place to go for a feed. John will still be there. He sure is heck ain't going anywhere else.

Leaving the diner, I walk down a side street, past boarded up saloons and shop fronts and old long-abandoned stone houses. The town extends one block to the south, where it meets the railroad to which it owes its very existence. The other side of the tracks and everything beyond belongs to the Mojave Desert, which stretches endlessly to the horizon. At a well across the street, an old man is fiddling with the back of his Ford pickup truck while his daughter fills up a water tank. This is about as real as it gets. I feel like a character in an Eagles song right now.

On the way back to the car, I hear a voice over my shoulder say, "Oi! Hey. Get one of me next to Dean". I turn around to see a fat English geezer in a Manchester United shirt posing next to a lifesize plastic model of James Dean, while his equally unappetising wife brandishes a camera in his general direction. Nothing like a bunch of Poms to spoil an afternoon reverie.

I'll never be able to stay in a roadside motel again without being gripped by nightmarish visions of Javier Bardem bursting through the front door with a silenced shotgun and slaughtering me where I lie. The motel I've got in Williams is nice enough, but bears a spooky resemblance to the one in the scene where Javier casually sends the three Mexican drug runners to meet their maker. He's probably in the room next to me right now, biding his time, removing a bullet from his leg while watching tomorrow's forecast on TV. He knows I know he's there, but he doesn't give a shit. He's in no hurry. He knows I'm here for three nights. He knows everything about me in fact, from my time of birth to my precise time of death. I can't stop what's coming to me now. My fate is entirely out of my hands.

I go outside and stand on the street, surveying the scene. Surely not even Javier has the nerve to shoot me on the main road in plain view of half the town? Williams is a larger town than Seligman, but not by much. We have driven into an alpine climate and a cool breeze is blowing, but the sun is still brutal. The desert has given way to a thick pine forest, but the landscape is no less foreboding. On the breeze I detect the faint smell of barbecued meats and the sound of someone playing Eagles covers. High above, a crow circles. This really is no country for old men.

I walk in the direction of the barbecue smell and by some happy coincidence find myself standing outside a bar where the singer is also performing. He has now expanded his repertoire to include Cat Stevens and Bruce Springsteen. The man operating the barbecue wears a broad grin that says "I have the best job in the world". He is a short, stocky Hispanic man wearing a "This Country Was Founded on Trains and Beer" t-shirt. He catches my gaze and we both look down at the ribs, chicken and steak cooking on his grill, then he looks back up with a big smile and a slow nod. That settles it. I'm going in for a beer and a big hunk of something blackened and delicious.

Thankfully my family has the same idea. Trouble is, each of us is hankering for a different kind of meat. So we settle for the aptly-named Family Platter: a whole rack of beef ribs, a whole rack of pork ribs and half a chicken. Can't go wrong there, surely? In the meantime, I clench my teeth and order a Grand Canyon Pale Ale, which the menu claims is "freshly brewed". I can see the microbrewery attached to the back of the bar, so you'd bloody well hope it is.

The beer is delicious and the perfect way to wet my whistle for the feast to come. The waitress can barely carry the platter of meats out. It is augmented by coleslaw, Mexican beans and corn on the cob. Naturally, everything is magnificent. I maintain that things always taste better when eaten with your hands anyway, but even allowing for that, the meat is tender, juicy and falling off the bone. You know when other diners glance at your table in pure envy that you've done pretty well.

We've all enjoyed that eating experience so much that we decide, why not have another one? So we make our way, slowly at first, down the street to the diner with the pies. The choice is mind-boggling: cherry pie, blueberry pie, peach pie, black forest pie, banana creme pie, caramel pie, chocolate cake, oreo pie, coffee pie, banoffie pie, pumpkin pie, coconut and pineapple pie, and those are just the ones I can remember drooling at. We settle for sharing a coffee pie, peach pie and blueberry pie between the four of us, which we devour within seconds of their arrival at our table. You'd have been forgiven for thinking we hadn't eaten in months, when in actual fact, not half an hour ago we'd been hacking into the equivalent of a medium-sized dead animal. It's easy to see why Americans are so fat and to be honest, I don't bloody blame them.

Back at the hotel, I sit on my bed, nursing a considerable belly-ache, listening to the noises coming from outside. The town has gone eerily quiet, so that only the occasional cry of some unidentified animal can be heard above the hum of the air conditioner. I turn the aircon up a little louder, and lie back in bed with the baseball on mute.

Somewhere out there in the darkness, Javier is waiting.