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unhappy postscript to the tale of Galveston, but there is, as Erik Larson perhaps foresaw. Add this doomed island to New Orleans and Biloxi as victims of Hurricane Alley. Some six months after our visit, Ike would tear through the Texas coast and leave behind stacks of kindling and bare patches where houses used to be. Anything on the Bolivar Peninsula was pretty much flattened, so say farewell to Anal City. Our beachside hostel-in-a-motel, a grubby Galveston icon for almost fifty years, met ruin. Davy Jones’(s) Locker, subject of so much impassioned debate, is now purely a symbol, as the hurricane obliterated the actual plywood structure, along with the rest of the abandoned putt-putt course. Storms and tides hammered that wonderful bookstore (though it has since been remodeled and reopened, thankfully).

The courthouse, however, remains intact. You’ll have to stop by and see its engraved sign, on the lawn at 25th and F. Leave your camera at home.

There is not much I can say about the ravages of nature that would not also, necessarily, apply to the impermanence of all things. The city is rebuilding itself, but a fair portion of what we saw and touched there is gone forever. That casual annihilation may make our efforts seem especially futile, but the bare fact is this: any sign that we noted along the entire trip could be gone tomorrow. Maybe the actual moment of noticing, of caring, is itself the important part, regardless of what may come after.

TYPO TRIP TALLY

Total found: 61

Total corrected: 34

* See also chapter 10.

* Copyeditor’s note: Chicago doesn’t specify omitting the extra s in names of mythical figures per se, but only those ending with an eez sound, or in cases where it would make the result look and sound odd. (Chicago considers the way a thing would sound when read aloud; see its section on handling of inclusive numbers.) It also takes into account customary usage; thus Achilles’ Euripedes’, Rameses’, but also Isis’, Moses’, Odysseus’, Jesus’. Davy Jones’s would not qualify for this exception.

9 | Typos Aren’t Charming

March 26–27, 2008 (Santa Fe, NM, to Flagstaff, AZ)

Discloses how the Mission, too long masticated, began losing its flavor. Happily for the palate, vibrant Southwestern towns offer a distinct savor all their own. Conflict arises between the Grammatical Champion, wavering with contradictory feelings, and his Faithful Dawg, obstinate to the last.

As I stepped out of the hostel bunk room and onto the back porch, a couple of the donkeys raised their heads to acknowledge me. They ambled about on the sandy ground, munching at whatever lay conveniently nearby: a leafy branch, a stray shoot of grass, the wooden railing behind which I stood. It took a moment to reconcile the sudden appearance of five donkeys with the fact that I was awake—not that I dream about donkeys often. I considered the possibility that they were a missive from the divine lords of language, a reminder to stubbornly stick to my mission. I’d faltered in Albuquerque last night upon spotting a typo beyond reach, but Benjamin had swiftly identified a supervisor to assist us. Kelly’s Brew Pub need no longer endure the city’s ridiculing them with an extra e, as “Kelley’s” had appeared in a municipal sign directly beneath their own sign. Once I saw how we had helped a thin ray of brilliance to shine down on the pub’s dark night of orthography, I wondered why I had hesitated at all. As I reflected, one bull attempted to mount a less-than-enthusiastic partner. No, best not to look for directives here.

Benjamin joined me on the porch. He shook off his initial surprise and broke into an excited smile. “All right! We can do this in style! Let’s saddle up for Santa Fe,” he said, reaching over the rail to pet the nearest donkey on the head.

“Uh …,” I said, glancing uncertainly at the animals.

“Fine, fine. Callie it is.”

Our hostel lay in the green hills of Cibola National Forest, between Albuquerque and Santa Fe. Cedar Crest had proved to be an authentically rustic experience. The little cabin that was our shelter barely