It's been a long trip and Bao is a tired little teddy bear.

You'll like today, I told him. It's all driving.

We'd planned to visit the Chinese gardens in Portland, but it was raining and the traffic was horrendous. Next time, I decided. And settled in for the long (over six hours) drive south through Oregon to Redding, California. Bao snoozed. I listened to music.

We stopped for gas at Cresswell, where my tranquility was shattered. Oregon, like New Jersey, does not have self-service gas stations and the establishment at which I found myself did not accept credit cards. The attendant was simultaneously impatient and scornful. No money, no gas. Get your car out of the way, he told me. Oh, and by the way. You've got a flat tire. Ha, ha. And no, we don't change tires. We just pump gas.

There was another gas station down the road. And a tire place. And things did get sorted out, and we did make it to Redding before dark. But here's the scary part. I didn't know I had a flat tire. I'd been driving for two hours at brisk speeds, and I didn't feel a thing. This is apparently not unusual with new, front-wheel drive cars equipped with power steering. They handle so well that you don't even know you've got a problem until the tire blows out and you're in a ditch -- or under a semi-trailer. I liked it better in the old days, when your car went bump-bump-bump. Modern technology is all very well, but they ought to have a warning light or something. Don't you think?