We emerged from our taxi and entered our hotel, a Las Vegas reproduction of the Pharaohs' Egypt. Inside, cocktail waitresses in Cleopatra wigs and spike heels served the gamblers. Tourists in faux-papyrus barges floated down a simulated Nile River led by teenaged ex-New-Yorker tour guides dressed as archaeologists. As we walked past the talking camels to get a sandwich in the Jewish deli, I feared a flashback. This was not the place I would choose to counsel my elderly father back to reality.

Al has already made arrangements for his next trip west; he's decided that it's time to work on improving his memory. Although a course closer to home comes highly recommended by a member of his African drumming circle, the one at Esalen promises to be more fun. The Big Sur workshop includes discussion sessions held every evening in the hot tubs. (Maybe the morning assignment will be to recognize the previous night's attendees fully clothed.)

I've already booked our Las Vegas hotel room, and this time, I'm prepared. I have a little note describing Al's teenage milk tantrum, written in his own hand, and I've taped it to a photo of him sitting in a jacuzzi, insanely happy.

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