Endless sub-clauses roam across prairies of newsprint in search of the point, like homesteader wagons on the Oregon trail circling around a knackered old buffalo.
This passage touched me and made me proud to be an American (bolding added):
There were no taxis and my fellow passenger insisted, without checking with him, that her husband would happily drive me to my hotel.
It was a round trip for him in the Arctic midnight of a public holiday of perhaps two or three hours.
I expected to detect at least a flicker of surprise on his face when this was first put to him, but there was none.
"This is America son," he told me, "We help each other out."
All in all, a very fair assessment from foreign eyes.
But there are, of course, irritations to living anywhere, and it is the job of the irritable to find them.
He's got me pegged ;-)