Man your battle stations, we’ll have you home pretty soon.

My original plan post-trek had been to see a couple of cities between California and the East coast before going up to New England to look at the possibility of hiring a car and driving around for a while. Fortuitously, I had found myself wanting to return to the South to spend some more time with Crissy. Why fortuitously? Because had I not, I’d have been arriving in New England at roughly the same time as Hurricane Irene, which probably wouldn’t have gone too well.

The bus journey there involved varying degrees of crazy fellow passengers. My favourite was the redneck couple discussing his suspended sentence. Her inability to grasp not only the concept, but the fact that ten years suspended for two did not mean twelve years inside made me chuckle. Silently. So as not to get assaulted. On arrival I was met by Crissy and we set out for Mobile, via extensive traffic jams following a crash with multiple fatalities, to visit Molly who is at college there. Unfortunately she’s in a sorority and as a result had all manner of meetings to go to, so we didn’t actually get to see a lot of her. As it turns out, I didn’t really get to see a lot of Crissy either. Her hometown in Mississippi was subject to flash-flood warnings due to a tropical storm in the gulf, and for her safety she had to set off home a day early. That left me with some free time to organise myself for the final days of my trip, and throw out some unnecessary things. I have also bought a slightly larger bag to facilitate the safe return of my acquisitions. I’ve been lucky with the weather for almost the entire trip, so I suppose something like this was bound to happen sooner or later.

When I left for the airport the next morning, the weather was fairly horrific, so it’s probably a fairly good thing she left when she did. On the transfer I met the entire crew on a Delta airlines flight to Atlanta. Three people hinted at a fairly small plane. They suggested that as I would be early for my flight I should try to get on theirs. I wasn’t convinced because of the additional expense this would incur, particularly if I did the same thing from Atlanta to Boston. However, at the desk I was greeted by a fairly flustered woman who put me on the 11:35 flight rather than the 14:45 for free because they were concerned about weather-related delays later in the day. I agreed, knowing I’d have to wait somewhere anyway and preferring not to get stranded.

I hurried to security and put everything ready in the trays, confident it would be a breeze. I walked through the scanner without a beep, but as my name was called to board my bag was opened in front of me and rifled through. The camera was separated (even though I’d asked and been told that wasn’t necessary), and I wondered why my backpack was being inspected by an increasingly large number of TSA staff, until I remembered that my quarter collection was sitting right at the bottom of my bag and may, on an x-ray screen and surrounded by a multitude of charger cables and a guitar effects pedal, resemble, to an extent, some sort of shrapnel-filled bomb. I’ll have them out next time.

As I had predicted, the plane was tiny, with two rows either side of the aisle. As I greeted the crew I had shared the transfer with and took my emergency exit seat, complete with various responsibilities such as the incredibly challenging ‘open a door’, I noticed that the window was leaking onto my leg. This was perturbing for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I’d always imagined that if I was going to get wet from a leaking vehicle over here the culprit would have been a Greyhound bus. Secondly, we were moments from take-off, and the idea of a pressurised cabin letting in water concerned me somewhat. Also my leg was getting wet. I was moved to an empty two-seater which gave me the chance to organise my as-yet still unpacked belongings, and removed some of the stress inherent with being responsible for getting people off a burning plane.

When I’d finished, I got talking to a rather large gentleman who was ordering quite a lot of alcohol. He was from Chattanooga, TN, and thus at the same time pleased and confused when I said Nashville was probably my favourite city on the trip. Chattanooga, of course, is better, he claimed. The pilot was soon speaking over the intercom but I have no idea what he said because it was so crackly and muffled as to be inaudible. However, the feeling of falling combined with the pain in my ears suggested we may well be coming in to land. A look out of the window revealed no rain and, happily, the ground and the sky, which had been completely obscured from view when we left Mobile.

After Andy claimed his bag (mine, I was assured, would be successfully transferred for me) he took me for a pint at one of the airport bars. Plenty of English people, he said, had bought him drinks when he had been there, and so it was only fair that he return the favour, and so should I to a travelling American given the chance. My degree came up in conversation and the guy seated by Andy interjected that his minor was philosophy, and when I asked about his major we discovered it was history and education, which also happened to be Andy’s. Andy soon excused himself to depart for his flight to Zurich and really begin his holiday, and I was left talking to Jonathan and his travelling companions, who I believe were his mother and sister. They had missed their morning flight, the first any of them had ever missed, because they had stopped for an early breakfast and stayed for a little bit too long. As a result, they soon left to find their gate and I did the same. As the already heaving lounge began to fill up more and more I grabbed a quick nap before waiting for my boarding call. The flight was boring, with a neighbour who appeared unable to speak, and unable to remove her fingers from her iPad for almost the entire journey. I managed to get a little bit of sleep before we arrived. I was a little apprehensive at baggage collection because of my change in flights but everything was fine.

I caught the shuttle to the Metro line and from my shop it was a short walk to the hostel. In the other direction, it terminated at Wonderland, so I suppose they built the hostel in the wrong place. Once I’d checked in and paid, I asked the guy on the desk if he could recommend somewhere that did food. Apparently he doesn’t eat because this proved somewhat difficult. With him about as useful as a broken sword on the path to slay a dragon, I ventured out to find somewhere on my own. As it was late I needed ID to get in. The first bar I tried wouldn’t accept my driving license, and nor would the second or the third. Noticing a pattern, I concluded that the hostel worker was a complete moron. Being British, it wouldn’t have been too hard for him to point out that passports are required for non-Americans by Massachusetts state law as he will surely have experienced it himself. With no other choice I walked back to the hostel to retrieve it, glared at him a bit, and returned to the first bar I’d tried.

The waitress walked me outside, took me to a far, dark corner and left me there. I’d like to think she was thinking about my comfort as it was slightly cooler out there, but in reality I think my appearance didn’t quite fit in with the vibe they were after on a Saturday night. Serving the people who were seated long after me first was kind of a giveaway. Once I’d been allowed to eat and pay it was pretty much time for bed. I set an alarm with the intention of getting up and enjoying what I could of Boston for the day. Sadly, my body had different ideas and snoozed my alarm without me realising it, much to the chagrin, I would assume, of my roommates. I’m not too fussed though as I’d tried to make conversation and none of them were interested, which is a bit rude really.

When I got up I had my free breakfast and set out on the Freedom Trail, a whistle-stop tour of a number of sites with significance when it comes to the start of the Revolution, and a few other things too. Unfortunately it was very busy, and kept introducing charges for entry along the way. I saw the U.S.S. Constitution, nicknamed ‘Old Ironsides’ for its ability to somehow repel the British cannonballs, lots of graves, houses, churches, and so on. There was also some sort of festival for the feast of Saint Anthony, with Italian-American marching bands playing in the streets.

Airport-style security was in place at the dock, and it was even more stringent than normal due to the proximity with the tenth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. The walk culminates at a monument, where you can scale 294 steps to see a view of the city from the top. Decidedly not worth the effort, was the consensus at the top.

For lunch I had braved a bar deserted but for one patron and the barman. It soon became clear that they were friends, which explained his propensity for topping up her glass of ‘pink wine’, a rare sight indeed in the States, without request. Before long we were joined by a man, another of their friends, who was convinced he had fled from a ghost the night before. I’ve heard that a lot of Boston is supposedly haunted and bit my tongue when the barman exclaimed ‘we’ve got five’.

Post-lunch I finished the aforementioned trail and then relaxed at Boston Common, where I saw yet another set of wedding photos being taken. I think that’s about seven ceremonies/photo shoots on this trip. As Boston is home to Berklee you may assume the buskers there would be a cut above, and in at least two cases you would be correct. These two young guys were fantastic on their violins.

After listening for a while I walked down Newbury Street, where there are lots of designer shops and the like, before going to another bar for dinner and a couple of beers. I had stumbled into a bar claiming the accolade ‘America’s First Sports Bar’, where the Red Sox memorabilia and Irish influence was hard to ignore. Perhaps the best thing was the music playing which reminded me that I haven’t been to a rock club or gig for quite a while now and this really is something I should rectify.

There was a burger on the menu there with the condition that if you ate it you got a t-shirt saying you’d managed it, and if you didn’t there was a t-shirt for that too. Not only did that seem a little ridiculous, but it was $30, and at 1lb 9oz I found the idea what I wouldn’t be able to eat it fairly insulting.

After eating I returned to the hostel to finalise my travel plans for getting to New York and got a fairly early night. In the morning I got up early, showered and breakfasted, packed, and was soon on the way to the station. I arrived in time to try my luck and catch an earlier bus which I managed to get on. I also managed to sit in what may have been the only seat without a power socket, but as the wifi didn’t seem to be working properly it didn’t really matter too much. At one point the bus slowed down to a crawl and the driver announced ‘something is wrong’ or words to that effect, but before long the power was back and we were once again on the way.

You know, I used to have a friend who lived there.

Albert was a man who appreciated things in their right place. Indeed, some would go so far as to suggest that he was a little obsessive. Did it really matter if a chair was not square to a table when no one was sitting at it? To him, the answer was a resounding yes. Of course, things being in their right place could also refer to the general ambience of a room, or, more importantly, to himself. And so it was with a great deal of consternation that he surveyed the lodgings where he would be resting for the night.

Replacing his snifter on the tabletop before him, he smacked his lips as he reached out again to readjust its position on the coaster and allowed the briefest of sneers to traverse his face as his eyes scanned the peeling wallpaper. The drapes were heavy with stains and dirt. It was reminiscent of a place he had once visited and would sooner not be forced to remember. As his hand grazed the wood by his glass he noticed the lacquer was broken and the surface defaced, a record of drinks spilled and enjoyed. There was nothing worse, he thought, than people having fun.

As the stifling heat encroached and a droplet of his sweat fell by his glass he found himself somewhat short on patience. A knock at the door did nothing to avail him of his agitated mood and it was with a great deal of regret that he bade the assailant enter.

No, ladies and gentlemen, I haven’t gone mad. That is simply the short piece of writing I felt compelled to put to paper by my room in the Denver hostel. I am unable to give an opinion on the city because I only saw the few streets between the Greyhound station and the hostel and back.

The journey on was, as has become the norm, fairly uneventful. That said, I met a carny who claimed to be one of the top five clowns in the United States. I had a flick through Time magazine but I must have missed the official ranking.

I passed a good deal of the time listening to a Bill Bryson audiobook. He’s one of those authors I’ve always meant to read but have never really got round to it. I don’t know whether it was my tired mental state or the way the wannabe John Malkovich read it, but I was not impressed with the one I listened to. I have since started another and found it much more palatable.

I also kept myself entertained for a little while watching a guy who was very good at talking and talking about absolutely nothing talking to his neighbour who seemed very disinterested. When he started showing off his CD collection, which consisted mainly of heavy metal, she became visibly annoyed that she was being kept from reading ‘The Confident Woman’.

As the bus arrived in Chicago so early (around 6am), I wasn’t optimistic about making it to my room when I arrived at the hostel, but they usually have a place where you can store your belongings until you can check in properly, so I made my way there anyway. As expected, I wouldn’t be allowed in yet, but, with my load lightened considerably, and having taken advantage of the free breakfast, which was far superior to the one on offer in San Diego, I ventured out to explore some of the city. As it was a warm day, I decided the parks and the shore of Lake Michigan would be a good place to begin. After a little while getting my bearings I called in at the free (which is always a bonus) Museum of Contemporary Photography on the way. That done, I spent a while becoming increasingly infuriated at people on segways, who seem even more numerous there than in D.C., if that’s at all possible.

As an aside, the old saying about the weather in Chicago has been very much proven true for me; I took a photo of a skyline when it was almost clear, and not long after I’d crossed the road the tops of many buildings were in cloud. As I came across Millennium Park I began to feel a little hungry but ignored the impulse to go and eat, and as it turns out that was one of the best decisions I’ve made on this trip. It was also one of the most unusual. As I traversed the park, I noticed some dancers warming up on stage and joined a small crowd watching in the open air Jay Pritzker Pavilion. I was a little disappointed when they started some routines. This was not because of the quality of the dancing, which I am in no position to judge, although it seemed superb, but because the nature of the practice meant that all my photographs had other dancers hovering in the background in casual poses.

As time passed, I overheard somebody saying that there would be a dress rehearsal in just over an hour before, I presumed, the real show in the evening. Taking this as my cue to go and eat, with the idea that I could return in time to see the rehearsal and thus a free show, I was surprised to see a poster advertising that the show in the evening was to be free too. I changed my plans almost immediately, buying food with which I could return and eat during the show if necessary. I quickly returned to the hostel to check in properly, shower, and change, and met a couple of my roommates.

The first one, a fairly overweight guy from Ohio, who can be forgiven on account of his seriously awesome beard,* and the fact that he’s currently reading a novel by Alan Moore with a foreword by Neil Gaiman, described himself as ‘tired’, eschewed small talk, and promptly fell asleep. Not long after that, a German who looked very American entered and accidentally awoke epic beardy. We spent a little while discussing ‘college parties’, which sound exactly how they appear in films, before I gave them my tip on how to spend their evenings and left.

*This reminds me of having the door held for me at a stop somewhere along Route 66 in Arizona. I thanked the guy and was greeted with a ‘Woah, totally righteous beard dude!’ You can imagine the accent and intonation, I’m sure.

I was somewhat discouraged to find, on my return to the arena, that the seating area had been closed. Not wishing to appear the stereotypical tourist, I waited for another group of people to breach the barrier and followed, any blame clearly resting with them. After witnessing some of the dance, I was asked by a park employee whether I was affiliated with one of the groups, or a sponsor. As I was wearing the clothes of a wannabe cowboy and snapping away like Ansel Adams with Parkinson’s, I am of the opinion that she already knew the answer. Resisting the temptation to scream ‘don’t you know who I am!?’ I conceded that I was in fact a harmless, lost, and somewhat confused tourist who had wandered past the large ‘NO ENTRY’ sign in a state of total bewilderment and please don’t call the police. Or words to that effect. I was pointed towards the ‘line’ and began to queue. My enthusiasm to return for the dress-rehearsal, which is, I imagine, being met with a certain degree of disbelief, afforded me the wonderful position of third in the entire queue for the evening’s event. It also meant I had a very long wait.

Luckily, the two ladies in front of me were very chatty, and seemed pleased that I was a traveller in their fair city. At one point the conversation turned to the dance group rehearsing at the time and I confidently asserted that although I didn’t know from whence they hailed, they had been preceded by a group from New York. One of the ladies asked a follow-up question and I shut my mouth. After roughly a million people asking if this was the line, and when did the place open, and myself wondering why only the Brits seem to be able to get queues quite right, we were let into the arena and scrambled for the seats we desired. As more and more people entered, I became more and more aware of complaints that they couldn’t enter the ‘wristband area. Not only were these seats technically undesirable from my point of view, as they don’t afford a view of the dancers’ feet, they were reserved for the sponsors. The very sponsors who had made the event free in the first place. How someone can try to cause a fuss over such an issue is, frankly, beyond me, and a detriment to our race.

Before long the show began, and we were treated to performances by The Joffrey Ballet, Ballet West, River North Dance Chicago, Martha Graham Dance Company, New York City Ballet, and Paul Taylor Dance Company. For those readers as ignorant as myself in such matters, they can, I’m told, be considered some of the finest dancers in America, and indeed the world. I consider it something of a privilege and a very happy accident to have seen the show, and perhaps the only negative surrounding the whole experience was its exposure of the inadequacies of my camera and lenses in low-light conditions. And the fact that you weren’t there to see it with me, of course. After the show I returned to the hostel to backup my photos, began to fall asleep, postponed that endeavour, and went to bed.

In the morning I had more free breakfast, backed up the photos from the previous day and researched camera upgrades. An extremely expensive purchase may be on the cards in the not-too-distant future.

That done, I went to the Chicago Cultural Centre to see some art. As usual, some was good and some was shit. I really don’t understand how any art critic maintains gainful employment. I then wandered the streets some more on the way to Pizzeria Uno, where the Chicago Deep Dish pizza was born. On arrival I was told that yes, the individual size would be sufficient for me, and yes, I had heard correctly, the wait, after ordering, would approach 45 minutes. I ordered a beer to tide me over as I watched Cubs vs Brewers on the TV and drafted some of this blog entry in my notebook.

The host was right about one thing. I had to order another beer. And it’s a shame really, because there were lots of waiters walking around with leftovers but I have a feeling that ‘is that up for grabs?’ probably wouldn’t go down too well in a restaurant. Belly half-full, I departed, but not before asking the barman, Bill, for a favour. He was able to complete my souvenir, or so I thought at the time, which I can now reveal to be a collection of 52 quarters: one for each of the states, one for D.C., and an eagle. There are more available, but that issue won’t be completed until long after I depart. Next time, perhaps. I also noted down a number of verses from behind the bar. I reproduce one of them here because it is the truth:

A man should hear a little music,/ read a little poetry,/ & see a fine picture/ every day of his life.

I had on my mind some sight-seeing related to the 20s, but as it turns out, Chicago isn’t very proud of its past so this proved more difficult than anticipated. Still, I made it to the area of North Clark Street on which the Valentine’s Day Massacre took place, although the garage has since been levelled. On the way I stopped for a Chicagoan Hot Dog to fill the space the pizza hadn’t. It was very good, but there was far too much pickle and too many peppers, and based only on this example the New York style came out on top. Having said that, the relish was spectacular.

When I got back to the hostel I met another roommate, Matt who had been working with Camp America. For my evening’s entertainment, I met up with Andrew, a Chicagoan who Nicola had met on her travels while he was cycling from San Francisco to Boston in well under two months, an impressive feat, I’m sure you’ll agree. We met at Buddy Guy’s Legends and got on very well, with very stimulating conversation. In fact, I felt that life had dumbed me down since university and I must have been stagnant in England for too long. Andrew left around midnight as he had work in the morning but I stayed for a few more songs before heading home.

The next day I spoke to Matt for a little longer and joined him on a hostel-led walking tour of the city after breakfast where we met a very friendly Filipino who immediately added us on Facebook and extended an invitation to visit him in San Francisco.

On the hostel tour we were soon joined by Tanya, who lives in Preston, doesn’t watch TV, and, to our amazement, had never heard of the Twilight series of books. She was very excited to see more English people and Matt and I treated her to a very liberal dose of sarcastic humour and mockery which she seemed to very much revel in. After the tour we went for a deep dish pizza at Exchequers which was far superior to the one I had the day before.

Just before we had gone into Exchequers I had received a call from Joe who I had met at the dance celebration and had invited me out on his boat to see the city shoreline from Lake Michigan. The lake is, by the way, as large as they say, and it’s fairly hard to believe it isn’t actually a very mischievous sea. The invitation was extended to Matt and Tanya, who declined in favour of Richard Attenborough hunting, and so I went to meet Joe on my own, the butt of many jokes about rohypnol, gay cruises, and kidnapping.

Alarm bells first rang when he included a smiley face in a text message he sent me. There’s nothing wrong with that in principle, but there is when you’re sending it to another man you’ve only just met. They became louder when we got to the boat and he opened the door below deck to reveal a sofa/bed and told me to get comfortable. I had also noticed that he seemed a lot more camp the second time around. The clapper struck the lip so hard it shattered when he turned on the music to reveal a combination of Take That, Avril Lavigne, and Nickelback, and started asking me about relationships.

It was Joe’s opinion that a huge aspect of travelling involved being willing to explore yourself and embracing new experiences. Having made it fairly clear that my last relationship had been with a girl and that there my preferences lay, any awkwardness he may have been feeling melted away to be replaced by a palpable sense of disappointment. I spent most of the time thinking about what a great story it would make and struggling to keep the laughter from bursting out of my mouth.

Nothing more was said of the matter until we were floating out on the lake. I was enjoying a beer (which I made sure was opened in front of my eyes) and, admiring the Chicago cityscape which is, I might add, possibly the best I have seen in my life, when Joe told me I had beautiful eyes. Smooth. I offered a thank you and crow-barred the conversation back to where it had been before. We soon returned to the harbour and I told Joe thanks, but I didn’t need a lift because I was going to stay there to do some photography for a while, and declined his invitation to dinner. Although this may sound like an avoidance technique, the truth is I had envisioned some very interesting shots as we had entered the harbour. Unfortunately by the time I got there the people who were to form an integral part had moved on.

I followed the lake shore path for a while and was pleased to see many Chicagoans engage in jogging, cycling, and even waddling along. As my meeting time with Matt and Tanya was approaching, I glanced at the map to see how many blocks I needed to walk. No luck. Turning the page to look further North, couldn’t find my location. Turning the page again I found that I was right at the top. As it was far too far to walk in time I paused at each bus stop and walked to the next if there wasn’t one in sight. This risky tactic paid off as I arrived at a stop precisely as a bus pulled up. I hopped on knowing it was heading roughly South and hoping it would continue to do so. Luck was on my side, and I was eventually dropped a mere block from the hostel. This gave me time to shower before Matt and I went to meet Tanya, who had been waiting for half an hour as she had checked what time the hostel outing we had mentioned was due to depart and we had not.

As it turned out, the hostel group had gone to Buddy Guy’s Legends, where I had been the night before. Eager to experience more great playing, I agreed to return and on arrival we were told our hostel cards granted us half price entrance. If only I’d known that the night before! After a fairly difficult session of chair re-shuffling we had joined the others at the table and got talking. Tanya introduced us to Emma, one of her hostel roommates, and we soon discovered that we have a mutual acquaintance from the Uttoxeter area. Meanwhile, the music consisted of a jam night, and the musicianship was excellent, with a great variety of ages and instruments represented. There is something particularly satisfying about watching an elderly man playing the shit out of a guitar.

However, that was nothing compared with the entertainment to come. The self-proclaimed ‘black, blonde bombshell,’ which I’m sure tells you enough to form an accurate image in your mind (and if not, think very curvy, with a huge ass. No, bigger. Bigger. BIGGER. Now you’ve got it) took to the stage, and Matt was convinced she was a transvestite. He was wrong. She singled out a couple at a table and commented on them before the man explained they were father and daughter. She had him sit at the front of the stage, christened him ‘daddy’, and his jaw hit the floor so quickly as she gyrated in front of him I was concerned it would shatter with the impact. His daughter was suitably embarrassed, as was Matt, whom she also singled out for some attention. It was a little concerning to see one of the elderly guitarists pounce as soon as her father was out of his seat. It was worse to see that her dad didn’t seem to mind when he eventually returned. Following an excellent evening of live music, supplemented with $6 pitchers and Tanya’s first beer, we made for the hostel to get some sleep.

The next morning I woke early to do some laundry before we met up to scale the Hancock Tower and the visit the Art Institute, wherein are housed numerous paintings by some very famous people. Laundry done, I packed, checked out, left my bags with the front desk and realised I’d missed the free breakfast. Whilst waiting in the lobby I got talking to some more English guys from my room who were heading for the Willis (formerly Sears) Tower. I suggested the Hancock as an alternative for the reasons I had been given, viz. a $5 drink in the bar gets you a view without paying a full entrance fee, and the view from the Hancock offers more of the lake and beaches. They were convinced, and we set about waiting for the women. Tanya eventually turned up alone and explained that Emma had decided to go on a segway tour. A cardinal sin, if ever there was one.

We soon departed, and after a rapid, ear-popping ascent, were at the bar, where I had Red Bull over ice for breakfast. The view was impressive, but I imagine it would have been a lot better at night like the Empire State Building.

That done, the others went to Millennium Park and Tanya, Matt and I went for some lunch at Gino’s, where you can write on the walls but not the tablecloths, and definitely not the servers.

For those who can’t quite read it, the text on the blackboard reads ‘I will not write on the walls’. As we waited for our food, we entertained ourselves by completing the puzzles on the backs of the menus and using the wax crayons we’d requested to colour in the pictures.

Fed and watered, we walked to the Art Institute, where we saw a great deal of exceptional art, some good, and once again some shit, in a variety of styles. With all the Monets, Van Goghs, etc. on display Mr Maycock, my old middle-school art teacher would have needed a change of underwear.

One of the most interesting exhibits was the Russian war-time posters. Matt was fascinated enough to buy a book on them in the gift shop, and there we soon found ourselves talking to Vivian, an elderly lady who first thought we were Australian. Apologising profusely, she redeemed herself to a certain extent by correctly guessing that as I lived in the South-West I would probably be found in Cornwall when I was at home. After imparting some questionable advice regarding men and their homogenous nature and some good advice regarding not trying to reform or change a member of the opposite sex, we briefly discussed Prince Charles and Vivian’s presence in England for the Silver, Gold, and impending Diamond Jubilees of the Queen before the gift shop closed and she left us to it. I would later see her again on my way to the bus stop, but didn’t stop to talk as I was already crossing the street when I spotted her.

We returned to the hostel and I picked up my things. Tanya and Matt met Emma as we returned and after we said our goodbyes they all went to Millennium Park for a free jazz festival and I returned to the Greyhound station. I’m sure the jazz would have been exceptional, but such is life.

The Entrepreneur

I’m currently around 28 hours into what has been a fairly grueling journey from San Francisco to Denver, with a total estimated journey time of roughly 31 hours. It’s just been lashing down and the Colorado countryside in the middle of a storm is quite a sight.

After the trek, it was time to return to public transport and catch the Greyhound back up the coast to San Francisco. I was unsure how it would feel being back on the road on my own having had constant companionship for three solid weeks on the trek, but I was so tired that I ended up sleeping for most of the journey, awaking only to see that we were stuck in traffic. I notified Peter, who was to be my host there, so that he knew I would be late.

We had met in London on the way to a football match and kept in very occasional touch online, so I was a little surprised to receive an invitation to stay with him when he learned of my plan to visit the States. Following a comparatively enjoyable journey (sleeping will do that) driven by ‘Al, your pal’, Peter kindly met me at the station and we made our way to his apartment just a couple of blocks away. On the way, I congratulated him on attaining his American citizenship, which he had done that very week.

It was roughly at this point I became fairly starkly aware of the fact that we didn’t really know each other that well and was a little concerned that I would commit some terrible faux pas or break an unwritten rule. The thoughts had barely entered my head when he was making me feel completely at home and at ease. He gave me a key so I could come and go as I wished and I was also told ‘if you can find it, you can eat it’.

The next few days were a mixture of touristy sight-seeing, for which Peter expressed a certain level of enjoyment as it’s not what he’s used to, and socialising with Peter and his very attractive Russian girlfriend and friends, which I very much enjoyed as it was not what I was used to. Activities ranged from photography in Muir Woods and on the streets, as well as a fair deal of gear discussion, to cocktails and sushi, not to mention the incredible Duck Fat Burger at the Four Seasons after a very rigorous gym session in a borrowed pink shirt.

Muir Woods reminded me of one of the thoughts I’d had on my trek. John Muir was the man who first hiked many of the Californian natural wonders. He would walk on his own in impossibly difficult terrain where no one had walked before, as, indeed, did the guy who first hiked Angel’s Landing. The thought I had was, basically, ‘what the fuck were they thinking?!’ in a tone which expresses in equal parts admiration and disbelief. But I digress.

As Peter had to work some of the time while I was there, I took the opportunity to catch up with Nicola, whose 18-month round-the-world trip ended today, and met her friend Helen as well. I finally took the opportunity to see the final Harry Potter film and left with mixed feelings about the whole thing.

And what does Peter do for work? One day, while he was waiting in line in a sandwich store, he had the idea that things would be so much easier if you could just order a sandwich online and then collect it without needing to queue. So he went ahead and made it happen. On the day I departed, I was given the opportunity to experience the glamorous side of his job when I joined him for the opening of a new store just a few blocks from his house, complete with a 700-strong guest list, free food, and, almost as importantly, giant scissors and a ribbon cutting.

His generosity and hospitality throughout were, I believe, rivaled only by that of my parents, although as it’s their job, I’m not sure whether it really counts as generosity (just kidding mum and dad), and he is a credit to both of his nations. Having offered my thanks once again we said goodbye, and with that it was onto the bus where I have done my best to catch up on sleep and keep my brain occupied before I arrive in Denver. The sun has come out just in time to really set off the incredible rolling hills en route and I’m currently feeling pretty content!

Trek America

Since my last post I’ve seen and done some fairly incredible things both on the trek and after it. As I said beforehand I’m not going to go into the level of detail I did before because I’m not sure I could squeeze it all in to the available time. Still, hopefully this will give a taste of the experience if nothing else.

After a very brief bit of sight-seeing in Hollywood, where we failed to see the sign because of fog, we headed up the coast for a home-made lunch of wraps, sandwiches etc. By the end of the trip, various members of the group had sold limbs to avoid another lunch out of the coolers.

There we saw an interesting van belonging to a hippie man.

If you can’t tell, it’s covered in thousands of figurines, emblems and other paraphernalia. After some time in the town and some Ultimate Frisbee action on the beach we were soon setting up camp for the first time. As my job was van loader/unloader I didn’t have to cook or wash up and spent a little while feeling like a bit of a spare part until the food was ready.

Then there were sea-lions, and a waterfall, and Robert Pattinson* showed up.

*Daniel from Luxembourg.

Then there was a big, impressive bridge which was basically impossible to see because of the weather. Of course, the next day when we were elsewhere in San Francisco, the weather was wonderful and the bridge visible.

Then there was a boat tour around part of the bay. Which was the first real bonding experience for the group and was excellent fun.

There are some with everyone in, but not on my camera. After that we went for a meal and some drinks.

The next day was a free day in San Francisco culminating in a Giants game. As such a large group of us set off together, there were inevitable delays and I think I in particular began to feel frustrated; the contrast between this and travelling alone was jarring. However, before long we had divided ourselves into more manageable groups and managed to see some sights, such as Chinatown, and Lombard Street, the crookedest in the world.

After some cable car riding it was time for the game. The Giants lost to the Diamondbacks and I learned a lot about baseball. I still don’t enjoy it on the TV, but watching it live was a lot of fun. I also had the chance to test the limitations of my 70-300mm lens, and there were many.

From the city, we made for Yosemite. In spite of bear warnings, one member of the group decided it would be a good idea to decorate the insides of her bag and tent with coke.

There were big trees.

There were big trucks.

And there was beauty I cannot convey here.

Between Yosemite and Utah we crossed through Nevada and made a brief stop at the Little Ale’Inn in Rachel, where some of Paul was filmed. Of course, being near Area 51 protective clothing was an absolute necessity. Some American tourists even insisted on taking our group photo.

With that, we’d arrived at our first Utah campground. Basically deserted and in the middle of a State Park, we didn’t even bother pitching our tents. After making smores on an open fire, we retired to fall asleep to the sight of many a shooting star. There will be photos of the sunset/sunrise but as I was trying multiple exposures they will have to wait.

Up for sunrise, a few of us investigated a nearby slot canyon as the rocks began to glow with the sun’s light, and on the way back to the camp we encountered this little fellow. I’m sure someone will be able to tell me whether it’s a rattler or not.

When we arrived in Zion we retrieved our water-proofed day packs and made for the Narrows, a hike which involves walking through a river at many points. And I mean walking, not wading. It easily came up to my chest at one point.

As some of us had spent longer there than planned, we rejoiced when we returned to the campsite to find the table laid and dinner coming off the stove. Fajitas never tasted so good.

The next morning some of us rose very early in time to catch a shuttle into the park to conquer Angel’s Landing, a hike so named because it was once proclaimed that only an angel could reach the summit. Of course, somebody had to prove them wrong and found a route. Since 2004 there has been on death a year on this hike.

Basically, if you fall, you fall roughly 1400 feet down a sheer drop and you’re fucked. Thankfully, the closest we came was Daniel dropping his lens cap over the edge.

This is me at the top.

And whilst it’s not very effective, this may give you some idea of the scale.

The small white oblong on the left is a two-carriage bus.

Following an entertaining sing-song on the way down, we made for Bryce Canyon, which is probably the best thing on Earth. The well known shots from Sunset Point belie the intricacies which lie between the hoodoos if you venture in.

I cannot do it justice.

After Bryce, we noticed an advert for a Rodeo, and made an impromptu stop to watch.

I’m not sure little children are supposed to ride sheep, although to be fair most of them didn’t do a very good job.

The next day we arrived in Moab and went to the Delicate Arch to watch the sunset. Of course, in true tourist form the group departed almost before the sun did, and I ran the trail back to the car in around 16 minutes to ensure I didn’t keep them waiting for dinner, overtaking most of them on the way.

I tried pushing it over but apparently delicate is a misnomer.

The next day those of us who wanted to went rappelling.

There are photos of me on other people’s cameras. I’m sure they’ll make it to Facebook if they haven’t already.

Then those of us who wanted to went on a Hummer tour, which was very hard to take photos on because of the bumps.

After all the excitement, I spent the next day doing laundry, chilling out, and the whole group then went to relax with a sunset at Dead Horse Point, where Thelma and Louise’s demise was filmed, amongst many other Hollywood moments. Note: Sun not yet set in photo below.

We had soon reached Monument Valley.

I gotz dem mad skillz.

We had a Navajo guided tour of some of the valley, including some of the backcountry which is prohibited to members of the public. We ate Navajo food and once again slept under the stars, with the threat of a thunderstorm not enough of a deterrent.

One of the recurring themes for me on this trip was the timing. There were so many places where I could quite easily have killed for just half an hour longer in a particular place, and nowhere could that have been more true than here. As we rounded a corner, the sky above the central hub in the valley burned bright orange with the clouds hovering above. We did not stop, and by the time we made it to the camp it was too late.

There was some consolation in our watching the sunrise the following morning.

The next stop was cowboy camp. Being at the back afforded not only some of the best photo opportunities, but also the chance to slow down and catch up rather than take the trail at a single monotonous pace.

Lots of cool stuff happened there, including a lot of alcohol consumption and one of the finest steaks I’ve ever eaten, but let’s face it, nothing beats the fact that I ‘swung on’ and then stood on a fucking horse.

After that came the Grand Canyon. Yes, it was spectacular, but I’d like to remind you of my analogy regarding pop stars and their dresses. Except the Grand Canyon is not Lady Gaga, but Janet Jackson at the Superbowl. Compared with everything else on offer, frankly embarrassing.

Although the conditions were in our favour I must remember that when I’m told a hike is difficult I shouldn’t listen. Although you’re advised against it, maybe next time I should attempt a trip to the river and back. The unofficial record, so a ranger informs me, for South to North rim and back again on the Kaibab Trail is 6 hours and 59 minutes. I think that might be a little too much of a challenge.

I’d also like to express the point of view that the marathon runner who thought a 28 mile hike was only 14 miles, only took a litre of water, an apple and two energy bars (which is nowhere near enough even for the shorter distance) and then died was perhaps one of the dumbest people on the planet. Remarkable, considering she was at medical school.

Post-Canyon, it was party time. Our hotel was an absolute bargain, with two TVs in our room, three pools, a hot tub and so on, and all for $20/night.

Photos are few and far between, unfortunately.

I had a budget and I was well within it. Although at one point the Blackjack table had me reeling following a fairly successful start, Roulette was my friend for a while, and I finished even for the day having lost only a little the day before. It could certainly have been a lot worse!

We left Vegas for San Diego knowing the trip would soon be at an end and I was interested to see what it would be like to return somewhere I had already been. The experience was somewhat different as we were camping out near a beach as opposed to staying in the centre.

I took those who were interested to Hodad’s for lunch and we then moved on to the campsite and settled in before dinner. The next day we did a little sightseeing including Balboa Park before heading to the beach for our final afternoon. In the evening we had a final meal out together and the next day set out for LA.

With a quick stop at Newport Beach on the way, we were soon back at the hotel. Those of us who didn’t fly home straight away went to the pool and then for another meal but I for one was so tired I headed to the hotel to arrange some more transport shortly after I’d finished eating, and that was roughly that.

If the brevity of my writing is making this post feel rushed then I’ve done my job because that’s how I felt for most of the trek. Still, it’s a lot to cram into three weeks so of course some sacrifices had to be made.

I don’t know how to put this but I’m kind of a big deal.

I was looking forward to my time in San Diego because I’d heard such great things about it both from people I’d met on the road and from people who I’d asked in England before I’d set off, so I made my way from the Greyhound station to my hostel with an air of anticipation about me. Or maybe I just needed a shower. When I arrived my room wasn’t quite ready, so I had a look online to prepare for the trip to LA I’d be taking in a few days to start the trek. I was interrupted by the girl on the desk who told me my bed was now ready so I finished checking in and went upstairs.

There were a few beds taken up there but only one other person in the room at the time. Unfortunately he was one of the people who may as well have paid for a hotel because getting a conversation from him was like getting Kristen Stewart to stop biting her lip. Not going to happen. As he was an Aussie I was fairly surprised because you usually can’t shut them up.

I returned to the desk to ask for a recommendation for lunch, and found my way to Hodad’s, which sells what is considered one of the finest burgers in the city. As I was quite hungry I went for the double. I was soon to learn that the double should come with a warning. It’s not often I worry I won’t be able to clear my plate, but this was very much one of those occasions. In my defense, look at the thing.

It’s so tall it looks narrow, but those patties are each 1/3lb of beef.

After I’d let it settle for a while, I looked round some of the downtown area before returning to the hostel to see if anyone was around for the evening. I assume that arriving the day after Comic-con meant that I was in the middle of a big changeover, but whatever the reason, there wasn’t really anyone about at all. I went out on my own to do some photography and returned to the hostel unsure what to make of the city and feeling somewhat underwhelmed. I attribute this to the combination of sleep deprivation, being stuffed full of burger and therefore sluggish, the lack of people in the hostel and a feeling that the city had perhaps been over-hyped.

The next morning I went for the free breakfast to find a sign allowing only one bagel per person please. One bagel doesn’t even constitute a pre-breakfast snack, so I found that a bit ridiculous and supplemented it with some oatmeal. While I was eating I was ambushed by a hostel volunteer who suggested I join the Balboa park walking tour later in the morning. As I had only a vague idea of what I wanted to do while in San Diego I decided to go for it and turned up at the relevant time. There I met a few people, including one chap who reminded some of us very much of Prince William. He read law at Durham and wore deck shoes and I’m sure you can very well imagine the kind of person I mean.

Balboa park is very large, and a couple of us were separated from the main group when we stopped to take some photos, but we were soon reunited. The highlight of the park for me? ‘They see me rollin’…’

San Diego’s finest, for sure.

Once the tour was over we were left to our own devices and after a brief look at the botanical garden we headed for the Japanese friendship garden and a free meditation lesson. Although the mood was somewhat affected by the planes flying overhead every two minutes or so, and the diggers landscaping in the valley below us, we had an interesting time humming in harmony and moving vibrations from our eyeballs to our spines. Or at least pretending to. My exhaustion got to me and I fell asleep at one point, but I’m told I thankfully wasn’t snoring. Besides, I wasn’t as rude as the guy who’d obviously been dragged there with his girlfriend and sat slouched in the chair with his head on his shoulder the whole time. He was also the first to get up and leave.

We all agreed we felt relaxed post-meditation, but more important were the caverns it had created in our stomachs. As I’d mentioned Hodad’s, we headed there again, and I am pleased to report that the double went down a lot easier the second time, so I chalk the first one up to too much inactivity on the bus. I’d ordered a beer and the waiter returned to ask if it was off as someone had said it tasted funny. Responding along the lines that as I drink real ale in England all American beer tastes a bit like shit to me, I was pleasantly surprised to receive another beer, on the house, after the keg had been changed rather than the fist in the face I’d been expecting.

Post-food the lads broke off to go and get a car to venture into more of California, and Vicky, Emma and I made for a bus stop. After a mini exploration and overcoming a variety of obstacles, such as being at the stop heading in the other direction, we were finally on our way out to Coronado Island (which is actually a peninsular). I was expecting a fairly small town and was surprised to see what was effectively its own city. It’s perhaps most famous for the Hotel del Coronado, the setting for ‘Some like it hot’, and we ventured over there to find an almost perfect beach, with wonderful, and very comfortable white sands. If you don’t believe me, just ask wedding number three:

I don’t know what the hell they’re paying that guy for.

When we’d had our fill of the beach we shared a litre of sangria, caught the bus back to the main city, and soon discovered that Emma is a very good singer. Vicky and I, though, abstained from the embarrassment of karaoke, and it was soon time for bed. My impressions of San Diego were beginning to improve. Just before I went to bed I realised I’d lost my English phone and I e-mailed Jade who kindly dealt with it for me. Sadly I now have none of your numbers.

The next morning I was struck by the number of people who were asleep when I got in and still in bed when I left for the day. I’m sure some of them must just sleep all day and all night. There are also a LOT of homeless people and street crazies kicking about. I spent the majority of the morning and afternoon in Old Town, which is a somewhat preserved area where the first European settlement was built. The small museum is interesting but I felt that a large part of the area is a little too contrived, and the scores of tourists scurrying from shop to shop and generally getting in the way without actually reading anything did nothing to lessen that feeling.

I was intrigued by the bizarre mixture of an old tobacconist museum which was combined with a modern-day tobacco shop because they made very little effort to distinguish between what was on sale and what was just for show.

I’d really fancied a pizza for lunch because I hadn’t had one for a while but to my dismay I learned that the only places which sold pizza in Old Town were closed until the evening, so I settled for a burger claiming to be the best in town. It wasn’t even close, and the lack of fries in spite of my ordering didn’t help. Having said that, try sprinkling them with parmesan cheese for a seriously tasty treat. On my way back through to the tram stop I spent a little while talking to a homeless man because everyone else was completely ignoring him. I may well be the first person in history to be given a ten pence piece by a Californian hobo. After that, I watched a short demonstration by a blacksmith and went back to buy some jeans before returning to the hostel in time for a walking tour of the waterfront at sunset.

With jeans, I was finally able to don my cowboy boots (+25 awesome) and, prepared for the walk, joined everyone else in the lobby. The guide was very passionate about being there and seemed to genuinely love teaching people about the city, which was made even better by the fact he was a volunteer.

‘Hey look, it’s that end of World War Two people kissing newspaper thing’. Not my finest hour.

After the tour, I finally got some pizza, which was good enough that Vicky ordered another slice. Following that, we made our way to Vin de Syrah, a wine bar which had been recommended to us by our host. In order to get there, you have to go down a narrow staircase you would otherwise most likely miss, and find yourself in something which appears to be a boiler room. Trying the doors, you find they can’t open and are very confused, until finally you realise there is a door hidden in one of the walls. Feeling quite the fool you enter, and are shown a CCTV screen where you are able to witness visitor after visitor do exactly the same thing you did. Wonderful. Incidentally, that’s the perfect word to describe this bar. Not only did we get a $42 bottle of wine half price for ‘Wine Wednesday’, but the atmosphere and decor is superb. The only problem? Unbeknownst to us there was a charity event, and we were left feeling rather sheepish sitting near the front when the crowd was asked ‘hands up who gave the suggested donation tonight’. As we left, we bumped into Emma quite by chance. The next morning I arose early to eat, pack, and catch the bus out to LA having sort-of-but-not-really establishing how to find my hotel when I got there. The cab estimates online were over $60.

I’d noticed when I arrived in San Diego that outgoing passengers were being searched, and I was subject to this before I was allowed into the waiting area. While he was looking at my belongings I’m fairly sure a few other people just walked straight in without him noticing, and I managed to get two knives through, so he wasn’t really doing a very good job. I met a very interesting chap at the station with a very positive view on interactions with strangers and that was a good way to pass the time until the bus turned up late. I admired some of the coastal views before we pulled away from the coast for the stops and finally entered the city a little later than planned. I’ll be honest, first impressions of LA were not good at all, although I will concede that the Greyhound station is in a fairly shit part of town. I’d been looking forward to getting to the hotel for a dip in the pool and use of the fitness room, and I eventually made it there after quite a lot of luck with the LA public transport. I checked in and found my room where I met another trek-member whose name escapes me right now. I’d ask him but he’s asleep at the moment because he flew from Luxembourg today. Although the gym equipment was fairly limited I managed a good workout and I imagine I will be suffering for it tomorrow.

The hotel, by the way, is this one: http://www.haciendahotel.com/

So here I am, a little over half way through my trip. It’ll be interesting to see how I find having someone else make the choices and decide what happens next, although it will also be nice to have a short break from planning everything myself. My only real concerns for the trek are that I have two bags (albeit small ones) and the literature says I’m only allowed one, three weeks might be a long time if I don’t get on with the people (although thankfully the only one I’ve met so far seems fine), and I might not have enough batteries/memory cards for all the photography I imagine I’ll want to do.

I have to be up, showered, dressed, checked out and have broken my fast by 7.30 tomorrow morning, so I’m going to go to bed now. There probably there won’t be a great deal of updates from the wilderness as I likely won’t have access to power supplies or wifi for a while, and I’ll be conserving my battery for storing and backing up photos. It may well be that there will just be an ‘overview of the trek’ post at the end, as writing about three weeks of events in this much detail would be to the detriment of the rest of my trip. Wish me luck.

Sweet revelation, sweet surrendering

After some waiting and a lot of wondering about whether or not any buses were actually going to turn up, a ticket clerk arrived and said that almost all the buses were sold out. I mentioned I had a Discovery Pass and he advised me to get to the front of the line and try my luck. The next bus was not until 7.30am, and I didn’t fancy an 8 hour wait on top of the three hours I had anyway, so I decided to do just that. I sat watching the news, which I could probably recite from memory after seeing the loop so many times, and I had to cringe when I heard a metaphor whereby the debt ceiling debacle was explained in terms of mushy jello. As I watched the news I observed that this bus station seems to be a hangout for some of the local youth, and many employees have friends who come in and do secret handshakes and so on. Despite being the only white person in the building, I fitted right in thanks to the efforts of a ten year old Native American boy.

Nearer the time my bus was due, I made my way to the relevant gate and joined a very small queue. Only around ten minutes later the place was all of a sudden rammed full, with queues forming everywhere and a general sense that nobody really knew what was going on. I asked and was told that East and West-bound buses leave from the same gates, an arrangement which I simply can’t fathom. Furthermore, they don’t know which bus will arrive first because of traffic delays and so on, and I was told to listen carefully for calls. Still, they were more helpful than the people in Dallas.

After much more waiting and chaos I finally had a seat. Following Bill’s luggage situation I just took all of my bags onto the bus, and luckily for the person sitting next to me most of it fitted in the overhead. I was pleased to learn that we had a happy driver, who introduced the first stop as ‘Gallup, NM, home of the people who live there’. As it was almost dark when we left there wasn’t a lot to see, with most of the journey comprised of desert anyway, but I did see a billboard advertising Aaron Lewis of Stain’d’s solo shows. Somebody must be running out of money.

The journey wasn’t too bad aside from my ankle which started to hurt a lot by the end. I got into Flagstaff at about four to see the station closed and a bunch of people waiting. I was amazed to see that they all managed to get a seat and can only assume that Greyhound buses are based on dimensionally transcendental technology. With that, the bus was gone, and the man who had been seeing off his mother and with whom I had been talking hopped into his car and departed. With no number for a taxi firm and my hostel not open until 7am, I found a comfy looking section of concrete and went to sleep. At one point I was awoken by a scraping sound and looked up to see a man with a walking stick peering around the corner. He either didn’t see me or didn’t care and was soon gone. The lights went off as he walked away and it began to get light. I awoke to hear a conversation about guerilla warfare and various other interesting things and stayed where I was until I called for my free lift to the hostel. When I got up, I turned to the seats to see that there was no one there. Spooky.

The woman who picked me up was working her last day here before she went home to Alaska, and had a rather laissez-faire attitude when someone rang the hostel and was fairly rude about room availability. She advised them to ring another hostel and didn’t answer the phone when they called back. Nice. As breakfast had just been put out I went to get some food and chatted to a Swiss guy and Turkish lady who are basically irrelevant. Not long after they left, an American girl sat down with some black toast. I asked if she’d burnt it on purpose and we got talking. One of the main reasons for my coming to Flagstaff was the hope that I would be able to find a lift out to Sedona. My plan was basically to ask everyone I saw until someone agreed to take me there, so imagine how pleased I was when she asked if I meant to go there. After explaining about my lack of a car, I was exceedingly grateful to be offered a lift that very day, and after a quick shower and change of clothes we set out along the scenic route as advised by the woman on the desk.

When we got in the car, Amara apologised about her breathalyzer. I said I thought it was a good idea, until she explained that she only had it because of a DUI. I began to worry that this would be another Greyhound-esque mis-adventure but my fears were not to be realised. As we traveled through Oak Creek Canyon we were impressed with the scenery but it wasn’t enough to really grab our attention away from our conversation. Then we rounded a bend, and were both left literally speechless. I’m not going to spam this post with endless photos of the scenery, because as clichéd as it sounds, they don’t even come close to conveying the sheer majesty of the experience of being there and seeing it for yourself. That said, here’s one of my first shots from the bottom of the canyon when we found somewhere it was safe to pullover.

A little further along we were greeted by the first of many sandstone formations, and from there the car journey consisted of a lot of stopping and starting to get out, walk around, attempt to process our surroundings, and take some photos.

After some more driving through the canyon, we stopped to look at some Native American jewelry stalls before continuing on to a tourist information centre to enquire about Slide Rock. As it was nearing midday we decided to see some other sights and return early in the morning the next day so we could go there when it wasn’t ridiculously busy. Driving through the town, we took the Eastern fork in the road towards Bell Rock, which you can see on the right in the picture below. Oh, and Sedona has roundabouts!

Okay, so maybe I am going to spam this post with pictures.

I’d quite like to live there, wouldn’t you? Debate raged amongst everyone in the area as to whether or not that was actually someone’s house rather than a resort but the conclusion seemed to be that it was indeed a private home.

We made our way closer to the rock and started to walk down the path towards it. I stubbed my toe and Amara laughed until she realised I was bleeding. Assuming she just meant a little bit I carried on walking until I felt my flipflop getting very sticky, and I looked down to see that it had been redecorated in a very fetching shade of blood red. We went back to the car to clean it up, and then proceeded back down to the rock. As I was taking lots of photos Amara un-racked her bike and had some fun cycling the path.

The combination of the heat and walking made us quite hungry, so we went in search of food back in the town. The Lonely Planet describes a vegetarian restaurant that even meat-eaters will love, which I only bring up because she’s a vegetarian. After a lot of searching with no result we ended up going to a New-Age Korean/Vegetarian place instead. I had a fantastic beef sandwich, but I wasn’t too impressed by the offer of a $15 photograph of my aura. It didn’t help their cause that the adverts looked like Michael J Fox had been given a photograph of a woman plucked straight out of the eighties, a green highlighter, and the instruction ‘stay within the edges’.

After eating, we explored some more of the town and I took Amara’s photo by a sign for the Amara Spa. Apparently her name’s quite unusual so she was quite excited when she spotted that. We then tried out some Sedona olive oil and balsamic vinegars which will run you around $20 for a bottle. Flavours range from chocolate, to vanilla, to strawberry and beyond. I’m a convert, and Amara bought a bottle to take home. We spoke to the shopkeeper for a little while and discussed the amazing red rocks. ‘Only God could make it’ she said. Yes. Or years of erosion from wind, rain, glaciers and rivers. At this point Amara realised she’d left her card in the restaurant so we returned there, where we were greeted with blank looks and apologies and no they hadn’t had one handed in. She turned her bag inside out and it was nowhere to be seen, and then she checked the side pocket. Guess where it was hiding.

After more scenery hunting (not that there weren’t incredible views whichever way we looked), we found our way up near the airport where there is a wonderful view of the valley and decided to stay for the sunset. I started looking for a good place to get photos which turned out to be pointless as there were soon a ridiculous number of people in the way. I had to chuckle when I overheard a woman asking her husband if I was hacking one of the pay-to-use telescopes with my camera and Gorillapod. Everything else aside, why would I even bother when I was using a telephoto lens at the time?

At one point Amara was saying that some people had told her they preferred Sedona to the Grand Canyon, and her sister’s opinion in particular was that the Canyon isn’t all that. With the scale of this place plain to see in front of me I found myself imagining how the Canyon could seem a little over the top, and expressed this view with the following words: ‘I feel like this is like a tasteful dress, and the Grand Canyon’s like lady Gaga’s dress, you know? The Grand Canyon is Lady Gaga and this is Marilyn Monroe’.

It was a little bit odd to hear a group of adults applauding as the sun disappeared behind a ridge. I’m fairly sure it happens every day. Now you may be thinking I’m being cynical, and they were applauding the sight of the sunset in a place of exceptional natural beauty and I should just shut up. And you’d be right, if they hadn’t all immediately turned around, clambered into their cars and rushed off to do God only knows what instead of staying to witness the wonderful colours which appeared around twenty minutes later, with the earth glowing and hues in the sky. While it takes nothing away from my experience, I can imagine them going home and telling everyone that they saw the sunset at Sedona and it was beautiful and moving and God was present there that day and their friends cooing and expressing unwarranted jealousy. No, they didn’t see the sunset, they saw the sun set. And then they left. And if they’d just stayed a little longer they’d have actually seen the awesome beauty present there, in the true sense of the word. Perhaps I should have capitalised the last word in that sentence.

If that comes across as angry, my writing isn’t very good. Because whilst it is a little infuriating that these people have missed out on such a wonderful thing by such a small mount of time, the intention is more to express disbelief.

I took this by happy accident a little while after it went dark.

When we decided it was time to leave we got back in the car and Amara drove us back to the hostel. As we ascended the canyon I looked back and saw a feint glow where the sky met the trees and hills, with the stars shimmering in the background. I urged her to pull over and we eventually found a gateway with room for the car. We got out and stared up into the sky, and the lack of light pollution allowed for possibly the clearest view of the stars I have ever seen. It was hard to pick out any constellations, in part because I don’t know many, but mainly because there were so many visible stars they were often indistinguishable. It looked almost like a NASA-released photo of the Milky Way.

On reaching the hostel I downloaded my photos and cleared my cards ready for another day, took a shower and went to bed. I’m beginning to worry that my battery/memory card situation won’t be sufficient for the length of my trek.

The next morning we rose early to set off for Slide Rock as planned. We parked a little way away to pay $3 each rather than $20 for a car and we’d soon arrived. It’s a (presumably) natural formation with rocks which are smooth enough that you can slide down them, hence the name. There are also a few places where you can jump into the water.

Amara ventured further down and had soon discovered an area with just a few people jumping from much higher. By the time she came to tell me about it and we both returned, it was heaving, and we think people must have seen her going down there and followed.

Anyway, this was the view from the top.

I jumped. And made the mistake of looking down at the water as I fell. And it felt like someone had smashed me in the face with a frying pan. Still, it was a lot of fun.

That done, we went for lunch. Parking in town was seriously tricky because it was ‘National Day of the Cowboy’. We didn’t hang around though, because the guy giving a presentation on the guns used by the Texas Rangers back in the day could have put New York to sleep.

Our next stop was Cathedral Rock. When we got there the car park was full and there were ‘No Parking’ signs all along the road. Luckily for us we found a small area with no sign and room for a car and walked back. Cathedral Rock is, apparently, the most photographed single spot in the whole of America. So why not?

Being able to swim in that river and looking up to see the rock formation is nothing short of spectacular. Native American legend has it that the two rocks in the middle are the first man and woman, and the face in profile in the cliff on the right, which you can’t quite see in this photo, is their God. It’s easy to see how such a place could be considered sacred.

At this point I should add that whilst it may seem like we didn’t spend very long in these places, we’d arrived at around 8am and didn’t leave for our next stop until gone 5pm, and we could easily have stayed for longer. It’s just that there are only so many times I can talk about how great these places are before it will start to lose effect.

When we’d had our fill in Sedona, we set off for Jerome. I’d never even heard of the place until Amara had mentioned it the day before. She’d bumped into a woman in Taos on three different occasions, and the woman had said that it couldn’t just be a coincidence and so she should go to Jerome. I’d looked it up to discover it is a reinhabited ghost town.

On the way we stopped at the ‘Hippie Emporium’. Amara bought some beads because she makes jewelry, and I chuckled at this:

Once again we stopped and started as we drove, taking photos of both the landscape behind us and the idiosyncratic houses we came across. We later learned that as the town has historic status, building alterations are rarely permitted, so the artsy folk who live there express themselves in a different way, by decorating their houses.

This is but a small selection of things we saw. There’s a collapsed primary school which was bought by an ex teacher and is left as it was, a museum of odd shit, rusted vehicles, and more. A little bit in love with the place, we drove further up and parked with the intention of walking around for a little longer. At that point, Amara needed the toilet and wandered into a bar. Getting impatient, I walked in too and realised it was a winery.

The next thing I noticed was that A Perfect Circle were playing on the stereo. Realisation dawning, I asked the barman if this was Maynard James Keenan’s bar. The answer, as it turned out, was yes. I’d known it was in the area, but hadn’t expected to wander into it quite by chance. It felt rude not to try the first flight of four wines, and those crafty bastards don’t charge you straight away. Of course, the first four are good enough that you want to try the next four, which are twice the price. ‘When in Jerome’, as the barmaid said.

As Amara hadn’t eaten she just had a few sips because we didn’t want to be stranded if she failed her breathalyzer. I asked what time they closed and the barman said 8. Looking at my watch I was a little confused because it was half past. ‘But we stay open as long as there are people in here’. Very nice of them, if you ask me.

When we were finished there, we made our way down the street and Amara bummed a cigarette from somebody while we enjoyed the live band through the open door. The party was certainly jumping. Who knew a town with a population under 500 could have so much fun?

Before long we were talking to some locals who were regaling us with tales of their lives, hometowns, and haunted buildings. One lady who is originally from Wisconsin practically came when I mentioned the House on the Rock, and a man from Alaska insisted I visit his wonderful state. Perhaps the strangest part of the conversation came when the lady from Wisconsin became adamant that Amara and I were the cutest couple she’d ever met, in spite of the fact we weren’t even remotely close to behaving like a couple. When she learned that we’d only met the day before, she suggested we hop in the back of the car. I said she could pretend we had if it would make her feel better.

With that, Amara dropped me back at the hostel and went to find a motel to set out for the Grand Canyon in the morning. I managed to fall asleep all the way home, which was fairly rude, but also unavoidable. I received a text in the morning informing me that I had left my sunglasses in the car. Resigned to the fact that God must want me to go blind I was very grateful when she dropped them off before she set off.

After breakfast and packing I got in touch with Dan, who fate had once again conspired to bring to the same place as me, and we met up for lunch at the bar where his couchsurfing host in Flagstaff works. It was my first time venturing into the centre and I was surprised by how small it is. There I was lucky enough to eat one of the finest burgers of my life. This joyous moment was somewhat tainted when Alex, his host, approached our table and told us that she had been cut and wasn’t waiting tables anymore. Looks of horror spread over our faces as we struggled to find some words of comfort before it became clear she simply meant her shift was over.

She went back to her house for a nap and Dan and I ventured into some shops. He bought some Merrell walking shoes, of which I am very jealous, because the only time I’ve tried some on I felt like Sully from Monsters Inc. was hugging my feet. After that we headed out to the Lowell Observatory, where ‘planet x’ was finally discovered and named Pluto. Dan also shed some light on the remarkable brightness of the stars. Flagstaff is a blackout town, with strict rules on how bright lights are allowed to be if they’re on overnight, so the light pollution in the area is kept to a minimum.

I’m not sure who they think they’re kidding. They clearly don’t have a planet/whateverthey’recallingitthesedays in there.

Before long we returned to town to get a coffee on the patio, where a live band were playing some jazz, and we were soon joined by Alex and latterly Noah. I busted out some tarot cards I’d somehow acquired on my travels and we did some readings whilst trying to keep a straight face. Dan must never return to the UK, I should move to America, Alex is a truly terrible person and will suffer on her Appalachian hike but ultimately see benefits from it, and Noah needs to forget about women and remember that life is an adventure. Apparently the last one was particularly apt, and I’m a tarot master. In spite of the fact I had to read the instructions to know what each card meant.

After a little more time on the patio, we went back to Alex’s place of work for a glass of wine and some more conversation before we went our separate ways; me to my hostel to collect my things and catch the Greyhound, and the others back to Alex’s for homework and couchsurfing requests.

The journey was much like the others, with most of it being spent asleep. I did manage to catch some wind farms shortly after the sunrise. Not too long later I’d arrived in San Diego.

Keep Austin Weird

I hope you’re sitting comfortably…

Post-shower I felt refreshed and invigorated and took the short walk to the bus stop to catch the bus downtown. It was seriously warm and a little more humid than I expected and I was missing my sunglasses already. Luckily I had remembered my sun block, which sprays like a deodorant. Much better than those silly spurty ones we have in the UK.

I was hungry after the long journey so I made my way to Hut’s Hamburgers which was recommended in the Lonely Planet. I tend not to use guides for food too often as there are so many other good places which aren’t as busy without the recommendation, but they do buffalo. I hadn’t had a buffalo burger since I was at the Trafford Centre with Rob and Laura and I felt it was high time I had another. The place was rammed full even before midday, and I had to wait for around ten minutes just to get a seat at the bar. This gave me time to take in the atmosphere and appreciate the walls. They are decorated with Texas memorabilia as well as vast numbers of awards for best burger over the past fifteen years or so, and plenty of signed flyers from celebrities such as Jack Black.

After enjoying, and I mean enjoying, my burger, I made my way back to an area I’d spotted on my way from the main street. There’s a fountain surrounded by trees and benches and I soon discovered I’d been right to think it would be a very nice place to spend some time when I’d first walked past. Sure enough, there were people relaxing, and I found an empty bench and enjoyed the weather. This was my view as my burger digested:

Not bad, if you ask me.

I had just gotten to deciding where to go next when I received a text from Dan, who I’d messaged on the bus the night before and who was, quite by chance, also in Austin. We agreed to meet up at the Capitol Building and hit some shops as I needed a new pair of sunglasses and he a hat and some flipflops. I still harboured hope of finding a ridiculous bargain on a pair of cowboy boots, but I was admittedly fairly realistic about my chances. Dan has had quite the experience with couchsurfing; this time he was staying in a Vegetarian co-op, clothing optional. Way to do your research, dude!

I had no success with sunglasses or boots, but Dan managed to find a hat and some sandals, and I was tempted into buying a ring. Some of the shops have inventories the borrowers would be proud of, and S. Congress is as much an experience as it is a place to go to actually do shopping. I was fairly disgusted to see a pair of ‘vintage’* boots priced at $225.

*pre-owned, scuffed, with soles which had almost worn through.

Dan had to make it back in time for a meal out so we parted ways with the vague idea that we might meet up later on in the evening.

I didn’t expect to see architecture like this:

Everything’s bigger in Texas:

Back at the hostel I discovered a new roommate called Bill who had just arrived. He’s an old guy catching the Greyhound like he used to do in his youth. On his first trip from Philly when he was much younger, he stayed in Eugene, Oregon. Three days after he got home he moved there and has lived there ever since. The heat of the pavement had melted one of the wheels on his suitcase, and as I needed a sleeping bag for my Trek which is getting ever closer, we went to an outdoors store. As a member, Bill was entitled to a 25% off code which had just been e-mailed out, but there was a problem and in the end the cashier let me use his!

While we were walking around Austin, we got onto the topic of smoking and tattoos. While I agreed about smoking being a turn-off, I defended tattoos fairly passionately, and he was a little flummoxed when he asked where mine was and I said I don’t have one. He also discussed his ‘ladder of light’ philosophy, whereby if we do good acts we will ascend towards light and eventually begin the cycle again. It makes at least as much sense as Scientology. You can read that whichever way you want to.

We caught the bus back past the hostel to find a supermarket for some groceries with the intention of heading into town later on, but by the time we’d done with our shopping it was getting late and we were both fairly exhausted. At the bus stop we spoke to some locals who were going to a gig and yet another girl put her number in my phone. I wish it were this easy in England!

When I awoke the next day Bill was gone so I asked Dan if he wanted to go out to Barton Springs, an open air pool. He’d already been a couple of times and loved it so I set off to catch the bus. After an age waiting I started to walk and was, unsurprisingly, passed almost immediately by the bus. Still, I had a pleasant walk in the sun and before long I’d met up with Dan. There’s a distinct smell in the water, which is home to some endangered salamanders and a lot of plants. Almost as much of an attraction are the people who gather on the banks. I witnessed a martial artist who did yoga on the side, acrobats, jugglers, musicians, and tattoos were so prevalent they’d have given Bill nightmares. I, on the other hand, loved it.

There are signs there which make it very clear that food and drink are not allowed inside. As I’d prepared lunch I was a bit put out and took it in anyway, but I didn’t eat it until we went out to get some lunch for Dan. We were surrounded by pigeons which was fairly unpleasant. and it’s very odd that pigeon food is for sale. While we ate Dan contacted Camille, a couchsurfer who had offered to host him for part of his stay. He’d declined as he had a place for the whole stay, but taken her up on her offer to meet up anyway. She told me I remind her or Aragorn, and while I like to think it’s the rugged good looks, regal blood line, and explicit masculinity, I have a feeling maybe she was right when she attributed it to the rings, beard, and leather bracelet.

It was soon time to go home and get ready for a night out, and Camille very kindly gave me a lift. I headed back out before long to meet Dan on Congress Bridge where we witnessed the daily congregation of hundreds of tourists waiting to see the world’s largest urban bat colony set out to find its food for the day. It’s a fairly impressive sight, but most of them didn’t even see it because they were too busy taking photos. I’d left my camera at home and was able to see the swarms collecting above trees further and further down the river like clouds or Crebain from Dunland.

When that spectacle was over we found somewhere to eat and ordered exactly the same food. We probably looked like a gay couple, but as it had barbecue sauce, cheese, and bacon on it, we really couldn’t have cared less. We were soon joined by a friend of Dan’s from uni and his American friend David. Adrian’s on a course in Falmouth and is over here making a documentary about attitudes towards homosexuals in Austin compared to the rest of Texas, and earlier in the day he’d interviewed a couple whose gay son had killed himself, which must have been pretty harrowing stuff to say the least.

Adrian’s one of those guys who can somehow gain the attention of a roomful of women in a matter of moments. By somehow, I mean he’s overly flamboyant and easily mistaken for gay, but it’s still a very impressive sight to witness. Dan was in touch with Camille who was out for a friend’s 21st and we were planning to meet up with them later in the night. We played skeeball in one bar. Don’t get me wrong here, Kevin Smith’s a genius, but there is no way God would be seen dead playing a game where your opponents can repeatedly reset your score on a mere whim.

After more bars, drinks, and mechanical bulls, it was two o’clock and we had to leave. It seems very strange that in such a liberal city there’s a stiflingly early curfew. At this point David and Adrian departed, and Dan and I were collected by Camille and her landlord, a very athletic Chinese American. We went back to theirs for a little while. Or so we thought. After some sake, Johnny poured me some brandy, and kept insisting I drink it, only to exclaim that he was a terrible host and run to get more every time I finished my glass. In the meantime we discussed a myriad of things into the small hours. He, by the way, is a genius, who plays and coaches four way chess, works in ‘money’ for about two hours a day, eats only vegan food and appears roughly 25 even though he is in fact 41. I didn’t believe him until he showed me his ID.

By about five o’clock Dan and I expressed a wish not to outstay our welcome and made to leave. But Camille and Johnny wouldn’t let us. Instead we were driven back to my hostel where we sat by the lake and saw the sunrise. I nipped in to ask a fairly bemused vegetarian hostel worker about ‘this crazy barbecue place’ I’d heard of before they dropped us back at the bridge and left us to our own devices.

We made our way up towards the Capitol Building along the deserted streets, stopping only for photo opportunities and Starbucks, where we harassed the poor cashier and discussed music before she started a discussion about history. If you hadn’t guessed by now, we didn’t go to bed, and I believe it was the first time in my life I’ve paid for accommodation and then not used it. After that we pressed on towards the street which held the mythical barbecue joint, which opens at 11 and closes when they run out of meat.

Before long, we realised that we were probably a little hungover and it was getting very hot. The lack of sleep wasn’t helping, and when we arrived at 9:30 there was already a queue. God clearly agrees with me about the skeeball thing, because he made the bit of the queue we were stood in sheltered from the sun. Having roughly an hour and a half to kill before the place even opened we talked to some other people in the queue who seemed very pleased to hear about our travelling experiences and had done it themselves when they were younger.

When a woman came round asking what everyone was likely to order, it became clear that we were lucky to arrive when we did. The ever-increasing queue forming behind us certainly seemed to agree.

Why do they not just order more meat? The owner wants to make sure the food is of the highest quality and doesn’t want the business to get too big.

Once inside we had a little time to decide for sure what we wanted. I went for brisket and pulled pork, and it was delicious. The problems started when we tried to get up. A combination of full stomachs, hangovers, and predominantly lack of sleep rendered us virtually immobile. At one point I was stroking my face and exclaimed ‘it doesn’t feel like my hands are touching my face’. Bizarre. Sometime around then, Dan received a text from Adrian asking if we were still up for the plans we’d made the night before. Fearing a car journey and a day in the sun, we agreed it would be for the best if we went for a car journey and a day in the sun and migrated outside to the sheltered balcony to wait for them to arrive. After what felt like forever, we became the fourth and fifth people in a very cramped car. I am now fully aware of the true meaning of despair.

After a very painful car journey, we arrived at our destination, and then did this:

That there is a 9mm Glock, and firing it was quite an experience.

We just had to fill in the relevant forms, show our driving licenses and pay. Imagine that in England!

When we’d had our fill of shooting a scary looking paper man in a balaclava, we went back to Adrian and David’s where we caught the end of the women’s World Cup on their gigantic TV. Their housemates were having a shrimp and crawfish boil outside but Dan and I stayed inside and failed miserably at trying to sleep. Eventually we caught cabs to our respective abodes, but I was now far too awake to sleep, so I spoke to a few people in the hostel about buying and selling cars while travelling here, fake money and its uses, and the social taboo of wearing non-matching shoes. A guy was moving to Austin and all of his possessions were crammed into his car so he’d just grabbed the first two shoes he’d seen. On entering the hostel he’d been greeted with cries of derision. It’s remarkable how offended some people can get by something which is really very harmless. Following that, I enjoyed the sunset over the lake.

Better photos when I’ve had a proper look.

With that, it was time to finally get to bed after being awake for over thirty hours.

The next morning I had a bit of a lie-in (up by about ten) before I went into town once again. Along the way I went to lots more shops and felt very very poor when I looked at the price tags. I also saw one of the finest pieces of marketing I have ever come across:

If you can’t read it, get better eyes.

I liked the pairing of these street names.

After some more walking I had a late lunch at a place called Shady Grove where they broadcast an acoustic evening most Thursdays. Sadly, though, I wasn’t there on a Thursday. Still, the food was good and it had a nice vibe. After that I explored more of Austin, heading to Waterloo Records and some other shops before I made it down to the riverside in search of the statue of Stevie-Ray Vaughan.

On my way there I found 35 million joggers and a pullup and dip stand. As I’d not had a chance to workout since I got here I was eager to get involved, set my iPod to lifting music, and proceeded to feel well and truly ashamed. I’m not even going to tell you how little I managed.

That done, I saw the statue, listened to some Blues, and headed home to the hostel. There I saw Bill, who had been on a date to Barton Springs. I’d seen him briefly in the morning before I headed out and he’d been a bit worried when he realised I hadn’t come home the previous night, which is nice. I planned to have a quiet evening before departing the following morning, and took the hostel guitar, minus a string, down to the lakeside and wrote almost an entire song, which is something I haven’t managed in a very long time. At that point I went inside to get my phone to record it so I wouldn’t forget it and met Brendan in the dorm. He’s from Exeter and is doing an MA in photography and shooting exclusively film while he’s here. He invited me out with a few other people so I had a quick shower and joined them outside. As an aside, seeing a Jack the Ripper book lying on the bunk below you isn’t remotely disconcerting.

After some talking, a few of us caught the bus into town and headed for Red River street for some live music. We ended up at Emo’s. Three of us paid the cover charge but three didn’t want to and went elsewhere. The music was punky which isn’t always my thing, but I had a good time, very much enjoying the ‘HAN SHOT FIRST’ refrain in a Star Wars tribute song. The headliners, Schmillion, were comprised of four girls on guitars/bass/vocals and a guy on drums. Most of them had fairly large symbols on their hands denoting the fact that they are too young to drink.

After a fairly stellar performance I spoke to one of the guitarists who had been rocking a Gibson Les Paul Silverburst, a guitar which Rob and I have wasted* hours of our lives staring at in Manchester. She had been saving since she was six for a pony, but made the fairly solid decision to buy one of those instead. I also spoke to the singer, who told me that they had supported Arcade Fire recently. Before the first show the singer mocked them for being a hobby band who made no money from their music. He apologised profusely after he saw them play.

*not even remotely wasted.

After the music was over we found another bar for a little while and before long I was asking Brendan about his tattoos. He has two fairly large circles on the back of his calves as well as numerous others, including ‘property of Abi’, his lesbian roommate (she has a matching ‘property of Brendan’) and the words ‘Why not?’, which a group of travelers got together. Finally, I borrowed a sharpie from the barman and began playing join-the-dots on his back to form a giraffe.

After all this excitement it was time for bed, and we caught taxis home to the hostel. I set my alarm for just over three hours’ time. It’s a good job Bill was heading to Santa Fe next too because my alarm didn’t go off. Thankfully he woke me at half seven, although the woman from his date failed to make us breakfast as she’d promised. I’d packed the night before after my shower but I still ended up being in a hurry because I’d meant to get up at seven. Still, we were out of the door in good time where we were joined by a man travelling for work who stayed in the hostel even though he lives in Austin.

We arrived at the bus stop, which was pointed out to us by a very kind driver, where we were almost immediately asked for directions by a girl who was trying to drive there. There didn’t seem to be a way due to the nature of the junction, but we pointed her in the right direction, and we later saw her there. I killed most of the wait for the bus watching the Murdoch hearing live on CNN but sadly missed any pie-based action.

I spent most of the journey to Dallas trying to sleep, and I’m glad I did, because when I woke up it was fairly warm. It turns out that broken air-conditioning on a bus in Texas isn’t a whole lot of fun, and the last half hour or so of the journey was really quite uncomfortable, and it wasn’t made any easier by a number of people shouting about how hot it was every minute or so. We had a long layover in Dallas but as we didn’t want to leave our things we waited there. I spent most of it people watching. There was a moment of panic when the board said our bus had been cancelled but an attendant told me to ignore everything on the board as it was always wrong.

That pretty much sums up the terrible organisation at the Greyhound station in Dallas, and it was only with a little bit of luck I got to the front of the line. Once on the bus I saved a seat for Bill, and we were finally on our way. We had another brief layover in Amarillo where the station was under repair and consequently a total free-for-all. We were very worried that we wouldn’t make it onto the bus due to the sheer volume of people, but we managed to make our way to the front of the queue after the reboarders and even found seats together.

When we arrived in Albuquerque at about 7am we learned that Bill’s luggage had not been transferred from the last bus and the next one wouldn’t come until about 3 that afternoon. We went for breakfast in a small cafe which I think is called Nick’s and is now Bill’s favourite breakfast place in the world. I enjoyed it, but that’s perhaps a bit over the top for me. We parted ways for a while not long after because I wanted to get checked in and Bill wanted to wait for his luggage.

I caught the Railrunner train, complete with ‘meep meep’ sound effects as the doors close, to Santa Fe. I wanted to take advantage of the free wifi to book some accommodation for later in the week, but the lack of a power socket and incredible views soon changed my mind. After checking in I caught the bus to downtown Santa Fe and was tempted by an Indian jewelry shop. Before I really knew what had happened I walked out with a new necklace which is good, because I’m wanted one for a while.

The day soon got more expensive when I found myself in a shop just down the street where I finally found a pair of cowboy boots for the bargain price of $99 before tax. Fuck. Yes. That done, and already trying to figure out how I was going to transport them for the rest of the trip, I walked into the centre of Santa Fe proper via a vintage shop which had, amongst other things, a collection of ridiculously expensive guitars. Lunch was accompanied by live music, which is always nice.

Santa Fe is a very quaint place, but I’m glad I took Nicola’s advice and reduced the time I would spend there. Although it looks wonderful with adobe buildings everywhere you turn, there’s not really a lot to do; once you’ve been in a few of the art galleries you don’t really feel the urge to go in many more, particularly as a lot of the art is in a very similar style.

And speaking of adobe, check this out:

If that’s too small to read, it’s called ‘The Adobe Photo Shop’. Very clever.

Passing a camera shop elsewhere I went in to ask about the possibility of repairing my damaged flash. Unfortunately they’d have had to send it in to Nikon, which would have a) cost a fortune and b) left me without a camera, so I’m making do for now. I walked to the plaza and took a seat to take in the atmosphere and at that point, presumably with a change in pressure on it, felt a pain in my ankle. I looked down to see redness and swelling. Not good. After a fairly uncomfortable stroll back to a bus stop I was back at the hostel where I saw Bill who had collected his luggage and checked in. He wanted me to go downtown with him, but after I explained about my leg he went on his own.

I looked into going to the ER to have my leg looked at, but with average costs just to see a doctor running around $500 I booked a taxi to a walk-in clinic for first thing in the morning, wrote some blog, and went to bed. The next day I did my chore (sweeping an outside pathway to keep it clear of dust, which is a remarkably futile endeavour) and then it was taxi time. When I got to the clinic, around five minutes before it was due to open, there were already four people waiting. After around half an hour’s waiting and some form filling I was moved to an examination room. They were having a bit of trouble with their computer systems so there was lots of faffing, but when I eventually saw a doctor I gave her my diagnosis and she gave me my prescription, with a couple of refills so if it happens again I won’t have to pay the extortionate sum to see another doctor. The total cost, including the first lot of medication? Over $200. If you live here, get insurance!

With drugs in hand I returned to the hostel and rested my leg. I’d hoped to see a bit of Albuquerque but I decided that it was far more sensible to heal up, particularly with my trek getting closer and closer by the day. There I was greeted by a young lad who was staying there with his parents. He seemed very surprised when I told him that because his father is a Native American, so is he ‘But I’m white’, he exclaimed. Before he left he taught me a secret handshake. I remember it well, but I don’t imagine I’ll ever see him again to use it.

For most of the day I kept myself amused with the hostel guitar, lost my plectrum, and caught up on my blog deficit. I also spoke to a Canadian who’s moving down there and looking for jobs who advocated coming over here to to do a PhD and starting the immigration progress while I’m here anyway. And all I’d really said was that it seems like a nice place to live and my neighbours son now lived here! Eventually it was time to leave, so I caught the Railrunner back out to Albuquerque. At the train station I saw a girl carrying a toy lightsaber. How could I not talk to her after that?

She had returned to New Mexico around three months ago after living in South Africa with her missionary parents and is still readjusting to life over here. At first I thought her name may have been Amanda, but it turned out I’d mis-read her tattoo, which in fact read amandla, the Zulu word for ‘strength’ or ‘power’. She got off a couple of stops before me and I spent the rest of the journey enjoying the views but also witnessing some serious poverty. When I arrived at the Greyhound station the ticket desk was closed, there were almost no people around, and I had no idea what was going on.

How exactly does one take out a restraining order?

I caught a taxi to the Greyhound station to await my bus. The driver asked where I was going and offered to take me there for $800 but I declined. He recommended a couple of bars for me to kill a little bit of time before the bus but they were all shut, so I sat outside the station, which was closed for lunch, in the very hot and humid weather waiting for the clerk to return at one o’clock. I got chatting to a very friendly man who delivers vehicles and uses the Greyhound to get back home in Georgia.

A short while later I was fairly confused. After a little while lying on the pavement reading a magazine I found myself waking up in time to see the woman arrive at about half past one and open the station. Five minutes later, there was a full on thunderstorm right outside, so I sat feeling very fortunate that she could tell the time.

It was soon clear that this journey would not be particularly enjoyable. Aside from the fact I’d have been happy staying in Mississippi for longer, I overhead a fellow passenger, on the topic of her luggage, utter the phrase ‘it’s no bigger than my son was when he was born so I can just stick it underneath the seat’. You have not heard the last of this woman. Indeed, by the time we were boarding she wanted to sit with me. I wasn’t particularly endeared to the idea, in part because she had trouble remembering and pronouncing my name, but no problem at all with my middle name. Thankfully, when the bus arrived late, it was clear even from the outside that there would be no danger of us sitting together. I took my seat at five past four even though it was supposed to depart at twenty five past three. It was a very special seat because it was the last one left on the bus. We set off with me feeling glad I’d been able to get on the bus but convinced there was no way I would be able to make my connection in Houston.

Before long my status as the sexiest man in the entire South was firmly established as I awoke to feel my own saliva crawling down my beard. Not long after that I was introduced to the brilliance of sat nav owned by a passenger on a bus. If there’s one thing long journeys definitely need, it’s increasingly insistent electronic voices shouting out directions which are diametrically opposed to the route the driver is taking. Still, at least he was able to watch the little dot move along a blue road instead of looking out of the window at the Amazon-esque tops of trees, and rivers snaking through the bayou as the rain punched holes in the earth.

As the boredom of the journey set in I found myself pondering the state of cars in this country. As the main test seems to be concerned with emissions, a trip on the motorway allows a fascinating look at the incredible level of ad-hoc repairs often comprised of duct-tape, cling film, and lesser-spotter pixie dust. No windows, and doors that won’t open? No problem! It was around this point in the journey that we passed Six Flags in New Orleans and I once again wanted to go in. As we traversed the city I considered how amazing it is that something you’ve only seen once or twice can seem so familiar.

After a brief break in New Orleans, where we had to vacate the bus, I found myself reseated next to Anya. During the layover she’d removed my phone from my hands to save her number so we could text on the bus, and that worried me enough, so I was not looking forward to the journey to Lafayette. After a small amount of what could be called conversation, but more accurately consisted of me responding with monosyllables, she regaled me with tales about her family, including her ex-fiancé who had slept with her older sister, whose testicles she had seriously considered removing with a gunshot. Other wonderful topics included her need for a cigarette after very good sex (she’d only smoked after sex three or four times in her life), and the fact that even though she’d never chased a guy in her own country, she meant to come to England to see me. She also seemed to enjoy reading text messages I sent and received over my shoulder and laughing at private jokes. Terrified didn’t cut it, when her hand found its way onto my leg and she used my shoulder as a pillow. This was not the kind of result I’d been after when people told me I’d be able to use my charming English accent and dashing good looks to cut swathes through the young women of the South. In fact, I was beginning to get the feeling that I should have taken the cabby up on his offer. When she finally got off the bus I was treated to the wonderful sight of scales of dry skin stuck to my shirt.

The next few hours were heavenly, but when I made it to Houston I only just made it to my transfer with around five minutes to spare. I transferred my own checked luggage on the advice of the driver and I’m very glad I did or we’d have left without it. The journey was fine and I got some sleep before we arrived in Austin at around 5am. As the hostel was quite a long way from the station I decided to stay for a little while until it got light and head in then, and met a Welsh couple who were doing the same. We talked for a bit while we waited and watched the news. The main story was the Murdoch situation, but I also saw a report about a man who was arrested in Baltimore with 13 knives in his cabin bag. He claimed he didn’t know it was illegal. As the sun rose we stepped out into the magnificent heat and I discovered had gone through my 3rd pair of sunglasses so far this trip. A lens must have come out in my pocket on the bus and then fallen out. At least they were only $2.

We caught the bus to the hostel, checked in, and went for showers, never to see each other again.

And to nothingness we shall return.

From New Orleans I made my way to the gulf coast in Mississippi to meet a couple of people who some friends and I had met online at the beginning of the year. The bus journey was only a couple of hours which was fantastic after some of the longer ones I’ve done. No, I didn’t manage to stay awake the whole way.

On my way into Gulfport, where I was staying, I spotted a shop which sells cowboy boots and made a mental note for later. The Greyhound station was tiny in comparison to my other destinations in proportion to the size of the town, and I was looking forward to seeing a different kind of American settlement with a very different character to the large cities I’d stayed in so far.

Once I’d checked in Crissy picked me up and we went for food. When I ordered I was a little bit confused to see the 40-odd year old Jamaican waitress have what appeared to be a fairly violent but brief seizure until she asked me to say it again. Ah yes, the accent.

We followed our meal with a drive while we decided what to do. There wasn’t really any doubt in my mind and we headed straight for the boot shop. Although it had plenty of great boots on a par with some of those I’d seen in Nashville it also had a few pairs which should never have been approved in the design stages, and some of the shirts wouldn’t have been out of place in an annual ‘Worst Shirt Ever Made’ competition. When we’d finished there we went to the mall which seemed like a wonderfully stereotypically American thing to do.

Nothing was purchased until we got to Scuba Steve’s stall. For every shirt he sells, he donates another one to a homeless shelter, and Crissy couldn’t resist a neon vest. We chatted to Steve for a little while and he seemed like a very friendly man. He was also very jealous of my accent, and seemingly the fact that I was from England too. After a little more mall-browsing we went to get ready to meet Molly for dinner at an Italian restaurant. Luckily for me the male waiter didn’t react at all.

The next day we just chilled during the day before attending what was, according to the billboard outside Kirk’s Biz’zar, ‘The Best Metal Show of the Year’ headlined by a band called Goatwhore. A charming name, I’m sure you’ll agree. We met a few people there who found my presence fairly fascinating and spent quite a while asking me about England. It was good to mix with a group of locals going about their business without other tourists around, even if they were a little bit too fueled by alcohol and possibly drugs.

The bar itself was, as one of the support bands declared, a ‘shithole’ which was uncomfortably warm in spite of the air conditioning. Seventy year old men would be best keeping their shirts on, if you ask me. There was very little room for the crowd in front of the small platform which passed as a stage and I had a great deal of trouble ordering a bottle of water because the barmaid couldn’t understand my accent. After some time outside being just as hot as we were inside and dripping with sweat we went back in to listen to some music. To my surprise, Revocation were playing. I’d got a couple of their albums not long before I came away on my trip and they’ve been part of my Greyhound listening. Unfortunately the singer had pneumonia so the bassist took over on vocals and they had to cut their set short, but it was still a very nice treat.

After Goatwhore had set up their equipment they took to the stage to shouts of ‘sheepslut’ from some incredibly witty members of the audience. What will they think of next? I didn’t really know what to expect based on the name and satanist imagery so I was pleasantly surprised to find them perfectly listenable. We were sitting at a table to the side of the stage and were frequently treated to people flying out of the mosh pit and colliding with it. I had quite a lot of fun using it as an implement to return them to their rightful place. I also enjoyed watching the strands of the singer’s hair which were getting stuck to the ceiling.

The next day I wanted to take advantage of the glorious heat to go to the beach. All along the coast there are fabulous white sands, although the water is a little murky. Still, it was an excellent way to spend the majority of a day and I’m fairly sure I have a much better tan than I did beforehand. Not wanting to overdo it we went for some food and decided to watch a film. The newest X-Men was the original plan but unfortunately there was only one showing and it was on stupidly late so we saw Horrible Bosses instead. Although some of the humour seemed a little forced at times for the most part it was very entertaining and we enjoyed it.

A little further down the coast is a town called Ocean Springs which has a wonderfully quaint atmosphere and houses a number of galleries and shops. It’s the kind of place I can very much imagine mum enjoying. We were going to go to a donut place which came highly recommended but unfortunately the owners were on holiday.

This place has a very cool name, I’m sure you’ll agree.

It’s not every day you see a cockerel roaming the streets of an American town.

After we’d eaten and had our fill of the town we returned to Gulfport, where we witnessed two idiots drive over a level crossing in spite of the barriers and flashing lights. Sadly no train came. Some of the driving over here really is something else.

I also managed to get a photo in front of a Dollar General. I did some shopping there too. I suppose advertising works!

In the evening I did some sunset photography and I look forward to having a proper look at the results when I get access to a computer with a real screen.

After a little more time hanging out it was time for me to leave, and after we said goodbye I left for the bus station.

She was a Venus De Milo in her sister’s jeans.

The next morning it was time to wake up and explore the city. So I woke up, walked out of the door to my room, was slapped in the face by ridiculous levels of heat and humidity and immediately reassessed the situation. I found some free oats in the kitchen and made some porridge on the stove. To be honest I could probably have cooked anything there and no one would have noticed because it’s all such a mess there’s no way it’s ever been sorted, but I’m nice, so I didn’t.

While I ate breakfast I got talking to some other people staying in the hostel. As Brits they’d had a fairly heavy night to celebrate the final day before American independence and throughout the morning and early afternoon more and more of them crawled out to the pool side before returning to their rooms, presumably to vomit, die and be reborn.

In the meantime we were sat at the pool side chatting about books and the like, our conversation interspersed with volleyball and water polo action with some fairly inebriated Kiwis. Two two litre bottles of vodka drunk concurrently beginning at 1pm probably isn’t the best idea, but I’ve seen them all since and can vouch for the fact that they’re all alive.

A couple from Holland I met in Nashville, Siebe and Minda, turned up at the pool during the day and after a while we got to discussing plans for the day. I’d mentioned Six Flags, a theme park left disused after Katrina, and after a little effort finding the address we set off, collecting Dan on the way.

He told us a wonderful story about his couchsurfing host who works for Domino’s pizza and had been delivering when he was robbed at gunpoint for the pizza he was carrying. They must have been ravenous because for some reason they left the money. They can’t have been very clever either. They used their own phone, lived just around the block, and left Domino’s paraphernalia strewn across their apartment. An open and shut case, even for the American police.

We were unsure what to expect when we got to Six Flags; the internet had varying reports regarding security, ways in, and arrests. At the first gate we were greeted by a sign which stated the park is ‘closed for storm’ and a fence topped with barbed wire. We drove on to another gate and I spotted a way past the fence but we didn’t want to leave the car alone while we went in so there aren’t really any photos, which is a shame. If we’d been in England, we’d have gone in.

We returned to the hostel a little disappointed but our mood was soon buoyed by songs from the hostel members in Nashville on the stereo and the beer we picked up from a convenience store on our way home. After some conversation, a fairly large group including Adam and Karl, the English guys who had given us a lift in Memphis, headed for the streetcar to watch the fireworks over the Mississippi river. As we were heading out afterwards I didn’t take my camera so unfortunately I have no photos until Nicola sends me the ones I took on her camera.

When the fireworks were over we were all fairly hungry and the large group from the hostel made our way to find food. You’d think this would be easy in a city like New Orleans, but with a group the size of ours there was never going to be a consensus. After far too long waiting for everyone else a group of us broke off and proceeded to take another eon deciding where to eat. In the end Frederick suggested we go to a bar he had been to which had live music and served food. At this point I would have eaten a homeless man, so I was quick to agree.

I chose a very tasty chicken quesedilla which was augmented by the kind of musical display which would have had Memphians hanging their collective heads in shame. It was open mic night, and we were treated to various styles of music. The highlight for me was a mini-me version of Slash who had been waiting for a while. That didn’t stop him though; he stood to the side of the stage and played along even though he wasn’t plugged in, which resulted in a fair amount of ridicule from parts of the crowd.

When the time came, he adjusted his hat, donned his Flying V, told the band the song they would be playing and the key they would be playing in and proceeded to give everyone a lesson in ‘how to be one of the coolest motherfuckers on the planet’ as his fingers blurred their way up and down the fretboard in a remarkably tasteful blend of bluesy shred.

After a little while longer in this bar and a few musicians later, we moved on to see in Siebe’s birthday on Bourbon Street. It was quieter than I expected but still vibrant and very much alive. We bar-hopped for the rest of the night, witnessing a combination of karaoke and live music before returning to the hostel. There was just enough time for Adam to blurt out the quote of the day by far; ‘I’m really sorry that I’ve come across as someone who doesn’t enjoy fun’, before we all went to bed.

The next day began with a few of us once again relaxing by the pool before we agreed it was high time to do something and made for the French Quarter, although not before Adam and Karl kept us waiting for seventeen hours. I don’t think I’ve ever met two males who take so long getting ready.The weather was threatening thunder as we approached the market where we spotted a selection of hot sauces for people to try. Having started off with a comparatively mild chipotle, I decided I would follow it up with some ‘One Drop Heart Stop’ and Adam and Karl soon followed suit. The name should have given it away, but I should warn you that soaking half a mouthful of bread in the stuff before devouring the lot turns out to be a fairly serious mistake.

After some more time spent wandering around the French Quarter Karl developed a sudden craving for crawfish. Following a little research we made our way to a restaurant where we were greeted by a pint-sized Samuel L Jackson and the wonderfully enticing speech ‘Y’all ready for lunch? C’mon, let’s do the damn thing’. How could we possibly refuse? Being fairly hungry but having not had crawfish before I didn’t want to order a lb in case I wasn’t a big fan so I opted for a satisfying shrimp po-boy instead. Luckily Adam and Karl had plenty to share, and after a quick tutorial from the waiter they tucked in, covering themselves, the table, and Nicola in particular in fresh crawfish juice.

When we were all cleaned up we went for a walk by the river where we learned that Jesus was a snowman who melted and a man attempted to scam me with absolutely no level of success. They tell you they bet they can guess where you got your flip-flops, and, finding this highly improbable, you take the bet. They then tell you that you ‘got them on your feet in New Orleans’. I wouldn’t have even known it was a scam unless Nicola had told me she’d read it in my guidebook because I misheard and cut him off at the beginning by telling him I got them in England.

After all this excitement we caught a streetcar back to the hostel and sat and talked. We were soon joined by an Aussie girl called Selina who told us about a gig by a band called Rebirth who would be playing in a small bar in the opposite direction to Bourbon Street. We were convinced, and so was a fairly odd Israeli called Daniel who was absolutely disgusted when he calculated the prime factors of the 1760 yards in a mile.

Some of us caught a taxi out there and some of them got a lift with him. When we arrived the miniscule bar seemed fairly packed, but people just kept on piling in. I’m not 100% sure that people pay attention to maximum occupancy laws over here. As they were due to start at 10pm, arriving at roughly 11pm gave us plenty of time before they began at around 11:20. Talk about laid back. Once they started we were treated to a wonderful brass-band jazz cacophony which couldn’t have been more what I’d expected from a band in New Orleans. I was a little worried afterwards that I had gone deaf in my left ear, but this turned out to be baseless. Another member of the audience informed me of the very interesting nature of the band. There are three groups and the members progress through the ranks, starting out on the street until they’re good enough to move up, with the result that each band as an abstract entity stays in the same venues but they’re not made up of the same members for long. Philosophy buffs may here ponder the Ship of Theseus.

After the gig we caught a taxi back to the hostel once Adam had finished insulting two different groups of girls; one from France and one from Oxford. The charming English gentleman strikes again. When we arrived the whisky he had drunk decided we had to go for a swim in the off-limits-after-11 pool so after changing I hopped in with him, Karl and Serena for a while. It wasn’t long before I realised what time it was. With a swamp tour booked for 7:45 in the morning I was not going to get a lot of sleep. That wasn’t helped by the fact that although climbing out of the pool into the night air was fairly pleasant, walking into my air-conditioned room felt as though I’d just been blasted full in the body by a jet of liquid nitrogen.

I awoke to a glorious day and went to get breakfast. As Siebe and Minda were checking out that day before going on a cooking course they had very kindly told me I could eat what food they had left. Bonus. Once we’d had breakfast, Nicola and I caught the bus outside the hostel which took us to another bus for the journey to Slidell which was driven by a man who fulfilled almost every Hispanic stereotype. The deal-breaker? His name was ‘Mr Adam’. In typical me fashion I slept for most of the journey, but his comments were difficult to understand because of his accent and a fairly muffled PA system, and the Greyhound into New Orleans had already covered much of the journey so I didn’t really miss a lot.

The tour began with an introduction from our guide who quickly established himself as passionate but slightly bitter about basically everything. He also made a lot of claims which I fear need verification. Apparently he’s one of only two people in the world who can harvest horsehair, although having shown a boatload of people I’m fairly sure that’s no longer true, especially considering the highly likely possibility that he shows every boatload of people. I have now seen a wild raccoon.

Here is some generic swamp:

Seeing an alligator of this size launch itself out of the water in an attempt to catch and eat a turtle is an impressive, and, I’m told, very rare sight.

After more swamp touring and tales of a dead grandad we caught the bus back to New Orleans. I managed to stay awake long enough to see the imposing thunderstorm which was forming over the city and very soon the bus was inside it. Mr Adam was kind enough to drop us off in the French Quarter and the worst of the rain was over. In just a short time many of the streets had turned into rivers with the drainage system hopelessly insufficient in the short term. Of course, before long the water evaporated anyway.

Hungry by now, we made our way to a bar on a side street. Suffice it to say that this hovel would not appear in any guidebooks; a very rough barmaid having some questionable conversations with some customers who were presumably her friends took long enough to take our drink orders*, and when we tried to order food she said she’d have to get the waitress. Roughly twenty minutes later she remembered, and the waitress soon came out to inform us that she didn’t have a working fryer. It was time to leave. In the meantime we’d kept ourselves entertained by watching a man’s futile struggle against the flood water armed only with an already saturated mop and a TV channel dedicated solely to hunting with bows and arrows. Thirteen year old boys shouldn’t be allowed to shoot and kill massive bucks.

*Although by English standards the service would have been excellent. I think I’m going native.

After a short walk along a street with some art galleries, including a fantastic exhibition of Craig Tracy’s photography of bodypainting (I recommend you Google it right now) we found a deli with good character and good food which was a big improvement on the hick bar we’d been in not half an hour before. After we’d eaten we strolled around more of the city before walking back to the hostel via a convenience store where we bought a tub of Ben & Jerry’s which was soon to be devoured. After some more talking to people, I started writing this blog entry before packing.

As I had another early morning for my next bus journey I didn’t really fancy the bright lights of Bourbon Street so we investigated cinemas in the local area. We hunted for a while before making our way through a mall which was abandoned due to the time of day. It was a fairly surreal experience and would have made an excellent place to shoot a horror-short if you’re that way inclined. The cinema offered food and drink which we both declined having eaten on the way, but we did take advantage of the very comfortable and spacious seats . We saw Super 8, which I thoroughly enjoyed, although Nicola’s description of ‘a bunch of kids are making a film and then there’s an accident’ was fairly unsuccessful in conveying what I was actually about to see. I’ve told her to bin her application for a job with Empire.

After the film we returned to the hostel where we found Lord of the Rings Risk waiting on the kitchen table. Nicola had never played but seemed to be having a disproportionate amount of fun pretending to shoot a cave troll with an archer as I explained the rules. If only I’d been staying another day I’d have kicked her ass all over Middle Earth but it was getting late so we said goodbye and went to bed.

The next morning I caught a taxi to the Greyhound station and had an urge to write I haven’t felt in a long time. I added more throughout the journey and a few pages of my notebook are now filled with various lyrics, lines of poetry, and the beginnings of a story which may actually have potential.