The flight from Toronto back to Manchester is a puzzling experience. It takes twelve hours overnight, but only lasts for seven. Dinner is served at 11pm and then three hours later is breakfast at 7am. Unsurprisingly most people aren't hungry. Despite the cabin crews attempts to convince everyone its night-time by shutting the blinds, there's no hiding the surreal artificial time onboard this flight. The woman in front of me thrusts her chair back as far as it will go so she can sleep, confused as to why it won't go back as far as the chair of the man next to her, she has several more goes at thrusting it back, failing to realise throughout that the reason it won't go back as far is because it keeps coming into contact with my knees. In the early or late hours I go to the toilet and when I return I discover that due to the joint factors of an immovable arm rest and the fully reclined seat of the woman in front I cannot actually get back into my seat. It takes a good ten minutes of testing some of my joints to the absolute limit to squeeze my ample frame back into my seat. Long haul just aint for the tall.
In baggage claim at Manchester the next carosel contains the bags of a flight from one of the Greek islands. Its surrounded by groups of orange and brown teenagers and twenty-somethings in identical t-shirts, football shirts, white skirts and linen trousers. Its now, with an air of self affirmation I realise that, families aside, I was comfortably the youngest aboard my flight. "Dallas via Toronto that's a bit of a long way round isn't it mate" exclaims the custom officer when I comply to tell him where I've come from. I tell him it was the cheapest way; "Fair enough, have a good un!" and having survived this Manchester inquisition I head out down the white tunnel and out to the train station.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Thursday, July 20, 2006
[usa24] dallas - toronto
Downstairs in the reception of the Super 8 Motel, Irving, there is a huge screen TV which takes up all of the right hand wall with the exception of a small sapce in one corner which is occupied by a worryingly murky fishtank, that may or may not contain any fish at all. From a sofa, all of five feet away from the screen two Spanish speaking Mexican guys are watching a life size Kate Winslett in Titanic... in English... even though they have the remote. I reluctantly choose to say nothing and instead slump into the seat by the door and pass the wait for the shuttle bus by staring intently at the fishtank in search of movement.
"Oh you're from England; we love Tony Blair," says the woman at the Air Canada check in without a hint of sarcasm. My flight is delayed, giving me ample time to wander round the departure lounge and confuse the staff of both a newsagent and a Starbucks with my accent. Once on the plane I find myself surrounded by businessmen attempting to 'out-technology' one another with a variety of Blackberrys, Apples and other fruit based media devices, which they are all reluctant to turn off despite several requests from the cabin crew. Send one last email or die when the plane fails to take off? Surely it can't be that hard a decision.
Arriving in Toronto it becomes clear that it is much easier to leave the 'Land of the Free' than it is to enter. No questions asked, minimal forms completed one shuttle bus journey and Sam is no longer your Uncle. The downside of taking the cheap flight home via Canada is getting hungry, getting in line with a tasty snack and then just before you get to the till, realising that you don't possess any legal tender for this country. Eventually I withdraw enough Canadian dollars for a sandwich and a coffee and collapse into a departure lounge seat near two kids and their father. "Can we go to Blackpool while we're over there?" asks one child; if only the British tourist board knew the Canadian appeal of the Lancashire Vegas.
"Oh you're from England; we love Tony Blair," says the woman at the Air Canada check in without a hint of sarcasm. My flight is delayed, giving me ample time to wander round the departure lounge and confuse the staff of both a newsagent and a Starbucks with my accent. Once on the plane I find myself surrounded by businessmen attempting to 'out-technology' one another with a variety of Blackberrys, Apples and other fruit based media devices, which they are all reluctant to turn off despite several requests from the cabin crew. Send one last email or die when the plane fails to take off? Surely it can't be that hard a decision.
Arriving in Toronto it becomes clear that it is much easier to leave the 'Land of the Free' than it is to enter. No questions asked, minimal forms completed one shuttle bus journey and Sam is no longer your Uncle. The downside of taking the cheap flight home via Canada is getting hungry, getting in line with a tasty snack and then just before you get to the till, realising that you don't possess any legal tender for this country. Eventually I withdraw enough Canadian dollars for a sandwich and a coffee and collapse into a departure lounge seat near two kids and their father. "Can we go to Blackpool while we're over there?" asks one child; if only the British tourist board knew the Canadian appeal of the Lancashire Vegas.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
[usa23] san francisco - dallas
"You are leaving far too early." It seems that the Mexican porter of the Hotel St Paul is a master of understatement as we talk on the pavement outside the main entrance at 4:45am. Credit to him though, he is keeping me awake. As I board the Shuttle Van for the airport, he shakes my hand and wishes me good luck, a gesture I take as kind regards rather than inditement against the reputation of the Shuttle driver, but I find myself in two minds as he flys down one of San Francisco's many hills. My fellow passengers are silent business-men and no matter how polite I am I fail to crack their reluctacne to talk, which I decide must be due to the fact that I was waiting for the Shuttle beneath a neon sign boasting not 'Hilton' nor 'Marriott', but of a Thai Massage Parlour instead.
The flight to Dallas is via Las Vegas and the toy town birds-eye appearance of its infamous strip. I had joked to Maria via text about there probably being slot machines in the airport... I get there and there are. I manage to resist with a lot more ease than whoever put them there would probably have liked. I plonk myself down against the wall by my departure gate and as one plane arrives I am mistaken for some sort of information guide by at least six disembarking passengers. I will confess here and now that by the fifth I began making stuff up; "Baggage claim? Yeah, its that way, in the middle of all those slot machines... yeah I know, weird place to put it"
At Dallas Fortworth and in the real baggage claim some kids are doing an American equivalent of bob-a-job and offering to help people with their bags... funnily enough they all steer well clear of the huge scuffed green rucksack meandering round the carosel. I grab it from the revolve and head outside into the unmistakable Texas heat that surrounds me like a cheap nylon cagoule the moment I step out the door. I find a cab and tell the driver to take me to the nearest Super 8 Motel; I need a cheap bed and I need it now. He's a friendly Nigerian man who tells me how he' wants to travel to London one day and maybe study... I give him advice and in return he responds by overcharging me and letting me get my bag myself. I check in swiftly and haul my shattered self upstairs determined to fall straight asleep and regain some of the hours I lost last night; once in my room I lie on the huge bed and within a matter of eight hours I am fast asleep.
The flight to Dallas is via Las Vegas and the toy town birds-eye appearance of its infamous strip. I had joked to Maria via text about there probably being slot machines in the airport... I get there and there are. I manage to resist with a lot more ease than whoever put them there would probably have liked. I plonk myself down against the wall by my departure gate and as one plane arrives I am mistaken for some sort of information guide by at least six disembarking passengers. I will confess here and now that by the fifth I began making stuff up; "Baggage claim? Yeah, its that way, in the middle of all those slot machines... yeah I know, weird place to put it"
At Dallas Fortworth and in the real baggage claim some kids are doing an American equivalent of bob-a-job and offering to help people with their bags... funnily enough they all steer well clear of the huge scuffed green rucksack meandering round the carosel. I grab it from the revolve and head outside into the unmistakable Texas heat that surrounds me like a cheap nylon cagoule the moment I step out the door. I find a cab and tell the driver to take me to the nearest Super 8 Motel; I need a cheap bed and I need it now. He's a friendly Nigerian man who tells me how he' wants to travel to London one day and maybe study... I give him advice and in return he responds by overcharging me and letting me get my bag myself. I check in swiftly and haul my shattered self upstairs determined to fall straight asleep and regain some of the hours I lost last night; once in my room I lie on the huge bed and within a matter of eight hours I am fast asleep.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
[usa22] san francisco
My final day in San Francisco I feel warrants an Italian start and so I begin in the very homely and distinctly European Cafe Puccini, with a very large iced latte. From here its a final walk up Columbus Avenue to the North Beach and the tourists and performers of Pier 39 for a final bit of gift shopping. I'm beginning to feel at home in San Francisco to the extent that I have long stopped using my guidebook to get around the North East corner of the city. I wanted to ride the Street Cable Car back into the city so I could cross it off my 'touristy-things-done' checklist, but when I get to the end of the Powell and Mason Line the ticket booth is closed for lunch. I decide not to wait and instead make the uphill hike back to the hotel.
For the afternoon I'm heading west toward the picturesque Alamo Square and the Golden Gate Park beyond. I make a stop-off at the Visitor Information Center in the city where in a curious reversal of fortunes I end up giving the woman behind the desk tips on how I should get to the airport. Eventually she recommends I book the shuttle I suggested to her. I had seen Alamo Square depicted on a number of watercolours and postcards in the gift shops of Fisherman's Wharf and was keen to take it in for myself. The green space is bordered by wooden houses typical of the San Francisco hills beyond which is a view of the various skyscrapers of the city's Financial centre. After a few attempts to emulate the postcard images with my own snapshots I continue west toward Golden Gate Park.
At the manicured lawns and flower beds of the Park my inner football fan again gets the better of me and I find myself heading toward what's identified on the map as Kezar Stadium. Another incredibly lush football field in a seated bowl awaits and for the second time on my trip I vow to play there one day. Sitting in the stadium's seats watching various East Asian pensioners waddle around the running track I take a look at the paper map given to me by the woman at the Visitor Information Center. From here it seems it is only a mile or so to the Pacific Ocean along Lincoln Way and so I decide to continue in that direction and cross over 1st Avenue in the direction of the beach. Well over a mile and 36 block further one I decide to take another look at the map, and notice a small red box I had previously missed. This red box tells me that the area on the map to the left of Divisadero Street is not to scale. So for every half mile I thought I had just walked, I had actually walked a mile and a third. So I carry on and three miles after leaving the stadium I finally cross the Great Highway and am able to stare out at the Pacific Ocean. Not wanting to miss the opportunity to be a kid again, I take off my trainers and socks, roll up my jeans and tread gingerly across the hot sand of Ocean Beach to the waters edge for a paddle. My inner child satisfied I retreat back to the promenade and lever the sand from between my toes before heading up to Cliff House and the picturesque walks of Lincoln Park.
I head along the Coastal Path where breaks in the trees offer not only incredible views across the Bay to the Marin Headland and Golden Gate Bridge, but also incredibly steep drops to the waters below. I'm passed by countless joggers and can't help but wonder how many have come close to perishing on the rocks below on a wet winter run round this path. The sun is setting across the Ocean and my legs are beginning to tire so I decide not to head on to the Bridge and instead turn inland for the long walk back to the city centre. As a measure of how far I've come the walk takes me an hour and a half and the only stop off I take is to help an American-Asian woman close her garage door. "Thank you, I've been waiting so long for someone tall to pass by," she says, indicating that there is life after the World Cup for Peter Crouch.
For the afternoon I'm heading west toward the picturesque Alamo Square and the Golden Gate Park beyond. I make a stop-off at the Visitor Information Center in the city where in a curious reversal of fortunes I end up giving the woman behind the desk tips on how I should get to the airport. Eventually she recommends I book the shuttle I suggested to her. I had seen Alamo Square depicted on a number of watercolours and postcards in the gift shops of Fisherman's Wharf and was keen to take it in for myself. The green space is bordered by wooden houses typical of the San Francisco hills beyond which is a view of the various skyscrapers of the city's Financial centre. After a few attempts to emulate the postcard images with my own snapshots I continue west toward Golden Gate Park.
At the manicured lawns and flower beds of the Park my inner football fan again gets the better of me and I find myself heading toward what's identified on the map as Kezar Stadium. Another incredibly lush football field in a seated bowl awaits and for the second time on my trip I vow to play there one day. Sitting in the stadium's seats watching various East Asian pensioners waddle around the running track I take a look at the paper map given to me by the woman at the Visitor Information Center. From here it seems it is only a mile or so to the Pacific Ocean along Lincoln Way and so I decide to continue in that direction and cross over 1st Avenue in the direction of the beach. Well over a mile and 36 block further one I decide to take another look at the map, and notice a small red box I had previously missed. This red box tells me that the area on the map to the left of Divisadero Street is not to scale. So for every half mile I thought I had just walked, I had actually walked a mile and a third. So I carry on and three miles after leaving the stadium I finally cross the Great Highway and am able to stare out at the Pacific Ocean. Not wanting to miss the opportunity to be a kid again, I take off my trainers and socks, roll up my jeans and tread gingerly across the hot sand of Ocean Beach to the waters edge for a paddle. My inner child satisfied I retreat back to the promenade and lever the sand from between my toes before heading up to Cliff House and the picturesque walks of Lincoln Park.
I head along the Coastal Path where breaks in the trees offer not only incredible views across the Bay to the Marin Headland and Golden Gate Bridge, but also incredibly steep drops to the waters below. I'm passed by countless joggers and can't help but wonder how many have come close to perishing on the rocks below on a wet winter run round this path. The sun is setting across the Ocean and my legs are beginning to tire so I decide not to head on to the Bridge and instead turn inland for the long walk back to the city centre. As a measure of how far I've come the walk takes me an hour and a half and the only stop off I take is to help an American-Asian woman close her garage door. "Thank you, I've been waiting so long for someone tall to pass by," she says, indicating that there is life after the World Cup for Peter Crouch.
Monday, July 17, 2006
[usa21] san francisco
A Bay Cruise has been recommended to me via email by more than one friend in the past week and so I've elected to make that the focus of the day. While the crowds surround the Blue and Gold Ferries ticket booths I stumble across the Red and White Fleet (must be the Rovers in me) at Fisherman's Wharf and am on a boat within a matter of minutes. Once aboard headsets are provided to give the tourist spiel and even sound effects should the actual seaguls not be seagully enough, while a strong wind satisfies my slapstick comedy craving, blowing off the hat of one young lad and regulatly lifting the skirt of one embarrassed female passenger.
The boat travels out into the choppy waters beneath the Golden Gate Bridge and back around Alcatraz. As the boat rounds the rock I realise just how frustrating it must have been for the inmates, being so close to such a vibrant city and yet so far away; the isolation amplified by its proximity to humanity. Back on dry land I decide to try Clam Chowder, which is available the length of the waterfront and comes served in an edible bread bowl. I had heard of Clam Chowder via American cartoons and so forth, but can confess to having no idea of what exactly it was; however now I have sampled it first hand... and still I have no idea what it is. Still, it filled a hole, as my grandparents would say... as did the veritible vat of iced tea that I was served with it.
Late in the afternoon I take a walk across town to the Embarcadero Center in order to pick up souveniers for the parents and keep me in the good books. I take a break in the Justin Herman Plaza outside the Ferry Building and its elaborate hourly chime before heading back up Market Street and a bit of window shopping that introduces me to the most helpful shopping assistant I've ever encountered in the Puma store. I call in at Cafe.com on the way back to the hotel for my daily session of confusing the staff with my accent befor emailing home my latets updates. Back at the hotel I'm greeted by notices informing me of a visit from Pest Control and I retire to my room glad to be in such a classy joint and half expecting the assistant from the Puma shop her to appear from the cupboard with yet more trainers that I won't find in the UK.
The boat travels out into the choppy waters beneath the Golden Gate Bridge and back around Alcatraz. As the boat rounds the rock I realise just how frustrating it must have been for the inmates, being so close to such a vibrant city and yet so far away; the isolation amplified by its proximity to humanity. Back on dry land I decide to try Clam Chowder, which is available the length of the waterfront and comes served in an edible bread bowl. I had heard of Clam Chowder via American cartoons and so forth, but can confess to having no idea of what exactly it was; however now I have sampled it first hand... and still I have no idea what it is. Still, it filled a hole, as my grandparents would say... as did the veritible vat of iced tea that I was served with it.
Late in the afternoon I take a walk across town to the Embarcadero Center in order to pick up souveniers for the parents and keep me in the good books. I take a break in the Justin Herman Plaza outside the Ferry Building and its elaborate hourly chime before heading back up Market Street and a bit of window shopping that introduces me to the most helpful shopping assistant I've ever encountered in the Puma store. I call in at Cafe.com on the way back to the hotel for my daily session of confusing the staff with my accent befor emailing home my latets updates. Back at the hotel I'm greeted by notices informing me of a visit from Pest Control and I retire to my room glad to be in such a classy joint and half expecting the assistant from the Puma shop her to appear from the cupboard with yet more trainers that I won't find in the UK.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
[usa20] san francisco
I start my Sunday as the sole customer of Cafe.com on Mason Street. Aside from the usual emails home I have another purpose for being here; to check that there are still tickets left for today's baseball game. The San Francisco Giants are taking on the Philadelphia Phillies and I fancy taking on a new sport.
There are tickets to be had so I set off on foot for AT&T Park. Arriving just under an hour before the first pitch I get in a multinational line behind a couple from Australia, at the front of which is a ticket booth manned by of all people, Barbera Cartland. At least it looks like her, only in a Giants top. Despite her age though she is still loyally employed for her core skills; being unable to hear customers and a failure to give me an actual ticket with my receipt, meaning a return journey to the booth a few minutes later.
Once up amongst the cheap seats I shun the patriotism of the national anthem for the more American experience of buying lemonade and a giant pretzel. Section 305 of AT&T Park gives not only a view of the diamond and field below but also most of the Bay and the Bay Brige as well. In the water behind the Bleachers and the part of the park known as the Levis Landing a group of canoeists armed with radios and small nets sit waiting to fish out a home run ball. By the start of the game I'm wondering if those nets will also be capable of fishing out young children. The two kids sitting next to me are the embodiment of the stereotypical American sports fan, whoops and hollers et al, only annoyingly more high pitched. "Wooh! Lets go Giants! Yeah Barry Bonds! Go Barry Bonds!" This is all done regardless iof whether Barry Bonds is on bat, fielding at the far side of the Park or just sat noncheantly sat in the dug-out. To the joy of the kids and everyone else present Barry Bonds does send one ball into the stands; his 721st home run.
The rest of the ball game experience can be pidgeon-holed as a view of America; a chance to get fat conveniently without leaving your seat as every inning is punctuated by a vendor entering the section to yell ice cream or lemonade or candy floss or iced tea or hot dogs or pretzels or sunflower seeds or cookies or come long stick thing which I don't even want to guess at but the Hispanic woman in the row in front seems to enjoy it.
The middle of the seventh inning is a patriotic interlude with the Ball Park asked to stand for the singing of God Bless America and Take Me Out to the Ball Game. I can't help but think of all the times at Doncaster Rovers when the club have tried to orchestrate or choreograph atmosphere before or during matches and the widespread derision these attempts receive. A baseball crowd it seems is more passive; submitting to whatever is asked of it as oppose to the active role preferred by a British football crowd.
In the middle of the 9th inning, with the Giants trailing, the huge screen on the scoreborad shows a scene from Animal House to try and stir the remaining spectators and their team. "Are you with me?" John Belushi asks AT&T Park, and the Park responds by waking up and creating something approaching an atnosphere. However Barry Bonds strikes out and so the same people who were with Belushi moments ago are well on their way home before the final out confirms a 6-2 defeat for the Giants. I've never understood why people leave early from sporting fixtures when a result isn't certain, but I suppose in America it amkes more sense. When you play over eighty games a season its more about entertainment. Seen all you want to see from one game? Then leave; there'll be another game tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.
There are tickets to be had so I set off on foot for AT&T Park. Arriving just under an hour before the first pitch I get in a multinational line behind a couple from Australia, at the front of which is a ticket booth manned by of all people, Barbera Cartland. At least it looks like her, only in a Giants top. Despite her age though she is still loyally employed for her core skills; being unable to hear customers and a failure to give me an actual ticket with my receipt, meaning a return journey to the booth a few minutes later.
Once up amongst the cheap seats I shun the patriotism of the national anthem for the more American experience of buying lemonade and a giant pretzel. Section 305 of AT&T Park gives not only a view of the diamond and field below but also most of the Bay and the Bay Brige as well. In the water behind the Bleachers and the part of the park known as the Levis Landing a group of canoeists armed with radios and small nets sit waiting to fish out a home run ball. By the start of the game I'm wondering if those nets will also be capable of fishing out young children. The two kids sitting next to me are the embodiment of the stereotypical American sports fan, whoops and hollers et al, only annoyingly more high pitched. "Wooh! Lets go Giants! Yeah Barry Bonds! Go Barry Bonds!" This is all done regardless iof whether Barry Bonds is on bat, fielding at the far side of the Park or just sat noncheantly sat in the dug-out. To the joy of the kids and everyone else present Barry Bonds does send one ball into the stands; his 721st home run.
The rest of the ball game experience can be pidgeon-holed as a view of America; a chance to get fat conveniently without leaving your seat as every inning is punctuated by a vendor entering the section to yell ice cream or lemonade or candy floss or iced tea or hot dogs or pretzels or sunflower seeds or cookies or come long stick thing which I don't even want to guess at but the Hispanic woman in the row in front seems to enjoy it.
The middle of the seventh inning is a patriotic interlude with the Ball Park asked to stand for the singing of God Bless America and Take Me Out to the Ball Game. I can't help but think of all the times at Doncaster Rovers when the club have tried to orchestrate or choreograph atmosphere before or during matches and the widespread derision these attempts receive. A baseball crowd it seems is more passive; submitting to whatever is asked of it as oppose to the active role preferred by a British football crowd.
In the middle of the 9th inning, with the Giants trailing, the huge screen on the scoreborad shows a scene from Animal House to try and stir the remaining spectators and their team. "Are you with me?" John Belushi asks AT&T Park, and the Park responds by waking up and creating something approaching an atnosphere. However Barry Bonds strikes out and so the same people who were with Belushi moments ago are well on their way home before the final out confirms a 6-2 defeat for the Giants. I've never understood why people leave early from sporting fixtures when a result isn't certain, but I suppose in America it amkes more sense. When you play over eighty games a season its more about entertainment. Seen all you want to see from one game? Then leave; there'll be another game tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
[usa19] san francsico
On Columbus Avenue Chinatown meets the Italian neighbourhood of North Beach, a fact beautifully illustrated by the busker on the corner of Pacific Avenue; a Chinese man playing Solo Mio on the flute.
After a coffee and a Danish at a Chinese run French Bakery I'm heading up the steep slopes of Filbert Street towards Coit tower and the top of Telegraph Hill. From here there is a good view of the city from the downtown skyscrapers and the Oakland Bay Bridge round to the hillside homes and the fog shrouded bay, in which Alcatraz is just visible but the Golden Gate Bridge remains hidden.
From Telegraph Hill I head across the North Beach district to the top of Lombard Street; allegedly the 'crookedest street in the world.' After debating with myself whether crookedest is actually a word I take in the view including the scores of vehicles queuing up to drive down the hill; and those cars already doing so with family members hangingf rom the window to film the experience. I can't help but feel for the people who are made to watch these holiday videos; "And this is us going down Lombard Street, turning left, and then to the right... and then left... and now right again... and left."
I head downhill to the waterfront, the most tourist heavy part of this and any city I've visited in the US. After an hour or so of meandering back and forth along the Marina and Fisherman's Wharf I can take the crowds no more. There's only so many times you can stop to avoid being in a photograph or fall over a small child before you begin to get irritated so I grab a smoothie from Pier 39 and head back inland.
As darkness descends I head back up Telegraph Hill for the sunset. It turns out this original idea of mine is not that original and so I have to grab a spot on the wall between other camera wielding folk to get a hazy photo of an orange backed misty Golden Gate Bridge. At least I think its the Bridge.
After a coffee and a Danish at a Chinese run French Bakery I'm heading up the steep slopes of Filbert Street towards Coit tower and the top of Telegraph Hill. From here there is a good view of the city from the downtown skyscrapers and the Oakland Bay Bridge round to the hillside homes and the fog shrouded bay, in which Alcatraz is just visible but the Golden Gate Bridge remains hidden.
From Telegraph Hill I head across the North Beach district to the top of Lombard Street; allegedly the 'crookedest street in the world.' After debating with myself whether crookedest is actually a word I take in the view including the scores of vehicles queuing up to drive down the hill; and those cars already doing so with family members hangingf rom the window to film the experience. I can't help but feel for the people who are made to watch these holiday videos; "And this is us going down Lombard Street, turning left, and then to the right... and then left... and now right again... and left."
I head downhill to the waterfront, the most tourist heavy part of this and any city I've visited in the US. After an hour or so of meandering back and forth along the Marina and Fisherman's Wharf I can take the crowds no more. There's only so many times you can stop to avoid being in a photograph or fall over a small child before you begin to get irritated so I grab a smoothie from Pier 39 and head back inland.
As darkness descends I head back up Telegraph Hill for the sunset. It turns out this original idea of mine is not that original and so I have to grab a spot on the wall between other camera wielding folk to get a hazy photo of an orange backed misty Golden Gate Bridge. At least I think its the Bridge.
Friday, July 14, 2006
[usa18] portland - san francisco
By 3am I've given up on getting any sleep and am gazing out the window at what I first think is the moon and then realise the train isn't moving and is actually a trackside lamp. The only other night-time entertainment comes from a guy who gets on unsubtley drunk somewhere after dark fell and is now consistantly heading downstairs for equally unsubtle cigarettes.
Just after 6am I head to the lounge car for breakfast and over my rice krispies begin chatting to a woman who used to live in San Francisco and lets me in on some sights to see. A large old guy down the car calls a hotline for up to date information about our journey... we're five hours late. We're heading through the mountains and lakes of southern Oregon and the old guy moves to the seat next to me to enjoy the view... only for the train to stop in a ravine and leave us staring at a rock face. "Well..." says the old guy "good ride for a Geologist."
Six hours later and twenty two hours into the eighteen hour journey I'm downstairs in the lounge car when Amber Rose asks if she can sit with me. She's heading to Martinez and then on by bus. We talk about differences in British and American culture and the journey. Amber says she wasn't all that hungry but came to the lounge car to escape the guy sat behind her. Its an old guy with a really gravelly voice who kept taking well into the night and beyond. She had turned round at one point to see who he was talking to and found that she was the only person anywhere near him.
After nearly twenty five hours the train finally reaches Emeryville from where it is a bus ride across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco. Here I meet Alexa and Sarah, two students from Nottingham University who have been on a placement in New York for six months and are now travelling the country. I can't help feel I did the wrong degree. As we take our seats on the bus an old guy sitting behind the girls begins talking away in a gravelly voice "I tell you I never went skiing, I don't tolerate the snow, but then way back in 68 I think it was..." It could be a long bus journey.
Once in San Francisco I help the girls find their hotel before setting off for mine, which I insist is only a couple of blocks from them, but soon discover is over a mile away. From the outside the hotel St Paul looks like a hole. In the heart of Chinatown, situated above an Indian Resteraunt and next to a Thai Massage Parlour. The surprise on the face of the receptionist when I claim to have a reservation is itself a worry. For all the signs leading to the contrary my room is great value at less than twenty pounds a night so I'm happy enough.
I've arranged to meet Sarah and Alexa to go for food at seven and I reckon I've enough time to go the scenic route to their hostel. Forgetting of course that scenic in San Francisco generally means uphill. After a couple of monumental climbs I eventually make it ten minutes late and we set off on foot for Taqueria on the corner of Valencia and 16th. It proves a monumental hike through the Tenderloin (think of any US film's depiction of a bad neighbourhood and thats the Tenderloin) but eventually we find it and devour an overstuffed burrito apiece.
Deciding to go for a drink we hunt down bar Zeitgeist recommended in Sarah's guide book. On arrival we realise that its the same bar outside which we saw a full scale fight on the way down and decide to give it a miss, taking a cab to the centre instead. We head to Tunnel Top on Bush Street, a tiny bar on the edge of the Stockton Tunnel, but recommended none the less. Providing my NUS Card as ID I face an interrogation from the Russian bouncer. Knowing San Francisco's reputation I am a little wary of having a huge Russian man talk into my ear and ask me my star sign, but hey, when in Rome. I order that most sophisticated of Californian drinks; a Newcastle Brown Ale and we find a spare piece of floor. By 10pm the effects of the train journey have set in and after one drink we're ready to leave. We push through the overpowering smell of weed emminating from the smokers outside the door and head our seperate ways
Just after 6am I head to the lounge car for breakfast and over my rice krispies begin chatting to a woman who used to live in San Francisco and lets me in on some sights to see. A large old guy down the car calls a hotline for up to date information about our journey... we're five hours late. We're heading through the mountains and lakes of southern Oregon and the old guy moves to the seat next to me to enjoy the view... only for the train to stop in a ravine and leave us staring at a rock face. "Well..." says the old guy "good ride for a Geologist."
Six hours later and twenty two hours into the eighteen hour journey I'm downstairs in the lounge car when Amber Rose asks if she can sit with me. She's heading to Martinez and then on by bus. We talk about differences in British and American culture and the journey. Amber says she wasn't all that hungry but came to the lounge car to escape the guy sat behind her. Its an old guy with a really gravelly voice who kept taking well into the night and beyond. She had turned round at one point to see who he was talking to and found that she was the only person anywhere near him.
After nearly twenty five hours the train finally reaches Emeryville from where it is a bus ride across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco. Here I meet Alexa and Sarah, two students from Nottingham University who have been on a placement in New York for six months and are now travelling the country. I can't help feel I did the wrong degree. As we take our seats on the bus an old guy sitting behind the girls begins talking away in a gravelly voice "I tell you I never went skiing, I don't tolerate the snow, but then way back in 68 I think it was..." It could be a long bus journey.
Once in San Francisco I help the girls find their hotel before setting off for mine, which I insist is only a couple of blocks from them, but soon discover is over a mile away. From the outside the hotel St Paul looks like a hole. In the heart of Chinatown, situated above an Indian Resteraunt and next to a Thai Massage Parlour. The surprise on the face of the receptionist when I claim to have a reservation is itself a worry. For all the signs leading to the contrary my room is great value at less than twenty pounds a night so I'm happy enough.
I've arranged to meet Sarah and Alexa to go for food at seven and I reckon I've enough time to go the scenic route to their hostel. Forgetting of course that scenic in San Francisco generally means uphill. After a couple of monumental climbs I eventually make it ten minutes late and we set off on foot for Taqueria on the corner of Valencia and 16th. It proves a monumental hike through the Tenderloin (think of any US film's depiction of a bad neighbourhood and thats the Tenderloin) but eventually we find it and devour an overstuffed burrito apiece.
Deciding to go for a drink we hunt down bar Zeitgeist recommended in Sarah's guide book. On arrival we realise that its the same bar outside which we saw a full scale fight on the way down and decide to give it a miss, taking a cab to the centre instead. We head to Tunnel Top on Bush Street, a tiny bar on the edge of the Stockton Tunnel, but recommended none the less. Providing my NUS Card as ID I face an interrogation from the Russian bouncer. Knowing San Francisco's reputation I am a little wary of having a huge Russian man talk into my ear and ask me my star sign, but hey, when in Rome. I order that most sophisticated of Californian drinks; a Newcastle Brown Ale and we find a spare piece of floor. By 10pm the effects of the train journey have set in and after one drink we're ready to leave. We push through the overpowering smell of weed emminating from the smokers outside the door and head our seperate ways
Thursday, July 13, 2006
[usa17] portland - san francisco
I check out of the White Eagle hotel at 11am, walking out the door and taking an immediate right into the White Eagle Bar for an early lunch. Yesterday's barman is not alone today, partnered by what appears to be a cheap rip-off of Woody from Cheers... "Portland's a good city, but its getting too liberal for my liking... I'm not down with that. I vote for Bush, I mean I think we've got it pretty good."
I take a Bush voter as a sign to leave and head to the station for the train to San Francisco. Incredibly its on time and a lot busier than the Texas train. I'm alloted a seat next to Sam from Brooklyn who is heading to LA and introduces himself by saying there's bound to be a stop so he can get off and smoke some weed. Each to their own.
I pass an hour talking to Sam about various things, from where we've been to baseball and beyond. "...you were in Texas and you didn't fire a gun?! You have to fire a gun in Texas; don't be so close minded about it." The train winds up into the Oregon mountains and darkness begins to creep in amongst the fir trees. Sam disappears off to the lounge car and I attempt to get some sleep. An attempt is all it is as thanks to the random humming from the woman behind me and snoring from the strange man clad in Oregon University clothing across the aisle from her, my sleep is restricted to ocassional ten minute bursts and no more.
I take a Bush voter as a sign to leave and head to the station for the train to San Francisco. Incredibly its on time and a lot busier than the Texas train. I'm alloted a seat next to Sam from Brooklyn who is heading to LA and introduces himself by saying there's bound to be a stop so he can get off and smoke some weed. Each to their own.
I pass an hour talking to Sam about various things, from where we've been to baseball and beyond. "...you were in Texas and you didn't fire a gun?! You have to fire a gun in Texas; don't be so close minded about it." The train winds up into the Oregon mountains and darkness begins to creep in amongst the fir trees. Sam disappears off to the lounge car and I attempt to get some sleep. An attempt is all it is as thanks to the random humming from the woman behind me and snoring from the strange man clad in Oregon University clothing across the aisle from her, my sleep is restricted to ocassional ten minute bursts and no more.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
[usa16] portland
Arriving in Portland in a shroud of mist and rain I fail to make sense of the city map at Union Station and head toward the wrong bridge of the Wilmlette River. Up here in the rain, eighty feet above the water I make the discovery that Converse trainers do not grip well on wet steel and skid into the railing a little bit too close too a midday swim for comfort.
I find the White Eagle Bar and Hotel, but I am three hours too early to check in. I leave my bag in the charge of the barmen come waiter come receptionist and his hectic lunch hour and head downtown. The centre of Portland is much smaller than the other cities I've vistied, with a tighter grid of streets and much smaller buildings. Although one of the largest cities in Oregon it feels like a small town and it is a while before I work out where the centre actually is. The overiding factor that seperates Portland to everywhere else on my route is how green it is. The trees, the streets, the buildings, the hills all permeate a deep green that makes me feel like I should be wearing a heavy check jacket and driving a pick up... it just does OK.
After being asked for directions for the tenth day straight, and endulging in an interesting milk free ice coffee at the Backspace internet cafe I head back to the hotel intending to get a bit of rest before taking in the evening's live music in the bar downstairs. Instead it seems the early starts and the walking have caught up with me and despite lying just a few feet above a live gig I am asleep before I mean to be.
I find the White Eagle Bar and Hotel, but I am three hours too early to check in. I leave my bag in the charge of the barmen come waiter come receptionist and his hectic lunch hour and head downtown. The centre of Portland is much smaller than the other cities I've vistied, with a tighter grid of streets and much smaller buildings. Although one of the largest cities in Oregon it feels like a small town and it is a while before I work out where the centre actually is. The overiding factor that seperates Portland to everywhere else on my route is how green it is. The trees, the streets, the buildings, the hills all permeate a deep green that makes me feel like I should be wearing a heavy check jacket and driving a pick up... it just does OK.
After being asked for directions for the tenth day straight, and endulging in an interesting milk free ice coffee at the Backspace internet cafe I head back to the hotel intending to get a bit of rest before taking in the evening's live music in the bar downstairs. Instead it seems the early starts and the walking have caught up with me and despite lying just a few feet above a live gig I am asleep before I mean to be.
[usa15] seattle - portland
I say goodbye to the hotel receptionist and head out of the door; within seconds, and in true slapstick fashion I'm heading back past the hotel in the correct direction. Its not my fault... its not even 6am. I forget my reasoning for booking on such early transport. but after nearly cleaning out the fittings and clientel of a downtown Starbucks by entering with my rucksack I decide it must have been for public safety.
At the Amtrak station the woman at the ticket counter asks for photo ID. "Gorgeous" she says as she hands back my passport... I don't believe her. The station is busier than Dallas although it seems most are waiting for the train north to Canada: including a few families cajolling commuters into taking group photos of them in front of an amtrak advertising poster.
The train leaves Seattle characteristically late, and after we've gone a mile or so the conductor and an engineer realise the carriage door is still open. With the door shut a more thorough investigation reveals a few of the carriages are without power and so we're moved along the carriages to those that do work. Without a single complaint or even a sigh everyone gets up, collects their belongings and files along the aisle. Anyone who's travelled by train in the UK will appreciate the unlikelihood of this level of unquestioning passenger co-operation.
In those carriages with power a screen shows a map of the route, pinpointing the train's exact location. It also shows temperature, current time, expected arrival time and even points out landmarks. Sadly the mysterious geological foothills it attempts to point out in southern Washington are obscured by a mysterious geological passing freight train which wasn't on the map.
At the Amtrak station the woman at the ticket counter asks for photo ID. "Gorgeous" she says as she hands back my passport... I don't believe her. The station is busier than Dallas although it seems most are waiting for the train north to Canada: including a few families cajolling commuters into taking group photos of them in front of an amtrak advertising poster.
The train leaves Seattle characteristically late, and after we've gone a mile or so the conductor and an engineer realise the carriage door is still open. With the door shut a more thorough investigation reveals a few of the carriages are without power and so we're moved along the carriages to those that do work. Without a single complaint or even a sigh everyone gets up, collects their belongings and files along the aisle. Anyone who's travelled by train in the UK will appreciate the unlikelihood of this level of unquestioning passenger co-operation.
In those carriages with power a screen shows a map of the route, pinpointing the train's exact location. It also shows temperature, current time, expected arrival time and even points out landmarks. Sadly the mysterious geological foothills it attempts to point out in southern Washington are obscured by a mysterious geological passing freight train which wasn't on the map.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
[usa14] seattle
I start my full day in Seattle like a true American; with coffee and a donut in Top Pot on 5th Avenue in the shadow of the monorail. From here I follow the rail downtown and then carry on downhill toward the older red brick buildings of Pioneer Square, which cower beneath the imposing stadia of the Seahawks Q-West Arena and Saeco Field of the Mariners.
The all star break means today is not game day so I duck into the Elliott Bay Book Company's ramshackle wooden shelved store, a place which looks not unlike the setting for an American version of Black Books. I treat myself to a Kurt Vonegurt novel for the plane home and then descend into the store's basement cafe. The cafe is dark but homely, the red bricks punctuated with more wooden shelves of books and the word 'coffee' in large art deco lettering spanning the back wall of the service area. Forget Starbucks; this is how a coffee shop should look.
From the Book Company I head to the waterfront and brave the many nautical themed gift shops in search of postcards. There's a crash from the back of one store as a stereotypically large american kid knocks over a shelf of Seattle shot glasses sending shards of space needle frosted glass across the floor. "I didn't mean it!" he yells to everyone and no-one in particular, but with my clumsiness I'm just relieved I didn't beat him to it.
From the waterfront I head up the steps of University Street to the tourist thronged Pike Place Market, famous for its fish but also offering a myriad of gift and other stalls selling lots of nothing much. At the fish stalls a crowd of tourists watch men fail to sell big fish in view of the fact that everyone is photographing and videoing them, but no-one is buying. I leave the tourists behind and head uphill for a wander round the suburbs; finding an internet cafe to check my reseravtion for Portland and then taking a walk along Bellevue Avenue toward Lake Union; the other waterfront. With a couple of freeways between me and the water a hillside view is as close as I get before heading back to the Moore.
In the evening, on the front of the Puget Sound daylight begins to fade and the mountains begin to emerge from the cloud at the far end of the Bay. The familiar smell of vinegar proves too much to resist and so I end up sampling fish and chips US style. Its OK, but not a patch on Today's Catch at the end of Carholme Road. Not as cheap either.
Back in my room I take a last look at a now dark Seattle from my window knowing I've another early start ahead. The Space Needle; illuminated in white stands out against the darkened black frames of the buildings and the dull yellow glow of their inhabited rooms. In 3rd Avenue a single tree is glowing a neon blue. There is no discernable reason why. I will miss Seattle.
The all star break means today is not game day so I duck into the Elliott Bay Book Company's ramshackle wooden shelved store, a place which looks not unlike the setting for an American version of Black Books. I treat myself to a Kurt Vonegurt novel for the plane home and then descend into the store's basement cafe. The cafe is dark but homely, the red bricks punctuated with more wooden shelves of books and the word 'coffee' in large art deco lettering spanning the back wall of the service area. Forget Starbucks; this is how a coffee shop should look.
From the Book Company I head to the waterfront and brave the many nautical themed gift shops in search of postcards. There's a crash from the back of one store as a stereotypically large american kid knocks over a shelf of Seattle shot glasses sending shards of space needle frosted glass across the floor. "I didn't mean it!" he yells to everyone and no-one in particular, but with my clumsiness I'm just relieved I didn't beat him to it.
From the waterfront I head up the steps of University Street to the tourist thronged Pike Place Market, famous for its fish but also offering a myriad of gift and other stalls selling lots of nothing much. At the fish stalls a crowd of tourists watch men fail to sell big fish in view of the fact that everyone is photographing and videoing them, but no-one is buying. I leave the tourists behind and head uphill for a wander round the suburbs; finding an internet cafe to check my reseravtion for Portland and then taking a walk along Bellevue Avenue toward Lake Union; the other waterfront. With a couple of freeways between me and the water a hillside view is as close as I get before heading back to the Moore.
In the evening, on the front of the Puget Sound daylight begins to fade and the mountains begin to emerge from the cloud at the far end of the Bay. The familiar smell of vinegar proves too much to resist and so I end up sampling fish and chips US style. Its OK, but not a patch on Today's Catch at the end of Carholme Road. Not as cheap either.
Back in my room I take a last look at a now dark Seattle from my window knowing I've another early start ahead. The Space Needle; illuminated in white stands out against the darkened black frames of the buildings and the dull yellow glow of their inhabited rooms. In 3rd Avenue a single tree is glowing a neon blue. There is no discernable reason why. I will miss Seattle.
Monday, July 10, 2006
[usa13] seattle
In the baggage claim two lads are taking the piss out of the battered green rucksack riding round the carosel. They look a bit more sheepish when I move between them to hoist it off the revolve. Sometimes it helps being over six foot tall; inadvertantly striking something approaching worry into innocent bystanders.
Half awake from lack of sleep I'm staring at the signs in the 'parking lot' scratching my head and not really taking in the information I need to find my way to the bus to the centre.
"That's not a good start," says a voice and I look up to see Rachel mimmicking my vacant stare at the sign, "where are you going?"
"There's supposed to be a bus to the centre somewhere.... its just a matter of where"
"Well do you want a ride?"
Despite my insistance that she needn't put herself out before I know it I've been introduced to Rachel's 'mom' and I am getting a lift downtown in the back of their typically huge vehicle which is nearer a mini-bus than a car. After a few miles I notice the hand written sign on the dashboard reflected in the window. 'Jesus loves you, do you love him back?' If this were the UK I would be very worried by now and checking the available exits as only a real religious fanatic would put up a sign like that in their car... and fanatics of any sort in the UK are never the sort to let a chance to share the fanaticism pass by. But then, conversely no person in the UK would ever go out of their way to drive a stranger this distance so it balances itself out. If people are prepared to go out their way to help me regardless of my faith then I'm willing to accept their kindness regardless of theirs. Rachel and her 'mom' Liz drop me at the foot of the Space Needle and we swap email addresses, all the while with me feeling incredibly guilty that I can not offer anything more than a thanks in return.
From the Seattle Center I make the trek by foot to the Moore Hotel off 2nd Avenue, at which I may or may not have a reservation. Thankfully I do and from my 7th floor window I can see Union Lake and with a bit of a lean the Space Needle. It reminds me of the cliche of the Eiffel Tower being visible from any window when a film is set in Paris, a notion made instantly less romantic as a seagul pecks at the remains of a pigeon on the roof of the building nextdoor.
First port of call is a walk up and out of the centre in search of an internet cafe. I've been looking unsuccessfully for one since I arrived in the US and am just about to begin cursing the advent of wireless access for the ninth day straight when I finally spot Online Coffee across the street. America, land of opportunity... unless you don't have a lap top and want the opportunity to send email. "There aren't nearly enough of us in the city," confesses the guy at the counter. I talk with him and his waitress about travelling on the train and he puts my Dallas to San Antonio trip into perspective "...so we arrived in LA about twenty hours behind schedule."
From Online Coffee I head back down the hill, back to the Seattle Center and the Space Needle, which like the Tower of the Americas in San Antonio has another mandatory photo opportunity at its base, an experience made all the more cringeworthy now I am sans Maria and Chris. The photographer doesn't even bother telling me to get ready, she just presses the button and plays her role in what we both know is a pointless yet unavoidable exercise.
Atop of the needle things are more hectic than the San Antonio equivalent; families looking for the snap shot and groups surrounding tour guides throng the outside platform. Here though there is also more to see with views across the city, the waters of the Puget Sound and Lake Union, and onwards to the mountains beyond. Regardless of the activity up here and the traffic in the city below the sight of water seems to enforce an air of tranquility. I am sometimes ashamed of the football fan in me and this becomes another such occassion for this embarrassment as with all this on view my vision seems to centre in on the Seattle High School Memorial Stadium beneath the tower, complete with soccer markings on its artificial field. I resolve to myself to play there one day and on descending from the tower seek it out for a better look.
The light begins to dim over the city and from my window at the Moore Hotel I watch the red glow of the sky above Lake Union turn a midnight blue. Hotel room lights flicker into life across the city and from somewhere below the tinned sound of live band belting out Mustang Sally drifts up while my curtains billow in the late evening breeze.
Half awake from lack of sleep I'm staring at the signs in the 'parking lot' scratching my head and not really taking in the information I need to find my way to the bus to the centre.
"That's not a good start," says a voice and I look up to see Rachel mimmicking my vacant stare at the sign, "where are you going?"
"There's supposed to be a bus to the centre somewhere.... its just a matter of where"
"Well do you want a ride?"
Despite my insistance that she needn't put herself out before I know it I've been introduced to Rachel's 'mom' and I am getting a lift downtown in the back of their typically huge vehicle which is nearer a mini-bus than a car. After a few miles I notice the hand written sign on the dashboard reflected in the window. 'Jesus loves you, do you love him back?' If this were the UK I would be very worried by now and checking the available exits as only a real religious fanatic would put up a sign like that in their car... and fanatics of any sort in the UK are never the sort to let a chance to share the fanaticism pass by. But then, conversely no person in the UK would ever go out of their way to drive a stranger this distance so it balances itself out. If people are prepared to go out their way to help me regardless of my faith then I'm willing to accept their kindness regardless of theirs. Rachel and her 'mom' Liz drop me at the foot of the Space Needle and we swap email addresses, all the while with me feeling incredibly guilty that I can not offer anything more than a thanks in return.
From the Seattle Center I make the trek by foot to the Moore Hotel off 2nd Avenue, at which I may or may not have a reservation. Thankfully I do and from my 7th floor window I can see Union Lake and with a bit of a lean the Space Needle. It reminds me of the cliche of the Eiffel Tower being visible from any window when a film is set in Paris, a notion made instantly less romantic as a seagul pecks at the remains of a pigeon on the roof of the building nextdoor.
First port of call is a walk up and out of the centre in search of an internet cafe. I've been looking unsuccessfully for one since I arrived in the US and am just about to begin cursing the advent of wireless access for the ninth day straight when I finally spot Online Coffee across the street. America, land of opportunity... unless you don't have a lap top and want the opportunity to send email. "There aren't nearly enough of us in the city," confesses the guy at the counter. I talk with him and his waitress about travelling on the train and he puts my Dallas to San Antonio trip into perspective "...so we arrived in LA about twenty hours behind schedule."
From Online Coffee I head back down the hill, back to the Seattle Center and the Space Needle, which like the Tower of the Americas in San Antonio has another mandatory photo opportunity at its base, an experience made all the more cringeworthy now I am sans Maria and Chris. The photographer doesn't even bother telling me to get ready, she just presses the button and plays her role in what we both know is a pointless yet unavoidable exercise.
Atop of the needle things are more hectic than the San Antonio equivalent; families looking for the snap shot and groups surrounding tour guides throng the outside platform. Here though there is also more to see with views across the city, the waters of the Puget Sound and Lake Union, and onwards to the mountains beyond. Regardless of the activity up here and the traffic in the city below the sight of water seems to enforce an air of tranquility. I am sometimes ashamed of the football fan in me and this becomes another such occassion for this embarrassment as with all this on view my vision seems to centre in on the Seattle High School Memorial Stadium beneath the tower, complete with soccer markings on its artificial field. I resolve to myself to play there one day and on descending from the tower seek it out for a better look.
The light begins to dim over the city and from my window at the Moore Hotel I watch the red glow of the sky above Lake Union turn a midnight blue. Hotel room lights flicker into life across the city and from somewhere below the tinned sound of live band belting out Mustang Sally drifts up while my curtains billow in the late evening breeze.
[usa12] san antonio - seattle
Not that long ago 3:30am was the time I regularly went to sleep - today it is the time I get up. I'm flying to Seattle via Phoenix to an America much removed from this one and a temperature that will be much more tolerable for a northern lad like me. With just three hours sleep the time differnece throws me. The flight from San Antonio is two hours long; time wise I leave San Antonio at 6am and arrive at Phoenix ten minutes later.
I'm glad I'm not venturing out the airport into Phoenix itself. On the weather reports they grade temperature from green (cool) through to red (hot). Phoenix is regularly pink or white; 110 degrees and more; off the scale. The air conditioned bubble that is the airport is as close as I get to the Arizona desert and I'm happy with that.
In the departure lounge at Phoenix a shared comedic confusion at the boarding order (families... older people... business... gold class... platinum...) gets me talking to Rachel who is heading the same way. She asks me a question I've been asked often since getting here "What are the gas prices like over there?" When I confess to not knowing because I don't drive Rachel shows the same amazement that I have face a lot in America; as if I had just said that I live in a barrel or I only eat things which begin with the letter 'Q'. People not special enough to be in one of those priority boarding groups are called forward by the group number on their ticket... I have no group number. I decide to go with 6. From her seat midway down the plane Rachel laughs at me as I trudge down the aisle some ten minutes asfter she had dared me to board with Group 2.
From the window seat on the back row of flight 83 I can see the sand and mountains that lie to the north of Phoenix; and that is all I really see for two whole hours. The vast scale of America hits you when you see it from above like this. If you look over Britain from a plane you will see some sign of human life; a house or a car; here you can easily fly for an hour without sight of either. To reinforce the vast terrain the country covers, the plane, which set off from the Arizona desert, approaches Seattle with snow capped mountains poking through the clouds.
I'm glad I'm not venturing out the airport into Phoenix itself. On the weather reports they grade temperature from green (cool) through to red (hot). Phoenix is regularly pink or white; 110 degrees and more; off the scale. The air conditioned bubble that is the airport is as close as I get to the Arizona desert and I'm happy with that.
In the departure lounge at Phoenix a shared comedic confusion at the boarding order (families... older people... business... gold class... platinum...) gets me talking to Rachel who is heading the same way. She asks me a question I've been asked often since getting here "What are the gas prices like over there?" When I confess to not knowing because I don't drive Rachel shows the same amazement that I have face a lot in America; as if I had just said that I live in a barrel or I only eat things which begin with the letter 'Q'. People not special enough to be in one of those priority boarding groups are called forward by the group number on their ticket... I have no group number. I decide to go with 6. From her seat midway down the plane Rachel laughs at me as I trudge down the aisle some ten minutes asfter she had dared me to board with Group 2.
From the window seat on the back row of flight 83 I can see the sand and mountains that lie to the north of Phoenix; and that is all I really see for two whole hours. The vast scale of America hits you when you see it from above like this. If you look over Britain from a plane you will see some sign of human life; a house or a car; here you can easily fly for an hour without sight of either. To reinforce the vast terrain the country covers, the plane, which set off from the Arizona desert, approaches Seattle with snow capped mountains poking through the clouds.
Sunday, July 9, 2006
[usa11] san antonio
The morning after I realise the night before had been bigger than it felt at the time; and I wake up for my first trans atlantic hangover. Up late and not totally alert its nearer lunch time than breakfast when we eventually head downtown. An early lunch gives as good a reason as any to try the comfort calories of an authentic american McDonalds complete with its near bucket sized soft drinks. Another wander round the mall, and a futile search for an internet cafe later (the seventh day straight I've tried and failed to locate one) and we are back out in the heat, in front of the Alamo attacking snow cones.
All too soon it is time for Maria and Chris to head to their Cheer Camp leaving me on my own again. As their taxi pulls away from the hotel I am left alone to write postcards home, take in the World Cup final in Spanish (Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Goooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllll!!!) and brace myself for a worryingly early flight to Seattle the next day. Within hours I'm missing the company of the last couple of days; I'm warming to the US as I go, but I doubt its going to get any better than it has been experiencing it with someone else.
All too soon it is time for Maria and Chris to head to their Cheer Camp leaving me on my own again. As their taxi pulls away from the hotel I am left alone to write postcards home, take in the World Cup final in Spanish (Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Goooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllll!!!) and brace myself for a worryingly early flight to Seattle the next day. Within hours I'm missing the company of the last couple of days; I'm warming to the US as I go, but I doubt its going to get any better than it has been experiencing it with someone else.
Saturday, July 8, 2006
[usa10] san antonio
Its strange how being with someone else makes you feel more of a tourist; and much more at ease as a result. If only we had all worn the same colour we would blend right in. In order to naturalise ourselves further we begin with an American breakfast of pancakes and sausage at the Rivercenter Mall.
With Maria not so good with heights starting the day with a trip to the top of the 750ft Tower of the Americas was to be something of a challenge. At the foot of the tower a member of staff takes group pictures in front of a green screen. We aren't interested... "I take pictures of everyone who goes up the tower" is the curt reply and so without a say we are coralled into formation for a photograph no-one will ever look at.
With Maria's gazed fixed on the back wall Chris and I watch San Antonio disappear beneath our feet as the 'elevator' ascends the outside of the tower. An overview of all San Antonio has to offer awaits at the top; the Alamo, the Riverwalk, the mall, the Alomodome, the train station, my first hotel, our current abode and my route between the two. Beyond the concentrated downtown and surrounding suburbs Texas rolls out in a sort of red and golden hue; as Rich Hall once put it "So flat you can watch your dog run away for three days".
Back on terra firma we head downtown, pausing at the art deco Weldrick's Drug Store, which looks to me as if its straight out of an Edward Hopper painting, to marvel at the multitude of sweets and chocolate on offer. We move on and down to the Riverwalk and continue the tourist feel with a a boat trip captained by the tour-guide and comedian that is Hwan... "If we do have an accident and the boat goes down please grab a life jacket, hold it above your head and walk out of the river."
Casa Rios, highly recommended by Hwan, gives us an excuse to endulge in Mexican food; and a chance for the three man Mexican band to pounce.
"Hey, would you like us to play a song for you?"
"Sure, go for it" encourages Maria
"Its ten dollars a song"
"Then no thank you," she rebuffs just as quickly.
Stuffed to the sombrero with Tex-Mex cuisine, but Mr Ice Cream's boast of 37 flavours enables us to find enough room for dessert. I go for Bubblegum, and discover it to contain hidden pieces of gum which would give a Health and Safety Officer nightmares for weeks.
Later that night jet lag and the Texan heat have caught up with Chris allowing Maria and me to sample the night life alone. Although darkness has descended the populace is the same mix of t-shirt clad teenagers, families and graduating air force men that it was in mid afternoon as we take a seat at Jim Cullum's Landing for some riverside jazz and a bottle of wine. An oasis within the oasis, the cafe is warm and relaxed and not at all Texan. Our evening progresses to the much more lively Pat O'Brien's on Laboya Street where the live music continues with a more contemporary feel. Franz Ferdinand and Foo Fighters come from the four piece in the courtyard and before we know it its 1am and we're yawning between sentences. We wind our way back through the yellow glow of the warm night streets and are asleep before we realise.
With Maria not so good with heights starting the day with a trip to the top of the 750ft Tower of the Americas was to be something of a challenge. At the foot of the tower a member of staff takes group pictures in front of a green screen. We aren't interested... "I take pictures of everyone who goes up the tower" is the curt reply and so without a say we are coralled into formation for a photograph no-one will ever look at.
With Maria's gazed fixed on the back wall Chris and I watch San Antonio disappear beneath our feet as the 'elevator' ascends the outside of the tower. An overview of all San Antonio has to offer awaits at the top; the Alamo, the Riverwalk, the mall, the Alomodome, the train station, my first hotel, our current abode and my route between the two. Beyond the concentrated downtown and surrounding suburbs Texas rolls out in a sort of red and golden hue; as Rich Hall once put it "So flat you can watch your dog run away for three days".
Back on terra firma we head downtown, pausing at the art deco Weldrick's Drug Store, which looks to me as if its straight out of an Edward Hopper painting, to marvel at the multitude of sweets and chocolate on offer. We move on and down to the Riverwalk and continue the tourist feel with a a boat trip captained by the tour-guide and comedian that is Hwan... "If we do have an accident and the boat goes down please grab a life jacket, hold it above your head and walk out of the river."
Casa Rios, highly recommended by Hwan, gives us an excuse to endulge in Mexican food; and a chance for the three man Mexican band to pounce.
"Hey, would you like us to play a song for you?"
"Sure, go for it" encourages Maria
"Its ten dollars a song"
"Then no thank you," she rebuffs just as quickly.
Stuffed to the sombrero with Tex-Mex cuisine, but Mr Ice Cream's boast of 37 flavours enables us to find enough room for dessert. I go for Bubblegum, and discover it to contain hidden pieces of gum which would give a Health and Safety Officer nightmares for weeks.
Later that night jet lag and the Texan heat have caught up with Chris allowing Maria and me to sample the night life alone. Although darkness has descended the populace is the same mix of t-shirt clad teenagers, families and graduating air force men that it was in mid afternoon as we take a seat at Jim Cullum's Landing for some riverside jazz and a bottle of wine. An oasis within the oasis, the cafe is warm and relaxed and not at all Texan. Our evening progresses to the much more lively Pat O'Brien's on Laboya Street where the live music continues with a more contemporary feel. Franz Ferdinand and Foo Fighters come from the four piece in the courtyard and before we know it its 1am and we're yawning between sentences. We wind our way back through the yellow glow of the warm night streets and are asleep before we realise.
Friday, July 7, 2006
[usa9] san antonio
"You leaving us already?" asks the porter as I stumble out my room bags at all angles. Its nice to sense genuine disappointment in his voice, but alas seven hours after checking in I'm checking out again.
At night San Antonio was deserted, today it is anything but. The city is hosting an ECA Youth Convention, I have no idea what that is, but the upshot is that the city is beseiged by groups of teenagers in identical t-shirts. Like a Christian Youth version of Hitchcock's The Birds they seem to multiply at every turn; first eight wearing yellow, then there's twelve in green on a bridge, then sixteen in blue on a boat; eighteen more across the street in a t-shirt that looks like it has the Luton Town crest on the front. Intuition tells me its a church based thing of some sort. Whatever has brought them here I pity the group who's leader thought tie-dye would be a cool look.
The most welcoming difference between San Antonio and downtown Dallas is the fact that there are people here. Not just the kids in the t-shirts; there are lots of people. I like it already. The majority can be found wandering the Riverwalk; a subterranean, part man-made network festooned with restaurants and bars of varying themes for the local and tourist alike. Even if the appearance of Mad Dog's Englsih Pub does make it look worryingly more like a set from Football Factory than a family eatery.
Like America itself, for the most part the Riverwalk is artificial and convenient, but it works. In, around, and beneath the city centre is this network of leisure and serenity I would never have associated with Texas when in Dallas. After much wandering I take a seat at the 'Republic of Texas'. Watching the boats and the people go by I get my first taste of real Texan food and Texan beer. Its good and sitting here reminds me more of the street cafe culture of Belgrade than my experience of Dallas. "How was it?" asks the Stetson clad waiter as he takes my plate. "Fantastic," is my reply; fighting back the urge to finish with "I can see why you Texans are so fat"
I collect my bag from the Holiday Inn and traipse the few blocks to the Alamo Travelodge where I am booked in for the night. At 8:30pm Maria and Chris arrive from Lincoln via London, Atlanta and Dallas and I'm on hand to meet them and rejoice in my first conversation in two days.
At night San Antonio was deserted, today it is anything but. The city is hosting an ECA Youth Convention, I have no idea what that is, but the upshot is that the city is beseiged by groups of teenagers in identical t-shirts. Like a Christian Youth version of Hitchcock's The Birds they seem to multiply at every turn; first eight wearing yellow, then there's twelve in green on a bridge, then sixteen in blue on a boat; eighteen more across the street in a t-shirt that looks like it has the Luton Town crest on the front. Intuition tells me its a church based thing of some sort. Whatever has brought them here I pity the group who's leader thought tie-dye would be a cool look.
The most welcoming difference between San Antonio and downtown Dallas is the fact that there are people here. Not just the kids in the t-shirts; there are lots of people. I like it already. The majority can be found wandering the Riverwalk; a subterranean, part man-made network festooned with restaurants and bars of varying themes for the local and tourist alike. Even if the appearance of Mad Dog's Englsih Pub does make it look worryingly more like a set from Football Factory than a family eatery.
Like America itself, for the most part the Riverwalk is artificial and convenient, but it works. In, around, and beneath the city centre is this network of leisure and serenity I would never have associated with Texas when in Dallas. After much wandering I take a seat at the 'Republic of Texas'. Watching the boats and the people go by I get my first taste of real Texan food and Texan beer. Its good and sitting here reminds me more of the street cafe culture of Belgrade than my experience of Dallas. "How was it?" asks the Stetson clad waiter as he takes my plate. "Fantastic," is my reply; fighting back the urge to finish with "I can see why you Texans are so fat"
I collect my bag from the Holiday Inn and traipse the few blocks to the Alamo Travelodge where I am booked in for the night. At 8:30pm Maria and Chris arrive from Lincoln via London, Atlanta and Dallas and I'm on hand to meet them and rejoice in my first conversation in two days.
Thursday, July 6, 2006
[usa8] dallas - austin - san antonio
"Must be nearly fifty years since I've been on a train"
"I aint never rode the train"
The driver of the hotel shuttle service and the Greyhound bus driver we've just picked up convey the same indignation as all americans I've told that I am travelling by train. Americans don't catch trains anymore; Charlotte wasn't even aware Dallas had a station; so unconvinced was she that she urged me to check I hadn't been scammed when I said I had bought tickets online.
Union Station is clear and open and quiet; allowing a lengthy discussion with the ticket office clerk, during which I convince her to avoid London and head to the north if ever she visits England. My Yorkshire ambassador status intact, and after an hour and a half delay I board the train. On first galnce its hard to understand why Americans shun this form of transport; air conditioned and spacious two tier carriages giving a confortable view of America as it slides rather slowly past the window. From this seat I can see more of this country through the backyards and works yards of trackside towns such as Clifton, McGregor and the fantastically named Moody with it's main street addorned with great signs; Moody Furniture, Moody Store and the Moody Christian Church of God where become go to worship BECAUSE HE SAID SO! DAMMIT!
Approaching Temple the conductor runs through the famous claims of nearby Waco; home of Dr Pepper and the 2005 women's collegiate basketball champions. In contrast to the keen embrace of JFK's demise in Dallas he omits the infamous siege for which I know Waco best. Temple is also where I get my answer to the question 'why don't Americans travel by train?' We're running an hour and twenty five minutes late. An announcement that would have created a mutiny on GNER is instead met with quiet nods of acceptence.
Geographically and physically the train is approaching Austin, but time-wise its getting further and further away. On the tannoy the conductor is clearly as frustrated as the passengers as he explains how the delay is due to Union Pacific giving priority to freight trains, and then helpfully gives out telephone numbers for both the State and National Senate so you can complain about the system direct. He then returns to his tourist speel.
"...the train passes over the Colorado River; this is viewable from both sides of the carriage"
"Course it is," exclaims the old guy in front of me, "otherwise it'd be the Colorado Lake".
Arriving in Austin three hours late I make an executive decision to stay on the train to San Antonio rather than experience this two days straight. Overhearing my discussion with the conductor the couple opposite wish me good luck when they disembark; the guy exclaiming "Well... they sure took the train ride out of me" as he wanders down the carriage.
Finally in San Antonio, what was originally a six hour journey has become twelve. Its 2:15am. People who know their way round better than I do have claimed all the cabs so I set off walking in the vague direction of a neon Holiday Inn sign I saw from the train. They have no rooms but the hotel down the street does; just one... at $85. I take it. Its bigger than the entire upstairs of our house in Lincoln. I literally climb into bed and sleep... until awoken by the horn of a passing train a few moments later... then sleep... until reawoken by a passing train... then sleep... until; well you get the idea.
"I aint never rode the train"
The driver of the hotel shuttle service and the Greyhound bus driver we've just picked up convey the same indignation as all americans I've told that I am travelling by train. Americans don't catch trains anymore; Charlotte wasn't even aware Dallas had a station; so unconvinced was she that she urged me to check I hadn't been scammed when I said I had bought tickets online.
Union Station is clear and open and quiet; allowing a lengthy discussion with the ticket office clerk, during which I convince her to avoid London and head to the north if ever she visits England. My Yorkshire ambassador status intact, and after an hour and a half delay I board the train. On first galnce its hard to understand why Americans shun this form of transport; air conditioned and spacious two tier carriages giving a confortable view of America as it slides rather slowly past the window. From this seat I can see more of this country through the backyards and works yards of trackside towns such as Clifton, McGregor and the fantastically named Moody with it's main street addorned with great signs; Moody Furniture, Moody Store and the Moody Christian Church of God where become go to worship BECAUSE HE SAID SO! DAMMIT!
Approaching Temple the conductor runs through the famous claims of nearby Waco; home of Dr Pepper and the 2005 women's collegiate basketball champions. In contrast to the keen embrace of JFK's demise in Dallas he omits the infamous siege for which I know Waco best. Temple is also where I get my answer to the question 'why don't Americans travel by train?' We're running an hour and twenty five minutes late. An announcement that would have created a mutiny on GNER is instead met with quiet nods of acceptence.
Geographically and physically the train is approaching Austin, but time-wise its getting further and further away. On the tannoy the conductor is clearly as frustrated as the passengers as he explains how the delay is due to Union Pacific giving priority to freight trains, and then helpfully gives out telephone numbers for both the State and National Senate so you can complain about the system direct. He then returns to his tourist speel.
"...the train passes over the Colorado River; this is viewable from both sides of the carriage"
"Course it is," exclaims the old guy in front of me, "otherwise it'd be the Colorado Lake".
Arriving in Austin three hours late I make an executive decision to stay on the train to San Antonio rather than experience this two days straight. Overhearing my discussion with the conductor the couple opposite wish me good luck when they disembark; the guy exclaiming "Well... they sure took the train ride out of me" as he wanders down the carriage.
Finally in San Antonio, what was originally a six hour journey has become twelve. Its 2:15am. People who know their way round better than I do have claimed all the cabs so I set off walking in the vague direction of a neon Holiday Inn sign I saw from the train. They have no rooms but the hotel down the street does; just one... at $85. I take it. Its bigger than the entire upstairs of our house in Lincoln. I literally climb into bed and sleep... until awoken by the horn of a passing train a few moments later... then sleep... until reawoken by a passing train... then sleep... until; well you get the idea.
Wednesday, July 5, 2006
[usa7] dallas
Charlotte and Blake meet me in the hotel reception; rather optimistically referred to as a 'lobby' by Charlotte on the phone. Once in her car the first thing Charlotte does is turn left; away from the city. We're heading to Plano for lunch, and the rather unfortunately named BJ's resteraunt. Its a slice of America I wanted to see; the ordinary bit. Lunch, stores and Starbucks.
Its good to see Charlotte and catch up on the people we knew in Lincoln; while meeting her also confirms what I thought. The real Dallas, the human Dallas exists outside the city and unless you have a car you won't get to experience it. Public transport, where it exists, does so for the purpose of getting you to work and back. America is too vast to offer transportation for anything else. If you have the disposable income to enjoy leisure time and leisure pursuits then it is accepted that you will also have the disposable income to invest in a car to access said leisure. As such the attractions listed in my hotel room litereature as 'must see' while in Dallas will remain frustratingly distant.
Its good to see Charlotte and catch up on the people we knew in Lincoln; while meeting her also confirms what I thought. The real Dallas, the human Dallas exists outside the city and unless you have a car you won't get to experience it. Public transport, where it exists, does so for the purpose of getting you to work and back. America is too vast to offer transportation for anything else. If you have the disposable income to enjoy leisure time and leisure pursuits then it is accepted that you will also have the disposable income to invest in a car to access said leisure. As such the attractions listed in my hotel room litereature as 'must see' while in Dallas will remain frustratingly distant.
Tuesday, July 4, 2006
[usa6] dallas
I don't know what it is, but something about me seemingly marks me out as a person who knows where things are and how to get to them. Back in Lincoln I'm always being asked for directions and here it is no different. "Can you tell me where the JFK site is?" "Is there a McDonalds around here man?"
The 4th of July is of course a national holiday; Independance Day. Despite this Dallas is quiet; very quiet... in fact it is effectively closed. There are a few families bracing the heat amongst the Tex-Mex chains in the 'Historic Center' but that's all; there are certainly no fireworks down here.
There's a free trolley service from the edge of downton to uptown McKinney Avenue; its roughly the direction of my hotel so I take it. The driver cum tourist guide learns I'm from the UK and makes a few jokes at my expense. I tell him I'm from near Sheffield, thinkinbg anything other than London will mean nothing. "Next stop Leeds" he yells to my surprise and the general confusion of the other passengers. As I disembark and teh trolley drives away from me the driver leans out the front and points to the American flag listing on the car's roof.
"Oh and thank you for independence" he calls.
"Well... you earned it" is my futile response.
A Texas thunderstorm forces me inside for the rest of the afternoon and night. My 4th of July won't be the party they advertised. No fireweorks, no parade, no sunshine. Instead I'm left to gaze at the distant skyscrapers through the window.
The 4th of July is of course a national holiday; Independance Day. Despite this Dallas is quiet; very quiet... in fact it is effectively closed. There are a few families bracing the heat amongst the Tex-Mex chains in the 'Historic Center' but that's all; there are certainly no fireworks down here.
There's a free trolley service from the edge of downton to uptown McKinney Avenue; its roughly the direction of my hotel so I take it. The driver cum tourist guide learns I'm from the UK and makes a few jokes at my expense. I tell him I'm from near Sheffield, thinkinbg anything other than London will mean nothing. "Next stop Leeds" he yells to my surprise and the general confusion of the other passengers. As I disembark and teh trolley drives away from me the driver leans out the front and points to the American flag listing on the car's roof.
"Oh and thank you for independence" he calls.
"Well... you earned it" is my futile response.
A Texas thunderstorm forces me inside for the rest of the afternoon and night. My 4th of July won't be the party they advertised. No fireweorks, no parade, no sunshine. Instead I'm left to gaze at the distant skyscrapers through the window.
Monday, July 3, 2006
[usa5] dallas
On Elm Street there are two X's painted in the middle of the road. These X's signify the points at which bullets entered then president John F. Kennedy in 1963. Currently a succession of tourists are playing impromtu games of chicken with the midday Dallas traffic to get there pictures taken with an X. Watching one couple pose arm in arm on X number one I have to say its a tourist attraction I'm not totally comfortable with. Had JFK instead met his end falling from the 6th floor of the Texas Book Depository I expect these people would now be lying spreadeagled and grinning for the camera in a chalk outline.
This area of Dallas, cornered by skyscrapers and a freeway is sold as the city's 'Historic Center'. The city itself is only 150 years old; when you are that short on what can be deemed history I suppose you have to make the most of what did happen here. A hundred yards away from the Xs sits a plaque marking the spot where Dallas was founded. No-one is looking at it; I walked past it. The attempted toppling of a government is more tourist friendly and marketable than the foundation of a city.
This area of Dallas, cornered by skyscrapers and a freeway is sold as the city's 'Historic Center'. The city itself is only 150 years old; when you are that short on what can be deemed history I suppose you have to make the most of what did happen here. A hundred yards away from the Xs sits a plaque marking the spot where Dallas was founded. No-one is looking at it; I walked past it. The attempted toppling of a government is more tourist friendly and marketable than the foundation of a city.
Sunday, July 2, 2006
[usa4] dallas
The freeway from Dallas Fortworth Airport to the centre of Dallas is lined with neon. Its a kind of concentration of modern America; everything is big, everything is brash, and everything is conveniently located at the side of the road.
The sun was setting over Texas as the plane came into land; bringing to an end a day which at that point I had already seen twenty-one hours of. Through the plane window I got my first lesson in just how vast the US is. Its big... everything is big. In the Yellow Checker Shuttle en route to the hotel we pass the Texas Stadium, home to the Dallas Cowboys. It holds over 65,000 people, but in proximity to the ranging freeways it comes across no more monumental than a converted portacabin roadside cafe.
I'm joined in the Shuttle by some sterotyped American co-travellers; a woman speaking continuously on her 'cell' and another woman who takes up the rest of the vehicle... and there are six seats in the back. In the twenty-second hour of my day I check in at the Quality Inn under the gaze of an old man in a huge stetson and aviator glasses; I'm too tired to work out whether he is real or a waxwork. The girl at reception tells me breakfast is 'from six through to ten'. "I won't be making that then" I reply and retire to room 300 and a bed the size of my whole room back home.
The sun was setting over Texas as the plane came into land; bringing to an end a day which at that point I had already seen twenty-one hours of. Through the plane window I got my first lesson in just how vast the US is. Its big... everything is big. In the Yellow Checker Shuttle en route to the hotel we pass the Texas Stadium, home to the Dallas Cowboys. It holds over 65,000 people, but in proximity to the ranging freeways it comes across no more monumental than a converted portacabin roadside cafe.
I'm joined in the Shuttle by some sterotyped American co-travellers; a woman speaking continuously on her 'cell' and another woman who takes up the rest of the vehicle... and there are six seats in the back. In the twenty-second hour of my day I check in at the Quality Inn under the gaze of an old man in a huge stetson and aviator glasses; I'm too tired to work out whether he is real or a waxwork. The girl at reception tells me breakfast is 'from six through to ten'. "I won't be making that then" I reply and retire to room 300 and a bed the size of my whole room back home.
[usa3] toronto
Dropping beneath the clouds and banking toward the airport I get my first glimpse of the world this side of the pond. From the air the outskirts of Toronto looks not unlike the UK; fields of varying colours, bushes, trees and... a game of cricket which makes me wonder if we're atually making an emergency landing in Lancashire. The man beside me is less perterbed, casually putting on his hat; an oversized St Georges flag cowboy hat, which puzzingly I don't remember him having when he boarded.
The immigration officers at Toronto airport are clearly well drilled; trained not only to question your legality, but also your integrity;
"Are you visiting any family or friends?"
"Yes, I have a friend from University in Dallas"
"Does your luggage contain any gifts?"
"No"
"None at all?"
"No"
I reply slightly more feebly, half expecting the officer to shake his head and tut at me. I move onto baggage check feeling as though I have let my country's reputation for politeness down.
The immigration officers at Toronto airport are clearly well drilled; trained not only to question your legality, but also your integrity;
"Are you visiting any family or friends?"
"Yes, I have a friend from University in Dallas"
"Does your luggage contain any gifts?"
"No"
"None at all?"
"No"
I reply slightly more feebly, half expecting the officer to shake his head and tut at me. I move onto baggage check feeling as though I have let my country's reputation for politeness down.
[usa2] manchester - toronto
"End of the World" is not a prophacy you want to see as you take your seat on a plane, but in headline form on the front of the Sunday Express it at least serves as a more welcome reminder. If ever there were a day to leave this country behind, the day after England crash out the World Cup is it; thus escaping the hyperbole and blame-mongering that will dominate the coming days' media.
My requested window seat is inevitably in the centre of the plane, but respite and space come my way as the oriental woman next to me switches to the vacant row in front once we're in the air. I steal her aisle seat, but my extra space joy is shortlived as a quick lesson in karma ends with the same oriental woman almost removing both my knees and nose in one fell swoop of her reclining chair.
When you're 6ft 3" like me, leg room is a premium for a seven hour flight. I expect a struggle to fit in my seat, in the same way I expect the plane to have two wings but then my discomfort is increased by looking at the seats which are blessed with leg room. Two rows in front of me are seven such seats; three of which are occupied by babies or toddlers. I don't pretend to know what the criteria are for being awarded these seats, but i would have liked to have thought having fully grown legs would have been on the list.
Space aside I think I like Air Canada. Maybe its the pilot's voice over the intercom; so relaxed I am imagining a cockpit with an open fire and rocking chairs. Or maybe it is the way the flight attendant attempts to fix the faulty projector by hitting it very hard with his fist... seeing me look at him he says "I just fixed the engines the same way". Worryingly I find it all too easy to believe.
My requested window seat is inevitably in the centre of the plane, but respite and space come my way as the oriental woman next to me switches to the vacant row in front once we're in the air. I steal her aisle seat, but my extra space joy is shortlived as a quick lesson in karma ends with the same oriental woman almost removing both my knees and nose in one fell swoop of her reclining chair.
When you're 6ft 3" like me, leg room is a premium for a seven hour flight. I expect a struggle to fit in my seat, in the same way I expect the plane to have two wings but then my discomfort is increased by looking at the seats which are blessed with leg room. Two rows in front of me are seven such seats; three of which are occupied by babies or toddlers. I don't pretend to know what the criteria are for being awarded these seats, but i would have liked to have thought having fully grown legs would have been on the list.
Space aside I think I like Air Canada. Maybe its the pilot's voice over the intercom; so relaxed I am imagining a cockpit with an open fire and rocking chairs. Or maybe it is the way the flight attendant attempts to fix the faulty projector by hitting it very hard with his fist... seeing me look at him he says "I just fixed the engines the same way". Worryingly I find it all too easy to believe.
Saturday, July 1, 2006
[usa1] nowhere
A small room in south yorkshire... not america... yet.
This time tommorow... I have no idea where I'll be, as the time difference baffles me... but I know I won't be in the UK. Its twelve hours until I fly and I'm nervous, excited and have just remembered where my E111 card is. Its in a box... in my bedroom... in Lincoln. Next to the charger for my razor now I think of it. Bugger. Here's hoping I won't need either.
See you in Texas... I'll be the burnt red one with a beard.
This time tommorow... I have no idea where I'll be, as the time difference baffles me... but I know I won't be in the UK. Its twelve hours until I fly and I'm nervous, excited and have just remembered where my E111 card is. Its in a box... in my bedroom... in Lincoln. Next to the charger for my razor now I think of it. Bugger. Here's hoping I won't need either.
See you in Texas... I'll be the burnt red one with a beard.
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