Out on the Razzle in America

United Kingdom
Freelance writer, literary graduate and minor lad. In America for pleasure, not business. I've never been before, so I thought I should. Should I have done it all at once? Can it all be done at once? Only one way to find out...

Saturday, 12 September 2009

Home, and Raz's final thought

This has been a fascinating journey. Even in the time I spent here, and in all the distance travelled, I never imagined I would meet so many people from another country. I believe this experience has really taught me about their culture. Who knew there were so many out there? And that they were so different, and yet so alike? Still, enough about Australians.

And so, five thousand and eight hundred miles, twenty states, two shoelaces, two destroyed t-shirts, one pair of trainers and a flip-flop later, I still have absolutely no idea what Americans are about. Because the country is, for now at least, predominantly English speaking, and their culture comes to ours so often through the media, you assume Americans are like us. They are not. At all. They are not even like themselves. To call them a country is a mistake. Honestly, I am surprised that they get along at all. Moreover, given that they live in fifty broadly similar countries, I’ve only seen half of them. Which is like saying you’ve seen Europe, except the bits that touch the Mediterranean. The question posed above is can you see it all at once? The answer is it seems, in two months at least, most certainly not.

Still, there has been some lovely scenery, and some very interesting characters. I don't know who I'll remember most. Perhaps Mikey, the OC brat who, pissed at midday, accosted me outside the MGM Grand and offered to 'smoke the shit' out of me, if only I could get him back into the third casino to eject him in 4 hours. I felt for him, as between his tears he sobbed that he just 'wanted to party' (I love that Americans use that as a verb). Also in Vegas were Bryan and Chris, the professional poker players (but amateur drinkers) that I joined at the Blackjack table, and left on the Strip at six the next morning. Bryan was on The Real World, which apparently is still shown in the US, sometimes. Or maybe the gruff man in Montana, who stared at our van's licence plate as he leant out of his F350 and spat out his tobacco, demanding: "when you going back to California?”. Not to forget the similarly bearded fellow who warned us about the Sasquatch in Yosemite. Then there was Susan, the elderly lady who didn't know about the buses in Memphis so drove me instead. And of course Megan and Elizabeth, the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders who gave me one of the greatest hugs of my life. Many happy memories.

Let’s not get beyond ourselves though, there is a lot I dislike about America, an awful lot. There is the pandemic hypochondria and the disordered healthcare system that feeds it, and the horrid billboards with labels like “When is your child's cold not a just a cold?” There is, on the surface at least, a serious problem with poverty, especially in the southern states. Widely documented and debated is the availability of guns and the fact that even the most minor of security guards is carrying a weapon, most likely without adequate training. More worrying perhaps are the signs saying relinquish your weapon at the door, which means there are people on the streets with guns, and no training at all. Not worrying, but more inconvenient, are the many cities with dreadful public transport systems that remain woefully underused, resultantly under-funded and impractically irregular. You could draw a link from this to the ubiquitous, vast, gross trucks, the culture that has spawned drive-through chemists and ATMs, the rampant obesity and the roaring squads of geriatrics on Harley-Davidson trikes.

But these are just minor, individual gripes. The single most uncomfortable, irritating thing in much of America is the pervasive sense of fear, the uncertain meaning of freedom and the frequent sense that someone, or something is trying to take that freedom away. Maybe the government. Maybe outsiders. Maybe the pharmaceutical companies, the hippies, or the Communists. Who knows?

The fact remains though that there is a separate place that I would take almost everyone I know. It is a continent, not a country, and that's not even counting Canada, Alaska and Mexico. Most maps do not put North America in the kind of scale that fairly represents it. You could fit most of Western Europe in Texas alone. In an area this size, with 300 odd million people from all over the world, it is no surprise that there is some fantastic stuff here. 3/4 pound burgers, multiple mountain ranges, epic beaches, rodeos, occasional but nonetheless impressive fauna, skyscrapers, sculptures and the entire cities like Vegas or Disneyworld, dedicated as they are to money and entertainment yet existing in a union with Salt Lake City or the Amish communities, built and still centred upon Faith.

Despite its vastness, for a first-world country the US is shockingly insular, though in part you cannot blame the individual citizens who think that Afghanistan is near Africa, or are amazed that the UK has more than one accent, let alone more than one country. There is a need for a drastic reshuffle in the education system across the states in order that world events, and the United States’ place in them, are put into a better context. It is funny, at first, to notice the huge irony in a country so inward-looking, that insists upon labelling everything ‘world famous’. Perhaps that is because their world only extends into the next state. Nevertheless, it really ought to change.

Something that was said to me on numerous occasions was that by the time I had finished I would have seen more of America than most Americans. This is probably true. In Washington D.C. most of all, I wondered what proportion of citizens had seen the movie about the difficult union that is looped in the theatre in Congress, or had visited the National Museum of the American Indian, or Memphis’s National Civil Rights Museum. It sounds repetitive, but America still needs to work harder to integrate itself. Indeed, travelling across the States you realise that all of the stereotypes are absolutely true, from California’s soccer moms to Boston’s IRA murals, from the Confederate Flags flying down south to the truckers trawling the interstates. All over though, are exceptions too. America remains an awesome place, despite its shortcomings. And while the American stereotype definitely needs to see more of the world, there remains an awful lot in their own country they ought to see first.

Miami and the Everglades

I arrived in Miami to blue skys and bright sunshine that skipped off the water. Don't believe me? Look at the pictures. No, seriously, look at them. Miami is a fantastically visual city, everything has been engineered to impress, from the brilliant white fa├žades of the Art Deco district to the staunchly immovable breasts attached to the bathers on South Beach. If it didn't put you in such a good mood, it would all be a bit much really.

Only one thing disappointed me about Miami - the size of the original Miami Ink. It is very small, easily missed, and surrounded by competition. I don't know why I was disappointed; perhaps I wanted Darren Brass dancing outside. Nevertheless, it didn't make for a good photo with the bear, so I left. Everything else about South Beach is fantastic, from the near (but not quite) unpleasantness of the mid-thirties temperature to the turquoise water of the sea, from the hidden bars serving one-dollar beers to the flashiness of the rest of the scene, white trousers and all. I had heard that Miami was exclusive, prohibitively expensive and hard to fit into. With South Beach essentially totally open to the public though, and with clubs on Ocean Drive that allow mid-week t-shirts and trainers, you can't feel too hard done by. Grab a cocktail and a sun-lounger, and make like Tony Montana.

On that note, I did see the house that starred in Scarface. Nearby was P. Diddy's yacht and Julio Iglesias' speedboat. I also took a wander into Little Havana and stopped in a Cuban bakery, to sweat more than buy baked goods, and I must confess it was here that I decided to stop sightseeing. Although I had Little Haiti, the upmarket zone of Coral Gables and numerous other stops to tick off, it was too hot, I was too tired, and after ordering una bottella d'agua y dos tortillas I dragged myself home. Miami is fantastic, just don't try and walk it in late summer.

The rest of my Miami experience was confined to South Beach, hurrying from shade to shade, avoiding the small electric humvees for rent and trying not to notice the pink walrus in the pool and his ineffective advances on the succession of females that dipped in and out. That, and the little Cuban lady who sat in the lobby, listening to Spanish-language radio and occasionally complimenting ladies on their tans. Therefore, just take my word for it that it doesn't take an in depth study to work out that Miami is very hot, full of nice beaches, people speaking Spanish, and home to many businesses operating out of South America, legally or not.

In fact, the only touristy thing I did do, apart from sunbathing, was to visit the Everglades. In amongst all the alligators were some fun little factoids: it is all actually a river almost totally shallow enough to walk in; all water flows one way; it is full of Sawgrass blades/glades that go on for Ever. I also had an immense airboat ride and got a free pair of earplugs. I suppose that counts as tourism, so, in the mode of Gordon Ramsay we can say: Miami, Florida. Done. Not that it's really true.

New Orleans, gumbo, and beads.

They say that New Orleans is the least American town in America. You need not know who 'they' are, nor why they are making crass generalisations about thousands of people. But you do need to trust their sweeping judgements, because New Orleans is different. And special. And you can get away with things in New Orleans that you could not get away with anywhere else. Not even San Francisco.

My arrival in New Orleans was more auspicious than anywhere so far: a parting of the heavy rain-clouds let a path of sunlight career beneath the plane and away across Lake Pontchartrain; as we taxied toward the terminal an immense double rainbow arched over the city; the arrival at the terminal itself was to a corridor filled with perky, chipper jazz. All seemed well, which is always a bad thing.

I had come to America with tired, infrequently-aired Spanish, which was dragged out more often than I had imagined necessary. I had some French too, hidden in the recesses of my memory. And, despite being frequently labelled an Australian, a Canadian, or most bizarrely 'European', I came with what I thought would pass here as English. Never though, have I heard before or since the tongue that was spoken on the bus into town from the airport. I knew New Orleans was an odd mix of Acadian, English and American stock, muddled over time with Haitian and African cultures and phrases, but I thought that it would be almost entirely softened by now. Apparently not. There was a girl and her daughter who were speaking, but that is all I could tell you. So far, so un-American.

What else I had heard about New Orleans consisted of Mardi-Gras and Katrina. Apparently New Orleans was a booze-soaked resort town, plagued by mosquitoes and intermittent floods, both of revellers and of water, most recently, famously, and catastrophically, with Katrina. A seedy, bedraggled backwater whose money was made on the back of a carnival of casual nudity (financed by beads), outrageous costumes and antiquated French balconies, the city was a swamp, literally and metaphorically. Crime was rampant, and Katrina made it worse. In New Orleans, you had to be careful. Arriving at the Amtrak Station, I dropped my bag for a moment to let the sweat air off my back; no sooner had it hit the floor than a casual voice behind me asked if I needed some weed, or, with a snort, some coke perhaps? So far so seedy.

While I'm not a fan of Columbia's finest, I do enjoy a tipple, and the atmosphere on Bourbon Street isn't exactly to be knocked, though if anything is going to turn you into a rampant misogynist, it's being on a balcony-nest there at two in the morning, with an armful of beads. It would be rude not to take part, but a small part of me thought that taking part was rather rude as well. However, the city is an odd blend of grimness and genuine enjoyment, from the depravity of Bourbon Street to the sunny weather and its accompanying humidity. You've got to take it together. The city is full of paradoxes; an hotel owner told me that Katrina actually helped the city in one way, as some of the neighbourhoods destroyed contained the ghettos that fed much of New Orleans' rampant crime. Overkill perhaps, but the crime rate has, apparently, noticeably dropped.

Moreover, wander away from the strip in the daytime, pushing all thoughts of Mardi Gras from your mind, and you realise that the architecture is far from a mere artillery range for the producers of 'Girls Gone Wild 13'. The railings and balconies that typify the French Quarter are very, very pretty, and there are enough of them to convince you that this part of town is not some Vegas-style reproduction but a genuine, historic neighbourhood. At the south-eastern corner of the Quarter is the Farmers Market, a recently refurbished area that does sell tourist fodder, from alligator heads to Mardi Gras masks, but also houses some fantastic little food stalls and areas where artists flog their wares in a quiet and altogether civilised manner.

Along the riverfront, still very much in the tourist centre, there are delis hidden amongst the souvenir shops that churn out cracking muffalettas, while nestled behind many of the bars with only one un-happy hour every day there are galleries and shops with a variety of creative art at a variety of silly prices. New Orleans' food is a leap ahead of the rest of The South's, with heavy French influences carrying some of the serious oomph that I found lacking elsewhere. The best example would be the gumbo, served everywhere, containing pretty much everything from oysters to sausage, and settled into a thick, roux-based sauce. It is a stew, but it is thick without being heavy, and it doesn't have any melted cheese in it, which is very odd in this country. New Orleans is different, it really is. You may see a lesbian couple taking their iguana for a walk. Not conventionally American, but not offensive in the least either.

Perhaps then that is the best way to explain New Orleans. The historic areas like the French Quarter and the King William District largely escaped the flood damage that followed Hurricane Katrina. Still, in other areas, there remain crushed sidewalks, vacant houses and posts distorted by unknowable impacts. However, in all likelihood, you will not venture too far into these areas anyway. The fact remains that most of the city's visitors will come for the architecture and food of the historic stereotype, or the booze, beads and boobs of Bourbon Street. Indeed, the bead industry alone is worth $4-5 million a year, according to a recorded man in the Mardi Gras Museum, and you can't really ignore those numbers. There is of course all the Voodoo, the jazz, the Mississippi, the various colonial powers operating over Louisiana and the ensuing slave rebellions, the gumbo-like muddle of Creole culture and language and the socio-political fallout of Katrina. But, with $5 million a year on beads, apparently people only want to know if anyone got their tits out. Yes. Yes they did.

Walking in Memphis. Then taking a bus due to inclement weather.

As Velvet checked me in at the Greyhound station I pondered two things: why anyone would name their child Velvet, and why I was missing the small-town parts of The South. Taking a bus through Tennessee was a start though, and beheading jokes aside, you can't knock the Greyhound service. It beats walking.

Indeed, due to the fact that I have been wandering the cities and towns of this country for going on two summer months, in a t-shirt, I currently have quite a red-neck. Though I will try and fade in my tan in Miami, I thought that the look would fit well on the bus. I was right, although there was also a young gangsta across the aisle who was about as far from a redneck as possible. Not that he was any more cultured: he repeatedly stressed to the young boy next to him, and the enthralled girl behind, how he would slap his bitch (seriously, no joke) if she disrespected him. On a journey to the place where Dr Martin Luther King Jr died, there was a certain irony in the air that I don't think anyone else picked up on.

More on Civil Rights later though, and back to the previous topic of unusual names. Take Elvis as an example. Elvis and Memphis are inseparable in popular culture, and Elvis and Graceland similarly so. No other reason could have persuaded me to take the bus ride through the rough part of town and part with thirty of my hard-earned dollars for the insipid service and formulaic downstairs-only meander that constitutes a Graceland tour. When a tourguide welcomes "each and every one of you" on a bus of three, you wonder if her heart is really in it. Considering that they take around $18 million from their annual 600,000 visitors, and that the memorabilia was in the house already, you may wonder where the money goes. I did.

From Elvis we may move seamlessly to another associated topic: food. Almost every old restaurant in Memphis proudly proclaims that Elvis ate there. He probably did, he was a big lad. However, this is not an indication of anyone else's need to eat there. I have absolutely nothing against southern soul food, I like fried chicken, sweet potato and the occasional catfish, but it is all a bit flat, despite the hot sauce. I persisted, but bring on New Orleans.

Ticking the other tourist boxes, I passed through the Stax record musuem, with Isaac Hayes' gold-plated, fur-lined, purple Cadillac, and studied up on the rise and fall of the label that helped found soul music. I visited the Mississippi River Museum and learnt about natives, colonists, rivercraft and the rise and fall of the fortunes of those in the area. I went to the Civil Rights Museum and revised the course that I learnt for GCSE History, and saw the balcony where MLK was shot and charted the rise and fall of the Civil Rights movement. I say rise and fall, and the topic is contentious still, because the tale ends with MLK's death. Most of Memphis, from Stax to tourism, has the date as a watermark, or even a brink. The Museum itself is a multi-million dollar shrine to a movement that ended, apparently, on the place where the man himself was killed; it replicates the room itself and that of the killer across the street. However, the final tenant in the motel to be evicted before the Museum's construction remains outside, calling for a boycott of the Museum she says makes a mockery of the Doctor's death.

Indeed, rents have risen in the area to the extent that the gentrified neighbourhood cannot support the commmunity King was trying to help liberate; they have been priced out. When I asked a young guy just out of prison, studying for beauty school in town, whether he thought the millions would have been better spent on affordable housing, he said he he had never thought of that, nor had he or any of his friends ever been to the Museum, which is free on certain days. When I asked one of the many homeless men that beg around Beale Street (the bar street) if there were any shelters available, he said that there were, but it was a room full of dirty men, or a street of half full, discarded drinks and half-dressed women. He chose the latter.

If the community that MLK died trying to help has produced a museum in his honour, but regressed to poverty, slapping their bitches and forgetting his legacy, then that is a terribly sorry state of affairs. I do not think that that is the case, but until a progressive image is presented, that contrasts rather than repeats and relates the difficulties faced by poor blacks in the USA,then the cumulative effect of one musuem relating the struggle of poor soul singers during segregation, another describing cotton picking slaves in the Mississippi delta, and another remembering a man who died decades ago but mentions little of the progress since then, is to suggest that there is little progress at all.

With such dreary thoughts it made sense to hit a blues joint. What better place than BB King's? Though it was no more encouraging to hear tales of poverty in the swamps, the fact that it was an eighty-six year old blues legend warbling through each bar made the experience fitting, he was probably singing the same song in the sixties, so progress takes a different context. With a bag stuffed with an array of harmonicas, and a relatively sprightly fifty-something man on bass drum and guitar behind him, BB wailed along for what seemed like an hour, foot-stomping and head-shaking in between fantastic harmonica solos that a man of eighty-five would be proud of. Memphis is still waiting for the next leader, whether Elvis, BB or MLK, and with no new blood in sight yet, the city is lucky that BB is still going strong.

Nashville, Music City

From the air, parts of Tennessee look a fair bit like England. Tim McGraw doesn't welcome you to Heathrow over the intercom mind you. And in London (most of it that is), there aren't signs saying relinquish your weapon at the door. Welcome to Nashville, Music City.

Nashville isn't the home of all popular music of course, though the South could just about get away with such a claim. There is little Kanye West to be found in Nashville, which is a glorious thing, though Taylor Swift was in town the night I arrived. With Memphis the home of soul, the blues and rock and roll, and New Orleans the home of jazz, Nashville is instead the home of the only music that gets major radioplay in every state: country. Despite the fact that outside the US it only features in a few isolated markets (such as Australia), over here country is big business, the biggest it seems.

The fact that country is such a huge deal makes a trip around the Country Music Hall of Fame very strange: walls are plastered with gold albums, hundreds of plaques with bronze faces, and rack after rack of CDs, all of them showing people you have never, ever heard of. Not that all the famers are unknown, or all of the items on show obscure. Elvis' gold-plated Cadillac sits up on the third floor.

I like Nashville, and I like a fair bit of the country music that I have heard, though I couldn't name the artists that make those songs. There is more to Nashville than country of course. A general creative air permeates the city and you see musicians posted on streetcorners, busking rather than just begging, though of course the latter are to be found, as in any city. There is not a great deal to photograph, especially given the poor light when I was there, but with so much of the city to do with sound rather than sight that is understandable. That said though, a visitor may be treated to the occasional flash of thigh from a dancing cowgirl that has mounted the bar top. And there is more to Nashville than music of course: food; the link to the hill country; the river and its history; its thriving university scene. All of these things could be discussed, but in a post titled Music City, there's only one reason to talk about Nashville, however briefly.

San Antonio, the Alamo and other missions

My body is struggling to cope with the transition from burgers to tacos. Tex-Mex has brought me to San Antonio, and I am now being tested by the combined might of every flag that has flown over Texas (there have been six). Apparently everything is bigger in Texas, and although that is debatable, Texans can rightly feel proud of their salsas. They're massive.

San Antonio is really very Hispanic. The series of missions that thread through the town are in various states of repair, but all point clearly to the area's previous governors. The various flags that have flown over Texas are Spanish, French, Mexican, Texan, Confederate and American, and all but the French have left a tangible element in the character of the city. The natives didn't have a flag mind you, but their influence in Tejano culture is emphasised in the mission information centers, and in the rather interesting Institute of Texan Cultures, which has a fairly good area on indigenous peoples and a whole baby mammoth, albeit slightly shriveled.

Due to the absence of a decent hostel in the city, I am staying in a luxurious bed and breakfast that is roughly three times more than I ought to be spending, but does have six pillows per bed and cable with many Spanish language channels and their obligatory dreadful soaps. My host is an hospitable man, who offered to drive me into town in his convertible Chevrolet Camaro. Loud, flamboyant, opinionated, almost like an American Basil Fawlty, he seems however totally carefree, and is booming in a way that would disconcert children and small animals. He has a habit of leaving sentences hanging, made even more strange by the colossal introductions he gives them, "OH HELL! I tell ya they were a real hoot, a todal BLAST! Oh, shit, I mean...eh...urgh...", he says, shaking his head slowly.

I was waiting for him to pick me up from a faux-rickety restaurant bar on the edge of Downtown. I say faux-rickety, it looks genuinely old, but it does appear nailed together despite its rhomboidal walls. I was also hoping he'd have the roof up as Texas was just coming out of a huge drought. I had reached the bar by taking the Riverwalk, a long landscaping of both banks of the San Antonio River, but the intermittent showers had pushed even the mariachi bands under cover, from where they would peer at the heavens with distrust. Most of the walk is full of restaurants and bars, and like a latin Center Parcs the pavestones follow the winding water over arching bridges and under shady trees. It's all very nice, even in the wet.

The next morning I spent pottering about the Spanish Market, a strange blend of trendiness and tourist tat, including a back area where they removed the farmers market and replaced it with boutique tourist stores. It is hard to like it, but there are some very cheap tacos and I did buy a t-shirt with a cool Mexican skull on the front. Continuing the ongoing search for souvenirs while Enrique Iglesias blared out of the Teriyaki Kitchen next door, I contemplated the purchase of cowboy boots and a hat to prepare myself for Nashville, my next destination. Deciding against it, I spent the afternoon wandering around the King William historic district, a very nice neighborhood of pretty, grand Victorian houses. While they are very nice, and historically significant here, I still find it hard to get excited about a house only thirty years older than my student digs. It's all relative I suppose.

On the subject of relativity, the Alamo is an odd experience. Blending fervent jingoism with a deep sense of regret and injustice, the shrine, (and it is a shrine), is quiet, reserved and strictly hat removed, and full of the kind of rhetoric of freedom, liberty, sacrifice, blood and honour that makes America so confusing. While there is no animosity towards the Spanish, or the Mexicans, or the British, or the Union, the Alamo makes absolutely clear the fact that glorious Texans died to keep Texas free and independent from any other power. And this idea is extrapolated, obliquely and directly, to cohere with the national 'freedom isn't free, but we are the free, God bless America' message. And yet, Texas is not independent, precisely because of the national federated system, so it is very hard to take the rhetoric seriously. Surely, though the men at the Alamo fought bravely against the overwhelming Mexican force, the legend doesn't exactly point to a success. Of course, there are gun-toting separatist movements in Texas, but they are reasonably marginal. The strangest thought is that they might be closest to the real message of the Alamo than a lot of Texans and Americans would like to admit.

Thursday, 10 September 2009

Viva Las Vegas, and numerous other well known phrases

"You will surround yourself with warmth and riches". "Bollocks", thought I, "This casino is freezing and I'm already down fifty bucks". Not that you should pay attention to fortune cookies.

Vegas, of course, has surrounded itself with warmth and riches. The temperature was a persistent 35 oC, dropping to 31 oC at night. As for the wealth, well it speaks for itself. Indeed, much like LA, so powerful is the city's self-publicity engine that there is little more to say about it, except that in the big V, if you can't buy it, spend it, consume it, shoot it, or have sex with it, it can't be worth having.

The bail bonds businesses, pawnshops, wedding chapels and discount stores that litter the areas off the Strip are easily overshadowed by the six block television of Freemont Street in Downtown, and by the Strip itself. They are part of Vegas too of course, but are easily forgotten, like Elvis, who seems to be drifting quietly into the city's past, along with my hopes of winning back my money.

I did not marry the Elviss (Elvii?) that I did find, nor did I impersonate a stripper or tuck one dollar bills into anyone's underpants, but I did meet two semi-professional poker players, a country singer whose name I have totally forgotten and watch the Bellagio fountains next to an old chinese man. Most certainly it is hard to engage with Vegas properly on any kind of limited budget, the city wills you to be irresponsible and you feel that you are letting yourself, and everybody else, down by not spending. But you can get some cheap food, a succession of drinks and take it all in without pawning your shoes, or feeling too dirty. You're never alone for long in Vegas, even if the buxom blackjack dealer in cowboy boots and a corset is taking your money throughout the conversation.

Of course, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, as the sign at the airport proudly reminds you. So, I will remain tight-lipped about the whole experience. Is it worth going if you only have a few hundred to blow? Coming out of a bar at six, to greet the Nevada sunrise with a headache and a smile, you will tell yourself that it is. It all makes sense in Vegas. All of it except the fortune cookies.

Sunday, 6 September 2009

Los Angeles, and the endless quest to get your beans (coffee)

"Compton, Long Beach, Inglewood". Dre's sweeping grouping ringing in my ears, I wonder whether there is enough California Love to spare me from a mugging, as a police officer orders a Japanese tourist to put away his iPhone before it gets stolen. Having taken the wrong bus from LAX I find myself sitting at the train station in Long Beach at a quarter to twelve, waiting for a connection from LA's mediocre train system. I need a coffee.

Eventually I found the hostel with no loss or personal injury sustained, but still without a coffee, or even dinner. I can see the Hollywood sign from my bed. I can also the the back of a nightclub, a parking lot, and a couple groping each other up against a graffiti covered wall. But that's by the by.

First impressions do count for a lot. Which might explain why the clerical error that led to me being put in an already occupied bed was never recovered from (get over it arsehole, it happens). I decided to start my acquaintance with LA more formerly than with my disgruntled roomie; Hollywood seemed a good place to begin. Around central Hollywood is a strange mix of theatres and malls, tattoo parlors and wig shops, interspersed with guided tour booths and the occasional shop window holding mannequins with enormous fake breasts. Not that any mannequins have real breasts of course.

Head west out of Hollywood and it starts to become rather nice. The Sunset Strip is small but showy, a range of bars and restaurants sitting perversely close to the multiple lane highway that constitutes Sunset Boulevard; the area is a fair contrast to the road's earlier offerings of motels, drive-throughs and slightly disheveled, purposeless buildings on uncertain leases. Head further along Sunset and you reach the city of Beverly Hills, which in this area amounts to little more than an enormous housing estate, full of equally enormous houses and driveways you could never pull out of, such is the traffic. Further west lies Bel Air and the city of Westwood, UCLA, and the sea, the road only punctuated by small, elite but nondescript commuter towns full of opportunities to sip a Starbucks and ogle the tanned, jogging women that pass you, and oddly, who ogle back.

Ogling is the only real activity to do for the tourist in LA. There are museums, and galleries, and of course the beach, but if you aren't eating, drinking or shopping you may as well find a Starbucks and sit yourself outside (and do find a Starbucks, it is the most reliable coffee in town, unfortunately). In a city so full of paparazzi there is surprisingly little to photograph, unless you love Downtown's handful of towers, are perving on Venice beach, or are doing a human interest story somewhere in South Central. When people think of LA they think of the city's powerful, almost unavoidable self-image, the area between Malibu and Venice beaches and their rows of fanny-magnet property, and east to Downtown. Moreover, as the city is more of a region than a cohesive unit, nobody comes to see all LA; the boulevards stretch out like brambles and in between the areas like Beverly Hills, Downtown and Hollywood lie thickets of patchy, meaningless, non-fruiting tangle. As a result, there is little to sightsee, and almost none of what there is can be done on foot.

Such is the predicament that I found myself in off Rodeo Drive, in Beverly Hills, pondering how to get to the beach without a car in the most expensive, exclusive and distinctly unbusworthy area of town. After another insipid coffee served by another melancholic waitress, and fighting the distractions of the parading plastic soccer moms, I did manage to find the right bus, but if I lived here I would have given up long before. If you have a car, or a taxi, and have the money and the time to shop, eat, club, drink and pardy, then LA is great. Except for the coffee. The problem occurs when it is the time of day for none of those things, and you must resort, again, to ogling.

In a last attempt to waste the half day before my flight, I went sightseeing, up into the hills, along Beachwood Canyon towards what was once the community of Hollywoodland. All I wanted was a better shot of the sign, and maybe, if possible, a decent coffee. There I found that the public land ended just inside the old walls of H-land, and that I could only get a marginally better photo here than from my bed. It was here that I also suffered the indignity of paying $4 for a woefully-served cappuccino delivered in a styrofoam cup, sans chocolate, by a waitress whose vacuous expression was matched only by the emptiness of the streets themselves. It seems that the celebrities left here long ago. Unfortunately, the waitress seemed to think otherwise: in the ensuing conversation with the next customer, a returning one it seemed (poor fool), it transpired that the waitress had some shows coming up on cable. Hopefully she wasn't playing a barista.

I do like LA, surprisingly. But much like any place where its main selling point is the weather, if you have time and money to waste it is great fun. If you grow weary of the search for decent coffee outside Starbucks, or can only handle two or three nights out a week, or one night stands, then you can get bored here easily. It's not that LA society is soulless, my cappuccino was soulless. But it is a bit frothy, which my cappuccino was not, and I'm not sure I could wake up to that kind of city every morning.

Thursday, 3 September 2009

Sunny / Foggy Frisco

I am undecided about San Francisco. I am unable to comment on the weather, aside from noting that it is foggy in the morning, sometimes later, and that occasionally searing heat moves through the city, before being replaced by a cold ocean breeze, depending on where you are. The downtown is flat, the rest is not. Despite being a strategic location, I maintain that whoever thought of building a city here, rather than just a fort, is a lunatic. It is the hilliest place I have ever been, and I refuse to live here.

The reaction to the populace is seemingly hard to pin down. We arrived over the Bay Bridge in the evening, stopping for dinner on the edge of Chinatown and the fashionable strip-club district, a strange mix of seediness running into bistros and restaurants. Crackheads and beggars abound throughout the city, though are far worse in the shopping areas and are almost non-existent in the suburbs over the water like Sausalito. Mind you, it is hard to tell who is a beggar, who is a beatnik, and who is just dishevelled; many of the homeless read works of literature, many of the council workers wear ripped, unwashed clothes and sport rough beards, and many of those pushing shopping trolleys are clean shaven. It is impossible not to judge the city without taking into account the number of homeless, or apparently homeless. It is not a bigotted view, or one with any agenda, the fact is that the number of wandering, muttering people along the streets is far higher here than anywhere I have ever been in the world.

Not that all the people mutter of course. At a baseball game, the tickets to which a lovely man on the bus gave away for a mere $10 (he had bought a load months before, and they were $50 on the door), we were seated behind a large man who periodically lept from his seat to roar "YEEEAAAAARRR! GO GIANTS!", before high-fiving his slightly shaken wife. And not all of the people are that dishevelled; a very high proportion of the city is unfeasibly muscular (mostly the gay proportion), and an awful lot of the womenfolk are very attractive, regardless of whether they are dressed 'alternatively' or not. The whole experience is a shock to the system, and it is very hard to register whether it is a nice one.

California itself is a shock of course. The moment you enter the state, everything changes: Audis appear from nowhere, the driving standards plummet, fruit trees spring up across flat land and the population becomes very, very orange. The old ferry terminal in San Francisco is very nice, now hosting a range of organic and high-end nibbles and healthy options amid florists and gelatoes. There is the occasional rummager of course, in San Fran, bins appear to be far more temporary storage facilities than waste deposits, but the overall effect of the ferry building is very nice, very clean, very Californian. Quite what Californian is, not culture or refinement, a little more like self-awareness, but not quite, is yet to be decided. San Francisco should not be taken as a standard of course. It is far from normal.

On that note, having drifted through Castro, (I intentionally avoided the word 'cruised' there) and its rows of boutiques, coffee houses and occasional group of men frolicking in tutus, we went off to Golden Gate Park, to meander around the Japanese Tea Garden while moronic tourists attracted squirrels and rats with little nibbles of fortune cookie, only to be surprised when one of the filthy rodents nips them. We took the bus back. You could take the cable car, but these days they only do a small, show loop, and do occasionally get stuck on the corners uphill, necessitating a push from an enormous pick-up with a rubber bumper.

If you can navigate the multiple suburbs there is a wealth of places to see that will pull you back into affection for this difficult city. There is sunny Sausalito, reached by bike over the Golden Gate Bridge, where a marina full of yachts bobs around before rows of expensive houses, hotels and restaurants interspersed by the occasional fish and chip shop, art gallery or coffeehouse. Or there is the west side, full of chinese but without the tackiness of Chinatown, the long Ocean Beach and its dunes, or any number of the uphill neighbourhoods. Throughout the city are bars, restaurants, shops, views, walks and spaces that would be perfect for a date. Until a smack addict tells you about the pollo loco that sent him crazy, and demands his panda back.

Perhaps the most unexpected thing that happened throughout my stay in San Francisco was in the beer garden of a Beach Chalet in the park's ocean side. While sipping a real lemonade and recovering from the hike up the dunes, we were approached by a musclebound thirty-something and his rampant, blonde toddler. Having passed a wry comment about the young ladies that had just been talking to my brother and I, the gentleman sent his slim yet buxom wife to the bar with the child, placed a thick joint, half-smoked, on the arm of my chair and winked, "here's a little home grown to get your evening started. You boys have a good night, it's good shit". It certainly smelled like it, everything it touched turned to weed, including my bag.

Very cool, very Californian, right up until the moment that the police did a ticket check at the station and requested to see my hostel key to prove that I was indeed foreign, and had not used an overdue ticket to cheat the fare. Somehow managing to flirt our way out of a fine, and not wave a stench of marijuana under the policeman's nose, I got home without any trouble and dumped the offending item in the nearest bin; even in California, some things are more trouble than they're worth.

Next stop LA, and having only heard bad things about it, I expect to be pleasantly surprised. Bracing myself for security, I have already been scanned, x-rayed, finger-printed and retinally checked. Hopefully they don't have drugs dogs, my bag still stinks.

Nevada, Ruby Mountains, California and Yosemite

The Ruby Mountains are yet another undiscovered wilderness, and have been described as "the only thing worth seeing in Nevada, if only anyone knew about them". A series of spiky peaks, punctuated by beaver dams and containing a wholesale abscence of rubies (though they'd named them by the time they released their mistake), they provided another pit-stop on the long road to Frisco.

Hiking up the trail to a plateau that I'm not sure ever really existed, I came across a well made up lady with very clean blonde hair, bedecked in full camo and brandishing a pair of large binoculars and a very large bow. She looked dejected, apparently, despite the mountain goats, occasional doe and multiple beavers, she wanted a big buck to impale. Not entirely knowning what to make of this strange coupling of mascara and bloodshed, we pointed out that we were wearing brown and would be walking on the left side of the stream, then made a hasty retreat.

Heading downhill the following morning, I can concur with the nameless quotation at the beginning of the post. Nevada is a state of dust-devils, occasional downpours, jagged mountains, roadside brothels and military bases where America practises bombing itself. Of course, there is Vegas, and moreover, there is Reno.

Like a garish Blackpool of the desert, Reno rears up after the salt flats as a fluorescent mirage, promising stimulus of every kind after the monotony of the road. Pottering about after checking in to a dubious-looking motel, I stumbled into a pawn-shop, to be greeted with racks of guitars, DVDs, and a wall of guns from .2o to .50, and a row of eager looking hispanic gangbangers admiring the array and making notes of the prices. Having determined that we would only buy a gun if we won loads on the slot machines, we took off to the Grand Sierra Hotel and Casino, for a grand buffet indeed, including very unlocal crabs and a disappointing steak. Then, to the bright lights and clockless interiors of the area's second most famous town.

Having won a handful of cuddly toys and lost several dollars, I wondered whether I could reinvest my winnings at a bar. The only one with any people inside, due to the fact that it was Wednesday, and Burning Man was soon, was a grubby rock bar, where to my disappointment they did not take cuddly toys as payment. They did serve one dollar pints however, and the locals were so amused by the arrival of foreigners that multiple free drinks and chasers were forced our way. Reno really is a bit horrible, but it works for it, to paraphrase the description given of me by a very attractive girl in a sailor's hat. I think I would have to agree.

Following the mild debauchery of Reno we headed away from the fallen of civilisation, back into the wilderness and to Yosemite and Tahoe. Several highways, winding mountain roads and impressive vistas later, we arrived in Yosemite, to find half of it on fire, the rest filled with smoke. While it made for some very nice sunsets, it meant that we could not access the valley, and all of the most attractive scenery. We made a sweeping tour of the smoke-filled sequoia groves and left, but not before being warned by a patrolling man in camp that Sasquatch would come through our camp tonight, like every night. This was made funnier by the fact that the gentleman looked like Sasquatch himself. It was only later, when a bear ran about the camp, that we realised that the man was a ranger, and that Sasquatch was the bear's name. Apparently, this bear thing was not a ruse after all.

Jackson Hole, into Utah

Jackson is a lovely ski resort, almost surrounded by a curve of mountains, forming its titular 'Hole'. Wooden boards line almost every shopfront, and covered walkways shelter the sidewalks moving out from the central square and its four arches composed of shed Elk antlers. It's very western and almost painfully cool, an image exaggerated by the numerous boutiques, art galleries and pricey restaurants that cannot serve local elk because the law forbids the sale of wild game in restaurants, which serve Canadian farmed elk instead.

Nowhere is more Jackson-Holey than the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar, a fantastically kitsch establishment on the square that manages to blend tourist nonsense with actual quality: saddles replace barstools, (they don't rotate, so you only face beerwards); cases contain the stuffed remains of local wildlife, including two mountain lion that frame the dancefloor; the rearing form of a grizzly bear bears a plaque remembering the story of C. Dale Petersen, one of only two men known to have killed a bear without the use of weaponry. Apparently, after encountering the already rattled creature, Petersen and it became engaged in a scuffle, whereupon he forced his hand down its throat, and bit its jugular. It having passed out, he clubbed it to death. Not a tactic I'm planning to try, but each to his own.

Continuing southwest, we moved towards the Great Salt Lake and Salt Lake City, home of mormons in suspiciously short skirts and the fantastic Polygamy Porter, its label showing a carousing group with the slogan "why have just one?". As for the faith, they use the words journey, trial and promise in a manner that is almost retro Old Testament, while the emphasis on family unity and hard work in the face of adversity is pretty understandable given the location they chose for their city, which smacks of tiredness and resignation in hindsight, considering California was in their path.

Mormons are terribly nice, in an inoffensive, evangelical way. I don't find any of the religion any more difficult to believe than any other brand of Christianity. It is clearly a rehash of ancient, particularly old testament ideas, branded rather clumsily by archaic haths and believeths that litter the early scriptures and points to a backward-reaching attempt at self-justification. The questions as to why there is no alternative record for the lost tribes of the americas, or indeed any record here, and as to why it took a european to discover the lost scriptures, remain awkwardly unanswered. Is it any more difficult to believe that angels spoke to a man two hundred years ago than it is to believe that it happened two thousand years ago? Not for me. The religion itself as well though, is not for me. The porter meanwhile, is another matter entirely.

Gangsta Rap and the American Dream

Listening to TB's mixtape in the woods, as you do, I was struck by how much certain generic rap reflects the American Dream. TB, named after Tuberculosis cos he is proper catchy I presume, was handing out his twenty-four track demo on the streets in New York, but we had yet to play the preposterously overlong item in question. While the actual tunes were alright, the rhyming was decent and the level of bass satifactory, it was some of the most uninventive music I have ever had the non-reaction to listen to. Guns, money and hoes, the simple lives these guys are living, represent the American Dream though: capitalism and the right to bear arms, making money, making money, shooting things, doing as you please, forging a path, making money, shooting things, manifest destiny, making money, spending said money. Just because the money they make is from drugs, the things they are shooting are each other, and what they are spending the money on is hoes and drugs, with a smattering of jewelry and presumably some bullets, nothing could be more traditionally American than gangsta rap. But this argument probably wouldn't fly in Wyoming.

More Montana, bear worrying and off to Yellowstone

Sitting on the shores of an alpine lake, just into Montana, was where I saw that big bear print. Apparently they are more dangerous around elk season, when they come in for the gut piles. So I am reliably informed by a mustachioed gentleman packing enough heat to take down a small comet, let alone an animal. "I've never seen one round here", says Rambo, "but I always carry a firearm, just in case". In the background, his wife snorts an enormous clod of snot and fires it off into the woods. With that kind of firepower, I wonder why he needs the gun at all. Along the shoreline, his two skinny, pale, bespectacled boys are fishing for small trout, getting terribly excited, and terribly sunburnt I presume - they are only wearing jeans and baseball caps. The walk back down to the campsite is three miles of high altitude mountain trail, burnt out several years ago, though wild raspberries are dotted along in patches, which makes the activity far more bearable. No pun there, so don't look for one.

Leaving Montana, and its bear-infested campsites (though we've yet to see one, so there are rumours of it being a big ruse, especially given the no-show after a very smelly salmon pie last night), we pass over the Beartooth mountains at 11,000 feet, pockets of snow and the occasional wolly marmot indicating that we are very high indeed. It is all downhill after this. One of the group is nauseous, probably because of the cumulative effects of dehydration, lack of sleep, altitude, desert hiking, followed by mountain hiking, heat, cold, and bear-related worry. Then the road into our campsite in Yellowstone is closed, meaning a two hour drive around the loop, punctuated by elongated stops for jay-walking bison and the rubber-neckers who have only seen a few hundred and are yet to become as outrageously complacent as we are.

It's not as if there is actually that much wildlife in the park, or America at all. We've only seen some bison, about ten elk, six sheep, a coyote and three crows. The absence of birdsong in the states is remarkable, whether in deciduous or coniferous woods. It's hard to work out what Yellowstone is: wildlife preserve, reserve, recreation ground, geological experiment or wilderness. It's all and none of the above and I'm not sure it really works. A well-paved highway with occasional bison crossing the path of innumerable Harley Davidsons, campsites where the hum of occasional ten tonne RVs has replaced wolves, or watering holes where people paddle in hot springs, or walk their dogs over elk tracks.

The geysers are undeniably beautiful and impressive, as is the wildlife when it does get stumbled upon, but it doesn't feel wild until you push far, far into an isolated trail. There is no traffic cap, you can walk anywhere, you can fish in most places and outside Old Faithful is a four lane highway. I had a great time in the hot springs, why keep anyone from an area like this, the idea of a national park is a park for all 250-odd million US citizens, but how much of it can be exploited? Coming out of the long-drop toilets an elderly woman remarked to me that "It's not the Ritz Carlton". Of course not, and I should bloody hope that it stays that way, but it is easy to get the sense that with such great, real wilderness areas as the Beartooths, Yellowstone is being used so that America's true wilderness can remain wild, while old ladies in massive RVs can say they slept near some wolves and took a pee in the woods.

Sunday, 30 August 2009

Black Hills, badass cowboys, big boring heads and Bison.

There is a transition from plains to mountain foothills in South Dakota. The transition takes place in the Black Hills, dark, pine-topped ridges in the eastern part of the state, home to Custer State Park and its bison herd, Mount Rushmore, and the Crazy Horse memorial. The effect of the transition is all the more spectacular if it occurred while you were sleeping off three steaks and some whiskey.

Custer State Park is a strange place, where shuffling bison move amongst herds of Harley Davidsons, and bighorn sheep amble up sheer slopes as groups of camera-wielding visitors strain and scramble to snap them before they disappear into the trees.

Descending briefly from the hills, the road to Wyoming takes you through Deadwood, a city of immense wild west notoriety that manages to handle the jobs of tourist trap and genuine National Historical Landmark with equal success. Housing the graves of Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane, along with some gambling dens and bars, the town looks like great fun, though we only passed through. Soon after, we passed through Belle Fourche, at the East-West centre of the country. It doesn't look like great fun. It looks very boring. But again, we only passed through.

Strangely, in this landscape are found two of the most interesting single bits of stuff in the country. Mount Rushmore is the image for South Dakota's motto, "Great Faces, Great Places". Well, that and the Crazy Horse Memorial, which is bigger, more expensive, perhaps a bit more impressive, and will take even longer to not be ready. Both though, once seen, are very hard to do anything with, so you end up looking, mumbling, then leaving, perhaps having spent too much on an unnecessary drink or an Indian dreamcatcher.

Now in Wyoming for a spell, the radio choices are limited to classical music, classic rock, or religious rock, while your chances of seeing a non-white are similarly limited, especially if you remain in the towns that revel in the fact that their signs have elevations higher than their population.

You can always go to Gillette, "America's Energy Capital", home to mile-long coal trains, numerous cash for guns pawn stores, and one Chinese restaurant. Or just stay out of towns, and admire the scenery as it fluctuates between sagebrush, methane pumps, and pronghorns. You are best off tuning in to 91.1, forgetting about music or scenery, and getting stuck in to some wholesome religious teaching, such as about "the enemy", pornography, and learn to "defend yourself, your families, and your home from this dangerous animal", "more dangerous than a killer whale". It's no joke, you're far more likely to encounter pornography out here than a killer whale, (it won't get through the computer screen) so it pays to be prepared.

Anyway, cowboys. I spent last night in Cody, Wyoming, home to the famous 7 days a week rodeo. It is stirring stuff indeed, from the Star Spangled Banner sung at the beginning (while two children with flags gallop around the floor), to the three dollar beers and the resulting puns on riding, bellowed from the crowd when the time comes for the ladies' time trials. I volunteered to get amongst the sawdust for the clown's act, and met some actual cowboys with lassoes and everything, before being levitated via some visual trickery by the only clown that has ever sounded as ridiculous as he looked, a deep, gravelly Malboro man with green hair and purple eyes. The bucking broncos and steers are impressive enough, especially when they let off so much steam in the release cage that the rider thinks twice and gets back off again, but the real credit has to go to the two handlers, who ride around the ring, corralling the soon-riderless animals and keeping the show on time, all the while threatening the clown with a lassoing himself.

The rodeo did finish pretty quickly, although, as the saying goes, time flies when you're having rum. Or whisky in this case. The next day we were in Montana, bear country, as the scratch marks around our campsite attested. That and the massive pawprint in the mud. Apparently the best, or rather only, way to outrun a bear is to run across a slope. Easier said than done. After an evening of yeehaws, aww shucks and ahs and oohs, followed by a drinking competition with a man with a voice so husky that only a retard would challenge him or his ex-con friend to a tipple, I doubt I could run across a flat surface. Maybe the zigzags would confuse a bear. Next time, might be better off trying to outrun a beer, as my German travelling companions insist on calling the ursine locals round here. Beers can't run as fast as me, surely.

Whatever happened to the Iron Horse?

For a country that owes so much of its history to the railroad, the USA abandoned the idea pretty quickly when the car arrived. Amtrak serves almost nowhere. There are still horses of course, but no iron ones, which are far more hard-wearing and less prone to colic than their organic counterparts.

America's personal transportation devices are pretty ludicrous, whether it is the vast trucks towing the vast trailers, the vans with 6.7 litre engines and 200 horsepower, the enormous RVs that warp along their axis as they turn bends or the motorbikes. Or motorbike.

There is really only one bike in America, and that is a Harley Davidson, ideally seating two geriatrics in vast seats and with huge antennae curving in the breeze. It is a terrible cliche and a terrible disappointment. There are thousands of Harleys plowing through America. They form the dawn chorus in woodland campsites, as if the birds have upgraded to Second World War fighters, they drone along on every motorway, they creak into every service station. They are wholly, terribly standard. There is only one thing worse than them, and that is the tricycle version. But you have to be really, really old to use that. I really wanted a Harley before I came here, now I could think of nothing less interesting.

Badlands, Cowboys, and the greatest steak in the entire world

In the Badlands, a scar of rough, sandy stone and rock running through South Dakota, every swipe of your boot through the grass sends another wave of locusts, crickets, or grasshoppers. Whatever the jumping creatures are correctly called, the landscape sets an epic contrast to their little hopping lives. Close to the bugs, all you can hear is their buzzing; rise out of the dry grass and climb a ledge and there is no sound, save the occasional tourist helicopter skimming the canyons and buttes. If you spend ten minutes waiting for the clouds to change, the colour of the rock changes with them. Vultures drift overhead. Amongst the buttes are rudimentary fields populated by black cattle. From the mandibles of a four inch grasshopper to the miles of grassland at the foot of a cliff, everything becomes a photograph. Which is annoying, when you are on a hike, miles from anywhere, have run out of water, and want to go home.

Home for the evening was on a cliff overlooking the White River, a winding, creamy line sitting before the pointy bits of the Badlands proper. Setting the tents as far away from the rattlesnake holes that riddled the area, and as close to the edge as was safe after half a bottle of whisky (three to four feet), I started a fire as the sun went down over some unnecessarily dramatic scenery. Fortunately, the site itself was on an Indian reservation and cowboy ranch, and the cowboys themselves had a freezer full of steak, in various shapes, sizes and degrees of marbling. I had three (they were all different, so it made sense to check each out), and all went into the top five steaks I have ever had. There were no cows that I could see on the ranch itself. We may have eaten the last ones.

Essentially, everyone was terribly overstimulated by the whole day, and as some unnecessarily dramatic stars came out and the feeling of seclusion became overwhelmingly exciting, the group became terribly drunk on very limited alcohol and ran from one photo to the next like children on Panda Pops. Axes were flying, the fire was raging, people were laughing and screaming. It was like a lumberjack's fifth birthday. All was good until the meat sweats came, but they were worth it.

Wisconsin, Minnesota, South Dakota and the Great Plains

Milwaukee is the home of Miller, "America's greatest beer". The brewery tour was very American, proud and boastful, but there was a hint of irony. At least, I hope there was a hint of irony. Miller is very poor beer, and I would suggest that the Genuine Draft version is actually the worst beer in the world, as it has no characteristic or flavour to actually complain about. It may as well not exist, which makes the idea of paying for it totally ridiculous. We took to referring to the beer with flavour, when "Miller Time" did occur, as Miller Shite. Nice show though, with a germanesque hologram explaining how he was exiled from home / left for the US because he made terrible beer / wanted to make the greatest beer in the world. That was where I saw the irony, though I was looking pretty hard. There is a great art museum in Milwaukee too, with a flapping roof, which is most impressive after several cans of 'Shite.

I camped for a night on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi. The group camping next door were Christian missionaries, and their charity extended to giving out some tasty corn on the cob and 'taters, which was jolly nice, even if they did think I was Australian. I didn't really take enough pictures of Wisconsin, but then again, from the interstate, there's not much to see. Just corn. Which is probably why the missionaries had some to spare.

After deciding to forgo the Spam Museum and its "16,500 square feet of SPAM artifacts, history and fun", the only thing to see for me was the road, the charismatic I90, which is like route 66, but far less cool, but does allow for some roadsign reading: "Abortion. The choice that kills", or "The wage of SIN is Death". That, and the picking up of some tasty Bible belt and central country radio stations, as well as classic rock stations that proclaim: "This ain't yo momma's station. Unless you got a really cool momma...". On a road trip such as this, you readily turn to anything for entertainment. According to South Dakota's Traveller Magazine, the average ear of corn has 800 kernels, arranged in 16 rows. Who knew?

On the subject of country music, it is worth taking a thought about the lyrics of the poverty-stricken farmhands, alternating topics between religious conservatism and bumping uglies with a redneck woman behind one's trailer. Taking a recent release: "I got a roof over my head, boots under my feet...got all I need", you get the sense that country music is often a tribute of resigned contentment at having nothing. Listen to other songs though, stating "freedom isn't free...I'm a patriot...on the front line...I am an American soldier", or "where would we be without believers?" and you get the sense of a religious, almost jingoistic war, protecting or spreading freedom. So, religiously conservative farmers and disgruntled, exploited, downtrodden poor folk who revel in their condition to spite those above them. It rings a few Al Qaeda coloured bells.

Most people fight because they want things, why does middle America sing songs about having nothing, living a tough life, disliking those townie folk who use the wealth of America's workers, but not really wanting to rebel or complain? It is very strange to experience, perhaps they are happy enough because they have America, and that will do, regardless of the disparity between the complaint of country music and the smug projection of capitalism and all its trappings. Nevertheless, hearing country music espousing the mission to go yonder with your Patriot gun and its Freedom bullets does make you think.

Monday, 24 August 2009

Chicago, good enough to deserve a post on its own

Chicago is awesome. It has to be, the other cities worth considering visiting don't need to keep up appearances; you could hate the idea of New York and you would still go. So goes the logic of the native I met while salsa dancing in the park. The idea of salsa dancing, for free, en masse, in the park, is bloody nice. Whether Chicago is sincere in its bloody-niceness, which it seems to be, or whether it is all some tourist-baiting scam intent on scuppering Vegas, New York and the rest, the effect is superb. People in Chicago are bloody nice. Pause for more than twenty seconds in the street and they will pounce, as if they are all trained in map reading, tourism and public relations, guiding your lost little soul to your desired destination in an earnest, inimitable accent, and most likely with a few recommended deviations on the way.

Chicago is a very nice place to be nice of course, which may be why the locals find it so easy. The lakeside setting (effectively seaside, the body of water being so vast), gives a relaxed coastal feel, the skyscrapers are all tall enough to be elegant, shiny enough to be impressive, and all match their colours, which isn't difficult, considering that they are all made from the same materials. The river makes a lazy wind through downtown and its strange forest of towers and interesting bridges, all of which are condensed into a very walkable area that occasionally is shadowed by a pleasingly urban overhead railway. There isn't really a central business district, it is an everything district, as hotels, shops, bars and offices muddle together in a zone that is strangely quiet in the evening, as the streets clear and destinations are picked. It transpires that downtown is not the place to be, though a night-time cocktail up the John Hancock centre should not be missed, especially considering that the trip up is free, and the cocktails, though not, are served by rather fetching waitresses.

Daytime fun can be had on Navy Pier, where every summer Wednesday and Saturday there is a firework display to go alongside the multiple bars, restaurants, galleries, boat trips and sundry diversions. There are an awful lot of firework stores along the road in from Indiana. Perhaps Americans just like explosions. They certainly like guns. Something to ponder.

We were lucky enough to be on the pier for the warm-up of the Air and Water Show, an annual extravaganza of jets and noise, full of flyovers, smoke trails, loops and all kinds of stimulating macho nonsense. We were also fortunate enough to get a signed photo and a cuddle from two Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, who were sneakily using one of Chicago's busiest tourist draws to advertise Texas. Of an evening, fun can be had around Wrigley Field, especially after the Cubs have finished, and especially if they have won. Whilst baseball is a ridiculous game, which many fans admit is just an excuse to sit in the sun and drink, the flood of buff, bronzed, blonded birds that flow outward into the sportsbars would sell any man to the idea, especially given the bloody-niceness of the people of Chicago (our waiter at lunch gave out six free drinks, while the hostess was lovely, despite never having left Illinois and mistaking an Australian for an Englishman).

Despite finding the pizza inferior to the thin crust of New York and Europe, I will most certainly be back, though I may bring a map for that lovely hostess.

Friday, 14 August 2009

Rural Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and a little bit of Lake Erie

Interstate 90 cuts through the northern part of Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and a part of Illinois. There is little to distinguish the states from each other from the turnpike, except small variations in the height of the hills and the ratio of maize to peas being grown. Cleveland, Ohio, has little to its name, except some exceptionally tall industrial works and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Once you have seen Elvis' purple Lincoln, Slash's hat and some of Jimi's guitars, you have probably seen all that the area has to offer for tourists. I'm sure there is something else, but it was nothing spectacular. The lake itself is spectacular, but Cleveland cannot really claim it. Ohio does pick up some rather good country music stations, and does do a good line in classic rock, but considering that it has the Hall of Fame it probably has to keep up appearances.

I was going to say that the area to the south of the lake brings nothing to the table, but that probably isn't the case. I assume it brings corn. Other than the trucker stops and their racks of hats, stimulant drinks and two litre (or liter) coffee mugs, there is little to see apart from some silos and the odd sign to an Amish community. In this part of the US you can really get a sense of the scale of the country, as the rivers and the bridges that span them, or the valleys they cut through, are all huge, and invariably followed by another of equal size.

The best stop yet was made at the gas station in rural Ohio, about an hour off the shore, at the crossroads of two highways that went totally straight to the horizon in four directions. Above cold fridges stacked with frosty beer were the mounted heads and spread pelts of black bear, wolf, reindeer, various buck and a beaver. On the way to the toilet was a crayon drawing saying "I am PRoud to Be AmErican", with a flag without enough stars and stripes but with more than enough patriotism. Inside the toilet was graffitti explaining how "Mexicans shit to feed niggars", before pondering, "do you.". If you were to wander outside, yourself pondering this grammatically and socially dubious sentiment, you would see a shirtless man leaning against a red pickup. How very uncivilised. How very strange, and very American. As much as the country continues to break the stereotypes, it continues to keep them strong.

Upstate New York and the Appalachian trail

Cold Springs is a little town over an hour's drive on the highway from New York. Traversing the meanders of the Hudson river, the highway seems to take you to a place far, far away from the big city. It doesn't really, but the idea is nice. Commuter towns in upstate New York seem very quaint - lots of flags, hanging baskets and thoughtfully decaying antique lawnmowers resting on front lawns. Only the Hummer sitting in the driveway suggests that the regular trains departing from the station will take you back to Manhattan, not middle-America. Camping in a national park on the Appalachian trail gives a similar experience. Prodding through the paths to a pond in the woods, the strange quiet (there were few birds and no insects) is broken by the rumbling sound of a Ford Mustang, over-revving to get up the slope to its allocated zone. Apparently this campsite had deer (you can shoot them if you like, but you'll need a bow), but the only sign of life were the mosquitoes, who made up for their size in numbers. Deeper into the backwoods we needed to go.
Hitting the road, and its pretty but monotonous wooded vistas, broken by intermittent Wendy's and their 3/4 pound burgers (or 2/3 pound, I can't remember after the meat sweats), you occasionally catch a glimpse of an ATV repair shop, plastered with NRA posters and enthusiatic comments about gun ownership. So far, so wild. Passing the towns of Windsor, Damascus, Syracuse and Ovid, the idea of culture and history is rubbed closely alongside the battered remains of destruction derby cars waiting for the next round, brown snowmobile tracks ready for winter, and signs warning about deer, tractors, and off road vehicles. And then you come to Ithaca. Home to Ivy League Cornell University, and a substantial aging hippy population.
The town is clean, small, efficient, and punctuated by small shops selling clothes that are probably made from hemp. The library is clean, cool, and well stocked, (they have hundreds of copies of The Grapes of Wrath - group reading apparently). It also has lovely toilets and is just down the road from a bar. Enter that bar though, and you may hear a conversation relating to how uncomfortable it is to hit a deer with you motorcycle while doing seventy. Apparently the poor animal was sent flying into the woods, where the motorcyclist in question, who had scratched his jeans, could not find it, despite its cries. Shame really, he would have slit its throat to put it out of its misery, he said. Why he was doing seventy in the woods, was more concerned about killing a deer than checking himself over, and why he was carrying a knife big enough to do the job, while riding a motorcycle, at seventy, through the woods, he didn't say. Still, you got the sense that we were getting more rural.
That sense was heightened by the appearance of a skunk that night, in the campsite alongside Lake Cayuga. I was probably more afraid of the skunk than if it had been a bear. I am in the same van for the next three weeks, and if it gets squirted we would be in serious trouble. One dead in the group wouldn't make half the mess. Next to the lake is a waterfall that is higher than Niagara, and only attracts a handful of tourists. The lake itself can be swum in, and if you go after a storm, when there is a tornado warning and the lifeguards and police are elsewhere, panicking, you can have the whole thing to yourself, which is nice.
Niagara is a horrible town. Like a tackier, smaller, and less polished Blackpool, the Canadian side, surprisingly, is more grotesquely developed than the American side. Particularly at night the towering casinos overlooking the falls are not the most attractive of vistas. The falls are spectacular, which isn't really surprising. The sooner you can get out of the town after seeing them though, the better. Next stop Chicago, via a whole lot of nothing.

Saturday, 8 August 2009

New York - All that and more

New York is a very difficult city to write about. The fact is, so much has already been written, and, to my surprise, so much of it is true. It is exactly the way you would imagine: the size, the noise, the dirt, the constant, pulsing vivacity throughout its streets, as the valve-like crossroads release another stream of yellow cabs and pimped-out Escalades, and another, and another. I wanted to dismiss the city, to say it doesn't match London, and that, like our capital, it is bloated. It is one of the greatest cities in the world, but the similarities don't go far beyond that. Perhaps I'm still in holiday mode, and the pollution and grit in my contacts has made them rose-tinted, but I really like New York. I wouldn't say no to a job here.
I dislike many things about America, or at least complain about them. I don't like the myth of effortless multi-culturalism, the effects of uber-capitalism, the aggressive pace of places that never sleep, or the fact that almost every snack here involves sausages or meat-patties of some sort. But, I have visited Time Square, at night and at day, and I get it, I absolutely get it. There are many things that I don't get of course. I don't get the star-spangled banners slathered across the entire nation, or the fact that everything must be bigger, or the culture of fear that pervades so many places. There is a lot about being 'American' that is annoying. But in any city of this size, there will be people that contradict sweeping generalisations; I went out in Brooklyn a couple of nights ago and played pool against a pair of locals while drinking a local ale. The ale was good, one of the locals was a computer programmer, and we didn't get knifed by them after they lost. In one swoop, three myths were felled: about American beer, the ignorance of the locals (he knew who Erasmus was), and about the roughness of Brooklyn. All of this, in one bar, in one borough.
You can get a similar cultural rollercoaster in Central Park. Wandering south from the Jaqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir and its counter-clockwise only jogging path, through The Ramble and its wooded nooks to the baseball fields and carriage rides beyond, you are just as likely to find nubile frisbee minxs as tourists, sweating joggers as ancient, hand-holding couples, or Tai Chi students practising in the shade of the trees as a lone, grey-bearded man, cross legged atop a boulder, slowly playing Spanish guitar. All this in a man-made environment, a converted wasteland on an island otherwise coated in sprawling neighbourhoods, four-lane asphalt and towers that touch the sky.
In a place belching out fumes like Hades' arsehole, with streets swathed in the steam rising from sewers and corners coated with sweaty stalls shifting bun after bun of dubious by-product, you would think that it couldn't be glamorous, but it is. The exciting places are just those dubious zones: meatpacking districts, fish-packing districts, ethnic neighbourhoods, edgy places. What makes New York exciting is that, Manhattan aside, the city is so uncontrollable. You couldn't change anything about it if you wanted to. All you can do is turn up, and take pictures.


Wednesday, 5 August 2009

A quick word on moderation

To follow on from the Washington bit, Americans cannot avoid being outstanding. This is not to say outstandingly good, just special. Whether this means having the biggest burger, truck, breasts, etc, or being the first to mass produce, to go into space, or to invent stir-in powdered cheese, they just can't help it.
Everything is extreme. In the service industry, Americans are extremely nice. As a result, they expect extremely regular and large tips. If you don't give them, they get extremely upset. All their national sports are singular actions extended to their extremes: baseball is a man throwing a ball until one man hits it exceptionally well; basketball is several men scoring hoops until one man stops another man by jumping exceptionally well; football is several exceptionally large men pushing each other until one pushes through, in order to stop one man from throwing a ball exceptionally far to a man running exceptionally fast. All of the nuances, the football set-ups, the pitcher's curveballs, the three-point baskets, are just the fripperies around very basic actions.
Americans in the cities, if not working, are either a: fat or b: jogging. There is nothing in between. The military techniques and car industry are legendarily extreme. Vegas is extreme. Bling is extreme. Laziness is extreme. Nowhere is this last one more evident than in the total pointlessness that is the Segway, yours for only $5500.
The Segway is a two-wheeled personal mobility device, hugely engineered to accommodate various gyroscopes, motors and batteries, balancing, and propelling, up to 250 pounds worth of perfectly walkable human at up to 15 miles per hour, or slightly slower than you can run, for up to 24 miles, or slightly less than you could walk in a full day. It can carry no real bags, which is less than you, can negotiate no steps, again, less than you, and cannot withstand serious bumps or rough terrain, which you can. It is immensely American, cruising along at a slightly higher speed than normal, expending slightly less energy (yours that is, the thing still needs charging), just revelling in the knowledge that you are more technologically advanced than the pleb you are whirring past. They are brilliant fun, and any moron can pilot them with little difficulty. I took a tour with a guide and her mum up and down Washington. For this kind of activity, they have a purpose, cutting walking tours down to shorter, less sweaty excursions. New legislation in DC will put them on the roads though, and without indicators, brake lights, or any kind of protection, you're better off on a bike.
The mum invited me to dinner afterwards, which was very nice, and again, very American. The locals are lovely, as long as you catch them when they are not working, and not going through the motions of being lovely. You can understand why, they probably just push themselves too far. It's that extreme thing again.

Washington D.C. FREEDOM!!! and other movie lines.

As I settled into my seat for the flight to D.C. I was struck by the notion that wishing to get closer to Americans was perhaps a little premature. This was most likely due to the outstandingly plump child seated before me, weighed down by huge, gold aviators that he had to keep pushing back up his little, fat nose, and the huge, gold watch that he had to keep pushing back up his little, fat arms. That, or the outstandingly plump brother to this child, who had seated himself in the seat next to me, as well as mine. As I wondered about the possibilities of changing seats, an outstandingly camp, Hispanic air steward made an announcement of some sort. As I could not understand a word of what he was mincing, I decided to hunker down for the brief flight from Boston, it was only an hour.
With the flight still in my mind, wandering through Washington's imposing buildings and cavernous museums, strolling down its massive central mall, it is impossible to ignore the fact that Americans cannot do anything unless it is outstanding. I like Washington, I like its grandeur, its sense of purpose and its obvious air of business-like intent, and the way that it takes itself seriously. Perhaps too seriously, though; almost all the buildings are weighty, thick edifices with enormous columns and defiant, hard edges. In an effort to recall the seats of ancient democracies, the architects of Washington's greatest monuments and museums fashioned exaggerated, neo-classical monsters. The best example of this is the National Archives Building, an enlarged Pantheon sporting a stepped pyramid on its summit. For a country so young (at the time of construction), to emulate two ancient structures, and then brashly conflate them in a building housing the country's relatively meagre history, is amusingly, amazingly proud. The quasi-religious significance is intentional; this is the structure housing the United State's most sacred texts: the Constitution, the Bill of Rights and the Declaration of Independence.
Though the whole city is faintly ridiculous, and only faintly, it is extremely hard not to get involved. Walking along the mall, sitting atop the Lincoln memorial, taking the tour of the Capitol and watching the movie about the United State's creation, it made me proud to be American. Which was a bit weird, obviously. It is near impossible not to get sucked in. The USA is one nation, under God, but by taking in all of Washington's literature I was struck by the idea that that god is the Union itself. The reverence for the creation that the American people are makers and members of is almost cult-like; they love it when it works, blame it for their difficulties, owe it everything but have their own independent wishes that work against it. "After God, the next most important thing is your country", say a young marine in a conscription video replayed in the National Museum of American History, "opinions are considered, and considered again", say the voiceover in the Congressional guide. Democracy is difficult, it is a vocation, if not a mission, a crusade. Freedom, as they say (repeatedly), is't free. It needs you heart, your body, and most clearly of all, your soul.
Walking away from the pantheon of statues in the Capitol building (two of each state's greatest figures), down past the pagan phallus of the National Monument, the National Archives and their darkened crypt where the national treasures are guarded, the pure white temple where their highest leader resides, and the memorials to patriots, fallen in Korean, Vietnam, and World wars, you eventually reach the Lincoln Memorial, clearly modelled on the Temple of Jupiter. Looking over the mall though, and all the glory that America can assemble, the only people there are tourists, and only a handful of them American. Then again, who really though that Washington was ever designed to impress American citizens? As a foreigner, looking on, it is ridiculous, it is pompous, and it is a little grotesque. But, as the pictures show, it does look lovely, and you can't complain about that.

Monday, 3 August 2009

Photos of Boston

Still coping with new pcs in different places. Here are some photos of Boston, Harvard, MIT, and a bear. I have subsituted myself for a bear because I can take photos of it when there is nobody to take photos of me. That is my excuse and I am sticking to it.


Saturday, 1 August 2009

Bye to Boston

Three main discoveries made today. First, my legs are weak. Second, the Vietnamese make a mean sandwich. Third, in certain north eastern cities, 'character' means rough as f**k.
Yesterday was tiring; with my new 'buddies' Arvin and Erik, (two Swedish chaps, one little and blonde, one tall and bespectacled) I trekked to Cambridge, home to Harvard and MIT, both of which are arguably better than Cambridge, Cambridge. It transpires that Arvin loves his evolutionary biology, and Harvard's Museum of Natural History is particularly slanted in this field. The exhibits are standard museum fare, but it easy to forget that it is a university's museum, and they have triceratops heads and suspended whale skeletons. I love museums, especially ones with animals, but Harvard just made me feel very unimportant, and very poor.
On the way to Cambridge we stopped in Toscani's, which, according to the NYT, makes the best ice cream in the world. It probably does, but when it's pissing it down so much that ducks are landing in the intersections, one doesn't feel too much like ice cream. The vanilla rooibos is lovely though.
During term-time, Cambridge must be a fantastic place to be. It is spookily, eerily clean though. Perhaps the students bring the litter back to a normal level, perhaps the street cleaners just get so good at dealing with the hundreds of thousands of students in the greater Boston area that when they leave, the job is easy. I thought the swedes would appreciate this, but they weren't as excited as I was, which was a shame.
Arvin and Erik went up the coast on my final day, but, finances being stretched for two months, I decided to stay local and tick the final boxes I had missed. First on the list was the Bunker Hill monument, just one of many chest-pounding icons of New England's defiant independence and patriotism. A huge, pointed phallus, it has 294 steps to the viewing platform, where you can get a great view of the city's skyline. This is all true, but trying to take a steady picture after scaling its height in 25 degree weather and in flip-flops is quite another matter. Still, good calf workout.
The neighbourhood around Bunker Hill, roughly spreading into Charlestown is lovely: pastel-painted wooden boards front every house, gardens are neat and colourful, roads are clean, streets are tree-lined. Basically, it's a conservation area, and therefore totally unrepresentative of Boston. The Warren Tavern, favoured haunt of Paul Revere (the British are coming, etc), is now an estate agent, flogging hugely expensive riverfront properties. I stopped for a drink in an Irish bar next door: hurling sticks on the walls, two screens showing above the bar, gruff barmaid behind it. The first telly showed, exclusively, adverts for food, in massive, greasy portions. The second showed, exclusively, protein powders, weight loss programs, self-help guides and plastic surgery. Is this representative of America? Maybe I'll know in a few weeks.
Next on the list was Chinatown, for lunch. Skirting past the live poultry store and its noisy menu, I went to the Vietnamese Sandwich House on Harrison Avenue, where a tub of sticky-spicy pork, veg and sticky rice is $3.75. The sandwiches look just as tasty, and are far cheaper. Still, not Irish, not the Boston I wanted.
South Boston, the semi-residential Irish neighbourhood, is in the words of the Boston guide in my hostel, "Jimmy Bulger's (think Nicholson in The Departed) old stomping ground". It continues, the area is "characterful and can still draw visitors in". Perhaps, if you were tied to the back of something heading that way. It's not that the area is really rough, it reminds me of Stevenage, Hertfordshire (for the Americans), but the positives are just not enough to bring you there ahead of the negatives or neutrals. Disappointed, I headed home via streets lined with IRA murals and badly spelt graffiti raving about the Dropkick Murphys.
As a send-off to the city, I went out with a genuine Irishman. And two Aussies. And a Brummie. Popping into a pub in the Back Bay area, we assembled ourselves around a large table and explained to the waitresses why tipping was wrong. Several cheap but totally rubbish beers later, I decided to call it an evening, before, like my new-found Irish pal, I started buying the waitresses shots. I left the city of the Celtics with a celt getting progressively more enjoyable, but with the usual colonials attending the table, I'm still struck by the fact that I have still not met enough Americans. Maybe the capital is the best place to look. Nest stop D.C.

Thursday, 30 July 2009

Boston, Day One. Storm in a...Tea Party...?

Mmm, woeful title. In New England, it seems fitting to begin with that most english of topics: the weather. Boston's weather has taken a tropical tinge today it seems, and a torrential downpour scuppered my plans to walk the city in the morning. Instead, I holed up in the Boston Public library, and the subway.
The library is lovely. The subway less so. The library is a grand, imposing city-block's worth of book-toting and smug patriotism, well made, well stocked, and sporting a smashing fountain inside a courtyard that wouldn't look place outside renaissance Venice. It reeks of that casual opulence that one associates with the USA's centres of learning. The subway meanwhile, just reeks. The grubby tunnels don't even sport proper platforms (you have to get up into the trains). Nevertheless, it does the job quickly and pretty cheaply - $9 for a day.
By the time I came out at the Government Centre the sun had come out, (properly, judging by my red neck), and I walked up to the wharfside. A man had done an abstract watercolour sketch of the rain-soaked watercraft and the heavy sky. The clouds looked realistic enough, which probably means it wasn't a very good painting. I didn't tell him, because he looked pleased with himself.
As with any major tourist spot, the centre of Boston, during working hours, is perhaps 1% Bostonian. As a result, it is totally overpriced and you are lucky if you hear English spoken, let alone an Irish twang. My taxi driver was Haitian, and took a quick citizenship test in the car on the way from the airport - "Name two national Haalidays" says generic lady, "New Year's Day, Martin Luther King Jr Day, Independence Day...". He wanted to come to London, to take his daughter to Diana's grave. Nowhere else, just there. Incidentally, by the wharf, opposite Victoria's Secret, alongside Wagamama's, is a replica Cheers. Where absolutely nobody knows your name.
In fact, it has been very hard to meet any Americans at all. The waitress that served my clam chowder (when in Rome) seemed totally thrown when I asked where she went out. Over the water it seems. So, the north side and Harvard is where I'm off to tomorrow. Weather permitting of course.

Tuesday, 28 July 2009

Off I go

As of tomorrow, I will be in the United States. For those of you that have it, please don't call my mobile, or we will both regret it. There are no pictures up, as none have been taken. That said, I may put a taster map up to show my route. Feel free to post messages of approval, motivation, or general distaste. If you feel that this is genuinely rubbish, say so. You could even stop reading it. Or, you could just cross fingers, and hope that my penchant for oatcakes gets me eaten by a bear in Yellowstone. I'll be back in the UK in October, hurricanes, plane crashes, and Yogi bears notwithstanding.