Thud!


From the moment I landed at Heathrow Airport my spirits came back down to earth with a resounding thud. Twenty four hours earlier I had been sauntering around Piedmont Park with Christian in 80 degree heat, dressed as had become the norm during my trip in the ubiquitous shorts, tee-shirt and flipflops. English temperature upon my return was in the high forties, the sky was grey and everything about the place looked drab, drab, drab.

Goosebumps in May? I had not bargained on that. The other real contrast I had not expected - but I don't know why. I had just spent fifteen days in the company of Christian and, at different times, family and friends of Beth, now I was back to my usual existence, alone for many hours at a time.

With no-one to talk to, no-one to share my experiences with - no-one to bore with my holiday stories is the truth - all I could do was sit and reflect on the best holiday of my life. I actually needed the time to process all that had happened, so much was packed in to such a brief period that some events were almost subsumed by the next.

On the penultimate day Christian and I drove to near Birmingham, Alabama to visit a motorcycle museum. On the way we stopped for breakfast, something of a ritual on our road trips, and, in the absence of a Dunkin Donuts we settled on yet another Waffle House. We'd been to enough of these to know that we could find our way round the menu easily enough - the humiliation of my Subway visit still too fresh in my mind to want to risk a strange menu and language difficulties in Alabama!

To the delightful young, pink-haired waitress called Amethyst - birthstone for February as she pointed out - we gave our orders, pretty much just small variations from our previous breakfasts. As always we had both asked for our eggs "over easy", an Americanism I'd heard enough in the films but still enjoyed the novelty of actually saying it.

Amethyst called out our order to the cook - are these the ones Americans call short order chefs - and was met with a strong and withering response. I struggled to understand it all - the cook didn't have subtitles under her face so that we Brits could follow her tirade. Eventually I understood that she was complaining that there was no such thing as "over easy", the waitress should have asked for "over light" I think.

So now I'm confused. Over easy worked just fine for thirteen days and now we'd gotten our waitress a public dressing down for it. As though she cared. She was still smarting from being told to wash out her purple hair as it was too bright, too brash for their customers. Hence she'd changed it to pink! As far as I can now tell the options for eggs in the US roadside diners is from the selection, over light, over easy and over cooked but which one you ask for is anybody's guess.

I had been told many times before by friends who had visited America that the bacon there is very different to ours, "they can't do bacon properly the way we do." Well, what do you know, I absolutely adore American bacon, far prefer it to ours and since my visit have experimented with cooking it for the flavour and texture they achieve. Have managed to get the right degree of crispiness but so far ours has proved a touch too salty. The search continues.

On my third day in America we were off, to Alabama this time too but in this case to Talladega for the race. As we crossed the state line from Georgia into Alabama Christian studied his mobile intently and, sure enough, after a minute or two the time set itself back one hour from Eastern Time to Central Time. Beth was checking her phone - I guess because she's American I had better call hers a cell phone! - but her time didn't alter. Bizarrely, at this time I received a text, something I never expected as all my friends knew I was out of the country and therefore it wasn't worth texting me until my return.

The text was from my mobile (cell) phone provider welcoming me to the Isle of Man! For the benefit of the American readers I should point out that the Isle of Man is, surprise, a small island, population 80,000, in the Irish Sea between England and the Irish Republic. How a signal from Alabama placed me in the Irish Sea I'll never understand. Modern technology at its best, I guess. T-mobile redeemed themselves five minutes later, however, with a follow-up text which said, "Welcome to the United States of America". I'd only been there three days!

My return to England held something of a surprise for me. During my lifetime there have been fifteen general elections, all resolved quite satisfactorily, if not always to the pleasure of various participants. This sixteenth was the first one I was going to be out of the country for - an unfortunate fact caused by the Prime Minister's lack of knowledge of the date for the Talladega race or my travel plans, although he only had to ask.

I applied for a postal vote and British efficiency excelled again - they sent me my voting form some time after I left the country. Thus I was in no position to make my mark and what happens? A hung parliament, that's what. My first reaction was that hanging was too good for some of them but quickly realised I misunderstood the meaning of the phrase. I blame myself for the outcome, of course. I should never have left the voters to cope by themselves with such an enormous task. Simply, I should have tried to get the main event moved to some time after the Talladega race.

Three good things have come out of the results, though. Firstly we have ended up with a coalition government which should prevent the worst excesses we have seen before from the two main parties. Secondly, we have a promise of electoral reform, something long overdue and I have advocated for a very long time, and finally the coalition has agreed to introduce fixed term parliaments of five years in future - instead of elections being called at the whim of the incumbent Prime Minister - a move I suspect agreed upon to make it much easier for me to arrange my holidays and thus avoid a repetition of this whole sorry business!

Brits'n'grits

First of all I need to acknowledge that the title today - the first that is nothing to do with songs - was suggested by Christian and I think probably sums up the fortnight quite well.

The story of me and grits has continued - last Sunday I went with Christian, Beth and Beth’s family for breakfast at a restaurant called Famous Amos in Jacksonville, Florida. They showed me there the proper way to eat grits, with plenty of melted butter stirred in plus liberal doses of salt and pepper. I really don’t like salt, don’t use it at all so passed that by but certainly smothered my grits with butter and pepper. So now I am able tell you how much better grits is when eaten properly.

But I can’t lie to you.

On Tuesday evening we went to dinner at Beth’s aunt’s house. There I managed to continue my run of meeting relatives I saw at Christian and Beth’s wedding last July but actually getting a chance to speak to them properly this time. I met a few last weekend in Jacksonville and on Tuesday night I had chance to catch up with Beth’s cousin, Kathy, her son, Austin who really loves railways, plus Bob and Sindy. Bob is Christian’s boss these days but the reality is when you see them together they are a comedy double act who just giggle and laugh their way through life.

Sindy was kind enough to give me two books as a present, the first a lovely photographic book about Atlanta which will always remind me of my trip. The second book was a cook book. How she knew I liked cooking I’ll never know. But it really was a thoughtful present. Especially as every recipe includes grits!

As this is being written on my last afternoon in the USA - for this trip at least - I am mindful to think back over the things I have seen and done during this trip. One incident not mentioned in this blog previously happened when we were at the gardens with all the sculptures near Murrells Inlet.

We walked into one of the sculpture buildings and were greeted with a “Hello!” by an elegant and elderly woman sat behind a desk. Christian and I walked around a bit and then our path led us back past this desk. The lady asked how we were, heard the accents in our answer so queried where we were from. Christian told her London in England but he now lived in Atlanta.

This dear old soul told us she used to live there but left when it became too fast and hectic for her and she and her family moved to South Carolina for a quieter, more tranquil life. I asked how long ago she left and she told, “Oh - let me think - it was - er - oh, heck - when was it? - er - I guess my son was in the fifth grade then.”

“Would it be tactless of me to ask how old your son is now?” I ventured.

“Oh - er - how old is he now? - er - he’s - er - let me think - yes - he’s seventy two.”

She looked barely seventy herself but it turned out she was ninety-two and, apart from having a fading memory - we’d allow her that, wouldn’t we? - she was as bright as a button. We walked around the room a few minutes longer then Christian said, “There’s something I have to say to that lady.” Off he went and simply said to her, “I have to tell you that you are a very attractive woman.” She was most certainly that. Reckons he made her day.

Wednesday was spent at the Barber Motorsport Park near Birmingham, Alabama. There they have a motorcycle museum. One of the things I’ve learned from this trip is that America certainly knows how to do museums. This particular one was stunning, really huge covering five floors and crammed with excellent examples of nearly every bike ever made. And that with another six hundred examples which they just don’t have room for so we can’t see. All very impressively laid out in a magnificent building.

For the second time during a museum visit Christian and I were shuffled quickly through one part because they had a tour party coming round and clearly the tour groups are worth more effort than two men strolling around on their own. Shame that but it wasn’t a problem. The only reason I tell you this fact is because of the group we had to move aside for at the motorcycle museum - a group of eighteen ladies, all immaculately dressed and beautifully coiffured hair, and sixty-five if they were a day. Not, dare I suggest, your typical bike fans.

The strongest impression I take back home with me from this visit, though, is undoubtedly the friendliness of everyone. Not just friends and family but also the countless times a total stranger has asked, “How ya doin?” as I’ve walked past, or just smiled and said, “Hi!” And one whiff of our accents has opened up all sorts of chats and big, friendly smiles. Christian’s big smile and his accent make everybody melt - you can see it happen. Yup. This sure is a friendly part of the world.

And, although America can be so very different to Europe I realised the reality is that with most things life here is much the same as ours really, it just needs to think in bigger distances, etc. Here it is really normal to drive forty miles just to visit a friend, a distance British people would think hard before going. The buildings are taller, the cities larger and grander, the distances between vast compared to ours but it seems people still live the same sort of lives. In England the big topic seems to be X-factor, in the USA American Idol. Every time Beth’s family were together that subject came up.

Tell you what, though. American toilet bowls baffled me! Why are most of them half-filled with water? It freaks me every time I see that - seems a waste of water and utterly pointless. And - as a man who is heading - no - racing headlong into old age and knowing that the time comes when body parts start sagging those bowls full of water hold promise of a cold, wet future!

I’ve also grown very fond of always being dressed in tee-shirts, short and flip-flops. That’s a great way to live. Hard to see what it could be that takes women so long to get ready to go out anywhere, though! I will definitely miss the shorts and flip-flops back in the UK apart from the three days a year we can comfortably wear them.

And your women too. I will miss them. I could not help but notice that there are some really gorgeous looking women here. With all the self control I could muster I managed to survive by using up every ounce of discipline I could and only fell deeply in love five times a day.

This blog went out to more people than I had ever envisaged. Thank you so much for taking the time and trouble to look and I just hope that somehow they were maybe interesting and entertaining. This will be the end of this particular blog as the holiday ends in a few short hours.

I have been writing another blog which has been read by precisely nobody! It started as practice for this and was used occasionally to write thoughts and feelings about things going on in my life. I can’t say I put too much thought into what was being written believing it would never be read. But I have had some very encouraging and kind feedback about this blog relating tales of my visit to Christian and Beth so maybe - just maybe - I could be tempted to write the odd piece for that - and heaven knows some of the pieces I write can be odd!

If you are interested in that the blog is at www.kevinisawally.blogspot.com

Bye-bye America - it’s been so much fun discovering one small part of you.

Love and ((((HUG))))

Kevin

The boys are back in town

Sure, Christian was so looking forward to seeing Beth again after their longest separation since before they wed, and we were both looking forward to seeing her family and friends in Jacksonville again, but you just cannot imagine the feeling of being two little boys who had to go and rejoin the grown-ups after our six day jaunt through some of the southern states. It was a feeling akin to having our toys taken away.


Beth’s parents, Pat and Dick, and her sisters, their families and Beth’s friends were so, so welcoming - incredibly I feel like I’m part of the family, so much hugging and kissing was called for, but I had shaved especially for the occasion . . .

I was taken on Sunday to St Augustine, the oldest inhabited place apparently in the US. I’m assuming here that the Native Americans were pretty much all nomadic and so never established what we’d know as townships.

St Augustine, for me, gave confusing messages. It has some of the most beautiful buildings to be seen in the USA but it is what they are doing with those buildings that bugs me so much. Am I to believe that the original Spanish settlers liked nothing more than to relax in an Irish Bar or to shop for tee-shirts and fridge magnets? As far as I can see this happens the world over - in Stratford-upon-Avon, Shakespeare’s home town in England, it is far easier to buy a piece of Waterford Crystal than it is to buy a loaf of bread. And in creating tourist-centred towns they seem to destroy the soul of what was originally there.

To me, St Augustine is very much a twenty-first century town dressed in eighteenth century clothes. If ever there was a place crying out to be a living historical village St Augustine would be it. To walk down that main road and be able to see a period dressed blacksmith working at his forge, to see bread being prepared as it used to, to see what ever sort of lawman they would have had at that time - do we know what their legal hierarchy was? - to see an 18th century school being run would have been so entertaining, so much fun and what a way to educate your children by bringing them to actually see a living example of how it all begun.

But, sadly, with so many people earning a good dollar selling tourist tat how can you undo what has been done? Who would give up their chance of taking that quick buck to create a wonderful example of living history even if it could eventually turn a profit once the whole idea got up and running. If my thoughts have offended any Americans, especially Floridians who I know are proud of their treasured town, then I am sorry but I only know to say what I see and what I see is an opportunity sadly missed.

Never before have I been given instructions for a bathroom which told me to turn left at the first sink, go down past the bath/shower and second sink, turn right at the end and there I would find the toilet. In the house I live in a moment’s carelessness as I open the bathroom door will see me crack my shins on the toilet bowl. Compared to what I am used to the bathroom Pat gave me to use was huge!

A conversation I had with a dear friend two months ago caused me to check on something I do every day and take very much for granted. I discovered that each day I spend exactly six seconds looking in a mirror, never a second more. After a shower and getting dressed a quick check to make sure my hair isn’t sticking up anywhere is all I need to see of me, thank you. The reason I mention this is because the bathroom I used at Pat’s had two huge wall mirrors and some odd little ones scattered about so with alarming frequency I would look up from whatever I was doing and see various views of myself. And that is how I discovered that middle-aged man’s body is absolutely not an attractive site, is it ladies? I’m back to my six second look at my hair!

Talking of bathrooms reminds me that on Christian’s and my travels we obviously had to use various restrooms along the way. There I found American restrooms are adorned with exactly the same graffiti as those in my homeland, only the phone numbers are changed. All sorts of alluring and enticing offers being made, but cruelly not for straight men - we actually become a persecuted minority, it seems. But how curious that virtually every town, both American and British has a guy called Richard who seems to like writing this stuff. Or Big Dick as he prefers to be known.

The price of petrol or gasoline has raised its head a few times during our stay here, especially for Floridians who watch the price of their fuel hike up every summer so that a tidy profit can be creamed from the influx of tourists. It is with some annoyance that they watch their prices rise to over three dollars per gallon.

Comparing prices can be a tricky business because UK prices are marked at the pump in pounds per litre although older English people still try to work out how much it is per gallon. The situation then gets more complicated because the English and American gallons are completely different sizes. But Christian, Beth and I have wrestled with the maths and can at last make a direct comparison. Whilst Americans get mad at their prices rising above three dollars a gallon I can tell you that for the same volume fuel the British are starting to protest at paying seven dollars forty. And do you know why ours is so much more expensive? A simple three-lettered word gives the answer. Tax.

On a visit to Beth’s sister in Jacksonville we stumbled across something which offers a solution to high fuel prices and could become a useful multi-tasking aid for the future. Built by a teenage neighbour who understandably is off soon to college to study mechanical engineering, ladies and gentlemen I present to you the motorised bar stool!

Georgia on my mind

Those tourist buses, they're the only way to first see a new place, aren't they? I drive trains in to Liverpool in England virtually every day and yet knew nothing really about the place until I went for a ride on their tourist bus. They have a huge Catholic Cathedral in the city centre, a round concrete structure which, because of its shape and Liverpool's large Irish population, is known locally as Paddy's Wigwam. It was on the tourist bus that I learned that the four bells hung side by side in a tower at the front of the cathedral are known to the priests and congregation as Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. I also discovered that to the rest of the Liverpudlians those four bells will always be referred to as John, Paul, George and Ringo!

So it was inevitable that Christian and I would ride the tourist bus in Savannah today. What a fabulous city. Such a rich history and so much of it still in tact. The tour guide was a sweetie who told us loads of little tales and didn't hang back from sharing her opinions with us all. To one couple, asking about visiting a particular house, the scene of the crime in the book, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, she said simply, "You pay twelve dollars fifty and you get to see three rooms, a garden and they positively will not discuss the book with you. If you think that might be good value . . ." and let that sentence hang in the air. The couple went to another house.

I had originally thought I would return to some of the squares and take some, no doubt, artistic shots of spanish moss and antebellum houses. And then I thought; You know what? You can find excellent pictures of that stuff on google images. You wanna see them, look there and you'd find better photos than I'd ever take. Like this one:

Instead Christian and I just roamed aimlessly around and let fate take us where it will. We've found ourselves in some wonderful places just by letting life decide where we should go. It certainly found us an awesome burger joint today serving some of the best - and genuinely award-winning - burgers we ever had. A card on the table proudly told us, "New Belgium's Skinny Dip is a full-bodied, figure friendly beer perfect for the lightly attired summer months. Cascade hops frolic with ample malt to create a bright, citrusy nose that's as crisp as a frothy dip in a mountain pond." Now - if I'm to be open and honest with you, I like to frolic as much as the next man - really I do - would welcome the chance, truth be told - but I'm not too big on having a bright, citrusy nose or a frothy dip. Is there any chance I could just have a beer please?

A couple of hours later, after seeing a container ship sail into the port, which induced the odd "Wow" from us and even the occasional "Ooh!" and "Aah!" as our linguistic skills grow by the day, we said idly that we both fancied a coffee. As we went off in search of it - and let's be fair here, in America searching for coffee is not especially taxing - I said what we could really do with was a New Orleans jazz band playing on a street corner. Two blocks later we stumbled across these people outside a coffee bar. Ok, so they aren't from New Orleans nor are they a jazz band but we weren't about to quibble with that.

These guys epitomised all I have found in the deep south. Take another look at the black guy on the left. Look at his guitar. Notice anything? See that? - No strings. Neither could he sing. In fact all he did was rock side-to-side with the music and strum noiselessly on his stringless guitar. He had learning difficulties and could only walk with the aid of a walking frame. But to the singer/guitarist and the double bass player he was part of the band, they gave him solos where he just rocked to the beat and earned his own rounds of applause. That's cool, isn't it? Christian and I sat for a long time, drinking our coffee, eating our gelato and just watching the show. If we'd have done the tourist thing we'd never have stumbled across this scene. I'm glad we did.

Remember a couple of days ago I said we wouldn't be staying in the Bates Motel in Savannah? Well, we're not. But neither are we staying anywhere salubrious. Another wash basin in the bedroom. Just less Mexicans in the next room this time.

But out tour of the hotels and motels of the deep south has raised one of life's big problems for me. Showers. Every single one is a work of art to get it to the right temperature and flow, is it not? I have grappled, wrestled and fought with many a tap/faucet and shower hose. And what is it with the controls? The only guidance they give you is an "H" on one side and a "C" on the other, or - if they are trying to be really helpful - they colour one side blue and one side red.

Toasters don't have just blue and red to guide you. Neither does your oven. Nor washing machine. So how come that is considerd good enough for showers? Here's my suggestion, and I'm looking for your support here. The temperature control should be marked as follows. Arctic Blizzard - Nipple Hardener - English Rain - Mississippi Shower - Lobster Rinse - Blisters4Free. And the flow rate could be marked from softest to hardest as Soft Drizzle - Sensual Pleasure - Comfort Rinse - Depilator - Tattoo Remover.

How easy would that be to set the shower just how you want it? Are you with me on this? We could make it happen!

Go your own way

Christian and I have done really well. We've been by each other's side virtually non-stop since we left Atlanta on Monday lunch time. Sat in a car together for hours at a time, sharing thoughts and observations with each other, eating all our meals together and, of course, sharing a hotel room each night. I guess inevitably we weren't going to agree on everything and this morning for a short time we went our separate ways - he had tomato with his breakfast whilst I had hash browns.

But we got over it.

By the way - for you Brits - that's toe-may-toe he had, not toe-mar-toe - they don't have those here . . .

We have this strange concoction travelling the roads of the south-east states here, a father and son, two men a generation apart who are at the same time two wide-eyed little boys taking in all the things they have seen on their travels. Two petrol heads who marvel incessantly at yet another Kenworth or Mack truck driving along the interstate highways, who gasp and say eloquent phrases like, "Wow!" when they see another '69 Ford Mustang or any other old car. And grin at each other inanely when anywhere near a NASCAR racing car.

We've done every cheesy, clichéd thing possible - driving along the highways listening to the Beach Boys, Fleetwood Mac or Chuck Berry, ordered our eggs "over easy", had chili dogs with iced tea, had grits for breakfast, asked for a coffee "to go". Grits are something unique. A colourless splodge on the plate which tastes of nothing. And I mean nothing. When the splodge has vanished you find yourself thinking, "What was that about?" You know you've eaten something but were deprived of any sensation of taste, texture or pleasure, the culinary equivalent of a deep and meaningful conversation with Paris Hilton.

Our search for the elusive mullet has proved fruitless - can you believe we've travelled over large parts of the deep South and not seen one mullet? But, today, we struck gold when in one diner we saw not one but two ponytails on middle-aged men and a woman with the best 5o'clock shadow we've seen in ages.

Already on this trip we have seen unimaginable beauty here in America but we have also seen her unwashed armpits too, which was always the intention. With a couple of exceptions we have avoided the tourist trail and just drifted through the real world here. More than anything else we have seen unimaginable friendliness.  Everywhere.

We drove through Myrtle Beach this morning, one of the most popular tourist destinations in this part of the world. What a strange place it is, such an unusual cocktail. First place we noticed on the way in was the Bunny Ranch. Girls, girls, girls was their punchy slogan. Soon after we spotted His'n'hers Pleasure Palace and then the Red Hot Club. From there we drove along a strip full of high-rise hotels - all had low, low rates, free wi-fi, beach views, free breakfast but none of them had girls, girls, girls which was disappointing.

Next thing we realised was that the place resembled God's waiting room. The only people we could see were eighty-somethings shuffling around. Could these possibly have been the customers for the His'n'hers Pleasure Palace? Tell me it can't be true. Please.

I am liking the United States so much and have been like a little boy walking around in wide-eyed bewilderment at all the things I am seeing. But I ain't finished yet.

We were walking in to a diner for our dinner tonight and passed a big black guy stood outside having a quiet smoke. "How ya doing fellas?" he asked.

"We're good thanks, and how are you?"

"I'm good. Are you two twins?"

Now, there's a man I could like and respect. Christian, however, thinks he could do with an eye test.

The pictures today are all from Brookgreen Gardens near Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. They don't need any words from me.

Blue hotel

Against Beth's advice I decided we would stop at one of those roadside motels, you know, as run by Norman Bates. To be fair the man who signed us in didn't look like a maniac but then neither did Norman to start with.

First observation was that the walls were very thin. Like two sheets of wallpaper sandwiching some cardboard. When Christian asked me a question one of the Mexicans in the next room asked, "¿Que?" Oh! Did I not mention the Mexicans? We lost count of the different voices we heard but think a good part of the population of Chihuahua were right next to us. The motel may have been cheap but when they throw in a crash course in Spanish you can't be ungrateful, can you?

The shower was clean and a joy to use as was the loin cloth they gave us to dry ourselves with. The washbasin was in the bedroom, though. Cleaning my teeth with an audience was a whole new experience for me, one I would have missed out on entirely if we had gone to one of those regular hotels where they had full sized towels. And coffee making in the room. And free breakfast the next morning. Free newspapers. And a shortage of bugs in the bed!

Yesterday was a big driving day, Ashville to Winston-Salem for a NASCAR museum then the long haul to Myrtle Beach ready for today's treat. The museum was really impressive run by Richard Childress racing, one of the teams who for years ran the legendary Dale Earnhardt. It was way bigger than we expected, beautifully laid out and we both learned so much about the sport. You know how I always think too much about everything and that included stock cars as well. I had virtually every question answered yesterday.

One huge frustration was when we were sat watching a video of Earnhardt's career, narrated by Paul Newman. In this little corner of the museum was on of those roll-up garage doors with a display put across it. Part way through the video they started up one of the race cars next to us and then we could hear it being run round outside the building. It was fu - err - very loud! We never will know now what the commentary was through that bit!

How can I put being the other side of the door from a full-on race car to you ladies? Imagine hearing someone really famous, really handsome like George Clooney/Brad Pitt/Johnny Depp/Lyle Lovett (delete as applicable) the other side of that door but you just can't find your way there. That's how we felt. Well - not about George Clooney. Nor Lyle Lovett. We later found out that they were doing pit stop practice. Damn.

The drive from there to Myrtle Beach took us through some interesting places. Strangely interesting. In all those films where you see the old black guy sitting on the porch in his rocking chair? He's still sat there, I can tell you. We saw a few trailer parks too. Nice. And several roadside bars where we just know the talking would have stopped as we walked in. "Hey - you got purty lips, boy!" We weren't that desperate for a drink.

And what is with the car sales lots? There are hundreds of them. And each one has so many cars for sale, sixty, seventy, eighty cars all on one lot. Who has the money to buy those in and leave them sitting there hoping a customer will call in and buy one. That's a shedload of money just sat there on every lot.

Overall impression so far? North Carolina is one beautiful state and really should be higher up the tourist scale. I'd come again just on the off chance I'd sit staring at the wolf that sat staring at me.

Today is a plantation laid out as a garden with over seven hundred sculptures in it - poor old Christian is going to end the day loving them or hating them, that's for sure. Then on to Savannah and the luxury of two nights in a hotel. we've already booked our room and it ain't in the Bates Motel, that's for sure.

Four seasons in one day

I am being blown away by the friendliness of people in North Carolina. I've made so many new best friends! And I have had my first "Ar jurst lurve yer cute accent!" Well, I love your cute accent too, honey. Tell you another thing I've noticed about people here. They are so much more patient than British people. At a four-way junction where the traffic lights had broken down everyone waited patiently whilst each road in turn had one car go across. That would have been a proper scrum back home, everybody trying to bully their way through. Same at Talledega on Sunday. Trying to cram 200,000 people into a stadium took a bit of time but all the people just waited patiently and took their turn to get through the gates.

On the roads too drivers are so much more courteous and tolerant of each other. Christan thinks it might be because this is a land where picking an argument with another driver could be picking an argument with a man with a gun. In the same way that nuclear bombs actually seem to have made the world less dangerous so maybe the proliferation of guns here actually makes it calmer and more relaxed. Just a thought.

The Cherokee museum yesterday was pretty much what I expected - glad I went but wouldn't feel the need to go back there. We were busting for a pee when we got there so headed to the toilet straight away. We were both stood there doing what you have to do when some Indian music started up. I've always known they have their war dances but didn't realise they had their "Make you giggle whilst you piss" music.

From there we headed to the Blue Ridge Parkway. For you Brits I need to tell you this road is described as the most scenic in south-east America. It is absolutely stunning. No trucks allowed - 45mph maximum - no advertising hoardings allowed - just mind blowing scenery. All the travel guides warn of heavy congestion on the road and there was one time when it got really busy - one car in front of me and one behind . . .

It's the end of April, we're in the warm southern states so the choice was simple. Tee-shirts, shorts and flip-flops it was then. How cool did we look in the falling snow! And how come we failed to realise we'd be driving on sheet ice? Englishmen abroad - they shouldn't be allowed.

Drove my Chevy to the levee

Today, Monday, was the start of the road trip. We hired a Chevrolet Cobalt which might sound really grand to you Brits but in reality is virtually a Vauxhall Astra in disguise. Beth prepared a packed lunch for us to eat on our travels and we headed off about two in the afternoon. We both felt the sort of rush you used to feel when school was out for the summer - the freedom to go where the mood took us with no time constraints or pressures. We carried with us a strong feeling of euphoria.


That feeling lasted as long as it took to discover we had left Atlanta on the wrong road. Doh!

You’d think I’d know by now, wouldn’t you, not to trust my ageing memory but, no, off we went, Christian obediently following my directions. You want to know what made it worse? I was actually reading the map at the time! My finger was obediently drawing our progress along the road we should have been on but sadly the car was going in a different direction entirely.

Being men we couldn’t possibly turn back nor ask for directions but eventually got back on track. Glad we did really. Ended up driving across the top of Georgia through the Chattahoochee National Forest which was stunning. I’ve ridden my motorbike many times over the Swiss Alps, across most of France, across the Pyrenees mountain range and through Northern Italy. Been to the Lake District and to the lowlands of Scotland, although never the Highlands. In other words I have been lucky enough to see some pretty spectacular scenery in my travels but North Georgia can compete with them all.

According to the books we have we are in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains but if these are the foothills I am dying to find out how big the mountains proper are.

A first for me, though, is that these mountains are entirely covered in trees and being springtime are especially lush. All previous mountains have been as bald on top as Kojak.

Tomorrow the scenic stuff starts in earnest with a chance to call in to the Museum of Cherokees.

It’s easy to see as we are driving through the countryside just how vast United States really is, an impression I got when flying over it on Thursday. There are huge areas of land that have no property on them at all, just vast wildernesses. So what made them decide to build houses under the flight paths of incoming aeroplanes? I don’t get it.

But then I am equally curious to know why the ATMs at drive-in banks here have keys with Braille on them!

Or why the New Hampshire version of the twenty-five cents coin - a quarter - has their motto or slogan, “Live free or die” on it. Is that an option they’re giving you? Do you really have to choose one or the other?

Sweet Home Alabama

Wanting breakfast and coffee in Alabama it made sense to go into a Subway and keep it simple. For all her tender teenage years the small, rounded assistant behind the counter had the look of someone who had already seen every sort of idiot that walked this earth. Not yet she hadn’t.


“Canner help y’all?”

“Er, I’ll have the Breakfast Special, please.”

“What Special d’ya want?”

There was a poster on the wall which said Breakfast Special and showed a muffin filled with - well, stuff. That poster inspired my choice in the first place and so I pointed at that and told her I’d have that, please.

She picked up a muffin, sliced it in half, looked at me and said, “Ya warn heminnit?”

“Sorry”

“Ya warn heminnit?”

I had absolutely no idea what she was saying to me. I stood staring at her feeling totally helpless.

“Hem!” she exclaimed, becoming exasperated. “Hem! Ya warn heminnit?”

“Ah! Ham. Yes, please. I’ll have heminnit.”

“Ya warn yeller eggs or white?” If you say it to yourself rhyming ‘white’ with ‘fart’ you’ll hear what I heard. Christian and I instinctively looked at each other probably for inspiration more than anything but none was forthcoming.

“Yellow please” hoping I had made a good choice.

“You warn cheeseinnit?”

“Cheese? Yes please.”

“What karnda cheese?”

“What kinds are there?”

“AmericanCheddarParmesanEdamGoat’s . . .”

“American cheddar please.”

She looked at me with a mixture of pity and contempt although I think it was mostly contempt, to be honest.

“American or cheddar?”

In an unashamedly cowardly fashion I backed away from her. I felt completely humiliated, had no idea what this girl was saying to me or even what language she was using. I felt it was time for Christian to suffer some of the indignity but, as always, he just smiled his smile and she became an instant fan . . .

I ought to tell you about the day at Talledega watching the auto racing but guess you won’t want to know too much about that. About cars travelling at 200mph nose to tail. As in the nose of the car actually touching the car in front and pushing it at that speed. About the tactics involved. About a wreck involving eight or nine cars one of which flew ablaze along the fencing and then was hit by a further three cars as it crashed back onto the track. Who’d want to know about that stuff!

What I did see was the whole American attitude encapsulated in one little stadium. Well - large stadium to be honest - two hundred thousand people would be kinda large, don’t you think?

In the build up to the race each driver stands in the back of a pick-up truck and is driven the length of the main straight. The fans are only too keen to show their appreciation. Or derision. The cheers are deafening for the local heroes. The boos are much louder. This is no time to hide your inner feelings!

It’s during the singing of the National Anthem that, as an Englishman, it’s possible to see inside the American psyche. Everyone stood, hand across their heart, they really, really feel every single one of those words as they will the singer to give the best performance of their life. I’ve seen it all done enough times on television but nothing prepares you for the depth of feeling you can sense all around you when you’re in amongst it. Americans are so proud of their country and their way of life. Why are the English not?

I was absorbing all of that and as the performer sang her very last note of the anthem four fighter jets flew low, very low across the racetrack, low enough to give all the men who had hair a proper crew cut. That happens at every single race - the arrival of the jets, not the crew cuts - and the planes never obliterate the last note or arrive a few seconds late. Think about that. How can you arrange for planes flying at up to 500mph to always turn up at a very precise spot at a very precise time which will depend on a singer - singing a capella remember, so no band or backing music to time her or his performance - to hit the final note. It happens every single time at every race and is impressive. (Hint. The singer did drag out her last two notes a bit!)

I spent the day in the company of Christian and Beth, obviously, and three of their friends who all treated me as a long-lost friend of theirs - a young guy originally from Chicago and two Southern belles, very pretty sisters who hailed from Alabama and had the accents to prove it.

“We’ll meet y’all at Sixer Clark.”

“Sixer Clark, what’s that?”

“Sixer Clark - why, it’s a tarm!”

“And what’s a tarm??”

“The tarm. The tarm of day! Do ya not speak English?”

“Err - I thought I did but now I’m not so sure.”

I just love talking with these people.

Have a narse day, y’all!!

Please don't let me be misunderstood

“Do you like Hummers?” Beth asked.

“Well, they’re a bit too big for me and I’m not really a fan of four-wheel drive vehicles but . . .”

“No. Do you like humus? With pitta bread - to have as a starter before your pizza?” she asked with the patience you reserve for children who just don’t quite understand.

It’s the language you see. I knew there were going to be difficulties - just didn’t expect them within an hour or so of arriving. As for the waitress, she kept saying things to me and all I could do was smile at her and nod. I didn’t understand one word. Mind you, I was handicapped because the night of my arrival was a big night for American Football. I mean a VERY BIG night.

It seems that if you want to be an American Football player you have to go to college and play for their team. It’s not like your sports lessons at school, thirty minutes a week to run around, shout a little, sweat a lot and graze your knees. No - American Football would be their graduation course if you like. I’m assuming they do learn other stuff whilst they are there, the periodic tables, how to prove Pythagorus’s theory, how to make the perfect crême brulée, how to avoid unwanted pregnancies but they are there to major in the game. And have no doubt, College Football is a massive thing in the States. Massive.

Now - every year when these fellows graduate what happens is the pro football teams decide who they are going to sign up from the college teams to join their squads. Did I say these games are massive in this country. The pro teams picking their players is televised. Live. For three consecutive nights. The players who get chosen are signing up to become millionaires virtually overnight.

So whilst I’m trying to find my way around the most incomprehensible menu that is written in English, a pizza parlour menu, and wondering whether I fancy a four-by-four on pitta bread the television is getting louder and louder as they build up to announcing the next “jock” to be one of the chosen ones. With wonderful timing it’s a man from Jacksonville’s college team, Beth’s home town. And not just any old player from the Jaguars. Oh no - this is their Quarterback. In American Football teams the big cheese, the main man is the Quarterback. A bit like a silverback among gorillas. Only slightly less hairy. And not so silver.

Him being picked was the cause of whoops of joy, cheers and phone calls to friends and family. So all I could do was keep smiling and nodding at the waitress. And pointing to the menu. That works everywhere in the world. Even countries that speak English!

Earlier in the day as I boarded my flight I got into conversation with one of the stewardesses. She was, I discovered, just turned fifty but so attractive I was seriously worried that some of the things I was thinking about her were probably illegal in some of the states here. I unashamedly turned the schmooze factor up to maximum until she dropped the word husband into the frame. I can’t say that it entirely dampened my ardour but I guess there was a light sprinkling of cold water. My seat was preventing a group of three travelling together so I offered to move. Give me an attractive woman to talk to and I’d sell my soul to the devil, I know I would.

A breakdown in communications - too complicated to go into now - meant that I was then obliged to change seats yet again, all overseen by my dream girl. Ten minutes since I had boarded, less than half the passengers on the plane and I was now on my third seat. Once we were fully loaded the lovely lady came to me, smiled, apologised and said she was going to have to move me yet one more time. And that was how I came to be upgraded. There’s nowt wrong with schmoozing, you know, not when it achieves those results.

I'm leaving on a jet plane . . .

The past four days have been such an experience of peaks and troughs, the news of the ash cloud changing by the hour. On Monday night I went to bed comforted to know that the flight ban would be lifted the following morning. Just six hours later when I woke up and checked the news I learned that the ash cloud had thickened and the chances of flying had all but diminished. By Tuesday evening I had properly researched the logistics of going via four trains to Madrid in Spain and flying to Atlanta from there.

But, as is the way of these things, just before I was going to bed on Tuesday night a text from Beth told me that Twitter was saying Heathrow was about to open. It took a while for it to filter through to the news channels - I have found if you want to be first with the news and gossip Twitter is the place to be - but it was eventually confirmed that flights would start again today - Wednesday.

It is now just gone 3pm and I have just checked in online. There was a warning on the site that the flight might be subject to delay or disruption but I will cross that bridge when I come to it, according to British Airways own Departure/Arrival information site the plane is scheduled to leave on time.

As soon as I have posted this I am shutting up my house and heading down to Reading and Peggy's for an overnight stay so the adventure is just about to begin.

More to follow.

Ashes to ashes

Sunday evening and I am due to fly to Atlanta on Thursday. Icelandic volcanoes are creating a serious doubt, not to the whole adventure but most certainly to the departure date. I know there are people who have real causes for anxiety and who are suffering very real hardship through this hiccup and, for me, it is just a minor nuisance. But I do feel for Christian. He has been so looking forward to seeing a family member for the first time since Christmas and now the whole thing is shrouded in uncertainty.

My mind is made, though, that as long as I can get to Atlanta by whatever means by Monday May 3rd then I will go. And this trip will be tailored to whatever time we manage to spend together.

Watch this space and let's see how kind life will be to us.