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.