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!
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