Drivers and Drinkers

I have never played real golf before. My mini-golf/crazy-golf ability is limited at best. So my uncle (for lack of a better description), took Ed and I to a driving range. We tore up the golf course. Literally. The beautiful green ground magically turned to an uneven pile of dirt beneath our feet.

I must say I hit a few nice balls and could understand why people enjoy this game. Still not sure I'm willing to admit it's a real sport though. I believe I was better than Ed at driving the ball even though he had played before. On the other hand, he probably disagrees with that analysis, and I was using a driver mostly while he used a 7 iron. I'm still convinced I'm a natural, despite having terrible spatial awareness. Then it was on to the batting cages for an attempt to demonstrate our abilities at America's favourite pastime. As with the golf, those abilities were severely limited.

Now for the embarrassing part. Left on our own in a bar while the rest of my family goes to a recital, we have two tasks presented to us. One is to pass the time, the other is to get dinner. We succeeded in one of the tasks. In a bar Ed began talking to someone who claimed to have known someone from Pavement, one of Ed's favourite bands. So we put off getting dinner in order to accommodate his fascination, but kept drinking. After a certain amount of Budweiser the dinner no longer seemed important while the continued consumption of beer seemed a brilliant idea.

This part is mostly not remembered by me or Ed but it sure sounded amusing as I was told it the next day. Apparently when our family returned from their recital I went "Oh no! This is embarrassing. Drunk with my family". Then they very kindly paid our bar tab for us, but told us to take care of the tip. We asked what a fair tip was, the barmaid said "whatever's fair". I tried to explain that in England the bartenders never really get a tip "would you find that fair?". No. Then Ed emptied his wallet and thrust over all his money, adding "you're very beautiful". She kindly returned most of it, probably keeping a 20 or something like that. Following that, as we were leaving apparently I turned to my relatives and said "I think we need to pay the bill". On the way home, Ed leaned out of the window and casually threw up outside. With plenty spilling back onto my uncle's car.

Three in the morning and as a punishment for my sins, or as a logical consequence of consuming a lot of liquid, I have to use the toilet. The house is very dark so on my return I'm not entirely sure which room Ed and I are staying in, but I'm fairly sure it's the one I found. Then with a last minute epiphany I decide to double check, "Ed?" I whisper out. "Jen?" comes the reply in a southern accent (American southern). I back out carefully knowing that I had nearly climbed into bed with my relatives which would have probably caused some surprise in a best case scenario.

It was also on this day, probably spurred on by liquid courage, that I decided to buy my uncle's old car that he was selling. Yes dear reader, three Greyhound bus journeys and we were already sick of it.

Pilot Mountain

Family reunion on Pilot Mountain. Plus Ed. We had a lovely picnic on the mountain, a place with a great view of the surrounding scenery. Met many relatives I hadn't seen in years, or didn't really know that I had. Everyone was very friendly, and the relative who's birthday we were celebrating was delighted with the Euros I gave her. Accidentally. My mum had spent a lot of effort finding a great gift, and I had been tasked with carrying it in bag. In the same place as the present there were also a few loose coins floating about, and about 3 cents worth of European money found its way into the gift bag.

There was also torrential rain on the mountain side. The first rain we had seen since arriving in the country. I don't remember exactly but it may have even been the last time we saw rain in the States. Luckily we were beneath a roof. Even with the rain, the place was still very hot, hikers even went by with their shirts off.

Then we went to a golf club to watch England play the USA in the World Cup. I'm sure every English football fan remembers that unfortunate attempt at a save. A horrific moment made all the more brutal by being exposed to a certain American commentator. An idiot who declared with conviction that "Dempsey's shot was a great shot because it was on target". You could argue that it was a great goal with its greatness resulting from entertainment value. However, it definitely wasn't a great shot, or a good shot, in fact it resembled a pass more than a shot.

After watching fellow countrymen fail to win a game in a sport they had invented against a country that had only had a real league since 1994, it was our turn under perform. I hadn't played basketball for several years and even when I did play it was only intermittently. I had never seen Ed exert himself beyond going for a long walk, usually to get to a cinema. However, it was still an embarrassingly bad performance that saw us lose a game to my...I guess I'll call him uncle to save working out 3rd cousins/removed stuff I don't understand, and his young daughter. Who we kept running into accidentally and knocking to the floor. Luckily I will always have the fall-back excuse I'm not tall enough for basketball.

Country Roads, Take me Home

Now for the big one. It wasn't the longest trip we had to take on a Greyhound bus, but it was the longest one so far. The first test for the legendary bus company.

It didn't start well. The problems we had faced earlier with our tickets had perplexed the staff who then spent a ridiculous amount of time searching for a solution. Here, in a much busier station than we had yet been to, solution was the farthest thing from the cashiers mind. She began shouting at us on production of the sheets of paper that should be exchanged for tickets, "WHAT IS THIS?"

"It's a ticket, honest."

"I'VE NEVER SEEN THIS BEFORE". Thankfully, a woman who had experienced these strange sheets of paper came to our rescue. Not just for that day, but for the entire trip. She exchanged them for the proper American tickets that we really should have been given on our first trip.

At the cafe in the station Ed ordered some slush. He was given a bucket. It was more than even this ice-craving maniac wanted but he made a good job of it, I think he even finished it. He admitted later "it wasn't even that nice".

Neither was the bus journey. Though it could have been a lot worse. After waiting in a long line to board, the only seat available to me was next to a rather large man wearing a baseball cap who was taking up most of the two seats available. At least the aisle seat gave me some legroom. He seemed like a perfectly nice guy but I was still very glad to see him get off at the first stop.

My next sitting partner was a chatty lady from Florida. Not chatty to me though. Perhaps the sun and shadows were reflecting the words fuck you off my face. Or perhaps my often inexpressive face simply suggested it. However, she did begin a conversation with nearly everyone around me in the segregated part of the bus.

Now, I don't think this segregation was consciously intentional, but for one reason or another nearly every member of the white minority decided to congregate near the back of the bus where I was sitting.

I learnt so much about this woman, her job, her upbringing as "an army brat", her home in Florida, her two day journey from Maine. I learnt all this and she hardly said a word to me. Instead she decided to give her neck a workout by keeping it in constant motion swaying from one topic with the people behind us to another to the people on our right and a few questions for those in front. Again a perfectly nice lady, but still I felt somewhat relieved that I didn't spend the entire journey sat next to her. Far more entertaining was the man who sat next to me after she decided to move away from my unfriendly presence.

Now this guy claimed to have never ridden a bus before. And he demonstrated it brilliantly by breaking most of the rules/suggestions set out by the bus driver. Especially the "do not have loud phones or phone conversations, do not use walkie talkie technology as it interferes with the system." This man didn't even know how to turn his phone off (neither did I but that is a different story, bloody iphone), the constant beeping, loud whispering and just plain ignoring all the sounds coming from the phone began to seriously irritate what had been a largely catatonic bus crowd.

For some reason neither Ed nor I can explain, after exiting the bus after about a 9 hour bus journey, we decided to go around and enter the station through the back. A lot of things make sense after 9 hours of having your brain on standby. Completely missing the person who was meant to pick us up. I barely knew what he looked like, though he is family I hadn't seen him in years and had just been shown a small photograph which I had already forgotten. Eventually he found us and managed to recognise me. We had arrived in North Carolina, the home of my ancestors. Well some of my ancestors. My recent ones. Recent ones who had lived in America. So I was home in a strange and poetic kind of way. But not really in a realistic or factual kind of way. It still felt good.

Happy Birthday Mr. President

Even more trouble at our next Greyhound venture. The cashiers had to phone the UK to get confirmation that these were real tickets. Bloody Sta Travel. When we got on to the bus the loader whose job it was to lift bags on to the bus had an issue with my bag. "It's too heavy" he complained, "have you had it weighed?". I hadn't had it weighed, but later weighing would show that my bag was 51 pounds, roughly one pound over the Greyhound limit, which would usually be ignored anyway. This guy had no authority to make a decision, even if his back was the one breaking. I would have put it on myself but that just wasn't done. Again the bus was very nice, part of their newer line of models I believe, with wifi connection and slightly more legroom.

Finally we arrived at a busy bus terminal. In the capital, Washington DC. After meeting our host for this trip, a professor at George Washington University, Ed and I set off for The White House. Someone passed us on a Segway, that ridiculous looking contraption for people with enough energy to stand up but not quite enough to put one leg in front of the other. Then a whole group of them went by, all wearing helmets. I had never heard of a Segway gang before. On closer inspection it seemed they were part of a group offering Segway tours of Washington. This made it all less ridiculous. Slightly.

Ed and I were both amazed by how small the White House seemed. We had expected it to tower over us with an grand enormity that typifies the American style. But it just seemed like a normal suburban house owned by a well to do family. Apart from the police presence and the various political commentators (read nut-jobs) trying to make a point to Obama and the other passers-by. Well, when in Rome...my political adviser was of a Tea Party persuasion.

A Tea Party fan whose eyes lit up when we mentioned we were British, how ironic. She had a sign with Obama defaced to look like Heath Ledger's Joker, and a stereoplayer playing eerie music. She would later tell me that this is the music that is playing in heaven right now. Dear reader, I would love to be able to tell you where you could find the soundtrack to Heaven's background, but I didn't think to ask, so you shall have to make do with your Lady Gaga CD/download for now.

Ed left the conversation early on, when Obama was referred to as a socialist and communist. I can understand that frustration, American critics of socialism almost always seem to have a huge support of the US military, one of the largest social institutions in the world, implying that they either don't fully understand the meaning of socialism, or that the word has been so politicised that it has in fact changed meaning in American English. However, I was interested to hear what the woman had to say. I knew very little about the Tea Party agenda and was interested to learn more. Plus we didn't have much else planned. Explaining that I didn't share her Christian faith was no barrier to her enthusiasm, nor did it stop her rationalising everything thing through a Christian doctrine. A very limited Christian doctrine, focusing on the Book of Revelations, which I have never read but have been told it is filled with horrifying images. She asked me if I had a Bible, which I did, planning to read it on our bus journeys. She told me I should start at the back, with Revelations. But, as I explained to her, I didn't want to spoil the ending. Before leaving she decided to pray for me. That probably wasn't such a bad idea.

Ed wanted us to buy "Obama is the New Hope" t-shirts just so we could walk back past the poor woman trying to save my soul from communism.

After that, we decided to check out the Clinton monument. Obviously it is the Washington monument but remembering a joke from Ahmed the dead terrorist sketch where it is suggested a better name is the Clinton monument I kept accidentally referring to it that way.

We saw more of the sights that DC has to offer, a beautiful lake by the Capitol Building, we walked to where we thought the Supreme Court was but I can't say we really found it. Damn iphone. We only found the Library of Congress, completely useless without a DC library card.

Finally everyone had told us to go to the Smithsonian, so we decided to do that. What people didn't tell us, probably assuming it was common knowledge, was that the Smithsonian is a collection of about 19 different museums. Also, no-one mentioned that they were all free entry until it was too late. So we decided to see the main Smithsonian building. But the main Smithsonian building, or the centre, is more like an information point. Not really very interesting, but after all our walking we were in no mood to go looking for another museum.

I loved the architecture in DC. The buildings were older than most American buildings, but they were still modern in comparison to old European architecture. They mark the beginning of a new country, a new society, but the beginning of a place that began very late.

We seriously considered staying an extra day in the capital. It certainly would have been nice to see more of the Smithsonian and we had scheduled extra time on the West Coast to allow for extra days. However, I didn't want to use up all that extra time too early, and I had already confirmed with the part of my extended family who were hosting us in North Carolina that we were coming the next day.

Life, Liberty & the Pursuit of Happiness

I like to read. I read a lot. But when we went to AVAM, the American Visionary Art Museum, Ed read every last detail. It took him hours to go through the museum, our host worried if we would be back in time for dinner.

Admittedly, the museum was very interesting. Visionary Art is defined as "art produced by self-taught individuals, usually without formal training, whose works arise from an innate personal vision that revels foremost in the creative act itself". Thank you Wikipedia. If you want to take a cynical view, you could argue that it is crap put out by the rejects of society. An area of expression for the criminal and the insane. It may well be that, but it is also brilliant.

The bottom floor was filled with signs from one Jesse Howard. A farmer who had a couple of signs vandalised, he responded by creating more signs, directed at the vandals. They responded by vandalising these signs. He responded by... well you can see where this is going. Hundreds of signs later, problems with neighbours with shrivelling land values and an eyesore, a government sick of complaints. I don't remember all the details but I believe the government at one point removed some of his signs. Which he responded to by putting up a new sign saying "The government took all my signs away". This delightful insanity was just a fraction of what the museum had to offer. Art from tortured and self-proclaimed innocent (or close to innocent "I was in Al Qaeda but only because I needed a job, I didn't know what they were going to do") inmates at Guantanamo Bay.

After our fill of museums, tortilla chips and another excellent meal featuring the Baltimore specialty crabcakes, it was time to head out again for a night out. This time without our neighbour, who we never saw again. Fell's Point is the main spot for drinking in our area. The first bar we went to was of course, an Irish bar. Again the only thing making it Irish was the green décor. So were we out and on the Boh. In the second bar we were explained that there were messages on National Bohemian bottle caps, or under them. In picture form. For example you might have a picture of an eye, a picture of a wave and hand pointed at you. The translation would be I see you. They were better than that but I can't remember what the messages were. I suppose they serve as crossword puzzles for the drunk. Eventually we found a message that no-one could decipher, not the barman or his designated expert. Ed held on to the lid in hopes of making an interpretation by the end of our trip. I think he lost it at some point, we still don't know what it said.

In the third bar, some drunk American guy came in and bought us a round of Candy Floss Bombs, presumably because we are British. The Candy Floss Bomb barely tasted alcoholic, but the drunk guy nearly couldn't get it down. He left soon after, but not before imparting his inebriated wisdom. In discussing possible racial tension we might encounter as privileged white boys travelling on the form of transport utilised only by the poorest members of US society, I was told "but you're not white, you're British. "

Charm City

7.35am, we arrive in Baltimore, go to our hosts house, and go to sleep. Then we go to the aquarium. Ed has been told that Baltimore has a great aquarium, and that's about all it has to offer. The aquarium is a very interesting place, filled with various strange and wonderful fish, including the Barramundi, a fish that typically starts life as a male and naturally turns into a female later in life. It looked fairly tasty.

We saw a dolphin show, as you do, playful creatures. They didn't look as tasty. But you never know. Sharks move constantly, this means that unlike lions in the zoo, they never look defeated. They look like predators, constantly searching for their next kill, even if they are restricted to a few square metres of water.

After that, we wandered around the harbour and went to a book store. We didn't buy any books, it seems that people tend to go to book stores for coffee rather than books. So we had a Starbucks. Ed ordered a hot chocolate. On a boiling summer day, in a humid city.

Later we had another exquisite meal cooked by our host, to balance out the fast food crap that made at least half our diet by the end of the trip. Then we went with our hosts neighbour (who provided essential beer) to a park where a Johnny Cash cover band was playing. After they finished we watched Walk the Line on a large screen. Little flickers of light started appearing around the park. At first I assumed people were just lighting cigarettes, but I don't think you can smoke in USA's parks anymore. Eventually I realised they were fireflies. So Baltimore, a city depicted by TV show The Wire as crime ridden and run-down essentially provided us with a vivid experience of wildlife.

After that we went to what our neighbour described as "a white trash bar". Ed was giddy in anticipation. We decided to try the local delicacy, a beer called National Bohemian. Or Natty Boh for short. Or Boh for even shorter. I have never been served a can in a bar before after asking for a beer, a can on a napkin seemed even more absurd. I wasn't a huge fan of the beer, but it wasn't terrible and it didn't have too strong of a taste.

Out of nowhere, our neighbour, who we had just met, starting telling us about his relationship problems. In detail. I wasn't too surprised by this, having once sat on a bus from Chatham to Boston, MA listening as a man behind me described his entire love life over the phone to his friend on the other end. It's probably healthier I guess just to get all your problems out there. It's cheaper than psychiatry. But I could never be that open with a person I had just met, or even knew for a while. Unless I was drunk.

A Bus from the City that Never Sleeps

They say the crazies come out at night. I'm certainly up late most nights. Partly a result of an unnatural body clock and partly the result of having spent three years as a university student. We arrived at the Greyhound Bus station around three AM. The ticketing area also doubled as a refuge for the damned (aka homeless or fashion innovators devoted to homeless chic). The air had the unmistakable stench of sweat, urine and aggression. It was the first time in America that I felt physically at risk. This was despite there being four armed police personnel in the station.

A Hispanic looking man became enraged when he couldn't get the ticket he wanted. "How can I get to Queens!" he shouted repeatedly. It was more of an order than a question. Somehow it was sorted out between the man, the ticket lady and two of the armed guards/police.

A far more difficult problem to solve, appeared to be the issue of Ed and my tickets. Having bought month long passes on the Greyhound bus from a Sta Travel in Leeds, they were in a style the ticket lady was unaccustomed to. She spent a good ten minutes on each one.

Before coming to the bus station we had read reviews on the greyhound bus. Probably not the smartest move, considering we had to take it either way. If you ever plan to take a greyhound bus trip, read the reviews. If you still want to take it you must really want to go.

Pessimism has its advantages. You won't be disappointed. And certainly the bus journey was completely fine. An event made all the more glorious by our expecting the worst. Seven thirty five in the morning, we arrive in Baltimore, Maryland. City of the TV show The Wire. If you've not watched it, watch it.

Searching for Woody Allen

Nearly ten years ago I remember watching the replays of planes crashing into the World Trade Center. I was in school, it was virtually the only time we were allowed to watch anything on TV in the school. I remember being very underwhelmed at the time. The news was saying that thousands of people had died tragically, but the news always seemed to be saying that. Large numbers of people die in acts of violence constantly. But not so much in the Western world. Nearly ten years later and that act of violence continues to shape the foreign policy of the most powerful country in the world.

Ground Zero is just a construction site, one with a melancholic air. Completely banal without remembering the story behind it, this land marks one of the most iconic events in recent American history. As with the Kennedy assassination it will be studied for many years to come. Conspiracy theories have and will continue to flourish. Some people will become obsessed by a desire for more knowledge on the subject. They will read every book. Watch the footage from every angle. Tell anyone and everyone their views on the subject. But not me. I only gave it a few minutes of thought. Does that do an injustice to the dead and their suffering families? Perhaps.

Far more fascinating was Ed and my search for Woody Allen. Or more specifically, the bridge from the final scene in Woody Allen's Manhattan. I do like his films but I have not seen this one. Ed has seen it and insists we go. But he doesn't know which bridge it is. The iphone finally shows its real value. The Queensboro bridge. Also, John's Pizzeria also had a scene shot there, but that doesn't satisfy Ed. So we decide to walk there if it is a reasonable walking distance from Brooklyn bridge, where we happen to be. The iphone claims it is a two hour walk, but it doesn't look that far on the map. Couple that with our distrust of apple products and we decide it's probably not that far.

So we walk. Ed's shoes have been ready to fall apart since the beginning of the trip. But I finally deal them the finishing blow as my uncoordinated foot taps the back of his sole, ripping the whole thing off. Now the sensible thing here is to give up on walking and go get a taxi. But, the walkway along the waterside by the bridges isn't so simple. We have to walk about another hour before there is anyway for us to exit. It was probably only a thirty minute walk, but Ed was severely limping as a result of walking in one and a half shoes.

Finally we get to experience the joy of a Kmart. A glorious store with the low prices that bulk buying and cheap child labour make easy. Eventually we get to Queensboro bridge, I don't even remember how: possibly a taxi, maybe the metro, maybe we just kept walking.

Ed spots the place where the final scene takes place. It was right under the bridge. So we spend a good fifteen minutes trying to find ways to get exactly under the bridge. Although, having read part of the plot while working out which bridge to go to I understand it is a film about a relationship. Standard Woody Allen. What Ed intends to experience with me under the bridge is a slight concern. It does look like a nice spot though. Right by the water. Eventually we give up looking for a way in and move on.

We have a dinner fit for a king at subway. Then return to our building to prepare for our first ever greyhound bus journey. Exciting stuff.

Give Me Liberty or Give Me Some Money

Those lovely chocolates that formed part of my goodie bag made for a tasty breakfast not quite in line with nutritionists advice, but better than nothing. After days of searching for a slushy, Ed finally got his wish. Some fast food type place made this drink that's name changed depending on person asked. People always understood when it was explained as "like the squishees they have in The Simpsons". Personally, I like the drink but cannot understand Ed's obsession with the flavoured ice. Nevertheless, the search for the slushy did not end here, this was merely the beginning of a month long determination by Ed to get as much of the frozen goods in him as humanly possible.


Then the Apple store. Or as I like to affectionately call it, Hell on Earth. I like my ipod, beyond that I am not a fan of Apple. As a gift I had been given an iphone, or rather money to purchase an iphone and contract with. I was told by a rep that on that day they were releasing something new, and I could wait and see what their new slightly updated money earner was like before buying an iphone 3gs. That would mean two more hours surrounded by Apple products, by lovers of Apple products convinced that their appreciation of Apple makes them somehow unique and trendy at the same time. I took the iphone 3gs, with a $500 deposit. I have no credit history in the US. Over there that is considered a crime, and one for which any guilty citizen pays heavily for.


Ed, who supposedly shared a common dislike of the apple store, ended up buying a pair of earphones costing over $100. We had both saved up money for this trip and to waste it like that seemed foolish to me. Now it was less than my iphone admittedly, but for a pair of earphones? Ed responded to my criticism by paraphrasing David Lynch's rant against films on phones. "You think you've heard music, but listening on those crappy earphones you've not really heard any music".


Then we go to the bottom of Manhattan for what I feel is a tourist must, a visit to the Statue of Liberty. Most NYC residents will admit to never going, it always seems that locals tend to disregard their own history. The view from the ferry of Manhattan, and what I think was New Jersey and maybe Brooklyn is stunning.


Liberty Island is the home of the statue. A couple were rolling around on the grass locked in each other's arms just next to the statue, and just opposite to a sign telling tourists to stay off the grass. Was this a metaphor for American freedom, a place where societies signs mean nothing and the power belongs to an individual, not a sign? Was it evidence of a morally bankrupt civilisation, a country with a stone lady as a false god to symbolize itself. Was it just two slightly inconsiderate lovers more obsessed with themselves than the outside world as perhaps should be expected? Probably the latter, possibly all three, I don't really care. Far more interesting to me at the time and now was what the Statue of Liberty really symbolised.


As the title would suggest, she is meant to be a symbol of liberty. She holds up a torch I believe to serve as a light to the immigrants that used to arrive by the shipload. But immigrants come by plane nowadays. And the thought of immigration seems to strike fear into the hearts of Americans everywhere. The Statue of Liberty was originally copper, her colour has faded into a decaying green that looks almost greyish. So here stands this old, decaying woman forced to eternally hold up a light to immigrants that won't see it. Beyond that, if they do arrive by boat and get to pass through New York, the statue will be one of the first things they see before entering a land where many will treat them with contempt and fear. Beyond all that, she's French. And the French hate everyone. Especially Americans. Give the statue just a little humanity, and you can't help but feel a little sorry for her.

The Hangover

The Hangover. No, not the recent comedy film set in Las Vegas which I still have not seen. My hangover. Or jet lag or laziness. I woke up at 8.30am in line with my usual jet lag from UK to US routine. However, after effects of alcohol meant I went straight back to sleep until 12.30. Having been to New York once before for a total of 1.5 days, I knew that John's Pizza on Bleeker's Street was a must. Ed and I eventually dragged our weary bodies out of bed and trudged to Bleeker's Street in the Manhattan heat. After wandering up and down the wrong way on Bleeker's St we get there. The pizza is very good. And very filling.

We ate a fairly late lunch, but we had also been invited over for a lovely meal right by the UN building. Feeling very bloated, we got on the subway to head over to somewhere around 62ndstreet so that we could go through a little of Central Park before heading down to 42nd street. Now on the NY Subway there are trains that go locally and express, often it seems, on the same platform with the same number. Unfamiliar with this, we got on an express train. We got off on 125th Street, Harlem.

As a taxi driver in Texas later said to us, "anything north of 110th is spade city". Ed and I being white boys were certainly in a significant minority. I want to point out though that Ed's pasty British skin makes him much more of a whiteboy than me, with my slightly darker somewhat ethnic but still very white skin. Other than feeling slightly out of place, the area itself felt fine, kids playing, people just out going about their business. I found relief in being in a non-touristic area of the city. This was the daytime however, I have no idea what the area is like at night. It's reputation would have you believe that you were in a war-torn zone controlled by the gangs. It didn't feel like that at all, but like I said, we were only there in the daytime and not really there for that long.

We walked south. Through Central Park, top to bottom. It really is a lovely park, lots of trees, grass, a couple of lakes. In the middle of such a crowded city it is amazing that there is so much space giving to a place of nature. They must have some devoted and influential people protecting it otherwise I'm sure most of it would have been converted into high-rise buildings long ago. After the long walk through harlem, the park, the streets beneath the park, we get to our destination. An hour late.

Our late arrival was probably the first of many inconsiderate acts we forced our various hosts across the country to endure. As a reward we were treated to a dinner consisting of both steak and sushi with a penthouse with a view. Further more, I was given a goodie bag, consisting of various chocolates, magazines to suit my tastes (rolling stone, travel mags), a book about a poker player.

On a sidenote for those that don't know me, I am a keen poker player. Once letting my interest develop into obsession and pure degeneracy, though I never risked more than I could afford to lose. And in the long term I am a winning player. Just. The idea of making easy money while engaging in an intellectual battle just appeals to my sensibilites. It has triggered a recent interest in the stock market, a game in which I am heavily down but have not played for about eleven years. My only purchases being at the age of roughly ten-eleven, with my parents money. Making it all their fault.

After that lovely meal we returned home and had a nice, relaxing end to the day that contrasted heavily with the night before.

New York, New York

After months of planning, Ed and I finally arrived in New York. Everything seemed to go wrong from the beginning of our journey. First my bag was too heavy but luckily I managed to stuff 3kg worth of junk in Ed's bag. Then going through security I was told that my boarding pass was not valid, so I returned to BA help to sort it out, Ed kept going through security. Eventually I returned to face the ritual humiliation that is an airport security check. An experience made only worse by having to wait to go through the metal detector, having an older woman come ask me why I'm not going through. Me telling her that, as both security guards were feeling up someone at the time, we had to wait. Only for her to nod in agreement and then try and go through anyway, then get pushed back out. After going through that I had completely lost Ed and had no choice but to go to the terminal and hope that he would have enough sense to do the same. He did.

Eventually we got onboard, and Ed, who claimed he could not wait to sit down and watch the inflight entertainment then went through the film options and declared that every film was terrible. As if he was expecting some niche foreign film, with an extremely low budget and shot in black and white so that you know it's artistic. Eventually we landed at JFK airport to the cheers of some American girls. Which leaves one to wonder, had we been crashing to our deaths, would they have booed the whole way down?

Then we purchased some bus tickets to Penn station. It took half an hour of driving on the bus just to get out of the airport. The skyline coming in to Manhattan from Queens to Manhattan is very impressive. Out of nowhere these massive buildings appear on the horizon like giant guards, daring you to try and enter their part of the city. We weren't actually taken to Penn station, maybe the streets are too complicated for a bus to actually get there. Instead we were herded out by an angry New Yorker. He would tell us to follow him and stand somewhere. Then decide that that was a bad location and move us somewhere else. Everytime he got us to move he ordered us with such aggression it felt as though he thought we were idiots for standing in the wrong place. And after leading us in a circle for ten minutes, just deserted us. Then a different guy picked us up in a minivan and dropped us off at the station. From there working out the subway system was tricky, needless to say it's much more complicated than London's tube is, though it's cheaper.

Eventually we arrived on the street we're staying at, but not having written down the number of the house apart from on the internet, I could only guess as to where we were meant to go. Then ringing on the wrong bells until trial and error brought us to the right house.

After getting ourselves sorted out, showered and rid of our bags, we were ready to get out and experience the city. It was a boiling, sweaty day. Just before leaving the house, our hosts gave me an umbrella and warned us about thunderstorms. I can only assume this was a practical joke as I walked down Manhattan being the only idiot carrying an umbrella in the oppressive heat.

Ed and I were wandering around Manhattan, not too far from the Empire State building which would appear in our vision now and then. The phallic imagery doesn't come close to that of London's Gherkin, but it is amusing with that needle on top, a big prick aiming to the sky. We were stopped by a man clearly trying to sell us something and asking us where we were from. In England if anyone tries to stop you most people just walk past and ignore the people trying to stick their hands in your pockets. However, we're on holiday so we stopped for a chat. The man was trying to sell tickets to a comedy event. He starting naming all these celebrities that would be there, Chris Rock, Alec Baldwin, Dave Chappelle. All of them famous, all of them self-important dicks whose comedy I rarely appreciate (Actually Chappelle can be funny I'll admit). Unable to say no himself, Ed says it's my decision, so I say no, not a fan of Chris Rock. So the salesman turns back to Ed and says he can buy the ticket for $10 and I'll go free. I say fine but he's paying the full ten dollars. Ed agrees but has to borrow $5 to pay the man. And so was born our first contentious issue of the trip. As Ed claims he does not owe me anything. I can foresee this small issue blossoming into full-blown resentment during the trip as we tire of each other's company, but for now, I can just about let it go. Then it was time to sort out dinner before our comedy show. I suggested a big mac because we were spending enough money anyway and the budget has to be cut somewhere. Eventually we ended up eating at Sbarro. The lasagne was reminiscent of the soggy, unappetizing pasta that was served in our Uni's refectory.

Then to kill the couple of hours we have before the show, we go looking for a bar. The only one we can find is an Irish pub. 3000 miles from England to the US just to find a genuine replica Irish pub. After a couple of beers we go looking for another bar. All we can find is another Celtic pub. Irish pubs in New York are pretty much exactly the same as all their other bars, except the decorations have a bit more green in them. We're near Times Square, a place which is essentially several massive advertisements that people can walk through. Our third and final bar before the comedy club was found when I randomly turned a corner walking toward Hell's Kitchen where the club was. A third Irish bar. Three Irish bars, five bartenders, only one of them was Irish.

Ed proposes a game for the comedy club. First person to laugh loses. So we arrive with the worst mentality possible. None of the celebrities that the salesman had talked about were there. Not the worst thing in the world. Some of the comedians were just boring and made me think I could pull off a career in standup, others were quite good. I didn't laugh though, couldn't lose the game. Some jokes just didn't translate across to our culture. Punchlines like "what are people betting on the weather" only reminded me of how many Brits were betting on a white Christmas last year. Then it was on to the Lower East Side for drinks.

I was trusting Ed for directions, he had a much better grip on the city than I did so the map was much more useful in his hands. We were walking from Soho. Halfway through the journey I look at the map and point out the place marked Lower East Side, only for Ed to remark that he hadn't noticed that and had just been walking in a generally south-east direction. We got through Chinatown and eventually found the bars.

Pint glasses in America are smaller than British pint glasses. About two-thirds the size. The drinks also don't seem to taste as nice, less fizzy, less flavour, a more bitter taste and they don't serve much ale. I never really liked American beer before, but I have to admit, the Budweiser in a nice, ice-cold bottle is very refreshing. The patrons in the bars were quite friendly, you could talk to the girls without them seeming offended that you dare try to engage them in conversation unlike in London. After about two and half hours of me getting progressively more drunk in the Lower East Side while Ed kept drinking, but stayed sober and kept looking at me with disdain, it was time to go.

Ed's sense of direction finally failed us as we ended up walking the wrong way for quite a while. Even giving false directions to a group we met along the way who asked. Walking is a euphemism for what was actually happening, I was staggering in an increasingly exaggerated way. The combinations of budweisers and jet-lag, which Ed seemed impervious to, had me completely exhausted.

Just before returning home, we met a black guy with two girls standing on a couple of steps going in to the building. (Note that African-American is more politically correct in America, but makes no sense to me as not every black person is American. I'm sorry if the term offends you and I welcome any suggestions). This guy asked me and Ed "would you fuck this girl" pointing to one of the women standing next to him. No matter what we said this man was determined to tell the girl that she was ugly. We said she looked good, he said "these guys have been drinking all day, they're Irish". We had been drinking at least. Then he said "It's dark, you can't see all her nasty scars and this, come here into the light". Finally he said, "Would you want to introduce her to your parents". As I contemplated going home with a scarred and slightly older woman to say to my parents, 'I met this girl on the street after a random guy asked me if I would have sex with her', Ed started asking this man some questions of his own. Like did he have a relationship with this woman. "Don't scare my dick like that" was the shocked response.

Eventually we did make it back to the lovely Soho apartment we had conned our way into via well-connected parents. I generally find it hard to go to sleep first whenever there is someone else sharing a room with me. And I usually wake up first. This night, though, I fell straight asleep.

first blog

So I have finally set up a blog so that my many fans may also experience my (heavily edited) adventures in the USA. In a first attempted blow against free speech, I have tried to disable comments on this blog. I have no idea whether I have succeeded or not and I find this whole blog business rather confusing. Suffice it to say that if you have an opinion on a story keep it to yourself, or contact me directly but preferably the first option.

I am travelling mainly across the south of the US with my friend, who for purposes of anonymity I shall name Ed. We are taking the greyhound bus pretty much the whole way hence the unimaginative title of the blog. The flight to New York takes off 8.55am on Saturday morning, that is when this glorious blog truly begins. Hopefully it ends in San Diego California about a month later.