Do Cheap Texan Hostels Bring Out The Philosopher in a Man?

Conversations about Jacques Derrida, Dante and a former nun turned spiritual writer are not what one typically expects when a man walks in to make sure you are leaving a cheap hostel. Nevertheless, that is what happened. A hostel worker we hadn't seen the night before was very interested to learn that I had studied philosophy at university and was currently trying to read the Bible. An effort which I eventually failed at. Eventually, after much discussion, he realised we needed to be checked out and on our way.

We ended up getting a taxi ride to a book-store near our bus station. Our taxi driver was a middle-aged black man with a booming voice who you could just picture giving inspirational advice to some young sports star in a Hollywood film. He asked us where we were going, but seemed to realise at once that we were on an epic journey across the country. So after every destination he would ask "then where....then where?" He said he'd done a similar thing when he was "wide-eyed and innocent" like us. He said we were becoming "one of the elite", so we can tell our children about our experiences when they wanted to go out and explore. Then he asked us about our journey and we told him what had happened so far. He had lived in New York and found it hilarious that we had accidentally found ourselves in Harlem. "125th Street? Harlem! You know after 110 street that's spade city."

Eventually we found ourselves at yet another greyhound bus station. I started talking to a massive Samoan guy. Ed thought he was from New Orleans because he was wearing mardi gras style beads. He thought we were Italian but I have no idea why. He was a military man on his way to a base in El Paso. This was his first ever greyhound bus journey. His first bus journey would be our worst.

The Lone Star State

Another day, another greyhound bus. There were a few intimidating looking men, sporting tear-drop tattoos and suchlike on their faces. Everyone generally kept to the unofficial bus rule of keeping to themselves or just their close friends. I slept through most of the journey. Then we were in Houston.

We arrived at our hostel a couple of hours early. The Houston hostel, the cheapest accommodation we could find, was more of a glorified house. There was no-one there to check us in when we arrived. So we lay down on the couch and waited a couple of hours before the hostel workers returned from their break.

What we eventually did in Houston amounted to very little. It is a very boring city if you don't have a car. However, the characters we met were very interesting. First there were three pretty Czech girls on their way to Florida to sell toys. They generally kept to themselves. Then there was Patrick. A military man who offered to drive us out to get some proper Texas style ribs. He had some interesting stories having been a driver for an alcoholic colonel. When we saw the restaurant from the car, we were in the far left lane and the restaurant was on the far right. We had to go past it. Then there was no turn for miles. We ended up being taken to eat at a Subway. While Patrick went to a smoke shop to buy a legal marijuana substitute. He couldn't smoke the real thing because the army drug tested him every so often. It smelt like the real thing though, whatever it was. He drove us back to the hostel and then went out on his own to find a pool bar somewhere.

Then there was the guy that worked at the hostel in an official capacity as the internet guy. His job seemed to consist of signing people online after they had paid the internet fee, then just sitting around chatting and hoping his "eye-candy", the Czech girls would come down. He told us a sad story about some 15 year old Eastern-European girl that had come with an older bloke who had paid for their room. He said he found her crying in a corner one day because the man had taken her passport. He told her to go to the police and that was the last he heard of the girl or her captor.

We went out to go to a few bars. Until it became painfully obvious that the closes thing to a bar we could reach by walking was a 7-11 store. Ed got himself a slushy. I had an alcopop which I had to sneak back inside because the hostel didn't allow alcoholic beverages on its property. I was practically 14 again.

Sodom and Gomorrah, Louisiana

We arrived in New Orleans two hours late and got to our hotel where we had two lovely beds we didn't have the time to sleep in. We want to visit a jazz bar. Completely unnecessary, as soon as we got on to Bourbon Street there was a jazz band playing on the street.

We had dinner at a restaurant, delicious shrimp and calamari that had been fished out before BP's oil had ensnared them. First bar had a three for one deal on Budweiser. I should not drink beer after a large meal. As I may have already mentioned. So we went home.

Ed complained as I lay on the bed, trying to recover some sense of well-being. Then he nearly fell asleep. The beds were comfortable and we could have easily gone to bed. We would have woken up feeling fresh and with completely clear consciences. That wouldn't have been fun.

We had been told that New Orleans was going to be loads of fun. A bit weird for such a tragedy stricken city. We had been told that New Orleans was like a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah, places of such great perversion that God turned the entire populations into pillars of salt. With great determination we heroically got out of bed and set out to discover this side of the city. For educational purposes only.

Bourbon Street. Every other bar is a strip bar. The non-strip bars are often highly sexually charged as well, with the shot girls offering body shots. We avoided the strip clubs and focused on the drinking. At least at first. After several drinks we started drinking something called a hand-grenade. Some kind of melon liqueur influenced cocktail served in a plastic container shaped like a grenade. They don't tell you the ingredients but they do come with a warning on the limits. I can't find them at the moment but regarding your fifth drink the warning was: "You’re on your own. We don't recommend having five".

I had 3.5 deciding to leave the final half so one of us was sober enough to get us to the bus. Ed had between 4-6. I can't remember, he definitely won't remember. Then we went to a cabaret club. Not a real cabaret club, it just happens to be a New Orleans euphemism for a strip club. Which Ed and I had never been to, so I was curious to visit one. For educational purposes only.

The club was actually pretty nice. Like an upscale cocktail bar. Except there were naked women dancing on the stage. It was certainly a good way to keep two drunk people up. We had to stay awake because our bus left around 6am and we wouldn't wake up with any intention of leaving our beds if we went to sleep. Ed started panicking. "I'm a feminist" he declared passionately, "this goes against everything I believe in". Having never heard Ed describe himself as a feminist before in my lifetime, I had no idea how to react. I hadn't forced him to come into the strip club and I certainly didn't plan on trying to convince him that it was compatible with a feminist viewpoint. We left when it closed a little later.

Ed, ahead of me on the street, called out "come in here there's no cover charge". I looked over at the dodgy looking strip club. They don't even bother to call it a cabaret club. Clearly, the Bourbon Street smell, a perfume of vomit, salt-water air and desperation, had gotten into Ed's nostrils and overpowered his newly discovered desire for equality. I was resistant but Ed was led in by one of the women so I felt I had to follow. We both had virtually no money at this point and I explained this to be told, we have a cashier in the building. I still tried wanted to leave. Genuinely I did. Ed, slightly unsure of himself, gave me the responsibility of decision maker.

"I'll do whatever you whatever you want to do."

"I want to leave."

"Right," then Ed turned to the cashier "100 dollars please."

I won't go into further details but I am proud to say I did nothing illegal. Despite the offers. I will also say that a lap dance where a naked woman bounces up and down just above your pelvis when you're dying for a piss is extremely uncomfortable and awkward. It is not sexy and is enough to put one off strip clubs for life. Despite all Ed's early protestations on the grounds of feminism, we probably felt the most degraded. After all, we had indulged in the seedy world of a city overrun with real tragedies and problems. We also spent far more than we intended. Ed compulsively washed his hands when he got home. But you can't get a sense of sinful shame off with soap.

We hadn't quite been ruined by the house of the rising sun. But at least we had found our Sodom and Gomorrah.

Sweet Home Alabama

New Orleans can be pronounced either Norlans, nu (as in shoe) orlans, nu orleeen or if you are me new (as in you) orleens. All depends on where you are from, all seem to be acceptable. But before we got there we had to get out of Georgia and go across Alabama and Mississippi into Louisiana.

Ed made a vital discovery on the bus. The seats near the front, technically reserved for wheelchair use, had great legroom.

We got off the bus at the stop in Alabama, I could feel my face wrinkling in the heat. We went to a fast food place called What a Burger. They push the words together so it sounds more like saying wuddaburger. They were highly amused as I slowly asked "could I have a what a burger burger please." One person dropped their milkshake. His friend turned to him and said

"you know why you dropped it?"

"Why?" asked his friend, eager to learn the source of his error.

"Cos you a bitch."

Ed and I had a brief conversation with them, they told us that the "greyhound bus sucks." We already knew it. And it became even more apparent as we returned to an announcement of a delay on our bus.

Even worse, every time I stood up on the bus, I hit my head on the ceiling. Every time. Probably my unconscious mind trying to lose more brain cells so that I wouldn't be as keenly aware of the discomfort I was in.

"The bus is nice, you'll get to see America as you go past." Someone had told me. But you don't see America, you see trees. I was pretty sick of trees. "It's such a romantic notion, travelling America on the greyhound" I had read somewhere. It might seem that way when you nostalgically look back on some trip you made as a fresh faced youngster out to explore 20 years ago, but the reality of riding the bus across such a massive country is about as romantic as having sex in the disabled toilets of a McDonalds.

Sweet Water and Gringo Food

For dinner Ed and I went out with two lovely girls from Atlanta who were family friends of our (absentee) hosts. It was apparently Ed's first experience of Mexican food. Or more accurately, mexican inspired food for non-mexicans. We also tried the local beer, Sweet Water, that one of the women recommended. On seeing Ed's expression after trying the beer I could tell it wasn't brilliant. But I wanted to try the local stuff as well so I asked for "one more Sweet Water please",. It was pretty poor, though I believe I've had worse.

Then it was back home to Fox News and light beer for the fridge. The food had been good, the results after dinner on a digestive system not accustomed to the food were not good. Also, I should really have learned by now not to drink beer while feeling full, the results are uncomfortable every time.

Brief sleep. Then it was up at 3.30am to make sure we were packed and ready for our 4.15am taxi to the greyhound bus station. That took our total taxi expenditure to over $110 so far.

And we were sick of the greyhound bus. As I may have already mentioned. It was often brought up but despite a desperate search for alternatives we found no other affordable routes across the country. So it was off to wait an hour in a queue, get asked if I was at Prince Charles' wedding and get a bus to New Orleans.

Martin Luther King Jr. and Coke

Our only full day in Atlanta. We walk to Starbucks to get internet. Simply walking out of an air-conditioned house into Atlanta's June heat leaves you drenched in sweat. The morning shower felt redundant.

After Starbucks we headed off to another great institution of American big business. The Coca Cola Factory. The staff were very smiley and very enthusiastic. Great for kids. A nightmare for a bitter and cynical person such as myself. They made a half-hearted threat so that we would try all the drinks they had on offer at the end of the tour. That would come back to haunt us.

We experienced the 3D and 4D cinematic masterpieces they had on display. 4D being 3D with a special chair that does stuff to you. In America's 4D cinemas the chair always seems to hurt you. A little strange considering that causing a little discomfort to anyone here seems like it could land you in an American courtroom.

Most chilling of all in the factory was the World Cup inspired film about football (soccer). It was fine until they envisaged a match in 2025. A team of superhumans, seemingly genetically engineered by Coca Cola themselves, took on another superhuman team. If you want your child to support a successful team, switch allegiances as soon as Coca Cola FC make their debut appearance.

Then, before we left, we tried all the drinks Coca Cola sold around the world. It was disgusting. Ed and I felt sick. Do not try Coca Cola product sodas in other countries. They are not good. Ignore the warnings and drink the local water instead. You will be better off.

Then we walked to the Martin Luther King Jr. museum. You don't have to pay for entry. It was another world entirely. A fascinating world of peaceful and intelligent struggle for equality. A wonderful world where I could read about some of the civil rights movement in America's 1960's and no patronising film would tell me that I (the consumer) was the secret ingredient in Coke.

On the Road Again

10:30 AM departure from greyhound bus station. Very civilised. Until we got onto the bus and a woman from New York was intent on saving comfortable seats for three Russians who missed the stop. She then complained loudly about the bus leaving to everyone around her until the next stop. Then the Russian youths got on, having gotten there by taxi. They didn't really appear pleased at the reunion and generally ignored her like the rest of the passengers

until they all left at their next stop.

A heavy storm was raging as we came into Atlanta and a wrecked car at the side of the road could only provoke that most egotistical of thoughts. It could have been me. With my inexperience on the road and the dangerous driving conditions it might be more reasonable to say that it probably would have been me. And Ed of course, but who cares about that when you're having egotistical thoughts.

There was a quite pretty girl on the bus around our age. She seemed to be constantly looking around for someone to talk to. Being antisocial Brits, Ed and I carefully avoided almost all conversation. It was a long bus ride and though she was attractive and probably quite nice, I didn't want to risk being stuck in a conversation for several hours with someone who could be insipidly boring. Greyhound buses are bad enough.

We finally arrived an hour late. That probably makes it one of the greyhound records. Most of the other passengers then had to scramble to get their bags and get on the connecting bus to Texas, which was just about to leave.

We got to our home, a lovely house with a swimming pool around Atlanta suburbs. Just me and Ed and a fully stocked refrigerator. And a large television with Fox News, easily Ed's favourite channel. It seemed a shame we only had one more night here.