LA Woman (and man)

With Vegas in the bag as it were, we were just a short hop from Los Angeles and the opposite end of the country from where this all began. After nigh on a month in the interior, that frenetic week behind the wheel and a couple of days in temperatures akin to those at the earth's core we were so looking forward to getting to the coast and relaxing on a beach for a few days. With Las Vegas rather surprisingly being a railway free city we had only one option to head west; Greyhound. We arrived at the bus station at about 1130 for our 1201 departure and took our place in the rather random line that was already formed. I haven't quite fathomed what degree of importance the Americans place on queuing, it's a bit hit and miss to be honest. Where in Blighty if someone tries to barge in to an already formed line there will be quiet outrage and possibly even some audible tutting, here it seems to be tolerated to some degree. We in England are almost defined by our deep-seated understanding of the concept of standing in line.  That and our unswerving dedication to the sock and sandal ensemble. Our queue at Las Vegas Greyhound station was all over the oche: 3 Chinese women gabbling away a good few feet out of line, 2 youths loitering near the head of the queue, patently not in it but no doubt ready to pounce when the gates opened, some people were not even present - they were represented by their luggage and had gone off to find food or just sit down in the seating area away to our right. At 1145 the suitcase in front of us became reacquainted with its owner, a young lady who was talking on her mobile to her mum. 1200 came and went with no sign of our bus at which point Kerry jokingly said the bus would probably be an hour late as it was when we left Memphis. I didn't want to even contemplate that but our friend in front was ringing a succession of people to tell them all about it.  This "queue" was seriously doing my nut. I'll cut to the chase and tell you that the bus was a full hour late before it arrived, that the telephone calls to tell people that the bus was late lasted right until we boarded and that even though I thought I was possibly the least patient person on the planet I realise now after 6 weeks or so on the road that that honour actually goes to my travelling companion. Once on-board and away we crossed mile after mile of desert before descending into civilisation again and arriving at Union station, downtown Los Angeles at about 1845.  (I do mean the hour of day and not the year. Had we arrived in the year 1845 then the population of this now seething metropolis would have been only the inhabitants of the one hut which stood here) As is becoming a fixture on this trip a strange paranoia overcame us as we sought our lodgings, the hotel Cecil in downtown LA. The guy whose eye I caught on the subway was patently a crack addict desperate for cash to provide his next fix, a multitude of eyes were on us as we walked down the street with map in hand looking as conspicuous as possible, we were advertising "rob me". Except we weren't, they weren't and he wasn't. Emerging from Pershing Square metro station and regarding our map to get orientated a friendly looking chap approached and asked where we were heading. He offered to walk us to the hotel as he was heading that way too. He seemed pleasant enough but he soon divulged that he'd just been released from "the pen" and that his car had been impounded meaning he couldn't get to see his sick father. Sensing the inevitable request for money I told him we'd be ok from here though that then was his cue to ask for a few dollars.  Kerry offered a quick "I told you so" look and walked away while I told him that we were away for a long time and if we gave money to everyone then we would soon be back home.  It is amazing how many tramps / beggars / underprivileged / homeless people there are in the USA. We've seen them in every town and city and they're far more prevalent than they are in England. The USA certainly is a land of the 'haves' and the 'have nots'. And so to the Cecil, a once grand hotel with 700 rooms which retains its wonderful foyer from its golden age but whose rooms now leave a little to be desired. We found ourselves on the 14th floor with a great view out over the city though this did mean we were reliant on the two lifts for every venture in or out. This became a right pain on the last day here when one was out of order. We weren't sure how to best play things from here. We really wanted to rest on a beach but they were another 20 miles away at Santa Monica or Venice so we decided to see the sights of Los Angeles proper and then head to the coast. We've found the best way to get our bearings in big cities is to go on an open top bus hop on - hop off jobbie so we invested $170 in a 48 hour all routes pass.  This sounds a lot but for what amounted to about £50 each we had 2 full days of entertainment, saw an awful lot of areas of interest that we simply wouldn't have otherwise and, much to Kerry's delight, had a tour of Beverly Hills gawping at the houses of the rich and famous. Over these 2 days we saw: the Hollywood walk of fame, the Hollywood sign (which previously read "Hollywood  Land"), The Viper Room where River Phoenix ODed, the Whisky-a-go-go club where the doors used to perform, Rodeo Drive, the hotel where John Belushi ODed, the hotel where Whitney Houston ODed, Tom Cruise's 50 ft high hedge, the boot of Simon Cowell's Rolls Royce, the 'world famous' Beverly Hills sign and the church in which James Stewart used to read mass on Christmas eve each year, among many other highlights. I'm being mildly flippant because while this is all interesting up to a point, I really don't subscribe to all this celebrity stuff. Our tour guide hit the nail on the head when he said that the stars of yesterday mainly lived in regular houses which were and still are visible whereas today's A-listers have security fences, 40 ft high hedges and are rarely, if ever, seen out. Something has changed. Either their perception of themselves or our adulation and almost deification of them. Incidentally, a little bit of history for you. The area now known as Hollywood was purchased by a wealthy mid-western farming couple in the 1880s and their ideal was to give plots of land to churches to promote Christian worship in the area. They named the area "Figwood" on account of all the fig trees in the vicinity, only changing it to Hollywood when visited by a friend who mentioned her house was named that, a moniker that mrs Wilcox loved. Ah, the things you learn reading this nonsense! (also available on Wikipedia) We found a little gem to eat in each evening, a place called the 5 cent Cafe just a block from our hotel. The food was reasonably priced and absolutely top notch stuff. After 3 nights we were welcomed as regulars with the owner sitting with us and chatting while we waited for our food. Catfish with brussel sprouts served with bacon and pecan nuts was my favourite there I think. It was strange because this haven was next door to a soup kitchen type place outside of which were hordes of hobos. There we all were eating beautiful food and just outside were guys in threadbare donkey jackets bedding down for the night under cardboard. Whilst that may have been a sight, "tramp central" was a couple of blocks away on south San Pedro street. We travelled up it by bus by accident and were open mouthed at how many homeless people lived there. The whole street was a sea of shuffling and bedraggled specimens, many of whom were wheeling shopping trolleys full of their possessions.  The other thing we did in LA was a spot of dead celebrity stalking. I've been into the doors and Jim Morrison for aeons so took the opportunity to visit some of his and their old haunts. The highlight of this was to get inside Jim's old room at La Alta Cienega motel which is where he lived for a couple of years at the height of the doors' fame.  No 40 ft high hedge for Mr Mojo Risin'! Was 4 nights and 5 days long enough in LA? Well, I think we saw what we set out to see and also unearthed a couple of other gems along the way so yes, probably. People here are so much less friendly than elsewhere in the US and the disparity between those with and those without so much more noticeable. In Beverly Hills for instance, just a block away from Cowell's Roller, we saw a sports car which our guide said would cost about $1.7m. On disembarking from the bus we were asked if we could spare a dollar by a desperate looking chap. Our Lonely Planet guide book states that nowhere sums up the USA better than LA. I disagree. I think it's the least American place we've visited. So, with sprawling megalopolis ticked off, what next? Ah yes, some much needed R&R on a palm lined beach. Goodbye LA, hello Santa Monica.

Viva Las Vegas

The great paradox of this trip is that we are presented with once in a lifetime opportunities almost on a daily basis whilst desperately attempting to stick to a rather meagre budget. This works well enough on rest days or even travel days usually but once you start shelling out for entrance fees or 17mpg supercars then it starts to come under a bit of pressure. This paradox was never more evident for us than in Las Vegas, Sin City, where people come to literally throw money away. We initially arrived in the correct manner, pulling up outside the Circus Circus hotel and casino in the Camaro to drop our bags off, but we were then brought down to earth once we'd dropped her off at McCarran Airport and were heading back into town on a sweaty shuttle bus. Americans have a tremendous propensity to talk to each other, to anyone. Where in Blighty we consider anyone who speaks to someone they don't know to be probably either insane or of questionable intent, in the USA it is the norm to chat to anyone in your immediate vicinity. "where you frarm?" is the most oft-heard opening gambit and we've watched this develop into 3 hour conversations between people previously unknown to each other. What a great thing and I think it's something else we should import from the nation at whose feet we apparently worship. Who knows what delights lie ahead on your next train or bus journey, what long standing friendships can be forged? On our shuttle bus we were sat in front of an older guy who sounded exactly like Leslie Nielsen from Police Squad and the Naked Gun films and a young woman in her 20s. In the 20 minutes that it took to travel from the airport this previously unknown to each other pair had divulged where they were staying, how much they expected to blow during their 3 days in Vegas, he that he would be taking in some topless bars and her that she thought they should meet up in her hotel bar and get loaded. Either he was slicker than a soapy eel or he had fallen spectacularly on his feet. Either way it was a fascinating insight into what goes on here and it didn't sound as though either of them would be watching the pennies like we would. Circus Circus was a pretty good base, selected because it was incredibly cheap at just $45 per night and also because my brother stayed here about 20 years ago so I felt there was something of a family tradition to uphold. (your turn next Caz) It was all a bit overwhelming to begin with if I'm honest. We'd spent a week driving through a time warp and staying in out-of-town motels so to suddenly be confronted by hordes of crazed individuals desperate to cram every last dime into any one of the thousands of flashing slot machines before us took some getting used to. In fact, by the end of that first day we both professed that Vegas was little more than "Butlins on acid" and simply not our cup of tea. We had a little flutter on a one armed bandit but we had no idea how it worked or why we won when we won or lost when we lost so it was all pretty pointless. We took a walk up the Strip in probably the hottest and most stifling conditions I've ever experienced. As we left the air conditioned foyer of the hotel I looked around to see what exactly was blowing hot air on us but it was simply the temperature outside. We'd registered 109 a day or two back and it must have been similar right now. Simply standing still was a sweat inducing activity; walking produced enough moisture from me to douse an inferno. Next day was a bit different as we really embraced the place and got into it. After brekkie we watched a game of roulette and this made us want to have a little dabble. Once we'd worked out the value of the chips on the table we realised that our gambling budget would be gone in about 6 spins of the wheel so to save face we played on an automated roulette wheel where you could bet as little as $3 per spin. We had a great half hour here and somehow found the willpower to quit when we were $32 ahead, Kerry winning that while I broke even. That evening we went to the Aria hotel to see a performance called "Viva Elvis" by Cirque du Soleil. You probably know what this acrobatic troupe are about so I won't expand on this other than to say what a fabulous couple of hours entertainment this was and well worth shelling out for. I particularly loved some of the rearrangements of Elvis' music. After this we walked all the way up the Las Vegas Boulevard (the Strip) marvelling at the hotels, particularly Caesar's Palace, New York New York and my personal favourite Luxor. Caesar's Palace is so vast you have to see it to believe it. It basically covers a whole block and takes ostentatiousness to its zenith. We got lucky as we left the hotel. As we walked past the lake just outside, hidden speakers began playing "Singing in the Rain" at which point we were treated to a tremendous water show, fountains squirting water in time to the music. Last thing at night we caught a bus back to our hotel and went and had another game of roulette. We weren't so lucky this time and ended up a few quid down. We only had a couple of days in Las Vegas because, as I said at the outset, its ethos doesn't quite fit in with ours. That said I wouldn't have missed it for the world. It's an extraordinary place and one that I would live to revisit, only this time with a sky rocket full of expendable dollars.

Route 66

Route 66, America's Highway, the Mother Road; call it what you will but it is undoubtedly one of the most iconic journeys you can undertake in the States and probably the world. This trip has evolved over the years that we've been planning it but one constant has been a desire to drive route 66, preferably in an old convertible. Personally I'd imagined driving along at a steady 55 in the blazing sun, deserted road stretching out in front of me as far as the eye can see and disappearing into the arid mountain range ahead. That's the romantic perspective of route 66. There are a multitude of practicalities to negotiate before you reach that utopia but you don't consider any dirge when you're planning a trip of this magnitude. Your mind's eye sees the Empire State building, not queuing to get up it; the beauty of Miami South Beach, not the alarmingly priced room rates; the thrill of arriving in one of the world's great cities, not that you spent 20 hours on a stinking, uncomfortable and probably late bus to get there. Having been seriously let down by Michael in the Fort Worth Enterprise office I decided that we should go to Dallas/Fort Worth airport and try our luck there. Kerry was a bit nervous about this as her feisty, adventurous and gung-ho persona is tempered by her deep-seated need to have a plan. I reassured her but I knew she was a little uncomfortable about putting her faith in me so the pressure was on to deliver. Just getting to the airport was a mission. It took a bus, a train and then 3 more buses, by which time what little patience Kerry started out with was now about as apparent as charisma at a Train spotters convention. Luckily we met an engaging young fellow from Nashville on bus number 2 who was in Dallas for an interview and was fascinated by our trip which took her mind off things a little. All the car hire offices are rather conveniently in one place in USA airports and we elected to try Enterprise first on the basis that I might get a discount for my FirstGroup connections. There were 2 lines, one for business customers and one for Plebeians and 3 positions, one of which was dedicated to business customers. Business customers, possibly correctly, we're taking priority and even when one of the other two agents were free they were calling business customers forward. After 10 minutes or so we were finally at the head of our queue and watched with increasing frustration as besuited and far more well-heeled people than us strolled up and were ushered in before us. My fuse is relatively short in such situations and I turned to Kerry and said that if one more person gets in ahead of us then Enterprise can shove it and they may see the unsavoury "meltdown" side of me. Of course, some johnny-come-lately swanned in when it was our turn at which point I summoned up my most intense glare for the agent and flounced out of there. In retrospect I was probably as brooding and menacing as Julian Clary hitting Liberace with a feather duster but I felt I was making my point. Plus, perhaps I'm finally learning that there's nothing to be gained by going ape-shit in such situations. I must remember that as we head south and the frustrations will no doubt intensify. So, no joy so far but next door at Thrifty the lovely young lady there could offer us a Ford for a reasonable price so I felt we were making progress at last, though one look at Kerry's face suggested otherwise. It was the look I might have expected had I abluted in her favourite handbag. (Apologies to those of you with a more sensitive disposition for this reference only it's amazing how much significance latrines and movements take on when travelling meaning it's at the forefront of my mind. You don't think about it at home, you just get up from your seat at 1400 hours each day and spend 20 minutes in familiar surroundings. It's routine. When moving around each day and eating at a variety of outlets of varying quality it's altogether more of an issue. Where? When? Satisfactory or otherwise? Etc) We moved on to Hertz and they could offer us the car if our dreams, a Dodge Charger, but it would cost us. $2800 to be precise, about $2k more than I wanted to pay for a 6 day rental. That Kerry was trying to tell me it perhaps wasn't THAT much told me how much this all meant to her and we were now at last chance saloon, Advantage rentals, tucked away in the corner with a hopeful "cars available" sign up. The upshot of our half hour transaction was that we secured a car beyond our dreams. A 2012 Chevy Camaro, 6.2 litre V8, cabrio, automatic, 0-60 quicker than something off a shovel (there I go again) and meaner looking than Clint Eastwood in A Fistful of Dollars. We excitedly wheeled our cases to the parking lot to get going and spent half an hour working her out: power hood - check, petrol cap and type of fuel - check, mirrors - check, cases in the boot - errrrrr, they don't fit!!! So it was I very gingerly exited DFW airport in a supercar with 2 backpacks strapped into the rear seats, a victory for dream-fulfilment over practicality. As we left the airport the guy on the barrier said "oh, you gowne hayve sum furn in thayt" though to be honest I was more focused on getting out of the city and on the open road to Oklahoma, our destination for the night and the start of our route 66 journey. We had a sat nav but it was inaudible above the turbulence so we made a couple of wrong turns before finding our stride. About 4 hours and 250 miles later we were there and checked into a motel on the outskirts, the car enabling us to take advantage of cheap rooms and cheap diners. I had to keep looking at the car to convince myself it was ours for a few days. I've been used to a VW camper that was more 'stupour' than 'super' and my primary mode of transport for the past year has been a bicycle. It felt surreal to be in charge of such a beast. Next day we were off straight after breakfast with the intention of reaching Amarillo by 6 ish. We planned on driving on as much of the old route 66 as possible. Some if it no longer exists, much of it has been paved over by the Interstate-40 and some if it wends its way to complete dead ends in corn fields so you have to be something of an arch navigator to undertake this. It is not, as we had both first thought, simply a case of pointing the car west and enjoying the scenery. It was fantastic to be masters of our own destiny, stopping whenever we wanted and revelling in the freedom of being out of the city. We were now seeing the real USA, albeit one stuck in something of a time warp, almost a living museum. Our first point of interest was the 38 span pony truss bridge near Bridgeport followed by Lucille's gas station in Hydro, no longer operational but restored and with signage explaining its relevance. Lucille lived and worked here for 59 years until her death in 2000, virtually the entire time that the road was open. We passed 'ghost towns', settlements which simply died when the road was rerouted, wonderful buildings such as the "U Drop Inn" in Shamrock and more than one field full of 40s and 50s American cars just rusting away, heaven for two lovers of old cars. Late in the afternoon we visited the "Devils Rope Museum" the bizarre yet awe inspiring "tribute to barbed wire". You simply would not believe that such a subject matter could be of much interest yet the magnitude of the collection and the years spent putting it together for display in such a backwater as McLean TX deserves admiration. Our final port of call was a place called Conway, a ghost town where 5 VW beetles have been half buried in the ground and then graffitied. I was absolutely cream crackered next morning having driven 500 miles in 2 days. I'm not used to that as my annual mileage is down to about 1500-2000 nowadays. Today was a big day though, 380 miles or thereabouts taking in the Cadillac Ranch-8 upended Cadillacs half buried in the ground near Amarillo, the stupendously retro mid-point cafe at Adrian, the ghost town of Glenrio, Tucumcari and Santa Rosa, the latter two places being ultra cool route 66 heaven, awash with old motels, diners and more 50s to 70s cars than you could shake a stick at. Whilst we had crossed the great plains of Oklahoma and northern Texas yesterday, today saw a change in scenery to resemble 1000 western movies. We were largely alone on the open road and I discovered the cruise control setting on the Camaro making the driving a breeze. Friday seemed a real drag to me as we crossed the desert of New Mexico. There was little in the way of route 66 interest until 2/3 through the day when we came across the painted desert, an ancient and petrified forest, the wig-wam motel in Holbrook (yes, you can sleep in a wig-wam) and the Jack Rabbit Trading Post, one of the most iconic places on the road. This brought us to Flagstaff, gateway to the Grand Canyon and on Saturday we joined hordes of others to witness one of the wonders of the world. The sheer vastness, natural beauty and inspirational vista that is before you here makes you remember what a glorious planet this is. To cap this fabulous day we drove on to Kingman and our motel stopping en route in Williams, the very last town on route 66 to be bypassed by the I40 in 1984. Williams has retained all the kitsch charm of its heyday and was awash with Harley Davidsons and muscle cars as well as motels, retro petrol stations and coffee shops. Our final day with the car was originally to be spent driving to the grand canyon 'skywalk' where you can walk on a glass platform hundreds of feet above the canyon floor but investigations deemed that it was not only $85 each but also largely disappointing so we decided against that. Instead we visited the original London Bridge, now located in the swelteringly hot Lake Havasu city and the Hoover Dam which was just outside Boulder City where we stayed the night. And next morning that was that, time to say goodbye to both route 66 and the best car I've ever driven. I drove through Las Vegas to the airport, dropped the beast off and we prepared to have it large in the bars and casinos of Sin City. At least, as far as our $50 budget would allow!

Texas

We finally got to leave Memphis on Friday night on what should have been the 2150 Greyhound departure to Fort Worth, Texas, though for reasons best known to the bus company we didn't actually get going until a full hour later.  Though Memphis had been great I think we were both ready to get going again and we were excited about seeing another state and therefore another perspective on this great country. We had to leave our hotel at 1100 so had 10 hours to kill before our advertised departure. In the end we just had a leisurely lunch and made our way to the bus station which is miles out of town. We figured we may as well hang about here as anywhere. Memphis bus station is brand spanking new but what it offers in a clean and safe environment it lacks in comfortable seating. We parked our derrières on one of the metal benches and after about 10 minutes both had a waffle pattern imprinted on our rears from the mesh pattern of metalwork presumably designed to deter ne'er do wells from attempting to spend the night on one. That's all very well Greyhound but think of your fare paying passengers. They have enough to contend with once ensconced on your dilapidated buses so the least you could do is give them a bit of comfort as they await their propelled misery! I ended up putting my pillow under me for a bit of respite and with Kerry being the dainty and slender thing that she is she found that her coat under her would do the trick. At last a use for that coat! After an eternity of waiting, punctuated by a game of chicken crossing the 4-lane highway to go and get some grease-laden pizza, the magical hour of 2150 was upon us and we stood 2nd or 3rd in line eagerly awaiting to board. We stood like lemons for about 20 minutes with Kerry getting more and more vexed with every passing second until I went and asked the lady behind the desk what's was going on. It was another Greyhound clean-up operation and a full hour later we were finally invited to board. Though some ignorant people with no concept of queuing barged in front of us we were still on early and thus had our free pick of the seats. We'd already decided that we didn't wants to be at the back (that's where all the gangsta rap playing, non-stop talking and slightly alarming looking people sit), neither did we want to be on the left side of the bus because that seemed to aggravate my hernia so I picked a pair of seats about a third of the way down the bus on the right. Unfortunately, no sooner had I sat down than I realised that my window seat was broken and though upright it would move to the recline position with the slightest pressure. Conversely, if that slightest pressure was removed it would shoot back into the upright position. Not a total disaster but aggravating nonetheless. To compound matters, just as we were about to depart, joyful that the two seats behind us were free (no snoring, halitosis, inane gabbling or kneeing in the back of us) a huge guy appeared at the luggage hold and stowed a large pack. I just knew he was going to end up behind us and it got more and more obvious as he staggered up the steps carrying an absolutely massive bundle of blankets. It was an hilarious sight really to see this wheezing and puffing mass of material proceed up the gangway but less so as it practically fell into the seats behind us followed by aforementioned halitosis and kneeing in the back of the highest calibre. To be fair to the chap he was a really nice guy. His truck had broken down in st Louis and his company needed to get him to Dallas to pick a new one up but they had overlooked the fact that he was simply too big to travel by public transport. Imagine Giant Haystacks somehow fused with Big Daddy and you're about there. He spent the whole night wedged in behind us with his backside halfway up the seat meaning his breath, and then snoring, was whistling directly into our bay. Despite all this we actually got a fair amount of sleep and I didn't wake until we were rattling into Dallas at about 0630. The skyline of Dallas is very impressive, particularly after the relative earthy feel of New Orleans and Memphis, though Kerry missed this as she was still sparko. We changed buses at Dallas and within 45 minutes we were in Fort Worth, Dallas' country cousin famed for its cowboys and rodeo, the latter the reason we were here. We had a room booked but as it was only about 8am we knew we'd have to skulk around for a few hours before we could get into it so we walked into town and had a slap up breakfast. Once we'd laboured over this for as long as seemed decent and abluted in their facilities we meandered down to the integrated transport centre (ITC) and looked for a bus out to the historic Stockyards district where we were staying. There was an Enterprise Rent-a-car office at the ITC so we waited for him to open at 10am and, with one eye on the next leg of this odyssey, asked him abut the possibility of hiring a suitable vehicle to drive from Texas to Las Vegas on a one-way basis. The guy was very enthusiastic, assured us it would be no problem, that he could get us a Mustang or similar and that I could even get a discount on account of being an employee of FrstGroup. Buoyed by this we caught the bus up to Stockyards and found it, to our surprise, to be a real old style wild west area with saloons and cowboys and trading posts. And lots of tourists. Though it was only 11am we tried to check into the hotel but of course it wasn't ready for us so we left our bags there and went out for a wander. There was lots to see with cowboys, stagecoaches and lots of people dressed up in civil war costumes. They do like to reenact the civil war, I'll say that for the Americans. We got talking to a guy dressed up as a sheriff and once we'd explained, for abut the 15th time since we got to the States, that we were English and not Australian, we had a spot of lunch and went to the hotel. That night was rodeo night and to ensure we got good seats we were literally first inside the "Cowboy Coliseum". 90 minutes later the fun began with a rousing rendition of the Star Spangled Banner as a young lady galloped around the arena carrying an American flag and a quick dedication to all the troops in Afghanistan. There's great pomp and ceremony at every opportunity over here which I find both cringeworthy and admirable. We had the national anthem before the baseball game the other night and now this whereas we only get the national anthem before an international football match in the UK. Where's our national pride gone? There's a real feeling that every individual is part of a great collective here but, if we ever had that, we've lost it. Anyway, the rodeo itself was a hoot. First up were a succession of lunatics attempting to ride bulls who in turn were attempting to remove the irritations from their backs and then kick and trample them to death. We had calf roping, barrel racing (girls riding around barrels as opposed to a barrel v barrel match up) and a couple of interludes where children were invited into the arena to try to catch a sheep or a calf. With each section punctuated by the young lady galloping around carrying the flag of the events sponsors it was, all in all, a fantastic spectacle to behold. Next day was a free day so we intended to mosey into Fort Worth to hire bikes to give us a bit more range. However, on waking up and flicking through a few channels on the tv I realised that we had the Fox soccer channel and that I could therefore watch Man City v QPR. And what a humdinger that was. I appreciate that there are probably some people reading this who couldn't give a monkey's about football but that hour and a half will live long in everyone who saw it's memory and I'm so glad I got to see it.  Now lunch time, we decided that hiring bikes was prohibitively expensive for half a day ($50) so we just wandered about the streets in the boiling heat taking in what little downtown Fort Worth has to offer. That evening, having had a pretty cheap day, we decided to have a blowout meal back at Stockyards and ended up having the most delicious steak imaginable. Whilst the steak was fabulous the jacket potato accompaniment was equally divine and all in all, the meal was the best we've had in these past 4 weeks. Back at the hotel I was talking to the owner who told me her sister lives in Wellingborough. I woke up on Monday with itchy arms and legs suggesting we were sharing with uninvited guests but soon forgot that as we caught the train to Dallas for one of my "must sees". By chance Dealy Plaza, the grassy knoll, the JFK memorial and the old Texas Book Depository are all within spitting distance of the station so within minutes of disembarking I was standing on the historic sight where JFK was shot. I'm fascinated by this and all the "ifs, buts and maybes" so found it a very powerful experience to see it in the flesh. Perhaps sensing my enthusiasm a street trader managed to flog me an 8 page newspaper showing photographs and other 'evidence' to suggest there was more to it than the US government would have us believe and, surprisingly, the museum deals with all possibilities in a very open manner. That the museum is sited in the old book depository means you get to stand in the very window from where Oswald fired. But was he acting alone? Downtown Dallas didn't offer us much apart from the JFK themed stuff. In fact, we have finally worked out that downtown anywhere in the USA doesn't offer much unless you're wearing a suit and work in an office. Even more reason for us to get our hands on a car. We caught the train back to Fort Worth and went to see our chap in the Enterprise office to see what magic he had worked for us. Remember, he enthusiastically said on Saturday that he could source a Mustang and that the price would be discounted for me. At this point I should say that our specific request was for a certain type of car. We didn't want to drive something you could find in the UK, nor anything that a boring old fart would drive. We wanted a muscle car, preferably convertible. This trip is about realising dreams and it is neither of ours dream to drive a Toyota. This all formed part of our brief to the agent on Saturday. So what did he come up with? "I've had trouble finding you a Mustang but I do have a lovely Insignia which I'll do for the same rate". Pah! Insignia schminsignia. Exactly what we were not looking for, a black saloon car that looks like a Mondeo. With the muscle car experience being very high on Kerry's agenda she was unable to refrain from telling Michael exactly what she thought of him and his Insignia. I told her not to worry, that we'd go to the airport tomorrow and find what we were looking for. I had faith in that assertion but if it didn't work out we were up a certain creek without a paddle as we had nothing booked beyond today. That is a great feeling though. To be slap bang in the middle of the USA with 9 months ahead of you and no concrete plan.  It's exactly why I'm dong this in the first place.

A Musical Interlude

Whilst New Orleans was a great experience I had higher hopes for Memphis. New Orleans is the home of jazz, not my musical cup of tea, whereas Memphis is Blues City and thus right up my alley. In order to prepare for more "larging it" we stopped off in Jackson, the state capital of Mississippi, over the weekend having unearthed an absolute bargain on Lastminute.com. Consider that our cockroach infested 10 bed prison cell on Key West cost us $110 per night and that the Hilton in Jackson, including pool, jacuzzi and door opening people just $125 and you will perhaps understand our delight at this upturn in our fortunes. Holing up in Jackson was decided upon for two reasons: one was that both New Orleans and Memphis' room rates spike over weekends and the second was that I needed to rest up having experienced a gradual recurrence of my 18 month old, mysterious gut ache since we started this trip. I'm not one to gripe, I can take a bit of discomfort (see previous escapades) but this was beginning to put the mockers on things whilst also being a tad concerning. Our departure by train from New Orleans saw stomach based nadir and I was really looking forward to doing absolutely nothing for a couple of days, particularly surrounded by such opulence. The train was one of those double decker jobs and we were sat on the top deck, just to the left of and behind a rather aggravating bimbo whose intolerance of vino was such that a couple of slurps in she was making loud pronouncements and just talking inanely, unnecessarily and incessantly. On arrival at Jackson we stood outside the station looking at our Lonely Planet and our hotel confirmation to see if there were any clue as to which way we should start walking. We fended off the advances of a cabbie which was just as well because the Hilton was only 50ft away, literally just over the road. Walking in that door, opened by two people seemingly employed to do just that, we found ourselves in a beautifully appointed lobby with chandeliers, marble and tastefully understated gold. As I caught sight of myself in a mirror wearing flip flops, cargo trousers, tee shirt, shades and with dishevelled barnet I felt terribly out of place, especially as all of the other patrons were resplendent in suits and gown-like dresses. Once in our room our excitement reached fever pitch as we: lay on our bed and realised it had a tempur mattress, flicked light switches to find they all worked, tweaked the air-con, sat at our writing desk and felt the fluffy wonder of our towels. It's only the sort of place I stay in when away with work but it's amazing how quickly you forget that sort of thing. Plus, the contrast with recent accommodations couldn't have been greater. Having tweaked and fiddled to our heart's content we went out for food, asking our doorman which way to head and mindful not to trip up on the red carpet. Luckily there were 3 restaurants within a couple of blocks, just as well because I was struggling to walk much further. We discounted the first two places and opted for number 3, a homely and absolutely buzzing place run by a good old southern couple. We were shown to the last booth in the place and I delighted in my 3 course meal of veal for a fabulous $8. It was fascinating to watch middle America sit and eat out. The clientele were all middle-aged, white and probably read whatever the equivalent of the Daily Mail is. We tried not to hold that against them though. Back at the Hilton we made use of the pool and jacuzzi before turning in. Next day was a big day for me for it was FA cup final day. Since 1977 this day has been set aside for: trying to bond with father and brother over football, revelling in the one day of the year when live football was on TV (younger readers raise eyebrows here)  copious drinking and football with my mates in the late 80s and through the 90s, trying to escape my fatherly responsibilities using football as an excuse and reunions with long-lost mates using "our day" as the basis.  It is ritualistic, cast in stone, a holy day in my personal calendar and I haven't missed a cup final for anything, ever. So where was I going to catch the game today? First things first, what time is it on? 3pm kick off in Blighty is 9am in Jackson. Gawd help us, that's a bit unearthly but c'est la vie! Flicking through the channels on the tv in our room was getting me nowhere so I checked online to discover it wasn't at 3pm but at 5:15.  Was it 5:15 last year? I can't honestly remember but if it was I presumably vented my spleen then. I mean, would Roger Osborne have scored in '78 if kick off had been 2 hours 15 minutes later? It's doubtful. Would Dave Beasant have guessed correctly if he was having to do so in early evening rather than bright mid-afternoon sun? What next? Women lines(wo)men? So 1115 gives me another couple of hours to track the game down. I established that the tv in my room would not be showing it and, following a 10 minute chat with the ladies on reception, neither would the hotel bar. They phoned a couple of Irish pubs and a sports bar or two and offered to drive us there gratis but it was no use, nowhere in Jackson seemed to have the Fox Soccer channel and therefore, for the first time since 1976, I wouldn't watch the cup final. The one lifeline in such situations is the BBC sport website live text. It's a mix of BBC text commentary and texts and tweets from fans and is amusing enough but a sorry substitute for the real thing. Anyway, by the sounds of it it was a pretty dire game so I'll just have to console myself it wasn't a '79, an '87 or an '06. We spent the afternoon in the pool, ate again at the Daily Mail readership canteen where the freckle-faced waitress was drooling over our accents and that was about us done in Mississippi. In fact that's all there was to do in Jackson Mississippi. Never a more dead town have I encountered on my travels. Wellingborough on a wet bank holiday Monday shows much more sign of life; there simply is nothing in downtown Jackson other than office blocks, empty at weekends of course. Our bus on Sunday wasn't until nearly 3pm so we had a bit of waiting around until then. We ate at the bus station, a hideous and negatively nutritionally valuable hot dog and then fended off the obligatory crackpot as we waited to board our bus.  I think I mentioned before, Greyhound buses are not exactly the last word on refined and luxurious teams-continental transport. With the guy in front of us having reclined both his seats and the guy behind being so large and prostrate  that it wasn't viable for us to recline ours we were in the unenviable situation of sitting bolt upright with a seat back approximately 2 inches from our nose. Nevertheless we managed to zone out and I finished the first of the 5 books I've been lugging around before spending the last couple of hours of the 5 hour journey taking in the scenery. We stopped in a real Mississippi backwater for a pit stop and, thinking it might be our only chance to eat, we decided to partake in a rib sandwich from the roadside bar-b-q. It was a real Heath-Robinson affair with a corrugated iron shack protecting the cook and her half-barrel home made barbies. Corrugated iron is a conductor of heat and so our portly chef was sweating for all she was worth as she prepared our food. I watched with dread as the beads of sweat trickled down her cheeks to form a pea-sized droplet on the end of her chin. She couldn't wipe it away. Her hands were adorned in plastic gloves and her arms too chubby to manoeuvre her sleeve into position to mop it.  I don't know if it ended up in my sandwich because I couldn't look any longer but there was certainly a salty twang to my grub! And so to Memphis. Blues City and the home of Elvis.  As ever there's a hurdle to overcome when travelling in this manner. We'd booked our hotel based on the fact that it was only 500 yards from the bus station. On departure from Jackson I'd seen a poster saying that the bus station had moved to near the airport which of course is miles out of town. With it being a Sunday there were no buses running into town so we were stung for $25 in a taxi which was an unexpected blow. Our room though was a joy, even though we'd only just left the Hilton. Fabulous king sized bed and good shower, it's all you need really. Because of my concern over my innards I'd decided that I was going to get myself sorted in Memphis come what may. On Monday we went to the local hospital from where I was directed to a subsidised practise for the homeless and uninsured. To cut a very long story short this wonderful hospital and it's doctors have given me a full diagnosis of my condition and advice on how to manage it over the coming months until I can get it sorted properly when back home. All I'll say is; I bloody KNEW I had a hernia! Uk diagnosis: you are getting older, you must expect the odd ache and pain. So what else have we done except ride the Madison trolley to hospital every day?  Well, we went to the Rock and Soul museum, listened to street performers, ate "po-boys" which are delicious sandwiches and relaxed by our pool. Beale St, the famous street where artists such as BB King, Howlin Wolf, Isaac Hayes and others performed many years ago, was our Mecca each evening. It's very run down now, sad almost, particularly in the daytime, but at night it comes alive with every bar competing for your trade and all offering live music.  We caught a couple of fantastic bands, one in the Rum Boogie cafe and another, complete with Doors-esque organ, in BB Kings. On Wednesday evening the local basketball team were playing at home, swelling the crowds further, and the local motorbike boys were in town all showing off their Harleys. There's a few "must do's" for me in the USA, one of which being to take in a baseball game. As we found ourselves staying opposite the Memphis Redbirds stadium this week we took the opportunity on Thursday and had a great time. The yanks really know how to ham up their sport but it makes for a great evenings entertainment.  And of course there was Graceland. We caught a local bus out along Elvis Presley Boulevard and went for the full tour which includes the house and gardens, his planes and various museums and displays of his awards and clothes. Although I love Elvis anyway it really is a tremendous day out.  It's utterly fascinating to see inside Graceland and has given me some great ideas for decor in the future.  Green shag pile carpet on the ceiling will mean no more painting and a waterfall in the living room should satisfy Kerry's desire to be near water. One final observation. Up until Miami we'd only seen relatively slim and beautiful people and thought that the "Americans are all overweight" was a myth. New Orleans and Memphis have shown us that there is an inordinate amount of overweight people here, in fact, it is remarkable to see anyone who isn't at least portly in Memphis.  Sadly I seem to be joining their ranks. With breakfast generally consisting of cake and with vegetables seemingly thin on the ground in restaurants I'm looking forward to getting into Mexico and away from all this fried food. Onwards and upwards. Next stop Dallas to visit Dealey Plaza, go to a rodeo in Fort Worth and then hire a car to drive Route 66 to Vegas.

The Big Easy

N'awlins Hi y'all and greetings from the Big Easy, a town based around indulgence and excess, a binge-meisters delight. Before we get on to describing our time here though let's just go back awhile and examine the horrors of actually getting here. If you recall we were in Key West last weekend and I left you as we were boarding our bus on Sunday evening to head back to Miami. This precluded another night at The Airport Inn and Suites before the endurance test of an overnight bus to New Orleans. Sounds simple doesn't it? A bus for a hotel for a bus and voila! Not so. Things started reasonably well for what should have been a 4.5 hour journey from Key West to Miami was only 3.75 hours thanks to the lunatic driving our bus. He stuck to the plan all the way up the Keys but as soon as we hit the mainland it felt like we were extras in "Speed 2" only this time the bus would explode if we dropped below 70. It was quite terrifying to hurtle through the rainy darkness and there were odd occasions when a quick glance upfront told me we must surely be about to hit the cars in front. Whether our driver was on a promise, was hungry or just had his heavy boots on I don't know but I have rarely been more pleased to disembark from public transport. After our grotty hostel on the Keys the Airport inn, though pretty basic itself, felt like the Savoy. To be safe in the knowledge that a midnight trip to the kazi would not include the possibility of stepping onto a cockroach was delight enough but to not have to share one toilet with up to 8 other people sealed the deal. We slept well but at about 0730 we were treated to the guy in the next room hacking his guts up. If he was a smoker or merely had a predisposition to manufacture inordinate amounts of phlegm was unclear but after 20 minutes of this we put some music on to drown it out. Turning this off to go down to breakfast, we heard his hacking advance towards pain as he moaned and wailed to his wife. We went down and ate our fill of toast and bagels and 30 minutes later, as we  sat in the lobby watching the torrential rain, the fire brigade turned up bearing a stretcher. A minute or so later our neighbour was wheeled outside into the  monsoon wearing nothing but a pair of white boxers and an oxygen mask. In a jointly shocking and hilarious development the guys couldn't get the doors to the ambulance open and the patient was left prone on the stretcher, directly beneath a waterfall-like torrent which was pouring off the roof. The poor guy was half dead, virtually naked and was now being subjected to a water-based pummelling that could floor an elephant. Our journey to New Orleans would be in 3 legs: the airport to Miami West bus station, Miami to Orlando and from there to New Orleans. The first leg only took 10 minutes and even leg 2 was ok despite us being sat in front of 4 Arabs who insisted on playing Arabian music out loud and jibber jabbering loudly whilst continually kicking our seats. In her exasperation Kerry turned round and asked them to shut up which, predictably, resulted in sniggering and comments. We had an hour or so in Orlando before the final leg departed at 1830 on Monday evening so we ate the paltry fayre that was on offer at the bus station, sharing our table with a couple who were travelling all the way to Houston, the buses final destination. The lady suffered from OCD to the degree that when we first boarded the bus her and her hubby were rubbing their seats down with wet wipes and now, at the bus station canteen, they were mopping the table and the floor around them to ensure they didn't pick any germs up. The irony of course is that they ate absolute crap at every pit stop meaning that their hands were undoubtedly cleaner than their insides. These though were some of the saner individuals we encountered on this journey. On the bus we sat across from a wiry black guy who reminded us of Samuel L Jackson who was prone to offering sage words about life and the universe. Among his utterings was some drivel about not paying tax and then the classic "Man, I'm gonna ride one of these suckers all the way to California to see what shit goes down". There was "Ratboy", a chav looking lad who worked in a paper mill in New Orleans and who was the most socially adept person I've ever met, talking with ease with anyone about anything. The guy with the bull ring through his nose was a terrifying addition to our journey at Tallahassee, as was the guy with his whole bald head and face tattooed. There was the guy in the toilets at Tallahassee shaving his head who had the swastika tattooed on his chest and the "Great Unwashed", a behatted and rabbit foot toting tramp. Oh, I haven't even mentioned the 3 black guys playing gangsta rap loudly yet! No, it's too painful a memory to bring up. Travelling by Greyhound is fascinating but I don't think we'll do such a big chunk at once again. I think most affluent Americans fly, the middle classes take the train and what's left get the bus. I wouldn't have missed it, it's the type of experience that defines the trip, but I'm in no hurry to repeat it. So, Tuesday morning we get to New Orleans and first off have to get some food inside us. We indulged in a fabulous feast of fry up with maple syrup pancakes on the side and then embarked on the loooooong walk to our hotel. We decided to walk because we had time to kill but we hadn't reckoned on it being quite so far and it was searingly hot too. We set off up Tulane Ave, right at the start of that road. "What number is our hotel?" asked Kerry. "Ummmm, no 3900" says I. A whole sweaty hour later we're there and, because of the hardships of the previous night, we opted to just sit by the pool and relax. For dinner we went across the road to Bode's Catfish Shack and had catfish with cabbage and peas. Partly because we were frazzled and also because we were new in town New Orleans felt a bit unsafe so we were glad to turn in and get our heads down. Before doing so we came face to face with an absolute nutter in the foyer who was all baseball cap, tattooed face and drug-addled slurring. (Tattoos are big business over here and I have never seen so many tattooed faces in my life. Even the girl in McDonald's on the till had a tattooed face!) On Wednesday we did the full tourist thing and with a 12 hour sleep behind us we saw New Orleans for what it really is, a fabulously friendly and hip place with a slight air of danger about it. The old town, the French Quarter, Bourbon St etc, is a wonder to behold but is also so dilapidated. I'm sure it was fabulous in its day but the years have taken their toll and it can't last too much longer without serious investment. Whether there's any point making that investment is debatable though because a large proportion of the city is likely to be reclaimed by the sea within the next 40 years. In fact, with the river on one side and a massive lake on the other, plus the fact that a large proportion of the city sits below sea level, you almost have to question its very founding all those years ago by the French. The city has been devastated numerous times throughout history, most notably in 2005 by hurricane Katrina, a situation exacerbated by inadequate flood defences being in situ. On Wednesday night we set out to see some live music and settled on "Big Al Carson" at the Funky Pirate blues club. Big Al was certainly that. Super morbidly obese is probably the scientific term but what he lacked in svelteness in his probable 45 stone frame he more than made up for with his charisma and ability to sing the blues. The atmosphere in the club was electric as he belted out classics as well as little known numbers and it was an absolute delight to behold. The fact that he almost had the ladies eating out of his hand was amusing but testimony to his charisma, no doubt nurtured during a career singing with the Neville brothers (not Gary and Phil) and for royalty. Yesterday was spent similarly, doing the tourist thang y'all and soaking up as much of the Big Easy that we possibly could. Louis Armstrong park, the museum of Louisiana, the free ferry across the Mississippi to Algiers and a quick ride on the streetcar preceded possibly the highlight, a snickers ice cream. I'd almost forgotten but it had been 3 weeks since I'd had any chocolate so when Kerry suggested we get an ice cream I suddenly began slavering at the prospect. Like anything, if you're denied it then it is all the sweeter when you finally do get your hands on it and I can tell you that that snickers ice cream was simply the best experience I've had with my trousers on for many a long day. To round things off we ate at a restaurant with a balcony overlooking Bourbon st and my seafood jambalaya (oysters and prawns with spicy rice) was as heavenly as Kerry's crawfish creole seemed to be. New Orleans is an absolutely fabulous place but it's time to move on again. We've found a bargain at lastminute.com so we're now heading for 2 nights in the Hilton in Jackson Mississippi to wind down before heading to Memphis for a bit of Elvis and hopefully some more of the blues.