Author: thelongmosey

To Conny and I, Texas was not high on our agenda of must do’s, largely swamp or desert, we kinda sorta thought we’d just drive through. Last minute, we decided to head to Big Bend National Park.

What a smart move that turned out to be.

En route, we had the worst nights sleep ever at a rest stop. These fucking trucks and there idle drivers idling their motors. Shit for the planet and even shitter for my nights sleep, plus the motorway stayed noisy all night, worse still, the god damn heat. Holy hell this was like, well, holy hell. So hot and sticky the place could be named the Batwing State (yes, some of you might need to look Batwings up, but if you do, you are probably going to wish you didn’t). I did however have a nice chat with a young truck driver called Santos. He is the future, thank God(in whom I do not believe) in that he understands that the current state of petroleum dependency and the nonchalance with which it is burned en masse in the US is abhorrent. He understands that it is killing us and the world, that the future is not in finding gasoline from other countries or melting the Arctic ice just to get to more. He sees a future in the alternatives, he even educated me on an electric vehicle, not an easy thing to do for the layman, and introduced me to the electric big rig truck (Nicolas I believe after Tesla, but will verify). Looks cool as fuck. So Santos, I hope you read this, it was a pleasure to meet you Sir, and it’s a shame we didn’t share a coffee in the morning, Keep on truckin’!

Big Bend, I assume, is named after the big bend in the state border of which it lies, but I’m not sure of that. Here desert sand and rock meet shrubs and brush with tree covered mountains and rivers dotted intermittently throughout. We pulled up to the park at night after some of the most intense rainstorms I have ever experienced. The road was swiftly more boatway than motorway, Byron would have been flinging his craft along with haste and joy abundant. As soon as the rainstorms hits however, they were gone, but thunder lingered in the air, spiking out a little rumble and flash here and there. Add to this the fact that on the way in to the park we passed another three rattlers roadside, Conny and even I with the thunder, were more inclined to sleep in the vehicle than atop her in our tent. We even cheekily parked up at the visitor centre, after all it didn’t say no overnight parking, just no camping and only in designated areas, so we didn’t put the tent up and parked in a spot marked RV, both arguable positions if the Law showed up to give us some shit. We even had a glimmer of hope with an internet signal, but the howl of the wind and stormy weather soon rolled back in and put pay to that. We had been hoping once more to find bears, but unfortunately the problem was the bears were too active and those areas had been closed off, due to bears wanting the human’s food and not being scared to take it.

We were also in mountain lion country, there was a life size replica of one in the visitor centre. I do not want to meet one of those buggers. You know how people say that if a cat were big enough, even your own house cat, they would eat you if they felt the will or need, these were big enough, more than.

We headed to Chisos Basin. A stunning basin amongst a few mountains, that revealed itself like the valley that the dinosaurs are all headed for in the Land Before Time or the new subterranean lands in Jules Verne’s Journey To The Centre Of The Earth (don’t know why the dinosaur related brain-links there, but they seem appropriate enough, the area does have more than a whiff of the prehistoric about it) . The mists gently lifting to reveal a relatively cool morning as we took a mosey through some trails in the park, closest to where we might have been able to (at least where we were permitted) to see a bear or two.

By midday however, desert sun was in full force, I even burned the nape of my neck. I had packed an extra jacket, ponchos, water, snacks, a knife, even headlamps…forgot the sun cream though didn’t I. What a nob. Still no worries. The valley was teaming with butterflies and crickets. At some points you wouldn’t realise until a patch of leaves on the ground shifted and circled in the air before assuming plant form again. The crickets, black and drab, burst into flame red colour and noise as you approach them and the half-leap-half-fly to safety.

Still no bears though.

We decided to head to the Rio Grande for the evening, but in fact it ain’t that Grande. More like the Rio Not Quite Small Enough To Be A Stream. Those of you from my neck of the woods, think more Churnet river than Mississippi. However the drive did bring us to a family of boar/hogs crossing the road and we did spot a few tarantulas running the gauntlet.

Our spot for the night is a rest stop on a quiet road in Big Bend Ranch State Park. It even has teepee picnic areas. A perfect night. So perfect in fact that after tea (barbecue sprouts and white beans with rice if you are interested…not as gassy as one might think, although you probably needn’t know that) Conny was stranded on top of the picnic table as a boar was attracted to the area by our food, and Conny didn’t dare come down, I had to wash up and then fetch her, armed with my knife. I kept telling her he’s just a cool dude, think Pumbaa without tusks, but she was having none of it.

The next morning we awoke to a glorious desert morning and decided we would check out the little coffee shop we saw at a fantastically weird village called Terlingua Ghost Town. The coffee, we took on the terrace, it was delicious, bathed in the warm sun. I’m pretty sure one of the cast of Ally McBeal was there and I managed to smash my phone whilst I was there too.

The town itself is built in the ruins of an old early 1900’s settlement. But it isn’t the history or its ancient inhabitants that make this place wonderful. It is the current crop of desert dwelling hippies that live there that bring the oodles of charm to this place that one cannot help but find endearing.

There is a mixmatch of all things kitsch and Texacana there delivered with hippy laissez-faire attitude. The businesses all look kinda run down. There is a teepee, next to an airstream next to a spanish villa and so on and so forth. The graveyard looks like an ancient site until you get up close. Then you see graves as recent as 2014. The graves themselves are made of whatever suits the personality of its tennant. “Big Bird” has a grave surrounded by chicken statues. Then there are those who have shotglasses, or graves full of old beer bottles. Crosses made from salvaged scraps and shrines adorned with anything and everything the mourners see fit, jewellery, art, toys, poems, photographs, trinkets of all manner. From the ornate to the simplest scrap wood cross wit a nail or two in, it’s all there.

From here we set out to Alpine, our entertainment for the night was Saturday Night Lights. A local, proper Dillon TX style college football game between the local Sul Ross Lobos and the Yellow Jackets of some other place in Texas. It was a brilliant night, at first we thought there would only be us there with a handful of others, but the crowd built steadily, not huge, but they came to egg on their boys.

The sheer volume of players in one of these games is astounding. Between the 2^nd and 3^rd string players, the offensive and defensive folk and the special teams, there are upwards of 50 along the pitch side. I dare say some half of these guys must get suited every single week not even to get on the park. But still, those that do, they put on a good show. The Lobos are a middle table team in the 3^rd tier of collegiate football. So not outstanding, but they still hit hard and have some spectacular coordination at times. Just them reading the sign language from one of the 5 coaches is a marvel. The Lobos take the game quite easy, the opposition hasn’t won a single game this season, and thanks to a kindly couple behind us, Conny and I got to grips with the rules enough to watch and enjoy the game. Sadly, despite my having a slight penchant for the cheerleader, there were none. There were some local Mexican ballet (not real ballet but beautiful dances in flowing colourful skirts waved like fans) to keep us entertained at half time. Next was onwards towards El Paso, dodging the millions of jack rabbits that wanted to get amongst beauty’s wheels as we did. With a radar blimp parked up on the roadside (an odd thing to see for sure) and another noisy rest stop along the way. We really should look for train tracks when we park up. No more than 3 metres from the roadside these buggers were I swear.

We set for El Paso in the morning. The plan, as Conny and I liked the Bridge TV show, was to go to El Paso, cross on foot to Juarez, have a beverage and come back. However as we were drinking our morning coffee, looking for somewhere to fix my phone, Conny stumbled upon a nugget of information that would change our plans. Juarez is the number 2 murder city on earth. Now, everyone we met when we said we were going said to be careful, we brushed it off. Number Fucking 2. No Tequila was drunk by Conny this day. We got in the car and looked at Juarez from the safety of US soil as we drove by.

Somewhat bizarrely, as we left Albuquerque we stumbled upon 104.7 KABQ, a radio station playing jingle bells. Yup, we were in the desert, blazing hot sun beating down, in early November and we had come across a Christmas radio station. I love Christmas. This was awesome. We had about a good hundred miles of cheer filling our car as we plodded past all the casinos through the desert heat. It was an odd and somewhat delightfully confusing experience.

Next up. Sledging. Yes! Having just listened to all that festive wonder, what else would we do. We had heard that the first snows had fallen back home in Austria, so sledging was a must! It’s easier than one might think to sledge in the desert in New Mexico. About an hour from Roswell, is the White Sands National Monument. A bunch of brilliant white dunes (I know, that is a surprise) in the desert, where the eroded dust from the mountains circling the plains collects and we humans purchase little plastic discs and slide down them. Awesome fun. There was even one family in full Christmas pyjamas taking the photo for their Christmas card, I kid you not, could’t have dreamt that one up myself. I was overcome with the spirit and even gave them my sledge, I had no further use for it, and one can never have too many sledges with a family of four (plus dog) all decked out for the holidays.

Roswell however was a damp squib. I was expecting alien stuff, the kooky nut jobs in trailers thinking they see them all the time etc etc. Nope. Just a dreary looking town. A bit dead, with your average set of fast foods and small malls, all looking a bit worse for wear to be honest. The dude in the tourist centre however, despite his cold, was a good dude. He was of good humour and disposition even when faced with a question he must have heard a million times.

“Where’s Rachel?”

“The village?” he replies “Oh that’s erm…let me check” he sachets over to his computer as if to pull up a map or something “That’s about 14 hours away, in Nevada”

“Fuck”

You see, Rachel is a village, close to Area 51. The secret base of alien technology study and potential alien house that is much talked about by conspiracy theorists, we’ve all seen it in the movies somewhere. Only, I thought it was near Roswell, given the hoo-ha around the incident in the 40’s (I think…don’t quote me). But no. It is bloody days away, and not even on our route.

We leave Roswell a little dejected and head off along what is the old Route 66, or what’s left of it, its now the I40 and most of Route 66 is shut. Occasionally you get to drop of the motorway and cruise through an old town that used to thrive on the through traffic, but these days not so much. However, one town that does do well is Williams. It was the last Route 66 town to be bypassed by the I40 in 1984 I think. It has a cracking location too, ten minutes one way you have summer lakes and mountain forests, in the winter skiing, an hour north is the Grand Canyon. Conny and I got a room for the night in the lovely Canyon Country Inn. Nothing flashy, but a little old school quaint cottage motel, it was clean and perfect. We thought this way we could clean up, grab a bite (at the local bistro/brew house…delicious, if a tad expensive), and watch Trump lose the election*.

Oh fuck.

*To be honest, at this point, I was already shitting myself. I had previously thought it unimaginable, but if the mosey had taught me one thing, it was this, Trump had a chance, not only that but I thought it a terrifyingly good one, still I did hope that reason would prevail.

Pulling up to the drive, Conny and I are unsure if we have the right place…a lovely, large house, on an estate full of lovely large houses we wouldn’t want to park black beauty on some unexpectors drive…then, through the window, I spot her, Kiera Baines. Sister to Joseph F. Sidley, wife to Gary ‘Bainesy’ Baines, former babysitter to one David Alexander South Esquire and eldest silbing of the(former) over-the-back-fence-dwellers that are the Sidley clan. We are in the right place.

Kiera, hasn’t changed a bit, only now she reminds me more in her mannerisms than ever before of her mum Bash, this is definitely no bad thing for I love me some Bash (minds out of the gutters please). The plan: meet the family, stay a couple o’days, go to New Orleans for a day trip, spy an alligator.

It was a good plan, but we decided it’s so nice being here, we’d stay 6 nights!

The first evening was a simple affair, a bit of relax have a natter, a good cup of Yorkshire tea, and catch up. Last time I saw their eldest, Oliver, he was a baby, I hadn’t even met Isabelle before, he’s now 11 and she is 9. An awesome pair of youngsters, with an appropriate love for football, a kind temperament and especially with Izzy, a hint of mischief about them. At this point, I should point out, that I am known only as DavidSouth, not David, Dave, Southy, or even Muff like I used to be, to Izzy, I am DavidSouth.

The heat here is ridonculous. I expected warm but this was a step beyond. Evening one saw me play football with Izzy in the back yard and between the climate and the fatness of my being, the back, elbow and eyeball sweats were all in full force. I was spent after 15.

Day two, another scorcher, but Conny and I had a plan. We had booked with the help of Mrs Baines, who by rights should be on commission from the Louisiana tourist board, an airboat ride, scheduled for 2 o’clock we had lunch and set out in good time, maybe 5 minutes late but we called, they said no problem. What we didn’t factor in to this equation, something that Garmin might want to write some code for, is the ineptitude of folk capable of following directions, but not capable of spotting a giant sign pointing to our destination. We followed the Garmin to a T. But no boats, we drove up and down the levee looking for it, calling Kiera, but no avail, we drove on and on till we tought we must turn back…30 mins later we hit exactly the Garmin spot. Right in front of our eyes, the biggest sign you can think of pointing to exactly where we wanted to go. We were simply looking at the wrong side of the road.

Clearly, we missed the boat, in a very real and unfortunate fashion, still there was one at 4 we just had to wait, have a beverage and scour the net for some interesting stuff. The airboat was awesome.

Byron, our captain/pilot/guide looked tough as old boot leather, pretty sure he grew up here and lived here all his life, unless he spent a stint in the military, that wouldn’t surprise me. He knew those swamps like the back of his hand.

“It’s d’afternoon nah, so ahm gon take ye up a canal straight away where we can see some gators, cos dat’s whut ye folk normally curm fer.”

We all smile and done our ear muffs in the sweltering afternoon sun and bust out the dock and across the swamps. Never thought I’d say this, but I didn’t half like the wind in my beard, made me feel all gruff and manly. I get a tap on my left shoulder and follow where Byron’s finger is pointing, as we motor by a fat alligator waddles into the river. Now here was I thinking that was cool, good enough, alligator at distance is a nice and rare enough experience…but then he shuts the engine down and gestures to us to remove earmuffs.

“Ahn jus’ gonna idle up this canal, theys usually some gators up there, ol’uns un young’uns”

We gently cruise up and to the left, on the sunny banks a few small, say 5 feet, beasts plod into the river. The occasional set of eyes stare intently at our boat and slip beneath the surface. Byron perks up and says

“Oh y’all might be in luck…if this is de big dude, he a beast,, I can maybe get him to come closer, hand me dat cool box would ya?” he gestures at the feet of one of the passengers. Upon throwing a piece of steak in the general direction of a pair of eyes he says “ aww shoot, if that was him, he’d be making waves bah now…haven’t seen dat dude for a week or so, ever since this cold snap”

Cold snap?! COLD SNAP?! I’m sweating me pills off here and I got a serious case of batwings on the go, how on earth is this a cold snap?

“Aaaw no bother, ah’ll take y’all t’see his gurrlfriend up the way here, she’s a big gurrl and she’ll come to the boat”

We mosey on up and he points her out, about 8 or 9 feet, he brings her in with hand splashes in the water. Yes. He splashes his hands in the water in an alligator infested swamp. He says they won’t bite him or attack when Conny poses the question. “We got no crocodiles here! Dem dudes gonna bite ya, these’ll leave ya be ‘cept to protect dere babies or if ya provoke ‘em. Now…” he says grabbing some steak “if I don’t do dis right she gon take ma hand, she don’t know the difference between a steak and a hand, she cant see it, but if ah git bit, it’s mah fault, not hers. But we bin friends a long time now, she ain’t gon hurt me. You see families on here doe, alligators pa’em no mind. Crocodiles, demm nasty dangerous doe, we ain’t got none here, but dey big suckas too, dem dudes can be 22 feet or more” At this point he casually just puts the food in her open mouth and then lets her back off and slip under, he pulls the boat away and just as he does SPLASH! Something dark and slimy leaps for the boat right by my right shoulder. A jump and a pant stain later Byron laughs “no worries, dat jus an Asian-carp, dey do dat, th’other day a tour boat of ol’folk had one of’em jump on to de boat, hit an ol’ lady in de hed, sent her to hospital…huhuhuh, but yeah, dat furst time mek ye jump, huhuhuh”

He pulls us up to the bank and explains, this is his friend’s lair. As we get closer we see loads of baby alligators on the bank, he chips in, again “nah, like ah said, she and I are old friends ‘bout 20 years now, normal folk she’d be up on us, if I try and handle one, she’d be right in this boat, it’s amazin’ how fast she could join us on this thing if we push her, an’ you don’t want dat, huhuhuh”

No, we don’t. Byron, upon my question the size of his motor, then takes us for a spin on the water and into the shallows where that thing can hit 60 mph, and gives it a flex, with a couple of turns and donuts to boot. Airboats, if one ever visits this place are defo a must. It was phenominal and I could not recommend Byron and his impeccably trimmed beard any more.

That night we head out for dinner and drinks with some friends of the Baines’s, Lou and John, and Sandy and Kevin. A nicer bunch of Americans one could not meet. I was Mr David, and my cohort Miss Conny, Lou as she welcomed us into her home had already taken time to note my non-preference for booze and flesh and offered me a choice of beverages accordingly. She also noted Miss Conny’s preference for booze and flesh and also offered Miss Conny a drink. I think she has a heavy pour. Miss Conny and Kiera were already sozzled one drink in by the time we headed to the restaurant.

The restaurant, although not massively vegetarian minded served me up a treat. Restaurants for me are more often than not a place for me to eat as much fried stuff as I can as we don’t fry at home. This was a veritable banquet for me, cheese sticks, onion rings, chips and a grilled cheese. All that batter and fat and friedness. Amazing. Miss Conny tried catfish and ate some shrimp, she also grabbed Kiera’s boobs in a surprise attack, but that is a different story.

We headed back to Lou and John’s where they put the game on their big screen, Sandy, a native Chicagoan and Cubs fan, explained to me that this world series was a big deal as one team hadn’t one in 40 something years and the other in 108. To me it seemed like a game of rounders, but these folk love it. When I say big screen…this thing was ridiculous, a ten foot high projection in crystal clear image, the players were life size at times. I want one (TV, not player, gutter folk).

The night done, we said goodbye after many laughs and good chat with a thoroughly lovely bunch.

The next morning we were greeted again by the lovely Lou, this time bringing a box of delicious donuts complete with scary Halloween teeth. She gave us some tips for our impending trip to New Orleans and away we went.

New Orleans is a place apart. The old french quarter pretty much what you’d expect. The architecture, Bourbon Street is fun, but messy, worth a pop in small doses, there are definitely some sights to see, the people in costume and smashed at 3 in the afternoon are quite amusing, the dancers and acrobats, the bands playing in the bars. Worth a walk. We ate gumbo at Palace Cafe, we listened to jazzy blues on Frenchman Street and ate beignets at Cafe du Monde. We bumped into another pair of van travellers in a coffee house, saw the gothy art of the markets and passed the Halloween parade, then decided to head home. Conny and I have become old and dull, so we left the night to the revellers. I am saddened however, as a man and lover of the boob, that I saw not a single one exposed. I pretty much thought that was why New Orleans was famous and is about 93% of the reason I went, the other 7% is a split between fried things and music. Heartbroken we moseyed back to Baines Basecamp.

Sunday, was football day, Oliver scored the winner in his game a perfect penalty, worthy even of the youtube and Izzy ruled the roost in her game, a towering central defensive display of brawn and skill. Sadly her team was overcome by a couple of nippy wingers but still, she impressed enough to have the coach of the local select team come over and discuss her potential and highlight their interest in her joining their ranks. Pretty good day I’d say.

The Tabasco factory was the outing for Monday. Incredible really, given the standards of hygiene for food production these days that they are still allowed to age their pepper mix in those old crusty barrels and that all of the worlds Tobasco comes from that warehouse. We tasted their wares, Sweet and Spicy along with the Raspberry Chipotle were clear favourites and the ketchup with a punch is not too shabby either. We even encountered some casual racism at the door when the guy in the cabin at the barrier, upon learning we were from Austria said “My glocks are from Austria. Got 4 of’em. I used to be a cop. Good guns”

“I wouldn’t know” I replied “we don’t have many glocks in Austria, I think they all came here”

“Well you can take some back then…take some them black folk too” he smiles and wishes us a nice day as the barrier lifts. That guy used to enforce the law. Imagine that.

Monday evening was Halloween.

We euro folk kind of get Halloween, but not like the yanks. They go all out. Shawn and Kelly came over with a few costumed kids and they set about collecting their haul. The boys with giant buckets, Izzy even bust out a wagon for hers. It is quite sweet to see the kids and give them a little fright. There is some debate as to what level is appropriate. Conny and I may have crossed the line a couple of times. We definitely had a couple of runners before they even got the candy, a couple of non-footsetters-even-on-the-driveway when they saw us. We did get a couple of cynical little blighters “This isn’t scary” or “That axe in your head isn’t real, you’re a fake”. My retort “Well you’re not a real Elf!” I know I should have let it slide, but I just couldn’t.

Tuesday came and it was time for the day of doing stuff…Conny made a to do list…book accomodation for Rarotonga, clean van, do laundry, write website, find San Fran accomodation, prolong Black Beauty. Some was accomplished, some semi accomplished but at least now we are ready for the off. Well sort of, it’s now Wednesday and I’m writing this last bit, but hey, next it’s onwards to El Paso!

Thank you Baines’s. You have been wonderful. Your home, friends and family have been fantastic to us and Conny and I have really had a blast getting reacquainted or acquainted with you all and must do it sooner rather than later if we can!

All good things must come to an end.

Asheville had been good to us but now was time for the next place and it was the turn of Asehville’s near-namesake, Nashville.

Driving through the Appalachians is always pleasant and pretty, so we were glad for more of the same until we entered the country capital of the USA, and state capital of Tennessee, Nashville.

A hub of bars and cafes each with their own bands playing. Pretty much all of them quality players, but there is only so much country and average man can take. I did however learn that the musicians, much like the staff, are paid way below an appropriate wage and rely upon the tips for their income. Even the bars of Nice treated their musicians better, which is saying something!

Printers Alley, then Broadway, a few beverages, boot shops and bands later we had enough of the brightlights and settled on a roof top terrace in the company of our latest rencontres, Tom and L.A., they were from New Jersey, well not originally, but that’s where they were based and were on a trip to Nashville on a wedding road trip of their own. Brash and loud, full of beans and a heart of gold, Tom was exactly the dude we needed to sit by, incidentally, if you ever had Campbells soup, Tom bought it’s ingredients. His wife L.A. (forgive me if I’m wrong and feel free to tell me off L.A. but I think that was short for Lou Anne) is a lovely, more reserved but equally gold hearted lady. Much laughs and a couple of cokes later we headed onwards for a look at the Bluebird cafe, much famed from the TV show that bears the City’s name as our evening dining spot. We initially missed the place an easily missable little spot, idea did exactly that! Pulling a swift U-ey in the parking lot I nearly obliterated two poor young lads innocently crossing the road, but it was too late, I hadn’t seen them, luckily they stopped just shy of Black Beauty’s nose as she rounded the corner, so I could only do the typical English gentlemanly thing, and raise an apologetic hand. Back to the Bluebird, not only was it entirely missable, but also, entirely closed, we briefly joined the queue, got chatting to a few Northern Irish folk in the line (turns out these were the poor chaps I nearly killed a few moments earlier) that were there also down to the TV show, and got annoyed by some bogan from Tasmania until Conny realised that the place was gonna cost us a fortune, we slipped out of the line as easily as we slipped in and headed for the local Trader Joe’s for supplies before heading out through the McMansions skirting Nashville proper intent on finding a place to sleep. Again the swamps were a no no, so we had to settle for an out of the way car park next to some sports fields…or so we thought.

We had our tea, and settled in for the night, tent hoisted, fast asleep, we were awoken by the knock and the call, “POLICE!”

Startled, my first words are “Oh crap” before opening the zips to a startled looking rozzer, perhaps it was my man boobs swinging in the wind that did it, perhaps my out of town accent, but I think it did the job enough to distract her so that she didn’t throw the book at us, she did however explain that we had to move on, so obligingly we told her we would and took her advice to go to the local Walmart. We thought we shall go to the side with the other RV’s and we did, holding our need for the toilets and went to sleep, or tried to amongst the noise. We awoke at silly o’clock with the light, and headed into the Walmart, which much to our surprise, and probably that of the customers, was a 24 hour one. I wonder what they thought of the van with a tent in the car park…?

The next morning we set out for Lafayette, Louisiana and the home of my mate Joe’s sister, and old babysitter of mine, one Mrs Kiera Baines, who graciously allowed us to park the beauty on her driveway and use her facilities, more importantly meet the family that has grown since I last saw her and Gary a decade ago.

Our route was to pass through Tennessee, which we did, almost without incident, save from the casual roadside fire that was smoking the highway and blazing along the embankment. I assume it was started by a flick of a cigarette on the dry grass but it would be exactly no more than that. We ummed and we arred about calling the authorities but seeing that the road was stuffed with big rigs and their radios, we thought these people probably see this more often than us and will know better how to deal.

Then on to Mississippi, where we planned to stop at De Soto National forest, en route, we thought we were heading past another fire, however this time it was the freshly crashed truck in the woods. Again, there seemed to have been enough people there to help so we thought we’d move on by. As night fell, just as we approached the trail head we had kept in mind for the night…a rattler, right in the road. Brilliant. The night from that point on, involved me taking the lead, with headlamps in every endeavour, from toilets to cooking dinner, but the spot we chose was a glorious one at Ashe Lake and the morning mist rolled of the lake beautifully as we tucked into breakfast. We met Norma, a toothless local who loved her dogs (a gaggle of tiny chihuahua things and one big fat mutt thing) and loved the swamp from which she came, but hated snakes and the way the local hunt folk treated the animals. She was a lovely sort, to make ends meet she collects trash along the river and sells it to recycle, and gets a free canoe ride out of it to boot. She tells us of the unfortunate decline of the life of the swamp folk, with her trash collecting even becoming dangerous due to the used needles being hidden amongst the trash she collects. When we speak of snakes, as she does with much chat, she gets very animated in the sweetest way, “Oh my goll-y I hate them snakes they scare the crap outta me…lucky you see they don’t want to be anywhere near you, so they don’t want no trouble, but if I was to think of all the snakes I past in the grass that I never saw…ooooh boy I’d never sleep again”.

We headed to the coast, the beautiful white sands of the gulf. Took a stroll down the pier, which at a glance looks lovely and is lovely until you hit the end, complete with guts laden bin and floor full of scales and various fish fluid stains.

By the afternoon we reached our goal, Lafayette, and boy was it hot. I was sweating my pills off in the mid-October heat, Conny and I headed for the nearest water hole (a Bavarian Biergarten no less) to quench our thirst before heading on to the Baines residence.

A pan-Asian inspired restaurant, that looks upon Sunrise Mountain in Asheville. Set in an old gas station, restored with a shabby-chic touch blend of old and modern with a liberal sprinkling of genius powder, this place is nothing short of a revelation.

I do not say this because it is the brainchild of a friend of ours, more despite it.

I do not say this as it has plentiful vegetarian options, which it does, kind of by accident.

I say this because the place is a marvel. As near perfect a restaurant as I could imagine, and I am a critical little prick when it comes to these things.

We enter first on a Friday night. They don’t take reservations. The place is heaving, there is a 20 minute wait at the bar or in the little waiting area but we don’t mind. We take our place watching the open kitchen, a brigade of dudes, confident in their work, calmly putting out bowls of curious looking this and that with the smells tickling our taste buds as they do.

We get to our table and are presented the specials by our server, Michael, a lovely dude with balance of friendliness and serviceness spot on.

Conny gets a cocktail and I get the house-made ginger and lemon soda. These are good, delightful even, but then the food comes and the real magic happens. We get a taster of essentially everything vegetarian on the menu, it is both plentiful and delicious. From the mind blowing char and heat of the Gai Lon (Chinese sprouted broccoli with chillies) to the simple delight of a lightly home smoked tofu with a salt and pepper panko crust. The deliciously simple homely dish of kimchi, fermented cabbage done at the restaurant or the hand rolled eggplant and tofu dumplings in a black bean dough all danced like ballerinas in my gob and went a long way to satiate the glutton in me. However the real big guns for this meal were brought out with eggplant dan dan, a sort of egg plant salad with chilli, peanuts, peppers and dusted with golden fried garlic and ginger. But the best of all was the simplest. Tofu, cut and textured somewhere between ricotta and cottage cheese, bundled in a fresh salad of spinach and wonder.

For mains Conny had opted for a smaller plate from the specials board of lamb belly, similar to pork belly in that slow cooked fatty way, but done Asian style with some pickled turnips and such. I had a Thai style curry with tofu, pineapple and sticky rice. Absolutely immense.

The next morning, Patrick was at the local market, demonstrating vegetable ramen (noodle soup) along side some squash and coconut soup. Obligingly I took a cup of both. The ramen, simple tasty, delicious, but the squash soup…oh jolly japers that was some thick golden wonder. Not rocket science, but the combination of coconut and squash is one I hadn’t thought of but works a treat! He prints the recipes for them too and hands them out to the folks of the market, for free! Either terrible, or fantastic business sense I’m not sure, but what a gent!

Then post intellectual lecture theatre, Conny and I darkened the restaurant’s door. This time, the restaurant was quiet but ticking over. Whether full with all 140 places (yes, you read correctly 140 covers, this is no tiny corner joint) or a quiet evening with just a few, I get the impression that this place keeps that relaxed, comfortable vibe required for a place to be a local hit. I would hazard a guess that this is by design as nothing really seems to be happenstance in the most fantastic of ways. The only parts of the restaurant that are closed off are the bathrooms and the potwash. Everything else is right there for you to see, the pantry is open, the kitchen is open, the shelves are loaded with jars of pickles for use in the kitchen that were prepared by the kitchen. Everything is done in house. From the pickling, fermenting and brining to the rolling of the dumpling for the specials. Patrick even has a team of dedicated dumpling rollers that only have one job! The architecture won an award for its re-purposing of a defunct gas station and the hooded area where one would normally fill one’s tank is either outdoor seating in summer, or as it is fall, a tented terrace as an extension of the inside space.

Conny and I opted for lighter options this evening, A plate of pickled veg, mapu doufu (a mushroom and tofu kind of pickley salady delight) plus some seitan for mains for me and Conny had some vegetarian spicy drunken noodles. A Thai based dish with thick sheets of noodle in a broth. The real star though was a delectible bowl of fresh, creamed and lightly spiced Laosian rice, it wasn’t on the menu, but was more something that the kitchen had just improvised when working with a new product, a group of Laosians were growing the rice locally, so naturally they experiment, and given that this rice had a particular creamy texture and high starch release it lent itself wonderously to this dish.

All washed down with for me a revelatory beverage called Kambucha, an odd fermented but unalcoholic concoction of bittersweet liquid pleasure, and Conny went with a few of the beers from Starr Hill brewery. Not only are these beers immensely tasty (I tasted them, so when Conny says they are, I know she is right) but they are brewed under the shepardship of Mr Robbie O’Cain, the brother of Patrick whom I briefly had the pleasure of meeting in Nice once, while he was in Europe to study the art of brewing and to be come a veritable master-brewer in Munich. Turns out, he succeeded, a master indeed.

Gan Shan Station, simply put is the finest restaurant I have eaten in for a very long time. It might not have the pretensiousness of the Grand Hotel in Cap Ferrat, or the up it’s own arse self importance of La Petit Maison or Univers (which I am told is no longer there) in Nice. It is that kind of restaurant that delivers on the important things, like flavour and invention, but in a setting that is amiable and comfortable. The food is exquisite, but the prices are far from lofty. I went to a similar feeling place in New York recently, delicious and wonderful. That place had a Michelin star, but I can honestly say, Gan Shan beat it hands down, and the prices were much better to boot. Most importantly I don’t say that as any detraction to the place in New York, more to emphasize the point with Gan Shan.

I met Patrick’s father whilst I was there. I had to tell him that he must be proud of his son, for there is literally nothing a critical prick like myself could say to fault what they do there. It really is a class apart, Mr O’Cain, obviously is very proud of his son. Conny and I are also proud that the Patrick we know and love from Nice has, in the few years since leaving, performed such a feat.

www.ganshanstation.com

Leaving Baltimore and the beauts that are the Belz’s, much to my chagrin despite the distinct lack of a groupbath as proposed and even hashtagged by the Belz ladies, time had come for us wanderers to wander on. The girls insist that the mosey is all downhill from here on out but we soldier on.

Conny is in a foul mood. Given Conny’s mindset we depart the Belz’s for somewhat aptly, Nag’s Head. Somehow, within thirty seconds of getting in the car I had done a multitude of wrongness. Don’t quite know what still, but the mood didn’t lighten much. She drove a few hours, stopped at a shop, where she tried to make me look silly, but it backfired and it turned on her (I was even in good humour at this point!) and bit her on the arse…sadly this did not help matters. Conny pulled out her best condescend voice, I matched it with my finest shouty voice. Conny put in the GPS coordinates of a national park rest area and away we headed. We arrived at, super aptly if awkwardly named Dismal Swamp National Park. You couldn’t write this if you tried. Conny, despite her incredible English, had not heard the word dismal before. The place was actually far from dismal and a sort of Entente Cordiale was struck, at least for the evening. Morning came and I dunno, maybe the destination had got into Conny’s head but the treaty was definitely no more. Not entirely sure what I did to set her off this morning, I probably made the coffee wrong, or brushed my teeth in the wrong direction, but it must have been something, because off she went. My point is, it ain’t always buttercups and sunshine on the Mosey!

If ever a cure there was, Nag’s Head is it. I love places like this. It is an island cum peninsular by way of two ridiculous bridges. The dunes of Jockey’s Ridge are beautiful for a little wander and the coastal road is the kind of stuff that makes you want to move. Even though it received a lick of Matthew’s (Hurricane, not Nip) Wrath, it is still one of those places that brings a warming to ones cockles, a bit like a gentle smear of Vick’s Vaporub. The shacks with their crow’s nests and other nautica. The pastel coloured houses that line the shore, the grass speckled sand dunes. Sure there was a bit more water on the street, the odd patchy roof and few piles of tiles or broken signage on the ground, but it’s charm was no less. We were lucky enough to have the hottest October weather imaginable too, nearing the 30° mark, Conny and I put our ill feeling aside and donned our swimwear to breach the surprisingly warm Atlantic. A beachside shower and zero arguments later, we are headed onwards. Next up Alligator River! Hopefully via bear country and we can locate one of those pesky buggers.

Alligator River. Apparently named after its famed residents has a wildlife refuge there. I use the word refuge lightly, as I see many signs showing the various ways and times one may hunt and kill those seeking refuge. From designated areas for hunting with dogs, hunting with guns or hunting with dogs and guns together…I must admit, it seems more like a fish in a barrel hunting ground than a refuge, I’m pretty sure it’s the exact opposite of a refuge.

Either way Conny and I, on much better terms by now after our sea dip, sought to find a bear or an alligator or bears and alligators. Our timing was off but we thought we’d have a drive around the various areas (even wildlife refuges in swamps are drive thru over here) to chance our arm anyway. We came across a dude parked up by the side of the road, one rifle-on-stand pointed into the woods, the other somewhat worryingly pointed down the road we were headed.

Conny winds down the window.

“Hi there!” she cheerfully exclaims “what are you hunting?”

“Durrr, arm hurr furr durr” (roughly translated we figure that meant he was “here for deer”) “It’s durr hunt’n season now, yup”

“Ah, deer, we were hoping to see some bears”

“Oh hooouuueeee, yeah y’all can see beers hurr, BIG black’uns, we got boo-coo beers hurr yup!”

“Really?”

“Heck yeah! Aa’s hurr th’othr morn’n wi’ma gurlfri-end, we’s a saw boo-coo beer, BOO-COO BEER in them fields jus thurr. Ah mean we’s a looked an counted head, mussa bin 37 beer look like a field uh Aberdeen Aingus Beef cayttle y’know! Big suckas”

“Really?”

“Them about as big as yo’van thurr” he eyes over Black Beauty’s stature “yup, you just gotta be hurr at dawn, they like them peas they harvesting (we guess its peanuts as there ain’t no pea fields in sight)”

“Ah well, we have to be elsewhere, but thanks for the tip”

“No worries y’all, you ain’t close to home is ya?”

“No, I’m from Austria”

“Hooooooooo-eeeeeee y’all is a long way from the house! Now good luck y’all and stay safe”

The next thing that comes from his mouth is exactly the wrong thing to say to Conny, I am not allowed to speak of two S’s to Conny sharks and…

“y’all wanna be careful them snakes, they more active than normal, they still out there hungry chompin’ on the frogs thats makin’ a rackit in the swamps thurr. Jus’now I seen two of’em a black thing and then a rattler jus’cross the road thurr”

“RATTLER?!”

“Yup, o’yeah, rattle snake, we got copperheads, diamond backs and cotton mouths hurr, so stay safe y’all”

This was not the ideal thing for Conny to have on her mind as we pulled in to the trail head we had planned on sleeping in. Next to a swamp. So a new location was sought, and we happened upon a car park at Indian Lake, with the added bonus of the Lord (in whom I don’t believe)’s protection as we were parked between two of his churches.

Morning came, zero snakes had chomped on us and after a hearty breakfast and another tour of Black Beauty for the inquisitive public, we headed out for Asheville.

Arriving mid afternoon at the house of our wonderful host Mr Patrick O’Cain and his two dogs Beatrice and Arthur.

Patrick is an old colleague of Conny’s and friend of ours from the Nice days where they worked in the Snug and Cellar. Now in those days Patrick had an interest in food, had done a degree in English and French and was a thoroughly decent sort. Skip forward a few years and he is now the owner/head chef at his amazing restaurant, but enough of that because the restaurant gets its own post on here. Sufficed to say that Patrick was generous and welcoming at both home and restaurant.

Patrick O’Cain is also one of a select group (at least I assume) to have been out riding his bike one time and crashing into a bear. Yes. A bear. It even broke his bike in two. How’s that for a feather to wear in one’s cap. They don’t call him Patrick “Bear Crasher” O’Cain for nothing you know.

Asheville is an interesting place. Nestled in the Appalachia of North Carolina, it’s a small, seemingly friendly city full of hippies and liberal minded folk. We experienced a slice of the community market (complete with free samples of two of Patrick’s soups) some of the coffee places including one in an old routemaster, a brewery with beer and pizza from a truck outside plus a few of nights out, one intellectual, the others less so.

The people of Asheville, as I mentioned seem very nice, we only encountered warm and friendly folk with a certain joie de vivre. First up, Patrick’s family who welcomed us to their house for a Sunday breakfast of Heinz beans, toast, eggs, grits, coffee and most importantly/impressively Man Utd on the big screen TV. Turns out The O’Cain Parents are massive Man Utd Fans! Even got my coffee in a Utd mug. Shame the enthusiasm of us fans in the US was not mirrored by the players on the pitch for this was the dismal display that ended in us getting spanked 4-0 by Chelsea.

Then there was Joe and Mallory. Never a nicer couple could you expect to find. Salt of the earth, kind, warm and funny folk they are farmers who supply Patrick’s restaurant. We, despite my vegetarianness, headed for the local barbecue place (called Buxton Hall no less) with the advice that Ii could eat Hodge Podge* and that there would be plenty for me.

We entered the hall, turns out there was a wait for a table but that doesn’t really matter because it was here we encountered Andy. A local artist who whiles away the time painting and playing music, having coffee’s, walking his dog and getting smashed with his new sweetheart, the barman at the barbecue place. He and Conny decided they would spark conversation mostly by hurling sly insults at one another. This, strangely, went down quite well. Joe ordered Hodge Podge* at the bar, which although delicious, kind of ruined my plan for my dinner. We sat for dinner (minus Andy who was already engaged at the bar) and set about ordering some fine barbecue. The menu did not suit me! Not in a nasty way, but even the sprouts came in bacon and the beans came in beef or swine or some other death morcel. I was however permitted to order a bunch of sides, tapas style which made quite the feast.

More impressively, it turns out that Patrick and Joe are quite the dudes to look after in town. We had about three times more food come to our table than was ordered. All of it (I am told) was delicious. Conny was in heaven with pork belly this, pork sirloin that, beef this and beef the other, not to mention the free flowing alcohol. Andy finished his engagement at the bar and joined us for the post dinner beverages, I say post dinner, that was what it was supposed to be but seeing as the kitchen saw fit to throw food at us, there was plenty for him to have his second supper on our leftovers, but he almost instantly saw fit to order shots, which was to everyone’s delight (notable exception of course). All in all a fabulous night out with a cast of characters to remember, I bid adieu to Andy, but as I had eaten so much and I was in my slightly dubious slightly MC Hammer style jeans, as I attempted to hurl my legs around him mid hug, I just made an awkward looking dry hump of a move, but spirits unblemished, Conny and I arranged to go see the farm the next day and with that bid the JoeMallory goodnight.

Joe’s farm is as close to heaven as the non believer such as myself can get. Only a small holding of about 5 acres, set in the lush mountains, he has fields of kale, turnips, broccoli, squash and radishes, he had just done with the tomatoes, and the aubergine and was preparing a flower field. The place was fantastic. His produce all cultivated with care and attention just like the moustache on his face. A work in progress (the farm, perhaps his moustache too, but that wasn’t discussed…) he is still figuring out what suits where best, finding the best way from the knowledge of his 90 year old neighbour and his foxfire books, he organically grows some deliciously tasty crops (we sampled them straight from the ground) and spends his days finding native peoples arrowheads as he tills the land.

Post tour we headed to town for a beverage. An awesome little “bar” it looked more like a cross between goodwill, a library and an arthouse cafe than a bar, but it served beer and crackers with meat and cheese. We discussed, among other things, guns, dogs, Halloween costumes, food, beer, American Gladiators (and of course the UK version, even the international challenge).

If that conversation wasn’t smart enough for you, Conny and I got all intellectual and went to a talk at the local university. Part of the secular spirituality week, where the various faith oriented faculties collaborated in putting together some lectures on some vaguely associated topics, this talk was introduced by Krista Tippet, a radio host who had several times along our journey come to our rescue when the same seven songs on the radio were getting tiresome and the God botherers of Christian radio were shouting at us that we were sinners, that we must change our ungodly ways, that we must repent, that we are already forgiven anyway, that we must live our lives with love but we must fight the devil, destroy the ungodly, believe in His all powerful all present grace yet fight His uncontrollable and devious enemy. Anyway I digress, my point is that they shout silly non-sensical stuff, and Krista and her “On Being” show had a few times bought some rational thinking and human decency into our ears along the dusty highways.

This night she was interviewing a writer called Isabel Wilkerson, the author of The Warmth of Other Suns. A non-fictional account of the great migration of people of colour in the 20^th century mostly from the Southern States to the more liberal North and West. It focused on the stories of three people each migrating in consecutive decades from the 1930’s (I believe, don’t quote me) 40’s and 50’s. The stories took 15 years to research and write and the conversation throughout the evening touched on some poignant and moving tales and themes of the human condition. Much of which is relevant in the current crises of migration and the rise of right-wing thought that much of the world faces today.

It was nice to hang around a couple of dogs again too. Beatrice and Arthur are a couple of mutts that you can’t help but love. Beatrice a handsome girl with some mix of what looks a bit Appenzeller, bit Shepard and a bit something else, she is calm and steady but loves her squeaky toy. Arrthur however, who might have some bull in him, might not, but is entirely adorable is in that toothy stage of pupdom that means every thing is for gnawing on, this includes arms, legs, furniture and even Beatrice, in fact especially Beatrice. Occasionally it gets to te point where she has to put the smackdown on him, but it’s all fun and games, no real nasty stuff.

On the leads these two are useless, they drag us up to the woods where we can let them off almost the entire way around, they were reasonably calm, never went to far then, just as we neared the end of the trail. They disappeared. I look left, I look right, and there it is. A boggy wallow, complete with two up to the armpit dogs. The wallow must be a cocaine wallow because those two got some pep in them and went berserk chasing one another all over the shop, getting filthier and stinkier by the second, off into the woods they beamed, finding new patches of filth as they did, it is at this point I get a text from Patrick, “how is it with the dogs?”

“Erm good…filthy but good” is all I can reply.

Despite their filth, these two were and are awesome, and made our stay in Asheville all the better and even enhanced my pitch to Conny for a couple of hounds in the house when we do finally settle in Austria.

Add to this the delights of Gan Shan Station and a fantastic Indian street food restaurant, Asheville, we salute you. You can tell those Belz girls to stick their pinnacles in some dark places.

*Hodge Podge is clearly not a thing. It is Conny Speak for Hush Puppies (eg. “Lets go to the barbecue, fuck David and his vegetarianism, I want meat, he can have Hodge-Podge”) which in my mind are shoes anyway, but apparently here they are a delicacy. A bit like a grit-donut. The ones we ate even had the added bonus of a jalapeno kick, and were served with tartar sauce, more to the point were entirely delicious…although, as Patrick rightly pointed out, not made to order, they had been sat under heat lamps, which is odd for short order food, that by its very nature should be cooked to order. Still, delicious.

I have to be very guarded with names here as whilst in Baltimore, I also hung out with a few less savoury folk than you might imagine.

The topics of which we spake included, but not limited to:

The Pussy Grab: Subtopics- Who does that?

What does that entail?

Have you ever been grabbed?

Have you ever performed the grab?

How would you react if a grab were aimed at your pussy?

Blumpkins: Subtopics- What is a blumpkin?

Have you performed a blumpkin?

Would you perform a blumpkin?

Would you receive a blumpkin?

What is a blumpkin called when received by a lady?

Flumpkins: See above.

There were many other things discussed.

But these kind of stuck in my mind and came up an awful lot.

Of course, the Trump is to blame for the grab, but really, think about it, what is a “Pussy Grab”? How does that work? Does one go for the cup or flat hand as if feeding the horse? But surely that would be more a touch than a grab? So if he goes for the grab, is it full hand tiger claw, or a two fingered pinch? Does he just go for the flaps or a hand full of mound? These questions and logistics kept us in good conversation off and on for days! I know it’s perhaps in poor taste, but yes we did indeed use the “I’m gonna grab you by the pussy” and many variants as a lowball insult on numerous occasion.

The blumpkin however, the blame for that falls squarely at one girl’s feet. To protect her identity, in this piece I will only refer to her as Brace Melz. I have no idea of where she pulled the blumpkin from but pull it she did. I have to say it is rare that I find myself being educated in such matters but this was a new level of depravity for even me. Much discussion, again sprawled across a few days as to the very nature of the blumpkin.

The blumpkin is the giving of oral sex to a man whom at the same moment is deficating.

We came to the conclusion that when the lady is on the receiving end, it is called a Flumpkin.

Some amongst our number having given this some thought decided they would much rather give the blumpkin than receive the flumpkin. The logistical nightmare and toxic choking hazard thad is the flumpkin giver blocking the vent/leg gap is something very few of us had considered before. One girl proclaimed “I couldn’t get a flumpkin, the only thing that I think it would achieve is that I would poo on someone’s face”.

So yeah. There you have it. Baltimore, home of the Blumpkin.

From here on out it is merely an uncomfortable roll down a bumpy hill in a barrel, apparently.

The title for this piece was not my choice. The dubious credit for that goes to one Mary Belz. Part of the Belz Sister’s Travelling Troupe of Wonder, we were told, upon arrival at the house she shares with one Grace Belz (also a Troupe founder member) that this must be the title. It was almost the first thing she said (the actual first thing she said was “Hi, did you see me naked?”). So, to honour her wishes there it is.

Baltimore. Another city. This one however is not like the others. You tell people you are going to Seattle, Portland, Chicago or New York, the response is overwhelmingly “Ooooh I love it there, it’s so cooool, oh you are gonna love it, you must eat this, do that and then try the other…” when you say Baltimore they say “don’t get shot”, “why would you do that?” or simply “good luck”.

I have had a blast here. Aided by the adorable Belz sisters and for a couple o’nights their loverly friend Beth Jenkins, Baltimore is hive of wonder. The first night saw us head to the local brewery, and saw Conny the Lightweight get a little tipsy with Belz the Elder, Belz the Younger had to run a race with the aforementioned Ms Jenkins the next day so went easy on the sauce, despite my protestations that beer is a good source of carbs and that wheat beer in Austria is designated a sports drink due to it’s isotonic properties. I met an old family friend of the Belz sisters and enjoyed a refreshingly blunt and fuck-filled chat about the horror of Trump and the disgust that many actual Americans feel at being American right now and that the world can witness their once great country descend the PT Barnum state of shite that it’s presidential election has lowered to. We enjoyed a local bar/eaterie where we sat under the decapitation of a moose (to which Mary exclaimed “that can’t be real, look at the size of that thing, it’s nostrils are as big as Beth’s ears*, look at that waddle, I just wanna slap that waddle, WHAT A BEAST!) I learned that Buffalo Sauce is just Tabasco with butter and makes for a wonderful nappé for a portion of fried Brussel sprouts…who on earth woulda known that?!

Day 2 was a good one. We set out early to catch Grace as she finished her leg of the race. We didn’t actually achieve our goal as Mary, not known for her directional integrity, mostly sat on a step. She also took us two blocks in one direction, then realised that we were going in the exactly wrong direction, so took us two blocks in a different direction, at which point she realised that a; might be the wrong direction and that b; Grace was already finished, so instead we went to the local cafe.

I smashed down the butteriest grilled cheese in history, met the Belz parents and the other Belz (the Belz’s are a delightful clan). We headed into town for the end of the marathon, and day beers. In order to get past the security bag check, grace had to fold her bag and put it down her underwear. This was the advice of the security guard, who then stated that he saw nothing. I stashed our camera in my hood and gingerly strode through…these kind of things still bring a bead of sweat to my forehead. We passed the market and more day beers, and moseyed to the Greater Jenkins household in Baltimore to a post run party, with a roof deck and more day beers.

The highlight of the party was in fact the Blue Angels, for you British folk think Red Arrows only blue, not red. Those guys were ridiculous, those planes must be two seater fighter planes retro fitted to accommodate the ginormous testicles each of those pilots stashes in their jump-suits, I am not sure if they have female pilots but even they possess infinitely more in their jocks than mere men such as I. Somehow, conversation shifted to the use of the mediterranean ready, aim, fire poo hole toilet (must have been linked to missile targeting or something) which involved me and some quite descriptive charade style enactments, in particular regarding the “do not climb the rim and squat for you may indeed end up split in two via the jacksy with shards of bowl amongst the considerable wounds” signs (ok that’s more paraphrasing than quotes, but I am only a word or so off I reckon).

Conny having scolded me and my thoughts of an afternoon nap previously, disappeared to nap while Mary threw down seventeen or so more beers.

Home for tea and I ended up in a dive bar with girls, who don’t play pool, playing pool drinking cocktails. It was more fun than it sounds, and we ate Tater Tots. I love Tater Tots.

Day 3 was the tour. Intrepidly led by our directionally challenged host sister, we hit the town. Tour highlights included, and these are indeed direct quotes.

“That’s little Italy. It’s a small place with lots of Italians”

“Baltimore is a very historical place”

“This is Federal Hill, it is very historical…Federally”

“Here is a place”

“That is an area”

“We are coming to Light Street, all the good bars are there”

Day 4 involved much strolling around Washington. We learned that it was neither a state nor simply a town, but a bit of both and something of neither all at once. We witnessed the droves of tourist folk like ourselves walking the mall et al all in near 30° heat, for which I was not dressed and suffered considerably from the batwings and their associated chaffe.

Conny learned that the White House is indeed in a city and is not a country pile. I learned that the big statue of Lincoln is at the Lincoln memorial. We did see some fantastic paintings in the national gallery, the skill of some of those old masters is incredible. Perhaps masterful. Go figure.

We also found a T-shirt, fresh, in a bag, with receipt. I was hoping it was a Trump T shirt, but sadly it was for the Jefferson memorial. Still that dude had some wise words to say if you believe the memorial that the Manhattan Orangutan could learn from, don’t know how he was as a president, my history is not that strong, but I am of the opinion that his powdery bones and dust of his rotted corpse would do a better job than that buffoon, but hey, enough of politics.

Day 5 you can guess was spent on a computer.

*Beth does not have oversized ears. They are indeed a fine set of lugs. If one were pushed one would say they are the perfect size for her perfect head, but one wouldn’t want her to think that one had spent an inappropriate portion of the evening studying her head or ears. Anyway, one digresses, it is the Belz of the M. variety that has particularly small ears and had to resort to Beth’s as an example. Glad I cleared that up.