Category: words

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.

New York drivers are bastards. That was the first thing I experienced upon heading in to Queens in rush hour. Nearly died at least 5 times.

Arriving at the Miller residence we were relieved to both be alive and also be greeted so warmly. Stephen, another of the 1998 Mississauga-Leek exchange has an awesome place in Queens, a stones throw from the most spectacular 24 hour diner and the metro, and just a couple of stops into the thick of it in Manhattan. More importantly, Stephen along the way somehow managed to pick up a Maggie. Maggie is lovely, somewhat like Mr Nip had outdone himself with Mrs Nip, Mr Miller is McGuigan vs Tyson, and winning.

The pair of them could not be more wonderful and they even took us to the local Mexican joint (these Canadians love a spicy taco) but not to be outdone by his Toronto counterpart, this one had a michelin star. It was delicious. Stephen has not changed one bit in the best way, at one point sex with 79 year olds was discussed (apparently it was his thing, but only for oral, pre-Maggie of course). A good sign that always confirms that you are among top drawer personages is the feeling that one can make jokes about such things comfortably. He also found us a stable for the Black Beauty, even though the dude who told us the price would be about 25 bucks for the whole stay suffered from some sketchy mathematics skills, she was tucked up safe and sound.

New York is a pretty spectacular city. Maybe they were reading this and got the city prepped, or it’s just pretty nice, but that disparity and nonchalance towards it did not seem so prevalent on our trip to Manhattan. A city that at every turn sparks the fires of nostalgia in a brain like mine, for every corner has something or other that makes me remember something I watched in the movies some time. The people mostly seemed friendly, did get annoyed by those tourist attraction sales hordes at the exit of each station but that is only a minor inconvenience. Times Square was somewhat undersized in my opinion. Having seen it on the TV and come to know the grandiose nature of things here in the LOL, I expected more. Instead it was a small place with an awful lot of advertising. I mean, I only expected a large place with an awful lot of advertising and a good smattering of oddballs, but it was somewhat the let down. The stroll around Central Park was a delight, images mostly of Kevin McCallister evading the Sticky Bandits being my overwhelming thoughts, somehow that remains the most iconic despite the multitude of movies and shows filmed there. The Natural History Museum on Central Park West is a true gem.

It includes the Hayden Planetarium, famed as much for it’s too cool for school curator Neil deGrasse Tyson as it is for it’s brilliant stuff about quasars and the like. It also includes many fossils, bones, cultural histories of the natives among many others that were wonderfully interesting, but I was, surprisingly as I am no general fan of the taxiderm, very taken by the animal scenes with the native species preserved as if plucked in their prime from the very wilds from which they came (to be fair, that might be exactly what happened, Roosevelt, pioneer and conservationist he was, still loved to take one or two specimens from their beautiful lives, to stuff and mount for all and sundry) and plonked in a strange room full of cases, much like a less warped version of Lopez’s dreams in the Cell.

Unsurprisingly as a rotund individual with a love for the nourishment, I took away a couple of other culinary experiences from New York. The diner breakfast, food wise nothing extravagant, but served up in three piece attire, with coffee and a smile in a chromed temple to the food from a griddle or fryer. The most stereotypical place you could imagine nestled below the subway track a cacophony of glass, metal and New York truckers that make the pretty standard standard of the food unimportant.

The other thing is pizza. The New York Slice. Conny and I very nearly came to blows over my desire to chow down on some authentic cheap as chips New York Slice. After traipsing around a bit (alone as Conny was in belligerent mood) I found a suitably dodgy looking deli and got exactly what I expected in all it’s deliciousness. Conny got none. Because that is all she deserved.

It was definitely a humbler to go to the former site of the World Trade Center towers. To walk around those memorial waterfalls, seeing the names of all those poor souls lost many of whom ran in to help, if you don’t well up a little you are somewhat below human in my eyes. It hit me like a whopper to be fair, entire crews of people giving exactly their all to try and save lives. It truly shows the very best of the American spirit and even the human spirit at it’s finest. Yet the very same place serves to remind us of the exact opposite. The very worst ideals and ideas that mankind can have. From the dubious (at best, shameful and evil is probably closer to the point) politics surrounding all that caused such events and is the catalyst for all the problems sweeping through the middle east today to the queues of laughing and joking folk ready to hand over money to visit the “attraction” that is the 9-11 museum and equally as sickening those happy to take it. Obviously it could be argued that the money goes to helping victims etc, but we all know better. It could also be argued that the museum serves as a catalogue of events and an educational monument to a history so horrific it could not possibly be repeated. However, in that queue I only saw a bunch of people “doing New York”. I might well be being overly judgemental, but for a place that I see as a sombre place of reflection turned into a money spinner and something to enjoy. Didn’t sit right with me at all.

All in all though, New York is a wonderful place. Conny and I have decided we could, despite our limited love of cities, spend more time there. We will indeed be darkening the door of our illustrious hosts once more!

Possibly the best move of our trip so far was the decision to go to Cape Cod. It was never really in the plan, well Conny’s plan, but it has long been a place I would like to visit. I am enamoured by the old time seaside glamour of such places and our intent was to head as far as we could and sleep as close to the beach as humanly possible. Both we managed brilliantly. After an evening spent in the wonderful little Provincetown, we ignored the signage (like one other RVer) and entered the Herring Point, Cape Cod Seashore National Park. Unlike the other RVer we sidled right up to the beach. The spot was as perfect as perfect could be, but being conscientious and discreet we opted not to raise the tent and drifted off to sleep in the van with the waves lapping the shore and the moon gently staving off the full dark of the night. That is until a tap at the window startled me from my slumber. The moon had moved. It was right next to my window. Well that’s what the slumberdrunk me thought for a moment…then came tap number two and it dawned upon me that this was a torch. I fumble for the keys, pressed every wrong button there was until I finally got the door open. Police dude looked upon me with friendly befuddlement as he asked what we were up to. Once he had ascertained that we were indeed harmless and up to no good, he told us that we can stay, he isn’t bothered, even though strictly speaking we were pushing the boundaries of legality in our chosen spot and that they have an unwritten rule that they let people stay in another part of the coast line. He also said that we could perhaps get a visit from the park ranger who might give us some shit but he didn’t care either way. A very kind cop indeed.

Cape Cod, is awesome. A seal sauntered past in the water as we woke and prepared breakfast. As ever we explained the wonders of Black Beauty to a couple of inquisitive folk a passing by. This has become somewhat a la quotidien these days, but we are plenty happy to do it. Provincetown is a weird little seaside resort of wooden shanties and feels a little bit dated but a little bit in the here and now all at once. A few old salty sailor pubs and diners here, a few hip new coffee joints and restaurants there. The odd bit of oldsy worldsy craft and the new upmarket ‘design’ shop. There is, somewhat magnificently, a hammock shop, equally magnificently monikered The Hammock Shop. I have to admire the fact that some dude one day thought “You know what, it’s time I set up a shop. And in that shop, I will sell hammocks, and only hammocks. It shall be called the Hammock Shop”. That is one brilliantly simple plan and pretty bizarre, plus that dude must have set of undergarments full to bursting with his giant balls of metal.

It is also delightfully full to bursting with homosexuals, more often than not of a more advanced age than you might witness in many other “gay cities”. Something that I say with not an ill thought in mind. It is a lovely thing to see, many many same sex older folks, that I assume are holidaying or living quiet happily in a beautiful place. The world doesn’t stop. The people are unfazed. The heavens don’t collapse and the town somewhat thrives in happiness. Anyone with anything like a homophobic bone in their body should go and witness such a place.

We boarded the Dolphin IX on a hunt for the great whales, this is Moby Dick country you know. With Conny as my Queequeg we tackled the blue yonder and tracked down those magnificent beasts, the humpbacks. There were a few of them spouting their spent air, but a particular couple put on the show for us. A cow and calf hanging around and after a few tentative hello passes of the boat, the mother started to wave and slap the water. A truly breathtaking sight.

Another night at the beach, relaxing under the starlight with a cup of tea in hand and the gentle ocean noise. Quiet nights can be the best. No cops nor rangers bothered us and we woke up bright and breezy for the journey to New York the next day all calm and fresh for the hustle and bustle of the big smoke.

Leaving Toronto, our hearts were heavy, but we looked forward to the sights and sounds of Niagara on a bright and sunny autumn day. It was exactly what I expected (having been before) impressive water falls, warm with a spray of mist, lots of people paying zero mind to other folk and even a small chinese lady who farted in my general direction whilst she concentrated on her selfie. Conny was a little saddened that it was all in a town as she must have been confused with Africa’s Victoria Falls and thought that it was in the wilderness somewhere. Otherwise, a solid mini visit was had.

Now to the re-entry to the US. Of course, my past experience drew a cold sweat from my brow as we queued up to chat to the border guard. Clenched, I handed him our passports and answered his questions with some trepidation but he swiftly moved us on without any further thought of penetrating my person.

As a visitor to these shores, that lives in central Europe, it is quite odd to drive the sprawling US highways past London, Sussex, The Thames, Oxford, Cambridge, Manchester, Newcastle and on and on and on. Those peky pilgrims had plenty of bottle, commitment and an adventurous streak to be applauded. What their God neglected to gift them was however even the slightest shred of creativity. Either that or they got into a monumental stupour in England, stumbled upon a boat or two and upon awaking from their collective boozy fugues thought they were still in their hometowns and never realised otherwise.

It has long been a dream of mine to drive the roads of upstate New York, Vermont and New Hampshire in autumn. Even on the 8-bit wonder of Lotus Elise Turbo Challenge and Road Rash in my formative years these highways and byways held a superior appeal. Its the colours you see. Fire on the mountainside like no other. Aspen was astounding, but the scale and depth of this is just immense. Every corner rounded unveiled a patchwork more mesmerising than the last.

We settled in another Manchester at a trail head for the evening and set about the routine of watching the Bridge, then Conny checking upon the location of the knife before bed. This Manchester (could have been Vermont, equally could be New Hampshire) was a quaint little mountain town as you would expect only the local shops were the likes of Gucci and Louis Vuitton instead of Maud’s Gourds and the Spittle and Sawdust Saloon as one might expect.

The plan for the next morning was a simple one. Get up early, hike the 8 hour Franconia ridge trail in it’s entirety and then camp up before hitting the Kancamagus Scenic highway in the morning to spot a wallowing moose at the moosing hour.

Inevitably we overslept and awoke to a sea of fog/mist. Conny, ever the optimist proclaimed “I’m not hiking up a mountain to see fuck all but clouds” so we moseyed, as is our tendency to do, to the visitor centre. This may have been Vermont or New Hampshire, who knows but they are both pretty much the same in their awesomeness. These little gems line the highways and have coffee (free to the cheap but a donation appreciated) toilets, and the most helpful folk manning them that one could wish for. They know all the roads, all the trails, all the spots to creep up on a moose or two and all with a cheer and smile that really does what a welcome centre should, makes you feel welcome. One guy even provided 6 gallons of water to fill out tank in Black Beauty. Having discussed places to stay (plentiful trail heads), the fog (definitely going to burn off within the hour) and the Franconia ridge trail (quite large and tricky but doable in less than a day) we thought hey why not bust it out. We Swiss mountain folk (by-proxy) snort at such walks. Given our start time was a little later than our intended 9 am (1.30pm) we thought we should head up the shorter steeper side to make sure we took in the delight of the summit. This, perhaps, was not our smartest idea. That bitch was steeeeeep. And loooooooooong. It also involved some climbing and the near death of me and snapping under tension of every muscle and/or connective tissue in my legs. I think Conny was equally distressed, but we both managed it. The wind was a welcome relief at the top. We ate our sarnies, marvelled at the sea of untouched firey forest surrounding us and set out along the ridge. We stumbled upon Hunter and his other half (whose name, I have somewhat ashamedly forgotten, so if you read this please forgive me and let me know so that I may edit!)who had done basically the same as us. We thought no worries as we headed down the mountainside, we’ll be home as dusk approaches.

We four were officially a gaggle of idiots.

The night fell swiftly upon us and we were nowhere near home. We were however to bring a head torch for each pair so Hunter took one in the lead and Conny took one in the rear, so to speak.

It turns out that looking for faded blue trail markers on sctratchy grey-barked trees in the blueish hue of an LED torch is a particularly difficult feat. As were the 6 river crossings undertaken in the dark down the slippery water-smoothed slopes of the mountain. At one point I was in full stand up slide for quite the distance thinking at any moment I was going to come a cropper but my cat like balance kept me afoot. If only I had the presence of mind to bust out a COWABUNGA yell as I did it I would feel like a far superior human being than I in actual fact am.

We did make it, a good hour and a bit into the darkness, to the car park where we thanked our intrepid adventure colleagues for their company and bade them adieu.

The following morning’s drive could only have been more perfect had we encountered a moose, which sadly we didn’t. We did have the good fortune to encounter a hitchiker to make our trip more interesting. We discussed the mountains and our tour he is a great enjoyer of the wilderness lands and was full of tips and places to visit. It turns out he had locked his bike up in the woods as he had to give up on a several hundred km ride, due to a recurrence of a recently operated upon ACL injury. We were taking him back to his car at Mt Washington. Most of our discussion centred around the monumental clusterfuck that is the US election race and the potential skullfuck of the world that would occur should Trump actually triumph. Oh and this all happened in German for the most part as our traveller was in fact born in Munich (sadly, I didn’t write his name down again and for some reason today my name brain is royally fubar’d, again if you read, please tell me so I may edit and feel much better about myself as a human).

Our destination this evening was North Hampton, New Hampshire. The beautiful home of our old neighbours in Switzerland, John and Beverly. They graciously provided us with a room and place to get clean (the bathroom was complete with wallpapered light switches which I say in all honesty, and with no overstatement might just be the best thing in the world. Ever.) and also provided us with some delicious dinner and Conny in particular with a New Hampshire staple that is a Lobster roll, suitably toasted in butter. Conny is most definitely a convert to the church of the lobster roll.

Moreover it was a real delight to spend some time and chat the chat with two genuinely lovely people. We are generations apart but that doesn’t matter, they live their lives with a twinkle in their eyes, a perfect humour and generosity that are a cut above most. I feel greatly blessed by the God in whom I don’t believe to have met them and to be able to visit them was a pleasure and a privilege.

The next day we headed towards Boston with the intention of staying a night, perhaps even boondocking a Walmart and abusing the free wifi to watch the next debacle, sorry, debate, in the great race to screw the world from the American throne.

Instead we found a rainy city half shut down for a run of some sort. The parking lot boondock looked positively deathly and we arrived just as rush hour served to push Conny beyond the point of no return. If you read this blog you may know, Conny and I on our best days are limited in our love for the hustle, bustle and all else that comes with the city, so Conny and I opted to head to the coast and see if the call of Boston drew us in the next morning. It didn’t. Instead, having slept in a park car park right by the harbour in a sleepy coast town, we realised that the park was the local dog walking grounds. We spent all morning watching the dogs having a ball with each other. Big dogs, little dogs, beautiful dogs, ugly mutt-dogs all having a blast and getting along swimmingly. It was a great start to the day. One dog with small-man syndrome did pick a fight with a pack of what look like large Malinois meets Ridgeback kind of dogs and a Rottweiler. He ended up running away and yelping while his equally ridiculous handler chased and then carried him away all the while muttering about how a good dog owner acts responsibly. Idiot.

Toronto is my kind of city. Everything is relatively clean. People are relatively friendly. Nothing feels claustrophobic and although not perfect, that social disparity that I have mentioned previously does not seem quite as evident, I am likely wrong but I just get a much more pleasant and socialist vibe about the place which in my eyes is no bad thing.

The morning starts with a stroll to drop the kids at school, after which Conny and I head into town to get my booster shot for Hepatitis A and B.

The overland train system is a true wonder. Not the system itself, but it’s wondrous passengers. I had left Conny for no more than 30 seconds and she struck up conversation with Arlette. Arlette is an odd ball as many of our favourite encounters are. In said thirty seconds, Conny had come to know that Arlette had recently lost her boyfriend, that she cared for the homeless by keeping them company and that she was a strong believer in the afterlife. These last two points particularlly important as the homeless man she has recently befriended has prophesied that Arlette will be given a sign. A sign that she is not alone and that he is with her. Not only this but the sign will come not in the apparition of an angel. Not in great revelation. Not even in a stroke of good fortune. But in the age old ghostly form of communication betwixt dimensional realms of existence, pizza. YES! PIZZA! Because you see he loved pizza, and she did not, well she did, because we all know that pizza is fucking tasty, moreover she ain’t no fan of what it did to her hips with all that melty cheesey wonder and doughey goodness. So it must only be right that he contacts her this way. Our conversation meanders through various oddballities as we head for our destination, as we arrive at our stop, I tell Arlette it was a pleasure to discuss such wonder with her and to meet nice folk in general, not a word of which was untrue. At this point a guy at the back proclaims “BRITISH ASSHOLE” and then pipes down.

We dismount.

The cross walk is on red. A man with an unfortunate limp starts telling the fellow cross walkers of how is day is shaping up to be a shit one and that he really does not want to be around those fuckers and the goddamn British Civil Servant Asshole (I assumed he meant me).

Conny, not too impressed as I enlighten him that although I am British, may indeed be an arsehole(correct terminology, thank you) I am in fact no servant civil or otherwise, tells me to shut the fuck up and ushers me to the clinic despite my protestation that it is indeed a true thing.

This is perhaps where Toronto falls short. The travel clinic was a ballache and then some. Despite my 10.15 appointment, I am shuffled into my “consultant” at some time after 11. The scent of Conny’s discontent in the air, I afford him the information that he can save time, both mine and his, by foregoing the “consult” as it is entirely unnecessary as I have done it in Austria, and just need my second booster shot.

Nope.

“Yes, that is perhaps true you want you’re booster but I have many many important questions about your trip” in his thick Russian accent, comes the reply, from I shit you not, Dr Boris. No judgement on his name or ethnicity regarding his ability or anything else for that matter, I just found it funny that I was being treated by an unlikely looking Russian physician called Dr Boris.

“But I have done all this before, and really I promise I am only taking the shot.”

“Yes OK but I really want you to have all this info and I give you prescription, you don’t have to take it, but I give you. It’s part of the consultation…”

An hour later I am asked to step out to await my shot. Conny is not only at this point peeved, but positively hangry to boot. A very dangerous combination. Add the extra 20 minutes and the failure of our cards to pay to boot. Conny was in full cantankerous mode when paying(she had to go and get cash from down the road) before finally my shot being delivered.

The vile temper was only exacerbated by the worst coffee we ever had being served to us, each 5 minutes apart by a guy who didn’t even know how to use a french press, joking about his ineptitude at his chosen profession as he did.

Now you would think, and be right in thinking so, how does this equate to a great city? Well it doesn’t. We obviously pulled the short straw that morning. The afternoon however was a different story.

The marvels of a vibrant city had opened up to us. Chinatown, photo exhibitions in random catherdralistic office buildings, root beers at the harbour and a wonderful produce market in St Lawrence, the gem had to be the Kensington Market neighbourhood. Toronto’s answer to Camden Town. Street food shops of many kinds, packed for their delights, thrift stores, street art, a car that was turned into a garden, music places and a book store where not only did I purchase a book but got witness a reading of a poet on “tour”.

I use the quote marks as I’m not really sure how successful his “tour” is in regard to advertising or indeed attendance.

“Hi folks I’d like to thank you all for coming, I am Tim Spence and I have been invited as part of my reading tour to read some pieces for you, so thanks for coming out and listening…” comes the proclamation from the steps of the shanty/secondhand bookstore at which Conny, myself and one other lady happen to be browsing.

A couple of odd, awkwardly read poems tumble from his lips. More simple observations, much like my own, with equally as little artistic prose or wit or merit. I wrote this one this morning for you he boasts as he mumbles about a man drinking coffee and shoppers walking by. I’m thinking this guy is shit.

But wait. He talks of how there is some mental illness in his family, and that he likens it to a famous dude who was also bonkers (I am allowed to use such dismissive terms as I am actually bonkers in the exact same vein) and that he would like to read from one of his previous books.

BOOM, he starts off on one like a mad preacher come horse race commentator, babbling on in Jesus tongues about the bonkers famous dude. He keeps going and going faster and faster, louder and louder. Face reddening, eyes bulging, leg shaking, hand tapping he howls his Hallelujah crescendo just at the moment I thought his head was about to explode a la Scanners (seminal mindfuck sci-fi movie with Michael Ironside. Look it up). The boy pulled it around.

He thanks us three, and the guy who came out of the shop who had been waiting patiently to pay for his violin book and alas the performance is done. To say it was a game of two halves is no understatement.

That evening, my host takes me to watch him and some old boys in an informal ice hockey game. He throws some skates my way (not having been on ice ice since 2003) that are 2 sizes too small and on I go. As you could imagine this was not an elegant picture. I shuffled awkwardly a couple of times across the rink, somewhat akin to a newborn foal stepping off the waltzers after a gin or five too many, pucks being pushed around left right and centre. I am handed a stick, cack-handed of course despite my distinct un-cack-handedness and I am told to shoot.

At this point in my head I am thinking a young Pacey in Mighty Ducks style awakening will spring forth or some Swayze/Lowe youngblood brilliance. I gingerly move toward the puck ready to unleash the full force of my spudguns and bust that net. SLAP! I go for it. Sadly the SLAP of which I spake is not the noise of wood hitting puck, but the sound of a fat thirtysomething going arse over tit in an attempt to do something he has no business doing and his flailing limbed torsoe hitting the pristine white ice. I am offered a hand up.

“You OK?”

“Yup, just pull me up”

“Did that hurt? That looked like it hurt”

I take my leave of the ice and watch as these dudes blast around, full pads and all like there’s nothing to it. I know they have been doing it all their lives. I know they have the muscle memory, but it is still massively impressive seeing dudes in their sixties, of all levels of fitness, playing against and alongside thirtysomething teachers and mechanics and IT guys with all over them moving with such grace and agility, performing complex skills with the stick while dancing with their legs. Truly astounding and a pleasure to watch.

Memories of the Canadian exchange have a fond place in my brain. Some good folk, a lot of fun and even a veggie hotdog from a street vendor. Awesome.

We were headed towards our destination a day early in the driving rain. The last night had been a stopover at a trailhead somewhere in some forest in some northern US state. Conny was panicky. Prior to going to bed in our isolated little spot miles from civilisation, we had binge watched a few episodes of The Bridge. A dark and occasionally violent TV show about the brutal murders and dismemberment of many people, often in an isolated little spot miles from civilisation. Also, bear in mind, this is a girl who made me switch off the Goonies as it was too scary. Sleep easy she did not. The country side makes noises. Conny is not keen on noises. She asked if I had the knife. I informed her that I don’t think our Swiss army knife is going to do much either way, but she was not happy that I had left it below. I however was tucked up warm and toasty and had to assure it would be my guns that saved her if anything were to happen. The knife was unnecessary.

Morning, came, as did the weather. We hit the road, and tried to call our host, but t’would appear my phone does not like Canadians. We ponder it then think to ourselves “Nah we’ll just wait til we hit the Canadian side of the border and pick up some wifi, drop a quick message or something.”

We pulled up to the border crossing and it’s policeman with some trepidation and a little extra pucker, given my previous experience. The policeman’s questions seemed to me to be overly pointed and somewhat angrily delivered, but Conny assures me they were fine and I was probably feeling the negative affects of my entry in to the US and the US’s near entry into me and it was clouding my judgement.

Interrogation over with we proceed to the nearest petrol station. WIFI all require codes and purchases from some less than savoury establishments. I think I’ll try my phone again, only to discover it really doesn’t like Canada, I am not even offered a carrier in my settings menu. Phoning is off the menu.

The night draws in and we are slowly progressing, but we don’t even know at this point if Matt, our host is aware we are gonna be early.

HALLELUJAH! A rest stop with WIFI, God (in whom I don’t even believe) bless you OnRoute.

…Twenty minutes, a Pumpkins Spiced Latte, an actual coffee and much shuffling around the service station, following the phone like a divining rod later…

FUCK YOU ONROUTE! DAMN YOU STRAIGHT TO HELL(in which I don’t believe) AND MAY YOU AND YOUR FALSE WIFI PROMISES ROT ETERNAL EVERMORE IN PAIN!

64 clicks down the highway, an entirely different OnRoute network connected to and 4 devices attempting to update our various messaging devices and still no phone service, my venom towards telecoms in the North American Continent is becoming decidedly audible and people are starting to look at me funny.

We proceed. And indeed arrive at our destination. I ring the bell, I hear nothing. I tap the door. Nothing. I figure they must be in bed.

Black Beauty it is then. Penthouse hoisted we post apologetic notes in finest upperclass English to the local residents on Beauty’s windows. Our Doublemint adhesed scribbles explaining that we are no threat and are indeed kindly folk not wishing to wake up the neighbourhood with banging and knocking and alarms and such and that we are indeed no threat to the kids and pets or indeed other valuables, we bunker down.

Morning comes. Another knock. Another bell ring. The note I placed strategically on their porch remained. I head to the park for a little stretch of the legs and head back to Conny.

“I’ve just seen him!” she beams

“What do you mean?” I enquire

“He just rode past on his bike…well I think he did”

“Did he come from that house?”

“Yes”

“Did he look Chinese”

“Yes”

“Well, I would hazard a guess that it was him…did you say hello?”

“Oh no”

“Come again?”

“Well he looked right at the tent.”

…

Tongue bitten, we head to Coffee Culture (more disposable culture I’m afraid…people love to throw things away on this great continent) we hook up to their wifi. Joy! It works. Matt had all my messages. Only he was waiting up til 11.30…we got thre at 10…then out the window Matt, in full cycle, blasts past. I inform Conny that she should refresh her email in 5 minutes. She does.

We are informed he has just been out cycling and got back in. We are welcome any time.

Moseying back, with newly acquired Boost bar (a surprising find along with some Vimto on the way back) we say hello to Matt. He informs me that the doorbell doesn’t work and that he waited in the basement, where one can hear no knocks.

At least tonight though, we would have a bed!

The good thing about being with friends is that you slip straight back into chatting the random and odd, much more than just updating on the ins and outs of life over the last age.

We are introduced to his young family who are suitably wonderful. Even his mum and dad come over to say hi, have a natter and watch the kids whilst we head out for dinner! Even knowing we are going out for dinner they bring food, and vegetarian especially for me, they know I am an eater, it clearly resonated in the Nip psyche that I love me some food. So pre dinner food demolished, we head out for deeeeeeeeelicious tacos at an awesome, vibrant and lively place. Their charred corn on the cob with chili and stuff simultaneously managed a trio of feats. Changed the very colour of my beard with all its adornments, the spice very nearly took my face off and the taste blew my mind. HolyChrist these things were tasty.

The tacos were a long way from the things I remember from the supermarket shelves all folded and crispy. They were fresh and soft and phenomenal. Boy did I dig me some tacos. Conny, too, despite that it gave her her customary chili lips (Conny is afflicted by a highly amusing condition that any time hot fat or chili spice is present, in any kind of even the most nominal quantity, she develops an extra set of lips around her already existing lips*, a bit Ronald McDonald, it does tickle me so) loved it. I plowed through as the sweat built on my forehead and even chucked down a couple of lovely churros to boot.

The night is young and we feel like pretending to be so we head to a brewery and I am designated as driver. To the right, Conny points out the veggie dog at the stall. It is a necessary addition to the evening. Goes down a treat. I don’t even know what the green stuff or the yellow stuff was that I smothered that thing in. But it was ace.

The brewery is in Oktoberfest swing as we enter, the ales look delicious and Conny, as any good germanic girl would, opts for the flight of all the germanic style beers on the menu. Our cohorts ordered their appropriate IPA’s and we looked set for a solid night. Then the band ended and those taco’s took their toll on one of our number, he shall remain nameless, but wasn’t me and those in the know will know of whom I speak. His first trip to the loo was a standard fair in our eyes as he popped off, no sign yet that anything was amiss, upon his third exit from the table we could see the build up of tension scrawled across his face, the purpose in his walk a tell tale sign. We collectively watched and felt for him as the queue for the stalls had become a long one and we turned around in giggles and utterances of empathy as he entered the final stretch and turned the corner.

A few moments passed however and our empathy turned to concern. There was some level of drama escalating in the line-up. One immaculately bearded man was becoming tense, shouting into the stalls, and banging. Empathy again swept over us as we only figured they were all waiting our boy’s exit, while he was looking after a torrid exit all of his own. We pondered the walk of shame having to walk past those vexed hipster folk and their scornful gaze as he walked back, past them and the waft of the murder scene in his wake hit their noses. Then out he pops, not a sausage of bother on him. The drama in his stall apparently paled in comparison to that in the stall next to him, despite his being intruded upon by an unfortunate hipsterette mid flow. No the boy next door in the stalls had managed to pick that spot for a nap. Tears were flowing and MacGuyver brains were at work upon how to enter the lavatory and rescue him, but judging by the time taken, MacGuyver was no Canuck.

We headed home at a reasonable hour upon which we were greeted by another friend from the exchange. It is odd how decades can pass and people are exactly the same. Odd but comforting. A cup of tea or two later and it was time for bed. A lovely, comfortable, warm bed. A delightful end to a delightful day. And for your info, I was happy that my very own Trump wall was doing it’s job, keeping the Mexican’s at bay.

*the lips on her face you filthy heathens. Keep your minds out of both the gutter and my girlfriends nickers.

Given the prices of RV parks, we opted for an Air BnB in the suburbs. A simple room affair in someone’s house. Perfect.

Now these people, who have for a modest fee allowed us use of their house, are lovely. Do not get me wrong. Absolutely lovely. But also scary as fuck. You wanna know why? Well, I’ll tell you.

They seem like rational human beings, even if you discount their love of the Christ (I will never understand the need in His followers to try and speak to me in terms of His revelation and spin every word into some exultation of His glory. 35 years in and fuck all has been revealed to me save from a deep appreciation of the scientific and a crushing doubt in just about all things touched by religious hand. Well that and a few boobs, they have also occasionally been revealed but anyway, I digress, I often do), but it is debate night…Yes THAT debate. The first between Clinton and Trump. Between the Arse and the Cancer Riddled Arse. But my host tries to tell of how reasonable, compassionate and smart C.R.A. is and that he had the foresight none of the others did along with the brains and decency that a president requires. I swear there are still pieces of my jaw in his carpet from when it dropped to the floor and smashed.

We watched the debate, avoided any further political talk with our hosts and the next morning headed out “Downtown”. The plan was excellent. Drive to the park and ride. Take the train then go in for an explore. We got to the park and ride. It was going well. Except to park there a permit was required. But nowhere to get permits. I wind the window down to ask a taxi driver how or where a non resident can park.

“’Scuse me Sir” I say “do you know if there is a pay parking we can leave our van to get the t

“You vant parrk overnight? Sleep right?” comes the reply in thick eastern euro tones.

“Noooooo, just to go into town”

“What you got in there?” He gestures to the top box and eyes the side of the van.

“Well it is a tent but we are going into town”

“You from London? I was in jail in London” he beams “long time ago…” you can see the maths in action behind his eyes “20 years! Yes 20 years ago” he puffs at the realisation.

“Oh” I say “That is nice…and a long time ago”

“Immigration jail you know, no crime, no crime”

“Ah”

“Parking, go to Hyatt hotel, park at back you take a right at lights, two blocks down take right at light then left. Park at back there. It’s safe.”

“Ok for sure, thanks, will do” window rolls up. Not going there then, we’ll find another park and ride. Now I know that might paint me as a judgemental prick. I might just even be a judgemental prick. But hey. What can I do.

I tap Park and Ride into Garmin. It says it’s half way in, so go for it. It dawns on me as we pull into the turning lane just before the destination road that there seem to be an awful lot of airport parking signs.

“This isn’t O’Hare airport neck of the woods is it?”

“No, Midpoint Airport.”

I sit in silence realising my catastrophe, happy that Conny has not yet noticed the two and the other two, so has definitely not put

them together. We drive along the street, and I pipe up,

“I am a little worried that there is all this airport sign and no rail tracks.”

I think you can figure the rest.

We enter downtown. Black Beauty is a tall horse. The stables are low. And if not low, very pricey.

We had planned on heading to the North on our last day on my pilgrimage to Mme Zuzu’s Tearoom.

However Conny throws this option up as the traffic has been nightmarish, the construction workers had been following our exact route and fucking us left, right and centre and we were starting to tire of said fucking.

Mme Zuzu’s was exactly called for.

I kindly young man offered us his advice upon tea selection, we dined on sandwiches and cake (choc chip pumpkin bread specifically), driking tea whilst playing scrabble. All in an off beat tea room cum vintage store full of Smashing Pumpkins memorabilia that was owned by one Mr William Patrick Corgan. The man that is the reason I play guitar like a do. A few hours in that place and the mornin’s tensions were a hazy memory.

On the return leg we did something quite rare, and stumbled upon a religion I knew nothing about. Baha’i.

It is apparently the newest of the recognised world religions, dating some 200 years. It incorporates many of the established religions much in the same way as the Qu’ran sees even Jesus as a messenger of God. All of the figures in these religions are seen as messengers of the same One God. Creator of all. From what I can tell there is very little hierarchical structure in the church. They believe in the oneness of all things, the dignity of all beings and that opression of people is bad. If it weren’t for that pesky spirit in the sky stuff, sounds like it could be my kind of religion. The temple however, was a thirty year labour of love and is one of only 8 in the world. It is quite magnificent.

Baha’i. Look it up. I’m going to.

We topped the evening with a Chicago style deep dish from Lou Manati’s and hit the hey.

Tomorrow was a new day.

Tomorrow became today and we headed for a different park and ride. Closer, free parking and a 4 buck bus ride into Downtown. Perfect. We stumbled off the bus under the Gotham rail tracks. Conny wanted to go on the open top bus so we did. It was raining. We sardined into the bottom deck and began our tour. As the weather perked up we got out at the pier, and did our general moseying thing.

Despite the weather, Chicago is a delightful city. Art everywhere. Tales of gangs and fabled grand gestures of love abound. There is a large Trump shaped erection and there are many parts where Chicago and Gotham are one. Much of this information was brought to us by Dan. One of the guides on the bus. I like Dan, he is an amusing sort. If I was staying longer, I would definitely follow Dan’s suggestions for a good time. He particularly like to point out the corrupt nature of Chicago. Their city jail is called the Governors Penthouse, due to the fact that 4 of the last 8 governors have served sentences there. 6 have been convicted of wrong doings. He highlights some of the key points of Al Capone’s involvement as a pillar of community, and entrepreneur, a job creator. All very tongue in cheek. He even ties the pizza house with a chapter of the freemasons and questions the coincidence of the name Lou Manati’s as a reference to the Illuminati.

We strolled Millenium park, which houses a been that has been buffed so much you can see your reflection in it and yes, I could not resist. I did indeed flick it. I flicked that bean.

The onward plan was to investigate the lakes area over the next few days as we mosey our way to the wonderful land that is Canada and a reunion with an old friend that was at least 16 years overdue. The elements however had an entirely different idea. The sheets of rain and visibility sapping clouds put pay to any enjoyable nature walks and sight seeing so we opted to drive with more haste to Toronto. That top part of the US though full orchards and green and lovely and nice…but also…Christian central. Never seen so many different flavours of the Christian fruit as I did on these roads. At one point we turned on to a highway and the first four buildings we passed were different denomination churches. Their really can not be this much requirement for the Christ child in these folks lives. Well apparently there is but I struggle to see how.

We awoke at our truckstop in Fort Collins to a familiar sight. Old Goat! It would appear that the vagabonds had followed us or at least come to the same conclusion that this was a good place to stop. However, given that we(I) had rudely awoken them from their slumber the previous mornings with my clumsy early morning fumblements (second morning I tried to make up for it with a cup of coffee that made Johnny shudder/jig with delight) we chose to leave them alone and head on.

This next stage was always going to be one of long driving through repetitive Nebraska plains. Which indeed it was. To start it was hot and windy. Bloody windy, we pulled up at our stop, the Country View RV park at Ogahlalla. Not much country to view but it was cheap and clean and the folk running it were lovely. The guy who ran it talked to me about the lake and the two englishmen he knew. His tree guy who had just left and his mate Kevin, who shat his pants in a deep lake and he had to go save him. However, I digress( I tend to do that) This place was hotter than Satan’s Arsehole after a curry buffet, and with exactly as much wind as that same arsehole. It was like being in a tumble drier. Conny showered and in the ten metres to the van her hair was bone dry.

We headed to the local chinese for dinner. Which was shit. But the dude was funny.

More of the same ahead we tried to sleep despite the fear that the near hurricane winds were going to fling us all the way to Oz, we tried to get some sleep. We plainly failed but as morning came we destroyed a few ‘wiches of the Egg Sand variety and hit the long straight road for round two. We stopped at the Pony Express post in Gothenburg, where we encountered a troupe of Amish on an excursion. The Pony Express was quite impressive. It was like a telegram service on horseback and speed. Riders would change horses every ten to fifteen miles and the riders would do legs of about ninety each and pass the mail shaped baton along the way.

We hit the road once more but the weather turned sour. The rain was a beast. Seldom have I seen such stuff shy of next to the shore of Lake Geneva. If you’re interested, it often rains ridiculously by Lausanne for some reason. It is like God himself decides to shift the lake North by a few hundred metres from time to time and he just elevates the water, shunts it along and drops it down…usually as I was driving past. Anyway, I digress, as I often do.

Then came the lightning. The sky lit up in huge streaks. Chain reactions like the ghost of Nicholas Tesla at play in the heavens. These then turned more to sheets, lighting the whole dark sky. We chose to sleep in the bed inside the van this night. A couple of days and nights of this and a few pancakes later we hit St Louis, and checked out the Cahokia mounds. Not that impressive to look at but one can’t help wonder at the history of a place like that. Transported in one’s imagination to when the plains people thrived there. It is odd, but I had never thought of the native Americans as dwelling in cities or communities outside of the nomadic tribes oft seen in the like of Last of the Mohicans and Dances with Wolves. This place was settled and thrive for several hundred years from around 700 AD. Pretty impressive really.

Next stop Chicago. More about that next time.