thelongmosey

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.

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.