thelongmosey

It had been a couple o’days o’stinkiness amongst some hot and sticky heat, Conny, in her infinite wisdom, decreed “We need a shower.”

Campsites around Price were scarce, let alone ones that offered either reasonable amenity or sensible pricing. We had struggled with this also the previous night and ended up sleeping amongst the truckers on a roadside, we also learned that a shower, for a non professional driver, costs 12 bucks. Yes, 12 DOLLARS for a shower. Fucking bonkers. Intent on not repeating this experience Conny pulled a diamond from betwixt her cheeks in a somewhat Eureka! moment. She had requested, and indeed been accepted for a couch surf of someone’s driveway, and shower! Franky in Price was a Godsend! We headed that way, but not wanting to invade someone’s home for longer than necessary, we went to the local dinosaur quarry. Yes. I said it. Dinosaur quarry. For that is what it was, is, and probably forever shall be. It is, you guessed it, a quarry. The stone there holds a precious find however. The largest concentration of fossilised Jurassic era dinosaur bones in the world. Mostly allosaurus (think T-Rex with Dame Edna horn-rims) but a few other more familiar things like the brontosaurus. Thoroughly intriguing for those of the geek orientated mindset such as myself, plus, strolling around the desert looking for bones is not my usual pass-time, so when the opportunity arises, one must take it!

Now. It turns out that Franky was in fact Jay, but Jay was away, so we were hosted by his delightful wife Becky. She suggested pizza and a movie for the evening entertainment, which was just about perfect for us. We got to meet her grandkids and their mother, we picked up said pizza. From a plethora of various local pizza houses offered to us by Becky, we opted for Little Caesar’s, pretty sure its the bargain basement of pizza house offerings, but it didn’t half fill a whole and was more than acceptably delicious. We also had the most delightful of showers to remove the stink and the aura of unwashed from our persons (Becky, graciously told us we didn’t smell bad at all, I didn’t believe her) and we hung around with Becky and her awesome stunt dog Scrappy*

Camping on the driveway was exactly as one expected. Becky liked her coffee strong in the morning, as do we, and she likes a chat, also as do we, so with coffees downed and discussions of the ways of the world, and beyond, behind us we bid adieu to Becky and on to Moab.

Moab is that place you see in movies, pretending to be Mars with the red rocks and monoliths, sweeping rockscapes carved by the water, with arches and gullies, much like the one from 127 hours (look it up if you don’t know it).

Armed with a penknife and an aversion to falling rocks, Conny and I, intrepid wanderers as we are, set out to walk the various walks** and hike the various hikes*** of the Moab and Island in the Sky areas. The gentle walks are a little overpopulated for my liking, hardly the best way to enjoy the area, following a herd of large Americans, gaggles of Germans and troupes of Chinese along the path as we all “Hike” to the vistas at the end. We did however meet some good old girls from Conny’s home town coming down the desert slopes. Unsure as to where they were from upon hearing their German, Conny asks “Woher kommen Sie?” The reply in thick Vorarlbergisch dialect was “I kumm vo Dorabira und Sie vo Breyagatz”…who’d a thunk it, these lovely dames enjoying their retirement (they were a widow club apparently) would bump in to Conny and I on the side of a hill in Utah.

We nestled down for the night somewhat illegally at the side of the road given the occupancy of all the camp sites (who knew this place was so popular?!), contemplated a swim in the Colorado, but were halted by the NO SWIMMING AT ANY TIME, DANGEROUS UNDERCURRENTS sign. We opted for an al-fresco shower by the river bank. Again Conny’s idea, this came late in the day, when the sun was already set. Given that our portable shower is a solar one, you can imagine this was not as warm and delightful as the last. I may have in fact turned into a lady for a split second as my man bits cowered in the cold then inverted to be come lady bits. Add to that the voices in the bushes that Conny and I could hear, but neither could see, we think someone probably got quite the show! So, clean, we hoisted the tent and got to bed for the next morning it was up at dawn’s arse crack for the morning long hike ahead at Devil’s Garden.

If indeed, as the name suggests, Devil’s Garden is under the procuratorship of Beeslebub, it would appear that he is a fancier of rabbits. The little blighter’s are everywhere. I’m not sure that these are evil attack-rabbits under the Fallen’s will. They are just too cute, the abundant ravens flitting and barking around as they do, yes, Lucifer’s creatures…but not the bunnies. I even remarked at their cuteness for a fleeting moment as one leapt in to the road in front of me (this was swiftly followed by thoughts of “NO don’t move I’ll save you” and then “Dammit, you moved”). Sadly Bugs was swiftly and too soon taken from this world by Black Beauty’s thunderous right hind quarter. Yet none of his cousins jumped toothfirst for my jugular during our treks, I am convinced the Dark Prince has a soft side…sorry, I went off on one, back to the Moab…

Stunningly vast, desolate areas, largely untouched by man but carved effortlessly and magnificently by natures hand. These places take your breath away. In the morning as sun rises over the horizon and between the towers the colours are mesmerising. The photos we manage do this place no justice.

The red and the rust, clashing with the green from the half dead, fully twisted and contorted trees, we scrambled like cats over the rocks and across the ridge line as the sun crept up. Then down into the gullies and cracks, with the sandy path crossed by the trails left by the local rattlers.

It was indeed a workout, but cripes, it was a fantastic way to attack the man handles that make my frame a rotund one.

Next stop Colorado. Let’s see what she’s got to offer.

* Scrappy is no kind of stunt dog, nor does Becky claim him to be, I made that up. But he does have a couple of neat tricks and looks super cool with his mohawk.

** American’s seem to call anything over ten footsteps a hike. Perhaps it is the love of the large that I spoke of previously and they they just talk this shit up so people feel a sense of achievement after going for a stroll…who knows? They definitely ain’t all hikes though.

*** That said, some of them were most certainly hikes. The “Hikers” or walkers amongst the crowds often turn back when things get hairy, leaving the real trails to the likes of Mick Dundee, Conny and me.

In addition to the above, just as I was about to read this piece to Conny, she thought she’d check how bad my feet stink. She got a little close and was shocked by what she found…and admittedly by the static that had accumulated within the powerful hue of cheese.

Awe.

The sheer vastness of this place demands it. We have barely tipped toe on this vast land and it’s hugeness bewilders us from our pokey little nations across the pond.

The seemingly endless fields of sage brush flit by our window as we head for Salt Lake. The preacher on the radio talks in circular fashion about god’s love and infinite forgiveness no matter what the percieved sin, yet also tells us we must behave and not let god or Jesus down. This shit winds me up. I flit to the next station. 45000 wild horses are to be culled… 45000! We have seen 7, maximum. Where on earth they are gonna find these surplus horses is anyone’s guess, apparently it is to “make room” for cattle farmers. One thing they ain’t short of around here is space. It somewhat beggars belief. But as I say, this is the land of the large. Go large or go home I suppose.

The Salt Flats of Utah are immense. Brilliant snow white desert stretches until it meats the haze under the hot sun. Between the salt air, sun and the vast apparent sea from which the mountains emerge from as Islands amidst dead calm waters, one could be forgiven for thinking that this was indeed the coast.

The sea is a fickle one though. As Beauty blazes down I80 in the heat of the sun we cross like Moses, the ever retreating sea disappearing before our eyes and turning into the iridescent sparkling salt laden earth, shimmering like Cullen-skin in the sunlight as we pass.

Once we reach the capital of Utah, we head for the state building. Again huge, but beautifully built. Shrines to the pioneers and the likes of Brigham Young. The sheer number of churches, both existing and in the process of being built amazes Conny. By the end she is pointing out each one incredulously and vocally “Look David, another bloody church, what tdo these people bloody do with all these churches, they’re bloody everywhere?”

“Why they marry their sister-wives” is my reply.

“What they can do that here?”

“Yup, shall we find a sister-wife? Go big or go home?!”

Now. Let’s talk about food.

Land of the large definitely applies. Yes each house is ginormous, and each house has a fleet of ginormous cars/vans/trucks outside (which particularly boils my piss in these days of climate denial and such) but the food. Holy shitballs. I am not known for my lack of appetite. Rather the opposite is in fact true. I am a veritable vegetable dustbin, of industrial proportion. Attested to by my not insignificant girth (around the waist ladies, keep your minds out of the gutter please) and impressive man-rack. But even I, David “Never let a meal beat me yet” South opt for the small option where possible. You see ordinary folk walking around with buckets of beverage. A “light lunch” grilled cheese and Tater Tots fills us both up. Pizzas so big they don’t fit out the fridge door in Walmart without an angled tilt. Bottles of pop or juice that could last a family a decade…it’s incredible.

The propensity for disposables also hurts my brain but I shall leave that for another day.

Conny cooked pasta today. Enough to feed 30 I think. Something must be rubbing off on her.

Amtrak trains are made for Americans. Large. If anyone ever complains about leg room on one, politely, stop him or her from doing whatever it is they are doing, kindly ask to see their side arm (they almost invariably will have one) then turn it on them and use it. Those seats are fucking ginormous, I couldn’t even reach the footrests.

Amtrak, awesome as the seating was, was also, clearly made for Americans. Capitalist. When booking “Free Wi-Fi on Amtrak trains*” clearly, although I didn’t see an asterisk, there must have been one. Reading in very fine print “Except yours, it’s only in business class, for which you can pay to upgrade”. I had allocated the 16 hours or so to get this blasted website up and running…but if you have a grumble at my tardiness, please point it in Amtrak’s direction.

So, Sacramento in the AM, we ride the Graffiti Train and the Urine Bus to our destination. JUCY Campervans USA. We rolled up, watched the Austrians struggle loading their mountains of luggage from the ginormo non-camper van they had rented into the not so ginormo Jucy Champ. But soon enough they were away in their lime green and grape beast. Then there was the German girls, who knew nothing of the insurance bond that had to be on hold on their account and had to figure out what they could afford on their student/mother’s cards. They were sent on their way in their tree frog and aubergine wander-wagon. Then we were up.

We did the necessaries, cards were swiped, no credit limits let us down…hurrah, on to the walk through.

We strode outside expecting a wasabi and plum combo BUT BEHOLD! What a beauteous creature stood before us! None of that day-glo Hi-Viz and Vimto paintwork, but a sleek black and shiny steed, waiting to whisk us away. We were ready to go, the walk through done, our Jucy guide explained how to hoist the tent but said, she couldn’t be bothered, but we can do it if we like. I was all “Fuck it…let’s go” but no, Conny insisted. Crank and wind, as predicted it worked a treat. Right, time to crank it down and hit the tarmac…three cranks and the 4^th turned into a clunk. Oh. Shitballs.

The tent has broken, and we haven’t left. A few hours later, even with a broken tent she is drawing some jealous regards, and with the eager beavering of the on site mechanic, Beauty was ready to ride. And ride she did.

To the snow capped peaks of Luther’s Pass on night one, down the rainy mountain, past the sunny shores of Lake Tahoe with its Blue Jays/Stellar Jays (help Uncle Werner, see photos?!) and chipmunks galore, onwards over Mount Rose (taking a whipping from the hailstones!) to Washoe Lake State park, complete with its interesting flora that I feel must be called Horsepiss Brush. Here I cranked the tent up with some trepidation (first night we slept inside), but no, Beauty was solid as a rock. The showers were sent from the gods themselves and the tent was a wonder to sleep in, only mildly disrupted by a pack of coyote’s on the hunt at stupid o’clock in the AM.

She is a head turner. Everywhere we stop, the locals are asking if “Is it yours? Can we buy one like this? Is it a rental? Where are the beds? Who do we rent it off? etc etc…to be fair, its pretty clear if they took the time to read any one of the 53 stickers emblazoned on her flanks and rear end…but hey, we’ll forgive them that as they are just interested, perhaps blinded by our (by that I mean her) Beauty.

Today was all desert, quite breathtaking to see the salt flats and the vastness of it all with the red rock mountains all the way to Reno and beyond, but really nothing to write about. We are currently at a rest stop, no idea of when I can get the internet once more for long enough. You will know when I do I suppose and this darn website finally goes on line! But I am about to hoist the sail once more and bury my head for the night.

Not the Connells of the 74-75 fame, but the O’Connells. The wonderful family of my sister in law.

They put up with us across two locations and were nothing but wonderful hosts!

First up was Erica in her Portland flat. Her and her dogs two cats, plus the parents hound, she was very kind to accommodate us! Right by the river, a perfect spot for us to wander in and see what Portland had to offer. An aerial tram took us to a hospital, and back. We had an awesome coffee, at the Simple Local Coffee place. Oddly I broke my own rules, where normally I would go for a simple local coffee, instead the marketing got me and I opted for a Salted Caramel Latte. Who’da thunk it, it was bloody lovely. There were some more beards, Some more Utilikilts and some more artsy things.

Erica was kind enough to lend us her car. We headed out to the waterfalls in the gorge by the Columbia River. It was indeed beautiful. I couldn’t help the theme from Last of the Mohicans playing through my head on repeat (it also happens in real life occasionally too, as I found a three hour loop of the theme on youtube…it really is a wonder I tell you) as I bounded through the forests to the tops of the cliffs. I’m pretty sure my head music got audible a few times via whistles and hums but who cares.

I am forever enamoured by the hugeness of some of the trees and the imagery of the mosses blanketing whatever they touch. You will probably note in the photos. The ones that are poorly shot, with nothing but a bit of moss or a tree in. That’s me that is. But that’s enough of that. Conny saw a snake, shat her pants and jumped behind me. She walked behind me after that, refusing to go first.

While chatting at home, Erica pointed out that the first person is usually ok…its the second that gets bitten as the snake is disturbed by the first and lashes out at the second. I will be walking at the back from now on apparently.

We met Tania and Maddy at the flat and ate pizza, I discovered that Conny had no idea what peperoni was.

We hopped on the Bolt Bus and headed for Albany where Bobbie and Dan hosted us for the weekend. They ordered pizza. We were housed in the caravan (practice for our camper on the next leg) we hung out with the sister in law (Kerry) and the kids. Erica came down on the Saturday and we went to the beer festival. Conny and Kerry got drunk on a couple o’ pints. Dan and Erica sampled some tasty brews. I ate a veggie burger. All in all pretty good. We walked in a forest, Jem sat on my shoulders most the way, refusing to walk. He is also a big lad. I am not very strong. Basically that hurt. Elouise was a grump. But she’s cute so that’s ok.

We went to the market. I picked up a guitar, and got a free t-shirt to boot. I have to say the Fingerboard Extension in Corvalis is my kind of music shop. All old stuff, some classics, some unheard of brands, some weirdo custom mades, all reasonably priced and full of character, I could ave doubled my collection for a couple of grand there. Conny prevented this.

All in all it was a cracking few days taking it easy and it was really nice that although we have only met a couple of times, Kerry’s family made us feel so welcome, and indeed part of the family.

Muchos Gracias O’Connells, you are awesome.

From the Inn, we needed to get to Portland to stay with the sister in law’s sister. This called for Gretta the Jetta. A beautiful beast. Loaned from the kind folk at budget rent-a-car. An unusual method was employed. We rented our car online at one location. We got to that location to find a couple of staff dealing with people who had come for their cars, all booked in advance. However they didn’t have any cars. They did however know of another local budget rent-a-car, that had plenty of cars but no staff, only one guy was working. So our guy drove us and another Japanese lady from their empty car rental lot, to the other guy with his abundant cars, only no time to do anything with them.

You would have thought the prerequisite for a car rental place would be rental cars. But this turned out not to be the case.

We mounted our trusty grey steed and headed for the coast.

We stopped off at a diner, ate one meal between two of us (grilled cheese and tater-tots. We had no idea what Tater-tots were, but they turned out to be delicious nuggets of deep fried potatoness, what’s not to love. Anyway, someone offers you something with a name such as Tater-tots, it is imperative one must give it a whirl). We have learned that man portions, despite my overly healthy apetite, are big enough to feed the two of us. It really is no surprise we have seen some especially large units over here. One could very easily become a hefty specimen in no time I fear.

Long Beach.

Not California, Oregon. It boasted Labor Day crowds, the worlds worst nachos with rubber cheese and an arch to the beach contentiously claiming to be the World’s Longest Beach.

It was a long beach indeed, but I have a feeling that is a spurious claim on behalf of the Long Beach tourist board.

We got ice cream. Conny opted for the junior option(a classic mint choc chip choice). I thought the single would be appropriate. I was wrong. Never have I seen such an awkwardly disproportionate globule of frozen delight (Root beer float flavour, ‘twas delicious) sat atop such a tiny wafer construction. Plus, I am a bearded man. When said ice cream is as big as ones face, one can not help but look somewhat the fool. I was however a delightfully messy fool as we strolled to the beach.

The beach, on Labor day, allows Pick Up Trucks. This was taken advantage of in the fullest. Ginormo beasts with huge kites (A big squid among them no less) attached to them and fires galore. Now the fires despite the signs saying that they must be 100 metres from the dunes started about 10 metres in. I think this is the golden accepted ratio, as at many restaurants and rail stations similar signs say no smoking within x amount of distance, for example 20 metres, for the most part I think it is considered appropriate to go exactly 10% of the stated distance and you’ll be grand, most smokers make it 2 metres at a 20 metre sign.

We departed the lies of Long Beach and headed South. A night of rough sleeping. I say rough, hardly, but Conny is not keen on sleeping in anything but a bed. I however used to regularly sleep in my Fiat 126 with my legs out of the window, back in the good old days after a session and no way to get home.

We parked, facing the sea and a great bridge across the estuary. We watched a movie. Then curled up for the night. Me in the front, Conny in the back. It was a bit cool, a bit of dead leg here or there but all in all, Gretta was grand. Conny I fear would beg to differ. She will never do such a thing again.

However, waking up to the view on the morning was pretty fantastic. We headed off with the intent of hitting the first diner we could for breakfast.

We were not let down. Diner breakfasts are awesome.

On to Portland, slowly, we were the only people observing the speed limit all the way. We drew some frowns, and 55 is ridiculously slow, but hey, I don’t want mahussive fees on my card now do I.

Gretta made it, we were soundtracked by my youth with a 90’s Alt Rock radio station all the way. Pretty good day I’d say.

Too easy? Yes.

A little trite? Sure

Apt? Most definitely.

Did I have a choice? Not one bit.

Anyway, to business.

First weekend in September, public holiday, who knew?

Most of America it would appear. Plenty of whom chose Seattle as their vacation destination.

Add to that the hoard of tech-wizards and kids emerging from their dark rooms and basements for their singular extracurricular excursions to the game convention (don’t worry they were both appeased and easily identifiable by their headphones, mobile gaming, ill fitting attire and low capacity for social interaction). Combined with the cities trendy folk attending the urban music festival (really, what is a music festival without a campsite) you could guess that lodging would be hard to come by.

You would be correct. We opted for a basic (not so basic in cost) inn a few miles East of Seattle proper, took a shuttle ride from the airport with Shuttle Express, whose driver was a proper character and a great welcome to the city. All in all though, amongst the throngs of sweaty kids with their bleeps and blips to the freshmen at the university doing their level best to woo the 17 year old girls(“really?! Thats like awesome you think I’m 20! I’m 17, she’s nearly 18 and these are just 16”) in hotpants and what looks like tip-ex face/body paint as they collectively head toward the aforementioned faux-festival and chatting about their first “rap” concert experience, the public transport system holds up well. And at 2 bucks 50 a pop one couldn’t complain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We met up with the sister in law, saw some of the city, we saw some sights (space needle), we followed the herd through the bright lights, big colours and bold smells of Pike Market (and sampled some delicious apple and blackberry cider, of the non alcoholic variety…zero wagons were fallen off of). Had some good coffee, saw a bunch of food trucks, we saw some mumbling dudes sitting in the square building cigarettes from filtered papers and pipe tobacco (I tried to ascertain exactly what was going on, whether it was indeed just tobacco or not, but the chap, I’ll call him Bubba, just mumbled and laughed and as I pushed further, mumbled and laughed some more, as Bubba was a big dude, I left it there and moseyed along. I have a feeling he had a sideline in some other products as the bags I saw some of his customers walking away with most definitely did not contain cigarettes), many beards and even the odd utilikilt (look it up if you have to).

The problem is, we’re not really city folk these days. For all the character and choices and art and wonder and Pike Markets and Bubba’s in the park, there is so much misery and stink and filthiness and sorrow.

The smell of human piss slaps you in the face like a great slimy kipper. And walking with my niece, having to explain when she asks “why are there tents under the bridge?” and “why is there a person in that sleeping bag, just lying across the pavement?” doesn’t sit well with me.

All these people doing so well, more often than not stepping over or deriding all these people who have nothing. When a person on the floor in the street is merely an obstacle to navigate I struggle a little inside.

There was a ray of hope, when at a distance we saw a herd of goats grazing a patch of brush in the city, but as you get there all hope is dashed as you see there is more litter and detritus in their pen than actual food. The people next to us, the lady says to the man “should we feed them something?” now I didn’t see them carrying any bags marked goatfood but the lady persists “I don’t see a sign saying we shouldn’t, so we can feed them anything, no?”

Now excuse me, but in what fucked up place do we need to think of a sign to tell us everything that we shouldn’t do? How the actual fuck does that work as logic?

Anyway, my point is that we needed to get out of the city.

We headed to the docks at Fishermen’s terminal.

I saw the Brenna A getting a refit (was even asked on board but I am pretty sure the guy who asked did not have the authority to do so, so for his job’s sake, declined) and the Time Bandit (I even think I saw Neal Hillstrand in the wheel house. Now, if none of that means anything to you, fair enough, if it does, you probably understand my geek joy at this point! We ate fried gerkins. Fucking delicious. Whoever thought that up was a genius.

Here we bumped into Rich. Moseying on his electric sit down scooter (chain driven*makes it dangerous and has that fun factor, do you know how many people are trying to work on the equation to figure out the fun factor…no…me neither, WHO CARES? Can’t account for the fun factor…Chain driven)

Rich is an oddball of the highest order. I think he knows it too. I like that about Rich.

Rich, assumed I was a fisherman, must be the beard, but I took it as an affirmation of my potent masculinity.

“Oh you quit your jobs to wander around the world? Ha ha…RIGHT ON!! That’s awesome! Are you educators? WHO CARES? You should be, I was and educator. SO FUCKING WHAT?”

Rich was a philosophy teacher. His results were too good. His students did too well. His bosses didn’t like it. He thought he might have to go to war with them.

“SO FUCKING WHAT?!”

Rich is a sailor, but he is only allowed in the lagoon he “took too many big risks”.

Rich is a “commando*. He is connected to “central”. They give orders, but he doesn’t follow them any more. They know who he is. He knows who they are. They leave each other be.

“WHO CARES?”

Rich is a musician. I asked him. He told me he was in a band called Tiger, he was the “violinist on guitar”. He was a real musician. That day he had even played “someone like you” all the way through. It might have been good, it might not he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know how to play it and doesn’t really know the song but he thinks he played it, but “SO FUCKING WHAT? WHO CARES?”

He says “SO FUCKING WHAT?” and “WHO CARES?” an awful lot. He says these things are part of his thing. He asks if I know what he means, or if we understand.

Frankly the answer was invariably no, but his response was always pretty predictable…

So fucking what? Who cares?

Not me Rich, I don’t care, I salute you, Sir.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Breakfasts at the Baymont Inn were an interesting affair.

First thing to greet you of a morning is the ever cheerful Laurie.

“Good morning, welcome to Breakfast, how are you today?”

I have never in my life been expecting a welcome to breakfast and I could not have dreamt of it being done with such delight and gusto at 6.30 am.

The breakfast was an array of all things individually wrapped and served on plastic. Laurie took great delight in telling us about everything. Laurie is a talker.

She is from Florida. She has a daughter. Her daughter is a teacher, but not in Florida, in New York, because you can’t afford to be a teacher in Florida. But she only drives a crappy car because there is no point getting a good one in New York, and she has to park it 20 minutes walk away, because there is no parking in Brooklyn. I know this because Laurie is a talker.

Most of the usual suspects were there.

Yoghurts (“oh look at these yoghurts, good brands you know, not cheap. Activia. And the other one Yooooplait, real good”) Porridge (“and the porridge, there’s maple, and pecan, real easy, take a pack for later, snack in your room, why not you paid for it, it’s free”), fruit (“FRUIT! Take one for later”), coffee (“ the red is decaf, that one doesn’t wake you up in the morning you know you stay sleepy, but the black one, woooooooooooo thats strong, its like gas, that will get you going in the morning”) there were baked goods like bagels and muffins (“apparently these are real good, guests love them, I don’t know, I’ve never eaten anything here, I’m not allowed”), make-your-own waffles (“you want me to teach you, I’ll teach you” fair play too, given my attempt at waffles in Iceland where one erupted like INSERT VOLCANO NAME and the other ended up as an undersized square biscuit of the burnt variety that resulted in me being pointed and laughed at across a dining hall, passing the sniggers as I retreated to a howling Conny and the sanctuary of my table, these were sterling efforts)

cereals(“kelloggs…good brand) then shit got weird.

I spotted a slow cooker. With what looked like cooked wholegrain porridge. I enquired as to it’s contents.

“That’s gravy. Pork Gravy.”

Pork gravy, I shit you not! PORK FUCKING GRAVY, WHO ON EARTH DECIDED THIS WAS BREAKFAST FODDER!?!

“You put it on biscuits, and warm it up”

Now by biscuits she means scones. We call biscuits biscuits, they call them cookies. We call scones scones. They call them biscuits. They have scones too, only their scones are cakes. We call cakes cakes. Anyway, I digress.

SCONES AND FUCKING PORK GRAVY??!!! FOR BREAKFAST???!!! WHO COULD EVER THINK SUCH AN UNGODLY CONCOCTION WAS BREAKFAST FODDER?

Americans apparently. Lots of them. They bloody loved it.

And the eggs.

Boiled. Peeled AND INDIVIDUALLY ZIP LOCKED AND PLACED ON ICE! Who does this crazy shit?

Well, despite the oddness, it went down well, and filled a hole, and Laurie is a delightful way to start a morning. Turns out though. Laurie was not appreciated by all. There were many a snide remark from our next door table, but sadly as Laurie’s English was not native and they went over her head. I should have known they would be a bit off though. This couple of bright and perky ladies, probably in their sixties or seventies, all smiles and niceness, gave some classic tell tale signs to their world-view. Given their sporting-gran attire and T-shirts emblazoned with GLORY USA and U S of A we shall call them Glory 1 and Glory 2.

Upon hearing Laurie and I discuss biscuits and gravy (during which I contained all my horror and merely stated I was vegetarian) I heard a balk from Glory 1

“Vegetarian, oh may the good Lord take you soon”

she looks at my beard “I bet you don’t eat pork then either” then Glory 2 chimes in with,

“if you dont eat meat then what else is there?” I look at their meat free plates, then back at them.

“Erm, everything else, vegetables” I stopped listening as she mumbled about a cousin requiring midnight jell-O snacks on account of his not getting enough good stuff from his vegetarian diet.

If that weren’t enough, then they realised I have an accent.

“So you’re British. What do you think about your new Mayor”

I at this point chose not to point out that I am not from London, but from Leek. I don’t even know if Leek still has a mayor. Let alone am I aware of his or her ethnicity. But I see where she is going and say I think Mr Kahn is a good choice. Seems sensible, reason seems to be his MO and he is definitely a voice against the militant branch of Islam and might be exactly what we need to curb some of those voices in their community that lean towards extremism and radicalisation.

Her face screwed. Like a bulldog chewing a wasp.

“Yeah. Good luck with that. I hope for your sakes you’re right”

It’s hard to explain how they managed to deliver this while at all times being polite and smiley and wishing us well on our onward journey. I genuinely think they thought they were being nice. I get the idea they would be still smiling as they wipe their blade clean and they would wish me a good journey as the last burst of blood spurts from my neck, happy that they had sent me to a better place humanely.

The last day with Laurie, I simply said thanks, and told her how nice it was to be greated so warmly and with such verve in the morning and asked for a photo. Clearly this had never happened before. She was visibly moved. She took us to one side and offered us tickets to disneyworld in florida, or anywhere in the world. She has 9 lifetime tickets and offered two to us. Obviously we declined, but really, people must not be overly appreciative of her efforts if thats all it takes.

I look across the dining room. Glory 1 is at the biscuits and gravy station, and notices me “Oh hi you two!” Like she spotted long lost friends “have a great trip!”

Here are some things I learned on Day 1:

Frankfurt is a ginormous airport.

It is staffed by tremendously rude and unhelpful people (at least with Condor).

2 hours sleep and a minging hangover does not a nice journey make (Conny taught me this).

I do not look like someone the Americans want in their country.

The flight from Zurich to Frankfurt went well, was typically Swiss in that it ran like clockwork was perfectly pleasant and arrived on time.

Then we hit Frankfurt. That place is a monster. We arrived with a good two hours to spare before flight time, but as soon as we got off the plane were told we were boarding. As we trudged the miles and miles of corridors it dawned on us that this was a pre-emptive measure, so that people didn’t assume their transit would take mere minutes like one would expect, and in fact that that the required hours were accounted for. I fear this was also the case with the check in procedure. We watched in horror as a family who thought they had the correct tickets were offered no help. But just told that they didn’t have the correct tickets (they needed to show onward flight from the US). Until the point the lady said you have five minutes to book a ticket or you cannot fly. Now at this point, if not before, you may have thought someone from their alliance would have offered to help organise something, after all they are an airline. But no, the lady delighted the moment the 5 minutes was up in telling her too late. She promptly turned her back and that was that.

So the flight was cramped and had either modern family or a crap Sandler movie, but was pleasant enough…USA, touchdown!

Or so I thought.

I was looking forward to using my new snazzy passport. Conny just used the automated control system and the moment her ticket to the control booths is printed, catastrophic system failure.

Now, I have dramatised this a little, the system needed a reboot, but as Conny already had a ticket they ushered her onwards and me back to the machines…fine…I thought, no worries, but I ask the guy, as I am travelling with my girlfriend (we all know that means “she is my keeper and has all that paper stuff”) but he assures me no need. So I play the fancy arcade game that is passport control, I win and collect my ticket to the passport control officer.

Then things get wonky.

She asks how long I’m staying. 88 days.

She asks why I am here. To see the States.

She asks how long. 88 days.

She asks what my profession is. I state unemployed…thinking jobless vagabond is a step too far.

She says where are you staying. I give my sister in law’s family address to save confusion.

OK Sir please stand to one side while I process these other folk.

Hmmmmm I think. She says no worries, but then asks me to follow her. Again, as I pass Conny in her queue I say “my girlfriend is just there, can I just let her know?…”

I am told no need. Ten seconds later as I clock the direction I am headed, and the boarded office with mirrored windows I began to fear for the sanctity of my bumhole.

I enter. Am promptly told to take a seat. I am promptly called to the desk the moment I sit down.

Policeman asks same questions. He is having none of it. He asks my profession, he finds it hard to believe some one can travel for 88 days with no job, I tell him its hard to have a job when you are travelling for 88 days.

He asks for my contact details in Oregon, I give them, but my sister in law’s mobile is not acceptable, apparently, so I have nothing to give.

I tell him that Conny is the keeper of the records and that I have a penis so am not good with that stuff (OK I’m paraphrasing but it was clearly the hidden meaning behind my words).

Nope, she’s my sister in law, so that’s not good enough for him. I should have a landline number apparently.

I tell him my further plans, that I have organised a rental, from Jucy for a camper, I even tell him its on Doolitle Drive in San Leandro…nope not good enough, again he asks for papers. I again mention my keeper. He doesn’t buy it.

Then comes the “Where is this girlfriend? If you are travelling together, why isn’t she here, why are you travelling separately?”

Now at this point, the balloon knot in my pants was both quivering and puckered, but I am not sure if it was through rage or fear for what was to come…“BECAUSE YOU FUCKERS SPLIT US UP AND TOLD ME NOT TO GET HER AS YOU BROUGHT ME TO THIS DEN OF ANAL VIOLATION” I thought, but I said, quite politely “the lady told me I didn’t need her here, it was you who split us up when you had a system failure”

At this point, I really thought he was going to snap on the rubber glove and wear me like a puppet right there. BUT HAIL! The shining light of law enforcement comes in, asks the guy who I am, the guy twists every part of my tale “this guy has come, he claims, to visit his sister in law and go camping with her for 88 days”

“That’s not what I said at all” I interject.

“You said you hired a camper with your sister in law to travel for 88 days”

“I said no such thing…”

Good cop pipes up “You’re here to go on a trip aren’t you?”

“Yes” I nod agreeingly.

“You are going to your siter in law’s first then moving on with your trip aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes”

“Your girlfriend is waiting downstairs isn’t she?”

“YES!”

He turns to his colleague, “this guy is clearly on holiday, why do you have him here, just get him out of here and move him along”

STAMP.

Done

And unpucker.