Out of Austin I came upon scenery straight out of Red Dead Redemption (one of the recent fuels of my video game addiction). Prickly pear cactus dotted the landscape along the route, and tumbleweeds strayed onto the highways. Every now and again a town would be encircled with nodding donkeys and a faint waft of black gold would drift into the van. My intended route lay, firstly, northwesterly, towards Armadillo, and then more or less directly west through New Mexico and Albuquerque, into Arizona to the meteor crater and then for a rendezvous with the region around Flagstaff. Hopefully in time for Christmas.
The morning I left Austin, a blizzard drifted onto the panhandle of Texas (the square bit at the top), bringing massive disruption and closing down all classes of roads. That region, however, was still two days drive away, so I kept to the plan of my first overnight stop - in the city of Abilene. There was a chance the main arteries would open in time for me to keep to my intended route.
The second day brought me to the city of Lubbock, at the southern end of the panhandle. Temperatures were low - just above freezing - but the snow hadn't reached this far south so I was unhindered in reaching the birthplace of Buddy Holly and visiting the museum curated there in his honour. It included some incredibly intimate memorabilia, perhaps most moving of all being the frames of his famous spectacles - the very pair recovered from the crash site where he, Ritchie Valens and J.P. "The Big Bopper" Richardson met their fate that February evening in 1959 (the day the music died...).
I spent the evening poring over weather forecasts, city climate and altitude data and campground listings for New Mexico and Arizona. A second blizzard weather warning had been issued for the northwest of New Mexico, spreading southeasterly through the state on the Thursday and Friday - just 24hrs away and precisely when I had intended to travel that way. It might mean missing out on the meteor crater later in the week, but I plumped for heading south, nearer to the Mexican border, and trying to steer clear of the bad weather.
Although what lay to the north may have been spectacular, it would have to go some to rival my revised route the next day. Starting out across the Texan plains, with their red raw, paint pigment-like fields, I crossed into New Mexico following the daunting sat nav directions of: "In 249 miles, keep right."
The desert extended so far that every horizon, at every point of the three hundred and sixty degrees about me, appeared to be at the same elevation - the first time I think I have ever seen such a sight.
Eventually the hazy outline of a mountain became visible ahead, and the desert floor suddenly opened up; the road darting down a gully to reveal a slightly lower plateau housing the famous city of Roswell. Disappointingly, there were no inverted onion-headed beings looking for a lift, and all the townsfolk seemed to be at least of this planet, if not entirely human. From Roswell, the desert floor started to undulate, until I found myself in the mountains of central New Mexico with the road - which remained clear - just barely touching the snow-line.
As I came down out of the mountains I was greeted by the sight of the White Sands valley - home of the US missile program, amongst other things - lit up by a single long sheet of sunlight, lasering through the clouds for scores of miles to the north and to the south. My encampment for the night was on the west side of the central mountain range, directly overlooking White Sands and the descending sun beyond, and, I have to say, was probably the most beautiful place I have ever had the pleasure of spending a night.
Next day saw me cross the White Sands before I had the unenviable task of crossing the Rio Grande. Past the missile test bases and the alternative shuttle landing strip, through the city of Las Cruces and to the great river. Which was completely dry. Not a drop of water to be seen. Drought out here has an altogether different meaning to times of hosepipe bans back in the UK.
Onwards towards the Arizona border, through the desert. There are signs at the side of the freeway: "Caution: Dust Storms May Exist". There is no doubt in my mind. I've seen 'em on the telly.
The next day proves to be a landscape revelation. The hand dealt me by the blizzards in the north has proven to be a Royal Flush. In spades. My night was spent by Roper Lake in eastern Arizona, and today's drive is relatively short - just two-and-a-half hours following the round ten put in over the last couple of days. The route follows highway 70 - the 'Old West Way' - and takes me through settlements dating back to the 1870's. The 'wild' days. A lot of the land around here is home to the renowned Apache tribe, and I pass through the town named after its' most famous son: Geronimo.
It is here, passing through the small towns in the deserts of eastern Arizona, that I feel a true sense of time and of history, more so than anywhere else on this long journey. Geronimo houses the Apache Veterans graveyard, there are one or two ghost towns and, sadly, I get the sense that living here must still be something of a struggle: I haven't seen any running rivers or lakes for hundreds of miles.
This is all set against a backdrop of the most stunning scenery. Mountain ranges separated by desert foothills with long-dried river basins cutting through them. A spectacular mountain pass with weather-worn cliffs and rock formations. Vast plains with cactus forests as far as the eye can see.
Being here, getting to see this, is an unbelievable privilege. Today, the ipod A->Z bizarrely threw up an entire day of Lemon Jelly; having pressed [Play All] in San Francisco, my collection somehow fitted it perfectly to the drive today. And, as "The Staunton Lick" came on, and I looked out the window at the view, I felt so happy that I cried.
As if that wasn't enough, my campsite tonight is directly below 'Superstition Rock', a great looming feature at the edge of the town of Apache Junction. And it is here, on the plateau overlooking the vast sprawl of Phoenix, that I watch the sun set - from yellow to orange to red to pink to purple and to blue - on Christmas Eve eve.
Merry Christmas everyone. Hope yours is as wonderful as mine is proving to be.
Big love, Markyx
Saturday, 24 December 2011
Tuesday, 20 December 2011
#039: Coyote Ugly
Near to the Texas border I see my first vultures in the wild. A gang of four - not of the bald head variety - are dealing with a roadside carcass. Planet in action!
So, Texas is basically massive. I'm crossing it diagonally, bottom-right to top-left, and it is going to take four or five days. I've factored in a couple of nights in Austin - having talked of visiting for SXSW for a long time I figured I should at least pay my respects en route.
After a night near Beaumont, something occurs to me as I head along the freeway through the sprawl of Houston: you get Texans, and you get Californians. But everyone else seems to be from their State, rather than of it. Perhaps it is the fault of the modern media, but I've never heard of an Oregonan, or an Ohioian. Hmm, perhaps it should be two words: Ohio ian. Any Ohio Ian's out there?
To Austin, and the dreamily-placed hostel there. It sits upon the banks of a lake, with the bright lights of downtown piercing the trees in the adjacent park at night. I have decided that smaller hostels win.
There is a certain coldness to the experience in a large hostel; they seem kind of faceless, patrons busy with the myriad city attractions on offer perhaps. Or lost in the facsimile hosteler pub crawls or city tours. In comparison, the smaller hostels have provided markedly different experiences for me; I have found a real sense of community among the guests - and the staff as a matter of fact - which has truly set my time in these places apart from the metropolises. In Boston, D.C. and, now, Austin, people have wanted to share time together, rather than being preoccupied with their own plans.
Quite without the lubrication that alcohol provides, ten of us, from across the globe, sat together for a whole evening finding out about what brought each other there, revelling in the cultural differences, taking the mickey. As it goes, alcohol was one of the subjects we covered. Min, from Korea and in Austin to study, told us of his first experience of alcohol. As a teenager, his father had sat him down and offered him a drink. Showing the utmost respect that his culture demands, Min knelt before his father, took the drink in two hands, and finished it. Then his father gave him another drink. Again, Min swallowed down the drink, maintaining his posture throughout. And so it continued. Because he was not allowed to show any disrespect to his father, he learnt to control himself under the influence of alcohol that night. Compare that to the typical European introduction of teenagers with cider in a park, as proffered by yours truly and by Sarah, the (Spanish/Italian) French student who studies in New Mexico, you can start to see why different cultures gain different reputations. Then there is the American way, where the legal drinking age is set at 21. Being 20, Sarah isn't even allowed to drink in the US, even though she used to buy champagne for her father from the corner shop at the age of 8! It is a strange world in which we live.
Of course, the previous night a number of us were sure to soak up the nightlife in the traditional Saturday-night-in-Austin sense (not dissimilar to a boozy British pub crawl). The main strip is laden with drinking and dancing establishments and the street is thronged until closing time. The thing I can most-closely compare it to is maybe the Friday night of Glastonbury when the bands are finished and everyone is making their way to the Green Fields or the Glade (if they still exist...haven't been for a while!). Real revelry with a lot of talking to strangers going on. Having lost Arizona(n) Matt (relocating from San Francisco), New Hampshire Will (motorcycling round the country) and I struggled to hail a cab come home-time, so were very much indebted to the mother and daughter who, as they walked past, offered us a free lift back to the hostel. Texan hospitality, a beautiful thing at 3 o'clock in the morning. I can't ever imagine the same thing happening in a city in the UK.
The morning after the night before was spent with Will and with Peter, a student in California who originally hails from Singapore. We strolled into the city and found our way to Stubb's, for brunch. If you ever find yourself in Austin on a Sunday, I can't recommend this place highly enough. As we tucked into our all-you-can-eat brunch buffet, we were serenaded by a live gospel band - put your hand in the air if you are Saved!
As I am sure you have gathered by now, I had an awesome time in Austin but, as I pulled away from the hostel in the Purple Nimbus, I felt incredibly downcast. There is something thoroughly depressing about the 36 hour friendships I've made in these smaller hostels, and this has only really been brought home to me after Austin, probably because I spent so much time alone directly beforehand. There is the old adage that you only realise the true value of something when it is gone, and I am thinking, after the last couple of weeks I've had, that there is a degree of folly to what I am undertaking. Not only am I spending all this time apart from all the people that I love, I'm leaving all the new acquaintances behind too, just as friendships start to form.
Maybe I'm not quite getting this travelling lark right, but I'll keep on trying...
Indeed, the night I left Austin I watched a film called Love Life Long. As is my wont, it is kind of a strange film, and has just two characters. The context of their situation is totally different to my spending time in hostels, but one does say to the other: "You are in my world now. And I am in yours."
If I can take that sentiment away from these brief encounters, I think I will have succeeded, no matter what the goal.
So, Texas is basically massive. I'm crossing it diagonally, bottom-right to top-left, and it is going to take four or five days. I've factored in a couple of nights in Austin - having talked of visiting for SXSW for a long time I figured I should at least pay my respects en route.
After a night near Beaumont, something occurs to me as I head along the freeway through the sprawl of Houston: you get Texans, and you get Californians. But everyone else seems to be from their State, rather than of it. Perhaps it is the fault of the modern media, but I've never heard of an Oregonan, or an Ohioian. Hmm, perhaps it should be two words: Ohio ian. Any Ohio Ian's out there?
To Austin, and the dreamily-placed hostel there. It sits upon the banks of a lake, with the bright lights of downtown piercing the trees in the adjacent park at night. I have decided that smaller hostels win.
There is a certain coldness to the experience in a large hostel; they seem kind of faceless, patrons busy with the myriad city attractions on offer perhaps. Or lost in the facsimile hosteler pub crawls or city tours. In comparison, the smaller hostels have provided markedly different experiences for me; I have found a real sense of community among the guests - and the staff as a matter of fact - which has truly set my time in these places apart from the metropolises. In Boston, D.C. and, now, Austin, people have wanted to share time together, rather than being preoccupied with their own plans.
Quite without the lubrication that alcohol provides, ten of us, from across the globe, sat together for a whole evening finding out about what brought each other there, revelling in the cultural differences, taking the mickey. As it goes, alcohol was one of the subjects we covered. Min, from Korea and in Austin to study, told us of his first experience of alcohol. As a teenager, his father had sat him down and offered him a drink. Showing the utmost respect that his culture demands, Min knelt before his father, took the drink in two hands, and finished it. Then his father gave him another drink. Again, Min swallowed down the drink, maintaining his posture throughout. And so it continued. Because he was not allowed to show any disrespect to his father, he learnt to control himself under the influence of alcohol that night. Compare that to the typical European introduction of teenagers with cider in a park, as proffered by yours truly and by Sarah, the (Spanish/Italian) French student who studies in New Mexico, you can start to see why different cultures gain different reputations. Then there is the American way, where the legal drinking age is set at 21. Being 20, Sarah isn't even allowed to drink in the US, even though she used to buy champagne for her father from the corner shop at the age of 8! It is a strange world in which we live.
Of course, the previous night a number of us were sure to soak up the nightlife in the traditional Saturday-night-in-Austin sense (not dissimilar to a boozy British pub crawl). The main strip is laden with drinking and dancing establishments and the street is thronged until closing time. The thing I can most-closely compare it to is maybe the Friday night of Glastonbury when the bands are finished and everyone is making their way to the Green Fields or the Glade (if they still exist...haven't been for a while!). Real revelry with a lot of talking to strangers going on. Having lost Arizona(n) Matt (relocating from San Francisco), New Hampshire Will (motorcycling round the country) and I struggled to hail a cab come home-time, so were very much indebted to the mother and daughter who, as they walked past, offered us a free lift back to the hostel. Texan hospitality, a beautiful thing at 3 o'clock in the morning. I can't ever imagine the same thing happening in a city in the UK.
The morning after the night before was spent with Will and with Peter, a student in California who originally hails from Singapore. We strolled into the city and found our way to Stubb's, for brunch. If you ever find yourself in Austin on a Sunday, I can't recommend this place highly enough. As we tucked into our all-you-can-eat brunch buffet, we were serenaded by a live gospel band - put your hand in the air if you are Saved!
As I am sure you have gathered by now, I had an awesome time in Austin but, as I pulled away from the hostel in the Purple Nimbus, I felt incredibly downcast. There is something thoroughly depressing about the 36 hour friendships I've made in these smaller hostels, and this has only really been brought home to me after Austin, probably because I spent so much time alone directly beforehand. There is the old adage that you only realise the true value of something when it is gone, and I am thinking, after the last couple of weeks I've had, that there is a degree of folly to what I am undertaking. Not only am I spending all this time apart from all the people that I love, I'm leaving all the new acquaintances behind too, just as friendships start to form.
Maybe I'm not quite getting this travelling lark right, but I'll keep on trying...
Indeed, the night I left Austin I watched a film called Love Life Long. As is my wont, it is kind of a strange film, and has just two characters. The context of their situation is totally different to my spending time in hostels, but one does say to the other: "You are in my world now. And I am in yours."
If I can take that sentiment away from these brief encounters, I think I will have succeeded, no matter what the goal.
Sunday, 18 December 2011
#038: Profusion of Contusions
No sooner had Jack the Grouse breathed his last, and I had expelled the final helping of unwanted bacteria, than I discovered initial evidence of an infestation in the Nimbus. Just one tiny little crawly thing. But one is all it takes.
I awoke in Tomoka State Park the next morning covered in bites, up and down both arms, legs, even a thumb (surely there is nothing satisfying about a thumb?! Oh, no, wait...). These were a lot of bites. Traditionally I have measured my susceptibility to such things against the yardstick of Mr. Fursedon, A. who, down the years, had always seemed to come off the worst when nibbled upon. Certainly, my own inflammations have always paled in comparison. But, today, he would have been proud, maybe even a little bit justified in his own suffering, to see the profusion of contusions I had acquired overnight. It is possible for someone else to get as bitten up as you, Andrew.
I guess so long as they are nothing to do with the Black Widows or their ilk that you get in these parts, then I'll be okay. Yeah, that's right. You heard me. Black Widows.
I've been speeding across the state the last few days. Speeding in the travelling by motorised vehicle sense. Not the speeding sense. Or the speeding sense. Florida - the sunshine state according to the licence plates - had so far served up for me monsoon conditions, but got a lot better as I moved away from the coast. My route is now west, eventually back towards LA. But there is time yet for a couple of stop-offs.
My last night in Florida was spent at Blackwater River State Park, where natural sand beaches form along the banks and alligators can be seen in the waters. I don't see any though - bear (non) memories - so make do with sitting in the blazing sun.
The next leg takes me into the Deep South, through the states of Alabama and Mississippi and on to the city of New Orleans, Louisiana. As I enter the city limits, Hope Of The States are, perhaps aptly, served up by the ipod A to Z.
If I am honest, I only had Katrina in mind as I drove through the streets, and needed reminding by the billboards offering legal aid that the BP oil spill had hit these shores but two years after the catastrophic hurricane. The parts of the city I see are nothing like what I expected. I'm unsure what exactly I did expect, but this is probably the most beautiful city I have seen on my voyage - grand houses line the streets and there are boutique shops along the joining thoroughfares. It speaks, to me, of a city in bloom.
I cross the Mississippi for a second time, albeit thousands of miles from my first traversal, to my home for the night - yet another state park, alongside the levy.
Sadly, time and my desire to see as much as I can while I am in the country mean I only spend one night in New Orleans, and the next day sees me head out across the flat expanses of Louisiana. I go from hot sun by the sea to driving through cloud at zero elevation in a matter of thirty minutes. The city of Baton Rouge is caught in a real funk, but the rain doesn't last too long and I am left to drive across the swamps towards the border with the next state: Texas.
I awoke in Tomoka State Park the next morning covered in bites, up and down both arms, legs, even a thumb (surely there is nothing satisfying about a thumb?! Oh, no, wait...). These were a lot of bites. Traditionally I have measured my susceptibility to such things against the yardstick of Mr. Fursedon, A. who, down the years, had always seemed to come off the worst when nibbled upon. Certainly, my own inflammations have always paled in comparison. But, today, he would have been proud, maybe even a little bit justified in his own suffering, to see the profusion of contusions I had acquired overnight. It is possible for someone else to get as bitten up as you, Andrew.
I guess so long as they are nothing to do with the Black Widows or their ilk that you get in these parts, then I'll be okay. Yeah, that's right. You heard me. Black Widows.
I've been speeding across the state the last few days. Speeding in the travelling by motorised vehicle sense. Not the speeding sense. Or the speeding sense. Florida - the sunshine state according to the licence plates - had so far served up for me monsoon conditions, but got a lot better as I moved away from the coast. My route is now west, eventually back towards LA. But there is time yet for a couple of stop-offs.
My last night in Florida was spent at Blackwater River State Park, where natural sand beaches form along the banks and alligators can be seen in the waters. I don't see any though - bear (non) memories - so make do with sitting in the blazing sun.
The next leg takes me into the Deep South, through the states of Alabama and Mississippi and on to the city of New Orleans, Louisiana. As I enter the city limits, Hope Of The States are, perhaps aptly, served up by the ipod A to Z.
If I am honest, I only had Katrina in mind as I drove through the streets, and needed reminding by the billboards offering legal aid that the BP oil spill had hit these shores but two years after the catastrophic hurricane. The parts of the city I see are nothing like what I expected. I'm unsure what exactly I did expect, but this is probably the most beautiful city I have seen on my voyage - grand houses line the streets and there are boutique shops along the joining thoroughfares. It speaks, to me, of a city in bloom.
I cross the Mississippi for a second time, albeit thousands of miles from my first traversal, to my home for the night - yet another state park, alongside the levy.
Sadly, time and my desire to see as much as I can while I am in the country mean I only spend one night in New Orleans, and the next day sees me head out across the flat expanses of Louisiana. I go from hot sun by the sea to driving through cloud at zero elevation in a matter of thirty minutes. The city of Baton Rouge is caught in a real funk, but the rain doesn't last too long and I am left to drive across the swamps towards the border with the next state: Texas.
Tuesday, 13 December 2011
#037: In Memory of Jack the Grouse
The impending illness turned out to be a stomach bug. An almost-certainly self-inflicted stomach bug. The way I look at it is, two months effectively living in the back of a van is pretty good going in terms of the healthiness-to-self-induced-poisoning ratio. There was no knowing consumption of spoilt foodstuffs, at any rate.
The impossibly poor timing of the bug, however, means I am going to miss out on my intended visit to the Kennedy Space Centre; basically the only reason I find myself in this part of the country. I had booked myself on the 'Lunch with an Astronaut' tour but, unsurprisingly, I didn't really want for lunch, and the prospect of two-and-a-half hours on a tour bus, with other tourists, well, lets just say it felt like an accident waiting to happen. It is gutting to be missing out. Literally, as it transpires.
Despite the inconveniences attributed to whatever foreign organism is in my stomach, I still have a couple of hours to move on back up the coast. Some meticulous route planning, hopping from beach-side car park to highway rest-stop, gets me safely as far as Tomoka State Park. However, the journey was anything but without incident.
I have now seen almost-Caribbean palm trees windswept and rain-lashed, as if lifted from a typical hurricane newsreel. In the chaos of the swirling rain and spray I also, sadly, found myself boarding the American 'killing things' bandwagon. A might-have-been-a-grouse-type-bird seemingly threw (flew) itself into the grill of the Nimbus from a right angle on the passenger side. If you have seen either The Machinist or Groundhog Day or Peep Show (Season 4, Episode 6), you will have no problem visualising the scene. Without wishing to belittle the creature, it was tantamount to suicide, although his vision could easily have been impaired by the rain. As clichéd as it sounds, there was nothing I could do to prevent hitting it, poor thing. At 45mph. It came out of the proverbial nowhere.
I have posthumously named the deceased Jack. This post is dedicated to his memory. May he rest in peace.
My apologies if you were a girl, Jack. Saying that, I do know of girls called Jack, albeit spelt differently. And also my apologies anyway, you know. For killing you. Though we never once spoke, or met, even, your face will live long in my memory. Your franticly gnarled split-second-before-death face. If only this were written on paper, that last sentence would be blurred by a single salty tear.
The impossibly poor timing of the bug, however, means I am going to miss out on my intended visit to the Kennedy Space Centre; basically the only reason I find myself in this part of the country. I had booked myself on the 'Lunch with an Astronaut' tour but, unsurprisingly, I didn't really want for lunch, and the prospect of two-and-a-half hours on a tour bus, with other tourists, well, lets just say it felt like an accident waiting to happen. It is gutting to be missing out. Literally, as it transpires.
Despite the inconveniences attributed to whatever foreign organism is in my stomach, I still have a couple of hours to move on back up the coast. Some meticulous route planning, hopping from beach-side car park to highway rest-stop, gets me safely as far as Tomoka State Park. However, the journey was anything but without incident.
I have now seen almost-Caribbean palm trees windswept and rain-lashed, as if lifted from a typical hurricane newsreel. In the chaos of the swirling rain and spray I also, sadly, found myself boarding the American 'killing things' bandwagon. A might-have-been-a-grouse-type-bird seemingly threw (flew) itself into the grill of the Nimbus from a right angle on the passenger side. If you have seen either The Machinist or Groundhog Day or Peep Show (Season 4, Episode 6), you will have no problem visualising the scene. Without wishing to belittle the creature, it was tantamount to suicide, although his vision could easily have been impaired by the rain. As clichéd as it sounds, there was nothing I could do to prevent hitting it, poor thing. At 45mph. It came out of the proverbial nowhere.
I have posthumously named the deceased Jack. This post is dedicated to his memory. May he rest in peace.
My apologies if you were a girl, Jack. Saying that, I do know of girls called Jack, albeit spelt differently. And also my apologies anyway, you know. For killing you. Though we never once spoke, or met, even, your face will live long in my memory. Your franticly gnarled split-second-before-death face. If only this were written on paper, that last sentence would be blurred by a single salty tear.
Monday, 12 December 2011
#036: You're Not From Round Here, Are Ya
It rained a lot overnight. Fortunately the sandpit was a shallow one and allowed me to drive on in the morning. Into South Carolina.
Today makes it three days since I properly spoke to anyone, which is kind of strange. (I'm not sure I can count asking petrol station cashiers for forty dollars of Regular as conversation.) And there is only so far I can rely on my imaginary friends before it gets tired. Emily and the Purple Nimbus have gotten me here, yes, but there comes a time when a little more stimulating interaction is required. I mean, I'm really good at pushing all the right buttons with Emily, really good. She loves it. Demands it, even. It's just a talent I have. But when it comes to discussing the history of the American South, or deciding which plantation manor house we would choose to live in, I get nothing back.
I had an imaginary friend as a toddler, incidentally. If I recall correctly, her name was Natalie, which confused the hell out of my parents because the girl over the road was also called Natalie. I don't think I'll ever know if her (my?) choice of imaginary name was Freudian. I'm quite interested to know what sort of things (imaginary) Natalie and I used to get up to. It might help with the upcoming couple of weeks of me-time. I've probably got some amazing advice about how to make the most of time with imaginary friends stored away in my subconscious somewhere.
I think the solitude is affecting my attention span as well. I downloaded a stack of films for the journey between DC and Florida but, so far, have been unable to get through any in one sitting. Two hours feels almost like an eternity. Usually I'd be able to spend a whole day, or more, doing nothing but watching films. It's disconcerting. Apparently fatigue and hunger can contribute to a diminished attention span. So I'll blame the driving, even though I am limiting myself to about three-and-a-half hours max behind the wheel each day. I think my diet is okay. I'm eating enough vegetable-laden cous-cous for two each day (easy to cook, appeals to my culinary skills). Maybe I should eat more? Might stop by a grocery store and stock up on additional snacks tomorrow. Will stop buy a grocery store...writing about hunger just compelled me to eat all my ancillary food.
In 'Whole Foods Market', the States has the best supermarket chain in the world. I say the world...certainly in the US and UK. And maybe Canada. There is one on my way through Charleston tomorrow. Just the ticket.
Newest McDonald's in the world. Congratulations, South Carolina.
Through Charleston, South Carolina, with its' balconied houses and pillared porches, and Savannah, Georgia, much the same. I'm spending tonight on Jekyll Island, summer retreat of the rich and famous of New York. Winter retreat of moi. I still have to pay five dollars to get onto the island though. It is one of many down the east of the States, created by the building of canals to supplement the natural coastal harbours and thereby allowing shipping a safe haven from the Atlantic down the entire length of the country from Boston way up in Massachusetts, all the way down to Miami, Florida, and the Keys beyond. The Atlantic Intercoastal Waterway. Epic.
The ipad got confused being away from the internet for so long; it thought today was Saturday, and had me convinced too. As you might guess, keeping track of the days isn't the easiest of tasks when there is nothing to distinguish one from the next. Today is actually Friday.
I can say one thing for the world of work: Friday had an aura. To me, Friday has lost its' sense of magic. To me, right now, it is just another day in one long line of days.
Reached the southern apex of my northern hemisphere adventure, until the back-end of February at least. Tonight I am at Sebastian Inlet, about half-way down the Atlantic coast of Florida. I won't be making it as far as the Everglades and for that I am sorry, Gentle Ben. I am sorry.
The last three days just kind of melded into one big wake, drive, park, film, sleep merry-go-round, until today, which was notable for the recurring rainstorms that thrashed down upon the road every twenty or thirty minutes. And for the apparent illness that is trying to take hold of me at just the wrong time. Six straight days of travel from Washington, and it is the day before meeting an Astronaut that I become under the weather. And it's not like I've been neglecting my primary food groups either. Hopefully the Florida humidity coupled with a one-a-day multivitamin or two and stacks of water will see me right overnight.
Before I sign off, I should mention that tonight's neighbours are a couple of chaps from the upper reaches of the state of Georgia, one of whom uttered the immortal line You're not from round here, are ya?, as we greeted each other.
See y'all on the flip-side. Hopefully.
Today makes it three days since I properly spoke to anyone, which is kind of strange. (I'm not sure I can count asking petrol station cashiers for forty dollars of Regular as conversation.) And there is only so far I can rely on my imaginary friends before it gets tired. Emily and the Purple Nimbus have gotten me here, yes, but there comes a time when a little more stimulating interaction is required. I mean, I'm really good at pushing all the right buttons with Emily, really good. She loves it. Demands it, even. It's just a talent I have. But when it comes to discussing the history of the American South, or deciding which plantation manor house we would choose to live in, I get nothing back.
I had an imaginary friend as a toddler, incidentally. If I recall correctly, her name was Natalie, which confused the hell out of my parents because the girl over the road was also called Natalie. I don't think I'll ever know if her (my?) choice of imaginary name was Freudian. I'm quite interested to know what sort of things (imaginary) Natalie and I used to get up to. It might help with the upcoming couple of weeks of me-time. I've probably got some amazing advice about how to make the most of time with imaginary friends stored away in my subconscious somewhere.
I think the solitude is affecting my attention span as well. I downloaded a stack of films for the journey between DC and Florida but, so far, have been unable to get through any in one sitting. Two hours feels almost like an eternity. Usually I'd be able to spend a whole day, or more, doing nothing but watching films. It's disconcerting. Apparently fatigue and hunger can contribute to a diminished attention span. So I'll blame the driving, even though I am limiting myself to about three-and-a-half hours max behind the wheel each day. I think my diet is okay. I'm eating enough vegetable-laden cous-cous for two each day (easy to cook, appeals to my culinary skills). Maybe I should eat more? Might stop by a grocery store and stock up on additional snacks tomorrow. Will stop buy a grocery store...writing about hunger just compelled me to eat all my ancillary food.
In 'Whole Foods Market', the States has the best supermarket chain in the world. I say the world...certainly in the US and UK. And maybe Canada. There is one on my way through Charleston tomorrow. Just the ticket.
Newest McDonald's in the world. Congratulations, South Carolina.
Through Charleston, South Carolina, with its' balconied houses and pillared porches, and Savannah, Georgia, much the same. I'm spending tonight on Jekyll Island, summer retreat of the rich and famous of New York. Winter retreat of moi. I still have to pay five dollars to get onto the island though. It is one of many down the east of the States, created by the building of canals to supplement the natural coastal harbours and thereby allowing shipping a safe haven from the Atlantic down the entire length of the country from Boston way up in Massachusetts, all the way down to Miami, Florida, and the Keys beyond. The Atlantic Intercoastal Waterway. Epic.
The ipad got confused being away from the internet for so long; it thought today was Saturday, and had me convinced too. As you might guess, keeping track of the days isn't the easiest of tasks when there is nothing to distinguish one from the next. Today is actually Friday.
I can say one thing for the world of work: Friday had an aura. To me, Friday has lost its' sense of magic. To me, right now, it is just another day in one long line of days.
Reached the southern apex of my northern hemisphere adventure, until the back-end of February at least. Tonight I am at Sebastian Inlet, about half-way down the Atlantic coast of Florida. I won't be making it as far as the Everglades and for that I am sorry, Gentle Ben. I am sorry.
The last three days just kind of melded into one big wake, drive, park, film, sleep merry-go-round, until today, which was notable for the recurring rainstorms that thrashed down upon the road every twenty or thirty minutes. And for the apparent illness that is trying to take hold of me at just the wrong time. Six straight days of travel from Washington, and it is the day before meeting an Astronaut that I become under the weather. And it's not like I've been neglecting my primary food groups either. Hopefully the Florida humidity coupled with a one-a-day multivitamin or two and stacks of water will see me right overnight.
Before I sign off, I should mention that tonight's neighbours are a couple of chaps from the upper reaches of the state of Georgia, one of whom uttered the immortal line You're not from round here, are ya?, as we greeted each other.
See y'all on the flip-side. Hopefully.
Thursday, 8 December 2011
#035: Summer in North Carolina (in December)
First day out of DC I am making my way across the State of Virginia. It is unreasonably hot - the Nimbus never reports any less than 23 Celsius outside - not that I am complaining.
I forgot to mention something in the last installment. I had meant to comment on the New Jersey turnpike; how, at one point, the number of lanes of freeway numbered fourteen. Yes. Fourteen. There was a four-lane truck/megatruck/car carriageway, and a modest three-lane cars-only carriageway in each direction, just because. I was quite relieved when it changed down to a mere six lanes until I realised the land to either side was being prepared for upgrade...nothing silly, maybe just another three lanes in each direction.
Back to the here and now...it chucks it down for the first hour out of Washington. Even with the wipers on the highest setting, I still can't see the rear lights of any cars ahead of me through the bouncing rain and flying spray. Storm safely navigated, the next obstacle is a still-smouldering burst tyre, probably off one of the huge trucks, oblivious to the fact it now has only seventeen wheels. Third up: an up-until-recently-alive homage to Francis Bacon, which I have to change lanes to avoid double-tapping. As much as I admire Bacon, this was a piece of art I could have done without. The culprit was on the hard shoulder, just a few yards further along the carriageway, scraping out his radiator.
Sorry.
The further from the multiple metropolises of the Northeast I get, the less massive roads there are. Today includes about 80 miles along local routes. So I get to see some of Virginia in all its' small-town glory. Adverts for Marlboro stating, simply, "Pleasure". I had no idea that was even allowed anymore. I also see my first cotton plantation. I'm guessing it won't be the last in the coming weeks.
The plan is to keep moving, slowly but surely, every day between now and Christmas, aside from a couple of nights stop in Austin, Texas in a couple of weeks time. I get the impression this section of the journey is going to be quite different from the beautiful west coast, the barren north, and the bustling northeast.
I am quite aware, on my first day proper in the notoriously less liberal southern states, that I am driving a fabulously purple spray-painted van, with Californian plates, and a rear-window slogan which reads: "Escape Campers - the freedom to sleep around".
My thoughts turn to the reception that philosophy might get, no matter how intended. I feel slightly like an inflammatory Top Gear presenter.
Which State was Deliverance set in again?
The following day takes me through North Carolina, from Gatesville, approaching the coast in the northeast of the state, down to near Elizabethtown, not all that far from the state border with South Carolina. Not a great deal to report...although I encountered the best rest area of the trip to date, blaring out "Summer of '69" at deafening volumes whilst patrons did their rest stop-type things. What a way to go...
Compared to oop north, the landscape is quite different down this way - large swathes of land given over to agriculture whilst a lot of the rest, certainly nearer the coast, is swampland. Temperatures have remained high, 23-25 Celsius all day again - it is getting more and more humid. Bizarre to think it is December. I wonder whether I might witness a spectacular storm or two.
Tonight I camp alongside Jones Lake, in another State Park, while tomorrow I head on into South Carolina. That's assuming I can drive out of the sandpit I appear to have parked in overnight.
I forgot to mention something in the last installment. I had meant to comment on the New Jersey turnpike; how, at one point, the number of lanes of freeway numbered fourteen. Yes. Fourteen. There was a four-lane truck/megatruck/car carriageway, and a modest three-lane cars-only carriageway in each direction, just because. I was quite relieved when it changed down to a mere six lanes until I realised the land to either side was being prepared for upgrade...nothing silly, maybe just another three lanes in each direction.
Back to the here and now...it chucks it down for the first hour out of Washington. Even with the wipers on the highest setting, I still can't see the rear lights of any cars ahead of me through the bouncing rain and flying spray. Storm safely navigated, the next obstacle is a still-smouldering burst tyre, probably off one of the huge trucks, oblivious to the fact it now has only seventeen wheels. Third up: an up-until-recently-alive homage to Francis Bacon, which I have to change lanes to avoid double-tapping. As much as I admire Bacon, this was a piece of art I could have done without. The culprit was on the hard shoulder, just a few yards further along the carriageway, scraping out his radiator.
Sorry.
The further from the multiple metropolises of the Northeast I get, the less massive roads there are. Today includes about 80 miles along local routes. So I get to see some of Virginia in all its' small-town glory. Adverts for Marlboro stating, simply, "Pleasure". I had no idea that was even allowed anymore. I also see my first cotton plantation. I'm guessing it won't be the last in the coming weeks.
The plan is to keep moving, slowly but surely, every day between now and Christmas, aside from a couple of nights stop in Austin, Texas in a couple of weeks time. I get the impression this section of the journey is going to be quite different from the beautiful west coast, the barren north, and the bustling northeast.
I am quite aware, on my first day proper in the notoriously less liberal southern states, that I am driving a fabulously purple spray-painted van, with Californian plates, and a rear-window slogan which reads: "Escape Campers - the freedom to sleep around".
My thoughts turn to the reception that philosophy might get, no matter how intended. I feel slightly like an inflammatory Top Gear presenter.
Which State was Deliverance set in again?
The following day takes me through North Carolina, from Gatesville, approaching the coast in the northeast of the state, down to near Elizabethtown, not all that far from the state border with South Carolina. Not a great deal to report...although I encountered the best rest area of the trip to date, blaring out "Summer of '69" at deafening volumes whilst patrons did their rest stop-type things. What a way to go...
Compared to oop north, the landscape is quite different down this way - large swathes of land given over to agriculture whilst a lot of the rest, certainly nearer the coast, is swampland. Temperatures have remained high, 23-25 Celsius all day again - it is getting more and more humid. Bizarre to think it is December. I wonder whether I might witness a spectacular storm or two.
Tonight I camp alongside Jones Lake, in another State Park, while tomorrow I head on into South Carolina. That's assuming I can drive out of the sandpit I appear to have parked in overnight.
Tuesday, 6 December 2011
#034: By George!
I've moved on to the capital - Washington DC - where, it appears, I will spend the next three days feasting on a multitude of iconic erections. Washington is awash with monuments to Presidents and wars, and there are more museums and galleries here than I know what to do with, frankly. I pick out six to visit - a mere six - over the three days, which is probably still an unhealthy amount. New levels of discipline will be required if I am to see everything I want to. Must remember to eat.
Where DC trumps the majority of the rest of the US is in the fact that everything is free to visit so, by massively overdosing here, I'll have hopefully satisfied my recent addiction and will be free to carry along the road south and west without needing to keep paying twenty dollars to stop, stand and look at stuff every other day.
I'm in monument overdrive my first day, things being just about walkable from the hostel. My time here is going to be full-on tourism. No pussyfooting. White House, Washington monument, Lincoln Memorial, Arlington Cemetary, JFK gravesite, Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, Marine Corps Memorial (the Iwo Jima flag one), Roosevelt Memorial, Jefferson Memorial. Capitol. Bosh.
Add on a couple of cheeky art museums and that is one day done...Warhol's Shadows all in one place for the first time (83 'identical' screenprints of a shadow in his office, except each is finished and coloured differently), arranged side-by-side in a circular gallery. Striking.
The thing with me and DC is, I have been here before, albeit a faux-1950's futuristic vision of here. But everything is where I expect it to be, I know my way around, even down to corridors and doorways underneath monuments! For the uninitiated, there is a console game called Fallout 3, where you grow up in a nuclear shelter just outside DC. It is an incredible visual achievement, recreating a post-nuclear bombed city in amazing detail. Things have come a long way from the days of Chuckie Egg.
Next day I take on the Smithsonian Natural History and one half (the classical half) of the monumental National Gallery of Art - it's so big it comprises two buildings connected by a subway under a road.
The Natural History is everything you would expect from such a place. I even brave standing four feet from the perspex front of the tarantula exhibit, and can see the tips of some of its' legs under a piece of bark. I take an extra step back and hold my hand across my mouth. Just in case.
I am writing now at the end of my third day of museum wanderings. And I am exhausted. I've been on my feet a lot the last three days. Today comprised the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum and the modern art half of the National Gallery of Art. I mainly neglected the 'air' portion of the Smithsonian and gave my full attention to the 'space'. For three hours and more.
Reports on the news sites today suggest a couple of supermassive black holes have been discovered, 10 billion times the mass of our own sun. Consider the diameter of our sun can fit all the planets in our solar system across, side-by-side, three times, and still have room for an extra Saturn, an extra Pluto and four extra Earths, then 10 billion times the mass of the sun is pretty unimaginably big!
I get to see a version of the Hubble telescope - partly responsible for such discoveries - along with some of the extraordinary shots the actual thing has managed to produce. There are some mind-blowing things out there, people. Universe-sized formations of swirling gases, giving birth to stars, which eventually die and become infinitesimally smaller than this full stop. We are beyond insignificance.
Over the road now, and it has gotten to the point where I can walk into a room of late 19th and early 20th Century European masters, and tell the artists without looking at the plaques, so many examples have I seen as I have passed through the galleries of the American Northeast. Gauguin, Cezanne, Manet, Monet, Seurat, van Gogh, Picasso, Degas, Miro, Rousseau...Renoir and Toulouse-Lautrec continue to keep me on my toes though.
One last thing before I get on my way again...we have dipped our toes into the month of December already, and I have a little over a month left in the USA. Not a great deal of time considering I'm on the opposite side of the country from where I need to be in the second week of January. I've therefore spent the last couple of evenings planning out most of my route back over towards the west coast, and making sure I have places enough to park up at night to sleep.
I've a few landmarks put by on my route, which I'll tell you about as I go. In the meantime, enjoy your run-ups to the 25th, and all the frivolity that that generally brings.
Oh, and Barack says hi.
Where DC trumps the majority of the rest of the US is in the fact that everything is free to visit so, by massively overdosing here, I'll have hopefully satisfied my recent addiction and will be free to carry along the road south and west without needing to keep paying twenty dollars to stop, stand and look at stuff every other day.
I'm in monument overdrive my first day, things being just about walkable from the hostel. My time here is going to be full-on tourism. No pussyfooting. White House, Washington monument, Lincoln Memorial, Arlington Cemetary, JFK gravesite, Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, Marine Corps Memorial (the Iwo Jima flag one), Roosevelt Memorial, Jefferson Memorial. Capitol. Bosh.
Add on a couple of cheeky art museums and that is one day done...Warhol's Shadows all in one place for the first time (83 'identical' screenprints of a shadow in his office, except each is finished and coloured differently), arranged side-by-side in a circular gallery. Striking.
The thing with me and DC is, I have been here before, albeit a faux-1950's futuristic vision of here. But everything is where I expect it to be, I know my way around, even down to corridors and doorways underneath monuments! For the uninitiated, there is a console game called Fallout 3, where you grow up in a nuclear shelter just outside DC. It is an incredible visual achievement, recreating a post-nuclear bombed city in amazing detail. Things have come a long way from the days of Chuckie Egg.
Next day I take on the Smithsonian Natural History and one half (the classical half) of the monumental National Gallery of Art - it's so big it comprises two buildings connected by a subway under a road.
The Natural History is everything you would expect from such a place. I even brave standing four feet from the perspex front of the tarantula exhibit, and can see the tips of some of its' legs under a piece of bark. I take an extra step back and hold my hand across my mouth. Just in case.
I am writing now at the end of my third day of museum wanderings. And I am exhausted. I've been on my feet a lot the last three days. Today comprised the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum and the modern art half of the National Gallery of Art. I mainly neglected the 'air' portion of the Smithsonian and gave my full attention to the 'space'. For three hours and more.
Reports on the news sites today suggest a couple of supermassive black holes have been discovered, 10 billion times the mass of our own sun. Consider the diameter of our sun can fit all the planets in our solar system across, side-by-side, three times, and still have room for an extra Saturn, an extra Pluto and four extra Earths, then 10 billion times the mass of the sun is pretty unimaginably big!
I get to see a version of the Hubble telescope - partly responsible for such discoveries - along with some of the extraordinary shots the actual thing has managed to produce. There are some mind-blowing things out there, people. Universe-sized formations of swirling gases, giving birth to stars, which eventually die and become infinitesimally smaller than this full stop. We are beyond insignificance.
Over the road now, and it has gotten to the point where I can walk into a room of late 19th and early 20th Century European masters, and tell the artists without looking at the plaques, so many examples have I seen as I have passed through the galleries of the American Northeast. Gauguin, Cezanne, Manet, Monet, Seurat, van Gogh, Picasso, Degas, Miro, Rousseau...Renoir and Toulouse-Lautrec continue to keep me on my toes though.
One last thing before I get on my way again...we have dipped our toes into the month of December already, and I have a little over a month left in the USA. Not a great deal of time considering I'm on the opposite side of the country from where I need to be in the second week of January. I've therefore spent the last couple of evenings planning out most of my route back over towards the west coast, and making sure I have places enough to park up at night to sleep.
I've a few landmarks put by on my route, which I'll tell you about as I go. In the meantime, enjoy your run-ups to the 25th, and all the frivolity that that generally brings.
Oh, and Barack says hi.
Friday, 2 December 2011
#033: Can you dig it? Can Yooooou Diiiiiiig Iiiiit?!
The van finally stationed, a tiresome morning finally put to bed, it's into The Park, in a bad mood, in the sun nevertheless, in the skimpiest t-shirt I own. Fall is still very much in evidence, but a part of me does ponder what the park might be like in the depths of winter, ice-skating with King Kong (2005). I quickly remember he died, at least twice, and content myself with standing on that bridge, as if I am waiting to meet someone.
She never shows up. The fact I am going to win Wimbledon next year is no consolation, Mary Jane. (I haven't seen Melancholia yet, but I want to.)
It is a short walk to West 81st Street, on the Upper West Side, where I am disappointed again, finding the block ends at number 51, and number 55 - the American Garden's building - doesn't even exist. This day isn't getting any better. No lunch with Pat, Bateman, of Pierce and Pierce; reservations at Dorsia a sham. It must have been Marcus Halberstram all along.
Instead, back in the park, I hunker down in that underpass, waiting for it all to finally end, or at least waiting for someone to handily happen upon me with a camcorder. Neither prevails.
So I take to wildlife spotting. The Oregon ipad purchase has allowed me to keep abreast of Attenborough's latest endeavours, and it is his voice I hear as a mallard dive-bombs by way of bathing. And, then, at long last, something good happens. I get to witness a real ornithological treat.
Sir David, if you please...
"In the depths of Central Park, away from the noise of the traffic and the hustle of the streets, the former stars of Sex and the City can be found picking their way through the bins. The head of the gaggle, Carrie, that Canadian one from Liverpool, the other one, and, the other one, have been tracked here from their summer vacation in the deserts of the United Arab Emirates. They must make the most of the extended Autumn temperatures, by taking on as much human refuse as possible, in anticipation of the harsh New York Winter ahead. Here, they are at home in their new natural habitat, sharing the remains of half a doughnut. It is a special moment."
Thank you Sir David. It warms me to know karmic balance has finally accounted for Sex and the City 2.
Next day it rains hard. I cross the park and take refuge in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Their collection is vast: 13,000 European and American works of the 19th and 20th centuries alone. Seeing the whole place in a day is impossible.
I shan't bore you with more details of every little thing I saw. I will, however, let you know that I have, up until this point in life, struggled to see the worth in certain branches of abstractism - works of purely colour and form. Today I came to appreciate them rather more, thanks to the examples in the modern art section of the Met.
The largest Jackson Pollock on display was visceral and kinetic; it had something urgent about it, the way the drips and splashes of colour intertwined. And it helped me see some value in other works, such as those with solid lines and pure, clean colours. A painting doesn't have to be obviously landscape or portrait to be worthy, I've learnt.
The same night I head to Madison Square Garden and watch the New York Rangers take on the Pittsburgh Penguins in the NHL - my first experience of live American sport. Ice hockey is an incredibly frantic game - the swiftest of skills laced with dashes of brute violence - and the teams served up a treat: the Rangers coming from behind to win 4-3.
Wednesday, and another art gallery visit. This time it is to further my education at MOMA (Museum of Modern Art). I get my tourist thing in full effect today - Times Square, the High Line, West Village, Greenwich Village - and you can see the results of my respective papping below.
The next morning brings with it my second run-in with the NYPD.
At this point I am tempted to commence a rambling diatribe about how I, having swapped my skimpy t-shirt in favour of a tasteful maroon leather waistcoast, ran the gauntlet of a gang-run city, from Van Cortlandt Park in the north, all the way to Coney Island and the safety of home at the southern tip of the city. How my cronies and I were separated on the way, how we raced through Riverside Park, how we were almost entrapped by a gang of ruthless she-devils, and how we put the beat-down on every rival gang we encountered. Including the Baseball Furies. But to do so would be a lie. Because these things didn't happen to me.
Not since 1979 in any case.
It is when I am out on vehicle manouvers that I pick up the tail. Pulling over in anticipation of a parking spot, the blues and twos sidle up to my window. I am accused of using my phone whilst driving. It appears my habit of twiddling my beard - just below my left ear - whilst at the wheel has done for me. If only the Nimbus had manual gears, this would never have happened. Or, if only I had trimmed my face in the last three months...
My last day in New York, so I head Downtown and have myself a walking-about-the-city day, catching glimpses of Madame Liberty (far away), the Brooklyn Bridge (quite long but not long long), the Chrysler (tall), Zuccotti Park (low-key), Union Square (Christmassy), Empire State (taller), Public Library (props to Jake Gyllenhaal), New York's answer to the public sector strikes (placards vaunting socialism over Democrats and Republicans), Grand Central Terminal (Apple store coming soon) and The Rockerfeller Christmas lights (next to the nervous-looking HQ of News Corporation).
Something in the air in The City That Never Sleeps has kept me from getting much shut-eye this week. Hopefully by walking more than sixty blocks today I'll be rested up ahead of the trip to the capital tomorrow. These five days have flown by unbelievably quickly. There is so much going on in this city, so much I haven't been able to do. I'm very glad I'll be coming back here so soon.
Without a car.
She never shows up. The fact I am going to win Wimbledon next year is no consolation, Mary Jane. (I haven't seen Melancholia yet, but I want to.)
It is a short walk to West 81st Street, on the Upper West Side, where I am disappointed again, finding the block ends at number 51, and number 55 - the American Garden's building - doesn't even exist. This day isn't getting any better. No lunch with Pat, Bateman, of Pierce and Pierce; reservations at Dorsia a sham. It must have been Marcus Halberstram all along.
Instead, back in the park, I hunker down in that underpass, waiting for it all to finally end, or at least waiting for someone to handily happen upon me with a camcorder. Neither prevails.
So I take to wildlife spotting. The Oregon ipad purchase has allowed me to keep abreast of Attenborough's latest endeavours, and it is his voice I hear as a mallard dive-bombs by way of bathing. And, then, at long last, something good happens. I get to witness a real ornithological treat.
Sir David, if you please...
"In the depths of Central Park, away from the noise of the traffic and the hustle of the streets, the former stars of Sex and the City can be found picking their way through the bins. The head of the gaggle, Carrie, that Canadian one from Liverpool, the other one, and, the other one, have been tracked here from their summer vacation in the deserts of the United Arab Emirates. They must make the most of the extended Autumn temperatures, by taking on as much human refuse as possible, in anticipation of the harsh New York Winter ahead. Here, they are at home in their new natural habitat, sharing the remains of half a doughnut. It is a special moment."
Thank you Sir David. It warms me to know karmic balance has finally accounted for Sex and the City 2.
Next day it rains hard. I cross the park and take refuge in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Their collection is vast: 13,000 European and American works of the 19th and 20th centuries alone. Seeing the whole place in a day is impossible.
I shan't bore you with more details of every little thing I saw. I will, however, let you know that I have, up until this point in life, struggled to see the worth in certain branches of abstractism - works of purely colour and form. Today I came to appreciate them rather more, thanks to the examples in the modern art section of the Met.
The largest Jackson Pollock on display was visceral and kinetic; it had something urgent about it, the way the drips and splashes of colour intertwined. And it helped me see some value in other works, such as those with solid lines and pure, clean colours. A painting doesn't have to be obviously landscape or portrait to be worthy, I've learnt.
The same night I head to Madison Square Garden and watch the New York Rangers take on the Pittsburgh Penguins in the NHL - my first experience of live American sport. Ice hockey is an incredibly frantic game - the swiftest of skills laced with dashes of brute violence - and the teams served up a treat: the Rangers coming from behind to win 4-3.
Wednesday, and another art gallery visit. This time it is to further my education at MOMA (Museum of Modern Art). I get my tourist thing in full effect today - Times Square, the High Line, West Village, Greenwich Village - and you can see the results of my respective papping below.
The next morning brings with it my second run-in with the NYPD.
At this point I am tempted to commence a rambling diatribe about how I, having swapped my skimpy t-shirt in favour of a tasteful maroon leather waistcoast, ran the gauntlet of a gang-run city, from Van Cortlandt Park in the north, all the way to Coney Island and the safety of home at the southern tip of the city. How my cronies and I were separated on the way, how we raced through Riverside Park, how we were almost entrapped by a gang of ruthless she-devils, and how we put the beat-down on every rival gang we encountered. Including the Baseball Furies. But to do so would be a lie. Because these things didn't happen to me.
Not since 1979 in any case.
It is when I am out on vehicle manouvers that I pick up the tail. Pulling over in anticipation of a parking spot, the blues and twos sidle up to my window. I am accused of using my phone whilst driving. It appears my habit of twiddling my beard - just below my left ear - whilst at the wheel has done for me. If only the Nimbus had manual gears, this would never have happened. Or, if only I had trimmed my face in the last three months...
My last day in New York, so I head Downtown and have myself a walking-about-the-city day, catching glimpses of Madame Liberty (far away), the Brooklyn Bridge (quite long but not long long), the Chrysler (tall), Zuccotti Park (low-key), Union Square (Christmassy), Empire State (taller), Public Library (props to Jake Gyllenhaal), New York's answer to the public sector strikes (placards vaunting socialism over Democrats and Republicans), Grand Central Terminal (Apple store coming soon) and The Rockerfeller Christmas lights (next to the nervous-looking HQ of News Corporation).
Something in the air in The City That Never Sleeps has kept me from getting much shut-eye this week. Hopefully by walking more than sixty blocks today I'll be rested up ahead of the trip to the capital tomorrow. These five days have flown by unbelievably quickly. There is so much going on in this city, so much I haven't been able to do. I'm very glad I'll be coming back here so soon.
Without a car.
Thursday, 1 December 2011
#032: Owning a Car in Manhattan is Rubbish
Onwards, to the bright lights...
Starting, with a drive. And a true taste of fear. Such that a long, exhaustive breath is emitted from puffed cheeks, followed by a deep, deep nasal inhalation.
Everyone advances at a constant 70mph. Ahead of me, a car switches lanes without warning. And, seemingly, without first checking his off side blind spot. Because, if he had checked, he would have seen the car there.
I am afforded the closest view of such an incident I am ever likely to, without becoming a statistic. Luckily, in this case, the car which was encroached upon had an empty lane outside of him, and displayed the reactions of a fly in flicking across to it, avoiding a collision by what must have been a matter of inches.
I spend the next five minutes profoundly afraid of the road.
I settle in behind a double-length lorry, matching its' speed; the logic being it should be heavier than me, so has a longer stopping distance, therefore giving me additional time to both react, and react, should something similar occur. By the time it leaves the freeway, some thirty minutes later, I have calmed.
I think of the Prattsville almost-head-on. One near-miss is one more near miss than I would care for, but I am only in control of my own vehicle, as I have ever been whilst driving these past ten years. Given the number of incidents the country-over on a daily basis, one near-miss in just shy of 6000 US miles driven is probably reasonable going.
I read an article while in Boston, a quite shocking article (here), which I wouldn't recommend you viewing if you hold any trepidation at the driving aspect of my American road-bound adventures. Suffice to say, I shall be doubly and trebly sure in the planning of my routes southwards and west, so as to remain unreservedly fresh at the wheel.
Neither shall I trouble you with the other two incidents I witnessed later on, on the journey to Manhattan.
Because Manhattan is where I am, safe and sound. Another hostel, this just a couple of blocks from Central Park, and fifteen minutes on the metro from Times Square.
My first task is to fathom the parking logistics. On-street parking is free here (a good thing), the only obstacles being the twice-weekly street cleans (different days for each side of each street), positioning of hydrants, and the huge volume of cars.
I rise early (8am on a Monday...who'd have thought it) and spend half an hour weaving my way around the one-way blocks near the hostel. From a 'No parking 8:30-10am Monday' zone to a 'No parking 11:30-1pm Monday' zone. I'll be going out to move it back in a couple of hours, then.
It transpires the joys of moving the car a second time is on a par with the joys of hitting oneself in the face, repeatedly, with a detached steering wheel. Already bloodied and bruised, I resign to the traditional traveller's tactic: do as the locals do. I pretend I can't read the signs.
Predictably, this approach only succeeds in attracting the attention of the boys from the NYPD. Of course, being the practical chap that I am, I hadn't actually abandoned the van to fate, and made good my escape before a ticket could be issued.
I fear this could get quite boring.
Next stop: a space reserved for the sole use of an ambulance. Whoops.
This actually isn't funny anymore. It has reached the point where I can predict the timings of traffic light changes of a six square block area. I hope to be able to tell you more of New York City soon. In the meantime, if anybody spots a space, shout yeah...
Starting, with a drive. And a true taste of fear. Such that a long, exhaustive breath is emitted from puffed cheeks, followed by a deep, deep nasal inhalation.
Everyone advances at a constant 70mph. Ahead of me, a car switches lanes without warning. And, seemingly, without first checking his off side blind spot. Because, if he had checked, he would have seen the car there.
I am afforded the closest view of such an incident I am ever likely to, without becoming a statistic. Luckily, in this case, the car which was encroached upon had an empty lane outside of him, and displayed the reactions of a fly in flicking across to it, avoiding a collision by what must have been a matter of inches.
I spend the next five minutes profoundly afraid of the road.
I settle in behind a double-length lorry, matching its' speed; the logic being it should be heavier than me, so has a longer stopping distance, therefore giving me additional time to both react, and react, should something similar occur. By the time it leaves the freeway, some thirty minutes later, I have calmed.
I think of the Prattsville almost-head-on. One near-miss is one more near miss than I would care for, but I am only in control of my own vehicle, as I have ever been whilst driving these past ten years. Given the number of incidents the country-over on a daily basis, one near-miss in just shy of 6000 US miles driven is probably reasonable going.
I read an article while in Boston, a quite shocking article (here), which I wouldn't recommend you viewing if you hold any trepidation at the driving aspect of my American road-bound adventures. Suffice to say, I shall be doubly and trebly sure in the planning of my routes southwards and west, so as to remain unreservedly fresh at the wheel.
Neither shall I trouble you with the other two incidents I witnessed later on, on the journey to Manhattan.
Because Manhattan is where I am, safe and sound. Another hostel, this just a couple of blocks from Central Park, and fifteen minutes on the metro from Times Square.
My first task is to fathom the parking logistics. On-street parking is free here (a good thing), the only obstacles being the twice-weekly street cleans (different days for each side of each street), positioning of hydrants, and the huge volume of cars.
I rise early (8am on a Monday...who'd have thought it) and spend half an hour weaving my way around the one-way blocks near the hostel. From a 'No parking 8:30-10am Monday' zone to a 'No parking 11:30-1pm Monday' zone. I'll be going out to move it back in a couple of hours, then.
It transpires the joys of moving the car a second time is on a par with the joys of hitting oneself in the face, repeatedly, with a detached steering wheel. Already bloodied and bruised, I resign to the traditional traveller's tactic: do as the locals do. I pretend I can't read the signs.
Predictably, this approach only succeeds in attracting the attention of the boys from the NYPD. Of course, being the practical chap that I am, I hadn't actually abandoned the van to fate, and made good my escape before a ticket could be issued.
I fear this could get quite boring.
Next stop: a space reserved for the sole use of an ambulance. Whoops.
This actually isn't funny anymore. It has reached the point where I can predict the timings of traffic light changes of a six square block area. I hope to be able to tell you more of New York City soon. In the meantime, if anybody spots a space, shout yeah...
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