And In the End (part 2)

So here we are again, back in New York City. It was late on a Tuesday night when I flew in to JFK and this time it was going to be a much cheaper living experience, until the last weekend at least. I’d booked the Hudson hotel for my last two days in the city, but before that it would be the HI Hostel on Amsterdam and 103rd. Cheap, cheerful, a bit scary in a big-city type of way.

But I was back in New York!

I had time to spare and the sight-seeing checklist to complete. And I really wanted to have time to try to take it all in. I’d enjoyed walking the city when I was first here and that was the plan this time as well.

Luckily the hostel put on a few tours and events, so Wednesday morning I met about ten other hostellers and our amiable tour guide Ed. Off we went to the historic sites of Harlem. I expected the regular stuff of the Apollo Theatre and 125th Street, but that wasn’t what this was about. We were headed for 145th Street.

Our Tour Guide: Ed

Ed is a gem of a guy who loves his city and really enjoys showing a different side of it to people from all over the world. We went up to Washington Heights, an area many tourists wouldn’t think of getting the subway to, but it was fine and there were a couple of really interesting spots.

The Dutch built these apparently

New and Old Yankee Stadiums. Boo them. Go on..boo them.

House owned by Bailey from Barnum and Bailey's Circus

See? Interesting stuff. No, it’s not Ripley’s Believe It Or Not but Ed made the whole trip very enjoyable. When he left, a couple of us decided to carry on to the main part of Harlem. So after some good old-fashioned soul food Nikki, Alex and I decided to walk back down towards home. We didn’t know at the time exactly what this walk would entail. We’d already walked for about two hours and little did we know what was ahead of us (Nikki knew of places we hadn’t thought of going to). I, Nikki – from Bristol (I think – sorry Nikki!) and Alexandra – who’s from Germany but lives in…Stockport*…started walking south:

[*Alex has asked me to edit this bit. She works in Stockport but doesn't live there. It's not that she's ashamed of living in Stockport. But she would be if she lived there. Happy to clear that up.]

The Harlem YMCA, which I was convinced was the one in the original video for the camp-as-a-row-of-tents disco hit. It wasn’t. I’ve checked. It was the one in the East Village (which makes sense when you think about it, doesn’t it?) Why I got so excited about it, I don’t…really…know.

Harlem's Apollo Theatre

My New Suit

The Cathedral of St.John The Divine

Which is lovely, as you can see

It got a bit out of hand now, but just as I was overly excited to see The Fresh Prince’s house in LA…

Can you hear the bass guitar solo?

…so I was excited to get to Tom’s Diner from Seinfeld. And yes, it’s also THAT Tom’s Diner from the Suzanne Vega song. It says so outside, so it must be true!

We walked on (we’ve already gone 30 blocks)

We walked on another 30 blocks so Nicky could see Strawberry Fields and The Dakota Building. She paid us back with this: 55 central Park West.

It’s the building where Dana and Louis live in Ghostbusters. They later became Zuul and Vinz Clortho. Who later became big satanic dogs. It’s one of the best 5 films of all time. I promise.

(Ginger Rogers lived here in the 1930s, while Donna Karen also lived here, fact fans)

We’d walked 60 blocks and quite frankly, we were knackered.

We got home to the hostel with about an hour to change… to go for another walk. It was Christmas tree light switch-on at The Rockefeller.

The hostel organised another group to get to the Rockefeller but as the rain fell and we trudged round Central Park and down 5th Avenue we realised what a task it would be to get to see the show (it’s organised and televised by NBC). By this time there were 4 of us with my roommate Holger – he’s a German too – tagging along.

The show was star-studded. Michael Buble, Rod Stewart and some people from NBC shows they’re desperate to promote. Rod Stewart continues to murder old songs. Why? Someone stop him. I’m not advocating assassination but, y’know…*taps nose*…

The problem with the show for us was that:

a. It was pouring down, and

b. We couldn’t actually see the show. It was behind a big building. There’s a lot of them in New York.

Plus by this time the shambles we were in had lost Alex in the crowd. There was no way this was going to be any good, whatever the sodding Christmas tree looked like. It was time for a pint.

It was time to go to Greenwich Village!

Holger and Nikki enjoy Bleecker Street

Yes, I dragged them across town and after a quite a meal of chicken wings (20 cents each! what sort of recession is this?!) and a hefty amount of beer we were dry and warm and having a great time.

We moved down the street, saw some live music, had a couple to finish in the Blind Tiger. Suffice to say I had a lovely time.

I got a taxi home with a woman called Hannah, who never called me again.

And In the End… (part 1)

“So how did that holiday thing you went on end up? You never finished it!”

Literally several emails have come in with something like that message in recent weeks. Well, as you can probably tell I’m back in the UK. I’ve been in a post-trip gloom that’s seen me sat staring into space – if you can do such a thing with your head up your arse. Apologies to many friends who’ve commented on my dopey state. Some have been swearier than others, but I understand that. I think my head’s clear now: I’m home. Oh God…

But anyway, where were we? Yosemite. That’s were we were.

I left Lindsey and Zak the next morning after we’d driven back to Sunnyvale. I had to get the car back to LAX for my flight the next lunchtime. I decided I was going to break a promise to myself and go back the way I came. I headed for the coast. There was some clam chowder to be had.

Oddly on returning to Pismo Beach, scene of The Cinnamon Roll breakfast, it was hotter than it had been when I was here in the Autumn, but as you can see Christmas was well under way.

Extravagant Christmas Deccies in Pismo Beach

It was here that I stopped for lunch at a spot Lindsey had recommended I go to the first time round. She was right, as usual. The clam chowder at The Splash Cafe was astoundingly good. By this time I was very much aware of my weight gain during the trip. I had eaten well during these last few months and was down to my last two shirts that fitted me.

I stopped at just the one bread bowl…

The calories are in the fizzy pop

It was becoming a race against time. I knew I’d have to be within striking distance of LAX the next morning but had no idea of what the LA traffic would be like. Coming in through Santa Monica seemed the easiest way with the airport close to the coast.

So how far could I get in one day? There were options. One was Solvang. Now Solvang is a strange place. Actually scrap that, it’s a VERY strange place. It seems to think it’s Denmark. Or Holland, or somewhere that has lots of Danish flags and windmills. This bizarre little place seemed to be the sort of place that celebrated Christmas all day round. But it was swelteringly hot for late November.

What's this all about?

Apparently some Danish bakers came over to settle here in the 1860s. It may have been the 1960s, because someone was on something when they built this place.

This was a motel?!

I decided not to stop here. I had a good few hours left of daylight and the drive was fun. Ahead of me was Santa Barbara, which would’ve been 100 miles from LAX and so in range the next morning. But I was enjoying the drive too much and ploughed on. Remembering how difficult it was for Chris and I to get a motel on the coast road I knew I’d have to stop soon. The only place we found the earlier time had clearly been owned by one of the Bates family. Indeed there was no ‘open’ or ‘closed’ sign, just a painted word on a plank of jagged driftwood: “CONDEMNED”

Actually, the other place we stopped at was the Malibu Motel which had rooms from $170 a night. That’s not a motel – and staying there just because the girl on reception is hot is no reason to stay there. I’d learnt that by now.

And so it was that from the choice of about 5 motels in the city of Oxnard, I chose the scariest one. Honestly, I’d previously not been scared in any motel I’d stayed in, but I was so tired that wanted to just STOP. Then I realised what the staff behind the counter were talking about. One of the rooms had been burgled the night before and they were on the phone to the police. Great.

The room itself wasn’t too bad, but the incessant chatter of a Chinese family next door kept me awake. They were either playing sex games or charades. Possibly a complex mix of the two.

I woke the next day and quickly got on the road. I had about an hour of driving the California coast left and I was going to milk it. It was a glorious morning drive into LA and the sun shone as the oldies station played the hits and I didn’t want to leave. But I had to. And if you’re gonna leave, you may as well leave for New York City.

[PS - can I just add again here that ALL car rental companies are incorporated into Satan, Inc. Thanks]

Uptight…Everything’s Not All Right

Hello there and welcome to 2010, a brand new decade where we can start afresh. Goodbye noughties, hello tentacles.

But at the end of the last decade (that is to say, last week) I was given a piece of news that shocked me to the core and quite frankly rendered the whole new year celebration malarkey as irrelevant as Newcastle. A part of me died. No, not that part…

Let me explain. For the past ten years or so me and my friends’ Saturday nights have been dominated by one particular club night. Those of you who studied in Liverpool might think I’m talking about The Blue Angel, or ‘the Raz’, as it is inexplicably nicknamed. Well, you’re wrong. The Raz is a sticky-floored, odd-smelling, random-music-playing shit-tip. That’s my opinion and that’s what counts here. I do after all edit all the comments that arrive here, so don’t even bother. It’s rancid.

Anyway, moving on, there is a place on Duke Street in Liverpool where we’ve been ending our weary trudge through the hip and happening pubs and bars for nigh on a decade. Its glorious mix of 60’s pop, rock’n'roll, girl bands and glam rock has been the soundtrack for my generation – well, my circle of about 7 friends . Saturday nights upstairs at Le Bateau have been some of the best nights of my life. It was Uptight. It was outta sight.

Since returning to the city in the last few years I’ve been able to visit on a more regular basis and even after about 7 years of avoiding it, managed to go DOWNSTAIRS and dance to the new indie music with the hippity of the hipsters. But always did I need to return upstairs to cleanse myself  before going home. It was here, on this dance floor that was once part of a quite a nice boat-themed restaurant, that I heard some of the best tunes ever recorded; songs I would never have heard anywhere else in the cityand that have become  part of the soundtrack of my life.

I’m talking tunes like Al Wilson’s ‘The Snake’ (see the title of this here blog), Edwin Starr’s ‘25 Miles’, ‘Peace Frog’ by The Doors, countless other Northern Soul classics like ‘Nothing But a Heartache’ by The Flirtations, wonderful cover versions like Thelma Houston’s ‘Jumpin Jack Flash’ and the regular floorfillers from The Supremes, Martha Reeves, The Beatles, Stones and Kinks. I swear I’ve had close to religious experiences on that dance floor – not least because Kronenberg is £1 a bottle.

Now it is no more. Le Bateau’s owners want something else on up there and they’ve ended it – not even a final fling to celebrate the music and the DJ’s who have brought it to us, including Liverpool music-scene veteran Norman ‘The Cat’ Killon (who’s been at the centre of everything good musically to come out of the city for over 40 years). I remember Norman used to put on Northern classics and jump out the DJ booth and do some rather spectacular spinning himself. That boy has the moves! Where else can you go up to the DJ and ask for a version of ‘Purple Haze’ by Johnny Jones and the King Casuals and receive a simple knowing nod of the head? Nowhere, that’s where.

Just look at the fun we had in there...

That dance floor’s seen some of the great and the good of Liverpool’s music scene regularly pay homage to the music gods that have gone before them. Often have I exquisitely completed a textbook left-foot anti-clockwise spin only to be shocked by the sight of a Zuton before me. That’s why I fell over.

We went there for the music. We went there for the good times.

We went there to try to bamboozle women to get off with us using only the power of our dancing.*

Thanks to the DJ’s who’ve made us move: Norman Killon, Paul Smith, Edgar Jones, Steve Farrell, Robin McGinn and James Street – and anyone else who took to the decks.

So here, in a hastily-knocked-up and not very reverential (but good hearted all the same) way, I present a few choice memories of Uptight @ Le Bateau.

Uptight at Le Bateau Mix

(right click and ’save as’ – it’ll be with you in two shakes of a tailfeather)

It’s not a full history and misses out several classics but I hope it generates a small flicker of the energy that dance floor has shaken out of me in the past.

The mix is 92 mins long so you’d better whack it on one of those ipod thingies and listen to it there. It’s worth the download believe me.

Here’s the tracklist:

25 Miles – Edwin Starr
The Snake – Al Wilson
Under My Thumb – The Rolling Stones
John, I’m Only Dancing – David Bowie
Beggin’ – Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons
Stoned Love – The Supremes
Heatwave – Martha Reeves & The Vandellas
I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch) – The Four Tops
Peace Frog – The Doors
Psychotic Reaction – The Count Five
Tainted Love – Gloria Jones
You Keep Me Hangin’ On – The Supremes
Ain’t No Mountain High Enough – Marvin Gaye & Tammi Terrell
Just A Little Misunderstanding – The Contours
Nothing But A Heartache – The Flirtations
Needle in a Haystack – The Velvelettes
I Was Made to Love Her – Stevie Wonder
Heaven Must Have Sent You – The Elgins
Tin Soldier – The Small Faces
Paperback Writer – The Beatles
You Really Got Me – The Kinks
Jumpin’ Jack Flash – Thelma Houston
Think – Aretha Franklin
Dance Pt 1 – The Rolling Stones
Rock & Roll – Led Zeppelin
Helter Skelter – The Beatles
Making Time – The Creation
The Night – Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons
Do I Love You (Indeed I Do) – Frank Wilson
Dedicated Follower Of Fashion – The Kinks
Touch Me – The Doors
Stay With Me – The Faces

Enjoy… I know I’ll miss it

(*I only realised while writing this that despite several near-things, this only happened once  – and that was my during my last visit to the dance floor. I feel strangely culpable…)

2009 – A Year To Remember

I may not have finished the account of my journey across the USA on this blog as yet, but I am now back in the good ol’ U of K now and have had a Christmas cooped up in my parents’ apartment wondering about what to do with my life, in between chats with my parents about what I’m going to do with my life.

I spent the last few days writing this, hoping I’d be able to send it round the world via Facebook to everyone who I wanted to see it. It turns out I’m just too big for Facebook. I knew it would come to this…

Hello everyone.
Yes it’s that time of year again. Some of you may have got one of these emails last year, some not. If not, maybe you weren’t even my friend last year, or maybe I didn’t care about you much. Well look where you are now! You’re on the list and being forced to read my review of the year. It‘s where I make up for not bothering with Christmas cards by writing about the year I’ve had to make you all a little bit jealous of me (others may be envious, but that’s allowed as well). Last year, this email was described as “amusing” by at least one person. Okay, it was one person. Hello Michelle.

The year began somewhat surprisingly in January, and with my debut on a radio station for me. Dave started getting up and getting down with the kids at XFM. Matt Bowen was that desperate, he called me. Indie news for Mancs. It was here I was introduced to Mike McClean and the genius that is Producer Jim Salveson. Who else could look at a press release headlined, “NFL cheerleaders come to the UK” and think, “that’ll make great radio”? Jim did and it did. I was in on the interview with guest presenter Alun Cochrane, offering absolutely nothing more than a helping hand. There’s photo evidence of that hand. Thank you, Miami Dolphins…

XFM news unfortunately went the way of the dodo, the great auk and David Tennant’s Dr Who in 2009, but I think you’ll find it wasn’t my fault (it was Aileen O’Sullivan’s, obviously). I may have had a hand in it, but as I say, the cheerleader never complained.

Nothing happened in February.

But March, well let’s just rename it Rock-March shall we? I know it works better with October but still…
In the small matter of 18 days I managed to see Franz Ferdinand, Doves and Kasabian, all in small venues and all superb. I saw The Courteeners as well but that seemed to be a Mancs-night-out-Liverpool swaggerfest. It was like everyone else in the Academy was called Liam and had knuckles that dragged along the floor. We got hit by a pint. Hilarious!
It was the first of 3 views of Kasabian this year. Probably my band of the year? Probably. An astonishingly good live band, I fear I’ll never see them in a venue as small as Preston’s 53 Degrees again.

It was another good year in music for David.

May took me to Newcastle’s Evolution Festival to see Mystery Jets and Friendly Fires. Now then, Friendly Fires. Probably my band of the year? Probably. I saw them twice, having already seen them in 2008 with about 100 other people in Liverpool’s Korova. In Gateshead there was about 1000. Then I saw them in New York, which sort of trumps Kasabian. Sorry lads. Friendly Fires are brilliant, and I want to dance like lead singer Ed McFarlane (I know, I’m close but I’ve just not got the hips). I want to dance like him specifically because of the girls I was stood next to In New York’s Webster Hall:

“Oh…my…god…look at his hips! I want him like sooo bad?”

Yes I’m shallow. Deal with it.

The night in Newcastle was complicated by my sharing a Travelodge room with three women, two of whom were sisters. Terrible.

You can add Oasis and Blur to the above list. I was at Heaton Park when the lights went out for Oasis. I look forward to Liam’s “Oasis 2.0” project, cos that’s not going to be crap is it? Seeing Blur in Manchester was a highlight because I always liked them better and they provided the soundtrack to my teenage years. The important bits anyway.
I managed to top that by seeing Brian Wilson (in Liverpool) and Aretha Franklin (in Radio City Music Hall in New York), but they’re not The Courteeners are they?

Due to the lack of a major international football tournament, the summer was dominated by a couple of weddings. Before that, there had been a stag do trip to Poland that I really shouldn’t tell you about, but I got shot in the head from point-blank range and I will never, NEVER let that lie. The idea of 10 (there may have been more, I was drunk) fat Englishmen agreeing to being taken to a field on the outskirts of town – which was clearly used as a Polish army training ground during the week – and give them mock firearms, needed a bit more thinking. When whatever landed on the other side of the field went off with a small mushroom cloud floating into the sky, we should’ve asked a few more questions. Getting locked out of my apartment twice in the weekend was quite an achievement, topped only by Paul Skinner’s ability to wake up from a drunken stupor, answer his phone to me (stood outside with no battery left on my phone and a very nice kebab in the other hand), tell me he was on his way and then take time to turn his phone off before falling asleep again.

That lemon vodka stuff was wonderful – especially if that’s what happens every time you drink it.

The photos of Dave playing football – in his ohsotight shorts – were purposefully put on the big screen at his wedding to put people off the hors d’oeuvres so he could save some money.

Always Ready

We’d prepared for our trip to Eastern Europe by…going to Eastern Europe. In early January Rob, Roy, Rick and myself (I somehow got invited despite my lack of alliteration) ventured to Budapest. In Hungary it was -15c. During the day. It was a three-shirt-night-out, but some of the bars and clubs are some of the best I’ve ever been to. The food was spectacular and that lemon vodka stuff was wonderful. It was a feature of the year.
The baths, where you nearly died of hypothermia just trying to walk the ten yards to the pool, were brilliant. It’s like an adult water park. Not an ‘adult’ water park you understand, although it was very steamy and easy to spy on….no David, leave it there.
I’ll always remember nearly throwing up on the subway and wanting to kill Roy Blagg. Never has one small man been so chirpy with a hangover. Bastard.

The chronological nature of this post has gone out the window due to my mind being lost. I’ve just had to text 2 friends to ask if I did indeed go to Budapest this year. It seems I did.

So after Dave’s stag do, his wedding. And a lovely day it was too. Well, it poured down and Wynyard Hall developed a moat, but it was the people that mattered and we were all there. I ushered, which involved getting people to their seats, nodding when the bride had arrived and performing an impromptu version of, “You Make Me Wanna” on the stroke of midnight. At least that’s what I think happened. I have very little recollection of the next 36 hours, but I ended up in Edinburgh. Rik showed me round his adopted city on a Sunday night and for a third night running I got completely leathered and woke with no idea where I was. I was in rik’s living room. He had a good thing going there with a cocktail bar, and left it all to go travelling around Australia for god knows how long. Who goes travelling to Australia when there’s….America!

Yes, the final 3 months of the year were taken up by my trip to the states. Some called it a trip of a lifetime. Others called it a mid-life crisis. I ignored those people, mainly because I couldn’t look them in the eye and say it wasn’t, but there I sat on September 10th, sat on a Continental flight to Newark, wondering what the hell I had done.

What I’d done was start the best three months of my life. It’s almost fully documented in my blog that so many of you kept reading, even when the envy rose to dangerous levels. It’s not finished yet because I’ve not got round to writing the last page. I don’t really want to finish it.

But here’s the thank yous:

In New York:
David at the Hudson Hotel. A lovely man.
Alan and Tom. Two lovely men who looked after me for over a fortnight and who I hope I’ll get to see again, but I’m not sure I ever will. That’s life I suppose.
Nick Ciavatta (of www.frigginfabulousradio.com) who was the first person who spoke to me in a bar and just happened to be a former radio station PD. Typical! Thanks to all his friends in the Blind Tiger on Bleeker St. as well.
That guy Jamie in the queue for the pizza shop who asked me if we had pizza in Europe.
Ray and Mandy the Australians on the train to DC. We’d just won the Ashes. Brilliant.
Aretha. Genius.

In Washington DC
Ruben Lobowski. A wonderful guy who let me stay in his beautiful house and showed me round DC. Top man.
David Leahey. Blimey, we went to primary school together and here I turn up out of the blue. A fine afternoon pint or three. He plays piano in the White House! (next time he’s going to sneak me in).

In Quebec
Claude Carrier. He became my first travelogue interview with his views on Quebec’s struggle for independence and his hatred of the French. Right on brother!

In Boston
Dan. He had no furniture you could be comfortable in and he got me so drunk that I lost 4 hours of my life, resulting in officially the worst hangover
John Griffin. A true hero of my trip. He’d never met me before yet put me up in his great apartment, took me to the ball game, took me drinking on several school nights and finally directed me to a beer festival where he turned up to see me skittle ten pins down with an empty beer barrel. Boston was great. John was a big part of it. Firm handshakes all round.

On the Canyon Trip
Well, what can I say? A few things! But what a 9 days it was. And no-one tried to kill Maxwell.
So hello, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year and thank you for making my year:
Phil – hotel room-mate extraordinaire.
Lotte – Incredibly Dutch and much fun. For the tea times…
Suzanne and Graeme – a married couple who managed to put up with us.
Erika and Sonia – extending the entente cordiale.
Sarah – from the Lakes, and related to him out the Inbetweeners. But there’s more to her than that!
Ursula – German. Efficient.
Richard – New Yorker stunned by us Brits on a regular basis. More in horror than anything else
Maxwell – From Stoke. The reincarnation of Jade Goody in male form.
Eddie – our intrepid guide. A bit of a dude. His Las Vegas antics. Can’t say any more than that.

In Las Vegas, San Diego and LA
Chris Luckett for coming over and seeing me. I was getting a bit lonely and I’d have only got into LOADS of trouble on my own. We even got to see Hugh Grant in action with 2 blondes. At the bar!
Courtney in Encinitas. She served us beer and gave us food. Then invited herself to Liverpool. The cheek!
That very odd looking guy at the border in Tijuana who wanted us to help him because he’d just got out of prison. Sorry for running away quite so fast. Well, not really.

In San Francisco
Winifred. She saved me from the hell of being in a bar full of people in fancy dress on my own. She was in fancy dress.
Wendy. Another nice Dutch lady. On another tour. Wendy and I met on Dylan’s bus tour, got disappointed by big trees that should’ve been bigger and went to see the Day of the Dead parade thingy.
Anna. Half an hour’s chat in a Mission bar (that should’ve been longer – at least 45 minutes) and still friends. Thanks to facebook for that.
That girl who came up to me at the bar and said my accent was hot. It took 51 days for that to happen. I was promised better.

In Arcata
What a place! Thanks to TV camera-person/film-maker/facial-hair-grower Josh Keppel, and Aaron and Leslie.
Thanks to the place with the fabric all over the place and the musical instruments and the brilliantly odd people.

In Portland
Well, Katie at Steelhead brewery in Eugene to start with. 9% beer??
To everyone at the hostel who ate my birthday cake, but particularly…
Janis from Canada. She only came to Portland to see a band, but met me. How lucky is that?!
Amanda, Amy and Elliot for the birthday 80s night out

In Seattle
Simon and Kat for the Scrabble session. Dave wins.
Alina and Yesenia for talking to me at the Fanfarlo gig and getting us thrown off the balcony.
Stephen for the drinking sessions.
To Anders for tagging along on the trip to Vancouver.

In Vancouver
To Kat for coming out on a wretched night and being great company, while introducing me to biro tattoos. You’ll never regret them…!

In California
Lindsey and Zak Akin. Fabulous people with a fabulous dog.
Susan and Chuck. Great hosts in Hanford.
The Akins and The Basmajians. The best Thanksgiving dinners I’ve ever had!
Nate and Xenia. For helping with my initiation ceremony on that amazing night in Yosemite.

And back in NYC
Holger for coming shopping and taking an hour in a shop to try on 10 pairs of jeans and buy none of them. And for the hot chilli Chinese meal.
Nikki for showing us some parts of New York we never thought we’d see, during a 64 mile, sorry, block walk (it felt like 64 miles)
And Alexandra for being out with me on my last night in New York – and the USA.

Thanks to everyone that followed the trip and gave hints and tips on where to go, some more salubrious than others – thanks most of all for those!

Back home I must add those people who made 2009 a really very good year. I stumbled (being the operative word) upon some lovely new people to go drinking with. The Northern Irish Massive were so nice, two of them took Louisa off my hands when I went travelling. You’re very kind! But I’m afraid I’m not having her back. So, Una, Shauna, Frankie, and the newlyweds Mairead & Andy, and the rest of you (there’s a lot aren’t there?!) thank you for letting me into the round. I’ll buy one soon.

Did i mention I'd met Elbow? In Bury!

Speaking of newlyweds, congratulations to Emma and Lee and thanks for a lovely wedding darn sarf. It was a great weekend and you all looked smashin‘.

Katherine and Karen, welcome to Liverpool. You’re most welcome. Let’s face it, you’ve spent enough time here and it’s about time. To the usual suspects: Rob, Louisa, Liverpool Football Club… thanks for being there, even if some of you were completely useless at times.

You all made 2009 possibly the best year ever. EVER.

Until 2010 of course…

See you next year.

(did I miss anything?)

Kings Of The Wild Frontier

Adam & The Ants – Kings of the Wild Frontier

So Thanksgiving was over, but that’s not to say the holiday weekend was over. It was merely the beginning. For some, the mysterious shopping spectacle of “Black Friday” was about to begin. Indeed for the sorry staff of several major retailers Friday began exactly on the dot of midnight on Thanksgiving. Please, no-one tell Next about this. They’ll have those poor sops who normally queue up at 5am for an ill-fitting suit spending Christmas day in bed, dreaming of buying that must-have shiny black shirt. Ideal for when you really want to look unstylish or cheap or both on a night out.

One whole mall in San Jose opened at midnight with the car park full at 12.30am. These were not late-night ravers looking for another glowstick. They were full-blown idiots. Last year a security guard was trampled to death at a Walmart in New York. Disney Stores were trying to re-brand Black Friday (so-called because it generally helps put retailers back in the black rather than the red) as “Magical Friday”. What is it with Disney and their obsession with sodding magic?! I speak as a fan of Warner Brothers. It’s more like life. “Some day kids, you’ll just get hit by an anvil. Deal with it.”

After two-and-a-half Thanksgiving dinners I was going nowhere at midnight. Having watched Paul McCartney’s superb concert to open the new Shea Stadium that was on TV, we slept it off.

But it didn’t stop there and although we knew we had to be up early on Saturday morning to head for Yosemite, out we went again on Friday night. We should’ve held back at the wine place again. We should’ve stopped at the dive bar lit only by neon beer signs. In reality I have no idea where we finished that night. All I knew was that I was about 5 hours sleep away from a weekend in the woods where there would be bears and raccoons and lions and stuff. And it had snowed there. This was going to be agony in so many ways wasn’t it?

Big Tree? Or Small People?

Up we got at stupid o’clock. Who gave me red wine? Oh, I did. Anyway…

I had never camped anywhere in my life. Seriously, what’s the point? No really, what IS the point?! But here was one place where I was told camping was necessary because it was such a magnificent place and, quite frankly, Zak and Lindsey told me to. Mum!! They made me do it!!

As I say it had snowed and that had put a lot of people off a trip into the wilderness that weekend, but not us. Oh no. That made it so much better. I think. I was wearing almost everything I owned as we got to Yosemite. My 563rd US national park of the trip. Each one just as magnificent as the last.

When we got there it had indeed snowed and we started with a little meander among the redwoods. The GIANT redwoods.

The Grizzly Giant - the size of a 747 stood on its tail

They’re some big trees, let’s be honest. The stiff cold air hit the lungs and it made you feel glad to be alive. I was sure I was just about alive. That air was going to tip the hangover one way or another. I came back from the brink.

There was a tangible excitement in the car. Zak and Lindsey and several friends come here for five days every February. It’s become a ritual. That’s when it’s really cold and full of snow. This had just been a dusting, although certain parts were so high and tricky to reach that they were closed anyway. Even Hoosier was looking happier than normal, and that’s a happy dog.

As we left a tunnel I was immediately hit by why I should be excited too:

To borrow a phrase from the US dictionary, it’s kind neat ain’t it? Look at it. Now think of it REALLY big. Now double that. Multiply it by 71. Add 6. You’re nearly there. It’s a monstrous park, and I was going to spend the night down there under one of those trees that looks like a pine needle.

Now, for me to get into this and to be ‘at one’ with the nature on offer here I would need to do two things: chop wood for a fire and drink beer by said fire.

Easy ladies, I’m getting the chopper out.

Now while I’m sorting out the fire (or maybe Zak is) have another view of El Capitan…

Now, is that fire ready?

Heat!

Here’s where we were staying. It was the spot furthest from the entrance to the campsite and the closest to the bears, according to the ranger. Okay…

We were joined at the camp by Zak and Lindsey’s friends Nate and Xenia, who’d spent the day trekking up to the top of Yosemite Falls and back. 7.5 miles up and down 2,500 feet of waterfall. They were exhausted, reminding me of my state having done the Plateau Point trek at the Grand Canyon. Chatting was quite low on the agenda.

But after a beer or two they perked up and attention turned to me once more. On this my first trip to Yosemite with this lot I was to go through some sort of ‘initiation ceremony’.

I can’t say much more than that because they’d hunt me down and kill me if I did. From that you can gather the initiation did not involve me being hunted down and killed. Having passed the test I got to see Yosemite from a very different and very special viewpoint. On a full-moonlit night that park is one of the most magical places on Earth and Disney can’t get near it.

After several strong beers I got into my sleeping bag and slept a fitful sleep, praying my toes would drop off or be eaten by a bear. I woke in agony again, but only because there was NO WAY I was leaving that tent for a wee during the night.

The only thing that kept me going was the idea of brunch.

No seriously, it was.

The Ahwahnee Lodge restaurant

The Ahwahnee Lodge is this curious hotel/park lodge that is beautifully decorated in a strange mock-medieval style. The Queen’s stayed there apparently. More importantly it was  venue for hot toddies and a HUGE buffet. Like I needed more food. I needed more food.

Well fed, we decided to depart this wonderful place. But have some more views. You can’t help but love it.

And one more…

Be Thankful For What You’ve Got

Massive Attack – Be Thankful For What You Got

Sam & Dave – I Thank You

Gladys Knight & the Pips – Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)

I was really looking forward to Thanksgiving. It’s not hard to be cynical about Americans and the way they live their lives, but they do schmaltz and ceremony like no-one else on Earth. And when it’s done properly there’s nothing wrong with that at all. Thanksgiving is the centre of all things ‘holiday’ in the USA. Christmas is an after thought as Halloween is now the hors d’oeuvre. From September to January Americans are in holiday mood, with the third Thursday in November set aside for family, gluttony and football. And with it being a Thursday it means it’s a 4-day holiday. Somebody thought that through really well.

I arrived at Lindsey and Zak’s house late on Tuesday not really knowing what to expect. I’d not seen Lindsey for nearly ten years and only Facebook had got us back in touch with each other. Originally from Durham she’d studied in Liverpool and stuck around in the great city for a bit before somehow being whisked away to California. The first thing that hit me was their dog.

Hoosier. Coolest dog in the world.

Hoosier is a bearded collie and certainly the best dog I’ve ever met. He likes nothing better than sticking his head out of the car window and let’s face it, he’s a dead ringer for Sprocket from Fraggle Rock…

The second thing that struck me was Lindsey’s accent. Now I have to admit that I’ve taken on a few bits and pieces of dialect and accent from where I’ve lived in the past, but her new Cali-geordie is a wonder! I in no way want her to feel at all self-conscious about it because it sounds great, but I think at one point she suggested she didn’t think it had changed much. Hmmm!

The third thing that struck me was their house, which is lovely. It has a great back yard full of plants where they grow their own herbs and fruit and veg, with a studio out back for Zak to work in (he’s an artist as well as a computer-graphic-designer-website-thingy. I really should’ve asked shouldn’t I?) It’s also where the beer is served for their annual Octoberfest party. They brew their own beer for that and went through 13 kegs this year. I want to go to  that party next year.

They live in Sunnyvale, which is one of the top 5 safest cities to live in the USA. It’s in Silicon Valley, close to San Jose. And the whole thing’s just idyllic. Lindsey and Zak are lovely, lovely people.

So a tired, sweaty Scouser arrives at their door. Entertain me!

After a nice meal out in Sunnyvale it was time for sleep. There was a long week ahead of us. Next morning it was up early to see another prime example of early American nutcases who built very big houses: the Winchester Mystery House.

Crazy lady house

Mrs Winchester, who was only 4′11″, was the widow of the bloke who invented the Winchester gun and thought her run of bad luck was to do with the spirits of all the people killed by her husband’s little inventions. When she went to see a psychic in Boston she was told to keep building her house so as to confuse the ghosts. When she stopped building they’d get her. The tour guide, a very loud, camp man who wore a scarf indoors (and just LOVED his own jokes) never mentioned if this psychic had carpenter friends in California but if you were a chippy near San Jose at the time you would’ve done very nicely for yourself as she employed men to work 24 hours a day for 38 years.

Her height dictates a lot of the house with steps rising only two inches at a time, winding round corners and filling rooms just to get up a couple of feet of incline. Doors open into fresh air ten feet up, stairs go nowhere and everywhere is dominated by the number 13. She could afford to do it because the gun company earned her $1200 a day (about $21000 today) but the main reason she did it was because she was really a little bit ‘touched’ wasn’t she? It’s a good way to spend a few hours, marvelling at the way a single house can have more window panes than the Empire State Building!

Lindsey, Zak and Hoosier

That afternoon we all got into Zak’s car and headed south-east. We were off to Hanford, in the middle of the Central Valley. The Central Valley is no ordinary valley. You can probably fit England in it. It’s prime farming land and flatter than Holland/a pancake/Keira Knightley* (*delete as inappropriate)

Hanford is Zak’s hometown and we were off to stay with his mum/mom (got to be bilingual here) Susan and her fiance Chuck. Once we’d got to Hanford, beating the Thanksgiving exodus we met Zak’s grandma and went to a Mexican restaurant for dinner – where I should’ve learnt from my earlier burrito experience in San Diego – and where I got a funny look from the waitress when I asked for a glass of water. Thinking I shouldn’t just give in and have another beer I thought I’d give it one more go, possibly resorting to saying “agua” instead. Still she didn’t get it until someone else at the table said, “he wants warder.”

“Oh, warder! – why didn’t you say?”

It’s my language and I’m sticking to it. I couldn’t believe that that was my first linguistic misunderstanding of the trip. Maybe I’d just assumed all of this language immediately? I was never to call a restroom ‘a bog’ ever again…

So anyway, Hanford. For some reason I have no usable pictures of Hanford (or Susan and Chuck for that matter, which is a real oversight on my part because they were great to me as their house guest – thank you so much).

People in this region seem to know their wine. Chuck certainly did judging by his extensive cellar and wine bar/shop on speed-dial(!) so that was where we ended up drinking a couple of very nice reds. I could feel my liver sighing. I’d found the wine it’d been trying to keep me away from for weeks…

The next day was Thanksgiving. Zak informed me to be ready for a long day and at least two full dinners. I could feel my trousers sighing.

Dinner No.1 – The Basmajians

I’d been looking forward to an American Thanksgiving for weeks and this didn’t disappoint. The Basmajians are a large family, Armenian in extraction and when we got out to their farm the party was clearly in full swing. In fact it had begun the night before when the head of the family (whose name I have clearly forgotten and tried to brush over) gets all the guys round, digs a big hole in the back yard and sets up an oven where he can cook over 40 turkeys and other assorted meats.

Mr Basmajian (I really should've taken notes) and Chuck prepare to feast

So, for dinner we had 13 guests tucking into a 20lb turkey, a 20lb ham and a 20lb piece of beef. So, just under 5lbs of meat for each guest then. Not to mention all the vegetables and about 34 types of potato and some great Portuguese sweet rolls. It was a wonderful spread.

I tucked in.

Dinner Number 1

So did everyone else.

I have to thank the Basmajian family for making me feel incredibly welcome and for letting me share their Thanksgiving, with special thanks to mom and dad Basmajian who talked to me all through dinner when surely they’d have rather been speaking to their lovely family.

But there was no time to lose, another dinner was awaiting us. Back in the car!

Dinner No.2 – The Akins

Back to Hanford we sped to the other half of Zak’s family, the Akins.

Here was a similar spread and we arrived just in time to say grace. Now here was another important ritual of US Thanksgiving. It really IS a saying of thanks for the blessings of the year, even when the year may not have gone so well. It was remarkable, if not actually surprising when you think about it, how seriously this was taken and how really emotional it was. The English stiff upper-lip was in attendance for yours truly but maybe the country had worn down some of my snooty and sneery attitude that some have accused me of in previous posts, especially about parties I’ve been to. Maybe it was because here I was surrounded by genuine and warm people who were a true family. The Akins had some wonderful characters around the table.

On a different point it was refreshingly disturbing to see one of the teenage daughters wearing a T-shirt bearing the slogan “EIE OMG – Enough is Enough, Obama Must Go.” Because if he’s not sorted it all out in the first 9 months it’s time for Sarah Palin isn’t it? (She’ll be the next president by the way…start digging the fallout shelters now).

Dessert from Dinner 2

But it wasn’t over there. We still had to go round to Zak’s dad’s house. He’d had 29 at his for dinner. TWENTY NINE!!!!! On two tables on different sides of the house yes, but still, 29. He looked a bit shocked when we turned up, and very shocked when the rest of the Akins followed on behind. But again, the house was open and we were made welcome. More red wine was drunk and the day finished cosily back at Susan and Chuck’s – once we’d all changed into our big comfy trousers and sloppy jumpers.

Thank you all for my Thanksgiving experience. I doubt I’ll have worked it off by Christmas, but it was an excellent training session for my mum’s turkey dinner!

On The Road Again

Leaving Vancouver (although not on this bridge, I had to go the other way)

It’s Immaterial – Just Drive

REM – Drive

Canned Heat – On the Road Again

In all the best traditions of ‘Planes, Trains and Automobiles’ I now faced a huge journey to Thanksgiving. 1000 miles of my own driving, followed by another 200-mile drive to dinner.

I’d been invited to Thanksgiving dinner by Lindsey and Zak Akin. Lindsey used to be Lindsey Dodds, who I went to university with back in Liverpool during the last century. She’s been following my exploits here in the USA and handing out some of the best hints and tips possible on touring this great country. Most of them were food-based and I blame her for my new rotund shape. But they were in Sunnyvale in California. I was in Canada. Back in the car.

After an intensive interview at the border during which the US patrol guard quite snootily looked me up and down before asking, “How can YOU afford to come to America?!” I ended up back to Seattle for the night where, as you do, I managed to get drunk with another Canadian. Hello Stephen. I can’t even remember what the other guy’s name was. In hostels, you just happen upon these random drinking sessions – and who am I to say no?

It was here that I got a bit upset with myself that I’d not planned things as well as I could. I missed out on meeting up with people I’d hope to meet again and generally I didnt know where I was going and when I wasn’t going there. These things happen though, and for it to occur so late in the trip is probably the biggest surprise. It’s not like I’d planned every day down to the last detail.

So apologies to anyone who I didn’t see back in Seattle. Maybe next time eh?

Saturday was a dull old trip from Seattle back to Eugene, where I stayed in the same motel but got there so late that I didn’t have a chance to go back to the Steelhead Brewery. I was shattered, still hungover from the night before and wary of their 9.6% beer! Sleep was required but it wasn’t helped by the storm about to hit Oregon. Winter was on its way and I’m sure that at about 4am it blew the motel room door open.

Sunday, back in the car with Chico in Northern California a target. That was a possibility, being about 400 miles away, but I didn’t make it.

So that's what the storm brought

I stopped after just 255 miles but I was quite happy with my choice of destination once I’d seen Mount Shasta appear in the distance. Snow had fallen and Northern California’s best kept secret was looking superb.

Mount Shasta - A real mountain. With a point at the top and everything.

Mount Shasta City is a place that you could really settle down in. It’s basically a village rather than a city, but I’ve learnt that 6 streets and 2 avenues constitutes a city here. No cathedral required, but who need a cathedral when you’ve got a huge, brilliant-looking mountain looking over the place? Christians possibly, but we’ll scoot over that.

It’s just a very nice place and geared up for people to come and visit and enjoy the mountain be it for summer trekking or winter sports. When you go there, try Billy Goat’s tavern. Say hi to Kevin for me. Kevin left San Francisco to head out to the country and found peace, calm amd himself in Mount Shasta. He was a vision of serenity, even if his beard was slightly disturbing. he even turned the American Football off to let me watch Beckham lost the MLS Cup Final on penalties. Oh the heartbreak…

Mount Shasta was cold. Very cold. In fact, there was snow on the pavement when I went for a run round the town the next morning. Yes, I managed a run at a temperature of 1c. My forehead froze (and it’s a big forehead).

Back in the car and a quick stop up a frozen hill takes me to one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. Castle Lake.

Castle Lake - yes, it's frozen

The drive up was a little bit dodgy. The Chrysler Sebring drop-top was not made for this. But on getting to the top of the 13-mile drive I found a wonderful Narnia-like setting complete with 6 inches of snow, iced-up lake and a curious half-man-half-goat creature.

But after a moment of reflection it was, as ever, time to get back in the car. Next stop: Chico.

A lack of 4x4 on the Sebring cause Easson no bother, even when the back went out and he slid scarily towards the precipice.

Chico’s a lovely little place, a university town which is apparently a riotous night out. All I can say is that the ice cream shop on Broadway Street sells a litre of ice cream masquerading as a ‘double scoop’. Reader, I ate it all. That what nights alone in motel rooms are all about.

Chico Time!

The next day I found a bar in the town that happily allowed me to watch Liverpool’s 1-0 total and complete destruction of Debrecen. With a spring in my step that only a season in the Europa League can bring, I got back in the car.

208 miles later I arrived in Sunnyvale California, nearly coming to an horrific end about 2 miles from my destination when I got confused by a ‘yield’ sign and nearly drove headlong into 3 lanes of traffic. Inches from disaster, but finally I was there. Thanksgiving was 2 days away, the sun was shining and I was prepared to feast.

Tossed Salads and Scrambled Eggs

Sunday morning and I had to get away. It had nothing to do with the troupe of girl scouts that were staying at the hostel, that was a coincidence. They made me sushi, that’s all. I dropped Janis off at the airport as she went back to Calgary and that gave me a chance to nip off somewhere really cool on my way up to Seattle.

Multnomah Falls

Multnomah is one of many falls that spill into the Columbia River gorge that cuts east away from Portland. The whole place is spectacular, and the snow was coming in to remind me just how far north I was.

That was the view from ‘The Bridge of the Gods’, which wasn’t quite as heavenly as it sounds, but the scenery certainly was.

Anyway, north I went to the home of Frasier, good coffee, grunge music and toe-operated shotguns. Seattle!

Jeez, can it rain in Seattle? (that’s rhetorical, I’m just warning you)

After checking in at the Green Tortoise Hostel (free breakfast, free dinner 3 times a week and the comfiest beds so far) I got an early night after a tough game of Scrabble. Yes, it’s been a rock’n'roll affair. I battled to a late win over my new Australian friends Simon and Kat. Winner!

The next morning we set out on the ‘Dead Guys Tour’ arranged by the hostel to show you Bruce and Brandon Lee’s grave, Kurt Cobain’s house and Jimi Hendrix’s statue and grave, even though he hated the place. It was raining its arse off and I was in the back of the van, crushed into the corner by two Aussie guys I’d first met in San Diego, forced to listen to Radiohead’s “Kid A” for a full 40 minutes.

I was miserable. It’s terrible. They’re terrible. Really bad.

We got to Jimi’s grave and I was in a right mood. Sorry Jimi.

At Kurt Cobain’s house there is a bench that fans have taken as their own personal place to leave messages. Some of which are just too inspirational to understand how deep they’ve had to dig into their own psyche.

Humbling, isn't it?

Bedraggled but inspired by such literature Simon and I ventured to the Experience Music Center under the Space Needle. That place is great. Not only does it take you through all of Seattle’s great music makers (and Presidents of the USA) and then allow you to make your own music in a huge bank of studios and musical instruments. The bad thing was that we ran out of time, since the whole museum closes at 5pm for some reason. Odd.

We escaped back into town on the monorail. You should’ve seen the smile on my face when I got on that. It’s the future of travel. And to think they said it was more of a Shelbyville idea…

…a few drinks later it was time for bed. The next day I woke to brilliant sunshine. On Tuesday I fell for Seattle.

View from Bank of America Tower

It’s a lovely city. The people are really friendly, it’s easily walkable and there’s plenty to do. They even like their football. After getting this view from the 73rd floor of the city’s tallest building I took a tour underground in the areas below the sidewalk.

It’s a fascinating and funny 90 minutes in the bowels of the city. The lower levels were abandoned when the city finally got itself in order and decided to build upwards and away from the problem of the whole city flooding twice a day without any sewers. Oddly they started by building the roads 20 feet in the air. For years people had to use ladders to get down to the shop doorways, with several dying from falls.

That was followed by a walk around Pike Place Market in an effort to continue my slow suicide by food. They throw fish around there. It’s quite a show. You can also eat a lot of fish. Loads of fish. And pastry. And cookies.

Flying Fish...who's ever heard of a flying fish...?

I was a happy man, and the night hadn’t even begun yet. I’d got myself tickets to see a British band called Fanfarlo at The Crocodile round the corner. A bit like Arcade Fire but in woolier sweaters and tighter jeans.

I don’t like going to gigs on my own. Where’s the fun in that? But my travels have given me a whole new outlook on going out alone…

Alina and Yesenia

So anyway, the band were good too.

Here’s what they sing:

Fanfarlo – The Walls Are Coming Down

I’d decided in a drunken moment to drive to Idaho the next day. I woke up the next day with a headache. I stayed in Seattle, but I definitely had the wanderlust again. But where to go?

After a wasted day feeling wasted and walking the city again, I got in the car and gave a man called Anders a lift to Vancouver. Canada! Again!

Now for some reason I have no pictures of Anders and I have no idea why. That’s all I’m saying.

It was raining in Vancouver, which is a lovely city I’m sure, so I just met up with Kat again and got drunk. You can’t feel the rain when you’re drunk right?!

Kat - helping destroy my liver once again

We came up with ideas for tattoos (you do that when you’re drunk for the 29th time in a month), but we didn’t have the guts to do it properly, so here’s the biro versions:

Kat's "Journey"

And my Fleetwood Mac/Stones-influenced number

We’re travellers you see. Not the kind that sharpen your scissors or tarmac your pavement. We long to keep on moving. And so, after a morning in Vancouver where I somehow met Manc Elliot from Portland, I went back to Seattle, despite the best efforts of the border staff who were really surprised I’d turned up: “How can YOU afford to come to America?”

It was as far north as I was going to get. The big drive south had begun.

Portland Of A Thousand Dances

A little groggy and now feeling all of 31 I set out to see the city of Portland. Unfortunately, or fortunately if you like that sort of thing, Portland in November is almost exactly the same as England in November: wet, windy, urgh. No wonder the city’s main pastimes are staying in reading while drinking beer or coffee. Coffee is definitely required due to the lack of daylight. Dark at 4.30? That would never happen at home. I’ve been away too long haven’t I?

Powell's Bookstore

My first visit (after a stomach-settling breakfast of eggs, pancakes and bacon…hmmm) was Powell’s bookstore, reputedly the world’s largest independent book shop. They have to hand out maps to customers and all the rooms are colour-coded. I’m sure some of the people standing around me have been in here since 1992. I buy “On The Road”, which I declined to buy in City Lights in San Fran because it was too obvious and I’d look like a saddo, and John Lennon’s combined “Spaniard In the Works” and “In His Own Write”, which both show the deadest of Beatles as a childish male-chauvinist lover of The Goons. Not great.

Two books I probably should have read by now anyway

On I walked and realised that Portland is a very nice city indeed. But there’s  nothing really to see. By all means walk it as much as you like, but it’s a moderately sized American city with everything an American city that size needs. And that’s the key to it. Speaking to people while I was there (yes, at the bar, where else do you meet people?) the majority of Portland’s inhabitants are young professionals who tend to love books, coffee and beer.

The city is a perfect size and the nightlife is great. Bands make it a stop-off on a West coast tour, while there are loads of great drinking establishments from swanky bars that don’t take themselves too seriously to your above-average dives. The people are friendly and you can easily escape to the countryside if you want to. The city’s Washington park has a hiking trail that’s 29 miles long! That’s a big park.

I climbed up the hill towards it but ran out of energy at the rose garden, where all the roses had lost their petals. It was essentially a twig garden.

I forgot to mention the rather odd PGE park, where they play football, baseball and soccer. It's missing a side. You can see everything from the road.

You’re right, today was a right-off. I got chatting with some people back at the hostel and went to see Tarantino’s “Inglorious Basterds” at the local cinema (with beer and food while you watch it – although I wouldn’t recommend food during this film, old Quentin’s getting violent in his old age). Cracking film, time for bed.

It was in the Portland hostel that I realised something. I’d started becoming a little bit racist. Towards the British. A lot of them are really quite annoying, they talk over people and make rather sweeping assumptions and observations. I do it myself, have you noticed? A lot of them don’t mix well with other foreigners, either through choice or upbringing. Some have realised this and try to overcome crushing anxiety and talk to random people, but they’re rare. That’s all I’m saying on this – I’ve annoyed enough people with this blog already.

But this brings me on to our Friday night and another English bloke I met in the hostel (honestly, the last paragraph is not about Elliot. I promise).

So there we are, Friday night in the hostel kitchen, all my cake has gone and five disparate (I said disparate) souls decide that the 80s night in town is right up their street. And it was.

So I, Janis (from my birthday night), Amanda (who’d seen the Tarantino film with me), Amy (who I’d not met but was/is a librarian from South Carolina looking for a job up in Portland) and Elliot (a Manc who didn’t even live in our hostel, and was a bit lost in the USA having travelled to see a girl who promptly dumped him when he turned up on her doorstep – cow!) went drinking and dancing and had a right laugh. As you can see:

As you can see, there were some startling moves on show from all concerned. It was a great night with me enjoying the huge amount of British tunes on offer (even Teardrop Explodes!), Janis enjoying memories that only a lapsed-goth can (she had Siouxsie hair in the 80’s y’know), and us all enjoying Elliot’s supreme dancing brought forth somehow without the use of alcohol or any other stimulant. Running man AND the robot in one dancing session? Respect to that, my son.

Ok, so the drinking’s getting a bit out of control but it’s my birthday week so sod off. I stay one more night in Portland but Sunday means I have to go north once more. Seattle is calling, but I know that Portland has been good to me and I’ll have memories of a birthday well-spent and definite new friends made.

Golden Years

The Beatles – Birthday

Cake – Short Skirt Long Jacket

David Bowie – Golden Years

Yes, I awoke a whole new age. 31. What a crap number, although in terms of Liverpool squad numbers I’d moved from Charles Itandje to Nabil El Zhar, which is a step up in my book.

With cake bought and hostel booked I headed for Portland, aided by Bowie on the iPod. That’ll do it. I’d had so many good messages from back home that really cheered me up and so i was in a good mood, but what would await me at the hostel? Would anyone want to celebrate? Would they all be vegan, non-alcoholic cake-haters?? I mulled all of this over while approaching Portland and promptly missed my turn-of 3 times, going over a lot of the city’s bridges. It’s got a lot of bridges.

But I got there and got a bottom bunk (cake bonus) and went off to find one of the city’s many, many, many brewpubs. And I did. And I did eat steak and drink ale at the New Old Lompoc Brewpub and feel good about myself generally. I rushed back to watch the film the hostel was putting on that night about travelling. A bizarre choice maybe, but it put a few things into perspective on my trip so far.

“A Map For Saturday” is the story of HBO producer Brook Silva-Bragg’s decision to quit his job and go round the world for 12 months with just a camera and a backpack and find out why some people are travelling for months, sometimes years on end.

In doing so though, he himself visibly changes as a person over the year he’s away and while he’s commenting on the people he meets, we can see his emotional journey being played out before our eyes.

He manages to pin down the feelings of the traveller. The first thing is getting used to is tomorrow being another day off. EVERY DAY IS SATURDAY.

It also makes a nonsense of the belief that you can’t go travelling for months on end when you have a husband/wife/partner/kids/great job/no job. You can, you’ve just convinced yourself you can’t possibly and the world would collapse around your ankles if you did.

On from that, it blows away any idea that you can’t do it for a long, long time.

Has that worried you all? Thought it might do. I AM coming home, promise.

A lot of people have said to me that they envy what I’m doing and wish that they could. Well…why can’t you? Seriously, what is really stopping you?

The film finished and as the lights went up we looked around at each other and tried not to speak to each other. Odd, but it was all because of one scene in the film where travellers tell Silva-Bragg just how bored they are of asking people who they are, where they’re from, where they’re going, where they’ve been and how long they’re away for. The 5 questions vital to hostel life.

I broke the silence with a simple message:

“There’s free cake if you want it. It’s my birthday. Anyone fancy a pint?”

Luckily some did, and I didn’t have to resort to plan B of going down the petrol station and asking the guy who works there.

The only photo taken that night. Look at me. I'm 31! Christ...

That’s me and an Aussie guy called Steve and Janis, who’s from Calgary in Canada. We’re in the Blue Moon. More beer?? Yes please! There was another bloke with us called John, plus a 21-year-old from Newfoundland who’d hitch-hiked all the way and didn’t mind sleeping in shop doorways. Now he was the real deal traveller. He barely carried any bags, just roamed the land while he could. He’d already hitched 4000 miles. He was a dude.

John was another story all together and I wish I’d got him on tape. A middle-aged man he was back in the country to visit his kids. He lived in South America. Why? Because he was so disgusted with his country when they elected George W Bush as President that he left the USA as a political refugee. He’d held his values and morals so closely, he upped sticks and pissed off. Brilliant. Why can’t more people respond to their disgust with the current situation by actually DOING something? He may have been a bit odd, but he wasn’t moaning about life and how the country was getting him down. He’d just gone.

But enough of these crazies…!

I ended up chatting away with Steve and Janis and having a great time. Everyone made my birthday a very good night indeed. I had been dreading it in many ways, but my friends (new, old, random, far away, close-by, hitch-hiking Canadians) made it great. Thanks.