Whistle Stop USA

Final Port

2009-08-29T10:07:00.000-07:00

Everything’s independent in Portland. It’s a predominantly young town, with many of the residents we meet having migrated here from all over the country. It has a well-known music scene and there are many young chefs posting imaginative menus in their fashionable up-and-coming restaurants. Of the city’s fiercely independently run businesses, our hotel is one of the most interesting. The White Eagle is a former brothel and apparently the most haunted building in the Pacific Mid-West. Enthusiastic tour guides traipse up and down our stairs encouraging their customers to take ‘spirit readings’ of the hallways. Needles flick and eyebrows raise as the tour guides exclaim, for the sixth time today, that they have never seen ghostly activity levels so high as they are now.

After a night spent untroubled by ghosts and a morning getting our bearings around town, we go to Clyde Commons for lunch. Our tip-off comes courtesy of Mr Colin Meloy, who rapturously gushed about this place to us a few weeks ago in Detroit. Claire has a simple tomato and ricotta pasta dish, which is beautifully fresh and clean on the palate. Guy goes for a pork terrine sandwich, with pepper jelly and apricot preserve. The sweetness of the jam contrasts beautifully with the salty pork and pistachio and the coarse textures are We decide on a whim to go to a concert at the Wonder Ballroom. Bat For Lashes, the moniker assumed by Brighton singer/songwriter Natasha Khan, puts on an other-worldly show with wolfish howling at the moon and a collection of songs that draw from a long tradition of esoteric folk-influenced British pop music.

In the months leading up to our trip across America, our friends and families warned us that we would be returning with rather increased body fat percentages. So far this prophecy is yet to be fulfilled, though not through lack of trying on Guy’s part. However, upon entering Voodoo Doughnuts, we feel Judgement Day to be upon us. We are drawn to a wondrous glass cabinet, its rotating levels piled high with inventive examples of fried-dough wizardry. We feel we must partake in a Voodoo delight in honour of our favourite druid priest, John T. Martin, and purchase Voodoo dolls, complete with a pretzel speared through it’s icing heart and oozing red-jelly blood.

Our blood-sugar increased, we now have the energy to climb an infinite staircase. The Portland Museum of Art is showing an exhibition on M.C. Escher, the mathematical-minded illusionist famous for his impossible architectural designs and morphing tessellations. We’re drawn to his Darwinist evolutions from abstract shapes to living creatures and are particularly fond of a piece called Liberation.

Portland is full of mobile food carts representing a wide range of cuisines. We notice a Czech stand that looks particularly delicious. We opt for snitchzelwiches, fried, breaded chicken breast in hearty ciabatta rolls with a smear of horseradish sauce that blows our heads off.

Our travels are finally drawing to a close and an eagerly anticipated week on the beach in Tulum, Mexico awaits us. The past five weeks have been some of the most memorable of our lives. The cultural diversity we have seen throughout America has been staggering. The train journeys have allowed us to see vast expanses of the country that are largely unspoilt, from the plains of Texan deserts to the snow-peaked mountains overlooking dense Oregon forestry. The food we have sampled has been equally varied, we’re keen to bring the soul food of New Orleans and the cream pie of Boston back to our kitchens. The company we have kept across the states has been infinitely friendly, and we’d like to thank everyone for their generosity in letting us stay with them. It’s been wonderful to spend time with the family that we don’t get to see very often and meeting new friends along the way.

Currently reading:

'The Grapes of Wrath' by John Steinbeck

Bay Pride

2009-08-29T09:04:00.000-07:00

The people in San Francisco are proud of their city. Within minutes of arriving in the city our cab driver, Larry, is excitedly pulling over to point out the views and best places to take photos. He was born in San Fran, and has no doubt in his mind that it is America‘s greatest city. He gives us a map which he has doodled all over, circling the places we have to visit. “You guys won’t wanna leave, everybody loves San Francisco!”, he assures us as he skilfully manoeuvres the taxi down the ‘most crooked street in the world’, stopping at the end for us to take a picture.

We begin our first morning with a walk, as the town seems more accessible to the pedestrian than L.A.. We soon find ourselves at the Golden Gate bridge, shrouded in mist. San Francisco is the coldest place we have been on our trip, and our jeans and hoodies are dug from the depths of our travel bags. Still, the walking is pleasant, and we keep warm by striding up the vertiginous hills of the city, which leave us panting for breath but surrounded by some spectacular views. We pass the Palace of Fine Arts, a mysterious collection of columns, domes and reliefs that is in the Romantic style but rather obviously created in the early part of the 20th century. Its grandeur and imposing size feel slightly out of place among the cable cars and dog boutiques of the surrounds, but it is nonetheless an impressive architectural marvel and charming in its own way.

The Green Apple book store is on our map of places to visit. A cavernous labyrinth of used paperbacks greets us, which we spend an hour or two perusing at our leisure. We start to get hungry, and with no tip-offs for good restaurants in the area, we use Guy’s nose as a guide. It leads us to another Korean BBQ joint. The hostess takes a liking to Claire and brings us big bowls of spicy tofu soup and twelve miniature plates of different Korean foods to sample, on-the-house. These include fried tiny fish, kim chee and what we believed to be jellied eel. Our barbequed beef comes with big helpings of sticky white rice to mop up the sauce. Although the meat is slightly less tender than at the L.A. restaurant, the interesting and unusual side dishes are delicious and it is fun trying to decide their contents.

To work off our heavy lunch we take a walk up Telegraph Hill in search of some unusual wildlife. Way back in Cambridge Michelle lent us a book that she thought we would find interesting, written by a man that had come to feed and befriend an ever-growing flock of wild parrots that live in San Francisco. Only about a foot in length, the majority of their feathers a bright rainforest green with only a patch of fiery red head feathers, the flock of cherry-headed conures (and the occasional blue-crowned conure) has been around for years. It’s likely that the flock is made up mostly of birds that were once wild and captured for the pet trade, a few of them managing to escape. They’ve adapted to breed and survive well in San Francisco, and have become a huge tourist attraction. We’re not disappointed after our long trek up the hill, as we spot a few parrots hanging upside-down playfully in some shrubs, others feasting away on berries and flower blossoms. They squawk and chatter to themselves loudly and constantly, so they’re easy to find.
Down on Fisherman’s Wharf we see the seaside tourist area of the city. One place of interest is the Mechanical Museum, where we see the whirring cogs and peeling painted wood of old-fashioned penny arcade amusements. Fortune tellers with roving glassy eyes, moving Wild West dioramas and lenticular views of the 1935 World Fair are all soliciting for quarters. It’s unusual to see such an anachronistic tourist trap, very different from the Hard Rock Cafés and Planet Hollywoods that we have seen so many of on our travels.

There’s a lot to discover in San Francisco simply by trudging up and down its hilly streets and it’s easy to see why its residents hold so much pride in their unique and consistently surprising city.

Currently reading:

'Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill' by Mark Bittner

An ocean's garbled vomit on the shore? Los Angeles, I'm yours

2009-08-28T09:32:00.000-07:00

Two interlinked accusations are commonly levelled at L.A: firstly, it’s just a movie town, and secondly, it’s full of phonies. Although we stay just a day in the City of Angels, and are thus not qualified to make a definitive judgement on whether these finger-thrusts are justified, we kind-of sort-of maybe agree. Our hotel, The Cecil, is a prime sample of evidence to support the latter. The lobby is grand and Victorian, with marble floors and bellboys to open the gilded iron doors for us. Our room on the 12 floor is a miniscule heat trap, with cigarette burned sheets and a black-and-white TV. The building’s interior and exterior do not fit. In short, this place is Holden Caulfield‘s nightmare.

As lovers of film, we decide that it is imperative to see a movie in the medium’s holy land. And the temple at it’s centre? Sunset Boulevard’s Dome Cinerama. A dramatically curved screen bends around the sphere that we sit inside, while the building’s shape results in perhaps the greatest acoustics ever to accompany a ‘talky’. We are watching Quentin Tarantino’s ‘Inglourious Basterds’, which is extremely eagerly anticipated by Guy particularly. He loves the filmmaker’s focus on minutiae, the pop culture allusions and the lack of reverence for trifling historical accuracy. The movie does not disappoint, its humour surpassing that of Tarantino’s earlier works.

In an attempt to get to grips with some of ‘real L.A.’ we visit the Korean district, which is untainted by Scientologist churches and tanning salons. We eat at Soot Bull Jeep, a restaurant dedicated to barbeque, Korean style. In the middle of every table a grill is embedded, which is fuelled by vast quantities of charcoal. We order marinated beef, and it comes raw and in very thin slices. The hot grill cooks the meat in merely a couple of minutes, and we eat it with fresh lettuce, bowls of spicy cold noodles, and pak choi. The meat’s marinade is very sweet and salty, full of sugar and soy sauce, while the beef itself is perhaps the most tender steak we have ever eaten. The experience of cooking it ourselves is also fun, as our four weeks away from the kitchen feel like a very long time.

Part of our lack of love for the city is due to it really not being a walker’s town. It is incredibly spread out with a less than extensive public transport system. This obviously makes it hard to get a view of the city as a whole. Despite this, we find a couple of great stores. Amoeba Records is the world’s largest independently owned record store. It’s a two story behemoth of an indie, with a used section that is both extremely well-stocked and well-priced. Among other things, Guy picks up an out-of-print collaboration EP between Animal Collective, a Brooklyn noise-pop outfit, and 70s British folk icon, Vashti Bunyan. We also find a gay-run thrift store, called what else but ‘Out of the Closet’. Fun shirts run to a mere two bucks. Although we’ve enjoyed other places much more than Los Angeles, we still had an excellent day here. L.A. is the quintessential movie city, but that can be no bad thing. Just watch out for those phony hotels.

Currently reading:
'Less Than Zero' by Bret Easton Ellis

Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!

2009-08-24T01:03:00.000-07:00

The 40 hour train journey from Austin to Los Angeles was dreaded and feared. For weeks leading up to our trip, parents and other relatives were shocked at the sheer length of it. Anxious aunties tried to persuade us to upgrade to a sleeper coach, but sadly we were not prepared to part with the extra $414. Finally the train pulls into its terminus and we gingerly step onto the platform, blinking in the sunlight and wobbling on unpractised legs… And immediately board another train.

This one considerably shorter (a mere 2 hours and 40 minutes), takes us to San Diego, location of the world famous zoo. Claire is in a state of hyperactive excitement, like that of a small child on a sugar high. Almost every city we’ve passed through has offered the temptation of a zoo, but we’ve resisted, saving ourselves for San Diego. Ever since a childhood trip to the local museum in Exeter, displaying a temporary exhibit on the plight of Asiatic black bears (more commonly known as moon bears), Claire has held a particular fondness for members of the ursine family. However, as bears are less commonly found in zoos in the UK, her interaction and knowledge of them is limited. So, with seven different kinds awaiting her at San Diego Zoo, her excitement is justified.

The koala, often mistaken for a member of the bear family

Upon arrival, we are given a large map that doesn’t fail to both impress and overwhelm us. The zoo is monstrous. Claire briefly panics that we won’t be able to see everything we want to see. Guy remains the calm, grown-up presence and suggests that we start with the guided bus tour to get a feel for the entire layout. The timing is lucky, as we experience what is probably San Diego’s entire rainfall for the year whilst sheltered inside the bus. Our tour guide is incredibly knowledgeable, passing many of the enclosures we intend to visit, offering the best times to get good views of the likes of lions, tigers and fearsome koalas.

We head first to see the polar bears where we are lucky to find one roaming around the enclosure whilst his friend takes a lazy nap. 8 foot tall and over 700lbs, the resident male is nothing short of awe-inspiring. His slow movements, muscled legs as thick as tree trunks resonate with sheer power. His shaggy coat is damp from a recent swim, his fur the yellow shade of pages torn from an old paperback, not the milky moonlit white one would expect from postcards and plush toys. The enclosure at first seems impressive - large, rocky, uneven terrain with logs to tear up and a deep pool to swim in, the edge of which is lined with glass for zoo-goers to peer in as though underwater. After watching the beautiful bear for some time though, we notice he paces the same route over and over, a sure sign of stress most likely caused by boredom. Often the case at zoos, we find ourselves unsure whether or not to be happy for the animals, and feel a little guilty at watching them for our own pleasure when they are clearly not as happy as they could be. The enclosure is certainly not what we would consider small, but perhaps when you’re a beast that size, built to walk for hundreds of miles over the icy tundra and maul at least one huge seal per week, it might not seem that challenging an environment. Still, the polar bears serve to educate the masses and conserve their species through breeding programs, and the long lists of adopters donating money to their protection in the wild softens the initial sadness. If only they had something more to do than just wait around for feeding time every day. No one is suggesting throwing a live seal in there (imagine the activist uproar!), but perhaps giving them the opportunity to fish as they may do in the wild would encourage some more natural behaviours. The buckets of fish they receive daily are no doubt welcomed with open paws, but the pile of carrots looks barely touched.

Many of the other bears we visit seem comfortable enough, dozing lazily in the cool afternoon air, probably glad to have a little break from the usual Californian heat. The spectacled bears are curled up in bundles of straw, brown bears dozing on rocks and sloth bears certainly living up to their names, having at least 40 winks in their caves. In the grizzly enclosure however, more seems to be going on. We first see what appears to be only half a bear. Greatly resembling the front end of Winnie the Pooh, stuck in the entrance to Rabbit’s house after consuming copious amounts of ‘hunny’, one of the ursus arctos horribilis protrudes happily from what must be a rather deep hole she has dug herself in the dirt. We’re not the only ones interested in her behaviour it seems, as another grizzly emerges lazily from a cave and approaches the situation. She can’t be stuck, as he makes no move to help pull her out, so instead they share an adorable snuggle, rubbing noses and pawing at one another affectionately. A photo opportunity to die for. The romantic atmosphere doesn’t last long mind, as the cuddle ends and the curious bear points his rear end in our direction and poops just for us before returning to bed.

Next we encounter the sun bears, considerably smaller than the rest of their relatives, only a metre or so in length. Their sleek black fur is splashed only with the unique yellowish marking on their chest that gives them their name. The sun bears are the most playful characters we have come across today. We witness two slightly smaller cubs clambering up a twisted log climbing frame to battle playfully with their mother, sat on the highest perch. They’re surprisingly graceful, walking in a tightrope fashion across thin logs with short lumbering legs. They look as though they’re playing Gladiators, trying to knock one another off, though we notice that if anyone does being to lose their balance mama bear is quick to steady them with a well placed paw or a clamping of teeth around the scruff of a neck.

With having such good luck at sightings so far, we’re not holding much hope in seeing the seventh bear, known for being elusive. Famously shy, the pandas aren’t on public display throughout the whole day, as to maintain the lowest stress levels possible. Towards the end of the day we queue up for a viewing, our fingers crossed. We enter a strict quiet zone and are informed that a several week old baby is being nursed by its mother in the Panda Research Centre next door, not to be displayed for four or five months. With pandas so close to extinction this is obviously fantastic news and explains the high security. We tread quietly deeper into the viewing area, and a mere five or so metres in front of us sits the grand Su Lin, born in captivity at the zoo four years ago. She sits just as you would expect a panda to be sitting, fat rump on the ground and surrounded by delicious bamboo, munching away continuously. She seems completely undisturbed by our presence, a large group of camera-clad fans gaping at her in wonder, as she nonchalantly splits a stick of bamboo as thick as a didgeridoo down the middle with impressive ease. It’s a quiet, magical experience to see a beautiful creature, unaware how close to extinction her kind is, pleasantly enjoying her meal in clear comfort.

Currently reading:
'Among Grizzlies' by Timothy Treadwell

Gotham City

2009-08-24T00:38:00.001-07:00

The row of people silhouetted along the Congress Street bridge begin to point and we see the flashes of various cameras. Peering out from behind the trees we see the cause of their excitement, as Austin’s colony of 1.5 million bats flood out from their nests under the bridge the moment the sun dips behind the skyline. We hear a symphony of high pitch squeaks and the beating of tiny wings as the group set off to consume a collective 10 tonnes of insects in this night alone. When the last of the bats spread out into the night, we set off to consume a collective one large plate of barbeque ribs. Fried lady fingers and candied sweet potato mash accompany the meat, along with a side plate dedicate to several varieties of pickle.

Our motel is situated in South Congress (SoCo), an area that is lined with fun vintage clothes stores and tex-mex restaurants with big neon signs outside. It’s a great place to just loiter without particular purpose and we spend a couple of hours buying silly sunglasses and pricing up taxidermied armadillos. It’s apparently the hottest Texan summer since 1969, the summer of love. Bearing this in mind, we feel lucky that our motel has an outside pool to swim some lengths in. Guy consumes his weight in chicken fajitas at the Magnolia Café, which come with refried beans, avocado and tomato salsa, cheese and sour cream. The food is so good that we return for breakfast tacos the next morning, with a shortstack of buttermilk pancakes on the side.

We visit the State Capitol, which is larger than that seen in Washington, D.C. and learn about the XIT ranch and the birth of the cowboy. Aside from these quintessentially “Texan” tourist activities, Austin doesn’t fit with our preconceptions about the state. Most people are young and open-minded, and the city is full of musicians lugging their guitars around. We learn later that Austin is known as a ‘blue island in a red state’, and perhaps it is also this political swing that makes us feel so comfortable here. What’s more, bats are cool.

Currently reading:

'No Country for Old Men' by Cormac McCarthy

Snakes on a Boat

2009-08-23T09:02:00.000-07:00

“Okay guys, let me just get one thing straight right now.” Captain Ted shuts off the engine to gain our full attention and the boat drifts lazily through a narrow passage of the bayou, tall grass leaning in to touch us. “Now, there are a lotta big trees in our way, an’ I’m liable to bump into a few of ‘em. If I do, and a snake falls into the boat,” (we freeze and share a terrified glance) “you just gotta get outta it’s way, and leave it t’me. I don’t want no heroes goin’ after no snake.” Captain Ted doesn’t have to worry, we certainly won’t be going anywhere near no snakes if we can help it. “But,” (oh no, there’s a ‘but’) “if a snake falls outta tree and into your lap, then it’s your responsibility t’fling it back out into the swamp.” Guy sinks back into his seat, wishing he’d opted to wear anything but shorts. Satisfied that his back is covered in the event of any snake attacks, Captain Ted switches the engine back on and veers the boat under a canopy of Spanish moss, keeping his eyes peeled for alligators.

We arrived in New Orleans the afternoon before and made our way to the buzzing French Quarter. Our hotel is in a prime location just off of the famous, crazy Bourbon Street, packed with hopping bars and clubs. When we arrive the nightlife is already well underway, and just gets wilder as the evening draws in. We head out for an explore and our first taste of Southern cuisine. Away from boozy Bourbon Street, little French Quarter roads are lined with quirky vintage stores, flea markets and spooky hideaways to purchase Voodoo charms. The elegant horse-drawn carriages that we admired in NYC’s Central Park are replaced with quaint, rickety carts, pulled by stubborn long-eared mules, that suit the bumpy roads and crumbly, Spanish architecture. Passing the ever-present row of mystical fortune tellers on Jackson Square, we find an enticing little restaurant called Fiorella’s. The menu is overwhelming so deciding on our first Southern meal is a difficult task. We end up starting with a basket of delicious strips of fried chicken breast, coated in a crispy, spicy batter. For a main, Claire enjoys a bowl of rice surrounded by a generous moat of Cajun shrimp and crawfish gumbo. Guy’s opted for the New Orleans signature sandwich, the Po’Boy. The bread it’s served on alone is tremendous, at least a foot long and 5 inches wide. It’s stuffed with about 15 deep-fried shrimp, yet they still serve it with fries for anyone that might still be hungry after tackling it.

Full, we head back to our hotel and crash, ready to face ‘gators in the morning. We’re picked up by a ‘Cajun Encounters’ van, where our driver René (no relation to the lawbreaker) takes us out to Honey Island Swamp, first taking a detour through an area that suffered severe devastation four years ago at the hand of Hurricane Katrina. A couple houses have been fixed up since, but most still look today like they did four years ago with only the foundations remaining. The area is eerily quiet, and goes on for at least 150 miles. Our brief tour has a huge impact, and we find ourselves moved, suddenly in the middle of the area we remember watching on the news thousands of miles away.

At Honey Island Swamp we’re greeted by one of our favourite characters, Captain Ted, born and raised a Cajun in the swamps. He’s full of passion and knowledge, and eager to pass it on to us. We’re of course apprehensive rather early on with the warning of snakes, and find ourselves ever watchful for them slithering about. Over 20 different kinds in the swamp, 4 of which have a poisonous bite, one being the Water Moccasin (we seem to remember there being rumours of one slinking around Walden Pond, Michele and Ian?!), the only snake able to bite prey whilst still underwater. We stay vigilant, but are soon captivated by other wonders of the swamp, namely the various sized alligators. Captain Ted attracts them to the boat by flinging marshmallows to them. He tells us that it’s illegal to feed an alligator meat in front of people or children without a license, as it will become aggressive and expect more, putting anyone nearby in a considerable amount of danger. While skimming marshmallows out across the murky water, and into a set of vice-like jaws, Captain Ted tells us that the alligator doesn’t taste anything it eats until it’s passed through the oesophagus into the stomach. Sugar is dissolved immediately in the oesophagus though, so it never reaches the stomach to be tasted. The gator ends up unaware that he’s eaten anything at all, but still goes for the next tempting ‘mallow. If it’d been a hunk of meat on the other hand, he’d literally try to bite the hand that fed him.

With appetites like gators, we head back into the French Quarter to devour blackened catfish at Magnolia’s Café and sample Southern soul food at The Praline Connection: deep-fried crab meat, collard greens, cornbread, mayonnaise drenched potato salad. We’re finished off by pudding - a nutty, fudge-like slab of praline made on the premises. We eat incredibly well in New Orleans, for the least amount of money that we have spent on food on our journey so far.
In addition to it’s mouth-watering Cajun food, New Orleans is also famous for being a centre of the Voodoo practice. We visit a tiny museum dedicated to the religion. The curator, John t. Martin, proudly boasts his warlock abilities and status as a high priest of Voodoo, having performed a fiery ritual when he was only 26 years old. As he and his business cards attest (accompanied by a fetching studio portrait of John with a python) he is also a druid, and claims to be the only white man able to talk with snakes. We’re fascinated by him. Pleased to see us hanging off his every word, he continues to tell us tales of his pet snakes, one of which is currently ‘having a timeout’ due to coming into her mating season, and having eyes only for John. The second he claims to be 26 feet long and as thick as an oak tree around, able to open doors (with his tail?) and likely to attack burglars. Long before this point in the conversation, we realise our polite enthusiasm has awakened John’s sense of hyperbole. The museum itself consists of two small rooms lined with voodoo dolls and paintings of Marie Laveau, the famous New Orleans Voodoo Queen.

We head back to our hotel to prepare for the next train journey, and find ourselves looking out for snakes in the street as we had done in the swamp. Just in case John wasn’t joking - if it can open doors then it could be out for an evening slither up Bourbon Street…

Currently reading:

'The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn' by Mark Twain

Two Kings

2009-08-16T16:11:00.000-07:00

Our self-proclaimed redneck cab driver, Bill, peers over our shoulder at the free Memphis city map. “Well,” he says in a soft Tennessee drawl, scratching his head under his cap, “yer hotel is somewhere around here.” He jabs a finger down on our little map, completely on the opposite side to the Amtrak station. “It’s about 20-30 miles away, that’s a fair walk!” He laughs gruffly, picking up our backpacks and leading the way out to his cab for an inevitably necessary fare. Disheartened by the distance, we hop in the cab and try to plan our day. Bill asks us if we’re going to Graceland, home of the King. We are. Most probably go, it’s easily Memphis’ hugest tourist attraction. Hearing that we’re Elvis fans, Bill takes a liking to us, and decides that we’d save money going out there first. It’s only 7:00am anyway, and the hotel probably wouldn’t even let us check in yet.

We’re not at Graceland long before we realise why booking a hotel for one night in Memphis this time of year was so difficult, and we ended up somewhere nearly off the map. Turns out that it’s ‘Death Week’, in which the number of tourists massively increases to pay their respects on the anniversary of the King’s death. We learn that in a few days, he’ll have been gone for 32 years. Waiting for the mansion to open, we follow hoards of fans to the Meditation Garden, where Elvis lies alongside his mother, father and grandmother. Hundreds of tributes crowd the walkway to the garden, all handmade and donated by the King’s innumerable fan clubs. We’re overwhelmed by the sheer number of them, let alone the borderline creepy-obsessive messages that some of them display. The crowd starts to bulk up a little as we near the procession of graves, and upon sight of them you can immediately tell which one belongs to Elvis Aaron Presley. It’s positioned in the middle, surrounded by flowers, teddy bears, photographs, statuettes, letters. We’re unable to read the words on his gravestone for all the tributes covering them. People are knelt before him, some heads appear bowed in prayer, others kiss their finger tips before reaching out to touch the cold stone. We both watch on in confused wonder at something we don’t fully understand; we were born in the wrong generation to understand. We weave our way through weeping groups of men and women in their matching fan club t-shirts, towards the Graceland mansion for our tour.

The house itself appears smaller than we had imagined on the outside, but the inside boasts expensive, was-probably-modern-at-the-time taste. We peer in Elvis’s parents bedroom at the purple velvet curtains and matching sheets. We wander through Elvis’s kitchen where most of the fatty foods that aided his fatal heart attack were once prepared. In his TV room we’re bemused by the mirrored ceiling and the hideous giant white porcelain monkey sitting on the table. We pass through the famous jungle room, with green shag carpeting lining the floor, walls and ceiling. Elvis’s personal quarters are upstairs, which our audio tour guide tells us is ‘out-of-bounds as a sign of respect. Elvis would never entertain company upstairs’, and it didn’t look like he was going to start now. Claire admitted to feeling a little cheated, having genuinely assumed that the toilet the King supposedly had his fatal heart attack on would be part of the tour.
We pass through the Hall of Gold, where hundreds of awards line the walls, and Elvis’s most famous costumes are displayed in glass cases. We learn of Elvis’s charity work, and see many cheques, each for at least $1000 framed and hung upon the walls, alongside photos of Elvis giving benefit concerts. He genuinely appeared to be a good, wholesome guy. After we walk through the five gift stores that conclude the tour, we hop on a bus heading to downtown Memphis, having had a fun morning but eager to get away from the madness.

The other main reason that we’re in Memphis is to visit is the Civil Rights Museum. We learn about the US civil rights movement over the last 200 years, which, living in the UK is mostly new information to us. Not only are historic artefacts from the movement exhibited, such as ‘I am a man’ placards from the sanitation workers strikes in Memphis, but also horrible reminders of American racial attitudes in the last century, including KKK paraphernalia. The exhibits are interesting and well thought out, we walk on to an old bus, and upon sitting in the front rows near a mannequin of Rosa Parks, we trigger shouts of abuse from the bus driver, insisting that all black people must sit at the rear of the vehicle. We can only begin to imagine the sort of humiliation a person would be feeling in that situation, and within minutes we’re informed that if we’d sat in those front seats any longer we would have been arrested.

The Museum is built on the site that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot in 1968, the Lorraine Hotel, while preparing for a rally. There we watch a short documentary, ‘The Witness’ which features interviews with first-hand witnesses of the assassination. We learn that the hotel proprietor’s wife was so shocked to see Dr. King’s lifeless body on the balcony outside that she had a heart attack and died. Just the night before, Dr. King gave his famous ‘Mountaintop’ speech in a local church, in which he spoke of the promised land of racial equality that his people would see, even if he would not.

Of greatest impact is standing in room 306, the room in which the great man was staying before emerging onto the balcony. We also stand in the dingy bathroom of a building across the street from which the assassin took his single shot. There is still controversy surrounding the identity of the shooter, and many believe the then mayor of Memphis or higher powers such as the FBI to have been involved. It’s a particularly humbling experience having stood on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial just days earlier where Dr. King delivered the ‘I Have a Dream‘ speech.

There is not even 10 years in between the deaths of the two Kings; one known for bringing fun and happiness, the other desperately trying to bring his people freedom, and their memorials couldn’t be more different. Elvis has a busy gravestone, suffocated with fussy flower arrangements from self-aggrandising fan clubs, while all that marks the site where Martin Luther King, Jr. fell is a single elegant wreath, the concrete slab on which his blood spilled long replaced. We know with which King we would lie our single rose.

Currently reading:
'To Kill a Mockingbird' by Harper Lee

Where's the Beef?

2009-08-16T15:23:00.000-07:00

Our two-day sojourn in Chicago is blighted by our stinky clothes. After several unsuccessful attempts to find a Laundromat in various U.S. cities, we have reached critical mass. The washing machines across the street from our hostel in Greektown are slow while the dryers are entirely incompetent. Our time in the Windy City thus compromised (should have just hung our clothes out of a window to dry…) we decide to take a break from hitting the museums and instead get our Chicago kicks from exploring and eating.

A meal in Greektown turns out to be worthwhile. We start with a huge platter of squid, grilled with garlic and lemon juice, followed by Greek meatballs and moussaka, a layered vegetable dish with plenty of cheese. As will be the case with all the food we end up eating here, it is incredibly filling but very good.

The ‘el’, Chicago’s elevated metro system, seems as good a way to see the city as any, so we ride around the loop admiring the urban architecture. Barr the ugly, domineering Seer’s Tower (recently renamed the Willis Tower after a new owner, and still more recently nicknamed ‘The Big Willy’ by the locals), the skyline here feels more cohesive, as the buildings mostly share a similar aesthetic, unlike the competition for sky of the diverse range of styles seen in the New York skyscrapers.

We stroll through Millennium Park, which is filled with shiny metal sculptures and a big stage on which we watch some jazz in the sun and catch up on our holiday reading. One of our main reasons for visiting Chicago is in order to sample the local food. We first check out deep dish pizza at the famous Pizzeria Uno. It’s a long wait for food, as the restaurant is one of the city’s celebrated institutions. When it arrives, the pizza is about two inches thick. The crust is really thick and buttery and filled with rich melted cheese. On top we have sausage, pepperoni , tomato, mushrooms and peppers. We order a small pizza to share, yet it still bests us both. Guy ends up finishing it for breakfast the following morning. We also go to Portillo’s for Italian Beef. Claire is still full from her single slice of last night’s pizza and passes up the beef, so Guy has to eat for two, determined not to be defeated by two meals in one city. Unlike cheesesteak, which is cooked very quickly on a hot flame, Italian Beef is slow cooked with herbs and so ends up with more moisture. It comes in a sub with fiery hot chillies which burn Guy’s lips but are still consumed with haste. As we have a Memphis train to catch, this occurs at a run whilst carrying all our travelling gear. We get to Union station just in time, and hop aboard the double-decker Amtrak train. As it pulls out of the station, we are treated to the sight of the sun going down behind the high-rise skyline and our full bellies aid us in sleeping ‘til reaching Tennessee.

Currently listening to:
‘Illinoise’ by Sufjan Stevens

Calling all bedwetters and ambulance chasers

2009-08-13T14:46:00.000-07:00

The Hazards of Love are a lot like the hazards of travelling. As we stand on the front row inside the Royal Oak Music Theatre, we find an eerie number of parallels between the story told in The Decemberists’ epic concept record which is being joyously retold in full on the stage in front of us, and the trans-continental journey on which we continue. For the dense woodland of the taiga in which the story takes place, we have the expanse of trees surrounding Walden Pond. For the jealous and powerful forest queen, we have a group of New York Yankees fans belligerently remarking on our Red Sox tote bag. For the cruel and abducting rake, we have a broken down Greyhound bus stranding us on a Maine freeway. For the shape-shifting fawn, we have Fred the pug. The hazards are treacherous indeed.

Tonight, these two strands alchemically combine and we find ourselves watching The Decemberists live in concert just outside of Detroit, in between our stops of D.C. and Chicago. We’re here with Jill, Chris and Lisa, fellow followers of the D’s. After spending the morning meandering between the various coffee houses and vintage stores that Royal Oak offers up to us, we start the queue. Our companions are equally as enthused and have seen over thirty Decemberists shows between them. Later we are joined by Julianne and Benny, a couple of first time D’s-show-goers who are hoping to hear some material from the band’s second album, Her Majesty. Expectantly, we all await the evening’s performance.

The Hazards of Love tour, which our show is a date on, is comprised of two sets by The Decemberists, the first of which features a full run through of the album of the same name. As the prelude begins and the first minor key notes from Jenny Conlee’s organ fill the beautiful, tiered old theatre, all tiredness from our previous night’s fourteen-hour train journey dissipates. Touring with The Decemberists on The Hazards of Love tour are the two diamonds, Becky Stark and Shara Worden, whose contrasting vocal styles add depth and character to the story. The band’s second set is comprised of songs plucked from their first four albums, and the selections don’t disappoint. At one point, Colin Meloy dedicates a song to ‘those people that have come from very far away to be here, which we really appreciate’, while pointedly looking at us in the front row. We had bumped into him prior to the gig and explained how our trip had been planned to fit around tonight’s show, and we are gratified by the dedication. We have such a good time at the show, dancing and singing along. The second set list was:

California One/Youth and Beauty Brigade
The Sporting Life
Yankee Bayonet
The Bachelor and the Bride
The Calamity Song
Dracula’s Daughter
O, Valencia!
Crazy on You (cover of Heart song)
Eli the Barrow Boy
Sons and Daughters

After the theatre empties, we hang out outside the venue to discuss the show. Colin and the band’s guitarist, Chris are pleased that our trip finishes in Portland, Oregon, and send us away with a ton of food and activity recommendations which we will certainly take advantage of. The rest of the band are also extremely warm and friendly towards us and they mill around, chatting with us for a couple of hours and generally making us feel less like fans than friends. Lisa then drives us to East Lansing, where Jill and Chris are kindly putting us up for the night so we can get a couple of hours sleep before a morning train to Chicago, a change in time zone and a return to the hazards of travelling...

Currently listening to:

'The Hazards of Love' by The Decemberists

Got capital?

2009-08-13T13:45:00.000-07:00

The first thing we do in America’s capital city, Washington D.C., is go to a bar. We’re with Guy’s cousin Emma who has been living here in the sector for around a year and working in the National Gallery. There are a ton of great drinking spots and restaurants here, so we head to a European-run place where we’re served tall, cold, huge glasses of German wheat beer. This is particularly well-received by us after a long day where we first take a greyhound from NYC to Philadelphia, hang out there for a while, then get another bus to D.C. Philly was a fun place, with food markets spilling out into the street and wonderful cheesesteak (which was only $6 for an over-a-foot-long sandwich cooked to order in front of us at a joint called Pat’s). The imported beer is the best we’ve drunk on the trip so far, and we sleep very well that evening.

The following morning we visit a farmer’s market where we eat massive chocolate and almond pastries from a French stand. Fully loaded up with food, we go into the historic centre of D.C. where we start checking out the sights and also meet up with Emma’s dad, Dave, and her brother, Miles (Guy’s uncle and cousin). It is an incapacitatingly hot day, and even the disgustingly scummy reflecting pool looks invitingly refreshing. It’s overlooked by the Lincoln Memorial, the site of historic speeches given by MLK and er.. Forest Gump. We also see the Vietnamese and Korean War memorials, which are extremely different but both moving. The former is a series of long black marble slabs etched with the names of fallen soldiers, while the latter is comprised of a group of statues of American soldiers surrounded by bush.

We break for lunch at Teaism, an Asian restaurant where we order bento boxes, full of panko-fried chicken, sticky white rice, Asian slaw and grilled sweet potatoes. It is absolutely delicious, as are the tempura-battered broccoli and shitake mushrooms. It’s fun to catch up with Miles, especially as Guy hasn’t seen him for around eight years. We all then go to the National Museum of air and Space where we see the Wright brothers’ original plane, Charles Lindberg’s ‘Spirit of St. Louis’ and a lunar rover. Pleased for an air-conditioned break, we take a relaxing drive around the vast number of embassies in the area, where we compare how well the architectural styles reflect the cultural personalities of they countries they represent. Oftentimes, there is little relation, as evidenced by the dull and ugly Italian embassy. Knowing the Italians, we expect that the quality of food served there at diplomatic receptions to be of a much higher standard than the façade of their embassy.

We dine at an Ethiopian restaurant near Emma’s house. Our food is brought on a single giant platter, on which lies a two-feet-in-diameter circular doughy flatbread. On top of that are little piles of spicy lamb, lentils and raw minced beef. No plates or culinary are provided, so we tear the bread up with our hands and start eating. The flavours are novel but delicious and the experience of eating is a lot of fun. We were not anticipating how good the food would be here, as the city’s culinary culture is perhaps overshadowed by bigger cities such as New York and L.A.

Despite the copious amounts of food we’ve managed to consume throughout the day, we still find room for gelato, made with the milk of Amish cows. With large cups of straciatella, pistachio and intense dark chocolate, it’s the perfect end to the day. Food and family - what else is there?

Currently reading:

'Dreams from my Father' by Barack Obama

No sleep ‘til Brooklyn

2009-08-10T10:57:00.000-07:00

New York is, as everyone knows, a city where the potential activities and things-to-see are limitless. As it is our first time in the world’s most famous city, we find ourselves visiting many of the typical areas frequented by like-minded tourists: we climb the Empire State, we check out the museums, we take a boat trip around the Statue of Liberty. Despite the surplus of American corniness, these celebrated landmarks do not fail to impress. Just like the old adage, ‘You can’t polish a turd’, it is also true that you can’t sully a gem.

The night-time view from New York’s tallest building, a title it was re-awarded after 9/11, is spectacularly lumineferous and well worth the two hour queue. The tour guide provides us with some grizzly facts about the building’s construction, including how one worker looked up an elevator shaft to see if it was nearly at his level. Unfortunately for him, it reached his level rather too quickly and took his peering head along with it. Of the museums, the Museum of Modern Art and the Guggenheim are particularly impressive. At the MOMA we see a temporary exhibition on Surrealist sculpture, including Meret Oppenheim’s teacup covered in animal fur. This had 6 years previously provided Guy with inspiration for a wooden cat with nails for fur, so it was with pleasure that we examined it in person. The Guggenheim is displaying a collection of architectural drawings and models by Frank Lloyd Wright, which presents a 60s utopian vision of the future of city life. The boat trip around Liberty Island is accompanied by the tacky soundtrack from hell - the likes of ‘Can’t Touch This’ and ‘Love Shack’ are pumped out at gargantuan volume across the Hudson River from ‘The Beast’, the speedboat we reluctantly ride. However, the view of the Manhattan skyline is unique.

Our YMCA hostel is in Greenpoint, a primarily Polish district of Brooklyn. The room is comfortable and clean, while the area is full of great diners and bars. While only a 15 minute subway ride into Midtown Manhattan, Brooklyn feels more like a place where you really could live rather than what at times can feel like the world‘s most entertaining theme park.
To somewhat escape the urban bustle, we take a stroll around Central Park. With 843 acres to get lost in, we consult a map to seek out a statue of Balto, one of Claire’s canine heroes. In 1925 a small Alaskan town called Nome suffered an outbreak of diphtheria, which poised to kill an alarming number of children. The nearest source of the antitoxin required to stop the outbreak was almost a thousand miles away in the city of Anchorage. The wintery weather conditions meant that delivery by boat or plane was impossible so the closest the antitoxin could get to Nome was by train to Nenana, still just over 600 miles away. It was decided that the last leg of the antitoxin’s journey was to be a relay of 20 sled dog teams. Balto was the lead sled dog of the second to last trip, experiencing horrific blizzards with whiteout conditions. The awful weather caused the team to miss and completely bypass the last team of dogs, but Balto managed to lead his team double the length their journey should have been, delivering the antitoxin safely to Nome. A majestic bronze statue now stands on one of the maze-like paths in Central Park, honouring Balto and the rest of the sled dogs that saved the small Alaskan town.

The food in New York, is as expected, exotic and delicious. At various times, we eat Mexican chimichangas in Greenwich Village, Peruvian spiced chicken on the upper East Side, and street pretzels in Times Square. All are tasty and very cheap, while the diversity of life in the city means that there are literally hundreds of different types of cuisine to sample.

Our three days in New York come to an end very quickly, and we are left aching for a little more time (as was also the case in Cambridge!). As we keep saying, ‘we’ll just have to come back another time’. Our next full stop is Washington D.C. where we’re looking forward to spending time with more of Guy’s family.

Currently reading:
‘The Catcher in the Rye’ by J. D. Salinger

The Fall-Guy (and Claire)

2009-08-07T18:51:00.001-07:00

We’re overwhelmed by tacky casinos, bizarre wax museums and corny souvenir stores when we step off the coach in Niagara Falls, NY. Tourists come from all over the world to see the famous waterfalls here and their trappings are everywhere. We exchange a sceptical glance before heading off through the bazaar in the weak hopes of finding one of nature’s beauties unspoiled. We grow close enough to the falls to hear them roaring nearby, and thus are bewildered by the number of advertisements for ‘Niagara Falls: The 3D Movie Experience’, which is playing almost within sight of the real thing. Not tempted by the long queues of excited tourist movie-goers, we plod the extra few metres and are awestruck. The volume of water throwing itself roughly over the rocks is immense and no amount of touristy tat can blemish this natural wonder.

We spend the day viewing the falls from various positions (including a brief visit to Canada, equally as junky as the US), though wherever we stand our camera doesn’t seem to do it true justice. The best viewpoint proves to be aboard the Maid of the Mist, a tour boat that takes its blue poncho-clad passengers as close as possible to the bottom of the falls. The Horseshoe Falls are particularly spectacular, as we are almost surrounded by the powerful sheets of tumbling water and explosive waves of spray.

Lunch is a challenge, as we try to avoid the overpriced ‘worldly cuisine’, which seems to be popular. Large buildings house everything from greasy pizza to greasy curries. We settle on a small establishment with the interesting name ‘The Mist Dog Grill’, with an array of around 30 different types of grilled hotdogs for just over $2 each. They come loaded with homemade relish and chopped tomatoes, and are delicious!

To kill time before our 3:45am train to NYC we go to the Four Seasons movie theatre and catch a late showing of Disney Pixar’s ‘Up’. Appropriately the film’s themes include the importance of adventurous travel in meeting new friends. Although we doubt that we’ll come across any crazy, seven-foot, multi-coloured birds or loveable, talking Labrador retrievers, we felt that the film resonated with our own trip.

Thelma, Louise and Grampy

2009-08-04T09:40:00.000-07:00

Guy and Grampy

Our first stop in the state of New York is Rochester, where we visit Grampy. It's a long nine and a half hour Greyhound journey, but at least we get to see some of upstate NY which is very green until you get near the cities such as Albany. Grampy and his lady friend Gretchen take us on a long driven tour of Rochester, where we get to witness some if it's natural beauty that we wouldn't have managed to see on foot. We stop on the banks of Lake Ontario, which is one of the Great Lakes, and 100 miles across in some places. We decide that unlike Walden Pond, we're not up to swimming across this one, and opt for a frozen custard at Abbott's instead.

Abbott's frozen custard store

Frozen custard is very similar to ice cream, but made with the addition of eggs, giving it a creamier flavour. We both enjoy large sundaes, with peanut butter cups, chopped nuts, caramel and whipped cream! We are also driven around the University of Rochester's campus, which is where Grampy taught archeology for 25 years. We end the day with a Thai meal at Grampy, Gretchen and her son Kroum's favourite restaurant.

Kroum, Gretchen and Grampy

After a wonderful day, Grampy drives us back to our hotel. Getting lost along the way we have a brush with the local law enforcers. We notice bright lights flashing behind us and Grampy pulls over. As we roll down the windows, a cop peers in, flashlight sweeping over each of us suspiciously...

Cop: Do you have your license with you, sir?

(Grampy fiddles about for what seems like half an hour to produce his license and hands it over. The cop inspects it.)

Cop: Do you know why I've pulled you over, sir?

(Long pause)

Grampy: Because I changed lanes?

Cop: ...Well, yes, that's one reason. You also ran a red light, sir. You were lucky you didn't get hit.

Grampy: ...Oh.

(The cop checks the license again, then looks at Grampy)

Cop: You're ninety-six years old, sir?

Grampy: No! No, I'm only 88 years old.

Cop: Oh, oh, sorry. I guess I need glasses!

(He laughs. No-body else laughs.)

Cop: Well, I guess I'll letcha off with a warning this time.

Grampy: Thank you, officer.

Cop: Just watch out for those red lights.

Our visions of being driven back to the hotel in a cop car dissipated, we head back to our room, keeping an eye out for those red lights along the way.

One if by sea, two if by lobster

2009-08-03T07:21:00.000-07:00

Portland, Maine takes a little time to uncover its charms. After our first AMTRAK train ride, which was surprisingly comfortable, we arrive at Portland's station in the pouring rain. The town is quite run down, with many empty store fronts. Despite this, our hotel turns out to be a friendly, clean run by welcoming staff that furnish us with local maps and recommendations for the best lobster in town. We head to J's Oyster for a quick lobster roll and a bowl of New England clam chowder. The half an hour queue in the rain proves to be well worth it as the food is extremely fresh and very tasty.

Lobster roll from J's Oyster

It's still raining when we're finished eating so we head to a brew-pub, Gritty McDuff's, where we drink stout brewed on the premises and watch the rain pour down the windows. Another hideout from the rain is the Portland Museum of Art, where we see originals by de Chirico, Warhol, Monet and Picasso. There's also a special exhibition on the art colonies of New England where the stormy seascapes seem entirely appropriate for the day. Although we're soaked, the locals don't seem to notice the rain and the weather seems to be typical of Portland.

Gritty McDuff's

The next day we take a walk down to the working docks where we see the boats that pick up the lobster pots and the shop which sells the day's live catch to all the local restaurants. It's not long before we get hungry and head back to J's for another round of lobster rolls before we leave.

Lobster merchant

Our Greyhound bus to Rochester breaks down and we end up stuck on the highway in middle-of-the-day heat and with a terrible Renée Zellweger movie on the on board movie system. It's definitely a trip low light so far. Luckily, Michele, Ian and Fred come to the rescue and we spend the evening back in Cambridge eating pizza and watching the Sox win before heading off on another bus to Rochester the next day.

The offending Greyhound

Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa

2009-07-31T07:35:00.000-07:00

A couple hours drive from Cambridge lies Cape Cod, the curved Massechusetts peninsula, vacation spot of the Obamas and surrounded by a vast army of fish (hence the name). We're spending the night in a beautiful beach house in Truro overlooking the bay. The water is calm and warm and the area mostly unspoilt by development. Three houses down the beach, sits the white house painted famously by Edward Hopper. We're greeted by our hosts, Megs and Lucia (who has a better British accent than our own). Meg tells us tales of the surrounding fauna, coyotes, seals and raccoons; and Lucia gives us an inside account of the film making business (one of her own documentaries, 'The Axe in the Attic' examines the rootlessness caused by Hurricane Katrina). They've been here for the past few weeks and look thoroughly relaxed as a result.

Lucia and Meg, the sandpile girls

Apparently the roof once blew off the house we're staying in, during a wild New England thunderstorm. Inside all the wood is weather beaten, adding to its natural appeal. There's a great view from the flat roof, upon which we lazily lay in the sun, content with our books.

Reading on the roof

In the evening we all pitch in to prepare the ultimate fish tacos, using straight-off-the-boat local blue fish and striped bass. We ate the fish grilled on a barbecue with wood taken from the beach to give a great smokey flavour. Inside the tacos, we added a fennel, avocado and tomato salad, and Michele's Asian slaw:

Michele's Asian Slaw

1 small purple cabbage, sliced
1 red pepper, sliced
1 yellow pepper, sliced
2 tablespoons of soy sauce2 teaspoons of sesame oil
Quarter cup of rice vinegar
1 tablespoon brown sugar
Lots of grated ginger
Juice of one lime

Fish taco devastation! Just one more...

Past the lights of Beacon Street

2009-07-30T20:09:00.000-07:00

After eating a huge Italian meal on Boston’s North End, we head to Fenway Park to enjoy America's favourite passtime. Yawkey Way is crammed and buzzing with excited fans and hotdog vendors. The Boston Red Sox are taking on the Oakland Athletics, so we're filing into the stadium with thousands of fellow Sox fans to find our seats. The view is incredible, the lush green diamond a stone's throw away, we're in the perfect position between the batter and pitcher.

Jim Rice has his jersey number retired

Empty peanut shells crunch underfoot as we work towards our seats, a powerful voice croons the end of the national anthem in the background and receives a hearty, patriotic round of applause. A ceremony begins to unfold as Jim Rice, a retired Red Sox player is welcomed into the National Baseball Hall of Fame. He’s greeted by a string of baseball legends that the overwhelmed crowd go crazy for, and proceeds to make a thank you speech, interrupted only by the odd cries from vendors; “hotdawgs, get yah hotdawgs right here folks!” Finally, the ultimate honour, Rice’s old jersey number is retired and immortalised with the unveiling of a red ‘14’ high on the stands, amongst the small handful of others eternalised before him. Cheers erupt from the crowd as Rice’s grandchildren loudly declare that the game begin (“play ball!”), and Rice himself throws the traditional first pitch to an old team mate.

Bases loaded

The atmosphere during the game is so relaxed, with lots of chatting and cheering amongst the crowd, but it doesn’t take long to get totally absorbed in each play (even Claire, who doesn’t normally follow baseball, found herself screaming at the umpire). Even though the final score wasn’t one we were happy with, the Sox played a great, entertaining game. Kevin ‘Yooook’ Youkilis made some great hits, David ‘Big Papi’ Ortiz took a swing that split his bat in half, and one of our new favourites, Jacoby Ellsbury speedily stole as many bases as he could manage. We left Fenway saddened for what feels now like our home team, but also took with us a real enthusiasm (new-found, in Claire’s case) for baseball. There will definitely be no question as to whether or not we stay up until stupid-o’clock back in the UK to follow Sox games!

Claire and Guy have a posse

2009-07-29T06:33:00.000-07:00

Andre the Giant, a 1980s professional wrestler, looms large over downtown Boston. A stylised, black and white depiction of his face, along with the phrase 'Andre the Giant has a posse' can be seen in thousands of places all over the city. It is hung on posters from abandoned buildings, stencilled on mailboxes, and stickers bearing the icon are ubiquitous. Is the symbol that of a thuggish street gang, a new religion, or an art prank to rival Marcel Duchamp's R. Mutt urinal? 18 years ago, Shephard Fairey, the artist behind this urban experiment, was a punk skateboard kid with a spraycan and an interest in phenomenology, the study of the spontaneous manifestation and propagation of ideas. Today, we're standing at his debut exhibition, at the Institute of Contemporary Art on the waterfront in Boston. The exhibition is called 'The Duality of Humanity', and in it Fairey depicts the good and bad aspects of mankind and how they present themselves in a war situation. We see huge collages showing child soldiers with flowers in their hair in addition to more darkly humourous pieces such as the 'Welcome to Iraq' postcard, a mirror image of an old fashioned postcard welcoming tourists to visit the geysers at Yellowstone National Park.

In the last few years Fairey's most famous work has been his 'Obama HOPE' icon, which featured heavily in the current president's election campaign. Though the optimism and positive impact of this piece is undeniable (as evidenced by a framed letter of thanks from the Head of State of himself), Fairey was unjustly arrested on the opening night of this exhibition for vandalism on the streets of Boston. In a televised interview, Fairey seems resigned to the fact that this treatment is the expected price for his individual brand of subversive street art.

Across the Pond

2009-07-28T05:57:00.000-07:00

Walden Pond is improperly named. We are able to say that with the utmost authority, due to the fact that yesterday we swam across it at the widest point of its diameter, and back. As one hour and twenty minutes of rigorous paddling (roughly a mile) will attest, Walden Pond is most certainly a lake.

Our route across Walden Pond

Immortalised in Thoreau's 'Walden', a 17th century essay on man's communion with nature, the 'pond' is really spectacular, an oasis that seems far from the urbanity of Boston. When treading water in the 100 feet depths of this glacier-formed mass of water, signs of civilization on the shore are out of sight and sound. Reports of snapping turtles and water snakes are relatively common, and a giant squid sighting would perhaps not seem too far-fetched to one on the brink of plunging into the water. One product of civilization that was voraciously welcomed on our return to shore was the bag of two-meat, two-cheese sandwiches that were patiently waiting to be devoured with a side order of barbecue potato chips.

Triumphant!

Today we will be exploring Boston for the first time. See you on the Green Monstah!

Currently reading:

'Walden' by Henry David Thoreau

Currently listening to:

'For Emma, Forever Ago' by Bon Iver

'Why are there no banjos in Star Trek?'

2009-07-27T05:49:00.000-07:00

'Because it's the future.'

Club Passim

Moira Smiley and Voca, an all-female a capella, body percussionist group are on a tiny stage in the basement of Club Passim in Cambridge Massachusetts, the famous folk venue where such genre luminaries as Joan Baez and Bob Dylan launched their careers. As they tell jokes about country music in space, the bemused but enthusiastic crowd laugh appreciatively. We sip on tall, cold raspberry lime rickeys, the local take on a traditional cocktail.

Moira Smiley & Voco

We arrived the previous night in Boston's Logan Airport and were greeted by Michele (Guy's Aunt) and her partner Ian. In an attempt to beat the jetlag, we all took a stroll into Harvard Square in the balmy evening. Our British accents were warmly welcomed in J.P.Licks, where we were served 'small' (extra-large in the UK) cups of lumpy primate and cow track ice-cream. After a brief sensory overloading exploration of the square we head back to Michele's, where we crash out immediately, trying not to think about what time it is back in the UK.

In the morning we take Fred the Pug for his post-breakfast walk. His lively attitude (pictured below) is present when a little bag of doggie treats is produced at a local baseball diamond along the walk, and is replaced with a mule-like stubbornness upon leaving. With a little coaxing, his good humour returns and he trots happily back home alongside us.

Fred the Pug

Eager to commence our American adventure, we take a walk along the River Charles, the road alongside which is closed off for Sunday afternoon roller-skaters. After some large, multi-layered US style sandwiches, we head to Club Passim for the afternoon show.

On the banks of the Charles

It's Ian's birthday, and in the evening we all go to an authentic Mexican restaurant called Olé to celebrate. Here we drink icey margaritas and watch the servers prepare guacamole at the table with deft swishes, cutting through the ripe avocados with impeccable speed. We eat fresh Atlantic tuna tacos and tamales with pickled cactus and stewed pumpkin. At home we devour a delicious Boston cream pie (Claire's new favourite), layered with chocolate and vanilla custard.

Happy Birthday Ian!

We'll leave you with another hilarious banjo joke:

What's the difference between a banjo and a Harley-Davidson motorcycle?

You can tune a Harley!

There's Something About Airplanes

2009-07-25T05:05:00.000-07:00

Boarding Loungers

It is a truth universally acknowledged that airplanes are always delayed.

The first day of an extensive trip is governed by two over-riding feelings: excitement and nervousness. As this trans-American trek is our first lengthy, labour-free adventure together, both emotions are distinctly present today. Recently made aware of a two and a half hour delay, we are also experiencing boredom!

Guy's Airport Thought:
I'm sitting in the departure lounge staring out listlessly at the comings and goings of our fellow flyers. I've discovered that people moving from right to left unsettle me moreso than those moving left to right. Is this because we read from left to right?

After several years of hard graft in Nottingham (Clarie as a creature-wrestling, poop-cleaning, tumour-prodding veterinary nurse; Guy as a Tourette's-testing, journal-reading, frontal-lobe-magnetically-stimulating psychology student) our six week haul across the states feels like a justified reward. Our journey is heavily reliant on the Amtrak train service (hence the blog name), which will transport us between most of America's major cities. As food holds a high place in our hearts (and stomachs), many of our destinations have been chosen with local delicacies in mind (although many of the regional-specific high fat snacks will bee far from delicate!). We plan to eat Fenway Franks in Boston, lobster in Maine, pretty much everything in Philadelphia, deep dish pizza in Chicago, po' boys in New Orleans, barbecue in Austin and Pacific clams in Oregon. Armed with only two small backpacks, our current collective weight is probably less than the total amount of food that we will consume on our travels!

We're looking forward to spending lots of time with various Millons who have been kind enough to put us up for a few days, and are excitedly anticipating making lots of new friends.

Our plane awaits (not as soon as we'd hoped),

Keep on trackin'! (oh dear... more poor train puns to follow in future posts)

Currently reading:

'On The Road' by Jack Kerouac

Currently listening to:

'In the Aeroplane Over the Sea' by Neutral Milk Hotel