Rockin` in the free world

[Picking up from Friday afternoon...]

It was around 2 p.m. when we finished our dip in the pool (no diving, no “whirlpools”, no fun) and the temperature clocked its high of the day at 109 degrees...ONE HUNDRED AND NINE??? That’s, like, 43 degrees in decimal! The weather forecast segment on the local TV channel normally lasts a couple of minutes, but today it clocked up over 20 as the host quoted records held since 1952 and scarily predicted it might be even higher tomorrow. Today Nashville was the hottest place in the whole country, even beating Arizona! Apparently we are right in the centre of the “ring of fire” and it’s going to be at least Thursday before the edge of that ring moves over the city and they get a thunderstorm. We’ll be long gone by then.

It was Friday night and, despite the heat, we wanted to hit the Nashville nightlife (there hadn’t been much to see in the day, hopefully after dark it would be more entertaining). Nevertheless we staved off the hunger pains and waited `til seven to head out, trying to walk reasonably quickly while resisting the urge to perspire. We’d picked up a flyer in the hotel lobby for a place called Jack's Bar-B-Que that looked to have the ideal combination of low price and high popularity. And it turned out to have both, with a big queue to get served, standing beneath the large ceiling fans which acted as poor excuses for aircon. Feeling the when-in-Rome vibes, Tim and I both ordered a Tennessee Pork Shoulder, and for some reason I got a side order of mac `n` cheese. But all in all it was a damn fine meal, boy! Yeehah!

Before...

After...

Next stop was B.B.King’s Blues Bar, which is a chain of five venues across the country which the great man has probably visited once in his life. It was a classy place where you can get a table to see the show, or just linger by the bar which ran the whole length of the venue. We lingered, as is our custom. Ever since we got a deal on Blue Ribbon beers for a dollar each in Philadelphia our opening line to bar staff has been, “Do you have any specials on?” When they say no, it then gets a bit embarrassing as we ask what their most “economically-priced” beverage happens to be – invariably it’s Bud, Bud Lite or Miller Lite (“American crap”) which usually comes in at $4 - $5 (plus the tip, of course).

So, we bought our Miller Lites and made conversation while waiting for the show to start (at this point we still have things to say to each other). As soon as he heard our quaint accents, the guy on the next bar stool spun around and enthusiastically asked us where we were from. Cue the usual come-from-England, crossing-USA-to-travel-world, lots-of-fun, you-guys-are-so-lucky, etc., etc. This guy was from Wyoming (population 550,000, total area 12 times the size of Wales) and was living in the back of his truck and heading down to Austin, Texas to start grad school. Texas had been the big unanswered question for us for some time – do we stay in Dallas, Houston, San Antonio, Austin or Fort Worth? Mr. Wyoming had plenty of positive things to say about Austin, so it’s currently top of the list, but it all depends on how quickly good old Greyhound can get us there. The other recommendation this guy made was that we head next door to the Coyote Ugly bar (you may have seen the film, I only caught the trailer). He said that he was happily sitting there minding his own business as the craziness took place around him, when suddenly the waitress grabbed his bottle of beer, shook it up, then sprayed it all over him! If he’d only been privy to our economical beer policy then he’d have known that was a recommendation we weren’t prepared to take him up on!

The band started playing, the noise level went up and it was too loud to talk to our new friend (he staggered out after a couple of songs, looking a little tipsy), but the music was great. Soul, blues, funk, jazz – it had it all (no idea who the group was though). All this time we have been sitting there making our Miller Lites last, telling the barmaid no when she asks if we’re ready for two more. During a break in the band’s set, a large guy and two girls arrive. I spot that there’s only two stools next to Tim and a free one next to me at the end of the bar. I suggest to Tim that we move along and Tim gestures to the guy that him and his lady companions have all the seats they need. We continue to talk (remarkably, still with stuff to say to each other). Suddenly the barmaid puts two more beers in front of us and we look at each other in bemusement – “Did you ask for another beer?”, “I didn’t ask for another beer!”, “Did she mishear what we said?” She gestures to the large guy and says that they’re courtesy of him. REALLY? We give the guy a barstool and he buys us both a drink? We look his way and match his gesture of cheers with our bottles. Is he Nashville's criminal kingpin flashing his cash? Is he trying to impress his two ladyfriends with the size of his wad? Who cares! I just LURVE this town! And then it hits me – damn, should have ordered an expensive beer in the first place.

[We didn't go in here!]

As we walked along Broadway earlier, I was given a flyer to a place called ‘Hay There’ where they supposedly had draught beers on for $2 a go. Cha-ching! It was right across the road from B.B.Kings so we hurried over, trying to hide our chuckles as the alligator-wrestling bouncer eyed our English driving licences with intrigue. The beers came in plastic glasses, they weren’t English pints, but we didn’t care. Also didn’t care about giving the barmaid a dollar tip which she earned by saying, “Yeah?”, passing across two pre-filled glasses, and saying, “Thanks, Y`all!” I lurve this town. I also loved the band they had playing at the back of the bar beneath a colossal American flag; it was more rock than country, and it was just a tiny bit too loud, but boy could they bang out a tune! We resisted the urge to dance, but I reckon we were about one drink away from getting up and stompin` down. Although it was a rough `n` ready place, the atmosphere was full of happy Friday night vibes as the rednecks “danced” at the foot of the stage, some of them looking like they’d come straight off their combine harvesters which they’d parked along the next street. And one thing we noticed was that Nashville fashion for ladies seems to be summer dresses and cowboy boots, but we wisely refrained from taken any photos, lest we breach the good ole southern standards of etiquette. Even the lavatories in this place were pretty darn good (which is important when it’s still 90 degrees outside after dark).

An aside – American toilets have got it going on (if you’re having your lunch or cannot stand the smallest reference to the scatological, you’d be advised to skip this paragraph). I went to Spain a lot in my early twenties and saw public toilets that were not of this Earth. Those pathetic little European flush mechanisms were powerless against the human waste that attacked those u-bends. But here in the states I have yet to find an unholy “restroom”. Sure the Greyhound Gents are not the places you want to hang out in for longer than 20 seconds at a time, but the toilets themselves are always clean. Why? Because they are full of water. They’re like ponds! But those ponds clear everything away with nothing left over. I think I should stop now (can you tell it’s a slow afternoon?), but I think I’ve made my point. Sometimes it’s the little things that make a holiday worthwhile.

We walked home from Hay There with a slight ringing in our ears and the fulfilment of a fun evening deep in our hearts. Nashville at night was better than Nashville during the day. It’s now Saturday afternoon and too hot to be outside for longer than 15 minutes at a time. We’re camped out in our hotel room at the moment, but it gives us time to get things done (the hand washing’s hanging up from wall to wall and drying while we give the mega-turbo-aircon a break). Although we’re not doing much with the day, it’s good that we’ve got this third night in Nashville because up until now it was getting a little too hectic – two nights in a city is okay if there’s not much to see, but it gets tiring when doing overnighters on the buses in-between stops. So, there ain’t gonna be much more to write about our time here, but stay tuned for the next instalment in Birmingham, Alabama, followed by three nights in New Orleans. However, it may take a little longer than usual to get the next entry up on the blog, so please bear with me and know that it’s just a temporary delay and I’ve not camped out permanently in the best little whorehouse in Texas.

Luv to you all, keep on truckin`!

Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys

16 A.D.

Let’s go Grayboys! Dun dun du-du-dun! Let’s go Grayboys! Dun dun du-du-dun!

Yesterday evening we waited for the sun to set a little and headed out for a walk around the disparate neighbourhoods to the north. Instead we ended up going halfway along the freeway and coming back again like a couple of pedestrian plonkers – stoopid sidewalks that end up disappearing after several hundred metres! We did eventually find a pleasant little housing estate to walk around, the type of place where they have those mailboxes at the end of the drive that mischievous teenagers in the 1950s put cherrybombs in before running away hooting with laughter. We just smiled admiringly and strolled on by, enjoying the peace and quiet of Anytown, USA.

In our room we have the biggest air conditioning unit in the world – it even has a sleep function which we left on overnight. The Knights Inn's version of “complimentary breakfast” consisted of cornflakes, multi-coloured cheerios (going up in the world!), toast, and some do-it-yourself pancake grills which had the remains of previous peoples’ pancakes around the edges. We wisely avoided those.

Nashville ain’t just famous for country music; it also has more churches per capita than anywhere else in the country. The place is bustling with academies that train preachers to go off and spread the word (but not via a second-rate travel blogs like what I do). We strode off across the river, keen to be back on the sightseeing trail, but we had just one tiny problem...it was predicted to hit 108 degrees today. ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT??? That’s an all-time record for this city! Roll on cold and rainy New Zealand!

We headed towards the capitol building, taking in the bicentennial park on the way. This featured a rather moving World War II memorial for all the young Tennesseans who went off to fight in Europe, as well as a stars-on-the-floor monument featuring plenty of country and western performers’ names. The wartime connection continued as we got further towards downtown and ducked into the war museum, but this was more a strategic move to get some aircon down the backs of our shirts. Afterwards we sat outside eating our apples and were approached by a friendly-sounding, dodgy-looking guy who said he needed a favour. “Are you 21?” he asked me, unaware of the continuing saga surrounding ID that I’ve been writing about. Before he could get into his spiel about how he’d left his Florida state ID back home, I told him I wasn’t from round here and therefore I didn’t have any ID whatsoever. And he bought my lie which an exclamation of, “Dang!” before sloping off to look for some other sucker to buy him some beer.

Downtown Nashville is pretty tiny and all of the main bars and honky-tonk shops are on Broadway, which is not even half the size of Lord Street. Rather tellingly, the first bar we passed on the corner featuring a live band had a song pumping out into the street entitled Take this job and shove it. Hmmm. In the souvenir paradise of “Dixieland Delights” they had every kind of gift with Elvis printed upon it, but I wasn’t sure why they had a whole section devoted to Beatles merchandise. Oh, thanks to everyone who voted in the poll, by the way.  

We took in a few more stores on Broadway, threatening to return in the evening for some beers and steaks and whatever else it is that cowboys do for entertainment. Speaking of cowboy boots, there were some absolute beauties in one place we ducked into, but none of them were priced under 200 dollars. Same went for most of the hats, but judging by the picture below, you probably won’t lose any sleep over me not buying one.

It had only just gone 1 p.m. when we concluded we’d seen pretty much all we wanted to see, and the sun was leaving us sweltering even in the shade. And so, we headed back to the Knights Inn, Tim with his shirt off and me even daring to undo the buttons on mine (and if you’re expecting to see a picture of that you can forget it!) When we reached the hotel, we noticed that the pool was totally empty, and so we took the opportunity to strip down to our shorts for a quick dip (and if you’re expecting to see a picture of that you can forget it!)

Hurry on sundown!

I go to sleep

15 A.D.

Our bus journey was timed at 6.30 p.m. out of Chicago to 5.10 a.m. in Nashville. Providing we could stay on the bus, that would mean several hours of unbroken sleep with which to justify this overnight trial, providing we could stay on the bus. We couldn’t stay on the bus. What happens is that every time it calls somewhere, EVERYONE gets off, even if it’s not their final destination. Then there’s between 20 minutes and an hour of hanging around the terminal while the bus is “serviced” before being called back on to retake our seats. It’s a lot of faffing about, but as a system I suppose it works, but it does mean you don’t get more than about three hours straight kip. And, although the very act of getting on one of these oversized war chariots now automatically induces slumber vibes within me, the lack of legroom for my lanky pins isn’t ideal. So, we got off at Indianapolis, Indiana, then Louisville, Kentucky, and finally Nashville, Tennessee. While waiting at Indianapolis, an Amish man and his son walked past us in full retro religious gear – the son gawped at Tim and I like WE were the odd-looking ones!

So, we arrive in Nashville at 5 a.m., but cannot check into our hotel until 2 p.m. What the ruddy heck do we do for the next nine hours??? S.L.E.E.P. After attaching ourselves to our luggage with our bikelocks, we kip on and off for the next four hours as the Tennessee folk come and go around us. The accents are considerably stronger down here and it feels like we’re already in the deep south, rather than the Midwest. Also, the “hick-o-meter” is on the increase and we spot plenty of people who look like they wrestle alligators in their spare time. We seem to be the only genuine travellers (apart from mysterious old man, but he doesn’t count because he’s a native of this great nation).

Come 9 a.m. we decide that we have to get moving. The heat’s predicted to be in the late 90s by midday, over 100 by 5 p.m. Damn these red hot June records that are tumbling left, right and centre! We get halfway to the hotel, realise we haven’t had any breakfast and call in at a cafe-cum-general store. A quick glance at the shelves shows us that the beer prices have FINALLY tumbled! We also earwig a conversation in which the old dame of the store asks a ropey-looking customer for a “state ID” with which to purchase the two gigantic cans he’s brought to the counter. Obviously not possessing said ID, he counters with, “If a 99 year old man came to the store would you ask him for ID?” The old dame counters with the argument to end all liquor-purchasing arguments: “State law requires it, Sir.” Let’s hope our driving licences / passports count as “state ID’s”.

The Knights Inn was, so we’d hoped, a pretty good deal. Again we’re paying hostel prices for a private room in a hotel with two double beds (two singles would be fine, but there you go). As we complete our journey, we understand why the low prices – though not exactly in the middle of nowhere, it’s surrounded by vast empty parking lots and not much else. Looks like getting to downtown’s going to be a hike! But despite that, the room is our biggest yet, it’s got its own bathroom (with bath), a fridge and even a microwave...oh how we’d tried to steer clear of pot noodles! 

Southbound

14 A.D.

[Apologies for the delay in uploading this – blame it on crappy wi-fi connection!]

Old Navy was the priciest place I’d been to so far! No deal to be had there. Thankfully there was a T. J. Maxx around the corner (that’s definitely a ‘J’, not a ‘K’). Here the prices looked even better than in the UK, until one remembers that there’s the hefty old sales tax to be added to the tag price. This was the last chance saloon for a pair of shorts and by hook or by crook I was exiting that store with a fresh new purchase under my arm. After trying on three pairs that were too short, I settled on the fourth. I didn’t get the great clothing bargain as planned – should have bought the damn things back in Blighty! Anyway, that’s another chapter in this great saga closed.

So, Tim did his thing up on the Sears Tower and stepped out onto the great glass ledges at the top of the building to see what he could see. I, on the other hand, went across the street to do the laundry, which didn’t take too long in the washer, but was in the dryer for an aeon. It was one of those strange moments in life when you realise you’re alone in the dingy basement of a Greek restaurant in central Chicago and you’re passing the time doing yoga. Badly. And because I was down there for so long, I didn’t get to have the powernap I had planned. To make matters worse, Tim came back to the hostel to tell me that he’d been waiting for the elevator at the Sears Tower and when it opened a number of Pennsylvania Dutch people piled out (if you’ve only just started reading this blog that will make absolutely no sense, but that’s what you get for joining late!)

Chicago is known as the home of the blues. Did we get to hear any? No! It was enough to give us the blues. We made every attempt to hit the hallowed clubs on North Halstead Street after dinner, but after 45 minutes walking through an industrial graveyard we’d only reached number 1000, and we had to get to 2559. It just wasn’t going to happen, so we trooped back towards Greektown as the sun went down, half-heartedly humming Muddy Waters and Howlin` Wolf songs. Feeling thirsty at the end of the hike, I stopped at a seven-eleven to purchase a can of Blue Ribbon lager...a 710 millilitre can! It took me over an hour to finish it. And it was difficult stuffing it down my jeans and smuggling it past the hostel desk clerk without giving him the impression I was pleased to see him!

We woke up on Wednesday morning and trooped downstairs for My Big Fat Greek Breakfast - part 2. Although we were checking out at 11, we were able to leave our luggage behind the front desk and could spend a few more hours looking round the city, even though there wasn’t much left that we had a burning desire to see. One interesting place was the Chicago Tribune building which had stones from all sorts of exotic buildings around the world attached to its wall, such as a lump of rock from the great pyramid of Egypt. Technically I touched a piece of Antarctica, which was never a scheduled stop on this trip.

After visiting the pier (not sure why, having lived in Southport for 18 years) and sitting through the yawnorama that was Spain versus Portugal, we collected our luggage and headed over to the Greyhound terminal. To be fair, Chicago’s is one of the better ones we’ve come across - plenty of space, power points, TV screens, etc. However, when we approached the front desk to get our bags tagged we were asked to fill in forms, which is something we’ve never done before. Why has the procedure been different at every single leg of the journey??? One routine that we’re getting into is rolling up at the terminal in our dealing-with-the-hot-weather day gear (typically shorts) and changing into our travel gear (trousers, boots, fleece). There’s plenty of space to manoeuvre in the disabled cubicle in the Gents, but under no circumstances should any part of you touch the floor. On this occasion the cleaner had just finished up in the lavatories, but he still had his yellow barrier across the entrance, so I waited patiently beside it. Then this happened:

Some young lad: Excuse me, Sir?

Me: Hello?

SYL: Is it alright to leave my stuff there? (Points to the floor.)

Me: Uh, yeah. Go for it.

Other young lad: Can I put my stuff down there too please?

Me: Sure, but why are you asking me?

OYL: Ain’t you one of the policemen?

Me: Nope.

OYL: Oh...

How bizarre that I should be mistaken for an officer of the law as I stand there in my new shorts! Did it have anything to do with me holding a rolled-up pair of jeans, T-shirt and socks under my arm? Does that make you look officious in this country? Who knew. When I returned from successfully changing outfits and returning to civilian status, Tim pointed out an old man who was queuing up behind us to get on our bus. The funny thing was that we’d seen the very same guy get on the bus that we rode from Cleveland to Chicago! Was he following us? Who is he? Surely he can’t ride these buses for fun as some kind of warped hobby? I’m sure that if he’s a government agent with a secret mission for us then all will be revealed in good time. Right now I’m writing this having just passed through Gary, Indiana – famous for Michael Jackson being born there and absolutely nothing else.

Next stop Nashville!

All along the watchtower

14 A.D.

What do you think we did? We just smuggled the cans into our room and put the empties in the draw (after checking that we would definitely not have a maid coming in to tidy up next morning). The Grayboys aren’t afraid to break the corners or cut the rules – we even jaywalk (or “Graywalk”) when we feel like it! But at the end of the day, the no alcohol rule is probably in force to stop young lads getting so boozed up and shouty that they can’t remember their own names, let alone how much of their rooms they’ve trashed. We’re both good little boys in that respect.

The Windy City had been pleasant to walk around in (a mere 20 / 72 degrees), but that lulled us into a false sense of security and we slapped on less suncream than we should have. We weren’t quite tomato-faces when we got back, but there was a definite shade of beetroot around the forehead, so a bit of aftersun was applied. Then we went out to cross off another item on the checkbox – eating a “gyro”, which was handy with us being in Greektown because they were advertising them everywhere. We’d assumed them to be some kind of exotic Hellenic sandwich, but they were in fact...plain old doner kebabs – the kind you get at 3 in the morning after a monster beer session. They went down okay, but I was still a bit bloated by bedtime, and exhausted. Last time we did an all-night on the buses we took it easy in the afternoon, but yesterday we’d gone hell for leather around Chicago since arriving. And another lesson was learned.

I slept so hard that I didn’t hear Tim’s alarm going off, or notice him leaving the room to scrub up in the bathroom down the hall. When he came back into the room I had the fright of my life that it was a renegade maid and I jumped out of bed to shield the alcohol drawer, sleep shorts nearly falling to the floor. I should point out that so far The Parthenon has been a pretty good place to stay at – reasonably quiet and tidy, with a strong wi-fi reception and a decent price for laundry services. But the cherry on top of the cake that we’d really been looking forward to was the complimentary breakfast from 7.30 until 10 – our first on the road so far! And it wasn’t bad, if you like cheerios, hard-boiled eggs and toast.

One thing I’ve been doing is writing reviews of the hostels we’ve stayed at for a website that claims to pay for them, though my one and only review is still awaiting staff approval. But I went ahead and took some photos of the common areas and the shower rooms while they were empty. I also realised that at some point I’d recently got rid of my “Where’s George” dollar bill. I got given this in change at a liquor store in D.C. and looked up all of the places it had been across the US. If you have an extremely slow period in your day, you can track it at www.wheresgeorge.com – bill number is A78856131G.

Once we’d saddled up by 10, we headed east to Millenium Park, following the city's old elevated railway known as "The Loop". Possibly it was the lethargy of yesterday that made us see Chicago as a poor man’s New York, but today we looked upon the city with fresh and eager eyes. The first thing we saw was the gigantic Buckingham fountain.

Tim was keen to get the ultimate rainbow shot as the spray from the fountain hit the heat from the sun. I, on the other hand, was keen to use the Gents, so I headed off to do what I had to do (I still cannot get used to using stand-up urinals that can be flushed). When I returned to my brother, he looked somewhat put out...

Tim: Did you flush?

James: What?

Tim: Did you flush?

James: Why do you care if I...

Tim: DID YOU FLUSH?

James: YES, I FLUSHED, ALRIGHT???

[Pause.]

Tim: Look what you did...

I’m sure the fountain’s sudden watery impotence had nothing to do with me and my stand-up urinal, but it never did whoosh back to its original height and Tim didn’t get his rainbow shot, poor lad.

We continued around Millenium Park, stopping at the outdoor theatre venue to hear a butchered rehearsal of Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana (if that’s not instantly recognisable then check out, ahem, the X-Factor theme). Next up was a big glass ball-like thing that skewed one’s reflection and doubled-up as a handy escape from the sun (definitely hotter than yesterday).

After a bit more sightseeing, it was time to go our separate ways. The Willis Tower is open for people to go to the top and stand on the glass floor and see the city below them, as well as across four states. Although I could have been persuaded to hit this (even after going up Empire State and Top of the Rock), I decided that the $20 price tag couldn’t be justified. Tim has a slightly bigger budget than me for the trip, which he has earned, fair play to him, by lodging in other peoples’ houses for the last few years, whereas I have paid out more to enjoy my own company. But that was always part of the deal and I’m totally cool with that.

And besides, I had spotted something far more important than a tall building...I’d finally found an Old Navy store that was across the road and open for business...so would the extra shorts issue finally be solved???

Chicago

12 A.D.

I sorted myself out with hairspray at the local ‘Dollerama’ store. Not sure how strong it is though. Is it wise to use a product like this from Canada’s equivalent of Poundland when I’m heading for The Windy City??? As for my ulcers, Tim suggested swilling my mouth with a mixture of warm water and salt, which I gave my best shot. Such witchcraft apparently does not work immediately, so I hoped for some respite the next morning. Sound like a bit of a wimp, don’t I?

For our last night in Niagara Falls, Tim wanted to do a Man-Versus-Food visit. If you haven’t seen the show, there’s a charismatic guy who goes to lots of ker-azy restaurants, orders the largest thing on the menu and attempts to eat it within a certain amount of time. No really, that’s it. Tim is keen to imitate these amazing feats of appetite, but unfortunately the place in question (‘The Silo’) was six miles north across the border. Instead we had a quick walk north to a big whirlpool resulting from The Falls and ate at a local diner, me ordering a Caesar salad to curb the pain of the ulcers [note to self – stop talking about your bloody ulcers!]

As it was Saturday night, we decided to finish the pack of (small) beers we’d got in. I could really get used to sitting out on the veranda on a pleasant sunny evening watching the world go by. Once the sun went down and I got sick of listening to my chilled-out Ipod playlist, we ignored Canadian TV and tried to invent a new game of cards that combines the best elements of the games we grew up playing. It’s very much a work-in-progress at this point.

Next morning we wandered around the deserted streets until it was time for the quarter final kick off. Even the free refills on the root beers couldn’t ease the drawn-out agony of England going out on penalties yet again. It was definitely time to leave town, to leave the country even. I realised then that we were as far north as we would ever go on our trip.

Getting off the bus at the border and going through customs was straightforward enough, but why is it that, even though you know that you’ve done nothing wrong and got nothing dodgy in your luggage, you still feel a tad nervous? Buffalo bus terminal looked a lot worse by night than it did by day. As I sat down I simply said, “Ta,” to a young Jack Osborne lookalike who moved his bag for me and he took this as his cue to chat. And this was where my education about who to talk to in late night bus terminals began; although he looked pretty normal, his every word reeked of B.S. – something about him not being given a passport when he entered Canada and subsequently not being able to get out of the country again. So how was he sitting there in the USA and talking to me? He said that on his last trip on the Greyhound he’d had to stand for five and a half hours (curious, because Greyhound do not let passengers stand on long distance buses) and he claimed that because he was late again his parents would have to spend hours waiting to pick him up (wherever the mythical place he was heading for happened to be). I suggested he call them, he said he couldn’t. I asked why not and he’d said spent his last few dollars on [something mumbled and unintelligible]. I suggested he reverse the charges, he said he couldn’t. I asked why and he gave me a blank look, knowing he was beaten and I’d seen though his cock-and-bull story. At this point I rolled my eyes and went back to my book, which I finally got around to starting. It’s called Adventures in the screen trade by William Goldman, if you're interested.

You should never judge a city by its bus station, but after rolling in through the darkness at 3.10 a.m., the fair city of Cleveland will only be remembered in my mind for low level prison-style lighting and aircon needlessly pumped out to make me feel cold for the first time in a week and a half. It’s that chilly that for extra warmth I put the hood up on my fleece, the first time I’ve done that since I was a nipper. Tim spots a guy dressed as a pirate in the queue for the bus to Columbus and I have to do a double take to check he’s not an illusion. He’s not, but it’s too late at night / early in the morning to ask why. Just as 4.50 a.m. approaches (blast off time), a crowd of people from a Washington D.C. bus invade our line and are given priority boarding, making it look as though we won’t get on. I remember Giselle’s words in which she said she’d only ever not been able to get on one bus in all her years of travelling – would we face such a scenario already? Fortunately good old Greyhound brought out a second bus for us, but it wasn’t one of the newer express versions and that meant no wi-fi (but still plenty of freezing aircon!)

Again we slept well and I woke up as we arrived at a truckstop deep in the heart of Indiana. The female bus driver was an absolute hoot and she gave us 20 minutes to get off, do what we had to, and get back on. When she counted us back, we were a couple short. “Anyone seen those two Indian women?” she called out, but no one answered. “Oh well,” she shrugged, “guess they’ll just have to take the next bus!” And off we went, with all of their luggage still on board! Mental note – if she says 20 minutes, DO NOT be longer than 20 minutes!

After falling asleep again and waking up to see a goods train (some people will understand why this is important), we arrived in Chicago. It was an easy walk from the bus station to The Parthenon Hostel in Greektown. Once she’d checked us in, the receptionist said in her sultriest tones, “Enjoy your stay, British boys!” That got me thinking...up until now we had always introduced ourselves as English, never British. Hmmm. Maybe it was because of the football? No, don’t want to think about that shattered dream anymore!    

We spent the afternoon walking round the south and east sides of the city. Chicago has a skyline that would seem very impressive had we not seen that of New York ten days ago. But sitting beside Lake Michigan was great (no pun intended!) and by mid-afternoon I had seen enough goods trains to last me a lifetime – the thrill (if there ever was one) had gone. The afternoon ended on what could be a good or a bad note – I got ID’d trying to buy a six pack of beer! It was the first time it had happened in the USA and I’d been starting to believe I was immune. Was all this healthy sunlight starting to make me look younger? No matter, upon returning to The Parthenon we were hit by a conundrum as we re-read the rules and saw that no alcoholic beverages were allowed inside the entire building...what to do, British boys, what to do?

Pictures at an exhibition

11 A.D.

A slow day today, dear readers, what with us having to sit through the pain and heartache of England's defeat to It*ly and currently in the middle of a night transit to Chicago. Therefore I'll cut it short for this post and leave you with some more images of the journey so far...

[I shared this YMCA bathroom with men and at least one woman.]

[This can be bought for a dollar (the pizza costs two).]

[Couldn't quite see the Southport gas tower from here.]

[Prisoners get larger living quarters than this.]

[I'll stick with the Ford Focus for now.]

[We don't know why either.]

[The darkness of my soul is perfectly reflected in the above silhouette.]

[Big old stately building in Philadelphia.]

[Inside a not so stately building in Philadelphia.]

[This guy's plaque simply said, "Barry".]

["I wonder if they're watering my plants in the office..."]

[Champion!]

Travelling riverside blues

10 A.D.

Yesterday afternoon passed lazily, dominated by powernaps and watching the football via a dodgy webstream on the netbook (Canadian TV doesn’t do soccer!) I took the opportunity to have a bath because I don’t know when I’ll get the chance to again. We also hung out our hand washing to dry. Speaking of clothes, are you getting used to seeing the same few outfits in the photographs over and over again???

We left the motel and headed into what we thought was the town for tea and Friday night beers, but the place seemed deserted, apart from the occasional Harley Davidson roaring down the empty streets. A local radio station was being pumped out through speakers hanging from the lampposts like something out of Fahrenheit 451 – what would Southport residents make of Dune FM blaring out across Lord Street as they went about their shopping?

When we stopped at the only bar for miles around, the waitress told us that Ontario is very strict with its liquor licensing and there were only two places she knew of where ale could be bought, and they’d be closing soon. So, leaving Tim to guard the table at the bar, I hot-footed it a couple of blocks to ‘The Beer Shop’ and bought...beer. And I may have crossed the border, but I’m still not getting ID’d...is that a good or a bad thing? The evening was notable for me breaking my duck at getting my leftovers bagged-up to go – I couldn’t eat much of the very tasty battered shrimp because I’d drunk too much of the refreshing root beer too quickly (gotta make the most of those free refills!) Other obstacles to happy munching are the three ulcers in my mouth and one on my tongue which came up a couple of days ago, presumably from all the hassles of getting ready to go on the trip. While they aren’t spoiling my enjoyment of the holiday one bit, they have kept me off crisps for the last three days (those who know me well can understand the scale of this crisis).

After sinking a couple of beers, we slept well on our separate double beds and rose at 8. We were out of the Crystal Inn at 9 to hit the only place to go in town – The Falls! The temperature was just swell as we took the windy road along the river, learning from the scattered information plaques that the breach point of the falls has receded by 3.66 kilometres in the last 12,000 years. One thing I have noticed since being in Canada is how clean and tidy the streets are. The houses are mostly made of wood and every single residence is a unique build; there are no apartment blocks, just motels, some of which look like they charge by the hour, rather than the night. And it’s true what they say about Canadians – they’re all extremely friendly people.

Before you get to Horseshoe Falls, you see American Falls, which is like the little brother falls, but still damn dramatic. We took a million and one pictures as we approached the elder brother. Altogether, almost three quarters of a million gallons of water explode over the edge of Niagara Falls. That is two awesome for me to contemplate. And for once the use of the word “awesome” is justified. It is bizarre to think that since 1901, 15 people have plunged over the edge, with 10 of them surviving. The scariest thing we’d be doing that day was taking a boat ride on The maid of the mist.

Just after midday (thought it felt like it had gone 3) we went to buy our tickets, revelling in the impromptu showers that relieve us from the sun’s rays when the wind changes direction and the gigantic tower of spray falls upon us. There are lots of people wanting to go on the ride, but the boat goes every 15 minutes and the queue doesn’t take long to go down. I am a bit concerned about my phone getting soaked and conking-out, but joining the blue plastic poncho brigade alleviates my fears. I’m not exactly an off-the-rack shape, but in this case one size fits all.

The boat ride is a jolly old laugh as we sail past American Falls and get right under Horseshoe Falls, squealing with delight as our ponchos do their job and keep us dry from the liquid white-out that’s a hundred metres away. It doesn’t last long, but we all get some great piccies and video footage. Once back on dry land we leave the edge of the falls and head towards the town proper, grimacing at the tacky casinos and fairground attractions that give the hordes of tourists something else to do once they’ve become sick of waterfalls. But I wasn’t bothered about slot machines or ghost trains, I had far greater concerns, having just run out of hairspray...