OuterCyperspace

In case people think I have lost touch with the youth, I have not. I'm right behind them. I have my myspace space, I have my Hyves account, and I even have an avatar on Second Life.

For those of you who don't know hyves, it's a social networking thing like myspace, except without the spam and the sex. It's quite popular in the Netherlands, possibly more so than myspace. One difference is that in myspace most of your 'friends' are people you don't know: bands who want to look popular, hot chicks who want to sell you t-shirts and hot chicks who want you to sign up to their web site to see their titties. On Hyves pretty much all of your 'friends' are people you know. Consequently I have very few friends on Hyves compared to myspace. I always feel relatively popular on myspace. Although not compared to the hot chicks with t-shirts or tittie-sites who have thousands and thousands of friends: alot of whom are other hot chicks with tittie-sites.

It is on Second Life that I feel I have achieved more. Second Life for those of you still very much concerned with the first one is a 3D-representation of the real world where you control an 'avatar' or human graphic and explore the world. It's very much like the real modern world in that it's chock full of advertising, most of the places seem to be concerned with getting money from you and when you really want to go and do something it's frustratingly slow. I am, however, proud that in my short time in this alternative advertising reality I have managed to make money. Real money, because there is an exchange rate between First Life US Dollars and Second Life Linden Dollars that you spend on things like face-lifts and property in Second Life. (It is currently 250 Linden Dollars to 1 US Dollar.) I have earned, for ten minutes dancing, 3 Linden Dollars. It may not sound like much, but it's a lot of money to be paid for dancing when you're a short, over-weight man with a beard.

The trouble now is to find something that costs as little as 3 Linden Dollars to spend it on.

Brief summary: UK trip 8-11 September 2006

Arriving at Gatwick Airport late Friday evening, I was filled with one impression. We Brits have gotten fat. Everywhere I looked there were obese bodies blocking the way and waddling from MacDonalds to Häagen Grozs and back again. Maybe I'd happened to land at the same time as a flight from Chocohocoland, because it seemed to be even more noticeable that it had been a few months before. But I listened to the accents and they were not Chocoholic, but all very British in all its flavours. The whole population does seem to have broadened.

Of course I'd read the newspapers and seen the TV programmes that have been saying everyone was getting bigger around the middle (not to mention heard the rants of one Jamie Oliver, school nosh critic) but had not been convinced. After all, on TV, everyone was still as skinny as all hell. Even the fat ones on TV are really just slightly podgy and far from obese. But here was proof, larger than lithe. Still, I'm hardly as thin as I used to be. Although perhaps a while yet away from being called a porker.

My understanding is that in the UK the government is fully prepared to listen to nutritionists (and even more so to celebrity chefs) but none of these have their ear in quite the same way as the junk-food people. Plus the current government favours outside companies doing things like the cooking, the owning of the school buildings, selling of the school land and employing of the unvetted maintenance staff. This is mainly to help fiddle their Enron-style accounting but also to be further removed from the blame for anything that goes wrong.

What it also means is that where as in the old days you would have had "school dinner ladies" – grotesque, aging women who would serve up huge vats of slop, with most of the nutrition boiled away - you will now get some underpaid kid, who is probably playing truant from the next school, serving up pre-deep-fried shapes with the nutrition clearly and confusingly labelled on the box, and ensuring more than the recommended weekly intake of vitamin Cholesterol.

This is not the full picture, because it's not just the kids, as I'd been lead to expect, but their parents also whose hips seem to be reaching a size that in Italy they would call "Fiat." That I don't have a theory for. Yet. But am considering blaming Big Brother or Myspace.

26/04/07 New York – Packing Meat

After a brief hunt to find unoccupied showers in Hotel 17, we wondered out into the streets. We broke fast on the covered terrace of a café on a corner not far from the hotel. I enjoyed the "typical American breakfast" of two eggs how you like, crispy toast, great, light-fried potatoes and a flat, round "sausage." All served with coffee in a mug the size of a house.

Inside someone with the mouth of Marlon Brando in The Godfather munched and mumbled through his own breakfast. Outside, in the corner of our narrow terrace, sat two guys who could have been Al Pacino characters. "What da fuck?" this, "why da fuck?" that. The guys were moaning "dat nowafuckendays it's too fucken expensive to fucken spend all night in a fucken jazz club." Possibly referring to the one that Woody Allen is reportedly to make unannounced appearances at and join in with the band.

We went back to the hotel, checked out and did more walking. New York is a city where you can walk, which is not so common or possible in many US cities. We wandered all over the place finding ourselves pretty soon in the Meat Packing District where they used to, er, pack meat. Nowadays they are doing a lot of building there and it is a very up-and-coming area. In between the run-down bits, old-warehouses and rat-infested building sites, there are tiny exclusive designer boutiques of the likes of Stella McCartney, etc.

We then wandered down to Chinatown, which was great. In some places you really feel like you are in Shanghai or Beijing rather than New York. We had a fortifying lunch at Joe's Ginger and then picked up some tasty Chinese pastries from a bakery to have later on. It was odd to go all the way to one different country and find yourself missing a completely different third country.

We wandered back to the hotel after that, skirting Little Italy and traversing Soho. We stopped for yet more kwarfee and a vegan molasses cookie. There we listened in on the conversation between a writer and his agent. She was all high-powered yadda-yadda-yadda and he was a bit more "well, er, okay." Agents and writers are the opposite ends of the spectrum and in many ways should never meet. However, they need each other like no other relationship does.

We grabbed our bags and had the concierge call us a taxi. The hotel has a deal with a taxi company that turned out to be a con. Or at the very least involves some poor communication. Basically the hotel tells you the fee up front, which is a little more than the standard fee to the airport, but you think what the hell it will come straight to the door. They even tell you it is all-inclusive. Then when you get there, the shifty guy in the taxi says that it is not at all inclusive. A few calls between the driver and the hotel later and we still refused to pay for the toll. Nobody was happy, but at least we were at the airport.

The journey there was terrible in another way. The whole journey we were subjected to "Smooth Jazz CD 101.9" an easy listening radio station playing songs so bland and inoffensive they give you road rage.

We arrived at the airport very early. US airports are much less secure than European ones. In Europe the shopping is on both sides of security and so you can shop knowing those people around you are fellow passengers. In the US, before going to the gates you are wandering around people who have just walked in from pick-pocket school or terrorist training camp. Basically, you go into a standard mall and then after a while, go through the security check to your gate. You would have thought that perhaps now, security would be allowed to interfere with business.

The other thing whereby European airports win is that there they provide free trolleys. In the US, you have to pay for them. Trolleys are part of the fun of the world of airports and to make you pay for them is just wrong. Morally wrong.

The flight back was uneventful as all good flights should be. I diverted myself with Happy Feet for a while, but I had been hoping there were things to be enjoyed in there for semi-adults to enjoy, but it was only for young kids. But fortunately we were able to sleep and soon found ourselves starting a new day, weary and happy, in home sweet home, surprisingly sunny Amsterdam. Stay safe.

25/04/07 New York - Kwarfee

The showers in Hotel 17 are tiny. Good water pressure, but if you were to throw your arms out during a rendition of the 3rd aria in Verdi's Stagliatelli, you'd find both broken at the shoulder. There are still no signs of the hotel's resident drag queen we were promised by a previous tenant.

We went into Stealbucks Coffee because it seemed to imply we could use the internet there. We could, but only if you pay T-mobile too much money, so we didn't. After that we strolled and took in a large Virgin. Finally we rested in a small, empty snack bar run by (Asian) Indians selling (Asian) Indian-style food disguised as American-friendly wraps.

We finally got our internet fix – Cath had work to do – in a public library where we got to observe daytime library users, who somehow don't differ from country to country.

Our next snack was at Amy's Bread where we popped in partly to avoid the rain. Here we had coffee and sticky buns and I was introduced to Devil's food cake which is rich, gooey and in parts probably made by Satan himself it's so tasty. Here we got to see some examples of pudding, plus what American's call scones, which are almost the same thing as we call them, but not quite.

There seems to be a lot of people walking around whilst reading here. It seems dangerous, but shows how comfortable people feel. For Catherine it feels safer on the streets in New York where traffic is more orderly and less diverse than in Amsterdam. I have seen people cross the street whilst reading a book, which seems madness, but probably makes you smarter. The other thing I saw that I couldn't do is people walking around carrying a plastic bag that said "Stop using plastic bags." Too much irony in one disposable item.

For dinner we sought out a Vietnamese restaurant, but were disappointed. We found the one we were after, but it seemed to cater more for students (cheap and you get lots) than for those who like food to do wonderful things to your taste buds. It was a bit bland. But filling.

For culture we went back to UCB and watched a show of try-outs of sketch and improv groups. The host couldn't describe anything without using half a dozen superlatives, which the audience seemed to not mind, but bothered myself and Lady Catherine. The shows was a pretty mixed bag. There were a few improv groups of varying degrees of experience. Highlights included a double-act featuring two builders on a lunch break which had great fast dialogue, part of which at least was improvised about random stories picked from the paper and about the bizarre things they had in their lunch box. The best were the team of four girls "from the admin department" who were putting on an improv show. It was sublime to watch these characters talk about every suggestion and comment to each other during their deliberately terrible scenes. Hilarious.

24/04/07 Maryland; Virginia; Washington, DC; New Jersey; New York – Altered States

The drive to the Ronald Reagan National Airport (usually the Ronald Regan is dropped) took us past such important spy-novel locations as Langley, Virginia (headquarters of the CIA) and The Pentagon (headquarters of The League of Satan, judging by the design). Most of the people who go on to become enemies of the US are trained by people from these places.

From the airport, we took a moving walkway, a shuttle bus and a moving walkway to get to the metro, which we rode to Union Station in Washington itself. I'd forgotten how soporific the lighting was on DC metro stations. I'm sure violence on the subway is very low there, although incidents of people falling asleep onto the track must be pretty high. We arrived a good hour early at Union Station, so had a chance to grab food and see the resplendent décor.

We took the Amtrak train to New York Penn Station. A pleasant three hour ride with more space and less panic than on a plane, but for only a tiny little bit more money and much more travel time, but much less faff time.

At New York Penn, we jumped in a taxi and were swerved over to the East Village to the deceptively large Hotel 17. After flooding the toilets, we roamed around the streets hunting down healthy, dairy-free places to eat before settling on a Chipotle's Mexican deli. We walked pretty much the whole day acquainting ourselves with a small part of the world's best-known metropolis.

The evening was rounded off with "Harold Night" at the Upright Citizen's Brigade. UCB are one of the best-known improv groups and is an improv academy in the style of Second City. The show we watched was basically 5 different groups all performing a Harold (short, semi-structured, improvised performance of about 20-30 minutes). The audience was mostly other performers or students of the many classes they give. It was never-the-less practically full.

UCB's theatre is underneath a huge drugstore (chemist). It is quirky, somewhat rock and roll, or rather grunge, and suitably makeshift as befits an improv space. It was as well arranged as the obligatory view-blocking posts would allow.

23/04/07 Bethesda, Maryland – Flimsy Blade Used with Force (5,5)

For the second day running, we went shopping, which is the sort of thing that would put a strain on a lesser relationship. But today we had time to shop for books, which is a different sort of shopping. The sort of difference between a chalk sandwich and a cheese sandwich. We even had time to check out the geeky gadget store.

Possible captions: "The price tag is large on this one." The man who put the wan into Obi Wan Kenobi: "If you strike me down I will come back more paler than you can possibly imagine."

Again, however, we struck out (failed to achieve our aim) of finding clothes in Catherine's size that are also not covered in cartoon characters. I think it's time for a range of sexy clothes for the smaller girl. It could be called Lolita or something arty like that. Although we found nothing to buy, we did find a camouflaged bikini that could have slept four marines. I also found that the clothes racks in Seers from above look like swastikas.

In the bookstore (bookshop), I searched amongst the large collection of crossword books to find one that contained cryptic ones. Catherine did warn me that there wouldn't be any, but I didn't believe it. They seem to be a European thing. Hard US crosswords just refer to less well-known synonyms or expect you to remember obscurer facts like who was the 41st president or something. In fact, while we were there (the US, not the bookshop), Professor William J Clinton, former incumbent at the Lewinski Institute, published what appeared to be one of the first semi-cryptic crosswords in the country. It was more of a quiz with obscure-sounding questions, such as "Baby Boomer blown by girl in blue dress. (4,7)"

That night we ate Vietnamese and had my taste buds awed. We also did some late-night book shopping. I realised that although Virginia lags behind Texas in the sheer number of Bibles on the shelves, it does win on the number of Christian Inspiration books. These are books such as "Faith in Your Daily Life," "How I Found God in Clothing Retail," and "Jesus and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance."

22/04/07 Bethesda, Maryland – Big Fat Zero

The day started with a little of that great divider of the sexes, shopping. We didn't buy much as most stores don't go down to Lady Catherine's size. I expect they do in New York, and certainly in LA, but in Lardula Falls Mall, Virginia, they don't. Even the children's sizes are too big. Or if they are not, they are for very young children and not very sexy. Where do young children get sexy things to wear? Oh yeah, the internet.

In the evening, we had a barbeque with the addition of one of Catherine's cousins and his lady friend and learnt all about hand dancing. It's a kind of shuffling, hand-holding dance which is a kind of localised version of swing dancing in that (a) you don't move too far around and (b) it is only found in the DC area.

21/04/07 Bethesda, Maryland – Gun Running

Saturday saw Catherine, once a marathon-level athlete, reliving glory days with her sister along a bit of the same canal that runs near Harpers Ferry. This ditch was once a source of revenue and vital transportation route, and is now a great place to watch turtles hang out and see the single, odd elderly kayaker ride the stillness.

Just over the running path from the canal was the vast, majestic Potomac. However, kayakers are specifically warned here that they should resist that part of the water as it leads towards a large dam with turbines turning the exact speed needed to dice kayaks like fibreglass carrots.

On an island in the river is another boat club. However it is very, very exclusive. More exclusive even than the one on the quayside next to the area where the suited and boated millionaires hang out. Despite looking like a shack on a deserted island, it takes years and years to even get on the list of people who might become members when enough people die. The island had no signs of life and can only be reached by a boat. Which means you have to have a boat already and therefore won't need this place. Although I think there's a little raft you can pull yourself across on. As nobody seems to use it and you cannot join it, I can only think it is some sort of front for something. Drugs, gun-running, government research or some other covert, illegal activity.

The evening was spent visiting more relatives in their large house in an estate of other large houses right next to a national park. It's the place to live if you think deer in your back garden are cool (which I think they are, but I don't have to live with them) and are fond of hornets (which no one is).

The whole basement is given over to a children's play area and has about the same volume as the house I grew up in. And I think the kids have as many toys lying around as I ever owned. This is apparently typical and goes to prove what I've always thought, that American kids are spoilt. Spoiled, plumped up and then shot sometime during their education. It doesn't feel like the best way to raise your kids.

On the way home, we passed a large corporate building that houses the headquarters of the NRA. One of the most important population control organisations in the US. It was closed, possibly because they were mourning the loss of one of their members.

20/4/07 Washington, DC – Canoedling

After leaving Harpers Ferry, we drove along the Potomac river, past places like Damascus and Germantown towards the Washington DC area. It's here that Catherine's sister lives with her husband. They live in the forest. Or so it feels. Actually they live in what was once a wooded area that is still pretty wooded even after houses have been built there. It's great if you like watching birds and squirrels and feeling miles away from the house just next door.

Traffic in and out of DC, especially during rush hour, is a nightmare. To help cope, at key times of the day, lanes change direction. Roads normally heading both in and out of the city suddenly start heading just one way. It can be very confusing. And frustrating when the place you want to get to is normally accessible by driving a little way down one road that is now against you and you have to drive all over town to get on that same road travelling in the other direction. It's also dangerous and we at one point found ourselves facing traffic coming head-on after none of us realised the road had gone all unidirectional.

Our detour took us past such sights on the DC tourist map as the Kennedy Center for Something or Other, and the Watergate Hotel famous for bringing the "gate" suffix into the English language. Now anything can become a scandal just by adding the word "gate" to the end of it. Like the scandal about the state of modern software practices, Billgate.

We were in DC to canoe. Yes, canoe. There is a boat club on the river in the heart, or at least kidneys, of Washington where our hosts keep a canoe. It's also a hang-out for a thousand spoilt school kids. We rowed around one of the islands giving ourselves a good, healthy workout. Then we hit the town.

We walked past the bars where the yachtists hang out. Here large slabs of ice had been placed on pedestals for reasons unknown. It was maybe artistic, but they were just somewhat rough slabs. It may have been to counteract global warming, but it seemed too little, too late. It may have just been decided by someone that it would look cool (pun possible intended). We strode up past pricey shops, walked right into a medium-sized Italian restaurant on the corner, sat down and ate.

The food was highly worthy, as I recall, and we returned towards our car quite nourished. The shops were all shut or shutting except for the bookshop, which had hours left to go. We wandered through the yuppie bar terrace on the quayside. The place was now heaving with the well-dressed and well-off, many of whom had arrived on expensive yachts which were parked along the waterside. It was very much a place to be seen. We slipped through effortlessly. Not really dressed up well enough to be obvious. The yachts varied in shape, but pretty much all of them were shining. I think people had spent their whole week at home polishing their yacht for this evening. None of them looked as if they had ever been sailed in anger.

{Lesson time: The word "yacht" (pronounced yot) comes from the Dutch word "jacht" (formerly "jaght", pronounced yagkgt where gkg sounds like clearing your throat or the ch in "loch"). It basically means hunt or in this context fast pirate-ship. So these people with their elegant suits and designer partners were basically fast pirates.}

We drove back past one of the must-see sights in DC – the steps from the film The Exorcist. You know, the ones where he falls down and down and down. Superb.

20/4/07 Harpers Ferry, West Virginia – Rock over Troubled Water

We were awoken early by a bird that for some reason had evolved to make a sound exactly like a digital alarm clock. It was definitely a bird because its tone was natural despite its resemblance to an electronic noise, plus it was ever so slightly irregular in a way machines never are without serious programming. Why would a bird evolve in this way? Surely Natural Selection would have meant that not only would have warned the worm of its approach and therefore got no food, but also later-starting animals, awoken early, would have set upon it making it extinct by now.
Perhaps it did not evolve, but was thrown out of the nest at an early age (probably because it made an irritating noise from the word go) and believed there after that its mother was in fact the Robinson's alarm clock. Every morning it would hear her call and would do its best to imitate that call. The Robinsons have since retired and now no longer need the alarm clock, but still every morning, the little bird calls out exactly at 6:30 hoping once again to hear the voice of its mother. This is all speculation.

Some time later, we feasted on another wonderful gourmet breakfast and met the other tenants of The Anglers Inn.

For our now daily dose of outdoor investigation, we wondered past the original Storer College and joined up with the Appalachian Trail where we left off yesterday. It took us pass Jefferson Rock, a large rock on which Thomas Jefferson once stood and apparently uttered some profound words about the town and view. Nowadays mere mortals cannot climb onto the rock and fences stop them nearing the edges of the bits below the rock. The rock is also perennially surrounded by school children who don't tend to say anything that could be described as profound. Their teacher asked for words to describe the rock, "big" was about the best.

We wandered some more around the town, popped into a few more houses that were now devoted to telling about the story of Mr Brown, the struggle from slavery to segregation and Lewis and Clark, "explorers."

19/4/07 Harpers Ferry, West Virginia – Revolution Come and Gone

We awoke in the quiet, post-revolutionary, pre-tourist season Harpers Ferry. We were staying at The Anglers Inn, a quaint, friendly B&B obsessed with all things fishing (see previous picture).

We each enjoyed the luxurious, warm classic-shaped bath and went down to feast on the gourmet breakfast provided by the kindly inn-keepers. Sumptuous French toasts and light chocolate bread. A fantastic way to start a day and 8:30 doesn't seem so early when you're still on European time.

Harpers Ferry was a once busy town that is now a tourist village. It's full of picturesque colonial houses. It is about as full of history as a place can be in the US. Scene of three civil war battles and John Brown's failed rebellion to free the slaves, which is credited with causing the war.

However one of the first points of the day was the confusing world of custard. In the UK, custard is the milky, eggy gloop you put on your pudding (dessert). In the US, the closest thing to custard as we know it is called pudding. Although you can get "frozen custard" which is also similar, but less eggy and more frozen. It's very confusing, but even more confusing when you know that custard was originally a kind of pie and that pudding originally meant something like a haggis. Not so tasty now, is it?

After breakfast, we took a walk. A long leisurely hike through the focal point of the village, over the railway bridge, along the damp canal and up through the woods.

Harpers Ferry lies at the point where the Potomac and Shenandoah rivers meet. There's a little bit of friendly tussling between the two waters, but it is the Potomac that wins the chance to flow on and into the Chesapeake Bay. On the other side of the Potomac is a key hill three times fought over during the war of Gone with the Wind.

Along the paths that wind through the woodland on that hill are points of interest left from the fortification from it. Ditches marked powder store and indents posted as gun emplacements. We took the shorter path to a crop of rock overhanging the tunnel entrance opposite the town. It's a great spot to sit, reflect, and look down on a pretty town kept in the old style through the power of tourism. Being such a great spot, it was only after a few seconds of arriving that another pack of tourists turned up. Fortunately, their attention span was much less than ours.

The overhang looks over the twin railway lines that merge at Harpers Ferry. We watched as a 65-carriage cargo train snaked its way along the river-side track and into the tunnel beneath us. Slowly crossing the country on a pre-laid path could well be the most boring or the most visually stimulating jobs one could have.

One thing we noted about the woodland around Harpers Ferry was its almost complete lack of wildlife. Occasionally there would be the odd woodland bird or a squirrel, but you'd expect much, much more of this sort of thing. It was actually quite eerie, especially as we saw more wildlife in New York City.

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Most of the buildings in the core of the village are museums. Many of these relate to the life and times of one John Brown, former business man who went all wild-eyed and bearded at the treatment of slaves. He got together 20 men and lead an attack on Harpers Ferry which he hoped would encourage the slaves to rise up and join him. They didn't. Probably because despite his initial success he was soon surrounded by the military. Not only that but the first person the revolutionaries managed to shoot was a freed slave in the employ of the railroad company, which must have sent out mixed signals. That is if any signals really got out. It is hard to know how in these pre-radio days, word would really have spread about the revolt. Especially amongst slaves whose movements were far from free.

Still despite the failure of his attempt, and John Brown's subsequent hanging, the "rebellion" is credited with being a cause of the civil war a few years later, fought overtly over the issue of slavery.

Harpers Ferry was also a location of one of the first "free colleges," a place where people of all races and sexes could get an education. Together. Storer College was also a meeting place of the Niagara Movement, a group dedicated to removing segregation that was the "freedom" after slavery. You know as in, "Everybody is equal, but some people are more equal. White legs good; black legs bad."

After lunch, a few more museum homes and an encounter with a very large, blind park ranger who came puffing and grumbling down the stairs so audibly we thought he was going to die, it was time for coffee. We had it in The Coffee Mill. On the outside, this looks like a quaint, old-style coffee house, inside it looks like a seedy diner.

We didn't have time, alas for the John Brown Wax Museum in which the life of John Brown is illustrated using animated wax dummies. It has all the feel of a Vincent Price movie, apparently, especially the scene where John Brown is in his coffin and if you listen carefully you can hear him breathing, somewhat mechanically. It appears that frequently people come back to the town later in life determined to go back into the wax museum and once and for all dispel the nightmares they've had ever since they went there as a child. We didn't have time but maybe when if have kids of our own we'll come back here and take them here to the wax museum.

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Harpers Ferry is a stop on the Appalachian Way, a path "originally" followed by Messrs Lewis and Clark when they crossed the country deciding what bits to con the locals out of. Much is made of Lewis and Clark's "pioneering" crossing and "discoveries" but very little is made of the young Native American woman who led them complete with child on her back.

We walked down by one of the rivers' edges where once there was much industry and housing before repeated floods brought all the buildings down. Now there is nothing but fallen brick in the outline of houses and mills with trees growing in between. Oh, and signs saying where the most important buildings were. On the way back we followed a tiny bit of the Appalachian Way. Some people spend years following the whole thing as a sort of get-back-to-well-trod-nature sort of thing as well as getting in touch with their colonial roots.

After a long day, an early night was the order of things, disturbed only by the frequent passage of 65-carriage monster trains.

18/4/07 Dallas, Texas to Dulles, Virginia

After some necessary maintenance on Cath's Parent's network, we headed off to Dallas Fort Worth Airport. As stated before, US airports are sprawling and badly organised and Dallas Fort Worth is no different.

It was at this airport we finally got to see some Americans as we Europeans expect them. All girth and short trousers. There were also a few true Texans with their wranglers, 10 gallon hats and 20-gallon bellies. Although most were somewhat understated. I was very disappointed. My expectations of what the people of Texas were going to be like had proved very wrong. I can only assume we were in the wrong part of Texas. Certainly we didn't stray too much from downtown Dallas and the suburban sprawl that surrounds it. If we'd have gone to Billy-Bob's we would have seen plenty, but not necessarily authentic ones. Next time, we'll try and head out into the wilds and see if we can't find out what happened to the stereotypical Texan.

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The plane we flew in had signs in two languages. In the middle one said "←EXIT SALIDA→" which means "Americans evacuate left, Mexicans right."

We flew into Chicago Midway Airport which celebrates a battle in the pacific where the US lost nearly 100 planes. Not the best theme for an airport. Here we had some non-country-specific Asian food. The pork was surprisingly tasty but the orange chicken overly sweet. I forget the name of the place, but it was something unlike Yam, Bam and Fan Kyu Maam.

After this, we caught our connection to Washing DC Dulles Airport. It had never occurred to us that Dallas and Dulles were close in name, but the guy at the Avis desk, who had an Australasian twang to his voice, claimed they had many people arriving there who had booked cars online for Dallas and expected them to be waiting for them in Dulles.

We took our hire car the few hundred miles to the B&B we were to spend the night. It was quite late and with bodies not even on mid-Atlantic time and stomachs having been filled at all sorts of odd times during the day, we eschewed dinner in favour of sleep. Sleep: called the Little Death by the morbid French and the Big Death by insects born that morning.

17/4/07 Dallas, Texas – Eat At Krishna's

The news is still dominated by the massacre. A member of Congress said, "It's too early to talk about gun control." What he means is, "It's too late to talk about gun control."

The gunman it is emerging throughout the day is not your average gun-toting local, or a single-man cell of al-Quaida as some panickers were fearing, but a Korean student. He seems to have integrated very well and owned at least two handguns.

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When she sees the skyline of Dallas, Catherine cannot help but think of the theme tune to the TV show of the same name. I hear something, but my memory is poor and I have a strong feeling I am not hearing the right theme tune. It may well be for some similar show, maybe Dysentry or Maverick. My memory of the show is pretty hazy, but I do recall there was a big hoo-har about who shot JR. I'm pretty sure it was Suellen Oswald from the Children's Book Repository. It was a pity we didn't have time to replenish my memory at the museum out housed at the actual Southfork Ranch used in the show. I say pity, but I mean something else.

One thing Dallas isn't short of is churches. They're big, they're frequent and they all have long names. Where I'm from, churches are called St. Margaret's or St. Frederick's. Maybe they get as long as St Martin's in the Field, but that's it. Here they are called things like Holy Church of Jesus Christ Son of God, and Church of the Holy Blessing of Jesus upon the Children of the Wondrous Flock of He Who Must be Praised. I don't know if the trend will be for these names to get longer. In fact, I think the trend will be that they start becoming more commercialised and start being called things like Holies!, HisHouse or J.C. Superstore ("open every Sunday from 8 til 4").

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We had planned that evening to go to Billy-Bob's three-acre Honky-Tonk and Rodeo in Fort Worth, but time slipped away from us like the soap in a hillside shower. Then storm warnings came in so we decided to do something a little closer to home. Plus going to a bar to look at a bunch of men in big hats and leather boots seemed a little gay. Instead of the Honky-Tonk and Rodeo, we did the next best thing in terms of experiencing the Wild West spirit. We went to a Hari Krishna Temple Restaurant. There we had a very healthy Indian vegetarian buffet followed by some great halva. And the people in these temples are really nice. They're like Mormons dressed as Indian Hippies.

16/4/07 Dallas, Texas - Zen and the Art of Music Marketing

In Texas more than anywhere in the US, anyone who doesn't drive a huge pick-up truck the size of a school bus is a sissy boy. Or it might be that those driving the huge pick-up trucks are the over-compensating sissy boys, I don't recall which. In a quick, unrepresentative sample, 3 out of 4 cars on the road were pick-up trucks. This did not include our little one which didn't really count because it was only about the size of a regular car. Ours was dwarfed by some of the monsters on the road. In fact ours seemed more like a "life-truck" that you would have in the back of one of the larger trucks, underneath the spare tire for emergency situations. Most of these huge vehicles were in pristine condition indicating they have never been taken anywhere near "off-road" nor had they had anything of in the back any significant size or weight, nor anything the shape of livestock.

We drove into Dallas, to a café that seemed to have healthy food. There we met up with Cath's friends from her old Zen group. The group included one of the Zen masters, who was not what you expect from a Zen master. I'd been thinking of shaven-headed, silent type only able to speak in terms of metaphorical wisdoms. I was expecting to somehow feel I had lead a worthless life laden with clutter. In fact nothing could have been further from the truth and I didn't feel this any more than I normally do. Although the conversation with the Zen master was about very ordinary things I was certain that if I had been asking about some deep meaning within the universe, he could have answered that too. Or at least been told that the answer lies within myself.

Also there was the mother and aunt of one of the two college kids we housed for their short stay in Amsterdam a month or so ago. We had seen very little of them and when we did, we shied away from taking them to see the seedier side of Amsterdam life (apart from taking them to an easylaughs show, that is). However it emerged that the aunt had hoped we would take them to these places. Half-dressed women in windows and shops for the sale of soft narcotics are pretty educational. We can't be sure they didn't go and see these places for themselves, as we never saw them during the day, and it is very hard to find a guide book that doesn't mention these places. Even in ultra-Christian guide books it mentions them, stating "Stay away from these places of sin!!!!" And in the Amish Guide to Amsterdam it clearly states, "What do you mean you are getting on a plane? Have you forgotten everything we stand for?"

Another important member of the group was Duck Bear, a pocket-sized bear who accompanies one of the top legal minds in the country into court, and no doubt offers secret advice from his pocket vantage point. Duck Bear is so into Zen he has his own contemplation cushion and meditation wall. Duck Bear has entrusted me with the important of task of having the British queen's residence renamed from Buckingham Palace to Duckingham Palace. So far it has already started with The Telegraph already printing the name:

"Duckingham Palace declined to comment last night on the relationship between the Queen and the Prime Minister."

After lunch, we popped into a Borders bookshop to see the latest trends in cat discipline and check out the huge shelf of Bibles. We even got to check out the guy dancing enthusiastically at one of the listening posts. He seemed to have that part of the shop to himself. After he had kept up the dancing for the whole time we were in there, Cath went over and asked him what he was listening to. It was some cat called Paul Wall, who on investigation seems to be a jewellery maker to rap stars who has gotten into music to promote himself (this seems to be what myspace is really for). It seemed very likely the dancer was actually just a guerrilla marketer trying to start a vibe at street level.

We then popped into a drugstore (chemist) just to test a theory that they now have low-fat, reduced-sodium, Atkins-friendly condoms. They don't.

Throughout the day, the main news of the day was of a high-school massacre. People are very shaken up by it. Which actually surprised me as in Europe, if you had to list the things that happened in America, it would certainly appear in the top ten. It's nice to know people are not so desensitised to this sort of thing. And that they happen less than we think.

The evening was spent with more of Catherine's relatives, this time a spirited aunt and uncle on her mother's side. There was much discussion on the age beyond which it is impossible to travel, with no firm conclusions other than it's quite high.

15/4/07 Dallas, Texas – Keep the Red Horse Flying

Sometime towards the end of this day, we realised I had not seen the front of Cath's parents' house, despite having stayed there for two days. Every time we had gone in or out, it was via the garage (or gararge as they mispronounce it here). Just so as I could have a glimpse, and to make sure no one had stolen it, we drove past the front on our way round to the back and the gararge.

The equivalent area in the UK would be one of those new estates with multiple branching roads that end in scores of cul-de-sacs where every house looks exactly the same, externally at least. From the air in the UK, they look like My First Mandelbrot Picture. The US equivalent is much improved. Not least because they have much more spare room. The other reason is that individualisation within boundaries is highly prized in the US, and each house is built according to a template. You pick one of the two or three templates (both single and double storey) and then from a number of variables including brickwork, floor types, window style, etc. Of course the mock castle style is an option and in one template, pillars are standard. The result is that on first glance, all the houses are different, but on the second viewing, you can easily see that the models are, and what options exist. But at least every single house is almost unique, even if you will have at least one neighbour with a bungalow in the style of a castle.

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Once upon a time, the Magnolia Building of the Magnolia Petroleum Company (later Mobil Oil) was the tallest building in Dallas. With its huge red Pegasus (flying horse), it was a shining beacon marking the dominance of the Magnolia Petroleum Company. Today it is about half the height of some of the newer buildings and looking a little shabby, like an aging footballer amongst the latest batch of basketball players.
Before our first appointment, we drove around a few of the sites of downtown Dallas, including the famous Children's Book Repository from which Kennedy was missed and the nightclub area of Deep Ellum (an African American pronunciation of the street Elm that stuck and became the name of that part of town).

Today's main event was a family reunion of Catherine's father's side of the family, mainly in honour of her grandfather and grandmother. Yes, the same grandfather who was honoured yesterday. It wasn't a coincidence.

From the 28th floor of the hotel where the event took place, we could look down on the Magnolia Building nestling between its larger neighbours. It was hard not to feel sorry for it.

The event was a heart-warming look at the lives of members of a strong American family and of its two figureheads. There were frequent tales recalling the days of segregation-era America. With stories of things you can scarcely believe happened in living memory of people in a supposedly civilised country. Things like the park in between the grandparent's house and the shops being for whites only. But the tale was amusingly told - a couple of the kids would go to the park which was sometimes guarded by some odious offspring from the white part of town and put just a foot into the park to tease and torment the odious ones. And had a happy ending - the park was eventually made open to everybody through an appeal by the grandfather. But still it makes the hair on your back bristle.

Basically, you could say I had a crash course in Cath's family and its history in a way most boyfriends take years to accumulate.

We ended the day at David's Seafood Restaurant for some contemplative perch and gumbo. And before you ask, David was not another relative but a man who likes to cook fish. Or rather he likes to leave the fish cooking to subordinates and wonder round his restaurant badgering the guests into telling him everything was okay. And it wasn't just David himself. Two separate waiters on at least three occasions came and bothered us with this enquiry. This was a lot even by American standards.

14/4/07 Dallas, Texas – My friends, can your hearts stand the shocking facts?

We awoke early due to our bodies being on a different time zone and found a cold and damp day. Not what one expects from Texas. Especially when the Netherlands was sweltering in an early, lengthy burst of sunshine. This is clearly not global warming, but an example of the under-reported phenomenon of Global Swapping where one part of the world exchanges its weather with another.

The majority of the day was spent pottering in the great British tradition. Catherine had notes from her conference to type up on coaxing Google robots into your interlair and other such things I'll never understand. Meanwhile I had several words to put to paper some of them quite long and appallingly misspelt.

The main order was the day was the Fourth Annual African-American Educators Hall of Fame, a well-attended event held in large hall on the grounds of a big church. We were there as Catherine's grandfather was being posthumously inaugurated into the Hall of Fame for outstanding services rendered to education especially during times when education was not always easy to get or give in certain sections of the community.

There was a bit of build-up and introduction, then after a prayer, which I am sure was made up on the spot as it included the line, "oh, er, and God bless all the little children," we ate. It was after the food that the core of the ceremony itself took place. As well as Catherine's grandfather, there were 10 other inductees (one of whom was picking up last year's award) and they or their living representatives sat along the stage next to a picture of the recipient.

There was a multimedia section with an audio-video display explaining each inauguratee's achievements somewhat briefly and followed by a confusingly edited interview. This was my favourite bit because it was so superfluous and badly done. Superfluous as the information bit was simply a voice-over recorded by one of the two presenters currently on stage. Superfluous because the images were simply a picture of the person floating it around the screen using 1970s video techniques. It was the same image as the one used on the stage. Just two pictures would have made it seem worth-while, but instead the same picture kept coming at you or sliding from the side or fading in and out. The interview was superfluous as the interviewer was the same guy, and the interviewee was on the stage. But what really made it for me was the fact the voice-over sounded exactly the same as Criswell, who you will know if you ever saw an Ed Wood movie.

There were 11 inductees and several other special merit awards. On top of this, pretty much everyone else in the room had to at one point stand up and be acknowledged - the older and frailer someone was, the more often they had to stand up. With all this it ran a little long yet only offered the tiniest glimpses into each of the candidates' lives. But isn't that the nature of the award ceremonies? And fortunately most people kept their acceptance speeches short and informative. But there was information to be gleaned about these 11 people, some of whom achieved great things and often at a time when just to achieve what we would consider normal things took a great deal of effort and determination.

The whole event had a sort of church fete feel and was sometimes a bit haphazardly executed. In fact I recall almost exactly the same event in the film, Coming to America. But you couldn't fault its earnestness or its aim. And quite frankly I would have been sick if it had come anywhere near the sweet slickness of the Oscars. Although it did nearly reach it on the congratulate everybody front.

It was rounded off with a rousing chorus of the African-American National Anthem. It was the first that I had heard that such a thing existed. It caused me a moment of consternation about whether I should stand and sing. After all, if the British National Anthem was played, I would be reluctant to stand up and sing. I would only do so because of peer pressure as in if the whole room was British and doing so. If another country's anthem was playing I would resolutely stay seated even if I was the only non-citizen there. Here, however, to remain seated would seem insulting; to stand up and sing seems presumptuous. But this wasn't an anthem for a nation as in physical country sense, but as in body of people, in particular a much put-upon ethnic group.

Like a lot of national anthems it's really just a hymn. It starts very uplifting, as it should, but it ends with a good, solid dose of God. Being a hymn, there is always that problem that all hymns (and national anthems) have: Even with all the words in front of you and the tune playing, you still have no idea how to actually sing it. In hymns words are stressed, elongated, shortened, sung higher, sung lower, sped up and slowed down all to a random pattern only known by the singers. There is never any indication or logic on where to do all these different things. You just have to know. In fact even if you do know a hymn, but then go to a different country or denomination and they sing the same hymn, they will have a completely different way of singing it. You can try to guess but you'll be wrong, and find yourself half way through a "lord" when everyone else is speeding through a "giving me his salvation;" or you'll be getting to the end of a constant, high-pitched line about angels being high and wing-ed, when everyone else is at the start belting out a "holy" that lasts four minutes and covers 5 octaves.

Anyway, I digress. The evening was an education and nicely outside my normal sphere of experience. It's not often I get to witness firsthand an (admittedly atypical) slice of Black American Christian life, being as I am a White European Atheist. As Criswell once put it, "Can you prove that it didn't happen?"

Wii all play together

Wii, the latest computer game sensation promises to go supermassivenova, I am sure. It's got a lot going for it. The name, which is pronounced "wee" has all the amusing connotations in English, Scottish, French, etc which means a lot of people are talking about it and easily remember the name. Then there is the interactive portion. Instead of using the control stick like a buttony-joystick thing as with all the other game stations, you use it exactly like the object it imitates. Thus, when you play tennis, you hold it and swing it like a tennis racquet. No doubt there will be a cricket game where you hold it like a cricket bat. There have already been a whole load of Wii-related accidents, often caused by things like 4 people playing mixed doubles tennis in a room the size of a table-tennis table and with resultant smacks in the head, etc with the controller. This will only increase as the number and diversity of games increases.

Five Wii games I would like to see all having new uses for the stick:

1. Wii Rugby (or American football) where the stick is used as the ball.
2. Wii Hide and Seek.
3. Wii Wee-Wee Wizard.
4. Wii Monkey Spanker.
5. Wii Gay Porn Star.

13/4/07 New York, USA – Taking a Toll / Merry-Go-Round

After Catherine's conference had run its course, we killed an hour wandering the billboarded streets of Broadway and enjoying the company of the overly enthusiastic staff at Jumba Juice.

We picked up our luggage from the only hotel luggage left-service I've ever encountered that costs you money and procured a taxi. The next episode was a series of those joys and woes life doesn't usually throw together in such a short space of time except on TV.

The chauffeur of our carefully selected vehicle was a Japanese American into shameless pop. We made good time through the semi-gridlock that is New York daytime traffic until we reached the toll for one of the bridges. Our chauffeur calmly took one of the many automatic payment lanes. Ordinarily this means the car slows down as it approaches the booth, some invisible electronics happens, some behind-the-scenes data transfer, some hidden checks, a manual keystroke somewhere in Madras, India, and the barrier lifts up. For us, however, there was a departure from the norm. After slowing down, there was no resultant barrier raising, and instead a stop.

A typically brusque New Yorker – most New Yorkers are good naturedly short-tempered – bounded over, grabbed the driver's licence, toll fee in notes and his EZpassTollPayCard™. He ordered him to pull up out of the way and disappeared. For some time we were waiting in the car. The driver was so embarrassed we had to remind him to turn the meter off after a couple of them. We had no idea how long it would take for the guy to come back. And of course when you have to be at the airport, any delay seems like a long time.

We also did not know what would happen when the guy did return. He could confiscate the car and/or the driver's licence leaving us stranded the wrong side of a toll, waiting in vain for an taxi that had decided to pay the toll without a fare. We didn't know if he was going to be arrested for some traffic violation or other and us taken away too as accomplices. We knew nothing.

Eventually, the guy returns and curtly hands the driver back his licence and EeZeePeeAyEssEss back to him, plus his receipt, plus the change for the five dollars he had given him. In other words, we were not waiting for a security check, for a ticket to be written or for a warrant to be processed, but for the man to make the change for the toll.

With no further delays we were shepherded to the airport and our charioteer dropped us off at the US Airways drop-off point and rode off into the smog. We had a little search for the correct US Airways desk, but were soon standing in front of it. It was then that we found what was to go wrong next. Although this was an US Airways ticket, bought from US Airways, the flight was operated by United. United operate out of Terminal B and we were in Terminal C.

Any form of transport in America that isn't involving you sitting in your car is confusing. US airports are large, sprawling and with each little bit autonomous. Eventually we found a hassled but jovial New Yorker fielding people onto the right buses because without him, you would have no idea which buses were the right one because they were all very generic buses that only occasionally gave an indication of their purpose. The first few buses were not the right one, and the guy told us so. Then another identical bus arrived and this was pointed out as inter-terminal shuttle bus. We hopped on were shunted over to Terminal B.

Here we staggered our way through three sets of school children to the United counter. By this time we already knew our first flight was 45 minutes delayed, making it impossible for us to make our connecting flight which left at exactly that time. Fortunately the overworked but gruffly chirpy girl behind the counter realised this and offered us a later but direct flight that would actually put us in earlier than we would have arrived on our original two-flight plan. Perfect. This was a flight we had not booked as the tickets were too expensive. Result!

There was however one minor problemette: This flight was operated by Delta Airlines and left from… Terminal D. But by then we didn't care. We had reduced our flight time, and halved our take-offs and landings and now had plenty of time before the flight left. Plus having been to two of the four terminals already, it seemed only right to visit yet another one.

So back on another bus we went all the way round to Terminal D. We checked in automatically and then went to the desk to check in or luggage. Of course, this couldn't go smoothly, not on Friday the 13th. The guy took one look at our tickets and told us we had checked in at the wrong machines. We had used a machine for no luggage, rather than a machine for passengers with luggage. The difference between these machines? Nothing marked above or on the machines themselves, but a confusing message on the second screen, easily passed over.

Dear Delta,

a) Why would you provide different machines for passengers with luggage and those without it?
b) If you do have a valid reason for providing two different sorts of machines, please mark them clearly on the machines themselves. Also make the message informing paying customers which machine it is they are using much clearer.
c) Please try to lean on the New York Airport Authorities to make their airports more organised.
Yours,
Passengers

So whilst I guarded the baggage against thieves, smugglers and terrorists, Cath went and rechecked in using the correct machine because obviously the guy behind the counter couldn’t fix this. We were lucky it could be fixed at all and we didn’t have to have our luggage destroyed.

The next thing to go wrong was far more sinister. Printed on our boarding passes in one corner were 4 S's. We didn't notice it, of course, but one sharp-eyed security bod did and shepherded us through the cordon directly to the X-ray machines. We were singled out for a special security search.

We never got a satisfactory answer why were singled out. It could be that it was purely random. It could be because we had our flights changed at the last minute; or because we had checked in twice; or it could be that we had been spotted in three separate terminal buildings – all of which is very, very suspect indeed. In fact maybe it was because our taxi had been seen parked by the side of the road just past the bridge.

I was patted down by a burly, cop-like security guy, but Catherine was not. It was our stuff that received all the attention. It was wiped down with small strips of cloth which were then analysed in some contraption. Catherine's shoes set off an alarm for some "chemical," but instead of us being surrounded by an extremely armed swat team, the girl in the uniform just shrugged her shoulders and said it was probably pesticides. Given how deadly most pesticides are to pests, you would think that airport security droids would be more concerned by it. But they weren't and quickly moved on to the next group - a dangerous band of suspect figures disguised as a jovial, balding dad and his two pre-teen kids.

Later on we realised that although we had been ominously selected for this 'special security search' with all the extra stress that invokes, our fears that it would involve a prolonged interrogation, public stripping and indelicate probing were unfounded. It actually meant that we got through the whole security circus much quicker than if we had continued along the snaking queue. So once again a bad thing turned out not so bad.

After all this, the only other possible thing that could go wrong would be our own flight delayed due to a hurricane raging in Texas. Check.

The TV news was filled with warnings of hurricanes and listed off the counties in Texas where it was expected to hit. They included Cath's parent's county and the one in between them and the airport. It’s a well known fact that hurricanes and tornadoes are not random, but as lightning seeks metal to conduct it, hurricanes and tornadoes seek out trailer parks. Such winds like nothing better than to meander through a state following the lie of trailer parks. In fact they seem to avoid everywhere else most of the time. Which meant that Catherine’s parents should be fine as their area doesn’t seem to have too many.

First the flight was delayed by 15 minutes. Then 15 minutes before the plane was rescheduled to take off, it was still not there. Then it turned up very shortly before the new time and a girl hurriedly announced our boarding. We duly piled on. Fortunately it was a small plane and boarding was quick. However, then came that news that the hurricane was posing more of a threat than expected. First we were told an hour's delay. Then 1 hours delay and a longer flight via a different route. Next the pilot informed us that the new route would give us enough fuel to get to our destination. However, air traffic control would not budge. It was their way or (stay on) the runway. In the end a compromise was reached. We would leave before the hour, but go via the longer route. To save fuel we would go slow. We would now be arriving at about the same time as our original flight, but on the plus side we had still gained in the fact we had eliminated an extra set of take off and landings, which is always good.

Oh, and more thing. Although we bought tickets from US Airways, but which were for a United flight, and got switched to a Delta flight, the plane itself was not operated by Delta but by Shuttle America. Confused? Welcome to flying in the USA.

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The flight was a good preliminary refresher in Texan, possibly the strangest and richest of all of America's various corruptions of the English tongue. Was also good for brushing up on me Brummy.

For those of you interested in exponentorating in the Texan vernacular. The word "tired" is pronounce "tard"; "Line" is more line "larn"; and "in" is a diphthong, which is not an undergarment worn by twins, but when you almost make two syllables from one. It was good also to hear the expression "Holy Crud" in every day use.

To let you know, the flight managed to avoid the hurricane, but landed even later than predicted at Dallas Fort Worth airport where we were picked up by two very tired parents.

Headline USA Today: "FAA divided over airport near misses." Does that mean some people at the Federal Aviation Authority think they’re a good thing? Weird.

13/4/07 New York, USA – Hall Cops Bench Coffee

Sirens are all part of the backdrop of New York. Every few minutes there will be a wailing a few streets down. Sometimes they almost flow into each other to provide a constant soundtrack. It's like the twittering of the birds in the forest or the lowing of cattle on a farm. Sirens are the reassuring noises of the urban jungle. When you don't hear them, that's when you know they're going to raid your joint.

We are staying one night at the Hilton New York. Not because we are extravagant but because Cath was already there for a conference on Search Engine Marketing. In fact although the Hilton New York sounds like a posh retreat, it is in fact a huge slab of quality hotel furniture in a somewhat newish but aging building. And every little thing they can charge you for, they charge you for. Even looking after your bags after you have checked out. In many ways, the Hilton New York is like Paris Hilton: tall, thin, expensive but not nearly as classy as you would have expected given the name.

Whilst Lady Catherine was at her final day of conference, soaking up the latest Google wizardry, I wandered around the city. Actually, at first I stayed in and mulled over some writings until the maid burst in made me realise I should probably head out. Well actually I realised this after she had burst in and then later bashed the door (or nearby wall) a few times. Plus who wants to stay in an overpriced bed when one of the most vibrant cities awaits your sardonic gaze?

Round the corner from the hotel is the well-renowned Carnegie Hall. Well-renowned mainly because of the joke. You know the one, "Q: How do you get to Carnegie Hall? A: Turn left out of the Hilton New York, left again then right onto the next street." It's not very funny, but it's accurate. It's almost as groan-making as the other Carnegie Hall joke. "Q: Where in The Netherlands can you get all of the materials necessary to make a full-size replica of Carnegie Hall? A: Praxis."

I had been expecting much more of Carnegie Hall given its renown. You know, the mock-Greek columns and pseudo-Roman busts beloved by American architects. But in fact it's just a regular old-school theatre. Or theater as they mispronounce it there.

On the way, it appeared to be letting-out time at the local police precinct. Dozens and dozens of police cars came lugging along the street, not seemingly going anywhere in particular, but using their sirens to get across junctions when the lights didn't agree with them. But on the bits in between, they didn't speed. It was more like they were cruising. A bunch of guys showing off their flashy motors.

For the next few hours, I wandered around the large greenish patch in the centre of town known as Central Park. The park is heavily populated with squirrels and film crews. Of the latter, I encountered three, although I suspect one of these sightings was an earlier one that had moved. The first one was filming a guy playing jazz on a saxophone whilst a boulder with a pair of legs danced beside him.

Possibly the most frequently encountered inhabitant of Central Park is the common New York park bench (Sedes Novus Amsterdamus). These are thousands of them; lining the paths, hiding near the bushes or gazing wistfully across the pools of water. There are easily more than enough for one per squirrel with enough left over for one for each member of each film crew. The reason there are so many is that they are sponsored. They can be bought as presents, memorials and even as a means to propose, all of which is indicated on a nice little plaque.

(Thanks to modern photography techniques, you can download this picture and add your own text to the plaque.)

The obese section of the population of the US, the ones who come to Europe and complain that the MacDonald's next to their hotel is not a drive-through, do not seem to live in New York. Here people seem regular sized. Judging by the labels on things here, people are concerned about their health. Their looks too. I even saw a tramp in the park combing his hair quite conscientiously.

Once my phone battery had given up the ghost, I was without a timepiece. It was now I realised that there are no clocks in this city. Odd in a city famous for people rushing around with places to be. Fortunately (or consequently) most people wear watches and asking the time is an accepted, even necessary, social interruption. In fact another tramp asked me soon after for the time. Wow, even the hobos in New York have places to go, people to see.

I took myself off to the city in search of cwarfee, the mysterious drink so beloved by these islanders. I popped into a temple of the astronomical deer (Starbucks) where I partook of a "grande" (or huge) beverage and listened to accents.

12/4/07 John F Kennedy Airport, New York, USA – On The Road

Given how glossy everything looks on TV, in the movies and in the commercials, etc, I always get lulled into thinking the US is some kind of well-oiled machine. It's clear in term of transportation, certainly, it is not. Even roads, the arteries of America, are often in a terrible state. Pot-marked, misjoined and full of bits of car. I'm sure Iraq has better roads than the ones in some New York suburbs. But then the US has more attention, money and man-power turned on Iraq than any New York suburb.

The first houses I saw were horrible. Even the small ones were a designed in a kind of ostentatious but cheap way which makes them look nothing but tacky. Some are made to look like little castles or colonial mansions, but are the size of small bungalow. Occasionally dangling fairy lights would adorn the obligatory porch. The following houses were rows of tall, ominous red-brick blocks, which were actually more pleasing on the eye. There is a lot to be said for not allowing too much free expression.

I was taking the express bus service from into the centre of New York. It's a kind of taxi service with a fixed price and takes several people at a time to their respective doors. The service promises qualified drivers and ours was qualified in driving whilst texting back to headquarters. It was a good reminder that American Traffic Lane Laws are that the fast lane is the one you are in.

We drove through Queens, an area with a bad reputation and even worse roads. It's a very run-down suburb. The first person I saw was stood fixed like a slouching sentry, guarding the street, but staring left. I have never seen anyone looking quite so Snoop Dogg an' shit.

I was dropped off at the Hilton and went upstairs and found the Lady Catherine fresh from her day’s conferencing. Sometime later, we headed out to find food. We'd phoned ahead, but the healthy food place (called The Pump as they were going for a gym-going clientele) had lost our order and was now closing. They gave us a couple of free energy muffins and were very apologetic, which was nice and unexpected as I am used to the Dutch shrug when anything goes wrong. It being late not much was open except late-night stores and a few unhealthy restaurants, so we scrounged some less-lethal looking things from one of the former and returned to the hotel.