San Francisco III

My last night, hah. San Francisco excersised it's (un)holy hold over me and I stayed two more days. The day following the previous entry was eaten quickly in the visiting the Golden Gate Bridge (which wins the prize for Most Foggiest Tourist Attraction, and actually the fog was the most amazing thing about it - Downtown Frisco was sunny but two miles away the fog and wind waas so intense, at no point was it possible to see the top of the bridge - suspension wires stretching from apparently nowhere. From the middle of the bridge neither end could be seen, and even the waves breaking hundreds of feet below were pretty dim. It was pretty exultant, I'd say).



Afterwards I found my way to the 'Palace Of The Fine Arts' (awesome name, awesome idea, and it really is a palace) for the poetry reading of aforementioned International Poetry Festival. After sitting down (theatre like setting) and appreciating totally the little poems left on every arm-rest, I happened to glance down the row I was sitting on and, staggeringly, five seats down were Wallace and Jacky (See Asheville III in case youdon't remember. Which you won't). This was a wonderful suprise and we watched the poetry together and wined and had good times, before making our way to their flat in Oakland, singing along the streets (not drunkenly, we had a guitar and everything) and Jacky read me her poetry (beautiful), Walt Whitman's poetry (stunning), and and I returned some Ginsberg laaate into the night. Everybody in San Francisco is a poet or an artist of some kind. Wallace demonstrated this the next morning by playing me some actually erally good songs of his, then we returned into Frisco for mooore poetry.

We crammed into Cafe Trieste (beat hangout) but at some point Wallace left to make a phonecall, and then Jacky to see where he was. I, with my guitar and backpack and stuff actually couldn't leave, due to overcrowding. It became clear W+J weren't coming back, but some kind woman said I could come and sit with her, so I followed her through the throng irritating people with all my stuff. Then she discovered someone had taken her seats - anyway blah blah long story but I somehow ended up sitting with the poets, a yard from Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Jack Hirschmann asked me about Sheffield... crazy stuff. Anyhow running out of internet time so more later...

San Francisco II

Okay, okay. Yesterday I went to Berkeley, and today I looked around more San Francisco. Is that alright? YOU WANT MORE?!~

Hmm, after writing the other night a large group of hostellers emigrated to a karaoke bar and we had fun with Bohemian Rhapsody etc. Then the next day I went to berkeley, which is mainly a 'collage' (university) but also where Mr. Ginsberg (holy) grew up and wrote. I found places he'd written about, had coffee in the jazz cafe basement, read poems they have on the pavement there, read 'time' magazine in berkerley public library (massive joeypoints for anyone that can figure out why I did that...), ate my hummous and bread, went to Cody's books and couldn't resist more books (I now have eleven. ELEVEN. Tell me that isn't ridiculous for a traveller. I'm dangerous). Anyway then I came back to Frisco (beat) and checked out the following areas: Mission (grey lines); Castro (the gay quarter. The gay quarter of SAN FRANCISCO. Awesome, all businesses called 'gay cleaning' and such, and more rainbow flags than the eyes could digest); and Haight Ashbury (awesome-also. I bet guidebooks describe it as 'bohemian' or 'altrnative', and it is. So much painting on walls, so much singing in the streets, so much justification for the quote 'there are more buddhists in [san francisco] than tibet).

Then I came back to the hostel and spent one of the pleasentest evenings in good conversation over wine (two buck chuck - c'mon) with Chloe and her Mum and Leigham, who from giving the impression of being a football hooligan turned out to be a poet. You had to be there, really.

So I went to bed and after waking up at a few times (bunkmate irish girl, derrrunk: 'hey i need you to set an alarm to get me up, i need to wake at 4.30 for a flght' - me, bleary: it's '4 10 now' - bunkmate: 'set it for five then' - the alarm goes off for ten minutes and she still don't wake up so I get dressed climb down, shake her, still not waking, in the end i pour water on her face, she wakes up then but still doesn't get out of bed, so I give up and retire to my bunk (top bunk) and periodically shake her duvet from above until 5 30 when I go to sleep. anyway, she misses her flight. haffharf) I wake up finally and set off for another day of exploration, go to the beat museum (discoveries: william burroughs shot his wife in the head; allen ginsberg was in a gap advert; there are no heroes) and more of Frisco then head at 6 30 to 'jack kerouac' alley for the opening ceremoney of the International Poetry Festival. Lawrence Ferlinghetti read and walked within inches of me. That was cool. He said 'I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by boredom, at poetry readings'.

There was also a stunning jazz band, and now Im back at the hostel for my last night here. Cool.

Calabasas III, Monterey I, Big Sur I, San Francisco I

Okay so finally free internet and free time have collided, and though I am aware I am hopelessly behind, I will try to bring you up to date without missing anything vital.

So Calabasas remained beautiful, and, due to circumstances kind of out of my control, I was unable to leave when I planned to, which meant missing Ani Difranco which was a stab in the leg, but it did mean that I got to stay what felt more like a reasonable amount of time. But eventually and with regret I set off for Monterey.

Train journey (san luis obispo), bus journey (salinas), another bus (monterey), then a final bus (to hostel) and I was there. Monterey, supposedly a quiet pretty coastal town, was absolutely thronged with people, and not just any people - bikers. Motorbikers. With Beards! This crowdedness and everything being booked was what had kept me and calabasas those excellent last two days, and can be explained by the Moto GP race at Laguna Seca just outside monterey - 170 000 motorbike racing fans were in the area.

So much to my suprise Laura and Lindsey- the scots from the Grand Canyon - were at the hostel, and also planning to head down to Big Sur the next day. I hadn't really talked to them at flagstaff but over the course of the evening they proved to be superlative company, and, unlike everyone else I'd spoken to, not obsessed with motor-racing, which improved the conversation considerably.

So the next morning hit, and I got up early to prepare for my time at Big Sur (the hostel had no beds for the coming night, so I was staying down there - somewhere). A nice british girl called Chrissie was renting a car and driving down through Big Sur and kindly offered the three of us a lift down. So our rush to catch the first bus (there were only three a day) was unnecessary, and we hung around cooking pancakes and waiting for her car to be delivered. Chrissie had warned us that she had asked for the smallest car they had, so we might have to squash up. However, the rental company took her excellently at her word and turned up in a tiny two-seater convertible sportscar. Which was pretty funny but meant we'd missed our first bus and three hours until the next stretched out.

But we were opportunistic and took a different bus to picturesque Carmel, half-way to Big Sur, and while there realised we were only 10 minutes from the northermost state park of BigSur (hereafter known as BS) and so took a cab. We burned a happy couple of hours watching cute seals and cuter deers (deer? deers?) and whale-bones (not cute). We arrived at the bus-stop in time for the bus passing in the other direction to stop, and its driver to tell us that the bus (that we would have been on if it wasn't for the sportscar debacle haroo hooray) had broken down and was an hour late. So back on the return bus to Carmel, where we planned to wait in style with Ice-Cream. This led to the discovery that I had no money left on my card, and needed my debit card, back in Monterey, to top it up.

This meant I would undoubtedly starve to death and all kinds of terrible things, from which Laura saved me with $20, which was incredibly kind of her, in case she's reading, and even if not.

Anyway time passed and we finally got the bus, which moved us down to Pfeiffer state park (via Nepenthe where someone had lost his dog joey amongst the posion-oak) which had some lovely trails, such as 'pfeiffer waterfall trail' which led us to a waterfall, and 'valley view', which supplied a gorgeous view of, shockingly, the valley, which carried our eyes out to the beautiful azure sea.

Lindsey and Laura and I took the last bus (we were now pretty good friends with this bus driver) and bid one another a fond farewell when I got off at Andrew Molera, another statepark. [at this point the author becomes bored and the rest of the post is abbreviated] Here I spent a beautiful night beneath the stars and then rose early and walked up the too-pretty-for-words coast all day - one of the happiest days of my trip so far or maybe ever.

However, due to my using a not-to-scale busmap as my guide (long story), I ended up walking 9 hours and being exhausted by the end, as well as not being able to afford anything to eat. So I burned back to monterey, and decided to stay another night due to really not being in any state to travel to San Francisco that night and arrive at 11 o clock and find somewhere to stay.

So I did that the next day instead and it was fine. Then I spent yesterday looking around North Beach (city lights bookstore! Washington Sqare! Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac etc) and Chinatown. I really like this city a lot. I love it's bizarre mixing. I love that on one side of the road a guy is being sick by a postbox and on the other a crowd is watching a film being shot with loads of camaras and massive lights and red sportscars and such. I love that upon entry from Oakland an enormous impressive bridge (not even the golden gate) speeds you into a huge fogbank from which the hugest towers unexpected suddenly loom prettily. There are poetry readings everynight, in alleyways.

So anyway, I'm going to go out at look at it.

My First Novel

Ft. Lauderdale

Look at all the blue! That's the sky, you know.

Paaalllllllllmmmmm Trrreeeeeeess

This is experimental shell-art. It is called 'thought bubble' and is shown here on the canvas of my knee, on the beach.

More beachart.

Spaceship-looking controls of Mike's Boat.

Pretty tree. Ft Lauderdale is full of things like this.

More controls

More! Unfortunatly I just deleted the best picture, which was an action shot of me (my disembodied hand) pretending to press a button.

On the train journey away, I took some photos of SWAMP (trees)

And MARSH (no trees. That's the difference)

This is a road which for some reason caught my attention

Here are some people in the sun. The train carried me to...

New Orleans

There was some poignant slogan somewhere in this picture, but it is irritatingly unseeable here and I can't remember what it was. Still, illumnating of New Orleans halfdestruction.

Same ting.

What kind of animal is this? I don't know!

Memphis

(in no particular order...)

Beale Street. I'm annoyed you can't see the throngs of people on the street - the whole thing was as crowded outside as the bars were inside. All the bars. Count the neons.

This is where Gibson guitars are born.

This is an early stage in the process, before the guitars are made less fuzzy and grainy, and before they're rotated 90 degrees, so they're upright.

This photo is of guitars hanging upside-down so their paint can dry.

See that label 'scrap'? These guitars, because of minor faults such as one fret being slanted, or even 'visual imperfections', will be put through the shredding machine. They are worth around three thousand pounds each. ALL OF THEM! Argh.

I did not write Joey, someone else did. This is ART. It is called 'portrait of the artist as a young graffitti artist'.

This is the MISSISSIPPI. Even cooler, it is where JEFF BUCKLEY drowned. Sweet.

More Mississippi action.

I think this photo, taken at 3AM, nicely captures the feeling of the greyhound journey which took me to...

Austin

Congress ave. Below my feet, unbeknowst to me at the time of this picture being taken, is the largest urban bat colony in the world. In the far distance is the Austin Capitol. Which is in the next picture.

Oh No! Austin Capitol has fallen over, and Joey doesn't understand this photo downloading program enough to do anything about it.

This illustrates america's long, straight, vertical streets.

This monument, proving Texans are lovely people, was hidden behind the capitol building and shielding from view by hedges. Still there though.

A greyhound bus through the night took me to...

Flagstaff+The Grand Canyon

This pretty flower in a beer bottle welcomed me.

This photo is boring, but this post needs some padding out.

Trees and cloud.

That tattered and yellow paper reads 'Enjoying the Grand Canyon'. If i had looked up and taken another photo you would have seen 27 miles of drops up to 5000 feet; mountains and rivers of breathtaking beauty spread like a dried eden below me in a phantasmagorical panorama of biblical proportions. I didn't, though.

Here is our tour guide sitting on the edge. It gives you a vague idea of grand canyonish scenery.

If you want to know what the Grand Canyon was like, put 'Grand Canyon' into google pictures.

Calabasas II

Wearily I am updating my 'weblog' - it's so much effort to do anything here where it is so pleasurable to do nothing. Sun, Beach/Poolside, Cooling Breeze, Plums/Nectarines, Book: difficult to be less than relaxed utterly.

Yesterday I was kindly driven by Alice, only present cousin and my guide and companion throughout the evenings of LA, into Hollywood. We saw the stars, and footprints and handprints, the chinese-man theatre, and maybe more interestingly, the collection of people come to see the stars, and footprints and handprints, the chinese-man theatre. We made up some backgrounds for them and drank a little coffee, then moved on to a Downtown Artwalk which provided me with a glimpse into LA's contradictions - cracking and falling buildings and 'spare a quarter buddy?'s mixing with the smart and the hip trailing contemporary trendy gallery to gallery with wine and some interesting art.

Afterwhich we found The Cathedral Of Mary Of The Angels and after some canned-food donating, watched an actually-rather-good jazz version of a midsummer night's dream, complete with jazz standards and suits sharp as icecles. On the part of the actors, not us.

Today I went to a georgeous beach.

I seem to have conveniently forgotten the circumstances of my going to see the Harry Potter film, but I guess you should know that it happened. It was pretty fun, I enjoyed the screaming and clapping US audience.

Flagstaff II, Calabasas I

My last post was the 8th. Today is the 11th. So the end-half of the 8th was filled with buying Pizza.

The 9th was filled, in a serious fashion, by the Gerraannndd Cannyooonnnn. Do you want details and pictures? Probably you do. However, I figured no picture I took would be as good as pictures professional artists took, so just put 'grand canyon' in google and you can see for yourself. Although even being there it doesn't look real, not in the slightest in fact, so that it took me HOURS to start appreciating it, due to the fact that I just couldn't take it seriously for aages. Eventually, after our first view, and then a satisfying and powerfully dehydrating hike down inside the canyon, we visited a point called 'Desert View', which featured a hidden little path our guide (I paid $60 for a budget tour from the hostel), but seemingly no-one else, knew about. I took the opportunity to run down there ('run', that is: fastish walking slowing to an agonising crawl as the path became thinner and eventually just a rock with drops making my hands shake and sweat right now, genuinely, on three sides) before anyone else, and so was alone for five minutes - and suddenly all the beauty of the whole thing finally got through to me, after a dayful of 'this is okay but touristy and overrated'. And it is so far beyond description I'd feel dirty trying to put it into words.

After a short while some people came and talked loudly and took photos which would mean they'd forget the real views and look at photos not a billionth as impressive or expressive or whatever. They concentrated on exxpressing their amazement in loud voices and camara-clicking rather than actually looking at the damn thing. I left in disssgust.

So then we went back and I got a train overnight (the 10th, the first few hours of which were spent trying to sleep but getting terrible vertigo attacks every time I closed my eyes, a remnant of the, obviously very impressed upon me, Grand Canyon experience) to LOS ANGELES, where I was picked up by my AUNTIE PETA, and driven to CALABASAS, where COUSIN ALICE was, and met - is uncle the right word, or half-uncle or uncle-in-law? - I'm not sure, but one of these PAUL for the first time. It's so nice to see them and this house and place after so many years of invitations. Other notable features of this house is THE MOST COMFORTABLE BED IN THE WORLD and a POOL and RELAXATION.

So I did above then me and Alice and Emma went to see tchaikovsky (Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky himself, live in concert, rocking out, resurrected especially for this show) which was accompanied by the LA Philamonic and Fireworks. Actually some spectacular fireworks in time which the music, and synching with the vast crowd and the cool night air and the H-O-L-L-Y-W-O-O-D lettersign in the background, aswell as strawberry/nectarine/wine picnic, all coming together to create 'an experience'. Excellent.

Then today I'm updating blog and lazing, I think, lazily. Excuse me.

Flagstaff III

A blog entry not beginning 'so...'! I've lost my mind.

The bookstore was fantastic! I had determined not to buy anymore books, but I couldn't quite resist and bought three. The plan was to read at least one of them before I left and sell it back to the same place. Luckily, I've already almost finished one so hopefully that'll dull the $20 I couldn't afford. I'm about $100 over-budget for the first half of my travelling (I'm assuming now until the 16th will be cheap because of sponging (if peta, paul, rebecca, alice, tamsin, columbine, or anyone that knows them is reading this: I meant sponging as in helping to clean the house, with sponges) off relatives). Anyway, that's not bad because I've been learning to budget a bit better recently (except on the book front), so maybe all will be okay.

so (ha-ha) I bought the books, found a nice coffee-shop, ate a bagel, read them a bit, lounged, talked to my new friends Mim, Rosie, and [oarrgg my name-forgetting abilities no know bounds but also four others, all British, we're setting up quite a clique], then I did something else, I know , i went to the supermarket, bought supplies, then we went down the road for vegetarian dinner at the other hostel, got into a 'our country is better than your country' debate in which I remained impartial and a voice of intellectual rigour, then we went to some bars and played pool and saw a rock band but mainly focussed around the organ (they were called 'the big organ band', aha, aha), and I showed my ID proving I'm 20 numerous times and was accepted therein as being 21, came home, went to bed, got up, spoke to my rowan on the phone for a glorious little while the first time in ages, then went on a big hike through the sun and the fir trees, drank 2.2 litres of water in a shockingly short amount of time, but rehydrated safely with Strawberry milkshake watching the Flagstaff Community Band, who were entertainingly bad, bless 'em, and the whole scene, the sky having clouded over, was very like being at the seaside in Skegness or something.

I'm economi'z'ing on full-stops; they're expensive over here>

Flagstaff II

Quick tiny update - got my bag back intact.

My travel plans have suddenly exploded in a tangle of grand canyon tour schedules, all-night vegas possibilites, dirty hostels there, trains, santa monica being busless, trying to see relatives for more time than the world wants to allow me, ani difranco gigs, big sur, and such considerations.

The only other thing that happened is that, as a result of above, I had to cancel one tour I'd arranged. The guy on the phone became a 2-year old and kept interrupting me with things like "you do know we're the best tour company in the world?!" and "I suppose you've found someone else you'd rather do it with". That was pretty entertaining.

I now must away to the local used-bookstore. hur hur.

Flagstaff I

So I've only just got to flagstaff, but I figure the bus-journey alone is worth an entry, because it lasted 27 hours and 20 minutes, which is more than most entries would cover.

So it was all routine and boring, overnight, i even slept for maybe two hours collectively, until morning came and we got to phoenix. Phoenix, Arizona, where it was hat. That is to say - hot. 110 farenheight. All I can really compare it to is the feeling of bright hot sun shining on already sunburned skin. Imagine that feeling but on normal skin, in the shade. Yowee, even with full air-conditioning the bus got warm.

So we set off from there about 2ish, I think. It was just beginning to get really boooorring (finished my book by accident, other bag had been loaded up for me on to next coach without me being able to get anything) when providence came to the rescue, in the form of a man so desperate for the toilet he tried to pee in a bottle. Luckily the toilet-user emerged just in time to prevent aforesaid peeing, but not before the man had - how to put this tactfully... got his penis out, and pointed it vaguely in the direction of an enormous frowning guy, who luckily was incredibly humorous funny and kept the back half of the bus laughing for a good hour or so. So that pretty much all worked out.

We stopped and I was forced to eat a big mac and fries. I secretly enjoyed it, since there was no choice - having already exhausted my bread and cheese packed dinner/breakfast/lunch/another dinner.

So we got into El Paso at probably 5 30ish. El Paso was arizona proper, and tailed off into a hillside displaying what I could have believed was an African shanty-town, presumably housing these Mexican immigrants people won't shut up about over here (american news coverage, as you know, not being top-quality. As for england, as far as I can make about, someone called Henry Thierry has left his post as President of England - or Arsenal Rangers as it is also known - and been replaced by central defender or Quarter-Back Gordon Brown. This is in spite of Gordon's recent attempt to blow up Glass-Gowwwww airport.) Anyhow, the cactusses and desert stretched infinitely away as we started climbing.

Suddenly our shining highway turned a corner and we met what I could have believed was the hills of South America - those raggedy mountains that look like a one beautiful but now tattered blanket of greens and yellows and browns thrown over piles of bric-a-brac, but a million billion times bigger. We drove up through a passage in these and reached some kind of plateau and suddenly again plains stretched away for miles, dropping off on one side, enough so that it was like seeing a map, towns and rivers and lots and lots of cactii. Signs here said things like "land for sale - With Water!!". The sun got behind a cloud so it looked like the cloud was exploding.

This is, you understand, taking a fair while, and the screaming baby in the seat behind has been kept at bay by my Mp3 player, which was been stubbornly displaying three bars of battery - usually an indication of 5 minutes of musictime left - for the last 10 hours or so. An old lady with a pacemaker and hacking cough had earlier beaten me up and taken my bottle of water, so I was drying out. The pretty scenery, though, mixing nicely with my sleep-deprived derived poetical mindset, kept things ticking along nicely. I read 'howl' by allen ginsberg about 50 times. It's good though.

So we next drove into a big valley, which the now disentangled but lowering sun separated into two halves - one ash-coloured and the other incredibly rich golden. The sky here looked like a vividly eccentric watercolour.

Anyhow, we got into Flagstaff at 9 30, and my bag - containing all my clothes, books, spongebag, passport and debit card, wasn't on the bus. Greyhound people said it must have been loaded onto a different bus, and I must call back at midnight. I am half-nervous, half-worried, half-looking-forward-to-the-adventure-of-my-journey-being-ruined. I am one-and-a-half emotion beings.

Although maybe it'll turn up.

Austin II

So I spent a whole day lounging, talking about, finishing, and then giving away my book (not my book; the book i was reading, silly). I also fell asleep on the picnic table outside under an awning amidst the pittering rain. I went to bed with, for the first time, I realised, a room-mate snoring. Impressive run so far, but all good things.

Today I committed aforementioned first-day-in-city routine: walked downtown; found a bookshop; bought a book; put book on coffee shop table; went to buy coffee; came back to find someone waiting at my table; listened to his explanation that the book I'd just bought was his favourite, had inspired him to go travelling, and had taken it everywhere with him for twelve years; had conversation with said person - Will; enjoyed conversation greatly; accepted gratefully invitation to play cards in a different coffee shop that evening; then left into the rain; took shelter in innocuous-looking 'whole food shop', which turned out to be enormous and amazing, which fresh chocolatiers, salad bars, coffee grinding, bread-baking and a variety of amazing looking and smelling foods, all organic and that kind of thing people like us vaguely approve of; totally forgot all laws of syntax and grammar.

Anyway, the rain finished and I checked out Texas capitol builing, which as far as I could make out was identical to the Washington DC one but 15ft taller. There was a man in an army uniform holding a sign reading "freedom is not free" outside, and, seperately, some rainbow coloured umberellas laid on the steps, which in my imagination were a statement about the hail of homophobic legislature coming from the texan local government.

I walked then foolishly back to the hostel, ate, and then walked back downtown (mistiming enough to entirely miss Will's card game) to see the bats coming out to feed from under The World's Largest Urban Bat Colony (tm) below an ordinary, dirty-looking bridge. Neither me nor the hundreds of other people had cottoned on to the fact that bats come out after nightfall, and, being black, aren't easy to see in the dark. Although there was something poetic or profound in the result - that the bats could only been seen by the flashes of the tourist's camaras.

I had been watching from under the bridge (dum dum dum de Dah dah, dadadada dum dum dum de Dahh dah) but wandered to the top to see if the bats were clearer from above. They were slightly, and there were lots of those mothers (not colloquially: they'd all just got pregnant, according to a sign), but more importantly I had unintentionally placed myself perfectly to observe, five minutes later, the Yanks expressing joy, or patriotism or something, at their independence which a typically Yankish (although admittedly amazing) firework display in Red, White, and Blue. The ascent of every firework illuminated the Sideshow Bob smoke trails left by the descent of the fragments of the one before.

Suddenly the bats decided to contribute lovelily, by exodussing enmassishly through the bit of sky illuminated cromulently by the fireworks. It was most wondertasticaltronic, and I was left embiggened. I walked home through the smell of gun-powder. Whoopee for independance day.

New Orleans II, Memphis II, Austin I

So the excellent new hostel I found in New Orleans came with, amongst other things, a swimming pool and a gang. The gang (JK, Julian, Lucy, Anastacia and Troels, from Bermuda, New Zealand, Manchester, Pennsylvania and Denmark respectively) explored the french quarter, pretty, and then regrouped in the cool of the evening and led the assault on the jazz-bars of Bourbon and Frenchman Streets. We saw some music, and drank some beers, and lost some people (like became seperated, they didn't die, although one person foolishly walked home and was mugged TWICE on the way, impressively, only losing $4 in the process) and a CLICHE good time was had by all CLICHE.

The next day I rushed around independently and really enjoyed the oddness of New Orleans, the derelicts with rusted fire escapes just hanging on pressed up between shining glass buildings, the ancient french and spanish lamp posts mixing with neon signs, the dingy bar with a John Cleese quote on the window and friendly people that boasted about their bands. I said goodbye to all I met and left on the AMTRAK.

Which is a hundred times nicer than greyhound - more legroom than first-class english trains, faster, more punctual and cheaper than bus, etc. So that was pretty nice, and also came with a hilarious new scheme by which a commentary was given out over the loudspeakers in the 'lounge car' concerning the scenery we were passing. The enthusiastically false-sounding woman said things like "and to our left, is marsh land. Look carefully, and you may see alligator tracks, or ever a tortoise sitting on an old log... or maybe, it's not a log, but actually... an alligator!"

In this manner I achieved Memphis, at 10.30 in the evening. The hostel I was due at usually closed for the night at 8pm, but luckily I had the foresight to phone ahead to make sure I could get in. Unluckily, that had absolutely no effect - the door was locked and the phone was on answering machine. So after calling other hotels listed in my guidebook and finding them booked-up, and in a gathering rage in the gutter outside the hostel, I came to the conclusion I'd have to spend the night at the greyhound station, which, not only would be crap, would also cost, for cab-fare there and back, more than actually staying in a hostel. Hmph.

But Hooray! I called a taxi and after half-an-hour of waiting gave up hope and asked the first set of passers-by where I could get a cab from. By some typical miracle they were good friends with someone that worked at the hostel I was supposed to be staying at, who they phoned and got the door-code from. SO not only did I get into the hostel, I made a set of lovely shiny local friends: Bet, Maggie and Sharon.

The next day was filled up with my usual first-day-in-a-new-city activity, which consists of walking into town (which is always 'too far to walk' in american eyes, but actually roughly an educational hours walk) and then finding coffee shops, bookshops and parks, and relaxing appropriately. Memphis proved and admirable place to partake of these activities and a brilliant blues band (see Memphis I) kept me entertained for what actually became two and a half hours. Then a walk back via Shnucks (really called Shnucks) supermarket for the Hummus, French Loaf and bag of carrots that would feed me for the next day and half.

Back at the hostel (Pilgrim house, linked to a church dedicated to Gay+Lesbian inclusion in the Christian Faith) I met two swedish guitar players and a san-franciscoan mandolin player and their useful car, which transported back to Beale Street for the actually craaaazy street party - you need to be 21 to even get onto this street, but after presenting my ID the security guard: "does this make you 21?" - Me: "yes, oh yes" - Guard: "Uhh, I can't do that date shit" - Me: "polite chuckle, as if to excuse his ignorance".

We took a few beers, and saw an awesome one-man-band, who was, despite his brilliant, upstaged by Ed Watts, the human slug and most vile depiction of human-condition failure imaginable. His sleazy after-effect was cured by an Outkast cover band further up the road.

So next day me and mandolin+car guy (sorry Ben, that defines you perfectly) got up early and put on our shirts to go to CHURCH. The CHURCH of Al Green, furthermore, but sadly Al Green was stuck in London, despite God's best efforts, but that was okay because his dad was there (really! Ninetyfive and still preaching) and also a fantastic band and gospel-choir and dancing congregation. We then drove back (past Graceland, but sadly the house was obscured by a set of Aeroplanes out front..) and checked out the factory where Gibson guitars were made, all very touristy but we are none of us perfect so I sneaked an enjoyable afternoon out of it all. Then an evening with Bet+Maggie and free flat beer and a set of the best conversation I've had since I got to the states and Memphis was made complete.

I set off yesterday for Texas, booking the bus that arrived at 6am, because the busses are Always late. I met some staggeringly american people ("so what language d'y'all speak over there in england? French, or... is it english?" THIS TRULY HAPPENED WOOOARRRRR I BROKE MY SOUL CONTAINING MY LAUGHTER but managed and the poor fat man waddled away without any serious offensive mocking).

Anyway, in true greyhound style, a set of circumstances conspired to bring me AN HOUR EARLY into Austin, Texas, so I sat from 5am to 7 in the station, and watched american news, fairly educationally. Then I found the hostel successfully and against great odds, and from thence I wrote this enormous blog-entry and am staring morosely at the great rainstorm consuming the area and filling the lake out the back of the hostel, which is nice.

Y'all email me or write or leave comments or something, y'hear?

Memphis I

Yaw go back to where-ever y'all sleepin' tonigh - and you tellumm I's was playin' the harmonica - they warn't believe yaw - they tell you I was playin' the MissisSIPPI SaxoPHONE:

HaaaaaaaooooooooooooooooooOOOOOWaaahhh.