Crying over split milk; or why the word 'inappropriate' will never be the same for me again.

On my birthday this year, I made someone cry. It wasn't pretty.

A week later, my outrage is at a mere simmer so I thought I could share my experience, calmly, and as fairly as a one sided monologue can be.

When Mike got a new colleague who was asking him about living options in the city, we offered our sofa bed for a couple of nights knowing that it is much easier to look for a place when you are in the city. Mike had given, let's call her Jane, information about getting on the waiting list for where we live and other cheap places in the city as soon as she got the job and the offer of staying here had been accepted; a little too readily actually. We later found out that she had been given relocation expenses so could have got a hotel only she decided to spend that money shipping her 10 boxes of clothes...

Months passed, we went to the UK and came back, which eventually I may even get to blog about, slept a lot and then Mike emailed Jane to see what her plans for arrival were. The reply came back to say that she had booked her flight for Thanksgiving as it was much cheaper. We groaned, knowing that this would mean a whole long weekend before she started work, and in our small flat, no time for Mike and I to ourselves. In reality, it was much worse than we could have anticipated, and I like to pride myself in my ability to imagine the worse case in any scenario.

We expected that she would go out and be hunting for a place to live or getting to know the city; envisioning an independent woman who has moved alone from her country to live in another. That takes a certain sort of person doesn't it? Apparently not.

So, we had our first 'American' thanksgiving hosted by some generous friends, who even generously picked up Jane from the airport in the middle of turkey cooking. If Jane knew how much bother everyone had gone to for her visit, she certainly didn't show it. It turned out that she was not an independent woman, but a spoilt self obsessed little girl who was used to people doing things for her and thoroughly incapable of doing anything without guidance, mess and irritation; one of life's takers. This was only my first impression, when I was still being kind. She never shut up, constantly ramming her opinions, hopes, dreams, in your face and as exhausting as a demanding toddler. In fact, any brain activity she had just spilt out of her mouth instantly. So, after the delicious turkey feast, she decided she was tired (it helped that people were talking about other subjects other than her now) and needed to go to bed. It was understandable given the travelling and change in time zones; however as we don't have a spare bedroom, it meant that we had to sit in our bedroom quietly reading for the next few nights while she slept but at 5am when she was waking up, she didn't afford us the same courtesy and even had loud phone calls at some ungodly hour in the morning.

We knew we had to put up with this for the weekend so we made the most of it and showed her around the city a bit. She made no movement to want to go out alone - I offered her my keys to go and explore but she wouldn't leave my side. She followed me when I went downstairs to the bins, sat on the end of the bed when I put my socks on and questioned me constantly whenever I did anything, like take a cup from the cupboard
'oooohhh, what are you doing now?'
'Getting a cup'
'Awesome.'

Yep.

For an educated woman, she couldn't understand some very basic things; so after both of us trying to explain what can be recycled, composted and what is rubbish, she would either try to compost everything (so I had to go through the used teabags and take the plastics out) or she would leave her rubbish on the side so that the magic fairy would deal with it. Yeah, well I look terrible in a pink tutu.

I showed her our grocery store and hinted that she could buy some food. She did; she bought a bag of rice, some nuts and frozen veg, then offered to cook for us, using most of the eggs and onions, raisins and other things I had just bought,and staining the cooker yellow with turmeric in the process, so that the next day I had to go back to the shops to replace everything she had used. It also took me forever to scrub the cooker clean. I genuinely can't remember the last time someone made me this furious.

Monday came which was the day she needed to be looking for a place to live. She made a half hearted attempt but was on Facebook whenever I looked at her laptop screen - she even cancelled one appointment as she said she was too busy. Yeah, busy being a parasite, paying for nothing, being ungrateful and getting in my way...so let's just say I was ready for her to leave at this point, by now she had been here 5 nights but it was awkward as obviously Mike would have to work with her but we agreed that we would ask her to be gone by Saturday morning.

However, as they tend to do, things took a turn for the worse. Tuesday (my birthday) arrived and I stayed in bed so I wouldn't have to deal with her in the morning but Mike left work early which actually meant we had some time to ourselves for the first time in days and it felt wonderful just to be able to relax, but our peace was soon interrupted when she returned accompanied by the usual ceaseless chatter about how difficult her life was. This was all addressed to Mike this evening, then after about half an hour she looked at me and wished me happy birthday, then as an afterthought, quickly wrote a card and handed it to be distractedly whilst talking to Mike, without licking the envelope or writing my name on the card. It would have been better had she not bothered but this was insulting. I left the flat for one minute and in that time, she had made herself some chai on the stove and as usual, as she had done every day she had been there, she had spilt it everywhere leaving me to clean it up because she hadn't watched the pan and it had boiled over. Today when I saw it, something snapped, and I went MAD. Properly shaking with rage, red eyed, furious. I went for her, shouting about how she was incapable of doing anything and I was sick of cleaning up after her, like a mum who has just completely lost it at her sullen waster of a teenager. I didn't even continue with all the list of many things but checked myself in case I exploded and left it. She didn't say anything, just sat there looking pathetically at me, seemingly stunned. Of course, she would not have been able to comprehend someone else's needs. Then she produced some crocodile tears presumably for Mike's benefit. I went to bed and didn't sleep a wink all night, still seething.

The next day, I got up calmer and ready for the show down but she had left really early, I imagine to avoid me, but leaving her dirty knickers on Mike's clean towel despite the events of the previous night. She got back really late that night and had avoided Mike all day at work. Now, apparently, we were just her doss house.
I told her that this situation was ridiculous and asked her to leave by the next day, shut the door and left her to her tears.

Mike caught up with her on the way to work and looked into her dumb blank face and asked her if she even knew why I was so angry with her. She had no idea and told Mike that my behaviour had been "inappropriate" so he told her in no uncertain terms that she was self obsessed, ungrateful, treated me like a slave, selfish and a thoroughly horrible guest and person. She was about to protest and he gave her example after example after example of what she had said and done, an inarguable essay of her faults, delivered admirably, with his usual steady eloquence and reasoning. The dirty knickers were the clincher. She said nothing, came to collect her bags later, didn't look me in the eye (she hadn't even packed properly so I had thrown the rest of her stuff she had everywhere - phone charger, razor which she left on the side of the bath (about the only toiletry she actually owned) etc etc etc into a plastic bag unceremoniously) and left without a thank you for the SEVEN nights she had stayed here free of charge with all meals, or a sorry for being the cause of so much stress.

Lessons learnt, at first I thought it was never to be kind to anyone ever again. But that isn't it at all. Idiot selfish princess types are in the minority. The lesson I learnt from this; I need to work on getting people who are never going to be my friends not to like me so ridiculously readily, so I plan to tell everyone exactly what I think of them from now on in, from the off. It should make life even more interesting ;-)

Chim Chim Cher-oo

It was Dan's last weekend in the States and it felt right to honour the occasional with something quintessentially American so we spent last Saturday in hot and foggy Silicon Valley, to enjoy what might be the end of the summer, picnicking at a beach in Half Moon Bay and then made our way to Stanford University for our American sporting extravaganza number three, an American Football game. Whole months had passed since we had last been forced to rise for the national anthem. My baseball hat to heart trigger arm was primed.

The usual pomp and ceremony of the football out shined that of the baseball and ice hockey combined, but the food was much worse and portions smaller. There may or may not be a link between the two; I'll leave you to decide. The cheerleaders were cheery and the costumes suitably spangly for the pantomime that is American sport. The players alone had cheesy glittery Gladiator-style Lycra and in the time honoured way of choosing a team based on colour alone, the gold helmets of Washington State got my vote. Too bad they lost.

We were, presumably, whipped up into a frenzy of excitement before the kick off by a college student dressed as Marilyn Monroe who kept flashing his red knickers leading a brass band of sweaty and overexcited youths of indeterminable age (to me, but possibly not to their parents) the whole way around the stadium and on to the pitch. After hours of marching in the burning sun dressed in what might have once been smart red marching band jackets the poor sweaty young ones then had to perform for us before the game began. Narrated by a man who had had his shame gland surgically removed, and replaced with extra razzmatazz, the band performed a homage to swine flu. It was truly awful. I wish you had seen it, as then I wouldn't have to try to describe it, and instead we could share knowing cringes and then never speak of it again. Through my fingers, the band formed a circle, representing the Stanford bubble, according to the cheery narrator, and then some nerdy in-jokes later, a pig appeared and it all culminated in the pig 'flying.' Really, that is the best I can do. I am aware that this sounds made up. I assure you it wasn't but more frightening of all was that fact that no one in the crowd even blinked or made any furtive fearful glances or any gesture which may have suggested that this was bewildering or abnormal to them, except of course the token Brits right at the back of the stadium, one of whom was cheering for the opposition team.

When I wasn't watching the game, I was watching the crowd in all it splendiferous glory. I really fail to understand why 'crowds watching something dull' are not televised. I could watch them for hours and never get bored, although I am a snooker fan so maybe that says more about me than crowds per se. Even though I don't understand the attraction, the pull of what is essentially some blokes playing with a ball on some people is fascinating, and in some cases, wonderful. I walked around during the match, spending some time in all of the various sections. The most crowded one was the section reserved for students. All of the people sitting there were in the team colours and literally moved as one, standing up at the same time, dancing with the cheerleaders and chanting in unison. It was scary. The opposition team end was fun; Washington State supporters being a whole lot more normal and refreshingly different from one another. Around the rest of the perimeter were families, die hard fans, others like me soaking up the atmosphere, and some just soaking up the chips.

My favourite sight of the day was a man, followed by his two small daughters, strikingly similar to him, leading them in a limb thrashing follow my leader type dance to the Stanford song, not dissimilar to the chimney sweep routine from Mary Poppins. It was executed as if there was no one else but them in the world, despite the fact they were in a crowded stadium, in that wonderful totally unselfconscious way that lots of Americans seem to have.

A letter from America

The Proclaimers were due to play a mere ten minutes walk from where we live. We booked tickets; it would have been rude not to. They are not really a band who I would necessarily have gone to see had we been back at home, but I think that just shows how much of a fool I can be.

They were fantastic. Awesome in fact, in the true sense of the word, and not the lazy Californian adjective way.

The venue was teeny tiny with a more European feel than anywhere I have been to so far in this city. It might have been because the bathrooms were disgusting (by American standards anyway, I've known worse) and the whole place was windowless and in need of a good scrub. I liked it immediately. It was like stepping into a old pair of shoes, falling apart but moulded exactly to the shape of your feet and so comfortable, you wonder why you switched to your newer and more painful shoes.

The crowd was eclectic with a sprinkling of kilts and tartan; the drinks were cheap and strong; the warm up act was hit and miss but sufficiently warming, and before we knew it there they were; Scottish twins in their 40s with guitars on the stage, singing their political tinged, pathos heavy poetry. Women of a certain age swayed misty eyed, but everyone was moved to some extent by the wisdom of the lyrics, or perhaps just a good rhythm. I think it helped that they were so few of us, and that the place had a strong community vibe, and that most of the songs were dedicated to someone. Their last gig on their US tour, they barely paused for breath, belting out song after song after song, with an incredible energy and total awe inspiring professionalism.

Warm Beer

Last weekend in the scorching heat we ventured over to the wilds of Oakland for a free sustainable local food festival. With the sweat running down my legs and my skin being lightly sautéed, we sat on the ferry which would take us directly to Jack London Square where the festival was being held, appreciating what would be the only cool breeze of the day.

When we got there, it was in full swing and all we had to decide was what to eat for lunch from the many delicious looking and smelling options. I decided to graze and try out a couple of smaller things I had never had before, whereas Mike leapt straight in for a spicy sausage. Both strategies had their individual merits.

We had bought tickets in advance for the beer tent which promised eight generous servings of local artisan beers with a souvenir glass for $20. On the day, this seemed to have been downgraded to four half pints or less, depending on the generosity of the server (they were largely hot and bothered and seemed to have left their generous shoes at home), and a souvenir jam jar cum glass with a logo on which after going through the dishwasher has now disappeared. Not the jar, the logo.

Value for money or not, it was a lovely day as we casually drank our beer from our logo clad jam jars and shade hopped our way around the square. In between eating and drinking we sat and listened to a lecture on growing your own food and I closed my eyes and dreamt of my own smallholding, collecting still warm eggs from my chickens, inhaling the peculiar smell of a perfectly ripe tomato and sitting down to a perfect meal most of which I had grown myself.

Then I woke up and found myself in a far too crowded car on a freeway in Oakland, probably breaking the law, and definitely a story for another day.

Thank you for allowing me to serve you

I've been meaning to write this post since just after we moved here but largely for reasons of dullness I haven't. Still, I am meant to be recording my observations, for me as much as for you (there, I've said it) so here goes.

Bag packers make me nervous and irritable.

The people who stand at the end of the standard less-than-spacious supermarket tills waiting to pack your shopping for you in theory sounds marvellous I'm sure. The truth is somewhat different. Supermarkets are set up for people with cars. Fact. They just pretend to be non-car people friendly by having doors in from the pavements. Tills are set up for people happy to stand around aimlessly while someone else packs their shopping for them. There has been room allocated for one person, one employee, at the end of the till to pack bags. The side arm of the till has actually been cordoned off with cunning use of a machine which gives you your coin change. Folded money change is dolled out in the standard way from the cashier, so you somehow have to negotiate collecting money with both hands - notes in one, coins in the other - whilst strapping your purse or wallet to your chin (I knew that unsightly Velcro patch would come in handy) and dropping anything else you may be holding on your toe. Usually a can of beans.

Paying by card is also fraught with trauma. The swiping card mechanism is much less forgiving than you would expect and I have stood there melon-like swiping and re-swiping five times before. Eyes have been rolled, however surreptitiously. Then you are asked questions before and after entering your pin number, which vary depending on which store you are in:
Do you want to donate to this particular charity today? Y or N
Do you want cash back? Y or N
Now are you sure because you might need it later for bus fare? Y or N
OK then if you are sure, are you happy with the amount for your shopping? Please note that if you press no, you will have to start again. Y or N
Have we asked you too many questions today? Y or N
Please come again soon. Bye. Love you xx

I have seen grown men weep in the face of the unrelenting questions. This isn't strictly true but I have actually seen people weaken under the pressure of the questions, stumble, fall and have to start again with the cashier cracking the whip and shouting 'faster, faster' the whole time. Wait, that isn't true either. I have seen people struggle through the whole process and I have even had to help people confused by which button to press at which time. True, but less dramatic.

Presumably while the customer is tangled up with the interrogation machine, the bag packer steps in and neatly packs all your food, frozen and fridge things all together, bread on the top of the bag, weight equally distributed, so when you emerge dazed and poorer from the instrument of doom, you are gently guided out of the door. There is a further service where the bag packer can take your items to your car and pack your boot for you. I'm sure more kindnesses will be rolled out soon like driving your poor bewildered body home, packing all your food away, heating some soup and spooning it into your face. A quick wipe up around the mouth you mucky pup, and the bag packer has left you sat on your sofa, cupboards and belly full and mercifully with no memory of the traumatic episode, ran back five miles to the store just in time to pack the bags of the next customer in line who is still struggling with the inquisition.

For those of us (me) who do not drive to the supermarket, but carry an empty backpack there in order to fill it to a certain point of just tolerable heaviness, known only to me owing to years of practice and almost back breaking episodes, the bag packing service is not required, thanks all the same. It is possible to give your own bag to the bag packer to pack for you but having once been intimidated into doing this, and suffering badly on the way home, and reduced to tears at the sight of the front door, I now wholeheartedly and firmly, sometimes rudely when all other nice options have failed me, refuse. You would literally be amazed at the added trauma this causes.

It's a tricky one. People have been employed to do this job and I don't want to seem ungrateful or portray that somehow I am superior in the back packing stakes, but at the same time, I am capable of packing my own bags quickly and simultaneously confounding supermarket staff by rolling off the answers to the ceaseless queries from machines and humans. Maybe I should list this as a talent on my CV? There are people who need this service for one reason or another, and luckily I am not one of them. But, some people insist I should have my bags packed for me, and that is where the trouble starts.

By now I moreorless know the people who will leave me alone and the ones who will help me to death. I avoid shorter queues if there is a helpful type at the end of it. Sometimes I am thwarted and the bag packers change on me mid-queue so I have to grit it out. There are two people in particular who even after a year just CANNOT comprehend my polite no thank you. One of them likes to wrestle my backpack from me and just WILL not take no for an answer. I have come up with a strategy for him which is to bring another bag for him to put some specific things of my choosing in, things that I already know will not fit in the big bag. This sounds so stupid to be even talking about. I am admitting that I have a special system up my sleeve for one belligerent man whose name I don't even know but whose sullen haughty face has been etched in my mind. He doesn't much like my special system because he wants to do it all and when I leave my bag to go to pay, he zooms over to it to do it up for me. He also doesn't like it when I thank him. He is as uncomfortable with that concept as I am with someone packing my bag - once he shrugged and said "It is my job." Next time I have decided that I will say "It is my bag."

The other bag packing chap is ridiculously friendly. He waves at me when he sees me in the queue. He turns me packing my bag into a game. Believe it or not, supermarkets are in the habit of employing grown ups and not toddlers. He knows I like the heavy things in my bag and he picks up the remainder. However as each item comes down from the cashier, he likes to check with me, loudly, grinning from ear to ear. Mine? Mine! Yours? Yours! And boy, is it fun and not irritating at all! Hey, everyone else in here, wake up from your comas. There are two people packing bags over there and it looks like fun! Maybe you could try packing your own bags, rather than standing there letting your cashier who actually has her arm in a sling pack yours? No, you didn't notice? There's a surprise.

Worse, far, far worse than all of this is the fact that every single time I pack my own bags, I am thanked. It really bothers me. It bothered me from day one and on day 406, I am still bothered. This is the dark side of the service industry as far as I am concerned. In Walgreens (sort of a strange hybrid of Superdrug and Woolworths) the end of the receipt is printed with the name of the cashier and the words 'Thank you for allowing me to serve you today.' As if they have been elected by the people to fulfill this function rather than be taken for granted as they carry out dull servile duties day in day out, smile never faltering, only for people on their phones to ignore them as they wait around for their bags to be packed. It seems to me that expectations of certain unimportant things are very high, and other far far more important matters, shamefully ignored.

My name is Karen. Thank you for allowing me to write this today.

Cashier Number One Please

I am aware of how ridiculous this is going to sound, and especially as I have just got out of bed where I was warm and comfortable to write this. I just couldn’t get bollards out of my head, and therefore sleep was out of the question until these thoughts were excised.

I have talked before, possibly at length, about the sorts of things I miss from home, mainly in regard to food. The ridiculous cravings we have for Angel Delight are nothing compared to other deep seated yearnings, for more well, bizarre phenomena.

The streets of America sound different. Obviously people talk in a different way, but that is easy to get used to. In fact now if I hear a non-American accent, my curiosity is instantly peaked as I try to work out where this intruder is from. It even takes me a while to work out that I am listening to a fellow country man. As much as I hate to admit this, I have indeed confused Brits and Australians. I know, I know…

As well as the accents, there are the sounds of big trains (notably different from a small train noises of course,) the distant hum of the Freeway and the squawk of various sirens in the distance, echoing long and loud down straight and wide streets. There is also of course my weekly world war two siren testing the emergency warning system, which I think I have just about got used to now.

But what does seem to be in short supply in the general din of this country are the familiar sounds of the likes of “Caution, Bollards in Motion,” “Cashier Number Two Please,” or the auditory treat “This vehicle is reversing.” I miss every one of those computer generated mildly smug and irritating phrases. Unconsciously, perhaps in order to comfort ourselves, Mike and I have started to say them out loud to each other, in the private of our own home, but tone, syllable, inflection, and pitch perfect. My particular favourite is the Post Office and possibly Argos, cashier beckoning instruction. I have become so accurate in my portrayal, you could be forgiven for thinking that you were in a post office in Huyton, Liverpool, in your lunch hour queuing to post a parcel watching your free time slowly ebb away.

Since meeting a man in Safeway who actually swooned when I spoke and who assured me that I should get a job in voice over work, I am seriously considering going into shops and trying out my new directional phrase. I think this will become a most profitable endeavour since we have noticed here that they actually employ people to stand at the front of the queue and tell you when the next cashier is free. Seriously. THAT much money is wasted. For, say a year’s salary, I could record my voice telling the soon to be overcome crowds which cashier was ready to serve them. It would be both more efficient and such a euphoric experience for some, that they would not consider shopping anywhere else. In fact, if they ever found themselves living in a different country, they will also rather curiously find I'm sure that they miss the comfort of my voice, and literally cannot sleep because of it.

Living in a Movie

A strange set of pictures of a small part of the huge campus of the University of California, Berkeley which I visited yesterday when Mike was in a meeting. It isn't even a case of all style, no substance. This place invites envy.

One of the libraries...

Sather tower, otherwise known as the Campanile. I was there too early to go to the top which is meant to afford amazing views, but it seems likely that I will return to find out myself.

Home of good but strong coffee, and some history.

They have even branded the soap dispensers.

Another world.

I even saw a group of small children lining up for summer school with their parents looking on about to embark on whatever children do in summer school, cared for only by students in matching t shirts.

I live in a 80's film. Please can someone pinch me occasionally?

Pigs, Pets and Pastrami

On Saturday we ventured down south to sunny San Mateo's county fair. We had intended to go last year, which seemed to offer much more, but for one reason or another we didn't make it. This year we weren't going to miss out and booked tickets well in advance. We had a great time and it was unlike anywhere we had ever been before and after walking round in an excited mesmerised trance, I now find it almost impossible to describe. I'll have a go though.

We got the train and then walked the remainder in the baking heat, remembering how lucky we are to live in San Francisco which is nicely warm but not too hot for my fair skin. We were the only pedestrians on the road which looked exactly like so many other American towns we have been through, and most people were sensible enough to be encased in their air conditioned cars. On route, we passed a so-called British pub, proclaiming food treats and darts. A quick peek in revealed darkness boarding on dingy, flock wallpaper, and a funny smell. Maybe it truly was a British pub after all, but today was not a day for Britishness, it was a day for embracing American culture, or at least for sneaking a peek at how a nation without a Women's Institute does their flower arranging.


Soon, we left any thoughts of Blighty behind as we stepped into an episode of the Simpsons. It was a strange and heady mix of farm animals, vomit-causing fairground rides, amazing community craft competitions, stalls selling things which people could never possibly need or want, or certainly wouldn't come to a fair to buy, like double glazing, but which seemed to be oddly attractive after an excess of either sugar or lard, also on offer in dizzying variety. As is typical, everything was proclaimed as the 'best ever', or 'all-American', which we now know is a form of short hand for this outlandish statement.

We didn't go into the 'Great American Petting Zoo' which did have a llama and Bambi to its credit, and we didn't visit the biggest pig in the world which had been sheltered in an enormous wind breaker and cost an extra dollar. We also didn't buy a Twister Dog, a hotdog on a stick with fried potato spiralled around it;

but we did visit all of the farm animals, and competition exhibits, marvelling at the skill and sheer audacity in turn, wondering at the categories and wishing that we had entered something. I probably would have gone for the table laying because I think it needed an injection of taste. Things were seemingly haphazardly arranged with limited care, although I'm sure there must have been some sort of order. It also seemed to be missing what I like to call the all important twee and tweed factor. Sometimes you need it just to cut through the garish. A few Morris dancers wouldn't have gone a miss either.

With our free M&M ice creams melting down our hands, we happily contemplated our favourite category, the 'Produce Pet' for 'pet's' creatively made from fresh produce. This had been imaginatively placed next to the smallest mature fruit or vegetable competition which was another joy to behold. There seemed to only be two entries in produce pet corner; one involving corn strapped to a sad wilting sunflower, and one involving a cucumber with a tangerine head, mouth arranged in a silent scream, marooned on it's back with frankly useless mange tout arms which would offer it no leverage to get back up, and topped off with a largely redundant tiny carrot tail. Or maybe that is the colour of cucumber fear? Either way, it was a clear winner.

Road Trip California

Most of the time on the all-American road trip is spent in the car. Most of the journey out of the towns and cities is picturesque so I thought I would share some car-scenery with you.

Yosemite Dan

My brother Dan is going back home soon for a job in Plymouth. I will miss him a lot, and at first I was a teeny bit jealous, but as he tries desperately to cram in seeing as much as he possibly can in the two months he now has left, it has made me realise, again, how very lucky we are to be here.

As part of his efforts to see more of the country, he planned a road trip to Yosemite National Park last weekend and he asked us if we wanted to come along. No sooner had he asked, we were sitting in the car and driving over the Bay Bridge and out of San Francisco. We stayed in an old California Gold Rush mining town called Mariposa, an hour away from Yosemite. It was a tiny cowboy type place that took no longer than an hour to explore, which was lucky really as it was boiling hot, and we had plans to get up with the sun the next morning to get to Yosemite early.

It seemed that the sun had insomnia, as when we got up at 5.30am, it was already alive and kicking. In fact, at 6pm later that day it was still 33 degrees C, and reached 36 degrees on Sunday. Too hot to sleep, and certainly too hot to hire bikes without gears, and travel around Yosemite Valley. It was fun though, until goodness knows how many miles later, my bike muscles, stiff from a fourteen year hiatus, said no more please and refused to work. I sat my jelly legs down, mindful of my saddle sore and drank my own body weight in water reserving some to pour on my head like a real athlete. The park was now filling up quickly and as we had been there six hours already decided we should start heading off.

The next stop for the evening was Sonora, another old mining town, but with a lot more going on. We ate barbecued meat and cold beer for dinner and felt like rather full and very happy cowboys and girl. The hotel was full of motorcyclists and had an antique style wire cage lift which you had to propel yourself out of quickly lest it set off again, and the staff didn't seem to mind that three people were staying in a room booked, and possibly suitable only for one. Either they had seen much worse, they didn't care, or were too hot to care. The antique air conditioning wasn't as fun as the lift and kept us awake most of the evening, so the plan to get up really early again to see another part of the park wasn't quite realised.

We arrived a little later than planned at Hetch Hetchy Reservoir, a granite walled valley flooded in 1923 to create a water supply for San Francisco, following the 1906 earthquake. Incredibly, this reservoir is still the place that we get our water from today, a staggering 156 miles away. As well as being so useful (we had already drank 2 liters each of it's bounty), it was beautiful, peaceful compared to the valley which gets most of the tourists (largely due to the fact that Hetch Hetchy has no facilities) and just a pleasant place to be on a Sunday afternoon. We strolled across the bridge at O'Shaughnessy Dam and through the rock tunnel until we felt lethargic with heat, and decided it was probably time to head off home.

(Dan took a lot of photos and some of them can be seen here and here)

The journey back seemed to take forever and we fell foul of the usual US lack of signs and almost ended up in Los Angeles. Over tired and over heating, we had still managed to see a lot of the park, and certainly more than we saw last time we were there and staying slap bang in the middle of it; plus we got to see some real American small towns, the like of which are difficult to describe, or certainly to do justice and which just do not exist in the UK. All of this was possible in a weekend and if that doesn't make me one of the luckiest people alive, I don't know what does.

The Truth is Out There

Opened in a redwood forest just outside Santa Cruz in 1940, the Mystery Spot has been attracting visitors ever since. If last Saturday was anything to go by, in their dead eyed droves.

In order to imagine the Mystery Spot, picture if you will an all-American B movie, with the usual terrible dialogue, dubious special effects, bad acting and poorly constructed set, featuring a science museum run by the non-scientific with a penchant for the extra terrestrial, and staffed by seventeen year olds. But if you can't imagine that, the Mystery Spot is an area within a forest where the normal rules of gravity do not apply. Balls seemingly run uphill and people standing up straight lean at a 17 degree angle. At the centre of the spot is a tilted hut where the weirdness is intensified.

The place is run by timed guided tours and as such your experience entirely rests on the charisma of your tour guide. Unfortunately, our guide was bored, smug, and had the worse West Coast nasal drawl I have heard to date. He wasn't in the league of a teenage Alton Towers worker for sheer terrifying incompetence, but I'm soo better than this, where shall I go tonight?, and the occasional who with?, reeked stinkingly from his pores. I won't repeat what his limbs and worse, his eyes were saying. The pores were bad enough.

His scripted 'jokes' were delivered with the same blase and disinterested manner as every other snippet of 'fact' was. If the timbre of his voice hadn't been grating on my pain receptors I would have simply stopped listening and carried on my own conversation like most other members of my tour group. In fact, as soon as it was possible, we joined the next group along to see if their guide fared any better. She did, but that is no boast really.

Still enough about the tour guides. The place itself was interesting, as were the other members of the tour group. Our small party was dripping with cynicism as it consisted of three scientists and me, but lacking the actual skill to tell you why it was obvious that this was visual trickery, I won't. Simple as that. It was cleverly done and interesting whether you 'believed' or not. We were told that some of us may experience feelings of dizziness and nausea when inside the hut and whether it is because I am entirely suggestible, or that the claustrophobia and lack of a horizon simulated travel type sickness where my brain tried and failed to adapt to the tilt, or a bit of both, I did feel sick and had to leave the hut.

According to the spot's website, some of the speculations include there is a UFO / UFO parts buried underneath, or there is a hole in the ozone layer directly above the spot, which obviously explains everything.

The whole 45 minute tour is engineered well and at the end you get a free bright yellow bumper sticker, which is worth the $5 entrance fee alone. Sadly, we had to return the hire car and were running very late so whizzed right through to the end as quickly as we could. I actually know exactly what people must have thought of us, as they were embracing the spot and trying to work out how it works (or in some cases worrying about UFOs), as I went to the Falstaff Experience in Stratford Upon Avon once only to watch with amusement and some derision a group of people clutching their McDonald's Value Meals to their breasts and walking by every single exhibit at some speed. I now know that they had to return their hire car in time, or catch a bus, rather than as I had assumed at the time they had no interest whatsoever in Tudor England.

The bright yellow leaflet I picked up at some point during our almost an hour long wait for our Mystery Spot tour, after exhausting the gift shop wares, had many strap lines, from"It's crazy. It's Perplexing. It's Nature's Magic. That's why it's called The Mystery Spot" to my favourite "It's Unusual. It's Amazing. It's Wholesome, Interesting Entertainment!" which as it turns out was true, and apparently some promotional literature written in the 1950s never has to be updated again, which is somewhat more impressive.

A Montage For Mr Gammon

I foolishly told someone I would write a blog post after they pointed out, correctly, that I haven't written in a while. My trip outside proved fruitless on the inspiration front, although I almost got caught on a nearby bridge just about to be raised for a passing boat, when all the barriers went down after a very short horn type warning. After an ungainly jog-walk, I inelegantly shimmied under the barrier forgetting just how large my bottom is.

Anyway, that little adventure not being enough for a whole blog post, I decided to look back in my inbox at some of the more ridiculous things I have told people and present them here, unedited and out of context, although I am not sure context would help. So, Mr Gammon, here is a list which may make your idea that I make sense 57% of the time redundant, but thanks, I was actually slightly surprised that you could pretend to be nice ;-)

• [In mid-2006] I devised an ingenious way to hook my keys to my skirt so that I wouldn't get locked out. I have no idea what this was, why I needed it, or whether the bold claim of my ingeniousness was in fact true (although I do have suspicions about this point)
• There was a French chef on Saturday Kitchen this week and rather than say something was a doddle - he said dodo and it was funny and he was sad and his head said must try harder and everyone tried not to laugh. I liked him instantly. With these descriptive powers, I am constantly surprised why I am not a best selling author.
• [In 2007]I look like a sack of potatoes going for a quick sale and ravaged by a bored child with a pink highlighter pen; not really a look that I want at a wedding (although it could work in a thousand other places).
• I ate a pina colada flavoured yoghurt today. Not only was it disgusting, I think it is rotting my organs from the inside, as opposed to my outside organs which are rot free.
• I once saw a old couple dancing like they used to in the 50s at 2 in the morning in front of a curtain less window with a devil may care attitude and eyes only for each other and it gave me goosebumps and I felt privileged to have witnessed this.
• I saw half a rat earlier this week, the tail end. It didn't look like it had been mauled by another animal but cut in half by a blunt instrument such as a spade. The circumstances of this siting has bothered me all week.
  
• I have now managed to stain my fingers pink with beetroot but the onion smell is gone thank goodness (unless of course it has burnt my nostrils out). I am a food calamity. I guess if I didn't eat so much, it would be less of a problem!
• What does a friendly ear look like - does it have a massive slit along the crease that passes as a smile? I can only imagine a sinister ear in a friendly disguise, but not a very good one clearly; a transparent friendly disguise, possibly with some skimpy red leather hot pants around the lobe.

So there you go. Maybe I should have quit after the realisation of my large bottom?

Shakespeare's Sausage

Yesterday, after weeks of searching for a bargain price, then getting scuppered by bureaucracy, the tale of which I don't plan to go into you'll be relieved to hear, then watching the ticket prices rise, and getting both increasingly frustrated and giddy with excitement, I booked plane tickets for a visit home.

Home; the land where my family and friends are, where some people speak like me and share a similar culture, and the place that I think about probably more than is healthy.

But when the flights were booked, rather than increase ten fold in excitement causing the neighbours to complain about the strange high pitched squeaking, I felt, well just a bit unsettled. Maybe because it isn't home any more; this is, and with the knowledge that this will be our home for another year at least I guess that's a good thing.

We moved around the UK a few times and whenever we went back to visit the places we used to live, I felt strangely displaced, and I imagine it will be just the same when we are back. I am looking forward to it; seeing as many people as we can possibly see, the cold and rain, and surprise, surprise FOOD. We have already made a list of what we have been craving and it is ridiculously long. It will break my heart if my first sausage isn't Shakespeare in my mouth, but maybe disappointment, a greasy face and a 'broken heart' is just what I need in order to feel more settled here. Who'd have thought that?

Douze Points

Fast approaching the end of our first year in San Francisco, we thought we should honour the occasion in a fitting way, so we held a Eurovision Song Contest party. Obvious really.

Having just had our visas extended for another year (we clearly haven't offended anyone yet then) we re-explored the Exchange Visitor Program remits and re-remembered that we should be increasing 'mutual understanding between the people of the United States and the people of other countries (that's us, hello) by means of educational and cultural exchanges and to develop lasting and meaningful relationships' so logic followed that we share a slice of THE event in the Euro-pop calender with our new American friends. I'm pretty sure the night didn't help to develop long and meaningful relationships, or increase understanding, but it was fun!

I unashamedly love the institution that is Eurovision, but I still stare open mouthed at well, everything, and question whether the British actually are European, so I was curious to see what citizens of the home of melodrama would make of it. Being one of our parties, I'm not actually sure what anyone thought of it though, or whether any one could see or hear the TV properly in our tiny flat, or especially cared after we had opened the first bottle of schnapps, but the people who dressed up as their country looked fabulous! I really think it could catch on over here, using states as countries. As far as I can tell, there is enough politics, rivalry and state stereotypes to make it work.

The City of Cheesesteaks and Confinement

Philadelphia as far as I am concerned is famous for cream cheese, Bruce Springsteen and that film with Tom Hanks. I felt they played these down a little.

As well as the whole giving birth to American independence thing, the city proudly proclaimed itself to be home of the cheesesteak, a steak and cheese sandwich with a frankly ingenious name. Every sandwich store screamed that they were the best in the city, street or area or even less confidently, just the shop. Created in 1930, by a man called Pat, they are still going strong today. In one street in South Philadelphia, just past the wonderful Italian market, the two most famous cheesesteak suppliers are Pat's (the creator) and Geno's (the neon light adorned, and clearly Vegas inspired store.) Take a guess where we went. Go on. I can wait.








Yes, it was Pat's of course. We've already been to Vegas. We were greeted by a gimmicky sign which told you how to order, which I ignored as my accent still leads to confusion enough. As all the cheese is exactly the same, bland and melty, I bit the bullet and got my cheesesteak wit whiz; for British readers that is heavily processed, garishly coloured 'cheese' from a can or jar...named well. It was good, but I wouldn't have another one.

Another thing which Philadelphia is famous for is a system of incarceration emphasising solitary confinement as a means of rehabilitation. Who knew? My visit to the Eastern State Penitentiary was both interesting and a little horrifying. The Gothic castle-like walls and vastness of the place lent a spooky air, and the Steve Buscemi narrated audio tour added to the drama. The most famous prisoner was Al Capone, the Paris Hilton of his day, treated to a comfortable cell and numerous other privileges. Crazy.

All in all I saw a lot of what Philadelphia had to offer, and what I saw I liked. I also managed to do a tour of all the places which you are allowed to sit down for free, having over exerted myself on the first day. You can tell a lot about a city from it's sitting down facilities I always find, and Philly rose to the challenge admirably.

Go, Go, Go: A Whistlestop Tour of New York

While we were in Philadelphia, we took the opportunity to go for a day trip to New York, a mere 2 hour bus ride away for a bargain $12 return. The coach journey there was great and we arrived into the bustling metropolis at around 10.30, ready for a coffee. We actually met up with a local, a friend of Mike's who was kind enough to point out some of the sights and help us get our bearings in the hustle and bustle of the city in the muggy heat.

Within the first hour or so we had ticked off the Empire State Building, Chrysler Building, Grand Central Station, and Times Square. A quick photo opportunity for each and we were off to the next thing, conscious that one day was nowhere near long enough to spend in this marvellous place.

A lunch date with another local and we were off to briefly see Central Park, the size of which was almost unfathomable. I think you could have fitted the city of London in about 3 times over or something ridiculous. Apart from food and a day pass for the subway, which was incredibly similar to the Tube, we spent no money at all there. The afternoon free return ferry ride to Statten Island which afforded wonderful views of that iconic skyline and the Statue of Liberty was the best bargain of the whole week.

After a lightening speed dash around town, we got a pizza in Little Italy, saw the very edge of SoHo, and Chinatown and then had to find where we were meant to be to catch the coach back. There were no signs to tell us that we were in the right place and after asking several unhelpful people, one of which tried to convince us to take her coach for $10, (er, no) we were pointed in the direction of the woman who was 'running' the show. She spoke very little English and had even less patience. After ignoring me twice, I asked her whether this was the right place to wait for the Philadelphia bus and was answered with yes, yes, yes. It seemed she had an affliction which meant she could only say one word at a time and had to repeat it three times. Maybe it was for good luck. After witnessing the shambles that was the coach to Washington DC, involving pointing to a bus across the street and shouting DC, DC, DC; to which numerous people were then expected to run across two busy roads with their luggage lest they got left behind and had to spend more time with the crazy coach woman; she, and us, needed luck.

Our turn finally came - we knew that as she shouted Phil-delph and then stood at the doorway checking tickets, which she couldn't appear to read or fathom. Still, we made it on to the coach and when everyone had eventually piled on, she shouted at the driver, GO, GO, GO and we were off. The coach, which smelt strongly of chemical toilets and made a sharp bleeping noise every minute, somehow made it's way through the rush hour streets and we watched the sun set over New York, happy to have crammed in so much, and yet again, unable to believe our luck that we had finally got to visit.

A Lesson in US History; or Bad Brits and God Bless America

My first episode of solo tourism left me with a much better understanding of American history, as well as a collection of photos with red and blue stars and stripes. In terms of the main historical sights in the 'old town' part of Philadelphia, a common theme emerged; that of a strong patriotic atmosphere teemed with a considerable amount of Brit-bashing. The main attractions seemed to me to be geared towards US tourists rather than international, and there was a great deal of self congratulatory implicit and explicit propaganda.

The security system to get in to see the Liberty Bell was hard core. My bag was thoroughly searched; the inside of my camera case was checked as part of the general delve. I suspected the guard would have liked to rifle through my wallet, closely examine my tissues in case they had been used, read my notebook, and perhaps send away a piece of apple to be checked for poison, but instead she grudgingly let me through, along with hordes of other people so we could all stand in the way of each other's photos.

Independence Hall and Congress Hall were really interesting and I gained most of my knowledge from the different talks here. When it was revealed that I was from the UK, after the guide had been talking about the evil British oppressors (all true I know) other people couldn't help subconsciously (I hope) moving away from me, which was nice. That usually only happens when I haven't washed. I'm not sure my base knowledge of the political system was strong enough for when they compared the systems now and then, so I supplemented my knowledge with one of the free films at the excellent Visitor Centre.

The Constitution Centre though won the propaganda prize with it's multi-media show called Freedom Rising. With the rousing music, images of worldwide moments of liberty, and stirring words telling an audience of mostly school children how amazing the nation is, you could be forgiven for believing that the fall of the Berlin Wall and end of the South African apartheid had also been US victories. American independence and the rise of a great nation is a history which the US should be rightly proud of, however, was over stated here and large aspects of people who were not granted liberty were totally ignored. Although I can take a more considered outlook to what I am presented with, a seven year old fed a diet of hype may not be able to as easily.

On the other hand, the National Liberty Museum, was excellent. It was comprehensive, fair, thought provoking, and in places a very touching series of exhibits about the struggle for various freedoms across the world. For half the price of the flashy Constitution Center, I spent double the time and learnt about four times as much.

Another powerful symbol of America in the form of Hollywood was the Rocky Statue. Having walked the breadth of the city to get here to take a photo, and gaining a rather impressive blister in the process, I have inserted this paragraph and picture here, even though it doesn't quite fit in. Also, it makes a welcome relief from my honesty / rudeness (delete as appropriate) and a more fitting way to end this post.

The East Coast

We have just spent a week in Philadelphia where Mike attended a conference and I accompanied him as a good opportunity to see another part of the country. I really liked the city and it felt very much like we were half way home. It was older, shabbier and more rough around the edges, with lots more British and Irish influences especially. Narrower darker streets with brick houses and a real sense of history all helped to convey a more European feel; as well as football matches on the TV in most bars and a big selection of British beer on tap...

The B&B we stayed in was certainly not like the Californian America we have thus far been exposed to. It was quirky and unique and I'm sure some sitcoms have been based on less. The slightly eccentric and largely elusive owner was having some renovation work done so there was a chaotic air about the place, but you can stay in a highly sanitised featureless hotel room any day. How often do you get to stay in a room decorated in a French château style with a hand painted mural of a balcony with views to formal gardens by your breakfast table? Yeah, I thought not. Once I had got over the initial weirdness and fear, it was great! (I say this having had a good night sleep last night though.)

The first time I met the owner, she shuffled up to the room in furry slippers with an entourage of over excited tiny yappy dogs (called Lulu, Lilly and Saffy) who she appeared to have very little control over. All the while she spoke to me, she was shouting throatily down the phone (although he could probably hear her without it) to a man downstairs called George who was doing something or other to the electrics. Those same dogs woke me at 6am every morning followed by raspy loud chastising. The whole experience was a little like the League of Gentleman with American accents, but our host was polite and offered lots of help and the location was good. As long as you liked to OD on dairy products, the breakfast was fine too, and passing solids in the toilet seemed to be no problem too. All in all, we had a fun week!

Hic

Following a Saturday afternoon of wine tasting in Sonoma, I have come to the conclusion that this activity is both fun and dangerous, particularly if followed by a wedding in a vineyard where the free wine continues to flow.

I would normally have more to write on the subject, but for some reason I seem to have forgotten most of the details.

Shivering in Bear Valley

Following a second evening in Vegas, we had a late start for the next stage in our journey, to Yosemite National Park. We had been told that this little road trip of ours was ambitious, and it was, but we were rewarded richly for our efforts, although it didn't feel like it when we finally arrived at the park a little shy of midnight having been on the road for over ten hours, the last two on pitch back windy roads. After checking in and signing all sorts of forms agreeing that we would put all food, drink, rubbish and toiletries in the bear boxes outside the tents, we then had to rummage around sorting these out in the howling wind, before trying to find our tent in a dark sea of tents by a small beam of light from a torch.

It was chilly outside but nothing compared to how cold our tent was. It was a canvas structure with a proper door and camp beds insides, so luxury compared to our usual camping escapades; except it was damp and the temperature was about minus 3 or 4 degrees inside the tent. We each made up our beds using 5 or 6 blankets each and headed out in numbers for safety into the bear infested woods hunting for the toilet block.


I woke up in the night shivering and try as I might could not get warm, despite having put on my thick hoodie and my coat to bed. I decided to visit the facilities again and bravely grabbed the torch and headed out alone, not having the heart to disturb my usual protector. It was actually warmer outside and by now I was so sleep deprived that I was willing to take on any bear that dared to appear before me. Luckily, I spotted no bears, and headed back to continue to shiver under my blankets until morning, being oddly comforted by the snoring this time. I got up early and went for a quick shower before the others were up, and overheard some girls in the tent behind us say that they had been visited by a bear in the night who had tried to break into their food box and left scratch marks down it in frustration; the same bear box I had passed in the middle of the night. Gulp.

When I emerged from the tent in the daylight, the view which greeted me was spectacular. We were staying in a deep valley surrounded by enormous rock faced mountains with waterfalls caressing down them. Despite the lack of sleep, it was rejuvenating and warm, so wonderfully warm, after I feared I would never be hot again.

A big breakfast and a big walk in the forests to see Mirror Lake, so called as it is so still it reflects the mountain views, and we were on the road again, having been privileged enough to see more natural awe inspiring beauty in five days than in some people's lifetimes.

On the Road

The early start we had hoped to get was overtaken by a minor disaster at the car hire firm. Some poor customer service and several hours later we had a car and a map, some pre-mixed CDs and the enthusiasm of those who have only had three or four hours sleep; we were raring to go. Grand Canyon here we come!

After the initial excitement of the Hoover Dam which was surprisingly amazing, and a vast lake just outside Vegas, the journey gave way to the dull and unrelenting Arizona desert. With the sun baking down and the air con on full, our faces and lips began to shrivel and the tedium meant we actually became eager to visit the jerky shop which had teasingly began to advertise itself from 30 miles away, despite the fact that this would in turn desiccate our insides as well. The jerky stop was actually two small shed like stores in the middle of nowhere, with empty shelves and overpriced goods, and suspiciously stained but extremely friendly staff. We bought yet more water, some jerky and headed off again in search for lunch. No more than a mile later, the empty desert gave way to a large town which had we known, we could have actually just stopped here for all our needs. Still, we had the jerky.


It seemed like we spent most of our trip either on the road or not sleeping with a few pit stops for wonderment. The journey to the Grand Canyon took so long that we had to stop in a town outside called Flagstaff, an old route 66 town, to try to get some sleep before heading to the Canyon the next day. We were only at the Canyon a couple of hours before heading off again. Still, there is only a finite amount of wow's that one person can say. I'm sure Flagstaff was lovely too but we only saw the inside of our motel room, and at some limited points in the night, our eyelids. The next day's breakfast was in another old route 66 town called Williams, and was a proper 50s style diner with slow old fashioned service, which at any other time we would have appreciated more, but for now we needed to fill our tired faces and get back on the road.

Along the journey we passed through two security points, one agricultural stop where we panicked unnecessarily about a banana we had, and whole towns just full of every variant of fast food you can imagine and some petrol. We never saw any of the radar or planes which allegedly monitored the speed of cars on the freeway. We 'met' some interesting types on the road - fellow drivers who may or may not have passed their driving test, people who liked to stare a lot at outsiders in some of the smaller towns, and last but by no means least, the wardrobe man. He had ingeniously taken out the back seat of his car and inserted a pole where he had then hung numerous garishly patterned and brightly coloured shirts. He was in a convoy with a woman we assumed was his wife who wore what looked like short pyjamas; and between them they took about twenty minutes to get fuel, wash their windscreens and generally not notice that we were waiting almost patiently behind them to get our petrol.

Our mood was in the main, somewhere between delirious and irritable. We were over tired and hysterical and the slightest thing could set us off into fits of stomach wobbling, mirth tear producing laughter. In fact, we were so susceptible to the ridiculous that we decided that when Mike asked us to make the Star Trek hand sign at the Hoover Dam, that not only was it an excellent idea, that it was also hilarious. Luckily, Mike had set the camera to a weird setting so the end result looked like we were in mid alien abduction, which was probably fitting.

The Grand Canyon

Words truly cannot describe the beauty, vastness, or awe inspiring nature of the Grand Canyon, so I am not even going to try to use them.

Sensory Overload in Vegas

You expect it to be tacky, monstrous even, and maybe a little wonderful, but nothing prepares you for the Vegas strip, with it's colossal strangely themed dens encouraging you to commit all seven of the deadly sins at once, whilst wearing nothing but some strategic sequins.

A very early start on Thursday morning meant we arrived in Vegas airport around 11am. We caught a bus to our hotel, wading through the crowds queuing for limos and taxis, to a clearly seldom visited bus stop, so it was a quite a while before we properly arrived in the thick of things. As soon as we had checked in to our 'budget' hotel (better than most places we have ever stayed), the Stratosphere tower, and marvelled at all of the people gambling and drinking already, we entered into the heart of the city in search of food, in quantity and virtually free. We were in luck! The Excalibur, the one hotel with an English theme, was pretty grim but offered 2 for 1 on their buffet, so for $10 each we filled our boots, then pockets, cheeks, bags, and underwear and waddled out, safe in the knowledge we had got our monies worth and wouldn't have to eat again, perhaps ever, or until the next day as it turned out.

Among the lurid and constant adverts and flashing neon, we had seen signs for 99c margaritas, and headed for them while wandering through the various hotels, visiting some lions who would probably be better off in the wild, and endless casinos, marvelling at the sheer variety of people here. Among my favourite sights was a man wandering around the MGM Hotel Casino in just a towel; a chain smoking old woman in a mobility scooter which she had dumped next to a slot machine and settled in for the long haul, and a gaggle of young girls in obligatory sequins all wearing exactly the same hair in different shades, striding out of the Luxor with great purpose.

When we eventually turned up at the home of the promised bargain cocktail, it took us a long time to track down the correct bar, and even some hotel staff didn't know where it was, we were horrified to discover that the drinks were $7.50 instead. We had one for the road and headed back to our hotel to investigate the tower.

The Stratosphere tower contains 3 of the most horrifying rides I have ever seen. I actually couldn't watch as people dangled off the side of the enormously tall building while the wind whipped around them, in the name of fun. In fact I needed a mud slide and a cherry bomb in order to fully recover from the great height and prepare myself to mill nervously around some casino tables watching the dead eyed begin their evening.

We had a relatively early night (and then a late night when we returned to Vegas; the true way to see the place) in order to be fresh for the Grand Canyon the next day.

Between the hours of 2.30 and 7.30am, one of our party who shall remain nameless, attempted to raise the dead through the sole use of their nasal passages, and kept the nasally-silent awake.

Day one of our short break had left us over tired, over stimulated and over eager for the road trip to begin. I liked Vegas a lot more than I thought I was going to, but the natural bounty of the state of Nevada and it's neighbour Arizona blew it out of the water.