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.