Despite ongoing military action in the Middle East and the crescendo of a landmark presidential election, one issue above all else was all consuming for Americans this summer.
In the land were car is king, escalating oil prices doggedly dominated the news, consistently dishing out distress to the gas guzzling public.
Having for so long taken for granted relatively inconspicuous prices at the pump, people have been left shell-shocked (if you’ll forgive the pun) by the unprecedented rise in fuel costs.
So with the zenith of that surge occurring during the period I was in California, the costliest region in the country, one could be forgiven for cursing anything from the luck of my timing and placement, to how it was possible to lose so many pairs of sunglasses on a single trip.
That is until you hit Highway One at least.
For someone who would usually associate driving with labouring down the M6, the stretch of tarmac that spans the bulk of the US west coast introduced me to motoring pleasures I had thought the preserve of Jaguar adverts and maverick secret agents.
Granted, the Ford Focus doesn’t take you to the peak of automotive decadence, but who cares about a bit of walnut dash when a panorama of such natural beauty has opened up ahead of you.
Upon leaving a rather macabre fog-filled San Simeon, we were quickly brought into close proximity with a colony of elephant seals.
Seeing these huge beasts in such great numbers during moulting season was worth the driving expenditure alone.
We continued to navigate the ocean route at our leisure in splendid isolation.
The intention was simply to progress along the same road to pass through Big Sur but our freedom of the highway forged a suspicion that it would be closed ahead as a result of the fires in the park.
True enough we were eventually faced with the option of simply turning back the many miles to reach Highway 101, or the mystery prize of a passage over the Santa Lucia Mountains.
We would have been neglecting our spirits of adventure if we had chosen the former.
The Nacimiento-Ferguson road was a detour like no other. The narrow mountain climb felt like an eternity for my travelling companion, with the car teetering next to a pine-laden drop.
Views of the Pacific were intermittently forged as if heading up a fantastical helter-skelter. With car, girlfriend and I all accounted for we eventually arrived in Monterey later that evening.
With its clean streets, sea air and sophisticated lifestyle, this ocean rich community had many of the desirable qualities you would associate with the west coast, with none of the drags of life in Los Angeles.
However its palpable wealth was notably dwarfed by neighbouring Carmel and the dizzying extravagance of Californian consumption was further evidenced with a tour of the 17-mile drive, a private stretch of road that costs $10 a car to enter and includes the Pebble Beach PGA golf course and a throng of mansions.
Santa Cruz, which we reached later that evening, was a contrastingly care free resort and the kind of place you could picture the average American family taking a holiday to in the ‘50s.
Despite promoting a reputation as a haven for bawdy college students, there wasn’t a drink to be had after 10 o’ clock, although by then descendants had no doubt worn themselves out at the town’s premier attraction.
The kitsch boardwalk amusement park lacked the polish of Disneyland but compensated that with fun and value for money. The wooden giant dipper roller coaster has, in over 80 years of operation, been featured in films such as ‘The Lost Boys’ and was more thrilling than any of its modern contemporaries in combining conventional high speed ride exhilaration with a fear that teeth may be lost in the process.
For the final stretch of our sunshine state adventure we travelled to San Francisco. The approach into the city met with my recently acquired expectation for staggering new experiences that seem almost unreal now. Entering from the south you are met with an array of colour. The sloping landscape is stocked with the vibrancy of a Brazilian favela and the inviting charm of an English country village.
The area we stayed in wasn’t such an uplifting environment however and under advice of the hotel manager we were not to stray too far in a certain direction. The prevalence of pan handlers is a sad fact of life in American cities and they are prominent to an unrecognisable level compared to home.
With the tolerance they are afforded in San Francisco they are nowhere more numerous – particularly in the streets that adjoined our hotel.
The hotel itself, one of the few in the city to squeeze into our budget, supplied us with one toilet roll for use in the shared facilities over the course of the four night stay. Any pampered sole seeking more than their ration would likely be required to give advanced warning so that a sheet at a time could be retrieved from a closely guarded safe. The creaking lift, no doubt weighed down by years of complimentary toiletries, allowed guests to listen to its every working component with angst. That said however, after weeks of youth hostels it was still a relative luxury and supplied a decent base in the city.
I like to think I can arrive in every place I visit devoid of preconceptions but I was still somewhat surprised at the degree to which my visions of a hippy paradise had been misguided.
Finding my way within the slightly harsher reality I eventually discovered the attraction of San Francisco. Its breathtaking steep streets rang true, as anyone who has walked up, or driven down one will testify. A long wind swept bike ride from the Golden Gate Park to the famous bridge that shares its name brought us through some of the more genteel neighbourhoods on a blustery day beside the ocean. Later, an equally exposed boat ride took us around Alcatraz after a long awaited cross-town cable car ride.
Regrettably, it was time to depart from my travelling companion, who was returning to more familiar climes. I, for the first time, was headed east, for the last few weeks of my adventure and a trek into the unknown.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Los Angeles and Highway 101
I'm not exactly sure why but the closer Los Angeles dawned the less enamoured I became with the prospect of visiting. This was somewhat strange because it was here they manufactured so many idylls of the land of the opportunity and packaged it so enticingly to my generation and others before it.
Perhaps all of the cities negative connotations had seeped over time into my conscious and turned me against the place.
The smog didn't exactly promote it any differently to what I'd feared. Thick clouds of fumes lingered over the non-descript sprawl and multi-lane highways, creating a hot muggy atmosphere without a hint of that California sunshine.
Probably influenced by the toxic gasses, I began to hold out the hope that Hollywood, my home for the tenure, would part the ways from this despair and showcase the kind of dream factory I had idealised for so long. It didn't.
Hollywood immediately looked like the last place a movie star would live. It was stocked with tourists but I could never really understand what the lure was.
Surely not for the 'Guinness world records museum' or the 'Ripley's believe it or not' attraction, stuffed in among the stale air of mercenary salesmen just like every other American destination which has the slightest hint of tourist appeal.
It was fun to see the Hollywood walk of fame although its surprising state of disrepair appeared symbolic of the district's faded glory.
Some say Hollywood is in the midst of a renaissance. I'm surprised it ever got to the stage were it would need one. It's had the kind of opportunities to that thrive that most towns would crave and what's left appears to be an ugly mix of tourist traps, pretentious restaurants and an abundance of shops selling bondage gear.
Munching through a dodo egg in my studded leather dungarees I longed for a different California.
With a couple of unimpressive days behind me, shattered spirits were boosted with the arrival of my girlfriend. We were to spend a fortnight in the state together, meandering along the central Pacific coast to reach San Francisco.
Suddenly, when shared with a familiar face, LA's apparent burdens seemed trivial, even jovial. Lifted from my self-absorbed bubble, I developed a new found appreciation of what the city had to offer.
The sight of the Pacific Ocean at the vibrant Venice and Santa Monica beaches did much to vanquish the previous malaise and a tour of Universal Studio's helped fulfill my child like enthusiasm for a vintage Hollywood that was easier on the eye. I hit the road satisfied I had made peace with Lalaland and for all the interesting people I had met along the way it took the company of a loved one to spark that.
Upon hiring a car, escaping the LA traffic proved a needless fret. We made a direct turn off Hollywood Boulevard in our newly aquired Ford Focus, took a last glimpse at the Hollywood hills and descended onto Highway 101, the major artery of the west coast.
The drive, certainly the most stunning I have ever undertaken, at times gave such a brush with nature that it was like straddling the edge of the earth. The entire week beside the central coast satisfied my rumination as to why people would fork out so much to live in California.
The boardwalk and beaches of Santa Barbara, a city of luxuries beyond the means of a couple of budget travelers, made for a pleasant afternoon rounded off by 'New England style' fish and chips that would have stood up to serious scrutiny at home.
There were sightings of flocks of pelicans navigating their way just proud of the water surface and a mysterious chilling mist that could shroud the entire seafront.
Both would make habitual showings over the course of the week.
Detouring inland, we took State Route 55 on our way to San Luis Obispo. Despite lacking in a coastal outlook, the significantly smaller road also known as the Costa Messa Freeway, harboured yet more impressive driver distractions as it meekly bent around a series of looming cliffs.
Later, a helicopter commissioned for fire fighting appeared from the mountains armed with water to quell the raging fury further north. This was more 'big screen' than Hollywood ever was.
Rooted in California wine country, San Luis was like the antidote to Los Angeles. It was accommodating, attractive and clean - almost eerily so LA natives would argue.
From there we toured the vineyards and the beaches of Pismo and Avila. Such leisurely pursuits were a world apart from grappling with backpacks and Greyhound staff.
Caused by the cooling of salty air particles from the crashing waves, the mischievous mist (or fog depending on its density) gave Pismo the appearance and climate of Blackpool in February. Undeterred, we drove but 10 minutes away, to find Avila lit up by a baking sun that was quick to melt my holiday sized ice cream.
This unexpected pattern continued up the coast.
The sun cleared a view of the striking Cambria resort, a pristine town of galleries and nik naks, but neighbouring San Simeon, seemingly made up of a row of motels, was clouded so thick you could barely see 50 yards ahead, not to mention the grand ocean on which it stood.
The golden state didn't always live up to its name.
Perhaps all of the cities negative connotations had seeped over time into my conscious and turned me against the place.
The smog didn't exactly promote it any differently to what I'd feared. Thick clouds of fumes lingered over the non-descript sprawl and multi-lane highways, creating a hot muggy atmosphere without a hint of that California sunshine.
Probably influenced by the toxic gasses, I began to hold out the hope that Hollywood, my home for the tenure, would part the ways from this despair and showcase the kind of dream factory I had idealised for so long. It didn't.
Hollywood immediately looked like the last place a movie star would live. It was stocked with tourists but I could never really understand what the lure was.
Surely not for the 'Guinness world records museum' or the 'Ripley's believe it or not' attraction, stuffed in among the stale air of mercenary salesmen just like every other American destination which has the slightest hint of tourist appeal.
It was fun to see the Hollywood walk of fame although its surprising state of disrepair appeared symbolic of the district's faded glory.
Some say Hollywood is in the midst of a renaissance. I'm surprised it ever got to the stage were it would need one. It's had the kind of opportunities to that thrive that most towns would crave and what's left appears to be an ugly mix of tourist traps, pretentious restaurants and an abundance of shops selling bondage gear.
Munching through a dodo egg in my studded leather dungarees I longed for a different California.
With a couple of unimpressive days behind me, shattered spirits were boosted with the arrival of my girlfriend. We were to spend a fortnight in the state together, meandering along the central Pacific coast to reach San Francisco.
Suddenly, when shared with a familiar face, LA's apparent burdens seemed trivial, even jovial. Lifted from my self-absorbed bubble, I developed a new found appreciation of what the city had to offer.
The sight of the Pacific Ocean at the vibrant Venice and Santa Monica beaches did much to vanquish the previous malaise and a tour of Universal Studio's helped fulfill my child like enthusiasm for a vintage Hollywood that was easier on the eye. I hit the road satisfied I had made peace with Lalaland and for all the interesting people I had met along the way it took the company of a loved one to spark that.
Upon hiring a car, escaping the LA traffic proved a needless fret. We made a direct turn off Hollywood Boulevard in our newly aquired Ford Focus, took a last glimpse at the Hollywood hills and descended onto Highway 101, the major artery of the west coast.
The drive, certainly the most stunning I have ever undertaken, at times gave such a brush with nature that it was like straddling the edge of the earth. The entire week beside the central coast satisfied my rumination as to why people would fork out so much to live in California.
The boardwalk and beaches of Santa Barbara, a city of luxuries beyond the means of a couple of budget travelers, made for a pleasant afternoon rounded off by 'New England style' fish and chips that would have stood up to serious scrutiny at home.
There were sightings of flocks of pelicans navigating their way just proud of the water surface and a mysterious chilling mist that could shroud the entire seafront.
Both would make habitual showings over the course of the week.
Detouring inland, we took State Route 55 on our way to San Luis Obispo. Despite lacking in a coastal outlook, the significantly smaller road also known as the Costa Messa Freeway, harboured yet more impressive driver distractions as it meekly bent around a series of looming cliffs.
Later, a helicopter commissioned for fire fighting appeared from the mountains armed with water to quell the raging fury further north. This was more 'big screen' than Hollywood ever was.
Rooted in California wine country, San Luis was like the antidote to Los Angeles. It was accommodating, attractive and clean - almost eerily so LA natives would argue.
From there we toured the vineyards and the beaches of Pismo and Avila. Such leisurely pursuits were a world apart from grappling with backpacks and Greyhound staff.
Caused by the cooling of salty air particles from the crashing waves, the mischievous mist (or fog depending on its density) gave Pismo the appearance and climate of Blackpool in February. Undeterred, we drove but 10 minutes away, to find Avila lit up by a baking sun that was quick to melt my holiday sized ice cream.
This unexpected pattern continued up the coast.
The sun cleared a view of the striking Cambria resort, a pristine town of galleries and nik naks, but neighbouring San Simeon, seemingly made up of a row of motels, was clouded so thick you could barely see 50 yards ahead, not to mention the grand ocean on which it stood.
The golden state didn't always live up to its name.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
A whirlwind week
Many miles west, yet still in Texas, I stopped for the evening in El Paso. For the next week I had scheduled a dizzying tour of four states, another continent and some of the most memorable sites on the planet. All booked with fledgling optimism in the sanctuary of my relatively tranquil Alpine base, I was investing a rather large leap of faith in America’s dubious public transport network if I was to make all the relevant connections in anything close to resembling the appropriate time.
With an evening to spare before the fun started, I foolhardily dismissed the advice of new acquaintances in Texas and crossed the border into Mexico. Unlike the tourist favoured central and coastal regions, the vast border town of Juarez was said to be real bandito country. Naysayers had reeled off statistics of tourist killings and gave warning of the violent drug cartels that run at large. Without wishing to trivialize an undeniably serious problem, I have to say I ventured south and back unscathed and witnessed no more of a hint of trouble than I would on a Saturday night in Britain. Not that that is exactly selling you the idea. True to the skepticism, wary Americans were noticeable by their absence. I was the only non-Hispanic sole in view as I took in a couple of bars and savoured the seismic drop in prices. My real concern, getting back into the States, was eased by a routine passport check and 35 cents entrance fee. Over the Rio Grande from the pothole streets and ramshackle stores I was back in the land of privilege.
With perhaps unnecessary but nonetheless welcome luxury I made a trouble free entrance by air into Arizona, another huge state of stunningly variable climate and landscape. I changed at Phoenix, a city of desert climes, on the way to Flagstaff, a matter of half an hour away on a bumpy plane ride, but an altogether more welcoming environment. Flagstaff boasted the warming kiss of the sun and the cooling breeze from the mountains in a pine forest setting. It was arguably the most idyllic place I had visited from the many miles I had passed through and I would have happily stayed longer but I was headed for the states undeniable star attraction – the Grand Canyon. Satisfied by the pleasing ambience and the prospect of the wonders that would follow, I was content to wait for the Chicago train heading for Los Angeles. And wait I did. As it transpired, the Southwest Chief service, impeded in the flood hit mid-west, was delayed until 3am. To my utmost frustration, I only needed to progress one stop and 30 miles down the road to Williams, and so drawing on the “time is money” mantra, I eventually cut my losses and took a taxi. My journey which had appeared cunningly cost-effective mapped out on a computer screen was developing as unnecessarily convoluted. I was staying at the Grand Canyon Hotel on the famous Route 66 but I was still an hours drive from the National Park.
Regardless, I had been favoured with such memorable sights as to diminish any minor inconveniences and I knew this detour would not be in vain. I don’t believe anybody could fail to be impressed by the Grand Canyon. People in the US often express their envy at the lavish history of European cities, but in landmarks such as the Grand Canyon they have true historical landmarks of their own, the Canyon being billions of years in the making. Like most visitors, I saw it from the south rim and a relatively insignificant portion of it at that. I hiked down someway in the ferocity of the midday sun, with a reliance on the staggering views and the adrenalin charged by the significant drop to keep me going. It carved everlasting memories but it didn’t swallow me whole. Something I feared Las Vegas might do.
I moved on to Kingman, another Arizona town along Route 66, on the train delayed by some eight hours. I was to catch the dreaded Greyhound to Nevada.
Fears spiraled over which catastrophe I would be met with this time on the maligned monster but I’m happy to concede that I made my way through the desert in good time. Not that the ride was without incident. Just outside Vegas the bus was stopped by four plain clothes policemen looking for a fugitive they seemed convinced was among the traveling party. They questioned a few with the aggression of the archetypal American cop but failed to land their man. Nobody aboard appeared inconvenienced by the episode. It just all seemed like part of the show to come.
Las Vegas may be well established as the entertainment capital of the world but by evidence of all the construction the party just seems to be getting started. I took advantage of the cities affordable luxury and paid about $60 for a night in a big castle along the strip. A Vegas take on a castle at least. My room overlooked the New York New York, which features a replica Manhattan skyline, a Statue of Liberty and a rollercoaster that launches from inside the casino and propels itself around the edge of the complex. Resolutely refusing to be taken in by it all, I set a modest $50 betting limit, which I doubled on the roulette table in about 20 minutes. My exterior was high-roller nonchalant but inside I was riding that rollercoaster beside the New York skyline, showering the punters below with dollar bills and wearing gold top hat for good measure. Flushed with promise I tried my luck at another casino and lost my profit as quickly as I had come by it. I was happy to leave it at that.
I stayed just one night in America’s playground, before ending my wild week in Los Angeles. I had finally made my way from the Atlantic to the Pacific coast and I was hungry for more.
With an evening to spare before the fun started, I foolhardily dismissed the advice of new acquaintances in Texas and crossed the border into Mexico. Unlike the tourist favoured central and coastal regions, the vast border town of Juarez was said to be real bandito country. Naysayers had reeled off statistics of tourist killings and gave warning of the violent drug cartels that run at large. Without wishing to trivialize an undeniably serious problem, I have to say I ventured south and back unscathed and witnessed no more of a hint of trouble than I would on a Saturday night in Britain. Not that that is exactly selling you the idea. True to the skepticism, wary Americans were noticeable by their absence. I was the only non-Hispanic sole in view as I took in a couple of bars and savoured the seismic drop in prices. My real concern, getting back into the States, was eased by a routine passport check and 35 cents entrance fee. Over the Rio Grande from the pothole streets and ramshackle stores I was back in the land of privilege.
With perhaps unnecessary but nonetheless welcome luxury I made a trouble free entrance by air into Arizona, another huge state of stunningly variable climate and landscape. I changed at Phoenix, a city of desert climes, on the way to Flagstaff, a matter of half an hour away on a bumpy plane ride, but an altogether more welcoming environment. Flagstaff boasted the warming kiss of the sun and the cooling breeze from the mountains in a pine forest setting. It was arguably the most idyllic place I had visited from the many miles I had passed through and I would have happily stayed longer but I was headed for the states undeniable star attraction – the Grand Canyon. Satisfied by the pleasing ambience and the prospect of the wonders that would follow, I was content to wait for the Chicago train heading for Los Angeles. And wait I did. As it transpired, the Southwest Chief service, impeded in the flood hit mid-west, was delayed until 3am. To my utmost frustration, I only needed to progress one stop and 30 miles down the road to Williams, and so drawing on the “time is money” mantra, I eventually cut my losses and took a taxi. My journey which had appeared cunningly cost-effective mapped out on a computer screen was developing as unnecessarily convoluted. I was staying at the Grand Canyon Hotel on the famous Route 66 but I was still an hours drive from the National Park.
Regardless, I had been favoured with such memorable sights as to diminish any minor inconveniences and I knew this detour would not be in vain. I don’t believe anybody could fail to be impressed by the Grand Canyon. People in the US often express their envy at the lavish history of European cities, but in landmarks such as the Grand Canyon they have true historical landmarks of their own, the Canyon being billions of years in the making. Like most visitors, I saw it from the south rim and a relatively insignificant portion of it at that. I hiked down someway in the ferocity of the midday sun, with a reliance on the staggering views and the adrenalin charged by the significant drop to keep me going. It carved everlasting memories but it didn’t swallow me whole. Something I feared Las Vegas might do.
I moved on to Kingman, another Arizona town along Route 66, on the train delayed by some eight hours. I was to catch the dreaded Greyhound to Nevada.
Fears spiraled over which catastrophe I would be met with this time on the maligned monster but I’m happy to concede that I made my way through the desert in good time. Not that the ride was without incident. Just outside Vegas the bus was stopped by four plain clothes policemen looking for a fugitive they seemed convinced was among the traveling party. They questioned a few with the aggression of the archetypal American cop but failed to land their man. Nobody aboard appeared inconvenienced by the episode. It just all seemed like part of the show to come.
Las Vegas may be well established as the entertainment capital of the world but by evidence of all the construction the party just seems to be getting started. I took advantage of the cities affordable luxury and paid about $60 for a night in a big castle along the strip. A Vegas take on a castle at least. My room overlooked the New York New York, which features a replica Manhattan skyline, a Statue of Liberty and a rollercoaster that launches from inside the casino and propels itself around the edge of the complex. Resolutely refusing to be taken in by it all, I set a modest $50 betting limit, which I doubled on the roulette table in about 20 minutes. My exterior was high-roller nonchalant but inside I was riding that rollercoaster beside the New York skyline, showering the punters below with dollar bills and wearing gold top hat for good measure. Flushed with promise I tried my luck at another casino and lost my profit as quickly as I had come by it. I was happy to leave it at that.
I stayed just one night in America’s playground, before ending my wild week in Los Angeles. I had finally made my way from the Atlantic to the Pacific coast and I was hungry for more.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Alpine, Texas
The Sunset train service travels from New Orleans, off the Gulf of Mexico, to the Pacific coast and Los Angeles. It takes the best part of two days to run its course and costs in the region of $200 to ride.
With the current floods in the mid-west disrupting services nationwide it would probably amount to about half a week to tackle the route in its entirety.
I suspect you'd have to be especially committed to the romance of the railroad to expend that much time and money on a domestic excursion.
Or maybe you'd just have to be committed.
Feeling only slightly demented, I met the Sunset around its halfway point, in San Antonio, the home of the Alamo, around 80 miles south of Austin.
I was headed west for a mere eight hour journey and another stint at reporting on the goings on in small town Texas.
The size of Texas is such that it could accommodate a healthy chunk of western Europe and still leave room to lasso a cat.
I ventured hundreds of miles without seeing a settlement among the spectacular hill country and occasional twister.
This was just moving from the south central region to the states western reaches. I had seen nothing of the panhandle or the three hundred odd miles of coastline.
There was some evidence of life though among the tumbleweeds. These seemingly endless plains are largely private ranch land, usually thousands of acres apiece. The earth here is so arid that it tends to support only one horse or cow per hundred of those acres. Hill fires have scorched a significant bulk of that over the last couple of months and as if that isn't enough to worry about, a prevalence of mountain lions are said to poach a number of the livestock that can survive.
Nestled within this high desert setting is Alpine, a town with a population of just under 6,000, at the hub of the Big Bend National Park. Here I would be working at the Alpine Avalanche, a weekly publication with a name I doubt could be bettered.
Fittingly my accommodation for the duration was like something out of the wild west, just without the Indians or the bordello's.
I couldn't say it was a tranquil stay though. The great freight trains put paid to that. Carrying 200 compartments a time, these behemoths can't even be dwarfed by the vast countryside. Unlike their passenger counterparts, they would run with brutal efficiency through the night, parping in unmistakable shrill tones as a matter of caution. All yards from my hotel window.
Free from the identikit nature of chain motels, my lodging offered chintzy furniture and modest comfort with no pretension. After a tough day at the ranch (or slumped in front of the Apple Mac) you could savour the home-made brews and a sirloin steak the size of your head. I think that's considered an appetiser in Texas.
Down the road I witnessed a bar brawl break out at a local cowboy haunt, only to see it quickly quelled by the onset of the town sheriff. Lawlessness has never really been afforded much breathing space in Alpine. After all, it was the last town in Texas to hang somebody.
Away from Austin's trendy bar scene, this was more the Texas I had imagined from afar. That was a view it seems shared by Hollywood producers. This small pocket of west Texas was the location for films such as 'Giant' and the more recent Oscar successes 'No country for old men' and 'There will be blood'. Together with that western mystique and the big country scenery, the cause of Alpine and neighbouring Marfa as a film haven was probably aided in part by their direct link to the studio's in Los Angeles. Not that there'd be a quick exit if a genuine gunfight developed.
One of the local celebrities was the photographer for the Avalanche, who despite all logic to the contrary, is blind.
I half expected to see close-ups of buckets in the place of victorious local sports teams but his work, as indeed his occasional writing, was as impressive as his desire to take on such a task with his unfortunate affliction.
His quirky nature would be at home in Marfa, a town 20 miles down the road that due to its previous anonymity, attracted New York minimalist artist Donald Judd to take root there and create his looming sculptures away from the limelight. Today, with an irony not lost on the natives, it attracts dozens of other big city artists to do the same, and, despite still being less than half the size of Alpine, mark its place prominently on the map.
Satisfied I had seen as many oddities as a small town could muster, I rode off into the sunset on the thrice weekly train, which, pleasingly for those riding it cross country, arrived bang on time.
With the current floods in the mid-west disrupting services nationwide it would probably amount to about half a week to tackle the route in its entirety.
I suspect you'd have to be especially committed to the romance of the railroad to expend that much time and money on a domestic excursion.
Or maybe you'd just have to be committed.
Feeling only slightly demented, I met the Sunset around its halfway point, in San Antonio, the home of the Alamo, around 80 miles south of Austin.
I was headed west for a mere eight hour journey and another stint at reporting on the goings on in small town Texas.
The size of Texas is such that it could accommodate a healthy chunk of western Europe and still leave room to lasso a cat.
I ventured hundreds of miles without seeing a settlement among the spectacular hill country and occasional twister.
This was just moving from the south central region to the states western reaches. I had seen nothing of the panhandle or the three hundred odd miles of coastline.
There was some evidence of life though among the tumbleweeds. These seemingly endless plains are largely private ranch land, usually thousands of acres apiece. The earth here is so arid that it tends to support only one horse or cow per hundred of those acres. Hill fires have scorched a significant bulk of that over the last couple of months and as if that isn't enough to worry about, a prevalence of mountain lions are said to poach a number of the livestock that can survive.
Nestled within this high desert setting is Alpine, a town with a population of just under 6,000, at the hub of the Big Bend National Park. Here I would be working at the Alpine Avalanche, a weekly publication with a name I doubt could be bettered.
Fittingly my accommodation for the duration was like something out of the wild west, just without the Indians or the bordello's.
I couldn't say it was a tranquil stay though. The great freight trains put paid to that. Carrying 200 compartments a time, these behemoths can't even be dwarfed by the vast countryside. Unlike their passenger counterparts, they would run with brutal efficiency through the night, parping in unmistakable shrill tones as a matter of caution. All yards from my hotel window.
Free from the identikit nature of chain motels, my lodging offered chintzy furniture and modest comfort with no pretension. After a tough day at the ranch (or slumped in front of the Apple Mac) you could savour the home-made brews and a sirloin steak the size of your head. I think that's considered an appetiser in Texas.
Down the road I witnessed a bar brawl break out at a local cowboy haunt, only to see it quickly quelled by the onset of the town sheriff. Lawlessness has never really been afforded much breathing space in Alpine. After all, it was the last town in Texas to hang somebody.
Away from Austin's trendy bar scene, this was more the Texas I had imagined from afar. That was a view it seems shared by Hollywood producers. This small pocket of west Texas was the location for films such as 'Giant' and the more recent Oscar successes 'No country for old men' and 'There will be blood'. Together with that western mystique and the big country scenery, the cause of Alpine and neighbouring Marfa as a film haven was probably aided in part by their direct link to the studio's in Los Angeles. Not that there'd be a quick exit if a genuine gunfight developed.
One of the local celebrities was the photographer for the Avalanche, who despite all logic to the contrary, is blind.
I half expected to see close-ups of buckets in the place of victorious local sports teams but his work, as indeed his occasional writing, was as impressive as his desire to take on such a task with his unfortunate affliction.
His quirky nature would be at home in Marfa, a town 20 miles down the road that due to its previous anonymity, attracted New York minimalist artist Donald Judd to take root there and create his looming sculptures away from the limelight. Today, with an irony not lost on the natives, it attracts dozens of other big city artists to do the same, and, despite still being less than half the size of Alpine, mark its place prominently on the map.
Satisfied I had seen as many oddities as a small town could muster, I rode off into the sunset on the thrice weekly train, which, pleasingly for those riding it cross country, arrived bang on time.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Hays County, Texas
The Texas heat is incredible. Heading south I thought I'd done well to prepare myself for it. In reality I'd done nothing of the sort. Earlier in the trip I'd checked the national weather map and seen Austin, my intended destination, highlighted in the mid 30's (Celsius). El Paso, on the Mexican border to the west, was above 40 and blocked in the deepest red the colour coding could handle. In time you can tolerate it but you can never truly acclimatize. Just wandering in the shade or stepping out into the sun for a few minutes you lose the will to do anything. The mind turns to mush and what meager thoughts you can muster usually run along the lines of "does it have a pool, and can I get a drink?"
The locals, sensing my vulnerability to the sun’s harsh glare would frequently ask how I was finding it, but they too couldn't fail to be hypnotized by the heat. They would speak of the impending months (temperatures wouldn't peak until August) with a genuine sense of foreboding. Heat like this can kill.
Texas being hot wasn't exactly a revelation but this part of the state was full of surprises. Austin, the state capital, is regarded as one of the most liberal cities in America. Known as the “live music capital of the world” it is also one of the most desirable, with an ever-growing demand to live among the bohemian chic. In one typically upscale bar, the most ordinary flavoured beer I could find was apricot. What happened to whisky and spittoons?
The city's motto is "keep Austin weird" and the place has quaintly been described as the “blueberry in the tomatoes”, in reference to its Democratic stronghold in a sea of Republican dominance. This was true in part in Hays County, an expanding suburban area just outside the city, where I would be living and working for a week for the Hays Free Press.
There was even talk here of the Democrats stealing a majority in the state senate at the next election. It remains unlikely but the fact that it is even considered in Texas would surprise many casual observers of American politics.
Just like everywhere else I'd been in America, presumptive Democratic nominee Barack Obama was, by some margin, the candidate with the most visible support. Down the road in Lockhart I'd eaten at a famous barbeque house that used to segregate customers depending on their racial orientation. Yet here we had a black Presidential candidate backed by apparent swathes of Texans.
I was invited along to see a book signing in Austin by President Bush's former Press Secretary Scott McClelland. The air conditioning was bound to be good there I thought. The Austin old boy revealed his disillusionment with the current administration, as he patiently answered questions for a good two hours.
One thing he said struck me however. He told his audience how he felt so overwhelmingly hopeful when he joined the President's campaign, a man he still admires personally. He also expressed the opinion that during his time as Texas Governor and the presidential race of 2000, his former bosses rhetoric for change was similar to that of Obama’s today.
A great deal of the population appear to hold out such great hope for the Illinois Senator, a man whose policies I don't profess to know too much about. With an understated dignity, he seems to have captured the imagination and engineered an upsurge in confidence for the coming years. Are the American people wrong to put such blind faith in someone who may follow a similar path to his predecessor? Or would it be worse still to lose faith with the democratic process altogether? It was something to ponder while I stuffed frozen peas down my trousers.
Stereotypes of American culture continued to go by the wayside, and some, like the prevalence of cowboy hats, happily remained. What stood true of Texas was the warmth and hospitality to which I had been fortunate enough to grow accustomed.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Heading south
What can I tell you about Nashville. Well, not a great deal really. Having booked a hostel in haste I ended up several miles away from...just about anything. A classic holiday folly.
After enduring 17 hours on a Greyhound bus I wasn't too excited about trudging round in the sweltering midday heat in the vain hope of stumbling across somewhere I knew nothing about, with a rucksack that could drown a horse.
The woman at the transit authority, who I had put at a great inconvenience by interrupting a personal call, told me with a sinister pleasure that my chosen destination wasn't listed in her ominously comprehensive road atlas.
So after offering strained encouragement to an unconvincing taxi driver, and $55 lighter, I was introduced to the middle of nowhere, Tennessee.
Williamson, the county in which I found myself, turned out to be one of the wealthiest in the country, with Nicole Kidman among the distinguished residents. If I hadn't been conserving every last breath of energy I would have inhaled in appreciation.
When I managed to catch a ride downtown, I was submerged into a big country music festival, with the BBQ joints, cowboy hats and record shops offering occasional distraction from the oppressive heat.
I'm not sure what I was expecting but the intense passion for all things country left me feeling a little uneasy. Everyone seemed friendly on the surface but at any moment I was prepared for the country music police to come and shackle me down as an impostor. A street vending cubicle offered the chance to record your own CD for $18 and a budding young singer told her audience "thank y'all for comin' to see me in this 90 degree heat". They didn't mind. I most certainly did.
Within touching distance of ending what had been a less than successful visit I was hit with the bombshell of America's public transport system. Or rather the lack of it.
I had booked a seat on the Greyhound bus to Memphis days in advance but when I arrived I was bluntly informed, along with several others, that there were no seats left, and if I waited around for another eight hours I would "maybe" get on the next one. My furious dismay was matched only by the apathy of the other unlucky few.
The bus company had knowingly sold more tickets than seats and the surly bruisers at the ticket counter were aggressively defensive of such practice. I tried to whip up a posse of protesters but you could tell such injustice had long since beaten them into submission.
The attitude of Greyhound bus staff seems to suggest that public transport in America is the preserve of the deluded or the desperate and that anyone who can't afford a car should be grateful for the scraps that remain.
Regardless, I had reason to believe we all would be received in Graceland.
Memphis wasn't anywhere near as busy as I'd expected. Arriving so much later than intended I wandered out for some food around midnight and the Main Street was completely deserted. Things scuttled behind me like something from a horror film but I barely saw a sole for about half a mile. The city didn't seem to be benefiting much from its fame.
The solitary white person inside or out, I rode the bus through a seedy suburb to the home of Elvis Presley and later to the famous Sun Studio, as part of a day that was as memorable as my escape from Nashville was distressing.
I stood on the spot where the King cut his first hit, in the studio unchanged from its heyday when its many legends would pass through. In Graceland, an attraction smoothly operated by American commercial nous, I was reminded of the staggering impact Elvis had on the world, despite never performing outside of his homeland.
You cannot underestimate the extent to which people like Elvis Presley promoted US popular culture. The fast food diners, the Cadillacs, and all that cliched charm have instant recognition on an international scale, but without the undeniable talent of icons such as Elvis, there would not have been the substance to resonate it so deeply into the minds of those so far away.
With that in mind I felt somewhat privileged to while away the evening on Beale Street, taking in some live acts in the home of the blues - where history was made.
Meandering down the great Mississippi River, the train plunged me into the furthest reaches of the south, through the Louisiana swamp land, en route to New Orleans. With limited time to savour the full flavour of the Big Easy, I neglected the hurricane devastation the city was infamously hit with in recent years and made time to appreciate the mystique of the place unlike anywhere else in America.
And it is truly unique. Like a Caribbean island tagged onto the mainland. With the debauchery of Bourbon Street added to the rickety balconies and crumbling brick work, it felt like old Europe had met the wild west. I bumped into Ewan McGregor on a night when the unexpected took centre stage. He's probably still telling his friends the story. Katrina may have chased half of its population away but New Orleans seemed to be delighting the tourists in their numbers. I'd defy anybody to leave there without the sense they had witnessed something special.
After enduring 17 hours on a Greyhound bus I wasn't too excited about trudging round in the sweltering midday heat in the vain hope of stumbling across somewhere I knew nothing about, with a rucksack that could drown a horse.
The woman at the transit authority, who I had put at a great inconvenience by interrupting a personal call, told me with a sinister pleasure that my chosen destination wasn't listed in her ominously comprehensive road atlas.
So after offering strained encouragement to an unconvincing taxi driver, and $55 lighter, I was introduced to the middle of nowhere, Tennessee.
Williamson, the county in which I found myself, turned out to be one of the wealthiest in the country, with Nicole Kidman among the distinguished residents. If I hadn't been conserving every last breath of energy I would have inhaled in appreciation.
When I managed to catch a ride downtown, I was submerged into a big country music festival, with the BBQ joints, cowboy hats and record shops offering occasional distraction from the oppressive heat.
I'm not sure what I was expecting but the intense passion for all things country left me feeling a little uneasy. Everyone seemed friendly on the surface but at any moment I was prepared for the country music police to come and shackle me down as an impostor. A street vending cubicle offered the chance to record your own CD for $18 and a budding young singer told her audience "thank y'all for comin' to see me in this 90 degree heat". They didn't mind. I most certainly did.
Within touching distance of ending what had been a less than successful visit I was hit with the bombshell of America's public transport system. Or rather the lack of it.
I had booked a seat on the Greyhound bus to Memphis days in advance but when I arrived I was bluntly informed, along with several others, that there were no seats left, and if I waited around for another eight hours I would "maybe" get on the next one. My furious dismay was matched only by the apathy of the other unlucky few.
The bus company had knowingly sold more tickets than seats and the surly bruisers at the ticket counter were aggressively defensive of such practice. I tried to whip up a posse of protesters but you could tell such injustice had long since beaten them into submission.
The attitude of Greyhound bus staff seems to suggest that public transport in America is the preserve of the deluded or the desperate and that anyone who can't afford a car should be grateful for the scraps that remain.
Regardless, I had reason to believe we all would be received in Graceland.
Memphis wasn't anywhere near as busy as I'd expected. Arriving so much later than intended I wandered out for some food around midnight and the Main Street was completely deserted. Things scuttled behind me like something from a horror film but I barely saw a sole for about half a mile. The city didn't seem to be benefiting much from its fame.
The solitary white person inside or out, I rode the bus through a seedy suburb to the home of Elvis Presley and later to the famous Sun Studio, as part of a day that was as memorable as my escape from Nashville was distressing.
I stood on the spot where the King cut his first hit, in the studio unchanged from its heyday when its many legends would pass through. In Graceland, an attraction smoothly operated by American commercial nous, I was reminded of the staggering impact Elvis had on the world, despite never performing outside of his homeland.
You cannot underestimate the extent to which people like Elvis Presley promoted US popular culture. The fast food diners, the Cadillacs, and all that cliched charm have instant recognition on an international scale, but without the undeniable talent of icons such as Elvis, there would not have been the substance to resonate it so deeply into the minds of those so far away.
With that in mind I felt somewhat privileged to while away the evening on Beale Street, taking in some live acts in the home of the blues - where history was made.
Meandering down the great Mississippi River, the train plunged me into the furthest reaches of the south, through the Louisiana swamp land, en route to New Orleans. With limited time to savour the full flavour of the Big Easy, I neglected the hurricane devastation the city was infamously hit with in recent years and made time to appreciate the mystique of the place unlike anywhere else in America.
And it is truly unique. Like a Caribbean island tagged onto the mainland. With the debauchery of Bourbon Street added to the rickety balconies and crumbling brick work, it felt like old Europe had met the wild west. I bumped into Ewan McGregor on a night when the unexpected took centre stage. He's probably still telling his friends the story. Katrina may have chased half of its population away but New Orleans seemed to be delighting the tourists in their numbers. I'd defy anybody to leave there without the sense they had witnessed something special.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Philadelphia and Washington D.C.
I had chosen to visit Philadelphia on a whim just a day or so before arriving there and out of stunning coincidence and good fortune it emerged that the "Herald" photographer and his wife would be travelling down on the same day for a wedding.
Bleary eyed but eager with anticipation I snapped up their generous invitation for a ride, leaving Randolph at 5am for the 300 mile journey to my next hitching post.
It was overcast and stiflingly humid but Philadelphia instantly impressed me. Its modern skyline is far less imposing than the other great American cities but its cobbled streets and handsome terraces do more than enough to help captivate the history.
The birthplace of the American Revolution, Philadelphia, previously the nations capital, was probably the most important place in the modern inception of the United States and the words liberty and independence seem to crop up on signs and buildings everywhere.
That was with the exception of my hostel of course. Its 24-man dormitory and stringent rules gave it the feeling of a 19th century orphanage. And before you question this revelation I can assure you that my experience of 19th century orphanages are valid.
On the Sunday, the sun parted the coating of clouds and there was a more tolerable heat in the air. I saw the Liberty Bell, conveniently located down the street from the orphanage, before heading to the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
The steps that lead up to this impressive structure will for some hold more resonance than the building itself due to their appearance in the Rocky films.
A Rocky statue has also been placed at the foot of the steps and bus loads of fans apparently pay homage to the jabbering giant everyday, by-passing the art altogether.
A debate ran through the city when the statue was moved from south Philadelphia as to the merits of placing it outside the gallery.
For me, the two have their own, almost polar-opposite merits and once you've seen the breathtaking collection of modern and classical pieces you would agree that the art deserves pride of place.
Being on my own, with nobody to capture the silliness, I decided against jogging up the "Rocky steps" like so many of the films fans before me. Instead I just put on some swimming trunks and began pounding a frozen carcass.
My tour of the attractions continued with a documentary drama about the Declaration of Independence at the Independence Visitor Centre. At least it did until I fell asleep. When you explore a city on foot you can easily cover several miles in a day and the exhaustion, both mental and physical, will eventually defeat you every time.
Museums and galleries are the biggest culprits. After a few hours investigating the worlds treasures at a snails pace, Monet himself could be giving a guided tour of never before seen works and your eyes would still be drawn to your watch or an inviting bench.
With its astonishing boast of attractions, this was applied ten-fold in Washington D.C. There are more landmarks than New York City and with so much open space they are all showcased with prominence.
My visit to the White House, or as close as I could get at least, was an unfortunate testament to that. You could have lay the Washington Monument down length ways in the space between George's front gates and the barrier restricting my further entry. Not much of a welcome after I'd just bought a fridge magnet with his face on.
As I trudged away, a police officer queried how I'd gained access to the adjacent park. My attempt to jovially quiz him on the levels of security fell on deaf ears and I had conspiratory visions of the scene in Taxi Driver, were the untrusting FBI men rush to take a photographic document of their departing target.
I fully understand shielded safeguards but I still maintain that if someone was determined enough to breach that sanctuary, a couple of hundred yards wouldn't put them off.
My last day in the capital produced another brush with America's finest. At the National Archives, home to the original Bill of Rights, Declaration of Independence and American Constitution, all visitors were sternly instructed that no flash photography was allowed.
I kept having to re-set the flash function on my camera and with the sluggish mind created by hours of walking and eating my own body weight in melted cheese you can probably pre-empt what happened.
Moments before I had been tautly asked not to lean on its marble casing and inches in front of the sacred document of the Constitution I engineered a flash which illuminated the main chamber and orchestrated a communal gasp from the hundreds of onlookers.
With my faculties intact, and a quiet sense of foreboding, it was time for my 17 (yes, one - seven) hour coach journey south.
If I needed it, the progression to Nashville, Tennessee would give me an idea of the magnitude of this great land and the kind of distance I had yet to conquer.
So perhaps it was odd that during the short layover in Charlottesville, Virginia, that a sudden rush of excitement cruised through my body. That morning I had been stood inches from the Declaration of Independence (and tested the patience of the authorities) and didn't feel anything close to the pleasure as in that drab bus depot in the middle of nowhere.
As I surveyed the coin slot TV chairs lighting up rows of strange faces it felt as American as it comes. This seemingly mundane scene was something I'd daydreamed about for as long as I could remember.
Bleary eyed but eager with anticipation I snapped up their generous invitation for a ride, leaving Randolph at 5am for the 300 mile journey to my next hitching post.
It was overcast and stiflingly humid but Philadelphia instantly impressed me. Its modern skyline is far less imposing than the other great American cities but its cobbled streets and handsome terraces do more than enough to help captivate the history.
The birthplace of the American Revolution, Philadelphia, previously the nations capital, was probably the most important place in the modern inception of the United States and the words liberty and independence seem to crop up on signs and buildings everywhere.
That was with the exception of my hostel of course. Its 24-man dormitory and stringent rules gave it the feeling of a 19th century orphanage. And before you question this revelation I can assure you that my experience of 19th century orphanages are valid.
On the Sunday, the sun parted the coating of clouds and there was a more tolerable heat in the air. I saw the Liberty Bell, conveniently located down the street from the orphanage, before heading to the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
The steps that lead up to this impressive structure will for some hold more resonance than the building itself due to their appearance in the Rocky films.
A Rocky statue has also been placed at the foot of the steps and bus loads of fans apparently pay homage to the jabbering giant everyday, by-passing the art altogether.
A debate ran through the city when the statue was moved from south Philadelphia as to the merits of placing it outside the gallery.
For me, the two have their own, almost polar-opposite merits and once you've seen the breathtaking collection of modern and classical pieces you would agree that the art deserves pride of place.
Being on my own, with nobody to capture the silliness, I decided against jogging up the "Rocky steps" like so many of the films fans before me. Instead I just put on some swimming trunks and began pounding a frozen carcass.
My tour of the attractions continued with a documentary drama about the Declaration of Independence at the Independence Visitor Centre. At least it did until I fell asleep. When you explore a city on foot you can easily cover several miles in a day and the exhaustion, both mental and physical, will eventually defeat you every time.
Museums and galleries are the biggest culprits. After a few hours investigating the worlds treasures at a snails pace, Monet himself could be giving a guided tour of never before seen works and your eyes would still be drawn to your watch or an inviting bench.
With its astonishing boast of attractions, this was applied ten-fold in Washington D.C. There are more landmarks than New York City and with so much open space they are all showcased with prominence. My visit to the White House, or as close as I could get at least, was an unfortunate testament to that. You could have lay the Washington Monument down length ways in the space between George's front gates and the barrier restricting my further entry. Not much of a welcome after I'd just bought a fridge magnet with his face on.
As I trudged away, a police officer queried how I'd gained access to the adjacent park. My attempt to jovially quiz him on the levels of security fell on deaf ears and I had conspiratory visions of the scene in Taxi Driver, were the untrusting FBI men rush to take a photographic document of their departing target.
I fully understand shielded safeguards but I still maintain that if someone was determined enough to breach that sanctuary, a couple of hundred yards wouldn't put them off.
My last day in the capital produced another brush with America's finest. At the National Archives, home to the original Bill of Rights, Declaration of Independence and American Constitution, all visitors were sternly instructed that no flash photography was allowed.
I kept having to re-set the flash function on my camera and with the sluggish mind created by hours of walking and eating my own body weight in melted cheese you can probably pre-empt what happened.
Moments before I had been tautly asked not to lean on its marble casing and inches in front of the sacred document of the Constitution I engineered a flash which illuminated the main chamber and orchestrated a communal gasp from the hundreds of onlookers.
With my faculties intact, and a quiet sense of foreboding, it was time for my 17 (yes, one - seven) hour coach journey south.
If I needed it, the progression to Nashville, Tennessee would give me an idea of the magnitude of this great land and the kind of distance I had yet to conquer.
So perhaps it was odd that during the short layover in Charlottesville, Virginia, that a sudden rush of excitement cruised through my body. That morning I had been stood inches from the Declaration of Independence (and tested the patience of the authorities) and didn't feel anything close to the pleasure as in that drab bus depot in the middle of nowhere.
As I surveyed the coin slot TV chairs lighting up rows of strange faces it felt as American as it comes. This seemingly mundane scene was something I'd daydreamed about for as long as I could remember.
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