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.

Away from my time at the paper, where rising gas prices continued to dominate the agenda, I mostly showed the sun my full respect and took things easy. It was a delight to while away a lazy afternoon 'tubing' on the San Marcos River, enjoy the good company and keep an eye out for the exotic local wildlife – much of which could be easily located on the side of the highway. Deer and cattle roamed in numbers and critters like armadillos and Copperhead snakes lurked in the foliage. The stars may not have been as big and bright as I’d hoped but the sight of lightning electrocuting the night sky more than made up for it. You need a second take to absorb what had just flashed before you and it would usually oblige with greater fervor.

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.

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.

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.

Vermont

Although surly ticket attendants and incomprehensible announcements gave the journey an unwelcome familiarity, I suddenly felt a long way from home on my journey to Vermont.There were no cosmopolitan enclaves offering an escape to any world of my choosing. In fact there was nobody. Just vast expanses of water. And trees and trees and trees.As my week in the small town of Randolph took its course however, my pangs of uncertainty were replaced with admiration for an enviable way of life and the humbling hospitality of everyone I encountered.Platitudes are all too readily bandied about in travel guides but I feel justified in describing this part of the world as idyllic. My hosts, the editor of the local newspaper and his wife, look out onto a rich green valley and tree lined hills from their 35 acre plot, a size not uncommon in the area. Their two dogs frolicked in a beck that ran through the back garden and horses on a neighbouring field went about their business in that unhurried manner.People have back yard ponds but not as we know them. They tend to be inviting stretches of water larger than swimming pools. On one cosy evening, I craned my neck up to the sky (something I've grown accustomed to ignoring) and saw it dotted with a blanket of stars like I've never seen. Likewise, I had never before seen a shooting star but on that night I marvelled at four or five in the space of 10 minutes. Afterwards I drove past a raccoon. Perhaps to my advantage I never encountered a black bear or mountain lion, both of which are known to roam in the region. Even the larger Vermont towns which I visited had an intimate charm. They seem to have the perfect balance between twee and commercialised sprawl and there's enough to accommodate all kinds without leaving an irreversible scar on the landscape. Montpelier, by far the smallest state capitol, has a picture-book High Street of vibrant colour and interest. Burlington, the largest town in the state, also boasts views of fishing boats drifting along Lake Champlain, shadowed by the Adirondack Mountains.

Despite a seemingly simple, care-free way of life (lion attacks aren't too frequent), many in Randolph carry a sophisticated and worldly outlook that flies in the face of small town stereotypes.One bizarre phenomenon I discovered was the local fascination with the Blue Man Group. I was casually informed, as if it were like discussing dinner arrangements, that Randolph, a town with a population of under 5,000, has three members of the internationally renowned combo. Furthermore, there are another two members from nearby Barre and Montpelier. Five members of a world famous alternative entertainment collective from such a tiny part of the world. It's absolutely incredible really. There's also a spiky political engagement in Vermont. People who I met would often be keen to strike up a conversation along socio-political lines, usually about their outgoing President.Though not unanimously Democrat (voting Republican in local elections is common) this definitely appeared to be Obama country, with house signs and car stickers baring his name wherever you cared to look.During my week at the "Herald" I was afforded the opportunity to illustrate a visitors perspective on Memorial Day, a major public holiday to commemorate Americans who died in military service. It was to my surprise that the green and pleasant state of Vermont lost proportionally more servicemen than any other during the bloody civil war and the latest conflict in Iraq. Emotions still ran high over the latter.During my week however it was peaceful country living. I was introduced to a game were a patch of farm land was squared off and punters would bet on were the participating cow would take a shit. Just as unusually, I uncovered a trans-atlantic appreciation for the British comedy "Coupling", which to my knowledge had barely surfaced back home. A Boston man in a New York bar had already told me of his love of the show, which I put down as an anomaly. In Randolph, again unprompted, a fellow American expressed his surprise at the shows muted reaction in Britain. Monty Python? Not bad. The Office? So so. Little Britain? Never heard of it. Coupling? Greatest show of all time. Perhaps I was sub-consciously drawn to familiar tones but Coupling turned out to be pretty good.On my final day in Randolph I gave a radio interview with local station WDEV about my experiences, settled down with a couple of the excellent local brews and watched some Coupling.I would have an early start for my departure to my next destination, Philadelphia - were everything is made of soft cheese.