reunions.

Sometime on the Western coast of the US I got a message from Katie, the girl I met whilst in Chicago, telling me that she had booked a flight down to Philadelphia to come see me before I traversed the Atlantic back to the UK. I was taken aback by this news. Without getting too sappy about it, it was one of the nicest gestures anyone has ever made towards me. Who would have thought that the same girl who turned my head walking into a party in Chicago 6 weeks prior would be flying 300 miles to see me? I’d gone full circle, nearly all the way around America, yet somehow I was going to end it how it began in Chicago.

This was my third time in Philadelphia in the space of about 6 months. I love the city and, more importantly, I love the people and always have such an incredible time with every trip I made and I guess that was what drew me in for my final hurrah in North America. This time I got the privilege of being the tour guide as Rob and Katie had never been before. However, Philly’s typical trait of drinking to the early hours of the morning combined with the fatigue of having been travelling for 6 weeks rendered getting up and having productive days slightly hopeless. Yet, after you’ve seen the Museum of Art steps, LOVE park, the waterfront, the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall and wandered along South Street, you’ve pretty much seen Philly. Then after that you can just enjoy the company, the sun and the flowing beer.

We did make it to the Creatures of Abyss exhibition at the Academy of Natural Sciences, which was pretty awesome although we did get there really late (because we couldn’t get out of bed) and they had to kick us out in the end. Rob and I also put Katie and Kymber through the one of the worst examples of football imaginable for an outsider: England’s 0-0 draw with Algeria. I actually felt pretty guilty after that. We otherwise spent a lot of time with Kymber and Matt this time, and they were as humble hosts as any. From the vegan pizzas, to the barbeques, to owning Total Recall on DVD and to understanding and appreciating mine and Rob’s awful in-jokes; the two of them were great. Didn’t perhaps get to see the likes of Caitlin and Rachel as much I would have liked, and it was gutting to wake up too late on one day to find a missed call and a text revealing a day trip to Atlantic City that we were too late for. Dan and Nina and the rest of them were all as entertaining as ever. I’m definitely really going to miss making the trip to visit them every other month. The Megabus was definitely a bit late in introducing the $1 route straight from Toronto to Philly. I’d have been there every other week if that had been an option.

Unfortunately, the final night of the expedition was a bit of a sour one. Caitlin and Rachel held a little party at their apartment. It was all going awesome, drinking beers on the roof on a warm Friday evening in Philly, talking and watching the world of South Street go by. Then a doppelganger of Sideshow Bob went and spat fire on the roof. Damn. The police hang out a lot on South Street as it is so busy, particularly on the weekends and one of their spots is just outside Caitlin and Rachel’s apartment so it wasn’t hard for them to spot the burst of flames. They came and let themselves in (against the law) and forced us all to leave as it was some kind of fire hazard and the party was too rowdy. In reality, it was really controlled, everyone was calm and no one was particularly drunk. The policewoman who must have some kind of gender-inferiority issue in her masculine workplace decided that she needed to assert herself in the most unprofessional way possibly; by calling one of my friends a cunt because she wanted to get her bike, one a nerd because he had glasses and telling me I was looking at her like 4 year old child looks at her. If that’s the case, then her child has a lot of pent up hatred for her. Everyone was pretty upset by the whole ordeal and it further exacerbated my anger towards the way the police deal with people. The whole situation was very reminiscent of what happened in Amherst, but at least that was half-justified, there were 150 people in that house, not 20.

We ended up going back to Kymber and Matt’s but everyone was so on edge and angered by what had happened that it wasn’t quite the same. Nevertheless, we stayed up drinking until about 5am and ended up wandering around South Philly with Nina and Will as it got light, trying to find a taxi back downtown. The series of late nights would become our downfall as Katie and I then slept through the alarm that was intended to get us up to go to the airport. Panic ensued, but a couple of phone calls later and the flight was moved to later on in the day for a mere $50, which, in the end was pretty welcome. A few extra hours in bed did not go amiss, and I don’t know if I’d have enjoyed saying bye to Katie after 3 hours sleep and with a hangover crushing my skull.

The bus to New York City, after saying bye to Katie, was a pretty sad and pensive one. Spent wondering if and when I’d get to see the guys from Philly and Katie again. Rob and I didn’t talk a great deal. We then had the issue of finding out the hell we were going to get from wherever the bus dropped us off to JFK. One man on the bus just continuously talked at me, trying to explain the various different routes to go over the course of about 20 minutes, I didn’t take in any of it and it was some of the most useless help I’ve ever received. Another man noticed my blank stare at this man, and offered his help, which was much easier to comprehend. This help then turned into us going with him and him showing us where to go and helping our bags down stairs and everything. What it is to have a British accent. However, the route he suggested was via a subway line that was closed. Woe is me. To cut a long story short: I panicked a lot, Rob was pretty calm, we got there in the end but with only an hour and a half to spare. A little bit close for comfort for a transatlantic flight.

pollution, canyons and smut.

San Diego greets us in the early hours of the morning and fuck, is it hot. We were staying with Alec in the diverse North Park area of San Diego, which is just west of downtown and where lots of the University of California students live. Patrick had met Alec 3 years prior on a drunken night in Mexico City and sent him a message on the off chance that he may be able to put us up. Lo and behold, he did and what a humble person he was; very easy to talk to and a lot of fun to hang out with. He was incredibly eloquent and in our myriad discussions on various political or social matters he would put his point across accurately and effortlessly, making him such an enjoyable person to converse with. Not to mention his championing of country music that, at first, was questionable but after subjecting us to various car journeys with a country radio station blaring out we were soon relishing every opportunity to get back in the car. I was sold on country music in about half a day and it is its sheer idiocy coupled with its reluctance to be concerned with any complexities in life really brightens the day. In the same way that a cat chasing its own tail illuminates a day. God, beer and women is all these rural folk know and it’s all they need. The chorus of Billy Currington’s ‘People are Crazy’ sums the genre up rather nicely with the line ‘God is great, beer is good, but people are crazy’.

San Diego was a pretty chilled out time. Again, we saw nothing of the downtown area as we heard, on good word, that it was not worth it. Instead, we spent a lot of our time taking it slow, sitting in the sun, chewing the fat, drinking beers and playing old N64 games. We did get to try our hands at ‘frolfing’ which, for the less jargon-inclined, is the sport of Frisbee golf. Which takes the walking and accurate movement of inanimate objects of golf with the beer drinking and Frisbee throwing enjoyed at the beach. It is damn good fun, particularly when the sun has got his hat on. Obviously, we were all pretty terrible at it and it wasn’t long before the discs were going astray and eventually wedged high up a big tree. Turns out the key is not power, but technique. Who’d have thought?

One of my favourite moments of the whole trip did come in San Diego when we decided to make an impromptu trip to La Jolla at 10 in the evening to have a swim in the Pacific Ocean. Alec’s flatmate had teased of a time before that he went night swimming in the Pacific during the early summer months when the water was filled with bioluminescent algae that glowed when touched or moved vigorously. We couldn’t believe it that after telling us we then got to see this phenomenon first hand. What it translates to is crashing and rolling waves that glowed bright under the soft southern Californian stars. It was truly beautiful and like nothing I’ve ever witnessed before. When walking through the water your body glows as it comes into contact with all the algae, it is a curious sight to be able to see your limbs in the black of the ocean. You could even kick forward shuriken-esque balls of glowing algae with your feet. Even just being in the Pacific under the night sky with not another soul in ear or eye shot was an experience in itself. It was truly something.

I hate LA. Like, really hate LA. I’d heard all about it being this huge area, a collection of suburbs that somehow make up the city. A bowl of pollution that only exacerbates its own problems by making the ownership of a car being an absolute necessity to traverse the city, since the oil companies bought out the railways in twenties and tactically demolished them. My expectations were low, but with low expectations you anticipate then be succeeded by a pleasant surprise. This was not the case with the City of Angels. It is huge. Places like New York City are pretty damn big, but at least NYC is actually filled with things, filled with life and people. So much of LA is just empty and desolate. There are few pedestrians and much of it is just endless cookie-cutter housing and ugly warehouse-style buildings. Hollywood was criminally underwhelming, it just doesn’t feel special at all. It is just a couple of streets filled with tat-specialised shops, people trying to get you to go on tours to look at famous peoples’ houses and then a theatre that has a pretty big reputation in the film industry. Yet, that theatre is so unassuming that we walked past it without spotting it. Venice Beach is quite cool, I guess. But it is mostly just a glorified Camden market where the canal is replaced by the Pacific Ocean. The innumerable shops that sell t-shirts adorned with such classic lines as “I love sushi” alongside an image of stickman going down on a stickwoman. There is a pleasant atmosphere of weird and wonderful people among the throngs along Venice Beach and it is a beautiful beach. Yet the water is so clearly polluted that I feel that I would get gastroenteritis just gazing at it. Furthermore, if you walk literally one block in from Venice Beach you are in a dreary suburb devoid of any life. This makes LA seem so diluted.

I will freely admit that it would be possible to have a good time in LA. I mean, if we had a car we’d have got around a lot quicker and had seen a lot more of the city. If we had not been staying in Koreatown and instead in a hipper neighbourhood then I’m sure we’d have found cool bars to drink in and met interesting people. Even if we had planned a little more what to do we may have had a better time. The fact of the matter is, we couldn’t afford to rent a car, or stay somewhere cooler and by that admission LA is not a place for someone on a budget. It would have been ideal to have got a Couchsurf in LA, as we were like lost souls, meandering around, not really knowing where the hell we were going. Some sound advice would not have gone amiss.

I did, however, like the Santa Barbara area of LA, it seemed a little more pleasant than other areas of LA. Only we did not stay there long as we had a long walk ahead of us to Venice Beach. And despite the location of our hotel, it had buckets of character. The hotel clearly used to be a very high-end hotel decades ago, got abandoned, fell into a state of disrepair, got bought, got done up to a passable standard and then re-opened as a budget hotel. The lobby was of epic proportions, a huge, high ceiling, an old drained fountain, large staircases and large double doors. The walls were adorned with oriental artwork to cement its place in Koreatown. The kitchen that those staying in the hotel use is the old restaurant kitchen, and we ended up cooking small pasta meals in vat-like pans, whilst water leaked on our heads from above. This place just brought a smile to my face. There was none of the fear associated with our hotel in Frisco, instead replaced with quirks that made it unique. The smoking area of the hotel was the roof, accompanied by deck chairs. In any hotel conscious of health and safety there would be a locked and twice bolted door at the peak of the hotel’s staircase. Not a door wedged wide open. This reluctance to abide any of that bullshit was a, literal, breath of fresh (polluted) air. Some of my favourite times in LA were sitting up on that roof, drinking beers, smoking cigarettes and talking to the early hours with the glowing lights of the city illuminating our peripherals.

Las Vegas would be the last place we all remained together as a four; the ramblin’ boys of pleasure. The sin city seemed like a good a place as any for a swan song. After our stint in Vegas, Patrick would head to Baltimore, Rich back to blighty and Rob and I to Philadelphia. Vegas was another city that I had little expectation for. My penchant for the vices in life tends to stop at alcohol (ending right before gambling and prostitution). So whilst the fact that it was legal to drink in the streets in the city (illegal everywhere else in the States), this was one of the few details that grabbed my attention. What I was expecting was a crass city, full of crass people. And these expectations were met, the unexpected factor was that I loved it. Vegas is like nowhere else, the city does not stop. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week the slots in the casinos are whirring, the drinks are flowing and the lights are flashing. It is such a ridiculous place that you have to just take a step back and admire it; a city in the absolute middle of nowhere, surrounded by fucking desert, that is completely unsustainable yet money courses through the blood in its veins, people flock there by the million every year and new, bigger and better casinos and hotels spring up like clockwork year in year out. There is nothing else to it.

There is enough entertainment in Vegas to just wander around all day without spending a buck. The myriad free shows such as the famous Bellagio water fountains and the smut-ridden Treasure Island battle between two ships. The former is simply a very impressive display of water fountains being used to match up to music. Whereas the latter is a selection of “enhanced” women dancing around to shit music to a backdrop of balls of fire and explosions. There is some vague narrative that provides some justification to the antics, but that’s mostly just an elaborate equivalent of a plumber coming round to fix the sink. It’s all very laughable, yet entertaining. The hotels themselves are worth visiting to admire their audacious design, from the hollow pyramid of the Luxor to the sheer towering stature of the Stratosphere to the roller coaster that writhes in and around New York, New York. You get the impression that one-upmanship is the name of the game in Vegas.

One particular treat of Las Vegas is the “whilst you gamble you drink for nothing” rule. It’s like having a waiter at a free bar, allowed me to indulge in white Russians every day. Gambling very, very slowly is one way of going about milking this rule of Vegas. The other way is to take $20, head to the bar, put said dollars into the bar-top gambling machine, flick about on the menu between various games and help menus until the barkeep brings you your free drink, cash out with the $20 and leave with a smug smile of victory on your face.

One of our greatest and most productive days of the whole trip fell during our time in Vegas. We hired a Dodge Charger and Rich alone drove for 12 hours, covering around 600 miles and crossing into four different states. On this route we fired a selection of firearms with porn stars for company, admired man’s domination of nature at the Hoover Dam and then witnessed nature’s comeback by indicating man’s insignificance as we were but a speck of dust gaping into the mystifying Grand Canyon. It was quite the day. We decided to go to the North Rim of the Canyon, rather than the tourist-infested South Rim that has over 5 million visitors every year. What we didn’t quite expect was how much further the North Rim would be. It’s at a much higher altitude that meant that the temperatures were quite cool, despite being in the desert, and we witnessed a ferocious rain storm, which was not what we expected. The extra few miles were, without a doubt, worth it. The location we got to was empty, not another soul around, so we had a much more natural encounter with the Grand Canyon, without the need for any huge, steel construction jutting into the canyon like an unsightly nail to enhance our experience. It was truly breathtaking. I’ve never seen something so endlessly vast in my life.

From Vegas we said our emotional goodbyes after spending the best part of 7 weeks sleeping in the same room as each other and went on our ways.

misty emeralds.

In Seattle we stayed with the prolific Couchsurfer Eric on Capitol Hill. He was undoubtedly one of the most fascinating and gracious persons met during our trip, and even beyond that. Despite hosting over 700 people over the course of five or six years in his apartment in Seattle he has a desire to get to know every single person that comes to sleep on his floor. When speaking to Eric, it seemed that Couchsurfing was more than a fad, more than a hobby, but rather a way of life. He seemed to thrive on these fleeting encounters. During the summer months there would be seldom a night that there wasn’t someone from some corner of the earth residing on his carpet. To give an example, for the duration of our stay in his three-room apartment, the floor was shared with four guys from Arkansas and as well as a guy from Portland, Oregon. What took us by surprise was quite how much he wanted to get to know us; it was almost an expectation on his behalf. As if that by providing someone with shelter for a night, all he asked for in exchange was to share your life and stories with him. This creates a very comfortable and warm environment and one of my favourite Couchsurfing experiences.

As for Seattle itself, it is a pretty cool place. Capitol Hill, where we stayed, is the liberal, bohemian neighbourhood of Seattle with more hip dive bars, restaurants and coffee shops that you can shake a fixed-gear bike at. Seattle is perhaps most famous for its ridiculous Space Needle that dominates the city’s skyline. At first, it only seems like an eyesore, but grows on you like irksome, yet endearing, mole. Its Jetsons-esque facade harkens back to a retro 1950s sci-fi aesthetic that seems so out of place among the skyscrapers of a modern major city, yet this is where the structure garners its appeal. The architectural freak of Seattle. There are some really intriguing examples of public art in and around Seattle, including a troll under the bridge in the Fremont neighbourhood, inspired by the Three Billy Goats Gruff fairy tale as well as a old communist statue of Lenin shipped over from Slovakia at the collapse of the Soviet Union. We found that there wasn’t a huge amount to see in the downtown area, like many American cities it was largely just businesses. Although we did manage to spend a whole afternoon in the EMP (Experience Music Project) where I learnt, one, to play my first song on guitar, Louie Louie; a box ticked in my life. Although that talent has since left my memory, which pains me greatly. And two, that Seattle resents the grunge movement. The Pike Place Market was a really quaint, old-fashioned market that I knew I wouldn’t be able fully appreciate without a little bit money to spend on all the awesome stuff within, but that’s a running theme throughout. Oh, and as all four of us are martial arts fanatics, we took the opportunity to take a hike in the rain to Bruce Lee’s gravestone, take a photo of us performing some variety of karate stance in an entirely respectful and good-natured manner before abruptly leaving and feeling really good about ourselves.

Our next stop was Vancouver, Washington, a suburb just over the bridge from Portland, Oregon where we were taking it easy by spending a low-key night with my relatives. Did our washing, got fully-fed and, after being pie’d by one Couchsurf, headed into Portland where we managed to find a last minute place to stay with Couchsurfer Alyssa and her friends. Portland is a city of beers, bikes and bridges. The fervent subculture of liberal types and lefty punks means there’s a variety of establishments to cater for these sorts, in particular the Microcosm Publishing shop was worth a visit and I picked up a plethora of zines to peruse on the Greyhound. While we fully intended to sample its wide breadth of microbrew options, funds once again saw us clambering for Pabst Blue Ribbon and Four Loko. However, the formula of PBR and Four Loko didn’t calculate a very successful night for yours truly. Four Loko did as its want, and caused me some kind of complete blackout that meant that I don’t recall anything of a trip to a nightclub and spent much of my time, supposedly, either sleeping in there, being fed water by our Couchsurf hosts and otherwise being a drunken, embarrassing mess. Great first impressions, eh? They didn’t seem to mind at all though, and in all were very good to us and enjoyed our company, despite their mild-mannered sensibilities that come across as slightly awkward. Our time in Portland was really short, a mere day and a half. The main tourist-style activity we did was visit the Shanghai Tunnels. What we thought we were in store for was a tour around the underground tunnels of Portland that were used to imprison drunken men in bars where they were kept until they were forced aboard ships to work out of the port. Whilst this even happening sound pretty ludicrous, and even more so when it has happened in the last 150 years it does seem to be true. The tour, however, was a joke. The "tunnels" was the cellar of a restaurant that had a makeshift prison cell installed and various items that alluded to Shanghaing. But everything the tour guide said seemed to allude to some kind of ridiculous ghost story and minimal historical insight. Bit of a shame really as it is a very interesting subject.

The next voyage was the most epic of all; 20 hours from Portland all the way to the Golden Gates of San Francisco with a brief stop in Sacramento, CA (where we were hoping to catch a glimpse of Governor Schwarzenegger, but all we found was a very hot, desolate and largely unappealing Californian state capital). I think I fell in love with the Frisco the moment my eyes fell on the white city and its expansive bay from the hills of Oakland. The relief of the city coupled with the offshore winds brought in by the rising, hot Californian air constructs the eerie fog that coats much of western San Francisco, and giving the city its unique and striking image. The city’s geography as part of the San Francisco Bay Area defines and, most importantly, restricts the expanse of its urban planning, creating a dense, fascinating and natural-feeling city. I've never been to a city where the hills are so steep that some require stairs to walk up.

Yet, before staying in San Francisco proper we had two nights in the college town of Berkeley, which is located on the other side of the Bay, with Patrick’s friend, Dani, who studied abroad at the University of Leeds. Whilst in Berkeley we mostly hung out with Dani’s boyfriend Mike, as she had to work during the day. He took us up the foothills of Berkeley, which provided not only some stern hikes but also some truly spectacular views out over the Bay and down onto Frisco itself. We sampled the Californian delicacy of In N Out Burger, which is an ethically run burger joint in the south-west most famous for its secret menu where the seasoned customers find their favourites eats. You used to be able to order a burger with any number of burger patties or slices of cheese in the form of, for example, 8 x 8 (8 burger patties and 8 cheese slices). After someone ordered a 100 x 100 they decided to save the structural integrity of their burgers by limiting it to a 4 x 4, which is still ridiculous. I was, however, constrained to the secret grilled cheese burger and the secret animal fries. We ventured to a batting cage and hit a few baseballs, which made me feel more American than ever as well as inspiring me to become a designated hitter in the MLB. Stranger things have happened. I’d probably need to start taking more drugs and get fat though. Whilst in Berkeley the punk tourist in me saw a good opportunity to visit 924 Gilman. Sadly, we couldn’t go inside, so after snapping the obligatory photo we moved on. Mike also took the opportunity to introduce us to the rather intriguing Barcardi 151-proof rum, which chimes in at a resounding 70.5% alcoholic content. That not being enough, we then went on to set the stuff on the fire and inhale the vapours. Needless to say, three of us had to pray to the porcelain Gods and one of us burnt the inside of their nose.

The Europa Hotel in downtown Frisco was the next place we were resting our heads for a couple of nights. This hotel, located between Telegraph Hill and North Beach was hands down the most terrifying place I have ever had the pleasure of entering. Nestled between Taqueria Z and Little Darlings, the one of many nearby strip clubs that endlessly tried to hustle us inside, we found the Europa Hotel. Rather than functioning as a hotel for weary travellers, it seemed to be a temporary form of residence for the drug-addicted, vice-ridden scum of the city. At $200 a week it is a rather cheap form of accommodation for a downtown location and, as such, did not attract the most savoury of types. As we entered, an old man shouted at us to ‘GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY’ whilst we stood nervously at reception, the receptionist attempted to calm us by simply saying ‘don’t mind him’. Following him down the stairs came the most stereotypically dressed ‘pimp’ one could imagine. With a forced smile and wavering gusto we soldiered on to our room, fearful of any other patron we came across. The room itself was absolutely fine, it was certainly no Ritz but for $15 each a night it had what we needed: twin beds and a sink. At this point, our spirits were buoyed once again. As long as we kept our encounters with the rest of the hotel to a minimum we would be fine. Then we were brought crushing down in an instant. Back down to fear, back to anxiety and a relentless desire to escape that hotel. In the room adjacent to us we heard, clear as day, the sound of a man screaming. In a furious yell he gargled out ‘ARRRGGGHHHHH’ followed by ‘fuck’, a hellish baritone who wasn’t in the best of moods. After getting stunned into a terrified silence by what we heard, fifteen seconds later we hear it again. ARRRGGGHHHHHH FUCK. From the first night this did not stop, he was doing it at 10pm before we went to a bar, 3am when we returned from the bar and then again at 9am, waking us up. Our instant, worst case scenario response was to think it was a really violent sexual encounter, possibly rape. As it went on and on and on we figured it might have been a man going cold turkey or suffering from Tourettes. Regardless, it did not make the best soundtrack to our stay. The experience in this hotel we just had to see as character building, you could not get much worse, and at least I now know that in the future it will take a lot from a hotel to put me off.

There’s a hell of a lot to do in Frisco, not quite on the levels of NYC, but we tried to cram as much in within the time we had. The main tourist activity we wanted to do was visit Alcatraz, which was completely worth it. As much as it was frustrating not to have the complete freedom to explore the island, the amount open to the public was more than I had expected and the audio tour was engaging and well executed, allowing you to wander round by yourself and at your own pace. You get the feel for how the prison teased its inmates by being so close to humanity with the bright lights of Frisco only a mile away, yet having them so isolated and exposed to the tough elements of the bay with no hope of escape. The views back towards the city are quite something and you could imagine what a taunt this would be for those inside. Particularly intriguing was the information on the Native Indian seizure of the island during the late 1960s, which I had no idea even occurred. Their messages for equality for Native Americans still remain on the walls of the complex, making you feel like you’re standing within an important modern historical site, or even on a set of a film in some cases (ahem, Michael Bay’s The Rock). The abundance of obnoxious tourists does drag the experience down, but that was an inevitability. It was also rather satisfying recognising locations from the Alcatraz level on Tony Hawk’s 4, bringing me back to my misspent mid-teens.

We catched the third baseball game of our journey in Frisco, watching the San Francisco Giants against the Colorado Rockies. Probably the coldest sports event I’ve ever been to, and this is amidst a Californian summer, a testament to Frisco’s distinctive climate. The game was particularly entertaining as we got to see the Panda work his magic, the Giants’ 17 stone, 5’11” hitter. I just don’t understand why he doesn’t just lose weight?! It baffles me. California is also pretty famous for its burritos, so in the name of the “best veggie burrito in San Francisco” we walked for about an hour to the Mission neighbourhood and, to be fair, the burrito was amazing. The area itself is the traditionally Hispanic district of San Francisco but, as in many American cities, the young, white people moved in, initiating gentrification, raising housing and rent costs and driving out those families that have lived there for so long. Although the area does keep much of its Latin character and many Hispanic people migrate to the area from neighbourhoods further out.

One thing I did notice about San Francisco was its plethora of homeless people, and it was on this walk to and from the Mission when it became even more apparent. There was more than I’d ever seen in a city before (yes, more than Vancouver) and when you see it first hand it really opens your eyes to the gap between the rich and the poor, and much more importantly the gap between the welfare of white Americans and black Americans. The homeless in San Francisco, and in many urban centres that we saw in the States, were almost entirely black and it is sickening to witness. It seems as if much of the American black population is stuck in a downward spiral of poverty that is so difficult to break. I’d go into it in more depth, but I feel that it is a tangent for another day.

Whilst in Frisco we had the opportunity to meet up with three of our friends from back in Canada: Connie, Emma and Holly. They were staying ludicrously close to our hotel and it was great to see fellow travellers that we had not seen for a month, share stories over a drink or two or three. Their hostel provided us with somewhere a little more comfortable and safe to hang out too, in comparison to the Europa. We engaged in some more traditional tourists activities as we went on a bike ride over the Golden Gate Bridge. Just our luck, however, that the infamous Frisco mist shrouded the bridge in a thick cloak, restricting our views of and from the bridge. The ride itself was enjoyable, not quite as extensive as our Vancouver ride but it’s always fun to bomb around a city you don’t know on two wheels. It was frustrating that our money restrictions created time restrictions on how long we could use the bikes, so as soon as we crossed the bridge we had to come straight back to avoid extra charges. We would have liked to have made it as far Sausalito. I hear there’s lots of Italians there in Sausalito.

Our leaving of San Francisco was fraught with textbook panicking. The way we had worked it out was that our last journey on our Greyhound Discovery Pass would be from San Francisco to San Diego. We planned to catch the last bus leaving on the last day of our pass to San Diego, skipping out LA, then going back to LA after San Diego with separate bus tickets. The idea was that we would travel the furthest we could whilst it was “free”, then pay for the shorter journeys from San Diego to LA and then from LA to Vegas. What we hadn’t considered was that Discovery Pass may literally finish at midnight on the last day it was valid, we assumed that as long as we had the ticket issued before midnight then it would be fine. How wrong we were, and after a couple of phone calls to Greyhound we realised we had to leave Frisco right then, in order to get to San Diego before midnight. However, we thought we’d give it a try and book a place on the last bus of the day, to see if there was some inconsistencies in Greyhound policy. We were in luck. The woman at Frisco bus terminal put all our details in, looked confused at her monitor as the transaction was rejected, then assumedly altered the dates that she entered for the passes to make the transaction viable. She then handed us four overnight tickets to San Diego, but not before giving us a huge discount on luggage storage during the day. Somehow money karma was behind us on that Frisco afternoon. We gleefully left the station feeling like we had stuck one to the Greyhound corporate machine and earned ourselves another full day in the city. Bonza.

we are not tourists, we are travellers.

In typical fashion, this blog fell by the wayside whilst I was travelling. My original endeavour to keep it up-to-date whilst on the road soon became unrealistic as our days were typically full of walking, exploring and otherwise getting to know those that took residence in our lives for such a brief time. Not to mention how the inherent lack of sleep laid waste to my ability to speak (whereby saying ‘fucking’ bridged those brief moments when the brain skipped a beat mid-sentence, it transcended any definition to become a punctuation mark in a sentence, an ellipsis). You can probably understand when I say that formulating sentences worth reading was no walk in the park. So, here I am. 54 days and counting I’ve been residing at Hope Street, wasting my days between sessions on Football Manager and episodes of South Park and I figure it’s about time to finish this off.

After hitting the ground running, drink-wise, in the States we were forced to go back to the appallingly expensive Canadian beer, which led to our alcohol intake becoming more casual and conservative. $6 pints, plus tip, translates to about £4 a pop, which I wouldn’t even consider to pay back in England and feels particularly painful after paying $2-3 in the States. Yet, it was pleasant to be back with the slightly more familiar context of Canada and, on the whole, more friendly population of Canadians.

Winnipeg and Regina’s reputation as boring prairie towns precedes them and I think if the weather hadn’t been blue skies and roasting temperatures, my opinion of the cities would probably be similar. Luckily, the weather was great so we spent our time walking around in the sun, sitting in parks and getting eaten by mosquitoes. In Winnipeg we couchsurfed for two nights with Allan, an experienced couchsurfer and part-time stuntman. He showed us the ropes around Winnipeg but he was certainly one of the less friendly and less involved of the people we stayed with. By no means was he unfriendly, but there were times when we didn’t feel as welcome. For example, when we were just resting in his house he wouldn’t hang around with us and get to know us, instead being in his room or visiting his girlfriend. The fact that Allan was an experienced Couchsurfer, particularly in reference to hosting, may have meant that he prefers to leave people to their own devices or doesn’t get to know people as well because they are such temporary acquaintances. Regardless, it was a slight shame. Curiously, his Couchsurf profile said that he was 26 years old, but when we asked him he told us he was 31 and he had intentionally made his age lower on his profile. This peculiar behavior was further underlined by his championing of conspiracy theories, which he got rather passionate about after a few drinks.

In our exploration of Winnipeg we marveled at the legislative building, which was built around 100 years ago and marks the capital of Manitoba. It was particularly impressive in its grandiose French renaissance style and Allan was, unsurprisingly, able to explain all the conspiracy theories about secret Illuminati messages in the building and meanings behind how certain positions create certain echoes. The downtown area was a bit nicer than I had expected, and the local by-law that requires there to be car parks everywhere makes it quite an individual and sparse city centre. And as one of the oldest cities in Canada, there is some really impressive architecture. We also went to watch a northern league baseball game with the Winnipeg Goldeyes against the Fargo-Moorhead RedHawks. The game was pretty shoddy with the only exciting event happening in the final innings, most of the time was spent laughing at various things around the ground, including ‘Dancing Gabe’ (a man who wanders the stands dancing with headphones), and despairing at how baseball players can be so fat and still be regarded as athletes. The highlight was my moment of fame as I attempt to catch a foul ball that came in my direction. Obviously, my hand-eye coordination was affected by the required level of baseball inebriation, therefore, the ball just smashed into my wrist, instantaneously developing into a bulbous, colourful bruise. The medical staff came running over to make sure that I was okay, dished me out a bag of ice and two free slushies as some kind of ‘please don’t sue us’ blackmail. My only real worry was whether I got to keep the ball. I thankfully did - a lovely Winnipeg souvenir.

The legislative building.

Another overnight bus and we found ourselves in sunny Regina, the provincial capital of Saskatchewan, being met by the Nathan who picked us up from the Greyhound station at ridiculous ‘o’ clock. Again, the expectations for Regina were very low, I hadn’t heard anything positive about the place, and we were only really making the visit as it was a logical stopping point between Winnipeg and Calgary. Our time ended up being defined by the generous hospitality offered by our host. He pretty much gave us a daily agenda for the time we were in his city, which helped our usual lack of indecision, and he provided the most comfy night’s sleep of the whole trip, mostly because I was in the basement and wasn’t woken up when the sun came up, which was the typical fare whilst travelling.

The first day we took a trip to the RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police – Mounties) museum where we got a rather biased history of the RCMP and how, in their origins, they always had the welfare of the First Nations people in mind; a very selective history. It gave us the opportunity to dress up as Mounties, watch RCMP students run around to earn their boots (walking is prohibited for the newest arrivals) and witness an RCMP march. The second day we spent wandering around Wascana Centre, one of the biggest urban parks in North America, getting eaten alive by mosquitoes and catching a few rays in the process. We also utilised the chance to see another legislature building, given that Regina is the province capital, which was very impressive, but ultimately very similar to the one in Winnipeg. After a few beers, some pizza and an evening playing the FIFA World Cup 2010 game, we went on our way to Calgary.

Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

Our stay in Calgary was unfortunately brief, due to the desire to make the most of our time in Banff the following couple of days. We stayed with our first non-Couchsurfer, Chelsea, a friend of my friend back in Hamilton, Sean. She lived way out in the southern suburbs of Calgary in a very large family home and, like those before, looked after us exceptionally well with all kinds of crepes and rides. Getting the chance to ride in the back of a pick-up truck was certainly a North American treat. Being so far out of downtown meant we didn’t see a huge amount of the city, although we got a chance to walk around a very large, suburban park and have a night out at a bar downtown called Broken City. The only great downside to our time in Calgary (and I hope Chelsea doesn’t mind me saying) was the utter hostility we were met with by Chelsea’s dad’s wife. The whole time we were there she refused to acknowledge us or talk to us, only showing signs of discontent that we were there. Even when we thanked her for having us, her response was to roll her eyes. It made us feel very uncomfortable about being in the house when Chelsea was at work and the situation was particularly confusing given how stoked her dad was to have us stay. Her opinion seemed to be made before she had even met us and she was completely unwilling to give us a chance. Strangely, it was also in Calgary that Bob’s camera went missing, calling premature time on the fantastic ‘Bobby’s Blog’ video blog, and we have a sneaking suspicion who got their mits on it…

Hangin' out in the park.

Hangin' out in the back of a pick-up.

Banff provided one of the most unique experiences of our trans-North America voyage as we had a fantastic opportunity to go deep into a national park and stay in a location with a beautiful backdrop of snow-covered mountain peaks and thick forests, whilst at night there were more stars in the sky than I had thought possible. All this just 2 hours from Calgary. It was like absolutely nothing I have ever witnessed before. The photos below do much more justice than my words, anyway. Couchsurfers are not exactly commonplace in Banff, perhaps due to the transient nature of the town’s population, so we had the luxury of a hotel for two nights. This meant twin double beds, a balcony, a TV, free coffee and a hot tub. What it was to see travelling from the other side. The side that isn’t eating only one meal a day in order to afford to drink a few extra pints of the cheapest beer in the cheapest bar later that night. We had the pleasure in Banff of bumping into our friend, Lauren, from university back home and her friends from studying abroad in Kingston, ON. So we had a group of like-minded British people to hang out with for a couple of days and it was a welcome change to the dynamic. We walked a torturous 5km up Sulphur Mountain together and shared a rather intoxicated night out that, like so many others before it, entered the cognitive abyss that is my drunken memory. From what I can gather, it mostly involved dire music and being surrounded by Australians. The views atop Sulphur Mountain were outstanding, completely justifying the hike, and we even manage to hitch a free ride down on the cable car. One particularly sour note of this trek was, with a slightly sick feeling in my stomach and a despairing sigh, discovering a Starbucks at the foot of the mountain. It is inevitable really. Sulphur Mountain is a tourist attraction, and where there is people there will be a Starbucks.

The bus ride from Banff to Vancouver was an impressive 16 hours from 1 in the morning to 5 in the afternoon the next day. Yet, having said that it was one of the more enjoyable journeys as the bus weaved around the mountains in the Rockies, certainly a little more interesting than those darned prairies. During our time in Vancouver we were residing in a huge house on the mansion-ridden hills of West Vancouver with Bob’s nan’s cousin, I think. Either way, they were a British fifty-something couple with plenty of good tea bags, comfortable places to sleep and a desire to fill us with as much food and beer as they could. They even went to extra lengths to accommodate me as a vegetarian. Bob hadn’t told them before my arrival that I didn’t eat meat and when we arrived in the early evening we discovered that they had a barbeque all fired up and ready to go. We let them know the bad news and a few phone calls later and their son’s wife brought around myriad veggie burgers. Then on another night they bought in some tofu to cook me an awesome pasta dish. The whole situation was so homely; it was like we were in Vancouver during the day and then went back to Britain in the evening. They even lived in the 'British Properties', which were owned by the Guinness family originally and they stipulated that the roads must not be straight. Oh, what it is to be British.

Vancouver itself did its best to fulfill its stereotypes by the heavens raining down all they could. It was so unpredictable though, in the space of half an hour you could go from beautiful sunny weather to torrential downpours. From the garden of the house we were staying in on West Vancouver, one should be able to clearly see downtown Vancouver, but on many occasions there’s not a chance of that as the clouds and rain cover the city like a blanket. Without letting the weather get us down, we walked, we walked and we cycled. The cycle ride in particular was long, oh so very long, but the feeling of racing down a hill on a main road back into downtown Vancouver from the University of British Columbia was quite the thrill. I’ve never really ridden a bike around such a busy city centre before and that was quite a daunting feat, I really got to experience the obnoxious wrath of Canadian motorists too. Vancouver really is a beautiful city with stunning surroundings, lots of recreational areas and plenty of intriguing architecture and public art, but you do get the impression a lot of it has come from the invigoration drive from the recent Winter Olympics. Regardless, it makes Toronto look like a lifeless, grey, concrete jungle in comparison.

Following our stay in Vancouver we made the ferry trip across to Vancouver Island where we were aiming to get to the city of Victoria, the provincial capital of British Columbia, mostly on the recommendation of our friend Emma. However, after the spectacular ferry across where we had tremendous weather and great views of the rugged coastline around Vancouver, we did our first fuck-up of the trip; we missed the last bus from Nanaimo (where the ferry landed) to Victoria. This wasn’t the most ideal situation as we had a Couchsurf lined up in Victoria and now had to pay for accommodation in a hostel. Nanaimo might have been one of the most depressing places that we found ourselves in whilst travelling. The streets were devoid of life, there were numerous old looking, grotty hotels with peeling paint on the walls and the whole place just reeked of ‘second home’. Thankfully, the stay was short and we headed off the next morning to Victoria with our heads held high, despite the first minor blip on the trip.

The ferry over to the island.

Yet, by the time we left Victoria all four of us had agreed that the excursion was not worth it, especially considering the fact that it cost us extra in regards to the ferry. In short, we should have stayed in Vancouver. With Victoria we were expecting a city that is more ‘British than Britain’. What we got was a city the same as any other Canadian city, with no discernible British characteristics. Not that we wanted to see a particularly British city in Canada, it was just that it was so bland and mostly like any other Canadian city, but a lot smaller with a lot less going on. The highlight was our exploration around the University of Victoria’s campus. A while back some rabbits escaped onto the campus and rabbits just being rabbits meant that these few that escaped quickly multiplied and now there is an epidemic of a rabbit infestation on the grounds. We expected a few extra rabbits knocking around, as it is a big campus after all, but there were literally hundreds and hundreds. In a given field there may be fifty in view. So our entertainment for an hour or so was to run around trying to catch rabbits, naturally. But that’s as hard as it looks, so we inevitably failed.

The protesters.

The bunnies.

The context of who we stayed with didn’t really help our cause to have a good time in Victoria. We Couchsurfed with a guy called Troy who puts on all the hardcore shows in the city. He was a nice guy but didn’t have a whole lot to say as he seemed very shy and again, like Allan, didn’t have much interest in doing what we were doing. Often in these situations the wonderful medium of alcohol is introduced to make every a little more lucid and sociable, sadly this isn’t possible with straight edge people. Even though we had the mutual bond of hardcore punk music, it didn’t really seem to help the proceedings. We were only with Troy for one night, but we were quite happy to leave Victoria for Seattle as we returned to the States.

from one lake to 10,000 lakes to infinite prairies.

From the Ontarian lake to Minnesota’s 10,000 lakes, to the eternal vastness of prairies. The sun is shining, and that is currently making the otherwise lacklustre cities of this mostly barren area of North America somewhat enjoyable.

The three days spent at Jordan’s lake in Fenelon Falls, Ontario was some good clean, chilled out fun. It was particularly exciting given that I hadn’t expected the cottage to be as picturesque and homely as it was, located on a beautiful lake with row boats, rocking chairs and more nautical paraphernalia than you could shake a stick at. Time was spent mostly eating, in all honesty. The day we arrived we had a massive BBQ and it didn’t really let up until we left. I’m surprised I didn’t leave the cottage with a dose of diabetes. On the second day we engaged in the fabulous past-time of all-day drinking, which obviously was going to involve some kind of dip in the lake that resulted in temperatures so cold I developed a headache and Rob couldn’t feel his feet for 15 minutes post-dip. It was definitely worth the pain just to run along the jetty and bomb in, mind. The whole trip out to the lake just felt like a big family trip with all eight of us just cooking, drinking, talking and playing board games for a few days. I even learnt how to play chess.

On the Thursday morning we were forced to wake up at an un-Godly 6.30am to head back to Toronto for our bus to Chicago and the beginning of our 30 days of the Discovery Pass. This journey was absolutely awful and left me dreading each subsequent journey. All the way to Detroit the journey was all well and fine, then we had to change to a new bus in Detroit where we were the last to get on, leaving me sitting next to a really fat man who took up half of my seat along with the whole of his and as I sat down he made absolutely no effort to make any room for me. Then even before we left the station in Detroit he began snoring, and it didn’t let up for 5 and a half hours when we arrived in Chicago. I don’t think I’ve ever hated someone so much who had not even uttered a sentence to me. It was all worth it though, as Chicago was an absolutely brilliant time. My experience there was largely defined by meeting a girl called Katie, although the other Couchsurfers were all so friendly and accommodating, determined to make our time in Chicago an enjoyable one. They showed us around the city, fed us cinnamon buns and on first night they threw a 21^st birthday party for their friend. And they could sure keep up with us, drink-wise. It was really enjoyable to see the city from a different perspective based upon the social aspects of meeting people that live there, which is something I will probably be able to say for every city we stop in. They even took us up to the top of the Hard Rock Hotel where we tried to make it to the roof, but to no avail. Nevertheless, the views from up there were fantastic. Katie and I had the pleasure of getting to see Grown Ups on their home turf in a second story warehouse west of the city in a very dodgy end of town, which got me further upset about the lack of similar DIY spaces in England. Castevet made an unexpected, yet highly appreciated guest appearance and Grown Ups were mostly too drunk to impress, but enjoyable nonetheless. The journey home consisted of us missing our last train and have the taxi driver (who took about an hour to come) striking the fear of God into us by telling us how dangerous the area was and that we shouldn’t have been there. He said he only took the call when he saw the surname as Slovick then proceeded to tell us about various murders in the news or among his friends. I'm kind of glad I didn't know all this when I was waiting around a in a fairly quiet but stricken neighbourhood at 1.30am.

Rob’s 21^st birthday fell upon the Monday we were in Chicago, which resulted in a rather drunk trip to see the Cubs at the Wrigley Field. We concentrated more on actually getting drunk than getting to the game on time. So I think we arrived around the 5^th or 6^th innings and by that time I was inebriated enough to pay very little attention to what was going on in the baseball. I’d hate to be sober watching baseball though. Wrigley Field is one of the oldest grounds in the MLB (after Fenway Park), so it was cool to tick a box and see an old ball park. Particularly entertaining was attempting to initiate baseball chants in football style, it didn’t really work but we got to be obnoxious for fifteen minutes and one guy even had the audacity to tell us it wasn’t football. Cheers, mate. Post-game festivities dissolved into a booze cruise, as expected, and running around Little Italy in the rain desperately trying to find the home of the couchsurfers.

The couchsurfers (minus Rich and missing Sheri): Michael, Meghan, Brett and Katie.

The door that blocked us from getting to the roof of the Hard Rock Hotel.

The famous Chicago deep dish pizza - incredible.

Following Bobby’s birthday celebrations and with slight forlorn we boarded the all-night bus to Minneapolis. This bus wasn’t as bad as the bus from Detroit to Chicago but it was, nevertheless, striving to showcase the dregs of society. For the first couple of hours I had the fortune of sitting next to some agitated man in a Stetson hat, covered in shit tattoos and chewing on tobacco. Fortunately, as we stopped in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and as he boasted about how he had the opportunity to go smoke a ‘doobie’ but that it was fine, because he had a medicinal licence. Thankfully, I got to move and place myself next to the more acceptable Bobby Mayne and the rest of the journey went smoothly but typically sleeplessly. I’ve found myself get used to the fact that sleeping on a coach is never really sleep, it’s just being too tired to keep your eyes open but too aware of everything and uncomfortable to be able to actually sleep, so time kind of goes quickly but you’re still absolutely shattered come 7am when you have to disembark.

Our arrival in the Twin Cities was met with an interesting taxi ride by some fifty-something man with a mullet who claimed to be a founding member of The Replacements. Allegedly, he was the member of the band that was replaced, leading to coining of the band name. Whether this was true or not, I don’t know. But he claimed to have secret tapes of The Replacements recordings that he was going to make a whole bunch of money from, comparing it to Jimi Hendrix’s secret tapes, or something. At 7am it was all a bit much to comprehend, and it turns out I’m not very good at answering the question ‘who’s the best rock’n’roll band coming out of Great Britain currently?’. We were pretty happy to arrive at our destination and find our second host, Dom, sitting on his stoop, having not gone to bed, ready to welcome us in. The hospitality continued as it began as Dom threw a feast with beer and ribs (gnocchi for the veggies), giving us a chance to meet a bunch of his friends, as well as his mum and sister. Following that, the four of us and Dom took a trip to see Murder by Death at the Triple Rock Social Club, which is owned by the guys in Dillinger Four. The following day was a trip to the Mall of America, the United States’ biggest shopping centre. Obviously it was ridiculous and contained such novelties as a theme park, aquarium and a house of mirrors. And perhaps even more predictably, we had absolutely no expendable income to buy any crap, so we just walked around and laughed obnoxiously at stupid ‘as seen on TV’ items and shops that seem to simply tailor their marketing unashamedly towards red necks. That night we went to a venue called Nomad to watch Dom’s band, Hardcore Crayons. This place seemed to have one of the most ludicrous drink deals I’ve seen: a tall boy of Pabst (a normal sized can, for the English people), a shot of tequila (which I negotiated to a whiskey with the barman, still keeping well clear of that tequila poison) and a cigarette, all yours for $5. This led to a really fun night, culminating in me having a topless fight with a rather rotund man called Marshall. All in good fun, mind. Dom’s band were also a really great time, too.

The theme park inside the Mall of America.

On the day of all this aforementioned tomfoolery we discovered that the bus to Winnipeg was sadly not an overnight bus, and only one left every day at 8.15am. So after this rather heavy night we had to get up at 7.15am, get all our shit together, shake Dom awake and get to the bus station in time to get our tickets and board. It all got very close as Rich managed to let Dom’s next door neighbour’s dog run loose into the street the moment we were trying to leave. He went off chasing the dog and never actually managed to catch it (it made its way back later on by itself). Either way, we only just made the bus and we became very close to spending another night in Minneapolis, which would have messed up the organisation of couchsurfs. The coach itself was our first day journey, which was scheduled to take around 11 hours, arriving in Winnipeg at 7.30pm. Just our luck that we have some trouble at the border as a guy from the States doesn’t quite pass the security checks on his rather questionable sounding story of a trip to Alaska to retire. Furthermore, when questioned if he had any weapons the man responds ‘I have a knife, and then says, ‘I am allowed to take shotguns over the border, right?’. Not the best things to say to customs officials, and what entails is 3 hours at the border waiting for his three bags to be searched twice through, only for the Greyhound to drive back into America and drop him at a petrol station before continuing on into Canada. So our 11 hour journey becomes 14 hours of watching the endless expanse of prairies fly by, which is impressive for about 3 minutes before it becomes a mind-numbingly dull horizon to gaze at.

last night in town, for real this time.

It’s 2am and this is my last night in Hamilton. We just indulged in some classic 90s action entertainment with Michael Bay’s The Rock and I’m about to go to sleep on a floor that will by no means be my last over the course of the next six weeks. We’re waking up tomorrow and heading off to my friend Jordan’s cottage near Lindsay, Ontario, and I guess you can say that is when the travels begin: 3 May 2010.

It has been a largely stressful week, much due to the fact that my proficiency in being a chronic worrier has come to the forefront. First, there were the final exams. They weren’t too much of a worry, but I did leave my revision for my final exam to the morning of, and went to a keg party the night before, perhaps unwise but it seemed to all pan out quite well in the end. That was then followed by the completely arduous task of moving out, cleaning and deciding what I have room to take with me and what had to be thrown away. Obviously leaving everything to the absolute last minute before having to panic rush to downtown Toronto to see off my parents (who I had a pleasant weekend with wandering about the TO) on to the train west to Vancouver. Then I was pleased to discover that my housemates had rather graciously not bothered to do any cleaning before they left the flat, meaning that it was in an utter state, ready for a ludicrous cleaning charge to be slapped on it, giving McMaster University yet another reason to siphon some money from my dwindling account. So I sped back an hour before the building closed for the summer to do some last gasp cleaning of the mess that my housemates had made and left behind in order to not only save myself the fees but also saving them the fees. A thankless task that left me rather riled and bitter about my residence experience in Canada. Particularly given the incessant noise I had to endure for most of the year from my housemates and their annoying friends who seemed to be able to handle about a quarter of a beer. Once that job was complete I was pleased to discover that I had lost one of the reimbursement cheques from the dentist, leaving me $120 out of pocket and without a permanent address in Canada to have a replacement cheque sent to. Luckily, Rob has family in Vancouver that the cheque can be sent to, but I still haven’t called the insurance company to arrange that. Last, but far from least, was the hassle of sending my luggage home, or, as it turns out, to Philadelphia for me to pick up in June and then take home on the plane. Fed Ex didn’t bother to tell us that they refuse to send personal ‘effects’ via ground mail. Purolator were doing everything to not send our luggage and eventually we had UPS send the luggage, but not before I had to itemise literally everything in the luggage. From 36 pamphlets/books to one stuffed toy octopus. This whole process took around three hours to complete. Now the chronic worrier that I am is going through every worst case scenario regarding my luggage getting lost or slapped with huge custom fees due to me clearly lying about the worth of the contents. Oh, and then there was the endless indecision regarding booking the flights home that led to flight we intended to book going up $50, and then trying to organise various couchsurfs for the cities that we’re visiting very shortly, but I’ll get to that in a bit. Essentially, I’ve had a dense weight on my shoulders for the last week. And I’m relieved that, for the most part, I’m through the thick of it. End rant.

The week has been pretty fun at times though, despite all of the above. I’ve moved in to a posh off-campus student accommodation that some friends live in. Supposedly sleeping on the floor but four of the five nights I managed to swindle a bed. Usually by just being drunk and passing out in Connie’s bed before she had the opportunity to. The goodbyes have been sad and awkward, as goodbyes usually are. And there are certainly many people that I’m gutted I didn’t get to say bye to and will now probably never see again. But I suppose that is part and parcel with studying abroad and making these temporary friends. What has not been particularly exciting has been the diet of baked beans, noodles and stale bagels that I’ve been living on, but it’s all practice for the ludicrious scrape-the-barrel diet that circumstances are forcing me to adopt whilst travelling.

Preparing for our journey west and the south has been getting me super excited. As Rich noted, I’ve assumed some kind of impromptu role as trip secretary trying to organise where we’re staying in every city, but so far the signs are looking promising. Our first stop is Chicago, where we arrive at 5am on the morning of this coming Friday. There we are staying with four students in Little Italy who have all just finished their final exams and also happen to be throwing a house party for their friend’s 21^st birthday the day that we arrive. Some might say ideal. After Chicago we hit Minneapolis where we should be staying with a currently unemployed musician who is playing a show one of the nights we’re there. So hopefully he’ll have a lot of time to show us the sights and sounds of the Twin Cities. Following that we hit the woefully exciting towns of Winnipeg and Regina, which will hopefully surprise us with some good times. Then Calgary where we are due to be staying in the house (mansion) of the CEO of Hockey Canada (the equivalent of the CEO of the FA, for the British), so God only knows what to expect there. I only have best case scenarios running through my mind. From there we aim to make a trip to Banff National Park, then to Vancouver. Then we’ll cross back over the border to Seattle, then to Portland, where I will, fingers crossed, get to see my auntie that I haven’t seen in nigh-on ten years, as she now resides there. I’m very excited to go to the Microcosm Publishing shop there. I’ll no doubt end up buying far more than I can carry. From Portland it all gets a bit hazy, we want to go out to the coast to a small town in either Oregon or California to chill out for a couple of days. Then it’s down through California to the likes of San Francisco, San Diego and LA. From LA, we head to Las Vegas just in time for the England vs. USA game on the 12^th June where we shall no doubt get all rowdy and pissed, hopefully not having to swallow our pride if England fuck it up. From there, the group splits as Rich is gonna fly back to England and Patrick flies to Baltimore to see his wife. Rob and I, meanwhile, fly to Philly on the 14^th June for a few days to, once again, hang out with that lot. That should be a rather awesome finale before catching a flight back to England on the 20^th June, just in time to make it to the Hot Water Music show in Leeds on the 22^nd. No rest for the wicked, eh?

All in all, I’m very excited and hope it all goes swimmingly. I’ll try to keep this as updated as much as I can with all the stories that no doubt develop as time passes and my blood Pabst levels increase.

Smell ya later, Hammertown.

last night.

Not quite the last night in town, but certainly the last night in Bates, and the last night in a halls of residence. I get that feeling of a mixture of anxiety and pre-emptive nostalgic blues, knowing that I'm leaving a place and never coming back. I think it's the same mind-set that leads people to become hoarders, the refusal to let go of something, even if you despise it.

Onwards and upwards, to a diet of PBR and sleep deprivation, night-time bus marathons and new friends.

east coast, fuck you. (pts. 3 & 4)

In predictable fashion yours truly got infected with lethargy once again and didn’t finish updating the story of my reading week before I went back to the East Coast for my second trip this year. I’d say that the 3000 word essay on the Canadian home front in World War II is a valid excuse, I did have to read a 300-odd page book cover-to-cover and the book had really, really small writing, like size 8 or something stupid. But in reality, I spent many an evening of the intervening period fervently playing Football Manager or watching myriad TV shows on my laptop when time could have been much greater utilised.

Regardless, I’ll continue where I left off. Rich and I had come to the end of our bender in New York City back in the middle of February and our destination was Boston via another 2 or 3 hour, cramped Chinatown bus. Boston is another really awesome place. The main thing that struck me about it was its cleanliness. Either the municipal cleaning staff people are working over time, or Bostonians are really well mannered. We weren’t there for long enough (a day and a half) to get a proper feel for what Boston was about. Besides having a guided tour of Fenway Park, our main activity was just walking about and taking in the city’s locales with pit-stops for beer and food. The Fenway Park tour itself was interesting, if a little superficial. The Red Sox’s ground is the oldest in use in Major League Baseball, dating back to the early 20th century and has a classic reputation. But the tour didn’t exactly take you into the deep depths of the baseball ground. The most exciting ‘off-limits’ area was where the commentators would be on match day, which amounted to two lines of green desks with a few swiveling chairs.

Allston in west Boston, the area where the hostel Rich and I were staying in was located, was a really cool area. It’s the student area near Boston University and, thus, has the sorts of dive bars, bohemian cafes and quaint shops that are a far-cry from the corporate chains that dominate the downtown area. The sorts of places you have to know about, as opposed to stumble upon. One bar we went to had something like 160 beers on tap, an unimaginable scale before I saw it. Quite how they manage to make money whilst serving beer that hasn’t gone bad is beyond me, the shelf life of a keg isn’t that long and I can’t imagine they get through all of those beers. Either way, it didn’t help my indecisive nature and I had to try really hard not to fall back to the lovely, cheap Pabst Blue Ribbon. There was the obligatory punk café with waitresses with coffee themed tattoos and another bar we went to was Charles Bukowski themed. It was a nice novelty that amounted to a few references here and there but I don’t think Bukowski ever had anything to do with Boston.

After some respite, a good day’s walking and a delicious slice of Boston cream cake the last stop on my reading week travels beckoned; a night in Amherst, Massachusetts, the home of University of Massachusetts and my friend Brandon. Another three hours on a bus, this time owned by Peter Pan, and I’d arrived in Amherst, a town of some 35,000 people of which the majority are students. It’s a weird place and a stark contrast to the likes of Boston, Philly and New York City, reminding much more of where I started my travels in Lewisburg, PA. It’s a town that seemingly has nothing to it beyond the fact that it harbours a wealth of students. However, in honour of my visit, Brandon went and organized a 9-band house show/party in his own house that, if my memory serves me correctly, he successfully organized in about 5 days. This was what impressed me about Amherst, it has such a closely knit DIY/punk community where people are much more interested in their local bands and supporting local music than they are for other touring bands. I think this comes partially down to the backwater location in the depths of New England where the nearest big city is 3 hours down the Mass Pike. Bands don’t go through Amherst a great deal so they create their own scene and it’s refreshing to see.

Sadly, the house show was cut short far too early. Over one hundred and fifty people turned up to Brandon’s abode and by about 12.30 or 1 the filth had arrived to shut the show down due to noise complaints. Annoyingly, it was by this point the Pabst was allowing me to feel uninhibited enough to begin mixing among the throng of crusties and punks, where I only knew Brandon. Even worse, I didn’t get to see Brandon’s band, Time and Place. And even worse than that, Brandon and his housemate Jack got arrested because Amherst is a university town there’s a by-law that means that the homeowner can be arrested in times of excess noise. Fucking police. I guess the drama of it all was quite exciting, but at the same time it cut my night real short and put everyone in a pretty angry mood and when I was only there for that night it put a dampener on the visit.

All that was left of my travels after that was a solo 20 hour journey back to Hamilton, Ontario that started at 1pm in Amherst and ended at 9am the next day. That journey in particular will leave me completely un-phased by any future bus journey. I can’t believe I used to dread the four hours from Leeds to London. The bus journeys can feel quite surreal at times. There’s something very unusual about being awake on a bus at 5 in the morning, the middle of Nowheresville in upstate New York, surrounded by people breathing heavily in their own unique yoga-like positions that allow them to sleep in that few feet square of space that Greyhound can spare. The sleep never feels like real sleep either, there’s always that sense that you’re on the bus, all it does is put a finger on fast-forward for an hour or so at a time. Even after all that, the sense of satisfaction that I expect when I finally reach my room is decidedly underwhelming. Even after 20 hours, I still don’t really want the journey to end.

As I said, the intervening period was particularly uneventful. I drank a few times a week, went to some sweet shows, missed some sweet shows, read some zines, did the minimum of uni work required, had a surprisingly awesome St. Patrick’s Day, fixed my bike, ate, shat, slept and worked on 63336. All whilst thinking that I need to be making the most of my last couple of months in Hamilton.

Around the beginning of March I was considering a trip back to Philadelphia to visit my pals again before I had to jump ship from this continent. Luckily, I was researching some ticket prices and stumbled upon the bafflingly cheap $2 return from Toronto to NYC. Without hesitation the tickets were booked and between 2nd April and 5th April the East Coast was blessed with my presence once again. Interestingly, I spent four times the cost of the return from Toronto to NYC on the single bus from Hamilton to Toronto.

In the preceding week to leaving, the weather for the weekend was looking incredible with temperatures set for the twenties, or sixties for those that believe Fahrenheit is an easier system. This, combined with a month and a half in Hamilton, spurred on the excitement for the weekend ahead. Luckily, I had the company of the Connie, Lucy and Emily for the initial trip down to New York. Less lucky was the realization that we were travelling down Easter weekend, so it seemed like there were about 300 people that needed to get on the bus to New York. So, an hour and a half and three full buses later, we finally get on a bus. However, the delays did not stop there. We had to wait at the side of the road for about 45 minutes just down the road from the Toronto terminal, then wait around 2 hours at the border for some reason unbeknownst to me and then we were granted the delight of a bus driver that wanted to stop every hour for a toilet break, even when there’s a toilet on the back of the bloody bus. Oh, and he also seemed to want to drive through New York, Pennsylvania and New Jersey to get to NYC, which, if you look on a map, is not the most logical route you’ll ever see. What all this incessant whining amounts to is that our bus that should have departed at 9pm and arrived at 7am actually arrived gone 11am, which really cut into the short amount of time I had in NYC. Nevertheless, I got a chance to look at the High Line Park, Central Park and draw a very straight-edged cock on an etch-a-sketch in FAO Schwarz. With the High Line Park, the city has made use of the disused above ground railway lines in the Meat Packing District of Manhattan to create this public space/garden over the course of a number of blocks. It is textbook gentrification in a sickeningly yuppie area, yet the concept of it is a really swell idea. However, at the moment it’s slightly underwhelming as the ‘garden’ aspect of it is no more than some shrubs a foot high and the majority of it is made up of concrete walkways. On the other hand, it has only been open for less than a year and it certainly shows some potential. I’d be interested to see how it has evolved whenever I make it back to NYC. Central Park was as vast and hectic as I imagined, especially given it was a public holiday and the weather was more than likely the best the year had seen yet. Apparently, it was still cold enough for the ice rink to be open though, so it was quite funny watching numerous people skating around and every step they take water splashing up off the melting ice. I was hoping to make it up either the Empire State Building or the Rockefeller Center, given the quality of the day but the huge, 2-hour queues made it an impossibility. So, I said goodbye to Connie and Emily and boarded the Chinatown bus to Philadelphia.

Philadelphia was essentially the whole point of the trip; heading back to see the people I met the in Philly the first time around. So, in short, I was pretty excited. Greeted once again by Rachel (she was gutted I didn’t drop her name in the previous blog, the dude abides this time) and after some initial faffing, we headed off to West Philly (yes, where Will Smith was born and raised on playgrounds) to a house show at the Terrordome. The show was pretty awesome, even though I barely watched any of the bands. The whole set-up made me a bit gutted that house shows aren’t a bigger part of the punk scene in England. Damn our old cities and their terraced housing. Whack were headlining the show and they played this instrumental baroque-esque punk that sounded a bit like The World/Inferno Friendship Society , mainly because they pissed around on an accordion. They were decent enough, however, and the kids certainly loved it. I felt like a party pooper for being the one of about four that weren’t dancing. Oh, how reserved we British are. I was devastated to hear that if I had been there a few days earlier I’d have got to have seen Paint it Black play to 300 odd kids, and if I were there a few days longer I’d get a similar privilege with No Friends. Woe is me. Afterwards, we went back to South Philly to indulge our livers, spin some hula hoops and have arguments about whose country is better. The usual.

Saturday involved the following in no particular order: hanging out in the sun, some Frisbee, some slapstick Frisbee injuries, nice beers, nicer beers, beers in the sun, eggs, Del Shannon, tofu, roofs, chemicals, Against Me! sing-a-longs, propositions, zombie apocalypse, clothing removal, cigarettes, sweet dudes and sweet ladies, a broken camera, Dan’s disgustingly sweet wine, 6.30am walks home, piggy backs, Descendents, nipples, bricks, toot, the crab and Arcade Fire. Essentially, I had one hell of a day/night/morning, one of the best in a long while, and it made me feel reminiscent of my friends back home, not just because of the Against Me! sing-a-longs at 5am, but in a way that I don’t think I’d be able to put into words without sounding like a tool, so I’ll use an image. But make those teeth a bit more crooked and chipped, the lipstick is optional. More like this. That sums up my feelings, just about.

I was, however, certainly feeling the pain of Saturday on Sunday morning after a meagre four hours sleep broken by the blinding daybreak light of Philadelphia and Rachel’s phone screaming in my ear. The hangover would, unexpectedly, manifest itself as a two-day marathon. The sorts of things I’d only heard from in the incessant whining of our dear Sam Hutchings every time he utilises his downing ability for a liquid that is not beer. The receiving end ain’t as fun and I became that once resented incessant whiner. But now I’m beginning to sound like one of those tits that jabbers on about their hangover in some vain attempt to let everyone else know how much they successfully consumed the night before. So I’ll stop. Sunday and Monday were spent walking in the sun, talking in the sun and sporadically eating foods, usually not in the presence of the sun. Two thumbs up goes to Govindas, where I had consumed a delectable vegan chicken cheese steak hoagie (sandwich, to the outsiders). If you’re ever in Philly and don’t partake in meat (or even if you do), then I thoroughly recommend this place.

I’d delayed getting on around three buses on Monday evening and then missed a bus due to waiting for Caitlin to come say goodbye, although it was worth it to see the dramatic, would-have-looked-better-in-slow-motion run. So when I finally got on the bus it was a pretty morose experience, not knowing when I would get the opportunity to see all these people again. It probably wasn’t helped by the beautiful sunset I got to gaze at whilst driving through NJ, listening to Ben Nichols’ depressing, haggard songs about the ‘last pale light in the west’. A pensive experience.

Another 15 hour journey in solitude, it’s never a great experience. The panic began to set in wandering around Penn Station in NYC not knowing where the hell the Mega Bus stop is, getting completely mixed directions from two policemen and eventually getting accurate directions from a tramp who wanted some money. Nor was it much fun waking up at 5am in the dreary setting of Buffalo, NY where the rain looks so set in and steady that you question whether it has either a beginning or an end. The sun of Philadelphia seemed a world away.

Thankfully, sun has now returned to the Golden Horseshoe, the temperatures are adolescent, lectures finished and the one and only hard exam I’ll have to take has been finished. So, now it’s time to make the most of my last couple of weeks in Hamilton. Hammer tattoos all round then, yeah?