tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-866273504351335382024-03-13T04:34:30.735-07:00Glasgow JourneysMike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.comBlogger370125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-31945931886063082802010-04-18T05:22:00.001-07:002010-04-18T05:22:10.291-07:00A New York Postscript<span lang="EN"> <p style="TEXT-ALIGN: left">Some travelers, Japanese, it appears to me, in particular, seem to be recording their journey, rather than experiencing it; not a trap I want to fall into. So I'm writing this, as a postscript because New York, the "Big Apple", didn't leave any time for tidying up my notes. My memory has never been much good, so this postscript will be even more suspect than usual.</p> <p>I never really know my own motives, but it is at least possible that this delightful year wandering around rural America was just a very heavy disguise for the final frenetic week in New York, my favourite place to visit in all the world. This is the place I visited most in my life, and is a rich tapestry of memories, some so strong I can still even smell them.</p> <p>But, in the spirit of adventure which characterized this last year, I decided to stay in a part of the city I've never been to before. I didn't quite have the nerve to choose Harlem, so I settled for Brooklyn, in part as a tribute to Tom Wolfe's delightful short story, "Only the Dead Know Brooklyn", which I had just read.</p> <p>So when I descended out of Pennsylvania and the Alleghennies, pausing only to notice that as we came down to lower altitudes the trees were beginning to blossom, it was to blast straight onto Manhattan and off the other side; pausing only to misunderstand Dulcie one last time and make a brief detour through Chinatown.</p> <p>I was staying at the Broadway Junction end of Atlantic Avenue, where there is ready access to the subway and buses. I had, of course, forgotten that quaint American custom of putting the subway over the top of everything, on a gantry of steel. So, briefly, on a strict schedule, throughout the day and night, my room may have been the noisiest place on earth. It's a good job that doesn't bother me very much. This part of Brooklyn is clearly very poor: everybody, except the policemen, is black</p> <p>For my first outing, I got to take the 'A' train. Not quite as far as Billy Strayhorn took it, up to Harlem, only to the other end of Manhattan, to 4<sup>th</sup> Street in the Village. To go 'off-Broadway' for an interesting production of Thornton Wilder's "Our Town". I couldn't resist this, having just visited twenty such places around the country. I wonder if the people I met saw their town like this (allowing for the changing times). They certainly didn't seem like that to me. But it did say what those people on American Family Radio clearly believe, but so spectacularly fail to say. </p> <p>The setting, a community hall, was exactly like the fringe productions I go to so much in London. The only difference was that it cost $75. Miraculously, everyone had turned white.</p> <p>Waiting for the 'A' train back to Brooklyn, the station was filled with the sounds of a Brahms Piano concerto. I guess that would be by popular demand in this neighbourhood.</p> <p>Downtown Brooklyn was a bus ride away, and boasted a number of Irish bars. In one, the Irish barmaid explained her rather unusual name by telling me it was after the founder of the Legion of Mary. It was a curious complement to me to think (rightly, as it happens) that I knew what that was. She drew me a map of how to get to the 'A' train. After a long session, it took me a little time to work out that she was on the other side of the bar, so the map was upside-down, if you see what I mean.</p> <p>I moved to a hotel on the west side of Brooklyn, nearer where the QM2 docks. I turned Silver into his livery stable en route. Before I could get my luggage into the car they were going to take me to the hotel in, he was washed and scrubbed, and away with another rider. He never really took Rozzie's place anyway.</p> <p>It was a lovely sunny day, so I went out for a walk to find the nearest subway station. This was on the Broadway Express, so I could get up to Time Square and see if there were cheaper theatre tickets. But the other way it went to Coney Island, which is how I found myself, still in New York City, on the beach, in a bar which made its own beer, with a Polish barmaid who loved to play Abba, which I love to listen to. She wanted to borrow my newspaper to read about the Polish air crash. (I should point out that when I say "Irish" and "Polish", in these cases I actually mean it: they were not Americans claiming another nationality, as Americans do.)</p> <p>I went up the Bronx to get a ticket for the opening Yankee game of the season. I had assumed it would be in the evening, but it was more than halfway through when I got there. I bought a ticket for the game the following afternoon (baseball players play nearly every day). The man at the ticket booth looked me up-and-down, then asked me if I would like to go into the end of the first game, and gave me a free ticket. The new Yankee stadium is a really fine place. I was bemoaning how expensive everything (that's code for "beer") was when I had to remind myself that I got in for nothing.</p> <p>On the way back, I stopped off to visit my favourite bar from way back. I'm pretty sure I remember exactly where it is, but, sadly, it is gone, replaced by a pub called "Baker Street". The inside seems to be much the same, so that has to do for memory lane.</p> <p>In the Irish bar in Brooklyn, I had got into a conversation with a African American, about the same age as me, who had recommended "Race", David Mamet's new Broadway play, so I stopped off at the Time Square ticket bureau to get a ticket, and made the startling discovery that on-Broadway is cheaper than off-Broadway.</p> <p>After years of avoiding big theatres, it took me a minute to get used to the actors shouting at each other so we could hear them. But this is a really good play, very verbal, with lots of belly-laughs about racial attitudes. And, of course, famous faces from the TV screen.</p> <p>I had organized the emptying of my American bank account almost perfectly, leaving less than two dollars behind. Unfortunately, I got fingered by a Brooklyn gas pump. It, as some of them do, asked me for my zip code when I used my credit card. Without thinking, I put it in as I would for the American debit card. Of course, a zip code means nothing for a British credit card, so I got declined and had to pay cash. I didn't think any more about it, but, unfortunately, I got shopped, and they stopped the credit card. Which meant the final car rental payment got declined. Which meant they used the American debit card. Which meant it went horrendously negative. Which meant the bank shoveled on overdraft charges like I was their only source of income. Which meant a lot of phone calls, including one to Britain. But it all got straightened out. And I got a pleasurable reminder of the delightful southern Kentucky accent of the car rental lady.</p> <p>From my hotel window, I can see the Queen has arrived. The hotel is owned and operated by Indians: Indian Indians, that is. I shouldn't have to tell you this, because all hotels in the United States are owned and operated by Indian Indians. But it is in an Hispanic neighbourhood, so the cab driver who takes me to the QM2 is Hispanic. He is playing Mozart on his radio. It is the first time I have enjoyed music in a cab: and a fitting end to my stay in New York<font size="2">.</font></p> </span> Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-3669398813204901672010-04-09T15:21:00.001-07:002010-04-09T15:21:34.552-07:00Thursday 8th April 2010 - Old Haunts and New Friends<div> Today was a short hop across the Alleghenny River and into the Pennsylvania Wilds. Where I lost Public Radio for a while. I got to listen to American Family Radio. They specialise in being peeved that the "Liberal media" (their words) ignore things they think (apparently sincerely) to be important. Since what they believe in, being traditional values like "Country" and "Flag" and "Family", are almost inexplicable, and certainly beyond your average media jock, they are simultaneously right and unfair. Not only are the "Liberal media" (their words) incapable of explaining these concepts, so, it appears, are they themselves. Anyway, it made a a change.</div> <div> When I got back to Public Radio, it was Clarion University running what was obviously a news-reading exam. As the young lady approached what was going to be the Russian President's name (it was about this nuclear treaty thing), you could tell from her voice that she knew she wasn't going to be able to pronounce it. And when she got there, indeed she couldn't. I wonder if she learned anything from that, like, for example, practicing beforehand. Come to think of it, I wonder if this was the first time she'd done it.</div> <div> About 50 mile before Bellefonte (my destination for tonight) there was one of the most specific local attraction signs I've seen: it said "(at 2280 ft) the highest point on I-80 east of the Mississippi". I bet none of you can match that! It is a beautiful day, and I'm in lovely rolling (still bare) wooded hills.</div> <div> Bellefonte is where the American Philatelic Society keeps its library, so I know my way around here.</div> <div> </div> <div> Later that night, I went out for some beer. I started in the poshest bar, where they keep their beer and their grown-up ladies in good condition, but there were not only no grown-up ladies on duty, they were selling Sierra Nevada Pale Ale on draft. Since I was staying out-of-town, and therefore driving, I decided not to trust myself, so I didn't stop. The next choice was my favourite redneck bar outside of town, but since it would require a difficult drive back along back roads, I wasn't too keen. As I was dithering, a new pub leapt to my eyes. As I got in, they not only had Troegg's, the local brew, and Yeungling's, a fairly moderate ale, they had a duty grown-up lady waiting at the bar to greet me. She hung on my every word; wanted my opinion on everything. I gave a long expose (now, now!) on the various beers I had encountered on my trip. She was captivated. Turned out the place had recently opened, and she was la patronne. Grown-up ladies are so much more fun than truck drivers. She didn't want to listen to any Gilbert and Sullivan, she wanted to listen to me.</div> Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-48817359177749665632010-04-08T15:22:00.001-07:002010-04-08T15:25:51.259-07:00Wednesday 7th April 2010 - Keep on Trucking<div> As a result of my late night research on racehorse breathing, I was pretty late out of Chicago. So I got caught in the rush hour. Actually, I expect, like most big cities, it's a pretty long rush hour, so I probably couldn't have avoided it anyway. I thought it might be a bit of luck, and allow me to do a bit of sight-seeing, but Chicago was only visible from about floor 20 downwards, which was a little eerie. But I did get up onto the Skyway, and see down to Lake Michigan. I must be getting good at interstate travel, 'cos I got a lengthy honking from someone I had to cut up to get to my exit.</div> <div> </div> <div> Today's Public Radio delight was a phone-in about Scrabble: yes, a phone-in. They had an expert to interview, and, no doubt ask penetrating questions of, but they all just prattled on about how much fun it was. One man phoned in to say that he cheated on his wife, but only at Scrabble. He confessed that whenever she left the room, he rummaged around the tile bag for letters he wanted. He then told us that she still beat him, and never knew he cheated. She is obviously just charitable about his inadequacy as a cheat.</div> <div> </div> <div> Later that night, I fell into the company of truck drivers. I had stopped at Youngstown, and the motel was right beside one of those giant truck stops. These places allow truckers overnight parking, with restaurants and shower facilities. The bar was across the road, so I knew it was going to be hard to get back. It served Great Lakes ale, from Cleveland.</div> <div> The drivers swapped notes about how far they travelled, how much time they got off, how to make good money without getting caught breaking the regulations. There seemed to be a clear payoff between how far they could run in a day and how much time they spent at home. In that context, I wanted to raise the subject of Scrabble, and cheating on their wives, but before I could, they decided they were going off to the "Titty Bar", which I supposed to be some Gilbert and Sullivan themed pub. </div> <div> I myself took to heart that bit from The Sorcerer, and, despite not being a baronet or a KCB, or a Doctor of Divinity, I went home to bed respectably. The magic drink having manifested its power. It obviously, at least, got me back across the road safely.</div>Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-13888383986988909072010-04-07T17:07:00.001-07:002010-04-07T17:07:13.239-07:00Tuesday 6th April 2010 - Talk Radio<div> I'm up and off at eight. New York is 1200 miles away, and I'm planning 3 or 4 days to get there. I have to get to Chicago for tonight. It's boring old interstate all the way, 94 down to Madison, Wisconsin, then 90 (or is it 39?) into Chicago.</div> <div> Although there's nothing much to see on the interstates, Public Radio provides good company. It hardly ever goes out of range east of the Mississippi, so it's usually only a question of twiddling the dial to pick up the next transmitter.</div> <div> Today's memorable programme was something like Women's Hour. They were plotting, as usual, to take over the world. I enjoyed myself with bits of ribaldry they couldn't hear. They weren't even approaching grown-up.</div> <div> </div> <div> Later that night, I met a man who gives breathing exercises to racehorses. I didn't ask him how he did it, 'cos I was sure I wouldn't understand the answer. He not only claimed to have won the Kentucky Derby (not personally, you understand), he even offered me a hot tip for this year, which is only a month away.</div> Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-46158277456595446622010-04-06T19:05:00.001-07:002010-04-06T19:05:38.117-07:00Monday 5th April 2010 - Transportation Matters<div> The local Rotary Club turned out to cheer me and offer a free lunch. It seems Minnesota is a hotbed of free lunches. A young lady from the Agricultural college gave us a talk about local farming. Garrison Keiller is constantly on the radio telling us that people around here are all mad. It's obviously because they farm in a climate like this.</div> <div> </div> <div> I also, finally, plucked up the courage to stand my transportation people down, and broke the sad news to them about Rozzie's demise. They had been waiting to take him off my hands. They were pretty blase about it; and thought he was probably already back on the road in pirate colours. Somehow, that cheered me up. But there was a serious point: the write-off price the insurance company came up with proved quite conclusively what a good deal they had made for me in the first place. It's not often you get solid evidence of that.</div> <div> </div> <div> Later that night, there was an Irish barmaid to take my leave of. She remembered I liked my glasses warmed. That gets her honorary grown-up status.</div> Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-21439046058009306982010-04-05T14:32:00.001-07:002010-04-05T14:32:02.673-07:00Easter Sunday 2010 - Multidimensional Miracles<div> I was up early to get the final washing done. Those of you who like to keep abreast of the frontiers of science will be interested to hear that in the Maytag Small Collider at Eagan, Minnesota, the infamous blacksox particle has re-emerged into this universe. This was undoubtedly connected to the event horizon of the Chinese bamboo copy forcibly introduced last week. </div> <div> My hosts concocted a thin and implausible tale about a fortieth wedding anniversary so that they might throw a party for me. It went on for most of the day. I restricted myself to regular American beer, so I (just about) managed to stay the course.</div> <div> We played catchball (a segment of baseball) in the yard. I discovered that you wear a baseball mitt on the less dominant hand, so you can throw better. Catching, apparently, is easier than throwing. You could have fooled me.</div> Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-5729418566828481532010-04-04T10:12:00.001-07:002010-04-04T10:12:40.912-07:00Holy Saturday, 2010 - Rituals and Adoration<div> Today is the ceremonial day for defiling my person with alcohol. I have to rise late for the ritual cleansing and dressing. Which has to finish just as the sun crosses the yardarm. (Do you get the feeling I've spent too much time on my own?)</div> <div> The choice this year for the defiling, you will be unsurprised to discover, is the divine Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, out of Chico ,CA, although I do decide to drink it out of a Sam Adams glass. SNPA was really a "no brainer", because, at this crucial moment when my taste buds are fully rested and pointing like a doberman, SNPA allows two distinct tastings. It is bottle-conditioned, so I can pour half of it carefully and drink it bright, a l'anglais, then swirl the rest around and drink it, American-style, cloudy. They both have their merits, American being, as you would expect, a much stronger, drier taste. But I prefer the delicacy of the English style.</div> <div> The only problem is that American real beer ("micro brews" they like to call it here) is fiercely strong, so, in no time at all, my taste buds are suitably anesthetised and tucked away for another year.</div> <div> For the second-to-last part of the ritual, the traditional Cadbury's Creme Eggs are readily available. And you don't need to be told what the last part is.</div> <div> </div> <div> Later that night a group of grown-up ladies was assembled to listen adoringly to my stories.</div> Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-89038943165954976392010-04-04T09:10:00.001-07:002010-04-04T09:10:59.306-07:00Friday 2nd April 2010 - All Ship-shape and Bristol Cream<div> It's the day to get my Easter rituals organised. In particular, I have to find a religious supplies shop to get some stocks of altar beer. This is no trivial task in the United States. The liquor store has more choices in beer than it does in french wine. Actually, the beer aisle is not unlike the breakfast cereal aisle in a supermarket. I feel like a small child in a candy store: there is exquisite agony in making the choice. In fact, it takes me all of an hour.</div> <div> When I finally choose, and get to the check-out, it finally occcurs to me that other people might like something as well. So, as they say in the Ozzie beer adverts, I throw in a bottle of sherry "for the sheilas".</div> <div> </div> <div> With alles now in ordnung, I can turn my attention, finally, da-dada-da-dada-da - to the packing. After a week of background thinking, it falls into place smooth, as they say here, as a Clinton apology. I have my road bag, my "just in case" bag, and the big case divided into "wanted on voyage" and "not wanted on voyage".</div> <div> And I've made a hatbox for my precious Stetsons.</div> Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-59507130835964767452010-04-02T17:05:00.001-07:002010-04-02T17:05:04.140-07:00Thursday 1st April 2010 - Ideas Above my Station<div> Having trumped the Immigration Service yesterday, I felt my loins sufficiently girded to have another tilt at the Social Security Administration. Having one of their numbers in my possession will greatly facilitate closing out my bank accounts.</div> <div> My last foray in that direction was way back in Montana, where a nice young lady had taken the trouble to find out how to give me a number, and was about to do the deed when we discovered I'd sent the essential document to Immigration. (I had noted the number, but, surprisingly for the SSA, they didn't want the number, they wanted the object.)</div> <div> But now my documentation is complete, so I dropped into the local office. It was a small office, so, although they had the mandatory man-with-a-gun, he declined to look up my bottom (to be absolutely honest, he seemed a little surprised at the offer) He told me to take a number; from a little dispensing machine. This, I thought, is easier than I expected. But it turned out only to be a queueing number.</div> <div> When I got to see the clerk, she was all brusque and business-like. I'm very sympathetic to social security staff. They sometimes have to deal with people who are sometimes very stressed. She looked at my documents. No, she couldn't help, I was the wrong status. So how was the young lady in Montana going to do it, eh? Quick as a flash, the clerk pointed out that she (Montana) hadn't <em>seen</em> the document. If she had, she'd have known I was (chorus) <em>the wrong status.</em></div> <div><em> </em>She suggested I go and see the Internal Revenue, but that is a circle aound which I decline to go again. They never do anything to help, anyway, but they collect information as they do (or rather, don't do) it. My father told me to keep away from the IRS. He was always threatening to shoot them (well, not always, just on Saturday nights).</div> <div> Still, I suppose it's better to have a government that doesn't know what it's doing: I don't think we'd like the alternative. I shall just have to stick to cash.</div> Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-16837868663709983902010-04-01T13:02:00.001-07:002010-04-01T13:02:28.795-07:00Wednesday 31st March 2010 - A Free Lunch<div> I had to go up to town for a meeting with my legal team. I wanted to check everything was in order, and that I could have a slippery-smooth exit, with no falling foul of government bureaucrats. It is just as well I took the trouble, because there was, indeed, a severe flaw in my plans. But, with the proper professional advice, it was soon put to rights: my I979A now nestles in my passport in place of the I94, waiting to confound the aparachik. Another one in the eye for mere government.</div> <div> </div> <div> By the way, I discovered, and it is not surprising with lawyers involved, that there is such a thing as a free lunch. Their ethics do not permit them to accept gifts from clients, so they had to buy lunch. It was in one of St Paul's finest old Italian restaurants, full of Godfather figures, cheeks stuffed with cotton wool, making that curious back-handed waving gesture. I suppose any (or, indeed, all) of them might nowadays have been Justice Department stooges, waiiting to pounce on an unethical lawyer.</div> <div> I bet you didn't know there's a special rule that allows Lenten fasters to eat masses of Italian food in Holy Week in towns with a saint's name.</div> Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-43964881886698529092010-03-31T15:03:00.001-07:002010-03-31T15:13:22.333-07:00Tuesday 30th March 2010 - The Black Sox Scandal<div> With some reluctance, I started stage one of the packing. After a year on the road, stage one is unpacking, the creation of chaos: hence the reluctance.</div> <div> Some surprising things turned up: or rather, didn't. As I piled all the socks together, I noticed there were no black ones. Now why would I notice that? I wasn't looking for it. But black socks are an essential part of the QM2 dress code. I had them when I came in; where are they now? Obviously I put them in a sensible place: inside posh shoes; pockets of dress suits: unfortunately, none of the above.</div> <div> It is well-known that washing machines are secret consumers of socks, but how could they have consumed the only pair of socks I never wore? Naturally, everything else was forgotten in an obsessive hunt for black socks: which steadfastly remained unfound. Perhaps, like the infamous Chicago White Sox of 1919, they have been banned from ever appearing again.</div> <div> Having covered the floor in clothes, and invoked the intervention of many of the less-salubrious deities, I eventually pulled myself back from the brink before the men in white coats were summoned. Instead, I went round to the local supermarket, where the ever-reliable Chinese had stocked a whole shelf with dress black socks, made, apparently, from bamboo.</div> <div> I also used the outing to take my dress shirt to the laundry. The laundry is in the same mall as the barber's, and the young lady here also demanded my phone number. I gave her a false one. She asked me if I wanted light-, medium-, or heavy-starch. I hadn't considered starch at all; I went for medium.</div> <div> </div> <div> I also found a twenty-five-year-old Canadian two-dollar bill. I obviously brought my stock of old Canadian money in case I had to take a half-term break in Canada. Which reminded me that I had acquired a couple of US two-dollar bills on my travels: but they were nowhere to be found. They are probably among the things I mailed home from Montana and Missouri. I wonder if that's where the black socks went to?</div>Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-60599810880235318332010-03-30T10:25:00.001-07:002010-03-31T07:09:33.970-07:00Monday 29th March 2010 - Recidivism and Shopping<div> It is a beautiful day, and fairly warm. Spring is most decidely sprung. Minneapolis is at the same latitude as Bordeaux, but, of course, a thousand miles from the ocean, so it can spring a few weather surprises.</div> <div> There is a park opposite, and, in the American way, it is 18-20 square miles. Here you have to drive somewhere to go for a walk. But a short walk allows me to indulge a favourite childhood passion, throwing stones into ponds. I'm very civilised about it now, and only throw small pebbles, being careful not to disturb the wildlife: not when anyone is looking, anyway. When I was very small, I would drag the largest rocks I could, and nearly go in with them in the final heave. A bit of harmless recidivism is good for a chap.</div> <div> </div> <div> Suitably fortified, I start to size up the packing problem. As well as the old camera and computer I lost in Philadelphia, I also lost, more importantly, it turns out now, the bag they were in. I'm fairly sure that, no matter how brutal I am at disposal, I will have to replace it.</div> <div> So I took myself off to the local shopping mecca, a giant mall much like Bluewater. But where you might have expected them to call it "Blooomington Mall" or "Minneapolis Mall", or ,even in a frenzy of hubris "Minnesota Mall", they chose to call it "Mall of America": no hidding behind bushels there. The road signs tend, rather diffidently, to the more prosaic "MOA". They could open a cheap one for the lower classes and call it "MOAB" (that's a rather obscure biblical joke).</div> <div> They claim people fly in to the nearby airport just to shop: from as far as Europe and Asia. Bluewater was pleased when it got a rail station. Typical parochialism: it should have been aiming for an airport.</div> <div> To my way of thinking, it's just expensive shops and mooching children. I look at the immense, expensively-finished fabric of it, and wonder how all that could have been paid for. I managed to find a bag. But I couldn't find a pond to throw a rock in.</div>Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-18464823924499570252010-03-29T12:20:00.001-07:002010-03-29T12:20:52.725-07:00Sunday 28th March 2010 - Floods and Teenagers<div> It is the time of year when the snow is melting, so the rivers get a sudden surge. The mighty Mississippi is well boxed in here, but the boxes, so to speak, are nearly full. The Minnesota, which flows into the Mississippi, has overflowed and now occupies its entire flood plain, looking like a large lake rather than a (relatively) small river. The trees on its banks can still be seen tracing its normal path.</div> <div> </div> <div> This we see on our way to a teenage birthday party. I am one of the socially nervous, who can be readily persuaded that teenagers are capable of casual canibalism. I have been told that modern teenagers actually watch TV programmes where the characters regularly indulge these tastes. But, being a close cousin, however many times removed, may spare me such a fate, especially as I have had had the foresight to come bearing gifts.</div> <div> As it turns out, I get treated like royalty, which means I get introduced to everybody all at once, with someone whispering names in my ear, than get sat in a corner among the favoured few, and only have to wave benignly from time-to-time.</div> <div> The favoured few are mostly parents and grandparents. They have an inexhaustible supply of teenager war stories which are simultaneously hilarious and hair-raising. Like old soldiers, they vie with each other over the horrors they have survived. I discreetly keep a thick wedge of them between me and their teenagers: I could get the hang of this royalty stuff.</div> <div> </div> <div> Later that night, I contemplate the passing of Palm Sunday. We're now into Holy Week, or the "home straight" as I think of it. I can now start edging discretely towards the nearest bar.</div> Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-68842068024751045672010-03-28T10:01:00.001-07:002010-03-28T10:01:56.931-07:00Saturday 27th March 2010 - Doing the Foul Deed<div> There is good news: nettles have been seized, diems carpe'd, nails hit accurately, iron struck at suitable temperature, stitches saved, worms duly caught; trunks emptied: well, whole cars, actually</div> <div> There are, of course, drawbacks. It's a good job it's Lent. Getting up in the night now would likely involve the stubbing and stabbing of toes. Everything has been laid out for disposal or folding into transatlantic cases.</div> <div> Which is exhausting enough for one day. So it's off to the malt shop for traditional American fare. Americans of my age hanker after juke-box-fuls of sixties music and Horlicks with their dinner. They probably also think wistfully of the recreational drug use and casual sex they missed out on at the time.</div> <div> "Malt shops" sell 'malts', a milkshake made with ice cream and malted milk, a baby food invented by a London Pharmacist come to Wisconsin, one James Horlick. As an accompaniment to hamburger, it lacks the biting piquance of a rough claret, but Americans have chosen to try to prevent their children drinking by setting this sort of example. Europeans do the opposite. Of course, neither works, as the children, in their turn, miss out on their generation's recreational drugs and casual sex.</div> Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-67473416825556964212010-03-27T10:26:00.001-07:002010-03-27T10:26:31.376-07:00Friday 26th March 2010 - Coming Clean<div> Although it is still not too warm, the sun is shining on the twin cities, and there is a definite smell of spring in the air. In a few weeks, the Minnesota Twins will open their new stadium and play their first outdoor baseball at home for nearly thirty years. It is time time to cut myself out of my goose-greased underwear and wash out the nooks and cranies. </div> <div> I should also indulge myself in a haircut. I got a trim last Autumn, somewhere in Ohio, I think: a backstreet, walk-in barber's shop, full of old men talking non-stop. This, of course, is 'big city', so I don't suppose I will find anything similar (not that they won't be there, I just won't know where)</div> <div> <em> </em>I asked Google to find some, but ladies went to its barbershops, or its barbershops had gone to the dogs. So I got adventurous (it's spring!) and tried Yellow Pages. It gave me a measly three, and two of those were the same. It also, inexplicably, offered three "single-men dating agencies" in Kansas: possibly a bit of fine tuning needed on the search algorithm. </div> <div> I tried the one which wasn't a repeat, or a dating agency. A bright young lady greeted me and asked what she could do for me. Why do people do that? I've walked into a barber's shop with six months of hair on my head; it's got to be obvious, hasn't it?. Anyway, I've no sooner confessed my intent than she asks for my phone number. Sadly, she was far from grown-up. But she did alright with the hair.</div> <div> They also offered to trim my beard, but there's something a bit too 'Samson and Delilah' about that. Anyway, matching it up to the hair allows me to look lovingly at myself in the mirror for an hour. And I don'r even have to ask for my phone number.</div> Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-15623737122591345662010-03-26T13:13:00.001-07:002010-03-26T13:13:59.072-07:0025th March 2010 - Trouble with the Servants<div> One of the servants is lying to me. Now we're no longer busy, I shall have to find camp drills for them, keep them out of trouble.</div> <div> Dulcie suddenly volunteered the number 25361. Well, it wasn't volunteered, really. I asked the wrong question, and out it popped. Seems she's been keeping track of all our travels, unbeknown to me. And she claims it adds up to the aforementioned 25361. That's more than once round the world at the thickest bit, which seems a bit unlikely.</div> <div> The trusty steeds disagree. I managed to extract a deathbed confession from Rozzie (RIP) and he coughed up (after a bit of arithmetic) 13793. Silver is currently boasting a youthful and vigorous 5517. Which adds up to 19490. That seems a bit more plausible. I know that the steeds can generally be a bit optimistic, maybe as much as ten per cent if I don't air them properly, but twenty-five per cent seems a bit high.</div> <div> Dulcie is supposed to be the deadly accurate one, so what has she been up to while I'm not there? Was she off on moonlit hayrides? Dallying with other travellers while I was furthering my librarian studies? Were her virginal wrappings a mere family deception when we first met? I have written to her family demanding an explanation.</div> Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-62920521307067563062010-03-25T14:30:00.001-07:002010-03-25T14:30:53.267-07:00Wednesday 24th March 2010 - Posting a Letter<div> The trunk remains darkly closed.</div> <div> </div> <div> I found some displacement activity, although it turned out to displace more than I expected.</div> <div> I had to post a letter. I asked Google for the nearest Post Office. Of course, being Google, it showed me every post office in the universe, and left me to narrow things down a bit. The one I picked turned out to be the local sorting office. Dulcie did rather better, and found a real post office next door.</div> <div> Where I was faced with a longish queue and an "APC" (Automated Postal Centre?). I really only wanted to get the correct stamp for whatever weight of letter I had, so, always game for new experience, I went for the ATC. Which promptly started an inquisition: of jesuitical proportions. For example, it wanted to know if my letter was "rigid". Well, depends, dunnit? I wouldn't have considered it "rigid", but the USPS might. The man waiting behind me had no doubt noticed I had one slim letter. He was becoming agitated. I was getting much more "experience" than I had bargained for, so I quietly admitted failure and joined the counter queue: quite a few places behind where I would have been if I gone straight there.</div> <div> When I got to the counter, there was another inquisition. I was sending someone a stamped-addressed-envelope, so they could return something. The letter wasn't sealed, because, well, the stamped-addressed-envelope still needed its stamp, didn't it?. The counter clerk wanted to know if I was going to put anything else in the envelope. Well, I was, wasn't I? Jacques Tati would have done it much better. Everyone would have known to laugh. Instead of getting cross, like they did. Eventually, I lied my way out of trouble.</div> <div> </div> <div> Later that night, I finished Cormac McCarthy's "The Road". It's very good.</div> <div> </div> <div> </div> Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-45775478851908086482010-03-25T13:20:00.001-07:002010-03-25T13:20:58.541-07:00Tuesday 23rd March 2010 - Dodging the Column<div> When I cleared out Rozzie (RIP) last Christmas, I packed everything into bin liners and stuffed them into Silver's trunk. Eight months of just throwing things in the back, and sometimes clearing a space to sleep in had not got them in the best of order. And "AR" (After Rocinante"), I kind-of settled into hand luggage and minimum changing about. If I couldn't find something, I just did without it.</div> <div> Now I have to clear up and put things in order, so I can carry everything on and off the ship. I have to peer into the dankness od Silver's trunk, and haul everything indoors to sort out. It's something I'm not at all keen to do. Probably because it will inevitably be done badly. Most people will say "just get on with it", but I have this feeling that the longer I leave it, the better it will be done when I do it.</div> <div> Or maybe it's just because I'm not very good at it. I don't like doing things I'm not very good at. Or maybe it's the other way round. I've heard it said that the seccret of educating children is to try to spot what they're good at, and then help them do that.. I'm sure that's true. In the mean time, I'm spotting what I'm good at, and encouraging myself to do that, instead of what I have to do.</div> Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-59956193906096263722010-03-23T12:42:00.000-07:002010-03-24T06:50:47.926-07:00Monday 22nd March 2010 - I'll Fly Away<div> The interstates certainly make the case for flying. At least when you fly, you can maintain an interest by reading. And it's safer.</div> <div> I stopped at Portage, ostensibly for a coffee, but really just to see a small town. This is quite a good one, with a thriving centre. The snow has gone and the sun is out. And I feel a bit better.</div> <div> Portage is where the French got off the Fox river, which runs into Lake Michigan at Green Bay, and onto the Wisconsin, which flows into the Mississippi. They had to 'portage' about two miles.</div> <div> </div> <div> And, finally, I'm back in the Twin Cities. I've a bit of business to clear up here, then it's off to the Big Apple for some fun, before I entrust my person to the Cunard Company and the Atlantic.</div>Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-61725947654371610212010-03-23T12:22:00.001-07:002010-03-23T12:31:08.669-07:00Sunday 21st March 2010 - On the Julian Calender, That is<div> I really am a city slicker at heart. Having spent nearly a year out in the boondocks, I've been in the suburbs of Chicago for about five minutes and already I know the train times to town and back. And where to find today's cheapest concert (it's free, actually).</div> <div> This is important, because it's Bach's birthday: unless you happen to be Pope Gregory XIII, in which case you have to wait another 11 days. The Chicago Chamber Orchestra is doing the honours at 3pm. Union Pacific, in deference to the great man, have arranged a conveniently timed train there and (probably) back.</div> <div> Knowing the nickname of this city, I wrap up well. When I arrive at the concert hall, there is a mob on the other side of Michigan Ave, being restrained by mounted policemen, shouting "you're not welcome here"(the mob, not the policemen). I went in to check if I needed to get a number, or anything like that, then came back out to see what they were shouting about. But they were gone. It couldn't have been Bach they were shouting about. Maybe it was me!</div> <div> The concert was very enjoyable</div> <div align="center"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/i_cAbv9X7AVyogj41Ho_PQ?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_JUcvM5KIVkM/S6amFktemPI/AAAAAAAASOg/1Mc7bCeAbko/s400/DSCN1514.JPG" /></a>[n1514]</div> <div align="left">But I do have to say their intonation was a bit iffy in places. (I think when you get a lot of lady fiddlers together, you need a conductor who's a bit of a bastard).</div> <div align="left"> </div> <div align="left"> Back in Glen Ellyn, the Irish pub was doing boiled cabbage. That sounded "efnick" enough to excuse me salad on such a cold night.</div>Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-11559071956998444212010-03-21T17:14:00.001-07:002010-03-21T17:18:50.953-07:00Saturday 20th March 2010 - Back to the Frozen North<div> I toyed with the notion of irritating Dulcie by taking US-6 or 20 to Chicago, just to hear her recalculating again, but I slept in late (it's the country air and the clean living) and there was a nice breakfast place next door, so I let her have her way. She excels herself by getting me onto two Interstates and a toll road all at the same time: not only does this road carry Interstates 80 and 90, it's also the Indiana Turnpike, and so is going to cost money. "Drive 170 miles", she says, and goes to sleep</div> <div> It takes me all the way into the heart of Chicago. When we get onto urban highways, Dulcie really comes into her own: urban drivers are so impatient, but she wakes up and coaches me which lane to be in, and which turn is coming next. Which is a blessing, 'cos it started snowing the minute we hit town. It's still a bit too warm for it to settle on the roads, but the roofs and parks are covered. I can see all this from the highway, because the highway really is high. In fact, it's called the skyway. I wonder if I'll be marooned tomorrow.</div> <div> I'm stopping in a suburb called Glen Ellyn (it might dispute the description), about 20 miles west of the lake shore. Dulcie takes me out the Eisenhower highway, then has to choose between Reagan and Roosevelt. She chooses Roosevelt, which surprises me, since (I must check this) I think Reagan may have been the only president who outspent Roosevelt (Reagan's road, of course, is a toll road).</div> <div> </div> <div> Later that night, I went to Glen Ellyn town centre to suss out the bars. The very first one I find is an 'Irish' bar: I'm clearly back in the big city. A lady comes in and sits beside me (actually, it's the only free seat at the bar). She is clearly grown-up: she's sneaked out of confession for a couple of belters. She's also clearly Irish: she's totally unimpressed by my Lenten fast.</div>Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-18927352063614875012010-03-20T14:29:00.001-07:002010-03-20T14:29:41.717-07:00Friday 19th March 2010 - I've Saved the Worst Bit till the End<div> Dulcie ushers me straight back onto the toll road. Women just love to spend money, don't they?</div> <div> But these toll roads (not all the Interstates are toll roads) are not at all what I've been used to. Usually, every exit is preceded by a list of motels, gas stations, and restaurants. But the toll roads have their own 'service plazas', with their very own franchisees, so they're not about to advertise the competition. And there seems to be a sad lack of those 'meerkat' adverts which advised me everywhere else.</div> <div> I'm so determined to hang on till I see a franchise restaurant I like that I nearly run out of gas. I have to turn off and do a ten mile detour to fill up. Still without any sign of a restaurant: perhaps the toll road owners have some control of the zoning laws. I finally give in to my stomach, and stop at a 'service plaza'. I justify it on the basis that this one is called "Clyde". But, in food terms, it sells only mortal sins, so I duly commit one.</div> <div> And when I get to today's destination, Montpelier (although they now pronounce it in American), the trip turns out to have cost $14, rather more than crossing Chesapeake Bay.</div> <div> </div> <div> Later that night, I drive south about 15 miles to a rather special 1950s diner, which cheered me up again. It's not far from US-6, which runs to Chicago. I wonder if that made Dulcie nervous.</div> Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-38839207029269483472010-03-19T16:19:00.001-07:002010-03-19T16:19:43.581-07:00Thursday 18th March 2010 - The Middle of the End: I-76 West to Pittsburgh<div> The end is nigher! Having indulged myself with a coastal trek from Florida to Delaware, it's now time to turn west, back to base in Minesota, sort out a few bits and pieces before I head back to New York and the Queen Mary home.</div> <div> Having irritated Dulcie for eleven months by keeping her away from the Interstates, it's now time to give her her head. She ushers me up state 41 and US-30 to get to I-76 as quick as possible. On US-30, otherwise known as the Lincoln Highway, I suddenly,and, I might add, unexpectedly, find myself in Paradise. You may be surprised to know that there are a number of motels, of varying quality, in Paradise, as though people didn't expect to stay long. I feel compelled to report that there didn't seem to be anything special about the place at all: sorry about that.</div> <div> As soon as we hit I-76, Dulcie whoops out "continue for 146 miles", and promptly goes to sleep; I can see the attraction it has for her. What she doesn't say, and pretends not to notice, is that this Interstate is a Turnpike, the Pennsylvania Turnpike, whch means I'm going to have to pay. I pick up a ticket on the way in. There is no indication of how much it's going to cost.</div> <div> I-76 takes us up through the Allegheny mountains, where we catch sight of snow again. I haven't seen snow since ... , well, since southern Alabama, actually. We also have to go through a few tunnels, one of which is half closed, and so has two-way traffic. I have to put up with those huge trucks hammering past in the other direction. Even going as slow as 50mph, I feel I'm going to get sucked into the slipstream.</div> <div> But we get to the outskirts of Pittsburgh by late afternoon, without any mishaps.</div> <div> </div> <div> Later that night, it turns out the motel has the best bar in the neighbourhood, so that was a bit of luck. I get to sit near a lady who may or may not have been grown up. She kept telling me that she graduated 'cum laude' from an 'Ivy League' school which she didn't identify, which wasn't very grown-up (the keeping telling me, I mean). But she was also a widow, which I'm sure must be grown-up. She also kept telling me she was a widow: now, why would she do that?</div> Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-35229649423964121432010-03-18T16:15:00.001-07:002010-03-18T16:26:00.393-07:00Wednesday 17th March 2010 - Saint Patrick's Day<div> My wander up the east coast has brought me finally across my previous path, near Glasgow Delaware. Last time I was here, it was thick snow and freezing. Now it's sunny and warm. So I go out for a look about. One of the things I meant to do last time, but was prevented by the weather, was to visit the Amtrak coach repair yards. When I find them, it turns out it's just workshops, with no public presence, like tours or presentations. The guard is very helpful, and gives me an address in Philadelphia I can visit. It's alright for him to talk about going to Philly, he's got a gun.</div> <div> But the trip is not wasted. Next door, I find another bit of Scottish heritage. There is a new development, which they've called St Andrew's. Almost all the street names are Scottish, although they do seem to be something of a golfer's view of Scotland. But they also have Robert Burns, and, puzzlingly, Keats, perhaps honoured for his homage (with the French pronunciation!) on his visit to Burn's grave. There's even a little town square, called Boswell Square, with a bronze plaque eulogising said Boswell ("still regarded by many as the greatest biographer in Western Literature", for example).</div> <div> The piece-de-resistance, however, right in the centre of the development, is, would you believe, "Cardiff Way". The only explanation I can think of for this strange anomaly (apart from the ridiculous notion that people who could eulogise Boswell thought Cardiff was in Scotland) is that Cardiff Way comes to an abrupt end:</div> <div align="center"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/jcrhaHTGVhw0KHdeCkNrWw?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_JUcvM5KIVkM/S6EjAULkVGI/AAAAAAAASE8/nczQt71Aca4/s400/DSCN1504.JPG" /></a>[n1504]</div> <div align="left">Perhaps there is going to be a twin development, with all the street names Welsh. Like "Glasgow", which we all know now is derived from Welsh Gaelic (or 'British', as it was then called)</div> <div align="left"> Anyway, all that Scottish and Welsh diversion seemed a suitable way to spend St Patrick's day. Does anybody know what nationality St P. was? Was he Welsh as well?</div> <div align="left"> </div> <div align="left"> Later that night, I sneaked out to parly with an ex-policeman who claimed to traffic in shoulder patches, to see if he could get one of my missing ones. He certainly talked the talk (his name was Patrick too, and he was festooned with shamrocks). I arranged for an intermediary to act as my agent, but I'm not going to hold my breath, as they say.</div> <div align="left"> </div>Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86627350435133538.post-92169551911317644782010-03-17T13:28:00.001-07:002010-03-17T13:32:31.839-07:00Tuesday 16th March 2010 - Crossing the Channel<div> I'm staying right on US-13, called the Military Highway here in Norfolk. I'm going up through Delaware, to cross over my earlier path near Glasgow (can't leave them alone, eh?) before heading off west. Much to my surprise, I find the motel I stayed in last time is actually on 13, just where I want it, so Dulcie can have the day off.</div> <div> US-13 actually sweeps out across the Chesapeake Bay, in an 18-mile Bridge-Tunnel combo. </div> <div align="center"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/NpxECw2q4bZaj5y5Jgn0Cg?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_JUcvM5KIVkM/S5_4MoF_F-I/AAAAAAAAR_I/qovcyJNsMxg/s400/DSCN1483.JPG" /></a>[n1483]</div> <div align="left">It's mostly a low-level tresle bridge, with two mile-long tunnels and a high(ish) bridge. Including the approach roads, it's 23 miles long, so it's much-of-a-muchness with the tunnel between Britain and France. I wonder how the costs compare? This looks much cheaper, as well as being a lot easier to use. I wonder why this solution wasn't chosen. Could the desire for cross-border control have demanded all that extra engineering?</div> <div> I knew I wouldn't be in Delaware when I got to the other side, but I half-expected Maryland. In fact, it's still Virginia, known as the "Eastern Shore". When we get to Maryland, it seems to have an "Eastern Shore" as well.</div> <div> The weather remains fairly good for the whole journey, so I guess we're travelling behind all the rain the forecasts were warning us about.</div> <div> </div> <div> Later that night, feeling like a rest, I settle down to watch some TV, but the volume of advertising again starts to irritate me. So I went down to the big cinema complex at Glasgow and watched "The Green Zone" instead. I was hoping for something like the Bourne films, so I was rather disappointed. I could have gone to the Digital-3D version of Alice in Wonderland instead, and I wish I had, if only to experience the technology.</div> <div> </div>Mike Slavinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410227427385139439noreply@blogger.com0