You say potato...

Just a brief post today to recount an incident of mild amusement that occurred yesterday.

To set the scene, I had arrived in Austin from Chicago and received a message from my friend Brian, whose place I am staying at. He was calling me to tell me his mobile wasn't working and that he'd be working late, so I should head straight to his place and let myself in with the spare key. I'd stayed at Brian's before so this all seemed fine. I found my way across Austin to Brian's house and from memory located the spare key, which was hanging from a small tree just by the front door. Unforunately just as I went to pluck the key from its perch, a car pulled into the driveway and startled me. I knocked the key from where it hung into a the darkness below. The car belonged to Brian's neighbour who initially viewed me with suspicion, but after I'd convinced her I was a genuine visitor, assisted me gamely in searching for the key. It had fallen in the worst possible place - a dark area of scrubby plants and lots of autumnal leaves. As close to a needle in a haystack as I have encountered. A few minutes of fruitless searching passed under the headlights of the neighbour's car. I suggested she could abandon her assistance if she wanted to get inside. She said she would as she'd had a hard day at work, but offered to leave the car so the lights could continue to guide me.
"Its ok" I said "I've got a torch in my bag."
Cue puzzled look from neighbour. "Isn't that a bit extreme?" she queried.
Now I was confused. "I carry it with me for reading." I offered. "It straps to my head."
My final comment positively baffled the helpful neighbour, but I then had my lightbulb moment (pardon the pun) and recalled a conversation I'd had with Sulakshana just days ago. She was telling me about words we use in England that confuse Americans. Near the top of her list was torch, which to them involves real fire (as in the Olympic torch). Now realising that she thought I wanted to set fire to the undergrowth to find the key and that she was visualising me wearing a firey stick strapped to my noggin, I triumphantly exclaimed that I meant a flashlight. Do you see?

Why did I tell you this story? Lets face it, at best it was vaguely interesting and amusing. Well it just made me realise that this trip has been very easy for me in terms of communicating. This was the first major misinterpretation of my verbals and it suddenly struck me that in a little over a month I will be venturing into a part of the world where my only fluent language will count for very little. The reality of Brazil is creeping up on me quickly and my greatest fear of being unable to communicate in a strange land is gnawing at my sinews. I really should have been practising Portuguese more than I have. However, dear readers, I am here to tell you that I will enter into this challenge a much stronger person. While my trip has presented little challenge in the language department, I feel I have grown in stature immeasurably in the months since I made my break with the comfort zone. I don't know why exactly but I know I feel more aware, more expressive and more confident. I wonder if you will notice a difference (beyond the beard) when I return? I wonder how much more I will change in the next few months?

Isn't life interesting eh?

Fnxgvg

Thats my attempt to create a shorthand version of Thanksgiving (along the lines of xmas for Christmas). Not sure its gonna catch on the way xmas has, but what's life without experimentation?

I've now negotiated American as well as Canadian Thanksgivings. No mean feat I can tell you. This side of the border, the national holiday on the 4th Thursday of November is all about giving thanks for the food that helped the first invaders, er.. sorry, explorers survive when they landed in the New World. Its a celebration that owes a lot to the traditions around harvest festival from the Christian dominated 'old world' of Europe. By the by, the very same day also sees the observence of a National Day of Mourning by a large group of Native Americans (not sure if thats the PC name or not) as a counter-protest of sorts against Thanksgiving in memory of the democide of their people. Democide is defined as 'the murder of any people by government'. That one's not so widely known or celebrated here.

OK, American history lesson over. Here's a quick visual rundown of my US Fnxgvg...I joined A's family (plus a few extras) for Thanksgiving here in Washington DC. This is the assembled posse around the dinner table. From the left we have person x (youngest son) person y (Momma) Tommy Crawsort (you know him) person z (eldest child and girlfriend of Tommy C) alpha (family friend) beta (whose name I can't remember, but who is a lovely Japanese lady who works with Kay) and gamma (Papa). They very kindly took Tom and I under their wing for the turkey feast that was Thanksgiving dinner. Their feast was very similar to Xmas dinner at my house, but with a few subtle differences. Firstly, and most disturbingly, the kids prepared and cooked the feast in its entirety. This is a trend I do not want to see replicated in the Holm household. I'm not being workshy you understand, its just that I know how important the turkey dinner is to my family of gourmands, so to leave it in the hands of the younger generation could well jeopardise the happiness of a family for the festive period. Thankfully some sense prevailed with the culinary duties and Tom (dad, not boyfriend) retained the all-important task of carving the turkey. It seems that some of the tasks associated with fatherhood are the same the world over. Here's Tom taking the electric carver to the lovingly prepared turkey. Take particular note of the colour of the turkey's skin. Can you see the amazing brown glow of it? That there is obtained by barbequeing the whole damn turkey! Have you heard of that before? Well I hadn't, but I tell you it came out looking mighty fine. Tasted pretty good too.

So the kids cook and they bbq the turkey. Different to how we do it, but one thing was very similar to xmas turkey Holm family style and it made me feel very much at home - the dinner was washed down with a good amount of vino. They pulled out the good stuff (hat tip to Niko for this one as it was selected from the Napa Valley trip) and Tom and I obliged as only the finest English gentlemen guest would. Inevitably we were the last men standing at the end of the night (even A couldn't keep up with us - and don't worry I won't write about your drunken antics) and we decided to round of the evening with, what else but experimental slow shutter photography. Hmmm, so this probably makes us look weird. I blame the turkey overdose.




All in all its been another very enjoyable port of call on my rapidly dwindling North American adventure. Aside from eating turkey we managed to squeeze in some tennis, ten-pin bowling, mah jong, a group pilates session, a few good (and some frankly bizarre) movies and a lovely brisk walk along the Billy Goat's Trail. Today I also got a free ticket to an NFL game, which was a lot of fun. I witnessed around 90,000 (its a HUGE stadium) of this country's finest folk cheering, whooping, hollering, yelling and eating their way through four quarters plus overtime of American Football. The game action was of a much higher standard than the college game I went to and I finally ate my first hot dog of the trip as well. It will be my last.

Tomorrow is time for yet another bag packing session as I hit the sky once again. I'm flying to Chicago for the briefest possible stay, before moving onward to the Texas heat of Austin. I really cannot wait to get to some sunshine and hotness. Bring on the sun!

Fare ye well good people.

No Drama; Beard Karma

'Beard Karma' is a term coined by Christopher Luntley of Lemington Spa. It refers to a peculiar phenomenom whereby an equal balance of facial hair is maintained within a circle of friends (typically male) through an unknown, possibly supernatural force. In other words, within any given group of friends, a constant quantity of 'beardiness' is sustained without collusion or prior knowledge. It is a proven example of Newton's Third Law of Motion, that "every action has an equal and opposite reaction". Thus, when one member of the circle removes (or shaves) his beard, another member will aquire (or grow) a beard, thereby maintaining the equilibrium of 'beardiness'. Case in point: recently I (Alan) grew a beard for the first time. Simultaneously, Jake (a member of the same circle of friends as I) removed his own long-standing goatee beard (via the commonly used shaving method). This is 'beard karma' in action. It is therefore to be expected that as Jake re-grows his ginger goatee (which is inevitable) either myself, or Chris will remove our beards to retain the beard equilibrium. Similarly, should Obi carry out his threat and grow a beard to match his new found CEO status, Chris or I will find our beards removed. We have no issues with Niko as he is unable to grow any kind of beard (a situation unlikely to change without the intervention of hormonal treatment).

As you can tell by this in depth analysis, there's nowt much goin down right now. Still jus chillin in Chicago, successfully saving precious quids and avoiding the deep freeze outside. In the past few days I have walked every square inch of downtown Chicago and taken a gazillion photos (largely experimental). My quest for culture has once again seen me thwarted by museums that are over-priced, closed, impossible to find or simply not even built yet (that one made me feel a little silly) but I have managed to attend an excellent poetry evening and seen 2 films (including Harry Potter, which in all honesty I found a little disappointing). Rich culture I'm sure you'll agree. So all in all, I will fly to Washington for my US Thanksgiving experience tomorrow thoroughly refreshed in all departments. I think I deserve a big pat on the back.

In keeping with the principles of 'beard karma', I will balance this email out by returning to the subject of beards for closure. I know my beard is the burning issue in most of your hearts right now, so I'll provide you with a much-needed update as to its progress. After letting him (I assume all beards are male?) run free from the fear of the evil triple-blades for roughly six weeks, 'Mad'Mach3 was unleashed yesterday. I felt the need to smarten myself up for the family Thanksgiving I'm attending and as the visual evidence below proves, the runaway full face beard was having an adverse affect on my state of mind...

I did not want to undo all the hard work of the past month and a half completely, so I opted for a styled goatee/sideburns look. Again, you can judge for yourself, but I believe the resultant style could be bracketed in the French poet/jazz musician category. With a bit more work on the length it could just make it to modern-day muskateer status.

Oh you girls (and Niko) really don't know what you're missing! Ithangyoo.

Steamy windows

Its official - I'm running out of steam. I'm well into the second half of this trip now and all of a sudden I feel like the momentum that's been with me since the summer is finally starting to wane. Hence why this Friday night is to be spent cooking a pasta dinner, listening to music and watching more NBA on tv. There are multiple reasons for my current momentum-less malaise. Firstly I'm making a conscious effort to be frugal and the best way is always to avoid doing anything. The money situation began to worry me this week. I booked my flight to Brazil and bought the new camera on the same day (goodbye £1250) and with all the NY excesses, my voluptuous savings pot, suddenly felt a little more emaciated. The post-NY effect has also hit my health as well as my wallet. As I mentioned in a previous blog, the body told me to stop drinking and eat a bit better. I have consented to its wishes. Thirdly, its extremely cold here in Chicago - a factor which is undoubtedly dampening my appetite for outdoors exploration. From the moment I stepped off the evil Amtrak train, its been like living in a freezer. The air temperature has only hovered around freezing, but the wind is the work of the devil. It swoops in with venom from Lake Michigan, whipping and biting like a wintry cat'o'nine tails. Yesterday I wore thick gloves, woolly hat, 2 t-shirts, 2 jumpers and 2 coats and I still had to come home earlier than planned due to the onset of frostbite. Apparently this is nothing compared to how it gets in mid-winter, but even the locals seemed peeved at this viscious Arctic snap when the weather has been so mild of late. The final reason why I'm running out of metaphorical steam is that I've started thinking (and getting excited about) whats around the corner, namely xmas and new years at home in England, quickly followed by the big Brazilian adventure. There seems to be a lot happening back in England, especially in London and I feel a bit out of it. Its a strange feeling to know I'm here of my own volition and enjoying it immensely, but craving the life I left behind. I've contented myself with the realisation that one of the main reasons I'm doing what I'm doing is to freshen up my life and when I eventually get back to the London lifestyle (which I think is inevitable) everything will be just the same, but very different. So I can still look forward to Brazil with fervour, especially now I've booked my flight and we have 2 confirmed bookings for our Kabula Journeys trip. This is really exciting, but kind of scary as we suddenly realise this is serious business and we're gonna have to pull off this whole cultural tourism business for real. I can't wait!

Wow - I feel so much better already just for writing this blog. I highly recommend this blogging lark - you should all give it a go. Its seriously therapeutic. I'll leave you with another excellent form of therapy - laughter. Nice one soks...



So long, farewell, auf wiedersen, adieu.

The Calm After the Storm

I’m on the train – the last train. This one takes me from Boston to Chicago. It’s a big one, nearly 24 hours, but it’s the last one. I’m in a familiar position: reclining in a train seat with the autumnal colours of the world passing me at trundling speed. The vintage 70’s upholstery blends effortlessly with the golden browns in the woods outside. All around me are silent, dozing people going to who knows where for who knows what.

My current calm surroundings are a fitting epithet to the past week in Boston, which was a welcome return to more slow-paced activities after the storm that was New York. As with most cities I’ve visited my expectations and plans were virtually non-existent due to my lack of research. I like doing this as it leaves me as flexible as possible and makes my discoveries all the more exciting. It’s also helpful when you’re staying with friends as they inevitably have plans that will impact the possibilities.

On this trip, I’ve learned to recognise signs from my body that it needs some rest and a bit of detox. As a result, my time here was spent undertaking leisurely activities such as meandering around Boston and nearby Harvard, reading, watching basketball on TV, shopping for cameras and sleeping. The drinking was minimised, with the exception of one all day drinking session when Dai and I went out for brunch and accidentally mistook a pub for a shop as we wandered around the centre of his nearest town. It was only going to be one or two as we were due at a party that evening. However, two soon turned into five after the party host neglected to return Dai’s calls. The lack of party was no issue. We filled the time sat at a bar watching football (ours) and football (theirs) and catching up on several years worth of conversation. Dai seems to be one of those people that can hold up a conversation with me for unlimited time. It made me sorry that he’d only stayed in York for one year, but I guess it meant we had much more to talk about. What better way to follow an afternoon drinking beer than to eat the best goddam hamburger I’ve ever tasted. Dai had hyped up this burger place, but it was incredible – the perfect way to absorb all that alcohol. Post-burger we sought out another bar to prop up. Several hours later, we emerged thoroughly worse for ware. We laughed heartily as we stumbled home, largely due to my comically inept attempts to chat up an unsuspecting college girl as we left. Flush from my recent successes, I did what I normally never do and initiated conversation. Unfortunately my drunkenness vastly outweighed the beard magic and I came out with the somewhat bizarre statement that she “smelled like the tropics”. As you can imagine she was truly baffled by this one and vanished within seconds, leaving me to ponder where ‘the tropics’ actually were, what they smell like and why my brain saw fit to pluck this comment from the ether. The drawing board beckons.

The other main event of my Bostonian experience was on Sunday when Dai and I went to see the Boston Celtics play the Houston Rockets. This trip has so far enabled me to fulfil a number of ambitions and here was another opportunity. I’d always wanted to see basketball played at the highest level and was excited at the prospect of seeing the Chinese giant Yao Ming (he’s 7 foot 6) Tracy McGrady and Paul Pierce (two of the most exciting scorers in the league) at the home of the legendary Celtics. Dai did try to warn me, but it was a terrible disappointment. We shelled out $50 for seats that got us a position hanging from the ceiling in the upper balcony – miles from the action. I’d really wanted to see close up how these monster athletes performed, but we might as well have been watching on TV. The game itself was abysmal. Houston were really out of sorts and Boston cruised to an easy victory without even playing well. The three big stars everyone was there to see grossly underperformed and if it wasn’t for Boston’s Raef LaFrentz nailing 7 consecutive 3-pointers in the first half, there would have been nothing to remember about the game. I left the stadium ruing my decision to insist we go. My only consolation was the knowledge that empty-headed idiots who pay stupid money for tickets, then scream and yell moronic abuse at the players and leave 10 minutes before the game, can be found in this country as well as football matches in England. Not a great consolation, but something.

That’s all for now. Hopefully more exciting tales to come from Chicago. I’ll leave you to ponder on how bad the trains in England really are as I enjoy yet another prolonged stationary moment in my 70s throwback train. We’re currently surrounded by brown swamp land. No announcements as usual. Que sera sera.

Postscript...now in Chicago. Train journey was a disaster - never ever travel on Amtrak. Its just not worth it. They really make British trains seem like the best in the world.

Who wants a rewind?

As a great man once said: "Alright, OK." Things have slipped, I'm behind on events. Poor blogmanship, but its all been a bit crazy. I cheated a bit with the last post, which was one I'd prepared earlier. Time for a rewind on fast-forward, so buckle up and enjoy the ride.

Lets go back a exactly one week to the evening immediately after the events recorded on my last post. I was in Washington with Tom and Alissa. After a day sight-seeing we met some friends of Alissa's for a Bengali vegetarian meal. It was extremely tasty and filling (I greedily went for an 'all you can eat special' and didn't come close to finishing the first helping). There then followed a pretty boozy night out, largely spent in a very pleasant rooftop bar in a lively strip of bars in DC. More friends of Alissa's showed up and we spent the evening conversing in depth on everything from Thatcher and Blair to spotting virgins to sexual encounters in Brazil. We even got animated, firing hi-fives across the table for no apparent reason. All in all a good night was had. We rounded it off with a HUGE slice of pizza, a strange venture into a late night bar, where we were the only 3 white people in the building (I know what Clapham feels like now Obi) and a peculiar episode on the kitchen floor when Alissa abandoned her petting of Simpson the dog to niftily remove Tom's troosers before my very eyes (it was all in the name of laundry you'll be relieved to hear).

Next day we all slept in late. We'd drunk more than we realised and the plan of driving to Philly to check out Tom's new place, before heading onto NYC was never really in with a chance. As it was we sensibly skipped Philly and headed straight back to the Big Apple, where the craziness was about to begin again. We were headed to a rendez-vous with one of Alissa's friends, at whose apartment we would spend the night. After a journey filled with highly innovative car games (including a spelling bee, name all the states in the US/counties in the UK, capital cities, rivers - you get the idea) and which revealed that American service stations are as terrible as ours, we arrived in the heart of New York. Our destination was the Ritz-Carlton in the very swanky lower end of Manhattan - a stone's throw from the World Trade Centre emptiness. We'd been told that our host was a Russian-American, that she was pretty well off and that she was a little on the insensitive side. I prepared myself for an entertaining ride - no disappointments. After dropping the car off with the doorman (posh) we stroll through the lobby to the lift and whizz up to the 25th floor (posher). We are greeted at the door by a yapping, hyperactive designer pooch (very posh) and are welcomed into a seriously nice girl-bachelor pad, complete with huge plasma screen, designer furniture and city-scape view (extreme poshness). Alissa's friend Alina turns out to be very nice and not at all insensitive. We are made to feel very welcome and settle down to some more boozing. There are no plans for the night - she doesn't usually go out on Saturdays - but something will turn up, we're told. A strange looking guy arrives. He's a photographer. He likes pushing the boundries. He's currently working on some voyeuristic S&M sexual fantasy stuff. This is New York.

We drink vodka. We go out. Alina drives (drinking and driving really doesn't seem to be an issue over here) us in her brand new pimped up drop-top Mini Cooper. Somehow we all squeeze in and we cruise through the mean streets of NYC with the top down. We're meeting Alissa's brother at a bar, but we're out as soon as we're in. Its too busy for Alina. We move on to an innocuous bar across the street and sit down to drink. I start talking to the photographer and find out he's into jungle. He seems to know his stuff and I'm excited when he tells me there's a cool underground jungle party happening on Monday. I will later regret this conversation. Meanwhile we've been joined by Alissa's brother, who by all accounts is a proper city playboy. He's accompanied by a mild-mannered blonde girl who turns out to be a random from Maryland he picked up playing games on the internet. This also causes issues later on. Unfortunately we're moved on from this bar as time ticks on and end up at another bar, where Alina knows the DJ. As soon as we arrive the music is shut down due to a fight erupting on the staircase. We weren't involved, but it curtailed the action at this bar. From here on in things start getting a little loopy.

Outside the bar we agree to head back to Alina's pad for some after hours partying. We can't all get in the mini, so its a taxi job right? Wrong. Someone's on the blower and in minutes a limo pulls up - and not just any limo. This is the famous (apparently) Al, owner of the hippest limo in New York. Six of us ease in where we find disco lights, a mirror ball and Hendrix blaring from the sound-system. Beers and other treats are handed round and we settle in for the ride back to the Ritz-Carlton. Back in the swank-pad, the vodka's flowing and the assembled 15 or so people are partying away. Then about 10 very smartly dressed people all around 40 years of age pile through the door clutching bottles and looking thrilled to have found a party. It seems that Alissa in her drunkenness has invited up a group of total strangers from a black-tie do in the neighbouring hotel. Alinna is not impressed and insists they be removed. To her credit Alissa packs the bemused fools out of the door telling them they're at the wrong apprtment and should be at 37D. Just then Alina punched me in the face and split my lip. Entirely accidental you understand, but nonetheless caused me to hold tissues to my bleeding lip for the next 30 mins. In my verbally incapacitated state, I was brutally taken advantage of by a very talkative chap known as Gurk. He was a friend of the photographer and was from the Bronx. Seemed innocent enough, but proceeded to corner me for hours (literally) with inexplicable, incomprensible chatter about life growing up in his 'hood. I struggled to understand his accent. I struggled to grasp his tales of playground attacks involving rings made from sandpaper (??!!??). I failed to interject with anything meaningful, resorting to nods and "mmhmms". I found out the next day that Gurk was high as a kite on crystal meths and god knows what else. If I hadn't been so pissed I probably would have been very scared. Just before Alissa rescued me and put me to bed, she drunkenly announced with great vigour that Alina thought I was hot and wanted me to stay at her place for the next few days. Dazed and confused by the evening's events I crashed out.

I woke the next morning on the floor. I looked up and found myself blearily staring at a spooky painting that looked like a very expensive work by an old master. I look to my left and above me is an imposing, but higly ornate dressing table, sitting under a preposterously over-adorned antique mirror. A glance to the other side revealed a vast solid mahogany bed that judging from the muffled chatter contained Tom and Alissa. My memory fuzzed back to me. We were in the appartment next door to Alina's that is owned by her fabulously wealthy parents. Tom and I explore this place and find a treasure trove of antique furniture, gaudy but expensive mirrors and artwork and the kind of ornaments you don't go near. Its clearly never been lived in, its like a museum - the strangest show-house you'll ever see. There are stunning views over the river towards New Jersey. It must cost millions, yet here's Thomas and myself, hungover, wandering around in our t-shirts and pants gaping at what's before us. Not much else happens that day, but we have a nice walk on the riverfront and admire the Statue of Liberty, then go out for dinner. Tom and Alissa leave me with Alina as they're staying at Alissa's brother's place. I'm slightly concerned about being left alone with Alina after Alissa's revelations the previous night, but back myself to handle it. Alina is a lovely girl, but not really for me. Luckily tiredness gets the better of both of us and we just go to bed - me on the couch.

If you're still with me, stick with it. There's one more crazy tale to come.

Next day, I meet Tom and Alissa before they head off to Philly. Alissa's interview went well and the sun's out again. I mill around for the day failing to get into any museums and end up back at the flat with Alina. She wants to take me out again tonight to meet some of her friends. I'd heard about these friends - they were models - and was intrigued to see what the evening would bring. The first model, a Danish guy called Jeppe, joined us at the flat for more vodka. This guy was clearly a male model - 6'2, chiselled features, cheeky boyish looks, trendy hair cut, the works. He was a pretty funny guy and revealed a bit of personality, though also a little arrogance - inevitable I guess. We head out in the mini to meet model number 2 - Jason. This guy had been a big shot (he'd done Prada campaigns and worked with Kate Moss) but was pure Zoolander. If you haven't seen the film, its all about bimbo male models. I think they modelled Zoolander on Jason. The guy took dull to a new level. Most of the evening he drivelled on about playing pool, while getting progressively more drunk to the extent that he slurred to incoherence. His vocabulary was so confused that he managed to grossly offend Alina by describing her as asexual, then androgynous. He was only trying to say that her accent was hard to place! Model number 3 was a different affair. Female, Brazilian, 20 years old, witheringly beautiful - Camilla. I seized on the Brazilian link and within minutes had her phone number and an insistance that I stay with her mother when I visit Sao Paulo. I kid you not (its the beard!). Alas, Jeppe (a male model, I might remind you) held more attraction to young Camilla and my chances of an almighty conquest that night were doomed. Jeppe earned a black eye from his girlfriend for his exploits with Camilla, leaving his upcoming photo-shoot in jeopardy. Who wants to be a model?

The night had a couple more twists. Alina now became keen to head to the jungle party mentioned by the photographer guy earlier in the weekend. She was obviously keen to hook up with this guy and I was up for some drum'n'bass, so we hop in the mini and head over. We get in and check it out. Its a monday night, so not packed. Pretty small, dark and dingy. About average for jungle, but the music is strange. Its disgustingly dark and dirty, like nothing else I've heard before. The beats are irregular (kind of like squarepusher) and there's lots of heavy heavy bass. I don't like it - its disturbing - the sonic equivalent of a rape scene. Alina spots her photographer beau, but he acts cold and isn't interested. She's confused, doesn't know why he'd act like this. She quizzes me, but I don't know, I tell her. Suddenly I'm her confidante, protector and window to the male pysche. Then we run into Gurk, the crazy guy from Saturday. He's talking weird again, about how he got stuck on the subway train. I notice his crazy eyes and decide I really don't want to be here. Alina tries one last shot with photographer, but to no avail. Thankfully we leave and head home. I was generously invited into bed on our return and concurred having spent uncomfortable nights on the floor then the couch previously. I was still backing myself to resist her advances despite the intoxication and very close quarters. I pulled out my secret weapon and proceeded to talk the pair of us to sleep. It worked a treat. I spent the following night in bed with Alina (and Bunny the Italian greyhound) with the same result. I seem to be getting good at sleeping with women, but not having sex. There's an irony there somewhere.

So that was New York. Out and out crazy. A few days living the NY socialite lifestyle had left me physically and mentally exhausted and with my wallet in tatters. I was very glad to get onto the train to Boston, where I now find myself. I'm staying with Dai, another old basketball buddy from York. There's not much going on in Boston, but apparently I'm going to a party at a billionaire's mansion tomorrow, then hopefully to an NBA game on Sunday.

Finally, I'm saddened to report the near-death of my camera. It didn't survive me dropping it on the floor and is now not functioning. After careful deliberation, I decided to take advantage of the cheap prices here and invest in a digital SLR. All of a sudden, the money is disappearing at a rate of knots. If only I had a job...

In memorium

I’m now in my second capital city of this trip – Washington DC, home of good old George W Bush. This fine, orderly city is also the temporary home of Thomas SC Crawford (aka Tbol, The B*llock, Seedy Crawsort etc). Tom, as most choose to name him, is one of the York crew who has recently emigrated out here to be near his lovely lady Alissa. He’s actually gonna be living in Philadelphia just up the road, but for the time being he’s a resident of Alissa’s family home in a lovely leafy part of DC. I was so pleased to see Tom (and George) that I had to give them both a hug.



I haven’t got much time here just now (I’m coming back here at the end of the month for Thanksgiving) but yesterday we managed to squeeze in some sightseeing. We checked out the White House, despite being told off by a couple of uniformed folk for straying into an excluded zone. Its much bigger than I realised, but in essence is exactly what it says on the tin – a white house. Just around the corner from George’s pad are a number of memorials. This is the area of the capital made famous in films like Forrest Gump, with the Lincoln Memorial at one end of a huge mall that stretches all the way to Capitol Hill, via the big rectangular lake and the mighty obelisk in the centre of the mall. I think this is where the anti-Vietnam million man march took place. We went to the Lincoln Memorial and admired Abe sat imperiously on his oversized chair. Unfortunately he was surrounded by a cage of scaffold which spoilt the effect a little. Tom excelled himself by copying a little boy and sliding down a marble slope that forms part of the memorial. Not quite the poignant reflection that is intended, but it was very funny and I managed to capture it on film.

Before the Lincoln memorial, we’d taken in two more memorials dedicated to the fallen many of previous wars. They couldn’t have been more contrasting. The recently opened WW2 memorial is a bold granite and water feature monument that seems to have been designed to reflect the epic sweep of this conflict and the innumerable lives lost. The nearby Vietnam War memorial is a much lower key affair, which is subtle enough to capture the sense of regret associated with the messy conflict, while paying due respect and honour to all the slain soldiers. I liked them both, but I think the Vietnam monument has been more sensitively designed and constructed in a way that reminded of me of the extremely moving Holocaust memorial in the centre of Berlin.

The names of every man and woman who died in Vietnam between 1959 and 1972 are inscribed on the face of the memorial. To help visitors locate their departed family, friends and comrades, an indexing book is provided that lists all the remembered by surname. We decided to see if anyone with our names was commemorated on the memorial. There were a page of Crawfords and numerous Crouses (Alissa’s surname) but to my huge surprise there were also four Holms. I looked a little closer and saw that one of them was Private (First Class) Alan Holm. How unusual. Never before have I encountered someone who shares my name. I continued to study the detail on Pte Holm’s entry. Date of birth 20th July 1949 – just 3 days off being born 30 years to the day before me. This was too spooky. I instantly felt a peculiar bond with my namesake and after noting the year of his death (1972 – the final year of the war – he was just 23) I went on a mission to find his name on the memorial. He was one of the last names on the list, evidently being unlucky enough to have perished as the messy affair was in its closing stages. I decided I will look into this guy on the internet and see if I can find any more info about him – my long lost former self.

As if that whole experience wasn’t strange enough, the day also included a highly surreal episode that involved Tom freeing a demented squirrel that had become trapped in a rubbish bin. Now that doesn’t happen every day. Not to me anyway.

Hasta la vista.

Start speadin the news...

Today I woke up at 1.45pm - I'd slept for over 14 hours. This is something I haven't achieved since the heady days of 1st year at York, when I rightfully claimed the title of 'Biggest Sleeper on the Corridor' after consistently sleeping 12 hours plus and setting the record for latest rise at 5.35pm. A mammoth sleep was necessary as I've been livin life New York style for the past few days. There was also a girl involved, but more on that later.

On Sunday I met up with Brian, my buddy from Kabula in Austin who is working in NYC this week. I've been crashing at the appartment he uses when he's in town, and on Sunday we went for a wander around the city. We took the subway (which is nowhere near as good as the Tube - Londoners should realise how lucky they are) over to the site of the World Trade Centre. I had wanted to check this out anyway, but Brian was keen as he had been in there before 9/11 and the company he now works for (Cantor Fitzgerald) occupied the top five floors of one of the towers and lost almost their entire staff. Its a very strange place. Right now it is an empty space that is about to become a building site for the new Freedom Tower that will replace the collapsed towers. It has to be the most visited building site in the world. There were lots of tourists around taking in the emptiness. Very surreal. Up until I went there, I couldn't get my head round the events of September 11th. I'd only seen them on TV and it still felt like something from a film, but going there definitely made it more real for me. I overheard a local guy explaining to a lady that a huge tower behind me (maybe 40-50 stories) is only half the height of the Twin Towers. Suddenly imagining two buildings of that size burning, then collapsing made me shudder. It must have been insane for the people of New York. A couple of things did disturb me a little about this memorial site, things I saw that were a little too much like propaganda for my liking. In the middle of the empty space a cross has been erected from two steel girders that were left over from the debris. Now I know this is a mostly Christian nation, but I thought this symbol was just too provocative given the deep anti-Islam feeling that 9/11 produced across the world. The feeling I had that this site was being used as a propaganda vehicle was compounded by some of language in the literature that has been put up around the site. Knowing that the site would become an attraction for tourists, the authorities have put up lots of informational boards to tell people all about the building's history, the events of 9/11 and to pay tribute to those who lost their lives and the people who tried to save them. Its mostly good stuff, but its really let down by constant reference to the people who died in the attacks as 'heroes'. If you take out the fire-fighters, police and other rescuers who had to risk their lives by going into the Towers, I find this description inappropriate. The people who died were simply people like you and I, but they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was nothing heroic about them and to me, the use of such language smacked of trying to produce a 'them and us' attitude. I know this is just my perspective, but its things like this that make me realise why so many people have strong feelings about this country.

Afterwards Brian and I walked around a cool part of New York called TriBeCa. We were planning to visit a famous capoeira school then head to a Brazilian night being hosted by a friend of Brian's. After a couple of beers, we realised it was too late for the capoeira, then we found out that Brian's friend was in Chicago and there was no Brazilian night to go to. Our plans were in tatters, but we ploughed on like troopers and found our way to another bar. At this point the night (and my next 2 days) took an unexpected twist. A young lady approached our table and asked if we could spare a stool. I was instantly taken with her smile, and flirtily offered to carry the spare stool over to their table (they were heavy stools!). Havin thrown in a few charming English words for good measure, a flashed my smile at the 3 girls on the table and headed back to Brian. Had I been on my own, nothing more would have happened (me being the shy Englishman that I am) but Brian (being the brash Texan he is) insisted I go back and invite the 3 girls to our table. So off I strode and delivered an irresistable invitation to our table. Much to my surprise and relief (finally not chagrin) they smiled and agreed. So it was that Brian and I spent the next hour with Vicky the Puerto Rican, Christine the Costa Rican and Jen, from England. We were getting on very well. Vicky departed, but the four who remained went on to a resteraunt. Things were still going well. Christine then departed, to leave Brian and I with Jen. We decided to hit another bar and after a bit of dilly-dallying, found a nice Brazilian place where we enjoyed some fantastic caipirinhas. At this point I was quite excited. Jen was the girl who had originally asked for the stool and I was hooked on her smile. Brian was being a wing-man extraordinaire and we were all pleasantly drunk. Brian then made his excuses and left us, before calling us within minutes to say he'd found a cool place playing live Brazilian jazz. After one more drink here then a beer at a German pub Jen and I were getting on like a house on fire. As the night drew to a close we walked back to find the subway. Normally I'm crap at this stuff, but I held out and held out until the moment was just right, then made my move. Apparently over an hour elapsed before the amorous clinch ended. I had no idea. We were both staying with friends, so made our separate ways home. Arrangements had been made to meet the following day after her interview (the reason for being in NY) was over. I went to bed feeling very happy with myself!

The next day I suffered from something which I think should be a clinical disorder - I call it 'Expecting Phonecall Paranoia'. I'm sure this is common place - you're waiting for an important phonecall, time passes, it doesn't come, more time passes, still no call. The brain is racing with all kinds of ridiculous thoughts seeking explanation for the lack of phone action. On this occasion my mind came up with numerous options, most of which were highly paranoid. I had 'she clearly doesn't want to meet up again', then 'she was mugged and didn't make it home last night', then 'she's messing with me and will only call later', and 'she's gone off with the sexy older man who interviewed her'. It was fairly late on when my little brain finally got to 'being a little pissed, she wrote my number down wrong' which turned out to be the correct answer. Thankfully, I had her friend's mobile number and one call gave me the answer to the connundrum as well as the girls plans for the evening. Finally contented, I headed home to ready myself for another night out.

This evening out was highly eventful. I'm mindful that I've already written a lot for one entry so I'll keep it brief. It was Halloween in New York. This is a celebration I had written off as a misguided excuse for purely commercial benefit. I still maintain that it exists mostly to support the lucrative pumpkin industry (and by the way Trick or Treat is just wrong) but I now appreciate that its also a great excuse for people to dress up and go crazy in the dark days after summer as the cold winter approaches. People round here take Halloween seriously and there was a real buzz about the city. Almost everyone you saw was dressed up in some form or another and everyone had big smiles on their faces. Knowing that I was heading to a party where costumes were obligatory, I scoured the city for an impromptu outfit. After a fruitless search, I finally settled on a pair of white and black gardening gloves, a silver baking tray and a lot of creativity (It was a space halloween theme). I met Christine and Jen at the club and we had a great time. Jen and I picked up where we left off and everyone was happy until an unfortunate encounter with a lookie-likie for Andre 3000 (the crazy one from Outkast) left us all feeling very worse for ware. Lets just say he offered us something that had very unexpected repercussions. That was pretty much the end of the night.

Unfortunately Jen was leaving the next day, so we spent most of the day together. We sat in Central Park, walked around Chelsea and drank some very nice tea before she had to go. She lives in London, so I'm hoping we'll meet up again when I get home. Kind of ironic though that when all my hopes for this trip were around wooing American girls with my English accent, it was an English girl that fell for my gentlemanly charms! Also a huge stroke of luck that I stumbled across a girl who particularly likes beards and stubble (I haven't shaved for several weeks).

So there you go. A holiday romance for me. Today I went to the top of the Empire State Building and took in the breathtaking views. I timed it brilliantly and saw the sunset - its incredible and worth the $20. Tomorrow I'm off to Washington DC to meet Tom, who is now moved to the US. Not entirely sure what's happening, but I know Tom has a plan! I'm sure you're all bored by now, so I'll end it here.

Until the next post...