31.  Where has all of the Coffee gone?

So there we were, sweaty, dishevelled, slightly shaking and at a tourist information centre in Michigan. To say that we needed coffee was an understatement; I am sure a caffeine boost would have at best synched our heart rates and shaking, or at the very least just settled us down.

And coffee, that very dear subject, was one of the biggest changes I had noticed in America since our last visit. Last time we visited, coffee was free and everywhere. Often when driving along the autostrada(104), we would spot a sign that read something like ‘Stop, Revive and Drive, Sponsored by the First Church of the Great Shepherd’. So naturally enough, off the lovely smooth Oregon road we would go! Only to be confronted by a bunch of clucky, scarily happy American do-gooders determined to bless us with good free coffee, huge chocolate cookies and wishes of ‘Have a good day’. And if society’s do-gooders were not on the road, well we just needed to follow the information centre signs, because all of them had free, fresh take-away coffee percolating in anticipation of being taken for a drive.

But oddly enough, I seemed to be the only person in the entire world who knew this. Over the past number of years, I have told almost every American I know about how easy it is to get free coffee in  their country. Most of them looked at me as if I had two heads and a strange accent and then followed this up with a polite smile. This is a normal way for many Americans to politely disagree. Though it does seem that Americans’ methods of disagreeing vary according to their circumstances. For example if I had said ‘America had lots of free coffee and bad healthcare’, then I think many of them would have politely quizzed me. But better still, if I had said this with a CNN television camera trained on me with a live link to the entire world, then I would have been verbally challenged by someone throwing their arms around, on the verge of tears and screaming, not at me but at the television audience. Television cameras and live news feeds are definitely one of the demons for America’s international reputation.

But never mind, I am off the subject again. My point was that information centres were consistent with the rest of twenty-first century America; just couldn’t get a free coffee anywhere. And the strange thing is, everyone seemed to know this but me.

Another thing, as beautiful as Michigan was, it had disgusting water. With not being able to find a coffee, I walked to the water-fountain and filled up my water. I took one drink of it and spat it back out. What a bad day we were having…., a never-ending goat track, no coffee and bad water. We were narrowly saved by having heaps of peanuts.

Well we were hungry, it was lunch time. Sharon loves KFC and I love those ostentatious free-way fast-food signs.  It kind of passes the time during the boredom of driving and endlessly searching for wherever NPR has moved to on the bandwidth. Not only that, the signs are all designed for the sight-impaired and can be read, proof-read and corrected into English all at least a mile before the town. So we drove along miles of quiet free-way, past miles of brown grass on flat land and past spasmodic collections of gory shaped and coloured fast-food and gas station signs. We drove and we drove and we drove. We past towns like St Joseph, Kalamazoo, Battle Creek and Charlotte. We drove so long without a break and were so hungry and so sick of peanuts that the pages of our ‘Road Master’ were actually looking appetising. Then out of nowhere, which is also known as Potterville, Michigan, we spied a Taco Bell sign and out of frustration, decided to brave the lethal stares of at least all four of the local townsfolk and substitute our tired hopes of a KFC for this lonely, slightly tatty Taco Bell.

We were clearly the first customer that this Taco Bell had seen for quite some time. The ‘Fat Albert’ look alike behind the counter was so, so happy to see us. A wide warm smile spread across his cute chubby cheeks, whilst his dancing eyes wobbled around his skull in anticipation of an order being placed. He greeted us, arms spread out, with something like a ‘How ya’ll doing folks, what can I give you today?’ And then he did the weirdest of all things, he waited. He waited all of a few seconds, before slowly his dancing eyes narrowed and focused on us and his grin subsided into a confused frown. And I watched his face change from Santa Claus beauty to Homer Simpson bewilderment as the startled realisation dawned upon him that we did not have a clue what to order.

It is a peculiar thing about Americans. They seem to have a sixth sense that allows them to perceive what they want to order in every fast-food restaurant before entering the building. I mean, you watch Americans order food. They can walk into seemingly any restaurant anywhere in the country and walk straight up to the counter and order exactly what they want. I think the only reason why places like Taco Bell have menu boards is to humour us foreigners.

Fat Albert, the excellent advertisement for his food, slowed down long enough for his smile to return and his eyes to dance again. The sight in front of him clearly amused him. There we were, road worn, cranky and giddy from hunger, staring blankly at the menu board. From the outside it looked like the lights were on and nobody was at home. On the inside we were frantically trying to compare prices, pictures and words, but nothing seemed to make logical sense. So I asked Fat Albert, ‘What is good?’ American service industry strikes again, he started bouncing on the spot with excitement, with his ears twitching as he launched into a monotone monologue. Which of course, due to our hunger and culture shock we heard none of, but by now our eyes had fixed on a two-shades-of-yellow picture with a price beside it, which was somewhere near the bottom of the price tree. We pointed and grunted and he performed his joyful duty for us.

However unlike during my first American visit, when presented with an empty paper cup, I found a drinks machine and filled it up with root-beer. My drinks debacle happened on my first visit to Hill Country Texas. I was straight off the plane from nine months in New South Wales(105), which incidentally, minus a kangaroo or two, looks quite similar to this part of Texas. After being picked up from the airport, I was driven to a week long Camp Counsellor training session. At the end of the week we were all taken into town for a meal and this was my first taste of American restaurant culture. My poor little head was swimming and sinking well before we got to the restaurant, I was totally fixated on the car number-plates and the heat. Whilst I was dreaming, everyone else was focused on eating. Of course, they all walked in, ordered and were seated in about thirty seconds flat, whereas me, well I was last in the door, it took me forever to order, and then came my ‘moment’.

Yes, my moment. I ordered a 7UP. Upon hearing my request, the freakishly friendly perfect example of the American service industry presented me with an empty cup. I looked at this cup, picked it up and dreamily handed it back to her and said ‘Oh I am sorry, I asked for a 7UP, this is empty’. To which Little-Miss-Smiley-Freaky-Shoes replied, ‘Yes that is right Sir’ and handed me back the empty cup. Confused and tiring of this game really quickly, I picked up the empty cup and placed it on the counter in front of her and said, ‘Oh I am sorry, you don’t seem to understand, but I would like to drink a 7UP, this cup is empty’. She replied ‘I understand Sir’ and gave me back the cup. The only thing that my head was computing was this lassy’s irritating smile, the rest of it was like a popcorn machine on steroids. But then as if it was the beautiful sound of God himself, a voice perpetrated the clatter of combusting popcorn and rescued me from this fresh soda-pop hell I had stumbled across. Amongst the clamour I clearly heard the angelic words of ‘chirp chirp’. Somewhere on the periphery of my hearing was the blessed conversation of an Australian budgie. At last something that was familiar to me in this situation. I said to the still smiling bundle of perkiness, ‘Excuse me, I will be back’. And at that I fair dinkum ran to the pet shop that was a couple of doors down the strip mall(106). I went straight to the budgies and chatted away to them until my emotional instability faded enough to notice the concerned stares of the shop assistant. With my newfound sense of peace, I returned to the restaurant and asked the Little-Miss-Perky exactly how to get 7UP into my cup. Without batting an eyelid, she pointed to the drinks machine with a really cool turbo-ice-cube-chucker around the corner. And thus I learned about American drinks machines and having to fill up that cup myself.

The stuff on our plates looked more like Mexican vomit than Mexican food, but all the same it was quite palatable and filled a rather deep hole.

From here, Betsie, us and our bellies full of Taco Bell clamoured our way though Flint and on towards the Canadian border.

Next week read about how cute Canada really is and how road signs really should be written.

For past chapters click here. Or look on the side panel.

You may have noticed some bracketed numbers in this chapter. These numbers correspond with explanations and definitions that are in an accompanying glossary. To read the glossary you will need to by the yet to be released book. Sorry!

And to donate towards the production of the ‘Clueless in America’, just click on the button.

30. It wasn’t O’Hare.

Yeah that is right, it was not O’Hare, I screwed up. We flew domestic so we arrived at Chicago’s other airport. I am really pleased to have finished the previous chapter, it was a lame attempt to cover a subject that is still brewing in me, but maybe I will address it another time.

Within seemingly seconds of arriving at the terminal, the news reached us that Obama had basically waltzed into the office of President. It was greeted with some excitement among the cabin crew and one couldn’t help but think that we really were at an epoch-changing time in American history. For me, I will always remember November 14, 2008 for three reasons. Firstly, because it was the day that I was given the hugest bag of salted peanuts that I have ever seen by Southwest. Secondly, because a promising black man became President and thirdly, because it was the day I screwed up my airline tickets. It was my one big lack-of-attention-to-detail-dyslexic-mistake. I had somehow managed to change our 19:35 departure to a 07:35 departure. I realised it the day before, so it didn’t affect us too much. We spent more time in Texas and less time in Canada and our friend picking us up at the airport had to stay up later rather than collect us at lunch time.

And here we were at the airport, being picked up just after midnight. It seemed that the USA had been divided into two emotional camps; there were those running around seemingly unable to hide their gleeful smiles and then there were the melancholic others who all looked as if they were driving home from their mother’s funeral. It was actually quite funny to watch. Our driver and host definitely fitted his side of the fence. It was his third of four airport visits at our expense. His and his wife’s servant hearts really made our trip a lot easier. On the way home I couldn’t help but notice how all of the home-front political signs seemed to reflect the moods of their home owners. The McCain signs just seemed to look depressed, whilst the Obama signs seemed to be dancing on the end of their wooden stake supports. On arrival at our friends’ home, we looked at the same New Zealand pictures on the wall and tucked ourselves into the same bed as we had two weeks ago. We had an averagely early morning start with a cooked breakfast, grabbed our peanuts and most of our luggage, jandals exempted, and set off for Canada.

Now I have thought long and hard on the subject I am about to write about, and the importance of it has weighed heavily upon my wee mind, thus affecting my fleeting sleep patterns. Our Chicago friend lent us a car for the final two weeks of our visit. We drove this car from Chicago to Ontario and then back through Chicago to a place simply called ‘Up North’. The car was a very faithful white Toyota Camry. At a guess, supported by a wee bit of ‘google'(95), it was about a 1992 model. The car was in tidy condition, but not so perfect that I needed to be terrified about scratching it or parking it on the wrong street. The car was also mechanically sound enough for me not to need to worry about it breaking down or being stranded on the side of the road ‘Up North’ and not speaking the language.

I do not usually find the need to name cars, but for the sake of not having to say that I Camried north, I am giving this one a name. As I have said, I have thought long and hard on this subject and have come up with the name of ‘Betsie’. Why Betsie? Well, for me the name conjures up two images. The first is of a Kiwi cow cocky’s wife. I can see her in my mind’s eye now, so let me explain. She is, well to say the least, plump and robust and barefoot in a blue flowery apron. She is looking over a kitchen sink out a window at a line of macrocarpa(96) providing shelter for chook(97) sheds and eventually down a flowing Otago(98) hill onto cow paddocks(99). The sky is cloudy, sunny, blue and deceptively cold. In her arms is a large bowl of dough and in her hand is a lovingly-used wooden spoon. On the bench amongst general clutter are a mixer(100) and jars of preserved fruit, and behind her is a large, over-flowing, whipped cream-filled(101) ‘Fisher and Paykel'(102) fridge/freezer unit. Betsie is faithfully being the engine room of the farm, providing a place of warmth and nourishment. When Betsie is not happy, then as with the consumption of old whipped cream, the whole body starts to bloat and fold over on itself.

And then my second image is of ‘Betsie’ the dairy cow. Faithfully every morning she wanders down the hill into the milking shed to romantically dispense of her produce before meandering back up the hill for another busy day of looking picture postcard idyllic. She only interrupts this somewhat strenuous routine to return to the shed to donate yet another bucket full of potential whipped cream.

Both Betsies were faithful and functional with a Betsie kind of beauty. And thus I now officially christen the Camry Betsie.

So armed with a free, poorly-bound 2003 Road Master Atlas, we chucked Betsie into reverse and pulled out of the drive and the security of our friends’ home to conquer such exotic sounding places as London and ‘Up North’.

If Betsie was a horse, she would know her way, but she wasn’t a horse and nor were we. We never officially got lost but read on.

The roads we experienced in Northern California, Idaho and Texas were great. Free flowing, well lit, well signposted and very smooth. But for some reason, Illinois had to be different. Her roads were totally clogged, hellishly dark even in the day time, bizarrely signposted and at their very best, represented a gruelling, muddy, off-road four-wheel-drive track. To be specific, Chicago roads were absolutely shocking. And ironically, as soon as we jumped on the many toll-ways, things got notably worse. Not only did the shocking roads go metaphorically down hill, but traffic was always clogged up merging into single lanes, trying in vain attempts to skirt round Chicago’s endless supply of roadworks.

And roadworks in itself, are a bizarre concept. The road doesn’t work, that is the problem, so why put a sign up saying the road works when for the next forty miles you will be merging into that single lane followed by four closed off-ramps, each supporting an unreachable KFC sign. The relevance of that comment will come into its own soon enough. From now on let’s get it right and call it ‘road-no-works’ And as for the I294, from now on I will just refer to that as ‘The World’s Most Expensive Goat Track’. At least we knew where our toll money was being spent; on supporting those never-ending roadworks.

I mean, we totally embarrassed Betsie, I hope for her sake that none of her friends were watching. We spent ninety percent of our Goat Track time totally terrified and confused, the other ten percent we spent laughing at the road signs. So what freaked us?

American trucks are not that big, I think they call them eighteen wheelers or something like that. But when you are being forced to travel about fifty miles-per-hour in a thirty zone and you have one in front of you, one behind you, another to your left and another stinkin’ one to your right, well they start looking pretty stinkin’ big. And for us, no sooner would something like this happen, than we would spot flying past us a sign that would say something like ‘detour to Detroit, exit next right’. I would let out a frantic-bloodcurdling scream and shout ‘Did you see that sign?’ Panic-ridden, I would slam on the indicator and jerk my eyes towards the passenger side rear vision mirror, only to find it blocked by our oversized, and in this instance, particularly-useless roadmap, with the face of a desperately stressing Sharon buried deep inside, trying to work out if we should have been on the last detour four intersections back. I would look over Sharon’s shoulder under the tray of the eighteen wheeler beside us, only to see some clown in his sports car shaving or reading or something equally as stupid in such a life-defining moment as this. For a fleeting moment I would flirt with the notion of just sliding under the trailer of that eighteen wheeler beside us, there seemed to be plenty of room there. In the mean-time Betsie, with her indicators and break lights rapidly flying on and off, was starting to resemble an embarrassed Fourth of July fireworks display.

At one stage whilst being thankful for good health insurance, we were caught in a similar situation. We noticed two signs, one said something like ‘detour to Detroit straight ahead’ and the other said ‘detour to Detroit exit next right’. We indicated, switched the indicator off, stressed, braked, accelerated and just gave up and followed the track ahead. We really needed a sign on the back window that read ‘Stupid foreigners on-board, please treat with extreme caution’. Instead we had a sign that read ‘US Marine Corps’. Which for those following us was probably translated into ‘this soldier has seen one battle too many’.

I mean let’s put this into perspective. I am from Aotearoa New Zealand. I know I could stop there and all would be explained, but read on. Our number three city has the rather tranquil name of Christchurch, there is one road and one ferry which connects it to our number one city, our capital called Wellington. That road connects our southern island that happens to be rather creatively named the ‘South Island’ with our northern island that is rather embarrassingly named the ‘North Island’. That road is called ‘State Highway One’. Why State Highway One? Well because it is pretty much the only ‘one’, like the only road that you will ever need to travel on, and by default this makes it our country’s busiest road. Now you need to understand that this road is one lane each way, with the occasional passing lane. Heading north between Cheviot and Wellington, at the bottom of a hill motorists are confronted with the one-lane Awatere Bridge(103). This is like only one lane, with traffic lights at each end to stop north-bound and south-bound cars colliding. But if that is not enough, the bridge is two storied with a single train track running over the top.

So pull me out of this culture and slap me on ‘The World’s Most Expensive Goat Track’ and so far I think that I am doing pretty darn good.

The other thing we had a lot of problems with whilst nervously bouncing along the ‘Goat Track’ was, when the hang are we supposed to pay those toll fees? It was totally unclear to us. I do not remember paying a toll upon entering the ‘Goat Track’, but after a few miles of travelling comfortably along in the centre lane we found a sign that read something like ‘right hand lane for toll booth’. So after some daredevil stunt manoeuvres whilst searching wallets and purses for coins, we lined up and paid. And then seemingly after just a few more miles we saw the same sign. So we got over to the right and paid again. But this time I noticed that there were three open lanes on the left-hand side that seemed to amble past the toll booth. Then again seemingly after just a few miles there was another sign suggesting we go to the toll booth to pay yet again. This time we were caught map-searching-rear-vision-blocking-truck-encased in the middle lane and totally missed the toll booth. Oh well, what could be done? The next one we just looked at and puzzled over; were we supposed to stop or could we keep going? And before we knew it, we had sailed the choppy waters of Illinois, Indiana and had stopped or perhaps stalled in an information centre on the Michigan border. Anyone who saw us there, must have wondered what the hang had happened. Here we were sitting under some lovely trees in front of a very embarrassed and angry Betsie, sweating, shaking, thanking God for our lives and praising him that the ‘Goat Track’ was behind us. We sat there for quite some time in the fall sun, drinking water and munching on Southwest peanuts, just waiting for our heart rates to settle down. The  I294 aka ‘The World’s Most Expensive Goat Track’, east and west can only be described as one long, horrifying, torturous experience. You know those poor water-boarded fellows down Guantanamo way? If the US government had sentenced them to an afternoon on the I294 then they would have confessed everything and some more, and the only part of them that would have been wet would have been their pants. Not only this, a whole heap of future Pakistani and Afghani terrorist attacks could have been averted. Somehow the administration missed that one.

Next week read about about a KFC worker writing road signs and learn what one particular Canadian thinks about Americans.

For past chapters click here. Or look on the side panel.

You may have noticed some bracketed numbers in this chapter. These numbers correspond with explanations and definitions that are in an accompanying glossary. To read the glossary you will need to by the yet to be released book. Sorry!

And to donate towards the production of the ‘Clueless in America’, just click on the button.

29. Need another Horse for the Race.

Oh gosh, where do I start on this chapter? Another generalisation, Americans are usually very reluctant to speak about politics. But this was election time and many many people were free and open to discuss Cain verses Obama. What a blessing and an eye opener it was to be here during this season.

In my experience, with some exceptions, it really is true that the south is Republican and the north is Democrat. One of the rather confused exceptions in the north is the Church. I would think that most of the Church in the north is Republican, but there is a very strong and healthy Democratic wing. I think that most of them are hiding. Why? Well as a friend said to me, “When I say that I am a Democrat, then my Christianity is doubted. As if I cannot love God and be a Democrat”.

As I see it, and as I understand a lot of American Christians also see it, the American electoral system is fundamentally flawed. America desperately needs another horse in the race. I mean as a Christian, I could not vote for either the Republican or the Democratic parties. I just couldn’t do it. I could not vote for the Republican stance on healthcare, its treatment of the poor, its love of the death penalty, let alone the Bush administration’s violations of human rights in its international prisons. But on the other hand, I would have a very hard time voting for the Democratic stances on the legalisation of prostitution and its liberal stances on genetically modified food and clone cell research. Then we start on the whole breakdown of the family, gay marriages and gay couples and single people adopting kids. These issues and many more from the right and the left are at the spearhead of Christian politics. These are things that we are often scared to talk about. Wouldn’t it be nice if even one party was allowed to come forth and collectively talk about these things? America needs, at least, a centrist party. But the problem is there would be no point in voting for them. Because of America’s electoral system, a centrist party could never gain any power.

Many other countries in the world have a ‘mixed member proportional representation’ system, or simply MMP. At a national level, rather than being a ‘first past the post’ system, the larger left and right parties, depending on how many votes they accrued, are usually forced to form a coalition with smaller parties. Not only does this stop the larger parties from becoming democratically-elected dictators but it also gives a lot of power to minority parties. It means that if you are so inclined, then it is worth voting for the Green party, Christian Democrats, Legalisation of Marijuana party, Gay Marriage party or whoever else takes your fancy. These smaller parties actually get some power and can either make changes and/or prevent the far right and left from getting polarised.

Polarisation in politics is very dangerous and very much seemed to be where America was at when we visited.

The smear campaign seemed to be part of your average street Democrat’s arsenal. Democrats often just looked at the Bush administration and laughed at it, as if it was just some long bad joke. Though unlike most Republicans, Democrats were willing to talk policy, with healthcare being near the top of the list. Though Hilary often got a hard time in Democrat circles, many Democrats didn’t care which one of them came to power, they just wanted the Republican reign to end.

And as for the Republican camp, either they could not speak policy or were not willing to. Most of their conversations were focused on…. and non-Americans I kid you not, I was totally gob-smacked the first time I heard it… many of the Republicans we met were focused on Obama being a terrorist and a Muslim. My friends are intelligent, I just cannot understand how some of them could think this way. Of course they could be right, I mean Obama could have somehow evaded all of the security checks that he must have gone through during the early days of his political career and presidential campaign. Not to mention the hordes of Republicans who are probably still looking for chinks in his armour. We could discover that the next terrorist attack on American soil was orchestrated by none other than its President, unlikely, but possible.

Then there is the Muslim thing. As I understand it, we vote for the person who is best qualified to lead our nation. We vote for the person who has the country’s best interests at heart. We don’t vote on grounds of religion, or do we? If a Muslim is the best person to run the country, then what is wrong with that? As a Christian I would much rather have a Muslim run my nation than an atheist or even than someone who doesn’t have a belief structure. Of course if a Christian was campaigning for a party that I was affiliated with, well then if her or his policy was sound, I would vote accordingly. But I wouldn’t blanketly just throw out a candidate based on religion, race or gender.

Anyhow this has been a horrible and boring chapter to write, I am looking forward to writing my way into O’Hare airport and discovering that the USA has voted in a new President. Not a black one, not a white, but a multi-racial and multi-cultural one.

Next week read about Betsie and the worlds most expensive goat track

For past chapters click here. Or look on the side panel.

You may have noticed some bracketed numbers in this chapter. These numbers correspond with explanations and definitions that are in an accompanying glossary. To read the glossary you will need to by the yet to be released book. Sorry!

And to donate towards the production of the ‘Clueless in America’, just click on the button.

Ta!

28. The Chapter where I Lose my Friends.

Well first I want to talk about race. Not a Lance Armstrong race, but race. I still have fond memories of my first few minutes ever spent in the USA. Some fourteen or so years back, I flew into a beautiful San Francisco sunrise. I was so excited, I was travelling with an empty wallet and a youthful lust for adventure. Everything was new and exciting, I was even fascinated by the toilets that were full to the brim with water. Well actually at first I just thought that they were broken, I couldn’t comprehend at that stage that people would actually willingly waste so much water. America has changed, I did not encounter one sailable toilet this visit. Anyhow back to the airport and race. It was on a moving walkway in San Francisco airport where at the ripe old age of twenty six, I spotted my first ever black man. I was fascinated, I had never ever seen chocolate-coloured skin before. I rushed up to him on the walkway and stood there all of a few centimetres behind him and just peered at the back of his neck. I still remember clearly that his skin was different shades of chocolate. It did not look real to me, I fought the temptation to lick my thumb and see if I could smudge off the blackness. It was a weird, freaky and exciting experience. Unfortunately I was unable to overcome my natural shyness and actually talk to the person.

The point is, I had no idea that all these years later I would not have had the chance to actually talk to a black American peer. I did meet two black Americans in the Philippines, one was some kind of weird Muslim-witch-gun-smuggler guy and the other was a healthcare professional and a friend of a friend.

Fair enough, my American friends are mostly middle-class and are mostly either conservative evangelicals or teetering on the liberal end of the evangelical class. So naturally enough these people’s churches and their friends were mostly white. But the fact that I have yet to speak to a black American peer, shocks me. And what about the Hispanic population? There are almost as many Hispanics in America as there are white people, why did I not meet any of these people?

We did meet one person of colour. We went to this kind of cool party, but it was one of those parties where everyone knew everyone and no one needed to meet Sharon and I or this Japanese dude and his girlfriend. But when there are four Nigels(94) in a room, then a party can be a party. We sat down with this Japanese dude and his girl friend for ages, in fact to pass the time or maybe to create boredom we explained to them the rules of cricket. This party conversation was one of two encounters I had with a coloured person during this American visit. The second person I encountered was at a Sunday morning church service. This inner-city church probably had about twenty to twenty five percent of its congregation coloured. It was beautiful to see and I was excited of the possibility of hopefully getting to speak to a coloured person. I simply wanted to find out what kind of people they were. After church a group of about six of them stood in the foyer drinking coffee. I am shy and not naturally good at meeting new people. So I stood just on the outside of their circle hoping that one of them might actually bring me into their conversation. It seemed that in the foyer black people were speaking to black people and white people were speaking to white people. I watched these black people, they didn’t really act a lot different, I mean their hand gestures were stereotypically more exaggerated than many of us whities. But they looked normal, I hung off this group for about five minutes, couldn’t pluck up the courage to just bounce on into their conversation and after a while just gave up. But one of their kids was on all fours on the floor playing with a toy red fire engine, so I got down on the floor and played with him for a wee bit. This kid was the second coloured person with whom I interacted.

But that was my peer to peer encounters, all of them. However, really I did meet lots of Hispanic and black people, oh yeah these people groups were everywhere. That is everywhere in the service industry, serving us whities. Like airport check-in staff, gas station staff, rental car staff, department store staff. However, well-to-do stores had white people serving in them and cafes almost entirely had white people serving and drinking in them. I was totally shocked that multi-cultural America was a land of ghettoised social classes that a shy person like me did not have a chance of breaking through during a four week visit.

I once listened to a conversation between a male Russian and an American college student. One was advocating socialism and the other was advocating democracy. What an eye-opener into both cultures it was. The American dude seemed to be pushing strongly two lies. The first was that in American democracy, the person with the most votes wins. Not true, look at Bush verses Gore in 2000. Don’t worry about that, the other lie that this young white American lad was pushing forward was that the USA was the oldest democracy in the world.  This is total trash and for goodness sake I hope this ignorant lad did not learn this in the school system. If universal suffrage is the hallmark of democracy then the USA did not become a democracy until 1965 when the black people were permitted by the whites to vote. With this in mind, then I can somewhat understand the existing economic racism in America. I am not saying that this is an intentional racism, but I am saying that holding an underclass of people hostage to the freedom of political power until 1965 is a wound that will take many more decades to heal and balance out. And to me that explains, fire-truck kid exempt, why one hundred percent of the black people that I encountered were serving me. I felt like a slave master, which clearly in American society is another healing but open wound. Why are we oppressors so stinking slow to become aware of, repent of and to attempt to rectify the injustices that we for so many years took advantage of? And of course in our segregated classest societies we mostly, but not necessarily totally, still unintentionally benefit from the wounds of racism that we created. We are still happily and firmly entrenched at the top echelons of society’s ladder.

Sure Obama is now the president, but one black man at the top does not come anywhere close to balancing out the millions of black people at the bottom of the ladder.

I can understand the Hispanic immigrant populations taking time to crawl their way up the ladder, that’s cool. But still, as I understand it there are quite different expectations on them in America’s school systems. Thus it appears that the playing field may not be level here either.

I just want to say that, like seemingly all of Britain’s colonies and attempted colonies, America never was white and any chance of making it a prominently European cast off culture were given away with the arrival of the first slave ship. So how about we reach out a little more and start trying to understand our African American and Hispanic American brothers and sisters? And for goodness sake let’s get that notion un-wedged from deep down inside out hearts that somehow we are slightly superior to people of other races. And maybe we are slightly superior, but that is not because of the colour of our skin or of the ethnicity of our forefathers, it is because many of us and our European forefathers are guilty of being the conquerors, colonialists and oppressors. What is slightly superior anyhow? All of our blood runs red, if our kin has been held down by ourselves or our forefathers, let’s lend a hand from our hearts and fight for emotional, economic and political equality.

And then there are the American Indians. As we say in Lithuanian ‘Aš nieko nesuprantu’. Or I very much so do not understand. But I will talk about them in context later.

Please forgive me if I have offended your nationhood. I am just an opinionated Kiwi who was blessed enough to be a visitor of your wonderful land and to meet many of your wonderful people. What would I know after a four week visit? I can tell you a not-so-secret-secret and that is, that most of our nations which were settled by the British have the same struggles.

For next issue, don’t miss my horrible chapter about a race that needs another horse..

For past chapters click here. Or look on the side panel.

You may have noticed some bracketed numbers in this chapter. These numbers correspond with explanations and definitions that are in an accompanying glossary. To read the glossary you will need to by the yet to be released book. Sorry!

And to donate towards the production of the ‘Clueless in America’, just click on the button.

Ta!

[singlepic id=349 w=320 h=240 float=none]

Just thought just in case anybody was interested that I would endeavour to explain my process of writing.

I guess the first thing to remember is that I never meant to write this story. It is all done by memory and lacks attention to any detail that is worthwhile. This is intentional and what I like the most about my writing.

My favourite place to write is in cafes. There I can think, the hub and the bub of people talking, cups clanging and of course the cappuccino machine foaming, seems to just kick me into action. Usually I manage to sit on the one coffee for a few hours and write hard. Though in cafes I do miss google and dictionary.com. The luxury of cafe writing is something that is usually reserved for holidays. It is during my holidays where I manage to get ahead of my blog. Usually the latest chapter posted at out for lunch was written a minimum of three weeks earlier.

I have a day job, unpaid but a day job. out for lunch and late for supper are my hobbies and are designed not to conflict with the other six days of the week. I write like clock-work on Monday mornings between breakfast and the gym or between 10am and 12noon.

Naturally enough I start with making the coffee. Coffee is important to my writing, it is my comfort drink and no doubt the caffeine helps as well. Next it is time to wake up the computer and release the jazz from its file. Jazz because it is groovy without words. I cannot think words and listen to words at the same time. Oscar Peterson is by far my favourite artist. Then I open the file that is marked by a tree and titled ‘Ziploc’, followed by opening out for lunch, google and my dictionaries. Next I amble into the kitchen and gather my coffee. My favourite coffee is a fare trade organic Caffe L’affare. But anything fair trade and organic works well for me. Next I log into facebook and often tweeter and let the world know what I am drinking, to whom I am listening and that I am writing the Ziploc Bag.

Now I am ready to start the process. The first thing I do is go over the corrections from the last chapter whcih Sharon checked. I am dyslexic and the frustrating side of that gift is the many spelling and grammar mistakes that I make. Then I read through all of the previous unchecked unpublished chapters. This makes Sharon’s job easier and also helps me get into the zone. Once all this is done, I write.

Writing for me is like surfing. I just float out there on the waters of my imagination continuously scanning my peripherals waiting for the wave that is going to carry me in. So what this means is that I just start writing the story, knowing that sooner or later I will get excited about something in the story. I always like to write about the other side of the coin, so often when I am writing I start gazing at the art on my desk and turning over the coins of simple subjects; when I find an interesting one, the creative juices start flowing and all of a sudden I am on the wave enjoying the journey. Next thing I know the two hours are up and it is time to push the save button. I do use my photographs and our old journey itinerary to help my memory, but when I get in the zone things are surprisingly clear.

The last thing I do in the morning is print any chapters that I have checked and give them to Sharon to check during the week. Then I am off to the gym.

After the gym, after lunch and after an episode of ‘Star Trek’ I return the Ziploc Bag. It is time to put it on the blog. With practice this has become a relatively simple affair. I add the ‘read about blah blah next week blurb, put my Paypal donation button on and then post it. After it is posted and checked on-line, I add the link to the chapter on the Ziploc Bag page and the blog sidebar.  And then finally when America comes on-line I facebook and tweet that the chapter is posted. And that is how it is written.

It is my dream and hope to put it in book form and sell it. The book will have a few extras that will not be available on-line. This is my bait to lure you into a sale. Among other things I plan on adding an extensive and funny glossary of ‘Kel slang’.

Any money donated or earned through out for lunch and late for supper to date goes straight back into my art. I am also very keen to invest into other artists who believe their artistic abilities are a gift from God and who exercise a kingdom approach to their art. If this is you and you are trying to find your artistic feet, please feel free to contact me.

Thank you so much to all of you who have been reading, I do enjoy your comments on facebook and at out for lunch, please keep them coming. And thanks to all of those who indirectly help make both out for lunch and late for supper possible.

And that is me for this wee boring blurb, hope it was helpful.

Cheers Kel

The art on my desk is a Lithuanian calendar that lacks February and November.
A Tomas Seckus painting of a child.
And a Brian Nisbett photo of a Scottish loch on a trademark overcast day.

Thank you so much to those of you who provided this. I am very much so looking forward to my cafe writing week in September. I will keep you informed of the adventure. Cheers Kel

Hey next month I will be needing to write in cafes. Please help make this possible by adding to my coffee fuel fund. Previously I have written in the Hotel Pagegiai cafe, Pagegiai, Lithuania and in the Katiyas Tejai Tirgotava, Sigulda, Latvia. These were both very good experiences, cafes are definitely my favorite place to write. So please help be get ahead and keep America the Land of the Ziploc bag weekly.

Thank Guys.

Cheers Kel

27. A Dire Warning for all Readers.

I know that thus far, you, the tortured readers, have got used to my chronological, royal Oxford English, overly intellectual, terribly factual and frustratingly unopinionated style of writing. I am intrigued that as I have blogged these past twenty six chapters, you have found it necessary to leave comments, and to facebook me your opinions. This has been much appreciated, but for the next chapter we just need to take a break from the status quo, to sit back, grab a wee cup of strong coffee and get uptight.

For indeed in the next chapter I am going to talk about stuff, stuff in the purest sense of the word. Stuff that either passed in front of my eyes or through my ears during our North American shenanigans. Chronology is out the door, in chapter 28, I will be pop-corning stuff and events. I will be monologing from Redding to Madison, Star to La Crescent, all in the one overly simple sentence. Things are going to get a little out of hand and way out of order, but rest assured it will just be for one or two chapters.

The reason for this is that I do not want to reveal the political and social views of my friends. I mean I did not plan on writing this story, how would you feel if your mate(93) visited you for a few gruelling days and then blogged your conversations to the known universe? So far my friends have been very grace-giving and amused if not bemused. But if I was suddenly to say that my New York friends thought that Sarah Palin was an alien spy, sent to earth to study Russia from her front room, to read all of the un-named local Alaskan newspapers and to infiltrate the American hockey Mom fraternity, well then they would have good reason to be either proud or justifiably peeved at me. Especially because many of the people I visited during this trip are well known by my facebooking, tweeting and blog-reading buddies.  So in an effort to put some ice on a possibly heated conversation, the subjects of politics, race and possibly a few other things that could flash through that wee mind of mine will be confined to a couple of pan-American chapters.

So are we settled on that? Good I hope so, if not well then perhaps you should stop reading and pick up the story again as we drive into Canada. But for now, please put your seat belts on and suck down that coffee.

If you are game enough, come back next week to read about sailable toilets and American democracy from 1965.

For past chapters click here. Or look on the side panel.

You may have noticed some bracketed numbers in this chapter. These numbers correspond with explanations and definitions that are in an accompanying glossary. To read the glossary you will need to by the yet to be released book. Sorry!

And to donate towards the production of the ‘Clueless in America’, just click on the button.

Ta!

What, how and why?

‘Twas 2008 when God blessed us with a trip to the USA, euphemistically known as America. What is that about, ‘one nation under God’ claiming the name of a whole continent as its very own? I learnt on this trip that America was  full of anomalies. Well actually I think I learnt that during my early addiction to ‘The Dukes of Hazard’. For sorry Lithuanian-based-Kiwis like myself, America is one big cultural hazard.

Don’t get me wrong, I survived it, loved it and ate too much. But as the fat faded from my belly, the juxtapositions trampolining in my brain just would not rest and I mean would not rest. I was tormented with such questions as ‘why is the mid-west neither in the middle nor the west?’ The great American phenomenon of therapy was needed. Hence the ‘Ziploc Bag’, my self-medication, came into creation.

I did not mean to write about my trip. I just woke up one morning and thought, enough is enough and ever since I have been trying to write it out of my head.

This is still a work in progress. Chapters are being edited, a glossary and other add-ons are yet to be written. But please feel free to read.

Chapter 01. Leaving

Chapter 02. Chicago

Chapter o3. Southwest Airlines

Chapter o4. California and the rental car

Chapter 05. Just Two Stops

Chapter 06. Redding

Chapter 07. The Healing Service

Chapter 08. The Sunday Services

Chapter 09. Farewell Redding and California.

Chapter 10. Idaho

Chapter 11. Steam boat

Chapter 12. Grandmother ship

Chapter 13. Not Williamson’s Orchard

Chapter 14. Is it heaven or is it Texas?

Chapter 15. Where did that year go?

Chapter 16. Puss-Filled Pimple

Chapter 17. Fredricksberg

Chapter 18. The Cafe that I forgot the name of

Chapter 19. Pumpkin Head

Chapter 19a. A hiccup on the road. Help needed!!!

Chapter 20. Hallelujah

Chapter 21. A Truly Sacred Institution

Chaprer 22. My Weird Friend

Chapter 23. Giving Thanks and Taking Thanks

Chapter 24. The Church bit

Chapter 25. A Most Ridiculous Command.

Chapter 25a. coffee fuel

Chapter 26. Good bye and fare ye well Texas

Did you enjoy it? Please leave comments on my blog and let me know. Also though the price to produce the ‘Ziploc Bag’ is minimal, please feel free to donate towards its production. Its production is costing me money and I am un-waged.

Once again please feel free to

towards its production.

Watch this space for more.

Cheers

Kel

26. Good bye and fare ye well Texas

Well, leaving Texas was a simple and sad affair. First we Honda’d to the outside of town to visit the evil-empire of Wal-Mart. I like supporting the independents and the little fellas but from time to time I capitulate and visit the multi-nationals, thus helping the rich to get richer and the poor to get poorer. The real world is the River Walk, full of mystic and imagination, Wal-Mart on the other hand is the stuff of horror stories, full of voidness, nothingness and totally stripped of any resemblance of the celebration of humanity and our mono-theistic God. But unfortunately in order to find a soap bag I had to leave the celebration and sortie into the void.

However the void did throw up one little hellish surprise for me. I needed a wee soap bag size conditioner bottle. Gotta keep that goatee nice and soft. I figured I may as well buy a full one. Oh my goodness, how do you Americans do it? The celebrations of scent in this bottle of conditioner, conditioned me into an out-of-the-void, out-of-this-world-experience. Smearing that stuff under my nose took me to the celebration of South East Asia, coconut trees, romanticised humidity and boco salad(88). This stuff smelt so good that the temptation was for this man to miss his flight and spend the rest of his day in the pinnacle of the celebration, commonly known as the shower, conditioning his goatee. Oh yes, God really does penetrate hell.

Moving right along, I blessed China with the smallest possible portion of our wallets and returned home for my final dose of cold, yummy Texan bbq ribs and for our wiggly fare ye wells. Yes and yes, it was photo time. A tripod, two cameras, four adults, three kids and the hot Texas sun. The sun would not have been an issue if this dumb Kiwi had understood earlier that it is better to take such photos inside. My outside attempts had everyone squinting and screwing up their faces, looking about as attractive as blubbering Klingons. So on the advice of the Texans in the situation, we moved inside and clicked our way through a half dozen wiggly kiddied photos. Photos that are doomed or destined to spend the rest of their life either stuck in the vaults of a computer or chilling on the door of a Baltic fridge. Cool eh!

So as sad as it was, and all hugged up, we Honda’d south with a camera full of fresh memories. We were, or at least I was, many many bbq sauce pounds heavier as we entered San Anton airport. It was election day and not just any election day, but nonetheless the day that the first black person was to become the president of the world’s only superpower. Consequently and I don’t know why, but the airport that was a colourful mass of sweaty humanity only last week was now almost totally empty. It seemed that we were the only people flying into Chicago on election night.

Before we were even allowed to check in we were approached by a typically friendly and smiley  Hispanic American woman wearing the uniform of some kind of security person. She scanned our bags and made sure that our water bottles were empty. It was a little bit freaky, because really, practically no one was in the airport. A few check-in staff, a few police officers, a security person and the three of us. We said our good byes to our friend, thanked him for dropping us off, crossed through the security quadrant and set out to find check-in. From check-in the priority was to find a television, this was election night and very soon the results would start rolling in. I think most people in America realised deep in their hearts that McCain did not stand a chance. It was just a matter of seeing how much he would lose by and of course everyone was interested to see just how Obama would win. So we sat down and watched some of the exit polls, but we were mostly too early.

I actually had to go ask an attendant if they could turn up CNN for us so that we could listen. No sooner had they done this than did people start congregating around our tele. A slightly overweight man with a brief case and a hard hat sat down beside me. I lent over to him and asked him who he was voting for? His Houston accent replied ‘Obama’. Flabbergasted at meeting someone so far south of the Mason-Dixie line who actually was willing to mention Obama in a positive light, I asked him why? He went into a long speel about healthcare and taxes. I was fascinated and then asked a whole heap of questions to see if he was Christian or not. The answer was he seemed to be a Bible-belt casual believer, but perhaps not the classical evangelical definition of Christian.  We talked for a while and then we jumped in our numerical ordered Southwest queue, checked for final election results and jumped on the plane.

Our first stop naturally enough was Houston, and it was here where three quarters of the plane emptied out. There were perhaps about six of us left for the final election night leg into Chicago, Illinois. Our flight was delayed for quite some time. On the previous leg a whole bunch of Southwest employees had commuted home to Houston. Naturally enough they all had pretty much identical khaki uniforms and flight cases. It seemed that one of these employees had inadvertently taken one of our hostesses’ bags, things were quite tense for a while, the flight crew and all six or so passengers were worried that her bag had been stolen by a bad-egg passenger. It was a good time to glean more election results from the ground crew and an excellent chance for me to have a final bash at hassling the wonderful and fun Southwest cabin staff. This time I did a quick calculation on how many empty seats there were on the plane and suggested that the democrat hostess should give me the corresponding amount of bags of peanuts. The hostess’ face taut into a Southwest sly and cheeky smile, which meant that even on election night and one bag down, she was willing to step up to the crease and come in to bat(89). Barely decipherable from a now huge cheeky grin came the words ‘Sure, if you think you can eat’em all before you get off the plane, you can hav’em’. Oh she was whacking the ball over the boundary(90), but my goodness, the fat lady had not sung yet, I jumped into the grandstand, bounded up the stairs and caught that ball before it went out of the stadium. My reply was ‘Sure I will give that a go’. It probably meant that I would need to eat about a hundred bags of peanuts in the next few hours. But shoot what a great election night memory this was shaping up to be.

It was about at this time, when the missing cabin bag was found and we received our last election up-date, which incidentally was something like ‘It doesn’t seem that McCain has much of a chance, this is Obama’s night’. While we were taxiing down the runway, my cheeky hostess produced a huge bag of many packets of peanuts and said ‘You can eat’em now or take them home’. There was no need for another innings(91), Southwest and their excellent fun service had won our cricket test match(92). I gladly received the peanuts. We ate, farted and pooed peanuts from Ontario to Minnesota, they where God’s provision for snack food for the next two weeks of road trips. Thank you Southwest Airlines.

And with California, Idaho and Texas behind us, here ends the flying leg of our journey, but before we start the road trip leg, I want to talk politics and other stuff.

Texas is behind us now, but come back next week and hear about race in the USA.

For past chapters click here. Or look on the side panel.

You may have noticed some bracketed numbers in this chapter. These numbers correspond with explanations and definitions that are in an accompanying glossary. To read the glossary you will need to by the yet to be released book. Sorry!

And to donate towards the production of the ‘Clueless in America’, just click on the button.

25. A Most Ridiculous Command.

Now, correct me if I am wrong. Rivers run, or rivers flow or maybe they meander. In the mountains of New Zealand, the rivers fair dinkum fly down the hill. That itself creates an interesting riverside picture, ‘Kids sit down or you will get your hair wet’. But in San Anton, Texas, just below street level the river actually gets up and walks. And that was the second thing on our schedule that afternoon, to go into town to see the river walk. But first we had an important visit to a couple of clothing stores.

Lithuanians have really long narrow feet. I wonder if they think my short stubby things are as weird as I think theirs are. Lithuanians are also mostly tall and thin. They make really good clothes, with  horrible colours. I have always said that Lithuanians dress to extremes, extremely stylish or extremely pathetic. Foreigners are instantly recognised here. Presumably when Lithuanians see us walking down the street they have a little cack(82) to themselves and comment on the short fat people with the boring comfortable clothes. What I am trying to say is that I just cannot buy clothes there. They either cramp physically or cramp my style. We had both been given quite a lot of money to spend on clothes, this was a huge blessing for us and this was our first chance to spend it.

Our friend stopped at two no-name shops before we finally stopped at Mecca. I cannot remember the name of this particular Mecca, they all blur together for me, perhaps it was something like ‘Bass Pro Shop’. I immediately had a problem upon entering the store. And I kid you not, right at the front door was a sign which read ‘Please check all firearms and bows at customer service prior to entering the store. Thank you’. I was flabbergasted, I was not expecting America’s gun-slinging capital to be so up front about such things. So being an honest person, I found customer service, whipped into the back of my trench coat and pulled out my long-bow. Then from my extended front right pocket, I pulled out my sawn off shotgun, from the other side I declared my Soviet souvenir Kalashnikov. Then there was my Glock 9mm and my machete from my right leg, not to mention my 357 Magnum strapped to my ankle. I had to have the magnum, just in case the rest failed. Yes I jest. We all know that this arsenal couldn’t all possibly fail outside of a movie. The only death that happened here was me killing myself laughing in disbelief over the sign. It would only be in my worst nightmares that I would own such a collection of destruction, but if I did, I would wear it all into this shop as often as I could, just for the fun of having to declare it. I wonder what they would say? ‘Do you have a seventh weapon to declare sir?’  Or ‘Sir may I suggest you check out our fly-fishing department’. Or how about ‘I see Sir that you clearly understand that at Bass Pro you get more bang for your buck’. Do you think they would manage to keep their service industry smiles? It doesn’t bear thinking about; the only dangerous weapons that I took into the store were my jandals and my kick-boxing wife.

Well the shop was yet another popsicle paradise for me. I needed a one-hundred thickness breathable fleece, a pair of trousers, didn’t need any pants and I also needed a soap bag(83). All of the soap bags that they had were mega expensive and large enough to make a good waterproof house to accommodate a small Philippino family. I mean how big can a tooth brush and razor be? I know Americans can be big people, but their teeth and facial hair I presume are all pretty close to the same size. Next I searched for trousers. World, this is one of the greatest things about America, its trousers are all labelled by waste size and leg length. What a clever stupid idea, do any other countries do it this way? I had no idea what size trousers I wore. The overly-smiley shop assistant clearly expected me to know and was rather bemused when upon requesting me to relinquish my size, I lifted up my shirt to show him my waist hiding under a Texan-rib-filled-pudgy belly. But clearly I was not the first idiot to intersect his gun totalling store. He took a quick painful glance at my barbecue sauce rolls of flab and stoically announced in a rather prophetic voice, ‘Ah you must be a thirty four’, and he was right. My thirty four was too long for this half-pint, so I grabbed a couple of different lengths and after five minutes in a changing room the size of a Lithuanian flat, I had a pair of trousers. As for the fleece, well here I stumped the bundle of smiles serving me. I asked him how I would know that this fleece is breathable? In my good ole Kiwi days, the words fleece and breathable were synonyms, but after two years in cheap Scotland I quickly learned that if fleece and cheap are synonyms, then fleece and breathable are not. I found a fleece that seemed perfect, could have been breathable, but was the wrong colour, it clashed with my hair. So in the interest and excitement of walking rivers, I decided to delay my fleece purchase until we were up north in the colder, wilder climates of Wisconsin. So kacking again at the firearms sign, I rushed out to the car, where both my friend and my favourite kick-boxer were waiting.

As far as cities go, San Anton is like the western suburbs of Sydney, flat, boring and with way too many cars. But here we were and ironically enough we Honda’d into the same multi-storied car-park that me, myself and my friends parked in some twelve years previously though this was where the similarities ended. Last time I was sitting on the back of a pick-up, cradling my cowboy hat whilst playing my harmonica. I can still remember that we were followed through the car-park by a bunch of gawking kids in a bright purple, mag and trim infested, irritatingly nauseating exhaust-piped Ford Escort. Yuck, a perfectly good Escort ruined by kids who couldn’t understand that if they saved the money they had spent on all the extras, they could have afforded a car they actually would have wanted.

So as you would expect, we exited the car, walked through a very South East Asian looking-shopping centre and out onto the river. Well actually we are not Christ figures, or at least not outside of Sundays. We walked out onto the River Walk. Now listen carefully because I am serious. Outside of Texas I am the only person who I have ever heard talk about the River Walk. The San Anton River Walk is, and you can quote me on this, the world’s best kept secret. It is simply the world’s coolest humid intersection of nature and city. I don’t know how to describe it to you, but I don’t mind O.D’ing(84) on coffee trying. The place reeks of atmosphere; the humidity, whiffs of food,  waves of music and lapping water created an ambiance so tangible that it is practically surfable. It is like they have picked the best of everything and slapped it into a micro-cosmos, the result is way cool and way other worldly.  I like this place and have never succeeded in spending too much time here.

It was November 3, but yet this micro-cosmos actually had a Christmas tree. I guess that they wanted us to have that happy merry feeling all year round. Of course it wasn’t just any tree, it was rather large, situated on an island that served as a roundabout for river boats. I mean you have to imagine this humid H2O hallucination. It is all set below street level, if you are good you can spy the odd street level car bridge. It is totally flanked by sub-tropical trees and Texan mile after mile of outdoor-indoor luscious restaurants, each emitting food fragrances of nationalities from the far-flung-four-corners of the known universe. And everything is hallucified through the blueness of the water, the greenness of the trees and the gentle flowing humidity. If only I had had a rusty old car bonnet(85), cause I could have surfed the so, so thick ambiance. When Davy Crockett said ‘You can go to hell, but I am going to Texas’, he for sure had the River Walk in mind as his version of Texas Heaven.

I have a natural fear of crowds, they freak me and that is not just because they smell. This place was overflowing with people, though they were overwhelmingly white English speakers with a splattering of brown Spanish speakers. And kids, lots of stinkin’ carpet-crawling snot-gobbling weans. There seemed to have been some kind of kids’ convention happening and we seemed to be stuck between their buses and their convention centre ten minutes before the opening curtain. Their shiny white faces were rushing, pushing and prattling all around us, or perhaps I should say all around our ankles. It was like being swamped by a pack of man-eating chihuahuas at the final sunset of their Ramadan. If this in itself was not scary enough, there was no stinkin’ fence between the river and the pavement. I was more scared of the kids than I was of the water. In fact a nice cool dip would have been appreciated, but that was simply a no go, mostly because of the prospects of death by the bow of a megaphoned-tourist-infested-pleasure-craft and there were lots of them. It may come as no surprise to you that generally speaking the fat people were being sailed, gawking at us from these boats and the thin people were walking on the river bank gawking at all the fatties.

Our friend led us through the maze and miles of riverside walks. We stopped for Chinese at one stage. That is Chinese food but here we made a fundamental error. The English was quite clear, seats are for sitting and steps are for stepping, but as independent thinkers in the heart of Texas we overcome the English language and sat on the steps to enjoy our Chinese.

We followed this up with a perfect finale to the evening, we found a jazz bar. What a wonderful wonderful Neverland experience. The jazz bar had a coupl’a three old fogies(86), just a jammin’ and laughin’ out their jazz. It was that American thang of enjoying your work again. They were having a hoot(87) of a time, each following and leading each other, with their greying and balding heads, bobbing back and forth. Drums banging, sax saxing, guitar ringing and voices cackling. Though this  Neverland had allowed their voices to get old, Tinker Bell had obviously sprinkled enough fairy dust for their minds and antics to be as youthful as ever. The Jolly Rodger had obviously sailed by, because it had deposited America’s rudest waiter for us. This dude was a pirate too callous for the Neverland River Walk, he was just rude and came close to ruining our jazz experience. I would not be surprised if America has not revoked his citizenship by now. Not only that, he did not sell either Dr Pepper or Root Beer. Well a fairy-dusted-capitalistic-American-Neverland would not be complete without a great big glass jar full of coins into which to empty our appreciation. And this we did, before floating back to the car on the remnants of a great atmospheric evening. The drive home was long and quiet, with the fairy dust not wearing off until the morning.

If you are ever passing close to Texas and yes the south of England is close enough, then you simply must allow yourself the minor detour of bonnet surfing the wonderful Neverland atmosphere of the San Anton River Walk. Like a pilgrimage to Mecca, it is simply a non-negotiable. Thanks Davy Crockett for the great tip.

Hang around for my next edition to hear of our sad good byes to good ole Texas.

For past chapters click here. Or look on the side panel.

You may have noticed some bracketed numbers in this chapter. These numbers correspond with explanations and definitions that are in an accompanying glossary. To read the glossary you will need to by the yet to be released book. Sorry!

And to donate towards the production of the ‘Clueless in America’, just click on the button.

Ta (Kiwi for thank you)