Category: Blog

Wednesday, September 10, 2003

‘What a nice life that nice Michael Palin must have. Him and that Bill Bryson. Trotting off to places and then writing about them (’cept for his big new cosmic history book). Must be nice to be a travel writer.’

As a more junior member of this profession (the first book’s out in February) I’ve just had an experience that show it’s not all royalty cheques and free travel.

I’m just back from the doctor, where I had to show my tattered nether regions to a cute young female GP.

Seems I brought something back from Louisiana in addition to the photographs and memories. A fungal infection from long days in sweaty lycra in the sultry South. It only manifested itself a couple of weeks after I got back from New Orleans, but apparently that’s normal, said the doctor. (Why couldn’t it have been a kindly old man rather than a trendy girl with a tattoo?)

The inflammation along my inner thighs should clear up quickly enough with the prescribed cream, but next time I’m going journeying in an air conditioned car.

Tuesday, September 09, 2003

Last night the SO and I had the ‘Why didn’t we just elope?’ conversation.

Buendia and I are back from exotic climes to the joys of wedding preparations. All the married people told us, but we didn’t listen: ‘I don’t know why we didn’t just elope. Have done with it. All the chasing around, the arrangements, you forget what’s it’s all about.’

It’s not that our wedding is huge, or particularly lavish. It’s just that the number of invididual chores required to ensure its smooth running is beginning to grate on us, especially as we’ve just arrived back in Dublin ourselves and have more than enough things to be doing without chasing after recalcitrant invitees.

A little over a week to the wedding (when guests are starting to arrive in the country already), we’re still getting guests giving us predictions on their attendance: ‘Well, I’m 90% sure I’ll be able to make it.’ OK, I’ll just save you 90% of a seat at the dinner, then.

Thursday, September 04, 2003

Santa Fe to Los Angeles is a long way – 13 hours’ driving, maybe 900 miles or so. And so empty, when your tank is still half full you start worrying if you’ve got enough petrol to get you to the next gas station.

At the halfway point, Flagstaff, Arizona, is a little oasis of high country civility in a ridiculous amount of nothingness. A college town with a good walkable downtown, its pine trees and coolness make it the acceptable face of Arizona.

We stayed in a motel run by a stern-faced Russian just off Route 66, and were running parallel to the old mother road most of the way.

Just before we crossed into California, we saw the signs for London Bridge, bought to sit on a lake out here. Rumour has it the Arizonans thought they were buying Tower Bridge, rather than the nondescript 3-span version that showed up.

In Needles, CA the woman at the counter in the gas station was explaining her education plans. ‘I’m at junior college now, but it’s hard to find the time to study. When I finish there, I’m going to UCLA to do criminal psychotherapy. I’ve wanted to go to UCLA since I was five, but I’ll have to get better grades.

‘But I’ve got work too. I’m 21 now. I plan to finished at UCLA by the time I’m 31.’

The Mojave is daunting. More space than is good for a European. The SO loves it, the freedom and uncompromising nature of the place, but all I could see was the countless ways you could die out here. Humans aren’t meant to be there.

From life in Britain and Ireland, you know that the worst that can happen is that you’ll have to walk for a few hours in the rain if your equipment fails (bike, car, whatever). Too many people have lived too long in this temperate place for you to be left in serious trouble even if you’re only a little bit prepared.

In the desert, when we passed people stuck on the side of the road with a puncture or with the bonnet of the car up, you could imagine how badly things could go wrong, even if you took every precaution. On the Interstate, they were probably going to be fine, but once you were off that, it could be very serious.

And even after Barstow, the desert rolls into a set of hills near Edwards Air Force Base, and the joshua trees on the side of road had me singing ‘Where the Streets Have No Name’.

Through the hills with the traffic LA busy, and you’re into the San Fernando Valley. A few minutes later, we were turning off at Sunset Boulevard for the hotel. It’s just desert then city. As abrupt as turning a page. No rolling hills or forests as the desert subsides. One minute it’s red dust, and the next it’s all palm trees and grass so intensively tended you know it’s the result of illegal labour.

It’s easy to image all of southern California to be like LA or San Diego – perfect weather, ocean and green plants and double soya lattes all round. But it doesn’t take much to be out in the big empty continent again.

Tuesday, August 26, 2003

The bike that got me the 2100 miles down the Mississippi (shown here outside a soul food restaurant in Helena, Arkansas), is going into storage for at least 8 months. I’ve already got too many bikes at home.

I rode it today, just the 3 miles into town, the first time I’d ridden it since I arrived in New Orleans. Without the bar bag and remaining pannier on the back, it felt like a stranger. But as the pedals started turning, and I settled back into the saddle, it started to come back to me. The sweaty days, the energy bars shoved in the back pocket of the jersey, the easy first five miles in the morning, the singing to myself to distract myself from the miles slowly ticking past on the computer.

Goodbye, bike. See you in a while.

Tuesday, August 26, 2003

So we’re packing up here and leaving Santa Fe, New Mexico, at least temporarily. Since January I’ve spent much more time here than in Dublin, and it’s been very rewarding to get to know this unlikely place.

Much older than the US, and still only partly attached to the Union, the city supports native, Spanish and ‘Anglo’ communities, allowing a much greater sense of diversity than I saw anywhere down the Mississippi. What else makes it unique?

The climate – at 7000’, it’s one of the US’ highest cities, and the high desert landscape of rich red earth, brilliant blue skies and massive vistas has attracted artists of all sorts. The art market here is second only to New York (amazing when you consider how small a place it is), D H Lawrence came to live in this neck of the woods, and you can’t move for new-age sandal wearers.

The food – New Mexican cuisine is similar to Mexican, but is really a thing in itself. Everything is smothered with hot green chile, and often with cheese. Breakfast burritos rock, chile rellenos are great, and even the lowly burger is transformed into a green chile cheeseburger. Tourists often ask for their chile on the side, but any place worth its salt in town refuses to do that – the chile is crucial to the cooking process, and a lot of stuff would just burn without it.

I’ve eaten my way happily around town, and declare the Durango omelet with tomatillo sauce Pasquals to be perhaps the best breakfast I’ve ever eaten).

People – it’s a funky liberal town with plenty of cultural life, including a beautiful opera house in the desert just outside town. David Norris came to do his schtick, and with good cinemas and at least a couple of theatres, it’s got a lot more going for it than its giant neighbour Albuquerque, about an hour away. There’s the bleeding ponytail rich liberal retirees who buy up all the expensive houses, and a younger more dog-on-a-string set of outdoors folks, who appreciate the ski-ing, rafting and mountainbiking the area offers. Radical, dude.

It’s been argued that a lot of ‘broken’ people come to Santa Fe, looking to be fixed, and it’s true that there’s a large transient population. People come, stay for a couple of years, and then head off again somewhere more real. Those that stay are presumably still ‘broken’, so the dating scene can be very hit and miss, apparently.

That said, almost all the people I’ve met have been warm and kind, with a healthy disdain for ShrubCo and a quick sense of humour.

Living here – I’ve really enjoyed my time here, even though I’ve not been fully involved in the life here, as I’ve not been working with anyone here. I’ve been finishing off the first book, planning the second, and doing some day-job stuff for some folks back in Dublin. But working in the library, having a coffee in Jane’s and then coming home to tap way with a great view of the mountains has been a great experience.

So we’re driving to LA, starting on Friday, and stopping halfway in Flagstaff, Arizona. Arthur the cat is coming with us, before he flies Virgin Atlantic to London, where he’s picked up and brought to Dublin. I’ll already be there, back in the ould sod again, in time for the weather to turn nasty. But after such a busy few months I’ll be very glad to be back there.

Friday, August 22, 2003

Still not thinking about how I’m going to write the book of the Mississippi trip – just trying to let things settle down in my mind about it all (no more Vietnam-style nightmares, at least).

In the midst of all sorts of day to day stuff (helping pack up a house, preparing to get married in less than a month), I’ve shifted the work thoughts back to the first journey, and the book of the trip that’s being published in February.

I want the site of the book to be great, but what should it include? A quick trip round some writers’ sites showed that there’s certainly room for improvement, and the folks on the boards had some good ideas, of course.

In no particular order, here’s what I’m currently thinking.

Sample chapter or two (maybe with audio version for those who subscribe to the newsletter). Micko suggested including a first draft too, for those who like that sort of stuff.

Events listings (readings and the like) – the publishers say there’ll be some marketing stuff going on around the launch, and I like the idea of doing readings in bookshops and stuff, so with luck there’ll be some dates for people to stick in their diaries

Reviews, press – if I get any coverage, linking to it all might persuade people to buy the damn thing.

Blog – about what I’m up to currently, so lots of banging my head off the desk writing the second book, plus any other bits and pieces. William Gibson’s blog is a good read.

Extra bits about the trip – links to history resources, kit list and reviews, FAQs, a map, photos

Basically, I’m keen to sell copies of the book (links to the Amazon and Powells sites, too – with my reseller code so I get the kickback), but I also want to support people who have bought the book and are interested enough to come to the site.

Monday, August 18, 2003

In the middle of the night last night I wake up all hot and sweaty, with the sound of cicadas humming outside. I’m convinced I’m awake, and equally convinced that I’m in Louisiana in a roadside shack. I have to ride seventy miles tomorrow.

Something doesn’t seem quite right, but I’m sure I’m in Louisiana, and I’m disturbed, with heart racing. I thought I’d finished the trip, but apparently not. My SO wakes up beside me – ‘Where am I?’ I ask.

‘In Santa Fe,’ she says, ‘with me,’ and slowly I wake up properly, and realise the shadows outside the window aren’t swamp and bayou, but trees and red dirt. I have finished the trip, and don’t have to ride any more. Slowly I calm down, but am still left with the deeply unsettling recollection of being (I thought) wide awake and in a shack in Louisiana.

A flashback to the trip – I guess at some level I think I should still be out there. I feel like a Vietnam GI airlifted out of the jungle and sent back home before he has time to readjust.

Sunday, August 17, 2003

Made it to New Orleans, after a frustrating day involving two punctures and a broken pump. I ended up riding into the French Quarter with a big foot pump strapped to the rack on the bike.

Very glad to be done – 45 days or so on the road, 2100 miles. You’re very vulnerable out there all day, and the extended stress of finding a new places to stay, new places to eat, and working out the next day’s route was beginning to get to me.

New Orleans was sultry and decadent and louche, and also beautiful and beguiling. I don’t think I could live there, but riding up and down St Charles Ave in the streetcar got to be a great habit. Good food and music too – crammed into the sweaty Preservation Hall off Bourbon Street for some wailing, straight ahead jazz was fantastic. The funeral dirge version of Just A Closer Walk With Thee ruled.

No great conclusions from the trip have bubbled to the surface yet. Unlike the first book, I’ve got to do a lot of reading and research now before I can really get stuck into the writing (last time, I had most of that done). Glad to be back in a house, and glad not to have to ride the bike every day.

Thursday, August 07, 2003

Thursday update – they’ve got internet access in the B+B here in Port Gibson, MS, so time for a quick update.

Made it to Port Gibson, described by General Grant during the Civil War as ‘too beautiful to burn’, and it is extremely pretty, with loads of 1830s and 40s Greek Revival style houses around, and trees and stuff.

But it’s still got the same probs as most of the towns I’ve been through on the way down – the downtown is all but derelict. Boarded up shops and no foot traffic. To get something to eat in the evening in this lovely town, you have to get in your car, drive to the edge of town and go to the Sonic drive-in.

Don’t know what the solution is, but I’ve seen these donut towns of every size all the way down the river.

But in my tech-haven B+B, they’ve got satellite telly, so I’ll be sitting down in front of BBC America for some good stuff tonight.