Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Troubled times

Approaching the half way point of the epic road trip, there are several problems that have reared their ugly heads. If I'm honest, I should have foreseen at least 2 of them. The rest? Well, nobody has perfect foresight, but hindsight is 20-20. Hopefully, I'll be able to avoid making the same mistakes again in the future. And some of the problems are beyond my control, so I just have to resign myself to dealing with them and moving on.

See, there are few things worse on a road trip - or any long trip, for that matter - than being sick. And so far on this one, I've had a cold that turned me into a travelling snot block between Boston, Philadelphia and Washington. And then, as we pulled into Chicago - snot free at last - I realised that I'd done something to my back. Something that made walking extremely painful. Potentially, something caused by driving through the storm from hell the night before - that's what I'm blaming. It's mostly eased up now, after experiencing Chicago largely by bus rather than the usual method of transport for L and I in cities - foot. But now, every time I have a long drive, every time the bed isn't just perfect, it twinges. I have to be extremely careful carrying my enormous pack, and I hate not being able to just throw it around. But physical impairment pales in comparison to some of the other problems.

Because whilst driving through some of the flattest, dullest scenery that America has to off in its northern states - thanks Iowa and Nebraska - L has become sulky. She's bored. And this has uncovered a fundamental difference in our travelling philosophies that was masked while we were jetting around Europe. She's all about the destination. And I mean ALL. The journey itself? Well to her, that's just the prelude where you plan what you're going to do when you get there, so anything that takes longer than reading the Lonely Planet is just wasted. Whereas I - the instigator of the road trip - am quite well able to cope with long stretches where there is very little to see. I'm not sure if it was my early training, taking long car journeys up through Australia's eastern seaboard, or if I'm just taking the Baroque view of things, where the journey is almost more important than the destination, but either way, I cope better. And by the end of a long day, where I have done the bulk of the planning and almost all of the navigation, since L struggles with map reading on the go, we're both niggly. And things get said. Like the bit where, after the longest day on the road that we will have, we were pulling into a budget hotel in Sioux City.

It was getting dark quickly, we'd missed a couple of turns and had to back track. All day I had been asked questions that I didn't know that answers to, that I couldn't know the answers to, never having been to any of the places before. And when she cruised into the car park - or what we thought was the car park - and asked what I thought was an idiotic question before accelerating so I couldn't see where to navigate her (because I have to tell her where to go, she not being used to or comfortable in unfamiliar places), I snapped. I told her to slow down, to stop asking me things I couldn't know, to take a look for herself. And we barely talked for the rest of the night. We unpacked the car in complete silence, she threw her stuff onto the bed (always the best bed...I don't know how she does it), and we went to dinner without her doing more than nodding. Last night was hardly better when I informed her that spending an hour at Mt Rushmore (which I knew would turn into 2 hours if I agreed to 1 - I know her photographic habits too well to rely on estimates of time to see places), at the expense of a couple of places further down that I really wanted to see, on a day when we will be spending around 8 hours in a car, that just so happens to be my 30th birthday, is not something I'm prepared to do. Sure, we'll be stopping there. We will see it. But she knew going in that this wasn't going to be an easy trip. And I think she underestimated just how much road time we'd be logging, and just how unprepared for long boring stretches she would be.

But not all of the problems relate to her (although her tendency to open the curtains before we're fully dressed, regardless of the outlook - or in-look - has caused me some anxious moments, as has her drifting and abrupt driving style). Perhaps the biggest problem is that I am fast running out of money. Boston and Washington DC sucked up too much of my cash and I'm now in the unenviable position of looking like I'm barely going to make it into the 3rd week of the trip before it's all gone. And when it's gone, there is no more. I have no resources to tap into. So how I'm going to pay my share of the car extras is beyond me. Although part of that is also caused by L and her insistence that she be put on as an extra driver, even though she refuses to drive in any of the cities and only does a few hours in the morning when we're in the country, or the evening when we've left a city that morning. Bam, there goes $145 of my carefully planned budget.

That's not to say that I'm not enjoying the trip, though. As I type this, I'm sitting in Custer, with a view of the Black Hills on the other side of town. Today sees us heading through the Wild West, towards Cody, and then Yellowstone. I'm loving what I've seen so far. I just wish there weren't niggles and worries to get in the way. And I've resolved never to do a road trip with L ever again.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Dazed and confused

I'm currently propped up in bed in a Chicago hotel room. I'm trying very hard to move nothing other than my finger right now, because I've done something to my back. I'm not certain when, or how, but I know that it wasn't there yesterday morning when we left the middle-of-nowhere place we were forced to stop in thanks to a combination of traffic jams and horrendous weather (think three hour lines of cars to get across the Canada-US border, followed by a storm with rain so heavy that I was driving at 20 miles an hour down a freeway, still barely able to see, and not even being overtaken). But it was there when the time came to lift my bags out of the car.

But either way, sitting here gives me a good view of the morning show that L puts on. If I didn't know better, I'd think it was just to provoke me. But I know better. I know that the fact we are in a first floor hotel room, with the windows open, curtains wide apart and cars and buildings all around us with prime views into our room is not enough to stop L from emerging from the bathroom wrapped only in a towel, shower cap still on her head, for some unfathomable reason. It's not enough to keep her from stepping out of the shower without a top on and standing in front of the window as she looks for something. Because it didn't stop her from stripping down to her flesh coloured singlet top before she went in, it never stopped her from essentially flashing the people up top on London buses from the windows of our old flat, and no doubt it won't keep her from putting on a show any time there is a window - because she likes natural light. And right now, there's plenty of that streaming through the windows. Luckily, it's Sunday morning. There aren't that many people out and about. Well, not compared to last night, at any rate. So I had better get on with getting myself organised for our day out and about in Chicago. But one thing's for certain: as I do that, I'm getting dressed in the bathroom.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Hilton: The 4 star screw up

One of the things we were really looking forward to on this trip was reaching Niagara Falls. Not only were we going to be seeing one of the natural beauties of the world, we had also decided to splurge and stay in the Hilton. It was going to be great; our room was high enough and cost enough that we were going to be having in-room views of both the Canadian and the American falls. We could hear the roar as thousands of litres of water rushed over the edge, we could almost feel the spray. We would be staying in luxury that would put our other accommodations (admittedly, chosen as much for their cheapness as any other criteria) so far into the shade that we would probably be griping about their crapness for the next 4 weeks. Or so we thought.

Because almost from the moment we arrived, I've been questionning whether it was worth all the extra cash. Sure, the views are great. But what do views matter when there is a litany of disaster strewn across the interior?

It started when we first arrived at the door to our room, fully laden with our bags because we were trying to avoid the insane tipping system that sees anybody getting cash out of you, however crap their service. But we couldn't get into the room, because neither of our electronic key cards worked. A trek down to the lobby later, and we could get in. And yes, the view is great, if you discount the enormous Fallsview Casino that splits the two falls, and the car park that partially blocks the view of the Canadian falls. Or the crane that is out to the side, by the corner window, with it's cabin just a floor below ours. It is awe inspiring, and we were suitably gobsmacked. Had that been the only problem, we would have considered our stay enjoyable, in spite of the need to divide the Crabtree and Evelyn toiletries between us, as they hadn't given enough for 2 people to use. But it didn't stop there.

After a trip to the Falls, and many photographs for L, we came back to the room, planning to treat ourselves to room service. This is, after all, an early birthday treat for me, and the only thing that would have completed it more than lazing about in luxury having room service (i.e., having minions wait on my every command) would have been a massage. But getting back into the room once again proved problematic. Because my key still didn't work. Luckily, L's did, and we were in, on the bed, and ordering from the children's menu in no time. When the food arrived, it looked great. L's lasagna was a gooey concoction of cheese, tomato and pasta, just as all good lasagna should be. Mine was a couple of chicken drumsticks with vegetables. The veg was delicious, cooked well and not dripping in oil, unlike many other meals we'd sampled to date. I bit into the chicken, crispy coating flying off the drumstick (I'd thrown caution - and etiquette - to the winds and was eating with my hands by this stage). But something wasn't quite right here. It was too hard to get through the bite. A look at the drumstick revealed why. There was blood oozing along the bone. I've never actually seem chicken that has been cooked do this before. It was stomach churningly vile.

So of course, I called up and got them to bring me a replacement meal. It took a while, as well. Someone came to take the plate away, first, clearly not believing me without seeing for themselves. By the time the new meal came, it was on towards ten o'clock. If I hadn't been starting to feel queasy from the rare chicken, I would have been ravenous, gnawing my own arm. As it was, I was a little wary of the replacement meal and immediately cut into the drumstick, not wanting a repeat. And it was almost as bad, the meat a horrible dark colour that suggested that it hadn't been properly prepared before cooking. So I called them up again to complain. "So you want it well done then?" asked the person on the other end of the phone. Now, as far as I am aware, you don't ever ask how you want your chicken cooked. There is no medium rare for chicken. There is only cooked, or uncooked. And this was clearly the latter. So I just got my money back, a strange hybrid of US and Canadian money that came with an apology and a promise to "tell the cooks". Because clearly, they hadn't been informed that they sent up a chicken that had only just left the coop the last time. By this stage, I was considering myself lucky to not be camped out by the toilet bowl, because I was feeling decidedly unwell.

So I did what seemed reasonable for someone feeling a bit sick. I went to bed and slept the sleep of the exhausted. After all, I had spent the day before reminding L that when she's driving, it's a good idea not to wander across the road, not to steer where you turn your head, and that the Americans drive on what is quite clearly the wrong side of the road. I had also been trying to answer questions that there was no way I could have known the answer to: how does the US/Canada border crossing work? where do I pay the toll? And, as you might expect, I was in a beautiful queen size bed, the perfect amount of support, the perfect pillow configuration. Sleep-wise, it was great. It was only when I woke up again and stepped into the shower that the next screw up hit me.

The shower should have been awesome. It should have made up for any number of pathetic showers along the way. It should have delivered on the border guard's assertion that only the best things are to be found in Canada. But it didn't. Because the thermostatic mixer thing was loose. Because gravity pushing things down. Because the hot setting was at the top of the dial. Because I didn't like being scalded whilst in the shower. Funny, that last one. I have a strange dislike for the sense that my skin is about to leave my body. Probably a similar feeling to what the chicken had as I bit into it's leg. But either way, I've come out of the bathroom and to my computer, still with something of a stomach ache, all steamed up because there's no exhaust in the bathroom either, to sit on my ratty desk chair (like something that the Thistle hotels I was working on in the UK would have discarded long ago as being too worn out, given that you can actually see the padding on the seat), with the TV providing a fuzzy picture reminiscent of the reception you get with the old bunny-ears style aerials, and turned to my blog to work up the kind of righteous indignation I can never manage in person. Because although I plan to go downstairs and complain, and demand to know what they're going to do with me, I'm certain that I will be ineffectual. And that's not right. Because this is supposed to be a treat, staying here. It's supposed to be a bit special. And so far, it's been special for all the wrong reasons.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Washington Burning

I've been in the US for almost a week now, and I've never seen such extremes. The rich and poor are pretty sharply divided here, and it's not by geography. If nothing else, it's the levels of bitterness that seem to mark them out. And as a white woman travelling here, I seem to come in for my share of the bitterness. Because the poor are predominantly black or Latino. In the course of three days in Washington, I have been abused because I didn't respond to being called "white girl" by someone in a wheel chair who, I realised a few seconds too late, was asking me to open the door. I might have felt a whole lot worse about that had I not been laden with around 30kg of bags at the time, and barely able to walk myself. The other time was when L and I were walking through the apparently safe, upper class streets of Foggy Bottom, where we were yelled at across the street by a down and out drunk, who screamed that we were "white hos".

It's not restricted to race, or even locals though. Wandering the paths of Arlington Cemetery, a beautiful peaceful place the sheer scale of which is overwhelming, we came across a group of French teenagers on a school trip. I thought it was a strange place to take a school group, but as a way of getting across the nature of America's militarism, and the respect in which they hold the armed forces here, I guess there are few better places to go than a monument to the fallen that not only overlooks the national capital (not to mention the Capitol), but is within the grounds of a vanquished foe of the Union from the civil war. some of the French boys had outpaced their teachers and, when they didn't get a response to their question (in French) asking if we understood them, proceeded to follow us along the path with the continuous stream of filthy gutter slang that would have had their mothers washing their mouths out with soap, if not cuffing them across the back of the head. Because we do understand French, we just didn't realise they were talking to us when they asked.

But there you have Washington in summary; beautiful monuments and stunning settings, with the constant background hum that something isn't quite as full of pomp and circumstance as the politicians and public servants would like to believe. I guess it's like Canberra, but on a grander scale. And so are the social problems. Because everything in America is bigger than it is anywhere else, it stands to reason that the social and racial divides should be no different.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Of course

It had to happen, really. And the timing is probably better than it ought to have been. The inevitable on-the-road cold has struck, laying me low at a point when I'm not doing the driving, thankfully, but annoyingly, right when I have to lug my ridiculously heavy bags to and from buses, since getting around on the cheap has its cost in physical pain.

But either way, I'm on the road, and have loved my road trip to date. Boston was gorgeous, even with the unseasonably cold weather of the second day, when we were in coats, scarves, and longing for hats. Just to contrast, today's arrival in Philadelphia was warm and temporarily sunny. We got to the hostel just in time to avoid a spectacular thunder storm, though, and too late to get into any of the sights. So we snuck around outside, checking out the Liberty Bell (I'm still tempted to call it the Taco Bell), and a few buildings. Now I'm staving off the cold with whatever drugs I had to hand - nothing terribly efficient, it has to be said - and sharing the love with the other people in what has to be the biggest hostel dorm in history - 28 beds, thankfully only half of them occupied. I can see I'm going to be popular here in a few days...

Sunday, May 09, 2010

The Final Word

It's a grey Sunday in London, so it seems appropriate to get back onto my blog for one last time before moving on to greener pastures - well, lighter, brighter, warmer, with any luck. Because d-day - departure day, that is - looms large on the horizon, moving ever closer, and suddenly, I find that I only have a couple of days left as a Londoner. And it's a very strange feeling, let me tell you. I am currently homeless, unemployed, and whittling my possessions down to the smallest number I can bear. Somehow, I think I wouldn't survive as one of those people who are perpetually on the road, but by the standards of a pack rat like myself, the last three and a half years has been condensed to a scarily small pile of possessions.

The goodbyes have all been said, and I'm beginning to realise just how much I'm going to miss certain people when I'm no longer in the same country, continent, hemisphere. Because as much as I might bemoan the lack of possessions at the moment, the things that I'm also whittling down, like friends, acquaintances and flatmates, are the things that have meant the most.

I know. I don't normally go in for the touchy feely stuff. In fact, I normally run from it at a speed that people who have seen me exercise are astonished by. My hockey career could have been very different had I been able to put on such a turn of speed on the pitch (and if I had skills, but hey, that doesn't make such a nice image, does it...). But here I am, feeling the urge to get all gushy. Make the most of it, these moments don't come around too often, and I still can't manage to do it with any degree of sincerity and without resorting to cliches.

There are people I won't miss. The friend of a friend who came around this afternoon to buy my sewing machine, and spewed phoney declarations of a friendship we never had for the entire time she was here. The person who I saw for what we both knew would be the last time a couple of weeks back, who promptly went home after that night's drinks and unfriended me on Facebook. I also won't be missing London's air quality, the pavement pizzas to be found after pretty much every Saturday night, the men who turn all of the city into their own personal lavatory. I won't be coming back any time soon because of the lure of those things.

But there are people that I am going to miss, because they bring their own unique quality to a friendship. Jones, with her ability to bring bowel movements into pretty much any conversation. Chris, and her involved love life, the twists and turns of which are better than any novel yet published. L, the most motherly flatmate imaginable, with her tendency to voice every thought that enters her head, even if it's just a commentary on what she's doing at the time. C, sweet, giggly, and hilarious when tipsy. The core group of those who were out with me until 2am this morning, the chief causes of my husky voice when I eventually surfaced from a deep sleep today. They are the ones who have made living here, away from old friends and family, not only bearable, but enormously fun. And I will miss them. Drunken promises of catching up in Sydney for New Years Eve had better be followed through on...but just in case, I plan to annoy people on email until they come visit me, just to keep me quiet.

But that's the thing with leaving somewhere. My intentions are good, and so are those of the people staying behind. But the bittersweet truth is that, over time, there will undoubtedly be drifting apart. The number of people who keep in touch with will shrink. I think I know who will fall by the wayside, and who will last. But from here on in, the things that have come so easily while in London will require work. And I'm not known for my work ethic. So if you're one of the people I'm talking to, and you don't hear from me for a while, rest assured that I'm not ignoring you. I'm just distracted. I will get back to you at some point...just bear with me, that's all.

Meanwhile, off to America for me...Five weeks of Thelma and Louise style antics with L. Although hopefully without the murder or the messy ending. But I wouldn't mind if we ran into a Brad Pitt along the way...