I wanted to begin this by saying that I know I'm beginning to sound like a bit of a..... but apparently there isn't actually a word for someone who loves America. Anglophile, Francophile, Sinophile, yes. Americaphile? No.
Lets be frank here; America and Americans are universally stereotyped, derided, patronised and loathed, so there really is little need for one. I myself have harboured all these views at one time another. Paul Theroux remarked that the English "...hold very strong opinions about places to which they have never been". I've been guilty of that in the past, but now I'm in a position to be a little more objective, I can safely and proudly say that I absolutely love the United States of America.
Americans have their moments too. I have generally found them extremely warm and hospitable. But then I think people the world over are friendly and welcoming to strangers (except Parisians). Unless you're hovering by the rim of the Grand Canyon, an accent immediately identifies you as a curiosity. (If you have an English accent, it also marks you out as Australian. Every single day. I will never understand). People want to know where you're from, why you're here, where you've been, where you're going, and most of all, they want to know that you're enjoying their country.
But there's always a but. America is all about Freedom and Rights. Because it has a written constitution, these rights are specifically articulated. This discourages people from viewing them in the context of the rights of others, and can make them demanding, impatient and lacking empathy. Not all of them of course, but enough of them, mistake their rights for entitlements. I think that's what pisses people off about them.
I didn't really know what to expect when I arrived just over three months ago. Two days in Miami were as inappropriate a prologue as ever was penned. Texas was a relaxing, if hot, experience where true American hospitality, and the charms of its small towns began to work its magic. By the time I was back from Canada, armed with a Mustang, and embarking on the long trek down the Pacific coast, I was sold.
After that meandering journey through the transient landscape, came the inland excursion. The wonders of the west didn't disappoint - in fact they hid a few very special moments amidst the dusty red sand. Things changed again with Colorado, New Mexico. Red sand became white. The freeway miles disappeared, the speeding fines mounted, and I found myself, for the first time in a long time, back somewhere I had been before.
That Los Angeles should remind me so much of London, and be the last stride of this walk is no less absurd than Miami being the first. In time, these book ends will topple from the shelf and the stories clasped between them will stand alone; simple stories of the great outdoors and the wonders of nature. The tale they tell is a truthful one; it revealed itself to me chapter by chapter, day by day. Although it ends now, for the time being, I know that really it has barely begun.
Showing posts with label USA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label USA. Show all posts
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
Tuesday, 7 September 2010
L.A. Takedown
Before I came to Los Angeles, people told me it was crap because it was basically a giant car park with some obscenely rich areas, and some obscenely poor ones. And when I heard that, I thought I should feel pretty much at home, since it sounded exactly like London.
Just like London, it is a city made of many different towns. I haven't been here long enough to tell you which London Boroughs they equate to, but I'll take a stab at Beverley Hills = Kensington and Compton = Peckham to give you both ends of the spectrum.
What it lacks in history, it makes up for in celebrity. I marvelled at the Getty Villa in Malibu, a stunning example of Roman architecture, built in the 1970s. On a driving tour around town I passed the Scientology Celebrity Centre on Franklin. Driving around Beverley Hills past giant iron gates and the distant mansions, it was a nice change to see Al Pacino's gaff, where he is often to be found sat on the porch playing chess a few yards from the passing plebes.
A bit like Alcatraz, Los Angeles feels familiar. For the millions of shit films to come out of the place, a few gems have been set here as well; Chinatown, L.A. Confidential, The Big Lebowski. But none have gotten under the skin of the modern city quite like Crash (Paul Haggis, not David Cronenberg, before you ask): the story of a place in a constant state of torsion, punctuated by a series of private epiphanies.
In my nine years in London, I brushed past people, people bumped into me. Instead of freeways snaking across town, we have underground trains and buses. In this cramped, collective and miserable ushering of bodies, Londoners are exposed to an exasperating range of horrors: body odour, bad breath, RnB music, loud phone calls, inappropriate displays of "affection". But worst of all, you get to look at everyone else's miserable faces.
In Los Angeles, you are protected from sharing these moments by your car. Everyone trundles off to work in their little (well, large) bubble. Inside it you can stink, sweat, grope, shout and fume as much as you like. The surplus angst that might cause you to shove someone in the back on a crowded escalator vents itself through the horn, or agressive lane changing. But the principle's the same; everyone gets home from work stressed, knackered and angry. There's a bit of extra fallout in terms of pollution and obesity of course, but it's still the Rat Race, and the Rats still win.
Just like London, it is a city made of many different towns. I haven't been here long enough to tell you which London Boroughs they equate to, but I'll take a stab at Beverley Hills = Kensington and Compton = Peckham to give you both ends of the spectrum.
What it lacks in history, it makes up for in celebrity. I marvelled at the Getty Villa in Malibu, a stunning example of Roman architecture, built in the 1970s. On a driving tour around town I passed the Scientology Celebrity Centre on Franklin. Driving around Beverley Hills past giant iron gates and the distant mansions, it was a nice change to see Al Pacino's gaff, where he is often to be found sat on the porch playing chess a few yards from the passing plebes.
The Roman Empire finally reached Los Angeles in 1974
A bit like Alcatraz, Los Angeles feels familiar. For the millions of shit films to come out of the place, a few gems have been set here as well; Chinatown, L.A. Confidential, The Big Lebowski. But none have gotten under the skin of the modern city quite like Crash (Paul Haggis, not David Cronenberg, before you ask): the story of a place in a constant state of torsion, punctuated by a series of private epiphanies.
It's the sense of touch. In any real city, you walk, you know? You brush past people, people bump into you. In LA, nobody touches you. We're always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something.
In my nine years in London, I brushed past people, people bumped into me. Instead of freeways snaking across town, we have underground trains and buses. In this cramped, collective and miserable ushering of bodies, Londoners are exposed to an exasperating range of horrors: body odour, bad breath, RnB music, loud phone calls, inappropriate displays of "affection". But worst of all, you get to look at everyone else's miserable faces.
In Los Angeles, you are protected from sharing these moments by your car. Everyone trundles off to work in their little (well, large) bubble. Inside it you can stink, sweat, grope, shout and fume as much as you like. The surplus angst that might cause you to shove someone in the back on a crowded escalator vents itself through the horn, or agressive lane changing. But the principle's the same; everyone gets home from work stressed, knackered and angry. There's a bit of extra fallout in terms of pollution and obesity of course, but it's still the Rat Race, and the Rats still win.
Monday, 6 September 2010
Fire
It’s pretty much dark now. It’s cold too. The campfire is fighting on two fronts, and winning. It’s winning on a third too, since I’ve been tying to write for the last hour but keep finding myself staring at it instead.
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I wrote those words two months ago. They were to be the fire post, but I never got to finish them. When I set out on my trip down the west coast, I had never camped before; never been exposed to its magic. Now I realise that so much of that magic dances from the flames of a proper fire. They are so absorbing: stare into them, and the hours fall through you.
As I journeyed through the parks and wilderness of the States, I began to appreciate the natural forces that shape the world around us - water, wind and sun. Forces that slowly carve out landscapes over the millennia. And fire. Fire doesn't take centuries to do its work. It's not ubiquitous, like the others; it doesn't touch our lives every day. But when it does spark into life, it does so swiftly, menacingly, and with devastating effect.
Natural fires have been started by lightning since the world began turning, and they create as well as destroy. For years, conservationists went to great lengths to protect the Giant Sequoia groves in Yosemite National Park from fire. It was only in the sixties that people began to realise that Sequoias were actually dependent upon fire for their existence. With no flames to thin out the canopy, shade tolerant pines thrived and covered the forest floor, preventing Sequoia seeds from starting. They needed fire to open the canopy and coat the forest floor with a blanket of ash. The heat from the flames would force the pine cones to open, sending the seeds sprinkling onto the newly fertile ground.
Sequoias are perhaps the best example of the importance of fire, but they're by no means the only ones. Regular fire clears debris, thins brush, adds nutrients to the soil and releases seeds across meadows, mountains and forests. All members of the natural community; trees, shrubs, fungi, insects, birds and mammals benefit when the flames of a lightning fire touch the forest.
Death and destruction are natural, essential components in the cycle of life. And yet they are abhorrent to human beings. We resist them, I thought, as the flames danced and flickered before eventually petering out.
Saturday, 4 September 2010
The Highway Code
Camping has been such an integral part of the journey these last few months that, with the days running out, I decided I would really like one more night under the stars before I leave America in my wake. It's a long old slog from Scottsdale back to LA, so I take a look at the map and decide I can split the journey and camp out in the Joshua Tree National Park, California.
Nice idea, piss poor planning. As I approach the turn off for the park, just after 3pm, the outside temperature is showing 112ºF (44.5ºC). This is definitely not hiking weather. I open the car window and feel like I'm inside a tumble dryer. It's not camping weather either - it probably won't drop below 35ºC even in the middle of the night. So I decide to keep driving until the mercury drops to a more forgiving level.
To my surprise, it keeps rising. I stop for gas in Indio, and it's at 117. Shortly after, it peaks at a whopping 121ºF (49.5ºC). How can anyone even exist in these conditions? It's pretty obvious by now that I'm going to have to go all the way to the coast, and tomorrow's destination, Huntington Beach. An hour or so later and I am fully engulfed in Greater Los Angeles traffic at 5pm on a Friday. I'm not sure that LA doesn't actually stand for Los Autos.
I'm probably going to tar a few innocent people with my whopping great brush here, but there is one fact that has become increasingly obvious to me along the 9,000 or so miles I have driven in the US. Americans can't drive. Maybe you're American and are insulted by this? I apologise. Please feel free to refute any of the following assertions:
1. Americans do not indicate when they are about to manoeuvre or change lanes. Ever. Different cars don't even have the same colour indicators like in other countries, it's that irrelevant.
2. Americans do not observe any form of lane discipline. On a completely empty highway, a car hogging the outside lane once pulled over (without indicating) to allow me to pass, then pulled back out to re-occupy the passing lane. Undertaking, overtaking, it's all the same to them.
3. Americans cannot drive unless they are using a cellphone. They find it very hard to operate a ve-hicle with two hands. Using a cellphone removes the temptation to indicate, and the drop in concentration makes changing lanes easier.
4. Drink driving is absolutely rife in America. It is an integral part of life, everywhere you go; an acceptable risk. I have seen people barely able to stand getting behind the wheel. The individual's right to get hammered and drive themselves home is considered greater than the right of everyone else not to be endangered by them.
5. American drivers don't let each other out or thank one another. If you do stop or slow down to let someone out, they will probably hate you for it as much as the drunk guy in the car behind you who is on the phone to his wife and about to undertake you (without indicating).
All this makes driving for long periods especially taxing. You are in a heightened state of alert, constantly trying to second guess everyone around you. But most of all, I am having to remain permanently vigilant, in case I start driving like them. I have the occasional lapse, not indicating or undertaking, but manage to remain off the phone and keep the lid on the whiskey.
By the time I finally arrive in Huntington I have covered almost 400 miles and been in the car for nearly seven hours. My friend Blom is on the piss somewhere, so I have to climb through the dog door to get in his flat. When it becomes apparent that I don't fit, I relax into a cold beer on the porch. And as the last sip passes my lips, an irresistible urge to fall asleep grips my body, I check myself into the nearest motel and promptly pass out.
The inside of my tent on a sunny morning
Nice idea, piss poor planning. As I approach the turn off for the park, just after 3pm, the outside temperature is showing 112ºF (44.5ºC). This is definitely not hiking weather. I open the car window and feel like I'm inside a tumble dryer. It's not camping weather either - it probably won't drop below 35ºC even in the middle of the night. So I decide to keep driving until the mercury drops to a more forgiving level.
To my surprise, it keeps rising. I stop for gas in Indio, and it's at 117. Shortly after, it peaks at a whopping 121ºF (49.5ºC). How can anyone even exist in these conditions? It's pretty obvious by now that I'm going to have to go all the way to the coast, and tomorrow's destination, Huntington Beach. An hour or so later and I am fully engulfed in Greater Los Angeles traffic at 5pm on a Friday. I'm not sure that LA doesn't actually stand for Los Autos.
I'm probably going to tar a few innocent people with my whopping great brush here, but there is one fact that has become increasingly obvious to me along the 9,000 or so miles I have driven in the US. Americans can't drive. Maybe you're American and are insulted by this? I apologise. Please feel free to refute any of the following assertions:
1. Americans do not indicate when they are about to manoeuvre or change lanes. Ever. Different cars don't even have the same colour indicators like in other countries, it's that irrelevant.
2. Americans do not observe any form of lane discipline. On a completely empty highway, a car hogging the outside lane once pulled over (without indicating) to allow me to pass, then pulled back out to re-occupy the passing lane. Undertaking, overtaking, it's all the same to them.
3. Americans cannot drive unless they are using a cellphone. They find it very hard to operate a ve-hicle with two hands. Using a cellphone removes the temptation to indicate, and the drop in concentration makes changing lanes easier.
4. Drink driving is absolutely rife in America. It is an integral part of life, everywhere you go; an acceptable risk. I have seen people barely able to stand getting behind the wheel. The individual's right to get hammered and drive themselves home is considered greater than the right of everyone else not to be endangered by them.
5. American drivers don't let each other out or thank one another. If you do stop or slow down to let someone out, they will probably hate you for it as much as the drunk guy in the car behind you who is on the phone to his wife and about to undertake you (without indicating).
All this makes driving for long periods especially taxing. You are in a heightened state of alert, constantly trying to second guess everyone around you. But most of all, I am having to remain permanently vigilant, in case I start driving like them. I have the occasional lapse, not indicating or undertaking, but manage to remain off the phone and keep the lid on the whiskey.
I use my cellphone whilst driving, but only to take this photo
By the time I finally arrive in Huntington I have covered almost 400 miles and been in the car for nearly seven hours. My friend Blom is on the piss somewhere, so I have to climb through the dog door to get in his flat. When it becomes apparent that I don't fit, I relax into a cold beer on the porch. And as the last sip passes my lips, an irresistible urge to fall asleep grips my body, I check myself into the nearest motel and promptly pass out.
Friday, 3 September 2010
Kitchen Confidential
My clothes smell funny. Not necessarily bad, just funny. The kind of smell that might make passers by briefly twitch their noses, crinkle their brow, and wonder if it was them or me. I’ve smelt like this many times before, though it’s been so long that it took me a brief second to recognise it: the smell you get from working in a kitchen.
Now before Homeland Security chuck me out (I was leaving anyway) or you all start worrying about me, I should point out that I’m not actually working. I just spent the afternoon in the kitchen at Atlas Bistro in Scottsdale, Arizona. I do a bit of prep and help with the washing up, but really it’s just about spending a little time in the company of Josh and Keenan, the two killer chefs.
Walking in around two thirty, the first question is wanna beer? I politely decline. Five seconds later, with a shrug of the shoulder, Josh places a beer in front of me. The stereo goes on, and vacillates between Johnny Cash, NWA and some unidentifiably heavy metal.
These guys are special. They know their shit absolutely inside out. They understand, and talk about food in the most economical but precise terms. Josh smells Erin’s coffee. The beans are slightly burnt. I guess they meant that. I brought along some hand made chocolates I bought in Santa Fe. They’re all pretty good. The best is infused with lemon verbena. Keenan is walking out as Josh is walking in. Try the verbena. It’s fucking awesome.
Going to cooking school is a bit like taking driving lessons. At the end, if you’re good enough, they give you a bit of paper. Some people are stupid enough to think this means they know how to drive. They don’t. Three months at Ballymaloe teaches you some basics. Three hours with these guys and you realise how it is in the real world. It’s like driving round Hyde Park Corner with your eyes closed: instinctive.
Today, they pulled out some cured salmon and smoked it briefly until it emerged with a delicate balance of sweetness and smoke. Ends of strip loins collected over the last few weeks were smoked, browned and slow cooked in wine and demi-glace for a beef rillette. Elsewhere they knocked up crab cakes, plated their own charcuterie and pickles, cured pork belly in readiness for roasting, and all the time talked, shared ideas, suggestions and their passion for what they do.
I used to think it was just time and repetition that elevates you in the kitchen, but it’s not. You have to be a genius as well, and I don’t have it in me. It doesn’t hurt to have the ambition refreshed a little though. I’ve let the food and cooking thing slide for the last few months whilst being wowed by other things. But it’s been there all along, bubbling away in the background like a stockpot. The next few months should see it simmering its way into the foreground once more, and I might just smell that smell a little more often.
Now before Homeland Security chuck me out (I was leaving anyway) or you all start worrying about me, I should point out that I’m not actually working. I just spent the afternoon in the kitchen at Atlas Bistro in Scottsdale, Arizona. I do a bit of prep and help with the washing up, but really it’s just about spending a little time in the company of Josh and Keenan, the two killer chefs.
Walking in around two thirty, the first question is wanna beer? I politely decline. Five seconds later, with a shrug of the shoulder, Josh places a beer in front of me. The stereo goes on, and vacillates between Johnny Cash, NWA and some unidentifiably heavy metal.
These guys are special. They know their shit absolutely inside out. They understand, and talk about food in the most economical but precise terms. Josh smells Erin’s coffee. The beans are slightly burnt. I guess they meant that. I brought along some hand made chocolates I bought in Santa Fe. They’re all pretty good. The best is infused with lemon verbena. Keenan is walking out as Josh is walking in. Try the verbena. It’s fucking awesome.
Going to cooking school is a bit like taking driving lessons. At the end, if you’re good enough, they give you a bit of paper. Some people are stupid enough to think this means they know how to drive. They don’t. Three months at Ballymaloe teaches you some basics. Three hours with these guys and you realise how it is in the real world. It’s like driving round Hyde Park Corner with your eyes closed: instinctive.
Today, they pulled out some cured salmon and smoked it briefly until it emerged with a delicate balance of sweetness and smoke. Ends of strip loins collected over the last few weeks were smoked, browned and slow cooked in wine and demi-glace for a beef rillette. Elsewhere they knocked up crab cakes, plated their own charcuterie and pickles, cured pork belly in readiness for roasting, and all the time talked, shared ideas, suggestions and their passion for what they do.
I used to think it was just time and repetition that elevates you in the kitchen, but it’s not. You have to be a genius as well, and I don’t have it in me. It doesn’t hurt to have the ambition refreshed a little though. I’ve let the food and cooking thing slide for the last few months whilst being wowed by other things. But it’s been there all along, bubbling away in the background like a stockpot. The next few months should see it simmering its way into the foreground once more, and I might just smell that smell a little more often.
Thursday, 2 September 2010
The sunless sunset
In 1988 an Italian named Carlo Cipolla, a Professor of Economics at Berkely, wrote what would become his most famous treatise: The Basic Laws of Human Stupidity. A brilliant, incisive piece of pseudo-academics that is almost above criticism. Cipolla's Second Basic Law states that:
I only mention this in passing by way of defence. I mean, anyone, regardless of any characteristic they may or may not possess, is capable of acts of profound stupidity. Like, when embarking on a camping trip, leaving their tent on a tree stump. Or, after four hours behind the wheel getting from Las Cruces to Tuscson, Arizona, driving for another hour to photograph giant cacti at sunset, only to arrive without their camera.
I was more than happy to bury this fact along with all the other shameful and embarrassing secrets I keep from you, but it bears out an interesting point. Upon realising my mistake, my first instinct was to disbelieve, and keep driving for another couple of miles. Then, as the image of the camera sat on the motel room bed crystallised in my mind, I pulled over to check. All wasted moments.
The sun was dropping at a rate of knots, and I had a decision to make: press on and enjoy the Saguaro National Park at sunset, but without taking photos, or try and hoon it back across Tucson, grab the camera and return before darkness falls. Or to put it another way, savour the moment, without the opportunity to preserve it for posterity (and an imaginary blog audience) or risk losing the moment altogether, but retain the chance to preserve what little might remain.
My decision was bold, fearless and earnest. And, not for the first time today, stupid. Granted, I got back to the Oh My Days Inn a lot quicker than it took me to get out there. I didn't slouch on the way back either, not even when a speed camera blatantly flashed me doing 60 in a 50. And all the time the sun was laughing at me as it slid down the rear view mirror and out of sight.
So, stressed from the Bullitt like drive across town and in near darkness, I embark upon the loop drive round the cactus park. By now the peculiar little nocturnal creatures that call the barren forest their home are out in force. They're running all over the road and I have to drive at 10mph to save them from perishing under my wheels. It's too dark to take any decent photos, and when I do try, I am rushing, not thinking straight, and trek out into the middle of a bloody cactus forest without my widest lens. I take nothing of any value whatsoever, and here is the proof:
Next time I'm faced with a similar dilemma, I'll think of this image, and put the present in front of the future.
By the time I'm heading back, I'm tired, hungry and annoyed. The camera's on the passenger seat, settings all over the place from the last picture I tried to take. I stop at traffic lights and, I don't know, there's a balance to what I see in front of me. The setting sky and its colours, the lights, the pylons. I grab the camera and shoot through the windscreen, fumbling for focus, just before the lights go green.
Now I might be kidding myself here, but I love this picture. Despite, maybe even because of, all its imperfections. The longer I spend travelling, the better I get at taking things in my stride. Believing, really believing that, in spite of our stupidity, for every opportunity we lose, spurn, squander, or never notice, another, no less equal, takes its place.
The probability that a certain person be stupid is independent of any other characteristic of that person.
I only mention this in passing by way of defence. I mean, anyone, regardless of any characteristic they may or may not possess, is capable of acts of profound stupidity. Like, when embarking on a camping trip, leaving their tent on a tree stump. Or, after four hours behind the wheel getting from Las Cruces to Tuscson, Arizona, driving for another hour to photograph giant cacti at sunset, only to arrive without their camera.
I was more than happy to bury this fact along with all the other shameful and embarrassing secrets I keep from you, but it bears out an interesting point. Upon realising my mistake, my first instinct was to disbelieve, and keep driving for another couple of miles. Then, as the image of the camera sat on the motel room bed crystallised in my mind, I pulled over to check. All wasted moments.
The sun was dropping at a rate of knots, and I had a decision to make: press on and enjoy the Saguaro National Park at sunset, but without taking photos, or try and hoon it back across Tucson, grab the camera and return before darkness falls. Or to put it another way, savour the moment, without the opportunity to preserve it for posterity (and an imaginary blog audience) or risk losing the moment altogether, but retain the chance to preserve what little might remain.
My decision was bold, fearless and earnest. And, not for the first time today, stupid. Granted, I got back to the Oh My Days Inn a lot quicker than it took me to get out there. I didn't slouch on the way back either, not even when a speed camera blatantly flashed me doing 60 in a 50. And all the time the sun was laughing at me as it slid down the rear view mirror and out of sight.
So, stressed from the Bullitt like drive across town and in near darkness, I embark upon the loop drive round the cactus park. By now the peculiar little nocturnal creatures that call the barren forest their home are out in force. They're running all over the road and I have to drive at 10mph to save them from perishing under my wheels. It's too dark to take any decent photos, and when I do try, I am rushing, not thinking straight, and trek out into the middle of a bloody cactus forest without my widest lens. I take nothing of any value whatsoever, and here is the proof:
Next time I'm faced with a similar dilemma, I'll think of this image, and put the present in front of the future.
By the time I'm heading back, I'm tired, hungry and annoyed. The camera's on the passenger seat, settings all over the place from the last picture I tried to take. I stop at traffic lights and, I don't know, there's a balance to what I see in front of me. The setting sky and its colours, the lights, the pylons. I grab the camera and shoot through the windscreen, fumbling for focus, just before the lights go green.
Now I might be kidding myself here, but I love this picture. Despite, maybe even because of, all its imperfections. The longer I spend travelling, the better I get at taking things in my stride. Believing, really believing that, in spite of our stupidity, for every opportunity we lose, spurn, squander, or never notice, another, no less equal, takes its place.
Wednesday, 1 September 2010
White Sands
It's around a four hour drive from Santa Fe down to the town of Alamogordo. If you read the Frommers guide, you might wonder why I bothered:
Luckily, I'm not here to avail myself of any amenities, just to visit White Sands National Monument a few miles west of town. 275 square miles of gypsum dunes; the largest anywhere on earth. You seldom see gypsum as sand, because it is soluble. But here in the Tularosa Basin where there's next to no rain, the sun evaporates the water leaving the crystallised mineral at the mercy of strong south-westerly winds.
As the grains of gypsum are blown, they rub together until they shine brilliant white, and bank in dunes just like any other sand. Their colour means they reflect more heat than quartz sand, so you can walk across them without burning yourself.
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The dunes have an unusual attraction. It's a subtle difference really, but their ethereal whiteness imparts a strange virtue. It is a bridal white that hints at purity and holiness, and it lends an almost supernatural elegance that makes it seem other-worldly. You just won't see or feel something like this anywhere else on Earth.
As usual, I wander off for a little solitude, in preparation for sunset. There are some good clouds about and I don't have long to wait. Unfortunately, some of those clouds park themselves resolutely in front of the sun. I trek for half an hour or so, to get closer to the horizon and further from anyone else. It's funny how we are drawn, almost magnetically, towards a sunset. I eventually climb a dune and sit in the sand to wait.
It's pretty dark, and the gypsum fades to a dull grey without the sun to help it fluoresce. I'm looking down, playing with the sand when the sun drops below the cloud line and lights me up. The grains run through my fingers as I am bathed in the purest light.
Suddenly the whole landscape is transformed. The clouds and dunes come to life, and play off of one another. It is a marvellous, peaceful privilege to experience. It doesn't last too long, and as the sun dips out of sight behind the San Andres mountains, the park descends into greyness again, just as its inhabitants begin to burrow out of their tiny holes and get ready for their sunless day to begin.
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This isn't quite the end of the story though; another side to this place's history gives me pause for thought. Because the White Sands National Monument lies entirely within the boundaries of the White Sands Missile Range. And in a northern corner of the range is the Trinity Test Site where, on July 16th 1945, the first ever atomic bomb was detonated. That a land of such natural virtue was chosen for this is a cruel irony, and it will remain forever tainted as a result.
The transformation wasn't lost on those present that day. Once the day had gone "from darkness to brilliant sunshine in an instant", hands were shaken and backs slapped. A bottle of whiskey was passed around. The war was over. When they'd got their vision back, had picked themselves up from the ground where they'd been thrown, and had a moment to reflect, a more sombre mood descended.
Robert Oppenheimer, the bomb's architect, famously reflected;
Kenneth Bainbridge, the test director, expressed the same sentiment more succinctly. Seconds after what he called the "foul and awesome display" he turned to Oppenheimer and remarked:
While traveling in this area, I came to jokingly call it "Alamageddin," mostly because the town itself is fairly desolate, without many amenities.
Luckily, I'm not here to avail myself of any amenities, just to visit White Sands National Monument a few miles west of town. 275 square miles of gypsum dunes; the largest anywhere on earth. You seldom see gypsum as sand, because it is soluble. But here in the Tularosa Basin where there's next to no rain, the sun evaporates the water leaving the crystallised mineral at the mercy of strong south-westerly winds.
As the grains of gypsum are blown, they rub together until they shine brilliant white, and bank in dunes just like any other sand. Their colour means they reflect more heat than quartz sand, so you can walk across them without burning yourself.
.jpg)
The dunes have an unusual attraction. It's a subtle difference really, but their ethereal whiteness imparts a strange virtue. It is a bridal white that hints at purity and holiness, and it lends an almost supernatural elegance that makes it seem other-worldly. You just won't see or feel something like this anywhere else on Earth.
As usual, I wander off for a little solitude, in preparation for sunset. There are some good clouds about and I don't have long to wait. Unfortunately, some of those clouds park themselves resolutely in front of the sun. I trek for half an hour or so, to get closer to the horizon and further from anyone else. It's funny how we are drawn, almost magnetically, towards a sunset. I eventually climb a dune and sit in the sand to wait.
It's pretty dark, and the gypsum fades to a dull grey without the sun to help it fluoresce. I'm looking down, playing with the sand when the sun drops below the cloud line and lights me up. The grains run through my fingers as I am bathed in the purest light.
Suddenly the whole landscape is transformed. The clouds and dunes come to life, and play off of one another. It is a marvellous, peaceful privilege to experience. It doesn't last too long, and as the sun dips out of sight behind the San Andres mountains, the park descends into greyness again, just as its inhabitants begin to burrow out of their tiny holes and get ready for their sunless day to begin.
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This isn't quite the end of the story though; another side to this place's history gives me pause for thought. Because the White Sands National Monument lies entirely within the boundaries of the White Sands Missile Range. And in a northern corner of the range is the Trinity Test Site where, on July 16th 1945, the first ever atomic bomb was detonated. That a land of such natural virtue was chosen for this is a cruel irony, and it will remain forever tainted as a result.
The transformation wasn't lost on those present that day. Once the day had gone "from darkness to brilliant sunshine in an instant", hands were shaken and backs slapped. A bottle of whiskey was passed around. The war was over. When they'd got their vision back, had picked themselves up from the ground where they'd been thrown, and had a moment to reflect, a more sombre mood descended.
Robert Oppenheimer, the bomb's architect, famously reflected;
We knew the world would not be the same. A few people laughed, a few people cried, most people were silent. I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture, the Bhagavad-Gita. Vishnu is trying to persuade the Prince that he should do his duty and to impress him takes on his multi-armed form and says, "Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds." I suppose we all thought that, one way or another.
Kenneth Bainbridge, the test director, expressed the same sentiment more succinctly. Seconds after what he called the "foul and awesome display" he turned to Oppenheimer and remarked:
Now we are all sons of bitches.
Tuesday, 31 August 2010
Stairway to Heaven
Santa Fe, New Mexico is one of the oldest cities in the United States. A rather pretty little place, its traditional adobe houses, galleries, churches, artists and museums lure the tourists in their droves. There is a singular air about the place; it is distinctly New Mexican. Red chiles hang from every doorway.
Perhaps the most intriguing attraction is the Loretta Chapel. The story goes something like this: the chapel was built with no means of getting up to the choir loft. The Sisters of Loretta didn't want to haul their habits up some rickety old ladder, so they prayed to St Joseph, patron saint of carpenters, for a solution. Lo and behold, on the final day of their Novena, a mysterious man appeared at the chapel door offering his services. A few months later, he disappeared without a trace, but not before he'd knocked up a neat spiral staircase that turns through 720º without any obvious means of support. It was proclaimed a miracle (though not an official one).
I'm not an overly religious person, but I like places of worship and the thoughtful reflection they quietly imbue. So I was rather looking forward to a few peaceful moments looking at this wondrous bit of carpentry and pondering the message behind its mysterious creation. Never mind. The voice booming out of the speakers repeated the story every five minutes over a backtrack of moving choral singing. The only place it moved me was the exit, which is reached via a gift shop selling all manner of borderline blasphemous tat. Luckily the beautiful St Francis Cathedral Basilica a few blocks away offered some respite, with only a modest souvenir shop wedged in the vestibule.
The clear implication is that the mysterious old man was in fact some incarnation of Joseph himself (not me, I'm hopeless with a jigsaw). Because the staircase has no central support, it was considered to be held up by some divine force. This too is nonsense - the innermost piece of wood is coiled so tight that it acts as a support. It's an extremely accomplished piece of carpentry, achieved with very basic tools, and by soaking the wood in tubs of hot water. All that glitters is not gold.
But the staircase has 33 steps! They cry. Jesus's age when he died. Oh come on! The staircase has 33 steps - exactly equal to the number of apostles (not including Judas) multiplied by the number of people in the Holy Trinity? Or the very same 33 that you get if you subtract the number of days God took to create the world (including Sunday, even though he had his feet up) from the number of days Jesus spent in the wilderness? Hmmm.
I am exacerbating my cynicism, not just for comic effect, but because the packaging of this beautiful chapel invites little else. Of course all these tales are complete bunk, but at least let them speak for themselves and don't turn them into a shameless money spinner.
The rest of Santa Fe is nice, but I can't help but thinking it doesn't suffer from a similar malaise. It is a beautiful place to wander about, but bloody expensive. There are galleries everywhere. Some are good, others less so. Some, it seems, assume that just being in Santa Fe validates their art and justifies the lofty price tags.
Restaurants too. Hype and style over substance, in the two I put to the test. And punitively expensive. It seems a shame that in a place special enough to not really need any selling, everyone seems determined to do just that.
Hot chile peppers in the blistering sun
Perhaps the most intriguing attraction is the Loretta Chapel. The story goes something like this: the chapel was built with no means of getting up to the choir loft. The Sisters of Loretta didn't want to haul their habits up some rickety old ladder, so they prayed to St Joseph, patron saint of carpenters, for a solution. Lo and behold, on the final day of their Novena, a mysterious man appeared at the chapel door offering his services. A few months later, he disappeared without a trace, but not before he'd knocked up a neat spiral staircase that turns through 720º without any obvious means of support. It was proclaimed a miracle (though not an official one).
Can you feel it?
I'm not an overly religious person, but I like places of worship and the thoughtful reflection they quietly imbue. So I was rather looking forward to a few peaceful moments looking at this wondrous bit of carpentry and pondering the message behind its mysterious creation. Never mind. The voice booming out of the speakers repeated the story every five minutes over a backtrack of moving choral singing. The only place it moved me was the exit, which is reached via a gift shop selling all manner of borderline blasphemous tat. Luckily the beautiful St Francis Cathedral Basilica a few blocks away offered some respite, with only a modest souvenir shop wedged in the vestibule.
The clear implication is that the mysterious old man was in fact some incarnation of Joseph himself (not me, I'm hopeless with a jigsaw). Because the staircase has no central support, it was considered to be held up by some divine force. This too is nonsense - the innermost piece of wood is coiled so tight that it acts as a support. It's an extremely accomplished piece of carpentry, achieved with very basic tools, and by soaking the wood in tubs of hot water. All that glitters is not gold.
But the staircase has 33 steps! They cry. Jesus's age when he died. Oh come on! The staircase has 33 steps - exactly equal to the number of apostles (not including Judas) multiplied by the number of people in the Holy Trinity? Or the very same 33 that you get if you subtract the number of days God took to create the world (including Sunday, even though he had his feet up) from the number of days Jesus spent in the wilderness? Hmmm.
I am exacerbating my cynicism, not just for comic effect, but because the packaging of this beautiful chapel invites little else. Of course all these tales are complete bunk, but at least let them speak for themselves and don't turn them into a shameless money spinner.
The rest of Santa Fe is nice, but I can't help but thinking it doesn't suffer from a similar malaise. It is a beautiful place to wander about, but bloody expensive. There are galleries everywhere. Some are good, others less so. Some, it seems, assume that just being in Santa Fe validates their art and justifies the lofty price tags.
Restaurants too. Hype and style over substance, in the two I put to the test. And punitively expensive. It seems a shame that in a place special enough to not really need any selling, everyone seems determined to do just that.
Monday, 30 August 2010
Moving Home
Some time in the 6th century AD, Native American Indians came to live on Mesa Verde in the south west corner of Colorado. They farmed and hunted on the mesa top, where the land was fertile enough, but prone to long periods of drought. They built homes, initially simple pit houses, but later sophisticated stone masonry villages. Then, around 1200 AD, they began to build homes on ridges and alcoves in the cliff faces below the mesa top. The greatest examples, like Cliff Palace have survived to this day.
There are some 600 cliff dwellings in Mesa Verde National Park. Cliff Palace is the largest of them with 150 rooms, and was probably a kind of community centre. With the harsh conditions, the Ancestral Puebloans had to pool their resources to survive. Of the 150 rooms at Cliff Palace, many were for storing crops and meat. 23 of them were Kivas, round, sunken rooms used for ceremonial purposes.
Around 100 years later, the people that built these communities upped and left, never to return. Although there were severe droughts around this time, they'd survived plenty worse. It may have been that after some 700 years of tilling the same land, it could no longer support their burgeoning population. They spread south into Arizona and New Mexico and settled among their kin. No matter how sophisticated a race or people, once the natural resources of its land are exhausted, the options are either to move on, as the Puebloans did, or die out.
A hundred and fifty odd miles away, to the south and east, near the town of Taos, New Mexico, another group of people have assimilated their homes into the landscape: Hippies. And they call their homes Earthships. (Cue anti-hippy shudder and contempt. But I decide to check it out anyway).
An Earthship is a sustainable home made entirely of recycled materials that generates its own power and recycles its own waste. It is half buried in the ground to conserve heat, and has solar panels and wind turbines on the roof. Rainwater is harvested and treated then fed into a traditional plumbing system. Grey waste is used to water plants, then to flush toilets. Black waste goes into your standard septic tank. The walls are made of used car tires, packed with earth and filled out with old drink cans and bottles.
Now the people who build and live in these things in hippy communes in the middle of a large field in New Mexico might strike you as being a little strange. They are. But at the same time, they would appear to be onto something. Is it so absurd to think that if you are building a new home, you should harness as much of the energy it will need from the wind and the sun? Or that using as many recycled materials as possible will reduce its impact upon the environment and cost you less money?
I'm not completely buying into all of this of course. I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to live in a house that looks like something out of Mad Max 2, or call my children things like "Rainbow" or "Snowflake". Hell, I'm a pure bred capitalist ex-bookie for God's sake. But the principles that underly what they're doing here must eventually be assimilated into mainstream society. The smartest architects are already designing and building homes that work in harmony with their immediate environment, not against it.
Ask the Ancestral Puebloans. A hundred years after building the most incredible homes and communities, they were gone. There's a limit to what the land can give us, and unless we're quick enough to devise new ways to enhance our return from what we've already taken, we'll be faced with the same two options as them. But there are 6.7 billion of us and counting, so repatriation could prove a bit more complicated...
Cliff Palace, Mesa Verde National Park, Colorado
There are some 600 cliff dwellings in Mesa Verde National Park. Cliff Palace is the largest of them with 150 rooms, and was probably a kind of community centre. With the harsh conditions, the Ancestral Puebloans had to pool their resources to survive. Of the 150 rooms at Cliff Palace, many were for storing crops and meat. 23 of them were Kivas, round, sunken rooms used for ceremonial purposes.
Kivas in Cliff Palace
Around 100 years later, the people that built these communities upped and left, never to return. Although there were severe droughts around this time, they'd survived plenty worse. It may have been that after some 700 years of tilling the same land, it could no longer support their burgeoning population. They spread south into Arizona and New Mexico and settled among their kin. No matter how sophisticated a race or people, once the natural resources of its land are exhausted, the options are either to move on, as the Puebloans did, or die out.
A hundred and fifty odd miles away, to the south and east, near the town of Taos, New Mexico, another group of people have assimilated their homes into the landscape: Hippies. And they call their homes Earthships. (Cue anti-hippy shudder and contempt. But I decide to check it out anyway).
An Earthship is a sustainable home made entirely of recycled materials that generates its own power and recycles its own waste. It is half buried in the ground to conserve heat, and has solar panels and wind turbines on the roof. Rainwater is harvested and treated then fed into a traditional plumbing system. Grey waste is used to water plants, then to flush toilets. Black waste goes into your standard septic tank. The walls are made of used car tires, packed with earth and filled out with old drink cans and bottles.
Another Brick in The Wall
Now the people who build and live in these things in hippy communes in the middle of a large field in New Mexico might strike you as being a little strange. They are. But at the same time, they would appear to be onto something. Is it so absurd to think that if you are building a new home, you should harness as much of the energy it will need from the wind and the sun? Or that using as many recycled materials as possible will reduce its impact upon the environment and cost you less money?
Not sure of the name of this one. Er, Tire Palace?
I'm not completely buying into all of this of course. I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to live in a house that looks like something out of Mad Max 2, or call my children things like "Rainbow" or "Snowflake". Hell, I'm a pure bred capitalist ex-bookie for God's sake. But the principles that underly what they're doing here must eventually be assimilated into mainstream society. The smartest architects are already designing and building homes that work in harmony with their immediate environment, not against it.
Ask the Ancestral Puebloans. A hundred years after building the most incredible homes and communities, they were gone. There's a limit to what the land can give us, and unless we're quick enough to devise new ways to enhance our return from what we've already taken, we'll be faced with the same two options as them. But there are 6.7 billion of us and counting, so repatriation could prove a bit more complicated...
Sunday, 29 August 2010
Romance in Durango
I've rolled in and out of enough small towns by now, but still never quite know what to expect. The speed limit shifts down, and you either find yourself trundling along a dusty main street or squeezed between a sudden epidemic of chain motels, fast food joints and gas stations, praying for a sign to Downtown.
Restored by the wonderful drive from Silverton, I wind my way into Durango, Colorado. Sure enough the speed limit falls, but by the time the Travelodge, KFC and Taco Bell are behind me, I've already raised a smile to the "Serious Texas Bar-B-Q" and the motel whose sign reads "Free Rooms. Only Kidding." This place was always going to be different.
The best things about Durango aren't exactly unrelated. It sits at around 7,000 feet in the Animas River valley on the edge of the San Juan mountains. Right now it is lush and green. In winter, it is white, buried deep in snow. In contrast to the dusty red of Utah, this feels like a place where people were meant to live; the heavens irrigate the land that provides for them. And provide it does.
With all that rain and arable land, comes good food. The town's 20,000 or so inhabitants are either extremely demanding or incredibly lucky. Bakeries, like Bread. Coffee shops, like Steaming Bean or Durango Coffee Co. Restaurants like Cosmo. A Farmers' Market Saturdays and Wednesdays. Incredible vegetables, biodynamic farming, organic ranches. It's as though the Earth pours forth the very best of everything into one tiny town. And with this, of course, come the comfort and contentedness that accompany all my favourite places.
Most people visit Durango for its abundant outdoor pursuits. Skiing and snowboarding in the winter, mountain biking, climbing and hiking the rest of the time. I sharpen my poles and take off round Animas mountain. There's nothing worse than trekking uphill for an hour and a half only to be confronted by a rubbish view.
Further north I take another hike, this time much higher up, around Andrews Lake, through a meadow littered with ponds and back into the trees. I don't have time to get beyond the tree line, but in the two and a half hours I'm up there, I don't see another living soul. (Thankfully that includes Mountain Lions and Black Bears). Somehow the tranquility feels like an extension of the town, and not an escape from it.
But all the nice views and good coffee in the world don't amount to a whole hill of beans without good people to shepherd you through them. With Erin's mom, Terry, looking after me I can relax and enjoy everything that this amazing little place has to offer. It's far too late now to start the world from scratch, but if you were thinking about it, there'd be plenty worse places to begin than here. I might even go so far as to say I love it...
Restored by the wonderful drive from Silverton, I wind my way into Durango, Colorado. Sure enough the speed limit falls, but by the time the Travelodge, KFC and Taco Bell are behind me, I've already raised a smile to the "Serious Texas Bar-B-Q" and the motel whose sign reads "Free Rooms. Only Kidding." This place was always going to be different.
The best things about Durango aren't exactly unrelated. It sits at around 7,000 feet in the Animas River valley on the edge of the San Juan mountains. Right now it is lush and green. In winter, it is white, buried deep in snow. In contrast to the dusty red of Utah, this feels like a place where people were meant to live; the heavens irrigate the land that provides for them. And provide it does.
With all that rain and arable land, comes good food. The town's 20,000 or so inhabitants are either extremely demanding or incredibly lucky. Bakeries, like Bread. Coffee shops, like Steaming Bean or Durango Coffee Co. Restaurants like Cosmo. A Farmers' Market Saturdays and Wednesdays. Incredible vegetables, biodynamic farming, organic ranches. It's as though the Earth pours forth the very best of everything into one tiny town. And with this, of course, come the comfort and contentedness that accompany all my favourite places.
Most people visit Durango for its abundant outdoor pursuits. Skiing and snowboarding in the winter, mountain biking, climbing and hiking the rest of the time. I sharpen my poles and take off round Animas mountain. There's nothing worse than trekking uphill for an hour and a half only to be confronted by a rubbish view.
Further north I take another hike, this time much higher up, around Andrews Lake, through a meadow littered with ponds and back into the trees. I don't have time to get beyond the tree line, but in the two and a half hours I'm up there, I don't see another living soul. (Thankfully that includes Mountain Lions and Black Bears). Somehow the tranquility feels like an extension of the town, and not an escape from it.
But all the nice views and good coffee in the world don't amount to a whole hill of beans without good people to shepherd you through them. With Erin's mom, Terry, looking after me I can relax and enjoy everything that this amazing little place has to offer. It's far too late now to start the world from scratch, but if you were thinking about it, there'd be plenty worse places to begin than here. I might even go so far as to say I love it...
Terry and I
Thursday, 26 August 2010
Home turf
It was only really when a familiar smell wafted in through the aircon that I noticed the change. Even then it took a second to register. It made me look out the window, and I saw green. I saw fields, trees; I saw the Rocky Mountains lining the horizon, and I saw the freshly cut grass. Colorado. I could be on another continent.
I take on one more canyon for good measure - the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. The climb up to the rim is through corn fields and arable land; water sprinklers and ranches. Looking back, I could almost be in the South Downs (minus the Rockies). The canyon itself is more what I had expected to begin with - narrow, steep and rugged. With the extra moisture and foliage comes an abundance of wildlife in addition to the ubiquitous squirrels and lizards.
It's getting late and I have some miles to make up. The San Juan range of the Rocky Mountains looms ever larger as I heave the horizon towards me. Although the red rock, dust and sandstone of Utah and Arizona are gone, they still manage to have a Red Mountain Pass that I need to negotiate, and above the treeline orange rock shines down on me. The rain and the sheer drops make for slow going, but the scenery is incredible.
It all seems a long way from the barren, hostile landscapes of the last week or so. I no longer feel like I've wandered onto the set of Star Wars, but back in Europe. Ouros, that I pass on my way, could be anywhere in Switzerland. By the time I reach the old Victorian mining town of Silverton I'm ravenously hungry and tired of driving. Any sense of being closer to home quickly evaporates - the backdrop may be Alpine, but I'm back on a film set and this time it is pure wild west. I have an Elk burger for dinner, drink a few beers and manage not to get shot at on my way back to the motel.
I take on one more canyon for good measure - the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. The climb up to the rim is through corn fields and arable land; water sprinklers and ranches. Looking back, I could almost be in the South Downs (minus the Rockies). The canyon itself is more what I had expected to begin with - narrow, steep and rugged. With the extra moisture and foliage comes an abundance of wildlife in addition to the ubiquitous squirrels and lizards.
It's getting late and I have some miles to make up. The San Juan range of the Rocky Mountains looms ever larger as I heave the horizon towards me. Although the red rock, dust and sandstone of Utah and Arizona are gone, they still manage to have a Red Mountain Pass that I need to negotiate, and above the treeline orange rock shines down on me. The rain and the sheer drops make for slow going, but the scenery is incredible.
It all seems a long way from the barren, hostile landscapes of the last week or so. I no longer feel like I've wandered onto the set of Star Wars, but back in Europe. Ouros, that I pass on my way, could be anywhere in Switzerland. By the time I reach the old Victorian mining town of Silverton I'm ravenously hungry and tired of driving. Any sense of being closer to home quickly evaporates - the backdrop may be Alpine, but I'm back on a film set and this time it is pure wild west. I have an Elk burger for dinner, drink a few beers and manage not to get shot at on my way back to the motel.
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
Underneath the arches
Southern Utah is almost back to back National Parks. I don't have time to see them all sadly, so work my way up the east side of the state and tick a few off the list. I'm still slap bang in the middle of the Colorado Plateau, so things don't change too much. Rather than stark contrasts, this is a place of subtle differences. Bridges and arches, land shaped by rivers and streams, or wind and rain.
This, in case you didn't know, is a natural bridge:
It was formed, a bloody long time ago, by a meandering river, like the San Juan, photographed below. As the spring melt flooded, the water would crash into the walls of the river's tight bends. Over time, this impact smashes a hole, and the river changes its course, shortcutting the bend. As more water flows through, the hole widens and widens, until a natural bridge is formed. This one's pretty old - the river has long gone and it's looking a bit fragile.
A hundred odd miles to the north, I learn the crucial difference between an arch and a bridge, at the appropriately named Arches National Park. This place is very different. Although it is now high desert, 300 million years ago, it was a sea, which evaporated, leaving 5000 foot deep salt deposits that were eventually covered in sand particles and turned to rock. The rock cracked, water got in and the salt finally dissolved. The wind and rain drive down the through the cracks, leaving huge fins, like flat pebbles standing on end. Some of these fins have weak spots, and over just a few thousand years, they crack and open into arches. There are 2000 of them in this park, at various stages of their evolution.
In 1991, a 60 foot section of Landscape Arch crashed to the ground as a result of the combined, painstaking efforts of wind, water, and gravity. You can see the thin section from where it fell above. The rest could come crashing down at any minute. In August 2008, the nearby Wall Arch collapsed overnight. All that remains now are the two opposing ends that once supported the pile of rocks that lie prone between them.
You can see similar shapes all over the park, and one day all the arches will go the same way, just as new ones will evolve from solid fins. This all happens relatively quickly here, over just a few thousand years. Hiking and climbing through, over and among them you can see and feel the sense of gradual change. It's another gentle reminder that our lives barely last a heartbeat in the life of the planet.
Just a few miles away, another park, Canyonlands, and a completely different topography. We're back to canyons again - at the confluence of the Green and Colorado rivers. It might not be as famous as the Grand Canyon, but it lacks something that makes it superior in my eyes; hoards of tourists. Even hiking the Grand View Trail, I only see a handful of other people. Sitting at the end, admiring the endless view, a raven swoops past, and I actually hear his wings whistling through the wind.
This, in case you didn't know, is a natural bridge:
Owachomo Natural Bridge, Utah
It was formed, a bloody long time ago, by a meandering river, like the San Juan, photographed below. As the spring melt flooded, the water would crash into the walls of the river's tight bends. Over time, this impact smashes a hole, and the river changes its course, shortcutting the bend. As more water flows through, the hole widens and widens, until a natural bridge is formed. This one's pretty old - the river has long gone and it's looking a bit fragile.
Goosenecks State Park, Utah
A hundred odd miles to the north, I learn the crucial difference between an arch and a bridge, at the appropriately named Arches National Park. This place is very different. Although it is now high desert, 300 million years ago, it was a sea, which evaporated, leaving 5000 foot deep salt deposits that were eventually covered in sand particles and turned to rock. The rock cracked, water got in and the salt finally dissolved. The wind and rain drive down the through the cracks, leaving huge fins, like flat pebbles standing on end. Some of these fins have weak spots, and over just a few thousand years, they crack and open into arches. There are 2000 of them in this park, at various stages of their evolution.
Delicate Arch
Double O Arch
Landscape Arch
In 1991, a 60 foot section of Landscape Arch crashed to the ground as a result of the combined, painstaking efforts of wind, water, and gravity. You can see the thin section from where it fell above. The rest could come crashing down at any minute. In August 2008, the nearby Wall Arch collapsed overnight. All that remains now are the two opposing ends that once supported the pile of rocks that lie prone between them.
The remains of Wall Arch
You can see similar shapes all over the park, and one day all the arches will go the same way, just as new ones will evolve from solid fins. This all happens relatively quickly here, over just a few thousand years. Hiking and climbing through, over and among them you can see and feel the sense of gradual change. It's another gentle reminder that our lives barely last a heartbeat in the life of the planet.
Just a few miles away, another park, Canyonlands, and a completely different topography. We're back to canyons again - at the confluence of the Green and Colorado rivers. It might not be as famous as the Grand Canyon, but it lacks something that makes it superior in my eyes; hoards of tourists. Even hiking the Grand View Trail, I only see a handful of other people. Sitting at the end, admiring the endless view, a raven swoops past, and I actually hear his wings whistling through the wind.
Sunday, 22 August 2010
Bluff, Utah
When I left Antelope Canyon, I left without my friends from cooking school. Erin had come up from Phoenix with Jon and Marco, over from Italy, and they all headed west to Vegas as I drove east, back towards the four corners.
The loneliest moments when travelling by yourself come immediately after you've had company. It feels even more acute this time because we've shared some incredible experiences. The last few days remind me that no matter how many amazing things you see in the world, nothing beats sharing them with people you love.
We say our goodbyes. I don't fancy camping or sleeping in the car, so give the Frommers a quick once over, book myself a motel room in Bluff, Utah, and start chalking off the 170 miles between here and there.
I've said before that impressions of a place are largely governed by state of mind, but maybe it's not so true. After mile upon mile of stunning landscape, Bluff reveals itself one building at a time, nestled in the shadows of the red rock ridges and, well, bluffs. A coffee shop, steakhouse, a few motels. A gas station. I check myself in, and immediately extend my stay to two nights. My spirits, low for the last two and a half hours, are completely lifted. It is just so peaceful here, and the people so warm.
In the morning I walk down to Comb Ridge Coffee where I'm glad to get my hands on a decent americano. I don't really fancy much for breakfast. I'm sort of over the whole pancakes thing, but I've not had blue corn pancakes yet, so I settle for them. When I pay my check, I tell the guy behind the counter two things, both of them true: "Those were the best pancakes I have eaten in America," and "I'll see you tomorrow."
Who'd have thought that a couple of pancakes amidst a tiny cluster of buildings and delightful people on a long empty highway could do so much to restore the soul? I drive off with a happy heart. I'm not going to post any photographs of Bluff - there'd be no point. The thing that makes it special can't be seen - just felt. If you're ever passing through these parts, be sure to stay a night. Or two.
The loneliest moments when travelling by yourself come immediately after you've had company. It feels even more acute this time because we've shared some incredible experiences. The last few days remind me that no matter how many amazing things you see in the world, nothing beats sharing them with people you love.
Marco, Jon, Erin, Me
We say our goodbyes. I don't fancy camping or sleeping in the car, so give the Frommers a quick once over, book myself a motel room in Bluff, Utah, and start chalking off the 170 miles between here and there.
I've said before that impressions of a place are largely governed by state of mind, but maybe it's not so true. After mile upon mile of stunning landscape, Bluff reveals itself one building at a time, nestled in the shadows of the red rock ridges and, well, bluffs. A coffee shop, steakhouse, a few motels. A gas station. I check myself in, and immediately extend my stay to two nights. My spirits, low for the last two and a half hours, are completely lifted. It is just so peaceful here, and the people so warm.
In the morning I walk down to Comb Ridge Coffee where I'm glad to get my hands on a decent americano. I don't really fancy much for breakfast. I'm sort of over the whole pancakes thing, but I've not had blue corn pancakes yet, so I settle for them. When I pay my check, I tell the guy behind the counter two things, both of them true: "Those were the best pancakes I have eaten in America," and "I'll see you tomorrow."
Who'd have thought that a couple of pancakes amidst a tiny cluster of buildings and delightful people on a long empty highway could do so much to restore the soul? I drive off with a happy heart. I'm not going to post any photographs of Bluff - there'd be no point. The thing that makes it special can't be seen - just felt. If you're ever passing through these parts, be sure to stay a night. Or two.
Saturday, 21 August 2010
Antelope Canyon
It begins as a tiny hairline crack in the surface of the sandstone. In time, droplets of water find their way into the crack. As they run its length they carry away particles of the rock and the crack widens and deepens. Where the strength of the sandstone is uneven, or the force of the water irregular, the crack widens in dips and swirls. Add the wind, flash floods and a few million years, and you have a slot canyon.
Antelope Canyon in northern Arizona is the most famous and photographed in the world. Towards the entrance is a plaque dedicated to the memory of eleven tourists who perished inside when a flash flood hit in August 1997. I steal a quick glance toward the clear blue sky, and descend into the Lower Canyon through an opening that must surely preclude very fat people from enjoying the natural wonders within.
Slot canyons are apparently a magnet for serious photographers. I take my crappy tripod down with me in case I need it, but I don't. It's almost midday and there's plenty of light. You can't photograph the top of the canyon because of the huge range between the light and dark. Well you can, but it looks like this:
I can't seem to escape the haunting thought of what it must have been like to be trapped in here when the water broke. The floods that cut a canyon out of solid rock to lure those people in, then crushed their bodies against the delicate walls before carrying them off without a trace.
We manage to drift off the end of the group and take our time to marvel at the intricate patterns on the sandstone walls, and the huge curves and spirals that make you feel like you've climbed inside a sea shell. As the sunlight filters down and bounces off the sand, delicate pastel colours seem to soften the walls. Occasionally the curves form edges, and up close resemble something surely man made.
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Water may seem free in its movements but it follows the same rules as the rest of us. It might have started with a trickle, but each subsequent drop followed the same path. Eventually the trickle became a torrent, eroding and sculpting the rock into the most elegant twists and curves as if a ballet dancer pirouetting through the air had carved the stone with her shadow. Yet despite these free flowing strokes, the walls retain so many patterns, with such structure and regularity, it seems impossible that they were created by chance, and not by meticulous adherence to some great design.
Antelope Canyon in northern Arizona is the most famous and photographed in the world. Towards the entrance is a plaque dedicated to the memory of eleven tourists who perished inside when a flash flood hit in August 1997. I steal a quick glance toward the clear blue sky, and descend into the Lower Canyon through an opening that must surely preclude very fat people from enjoying the natural wonders within.
Slot canyons are apparently a magnet for serious photographers. I take my crappy tripod down with me in case I need it, but I don't. It's almost midday and there's plenty of light. You can't photograph the top of the canyon because of the huge range between the light and dark. Well you can, but it looks like this:
I can't seem to escape the haunting thought of what it must have been like to be trapped in here when the water broke. The floods that cut a canyon out of solid rock to lure those people in, then crushed their bodies against the delicate walls before carrying them off without a trace.
We manage to drift off the end of the group and take our time to marvel at the intricate patterns on the sandstone walls, and the huge curves and spirals that make you feel like you've climbed inside a sea shell. As the sunlight filters down and bounces off the sand, delicate pastel colours seem to soften the walls. Occasionally the curves form edges, and up close resemble something surely man made.
.jpg)
Water may seem free in its movements but it follows the same rules as the rest of us. It might have started with a trickle, but each subsequent drop followed the same path. Eventually the trickle became a torrent, eroding and sculpting the rock into the most elegant twists and curves as if a ballet dancer pirouetting through the air had carved the stone with her shadow. Yet despite these free flowing strokes, the walls retain so many patterns, with such structure and regularity, it seems impossible that they were created by chance, and not by meticulous adherence to some great design.
Friday, 20 August 2010
Monument Valley
If you've ever watched a Western, chances are you've seen Monument Valley. John Ford and Sergio Leone both used it to great effect - the iconic sandstone buttes completely encapsulate the essence of the wild west. I couldn't have imagined quite how special they would be in the flesh.
As we neared the park, the thunderstorm we had been watching from a distance gathered before us. We stopped before a long straight road, and watched the weather cross. Before long the wind was howling around us as the lightning came down in the valley. As we approached, the buttes appeared on the horizon. The iconic, finger like rocks, and the larger mesas.
There is a seventeen mile dirt road that loops around the valley. The first couple of miles of this are torturous. I'm seriously worried that I'm going to pop a tyre, and that we're having to drive so slow it will soon be dark. When we eventually get clear of the bumps and pull over, the low sun emerges from behind the dense clouds and bathes the whole valley in wonder. I forget about the car, the world and all its worries, and gaze in silent awe.
I can't quite put my finger on what makes it so special. Somehow the bright green desert grass and the dark grey clouds frame the rocks, and allow their redness to glow like hot coals. Whilst the thin clusters of stones are the most iconic, the bigger mesas seem the most impressive when clenched like this between earth and sky.
There is something deeply spiritual about Monument Valley. What an extraordinary coincidence that the great monoliths should bear such resemblance in their striking shapes to both ancient temples and modern cathedrals. The thinner, statuesque buttes punctuate this landscape, like giant chess pieces. Something tangible flits between and around them all, as if they are talking with one another.
As the sun disappears, beams of light seem to be emanating from somewhere on the horizon, as though its rays are being bounced back from some giant mirror. With the final setting of the sun the great rocks cease to glow, leaving just their eerie silhouettes to haunt us as we quietly leave in the darkness.
There is no question among us that we are somewhere quite remarkable. A spirituality both natural and human separates Monument Valley from the other wonders of the west. As the eons scraped away the hundred million year old plateau and left just these strange beacons standing, it is as though they lowered us a little closer to the Heart of the World.
As we neared the park, the thunderstorm we had been watching from a distance gathered before us. We stopped before a long straight road, and watched the weather cross. Before long the wind was howling around us as the lightning came down in the valley. As we approached, the buttes appeared on the horizon. The iconic, finger like rocks, and the larger mesas.
There is a seventeen mile dirt road that loops around the valley. The first couple of miles of this are torturous. I'm seriously worried that I'm going to pop a tyre, and that we're having to drive so slow it will soon be dark. When we eventually get clear of the bumps and pull over, the low sun emerges from behind the dense clouds and bathes the whole valley in wonder. I forget about the car, the world and all its worries, and gaze in silent awe.
I can't quite put my finger on what makes it so special. Somehow the bright green desert grass and the dark grey clouds frame the rocks, and allow their redness to glow like hot coals. Whilst the thin clusters of stones are the most iconic, the bigger mesas seem the most impressive when clenched like this between earth and sky.
There is something deeply spiritual about Monument Valley. What an extraordinary coincidence that the great monoliths should bear such resemblance in their striking shapes to both ancient temples and modern cathedrals. The thinner, statuesque buttes punctuate this landscape, like giant chess pieces. Something tangible flits between and around them all, as if they are talking with one another.
As the sun disappears, beams of light seem to be emanating from somewhere on the horizon, as though its rays are being bounced back from some giant mirror. With the final setting of the sun the great rocks cease to glow, leaving just their eerie silhouettes to haunt us as we quietly leave in the darkness.
There is no question among us that we are somewhere quite remarkable. A spirituality both natural and human separates Monument Valley from the other wonders of the west. As the eons scraped away the hundred million year old plateau and left just these strange beacons standing, it is as though they lowered us a little closer to the Heart of the World.
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
The Large Canyon
Repetition of superlatives only serves to lessen their impact. Take the word Grand. It's used all the time (in Ireland, in every sentence, to denote that something is tolerable). Occasionally it gets bumped up a rung or two; a grand old house, a grand staircase, grand piano. The Grand Canyon? Well, it'll be nice enough, and bigger than your average canyon, to be sure.
It's big all right - 277 miles long, with an average depth of 4,000 feet and 15 miles across at its widest point, way beyond the span of any word I can think of. As I approach and gain a first glimpse I am truly taken aback.
As a visual spectacle it is quite simply awesome. It is so big, colourful, and wonderfully sculpted. Cloud shadows dance across its peaks and troughs, and the sun teases it with bursts of life and colour. Old trees line the rim, some living, some long dead. There's a lot of dust and pollution sadly, but rainclouds clear the air and gather threateningly overhead. It's too late for me - I'm already halfway down.
I hiked down the South Kaibab trail for an hour, and it took about one and a half to get back up, by which time it was mercifully pissing with rain and I took a well earned nap in the car. When I woke it was still raining, so I took advantage of the trepidation of the United Nations of tourists to stride out along the rim and enjoy a little solitude.
Sadly the fat tourist laden shuttle buses whizz by, but the clouds are beginning to abate. I've hiked for a few hours now, so the initial visual impact has diffused and I've kind of got used to the place. But before long a glorious twilight is filling the canyon. Suddenly it's magic comes alive again, and I spend a long time just staring over the edge, completely mesmerised by its loneliness and beauty.
But perhaps most impressive of all, it is just so unimaginably old. Experts agree that it's somewhere between 6 and 17 million years (experts, pah!) since the Colorado River first began gorging out a canyon as the land around it lifted. But the rocks had been forming for almost half the life of the Earth. The water cut through the geological history of our planet, like an arborist boring into an old tree, and left the results, in all their splendour, free for all to see.
It's big all right - 277 miles long, with an average depth of 4,000 feet and 15 miles across at its widest point, way beyond the span of any word I can think of. As I approach and gain a first glimpse I am truly taken aback.
As a visual spectacle it is quite simply awesome. It is so big, colourful, and wonderfully sculpted. Cloud shadows dance across its peaks and troughs, and the sun teases it with bursts of life and colour. Old trees line the rim, some living, some long dead. There's a lot of dust and pollution sadly, but rainclouds clear the air and gather threateningly overhead. It's too late for me - I'm already halfway down.
I hiked down the South Kaibab trail for an hour, and it took about one and a half to get back up, by which time it was mercifully pissing with rain and I took a well earned nap in the car. When I woke it was still raining, so I took advantage of the trepidation of the United Nations of tourists to stride out along the rim and enjoy a little solitude.
Sadly the fat tourist laden shuttle buses whizz by, but the clouds are beginning to abate. I've hiked for a few hours now, so the initial visual impact has diffused and I've kind of got used to the place. But before long a glorious twilight is filling the canyon. Suddenly it's magic comes alive again, and I spend a long time just staring over the edge, completely mesmerised by its loneliness and beauty.
But perhaps most impressive of all, it is just so unimaginably old. Experts agree that it's somewhere between 6 and 17 million years (experts, pah!) since the Colorado River first began gorging out a canyon as the land around it lifted. But the rocks had been forming for almost half the life of the Earth. The water cut through the geological history of our planet, like an arborist boring into an old tree, and left the results, in all their splendour, free for all to see.
You cannot improve on it. The ages have been at work on it, and man can only mar it- Theodore Roosevelt
Monday, 16 August 2010
Raising Arizona
I'm driving across the barren expanses of Arizona when the city of Phoenix rises from the dust. It feels contrived - who in their right mind would build a town in the absolute middle of nowhere? I have a little drive around downtown looking for someone to pose this question to, but it's completely deserted. I drive around uptown, and that's deserted too. I pull over, open the car door but quickly slam it shut. I have just discovered why there are no people in Phoenix - it's because it is hotter than the sun.
I also discover that I actually need to be in Scottsdale, not Phoenix. When I get there, a couple of wonderful things happen. Firstly, I check into a Holiday Inn Express, where I am given a surprisingly nice suite of rooms for $69, and told that they are dispensing unlimited free beer. And then I walk a few blocks in the 110º heat to an unpromising parade of shops set back from the main road, and have dinner at Atlas Bistro.
I start with veal sweetbreads, which are exceptional. For my main, I order the special. Taking a small pig, they have made their own coarse sausagemeat seasoned with fennel. Then they have detached the eye of the loin and rolled it, together with the sausage, in the belly. They cooked it for five hours or so, and served it with wild mushrooms and pea shoots. It sounds almost certain to be too much, but isn't. It is actually an incredible expression of everything piggy - the different textures encased in the soft but crisp skin, and with nothing on the plate to detract from them. It is a brilliantly conceived dish, perfectly executed.
Which is good news for my friend Erin, because she is working in the kitchen here for the next couple of months, learning from the two chefs, Keenan and Joshua. I meet them all after dinner and they've invited me in for a day when I'm passing back through town, an offer I cannot refuse.
Since you can't actually go outside in Phoenix, we head a few hours up the road to the picturesque little town of Sedona. It's much cooler at just 90º (it was still 100º in Phoenix at two in the morning), and a lot more interesting. The town nestles in among stunning red rock formations that shimmer in the twilight.
Things get even more interesting as the sun sets, but the photographs don't do it justice. People are clicking away merrily, myself included, but there is something inherently boring about the results. Looking towards the disappearing sun though, the sky takes on an unusual bluey-grey hue, and there are some interesting silhouettes in the foreground. Everyone else's cameras are pointing the other way and I can't help but think that they're missing the best bit.
The good food theme from Phoenix continues up here too. The Cowboy Club turns out a decent bit of buffalo and appetizers that include snake brochettes. We drink a good local blend, and are treated to an incredible lightning show as a heavy storm rolls across the night sky. I was desperate to take photos but some things you just have to enjoy in the moment. After a long hike the next morning, and an incredible lunch in surely the most unlikely located Korean cafe in the world, we head back to Phoenix and leave the interesting landscape behind us for a few days.
I also discover that I actually need to be in Scottsdale, not Phoenix. When I get there, a couple of wonderful things happen. Firstly, I check into a Holiday Inn Express, where I am given a surprisingly nice suite of rooms for $69, and told that they are dispensing unlimited free beer. And then I walk a few blocks in the 110º heat to an unpromising parade of shops set back from the main road, and have dinner at Atlas Bistro.
I start with veal sweetbreads, which are exceptional. For my main, I order the special. Taking a small pig, they have made their own coarse sausagemeat seasoned with fennel. Then they have detached the eye of the loin and rolled it, together with the sausage, in the belly. They cooked it for five hours or so, and served it with wild mushrooms and pea shoots. It sounds almost certain to be too much, but isn't. It is actually an incredible expression of everything piggy - the different textures encased in the soft but crisp skin, and with nothing on the plate to detract from them. It is a brilliantly conceived dish, perfectly executed.
Which is good news for my friend Erin, because she is working in the kitchen here for the next couple of months, learning from the two chefs, Keenan and Joshua. I meet them all after dinner and they've invited me in for a day when I'm passing back through town, an offer I cannot refuse.
Since you can't actually go outside in Phoenix, we head a few hours up the road to the picturesque little town of Sedona. It's much cooler at just 90º (it was still 100º in Phoenix at two in the morning), and a lot more interesting. The town nestles in among stunning red rock formations that shimmer in the twilight.
Things get even more interesting as the sun sets, but the photographs don't do it justice. People are clicking away merrily, myself included, but there is something inherently boring about the results. Looking towards the disappearing sun though, the sky takes on an unusual bluey-grey hue, and there are some interesting silhouettes in the foreground. Everyone else's cameras are pointing the other way and I can't help but think that they're missing the best bit.
The good food theme from Phoenix continues up here too. The Cowboy Club turns out a decent bit of buffalo and appetizers that include snake brochettes. We drink a good local blend, and are treated to an incredible lightning show as a heavy storm rolls across the night sky. I was desperate to take photos but some things you just have to enjoy in the moment. After a long hike the next morning, and an incredible lunch in surely the most unlikely located Korean cafe in the world, we head back to Phoenix and leave the interesting landscape behind us for a few days.
Sunday, 15 August 2010
10.55 to Yuma
My day begins in San Diego and needs to end in Phoenix. That means a fair bit of driving - 360 odd miles of it in fact. And all of them on freeways, which are tedious and tiresome.
My plan is to get on with it - an early start (well, before check out anyway), foot down, knock off some miles quickly, and stop for lunch in Yuma, just inside Arizona. I download some Metallica to get me on my way, and am headbanging my way along the Interstate when Wherever I May Roam comes on. You don't need me to describe the scene inside the Camaro:
Round about this time, I spot a black and white car in the rear view mirror, bearing down upon me with notable urgency. The red and blue lights on its roof are flashing frantically. Fucking Metallica.
Officer Hernandez is actually very nice. He clocked me doing 95 from the other side of the freeway, and had been hooning it for the last ten minutes in an effort to track me down. He writes me out a ticket for Travelling in excess of 70mph and advises me to slow down a little.
I Watch as all the cars I have passed in the last half hour tootle on past. Eventually I resume my journey, and reluctantly engage the cruise control at a seemingly pedestrian 79mph. This is intolerably boring, until I observe something interesting to the south. A thin black ribbon is meandering across the desert. It's the fence - the one that separates the USA from Mexico. And it is heavily patrolled.
The freeway is barely a hundred yards from the frontier at some points. And so they have roadblocks, to check that you don't have a stray Mexicano clinging to your rear axle, or small children hidden in the footwell. A combination of the car and my accent encourage a little further research:
My plan is to get on with it - an early start (well, before check out anyway), foot down, knock off some miles quickly, and stop for lunch in Yuma, just inside Arizona. I download some Metallica to get me on my way, and am headbanging my way along the Interstate when Wherever I May Roam comes on. You don't need me to describe the scene inside the Camaro:
And the road becomes my bride
I have stripped of all but pride
So in her I do confide
And she keeps me satisfied
Gives me all I need
And with dust in throat I crave
Only knowledge will I save
To the game you stay a slave
Roamer, wanderer
Nomad, vagabond
Call me what you will
But I'll take my time anywhere
Free to speak my mind anywhere
And I'll redefine anywhere
Anywhere I roam
Where I lay my head is home
And the earth becomes my throne
I adapt to the unknown
Under wandering stars I've grown
By myself but not alone
I ask no one
And my ties are severed clean
Less I have the more I gain
Off the beaten path I reign
Round about this time, I spot a black and white car in the rear view mirror, bearing down upon me with notable urgency. The red and blue lights on its roof are flashing frantically. Fucking Metallica.
Officer Hernandez is actually very nice. He clocked me doing 95 from the other side of the freeway, and had been hooning it for the last ten minutes in an effort to track me down. He writes me out a ticket for Travelling in excess of 70mph and advises me to slow down a little.
I Watch as all the cars I have passed in the last half hour tootle on past. Eventually I resume my journey, and reluctantly engage the cruise control at a seemingly pedestrian 79mph. This is intolerably boring, until I observe something interesting to the south. A thin black ribbon is meandering across the desert. It's the fence - the one that separates the USA from Mexico. And it is heavily patrolled.
The freeway is barely a hundred yards from the frontier at some points. And so they have roadblocks, to check that you don't have a stray Mexicano clinging to your rear axle, or small children hidden in the footwell. A combination of the car and my accent encourage a little further research:
-You rented a Camaro? Awesome. V6 or V8?Wise words, but a little too late in the day. I stick Simon and Garfunkel back on the stereo, adjust the cruise control up to within five of the limit and carry on where I left off. You know it's Sad but True...
-V6, not that it matters since I can't do more than 80.
-Bro, you can drive as fast as you like in that thing; just don't get caught.
Saturday, 14 August 2010
San Diego
For reasons that elude me, I've thought for a good few years that San Diego would be my kind of place. So it is even more disappointing that I roll into town feeling in a slight state of limbo. And I am beginning to reconcile myself to the fact that cities are much lonelier to be on your own in than the countryside.
Don't get me wrong; I am more than comfortable travelling alone and rarely feel genuinely lonely. Seeing friendly faces along the way helps, of course. But whilst I can gleefully whittle away the hours in front of the campfire, or hike in blissful solitude, I'm getting a little tired of traipsing around downtowns on my own and sleeping in third rate hotels.
The America's Best Value Inn I'm staying at seems very reasonably priced - it's close to the Gaslamp Quarter and Balboa Park. Five minutes after check in, I'm pretty sure that's because it is directly under the flight path for the nearby airport. The transport infrastructure really pinches San Diego - the shadows of the incoming planes are almost permanent, and the freeways snake around town so you never really feel like you've escaped them.
I wander round the Gaslamp Quarter on my first night looking for somewhere appetising to dine. My choices are endless, but nowhere really appeals. I finally opt for Urban Bar and Grill, a decision I soon regret. I'm enjoying a great shrimp cocktail appetizer when a gormless waiter brings my entree. Farcical exchanges ensue. The next night I decide it's high time I graced Hooters with my patronage: Delightfully tacky, yet unrefined.
In the morning I hired a bike and set off around town. I like it. But I can't help but feel myself being drawn forward, to the next part of my trip. This is something I've tried to avoid all year - never plan or think too far ahead, because it robs you of the only thing you truly have - the present. But I can't help it. I even bought a guide book for Japan the other day.
Just to prove that my mind really isn't on the job, I get home and upload my photos, only to discover that I haven't actually taken any. Well, there are a few, but absolutely nothing to convey any sense of the place, or my experience of it.
.jpg)
Whilst I think this is a nice picture, it's a pretty poor indictment of a city that I actually rather like. I guess I'll just have to come back another day.
Don't get me wrong; I am more than comfortable travelling alone and rarely feel genuinely lonely. Seeing friendly faces along the way helps, of course. But whilst I can gleefully whittle away the hours in front of the campfire, or hike in blissful solitude, I'm getting a little tired of traipsing around downtowns on my own and sleeping in third rate hotels.
The America's Best Value Inn I'm staying at seems very reasonably priced - it's close to the Gaslamp Quarter and Balboa Park. Five minutes after check in, I'm pretty sure that's because it is directly under the flight path for the nearby airport. The transport infrastructure really pinches San Diego - the shadows of the incoming planes are almost permanent, and the freeways snake around town so you never really feel like you've escaped them.
I wander round the Gaslamp Quarter on my first night looking for somewhere appetising to dine. My choices are endless, but nowhere really appeals. I finally opt for Urban Bar and Grill, a decision I soon regret. I'm enjoying a great shrimp cocktail appetizer when a gormless waiter brings my entree. Farcical exchanges ensue. The next night I decide it's high time I graced Hooters with my patronage: Delightfully tacky, yet unrefined.
In the morning I hired a bike and set off around town. I like it. But I can't help but feel myself being drawn forward, to the next part of my trip. This is something I've tried to avoid all year - never plan or think too far ahead, because it robs you of the only thing you truly have - the present. But I can't help it. I even bought a guide book for Japan the other day.
Just to prove that my mind really isn't on the job, I get home and upload my photos, only to discover that I haven't actually taken any. Well, there are a few, but absolutely nothing to convey any sense of the place, or my experience of it.
.jpg)
Whilst I think this is a nice picture, it's a pretty poor indictment of a city that I actually rather like. I guess I'll just have to come back another day.
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