Florida

One thing that was developing as the days and weeks rolled by was an increasing synergy with sun. We were now regularly waking when it peeked above the horizon and we were going to bed when it grew tired of the day. This meant that on many occasions we found ourselves going to bed early before the temperature dropped and once our necks began to ache from staring at the stars.

Flagler Beach Campsite Just Before Sunset

Camping was becoming second nature now. The space within the Beast had been utilised so effectively that we essentially had a portable little house, with storage, a cooler, a larder and a perfectly comfortable bed that could be set up in a matter of minutes. We also had a laptop and a movie library to keep us entertained when the sun went down. Tonight, this was proving to be a godsend after an early sunset and a consuming darkness left us with few alternatives to satisfy our active minds.

Waking up in the Beast is a confusing experience. First of all, early morning sunlight floods-in through the nightly build up of condensation. Then, very slowly, the temperature rises just enough to make you stir. Finally, you open your eyes, and in a moment of genuine confusion you ask yourself why on earth you are lying, shivering in a Korean SUV on a remote stretch of the American coastline. Thankfully this feeling doesn’t last long and as you tear yourself from your sleeping bag and slide out into the open air, everything immediately swings into focus…

As you breath, the crisp cleanliness of the air tickles your nostrils. As you look up, the vast open sky hangs uninterrupted above your head, and as you appreciate your surroundings, you are able acknowledge nature in all its unconfined glory. It is then that you realise how lucky you are, and everything makes sense.

I really can’t imagine a better way to start a day.

So now in Northern Florida, we progressed south, first through a deserted and uninspiring Daytona Beach and then inland away from the wallet aching campsites that line the coast. Soon, we ended up on the side of Interstate 95 where we found a cheap space to set up camp in between the various orange farms that give this state its identity. Then, after a cold but ultimately successful nights sleep; I awoke early, excited and eager to fulfill a childhood ambition. You see today, we would be going to Cape Canaveral, the home of the Kennedy Space Center.

Rockets

After a moderately short drive from our campsite we reached a causeway. From here, dolphins could be seen rising and dipping their way through the rough waters that separate Cape Canaveral from the mainland. On the other side of this, remnants from historical space endeavours stood as monuments that poked their way through the wide state park that surrounds this popular tourist destination. Eventually, we found ourselves in a wide almost endless car park, where we left the Beast and continued our passage on foot the to the large imposing entrance to the space center itself. From here 'Spielbergian' music blared out, loudly and tediously. Rapidly, my enthusiasm for what lay within was eroding, and after a needless long wait in a short queue, my mood was reduced again as I was liberated of a small fortune at the ticket desk. Then we were granted access to what ultimately was a disappointing and sparse tourist attraction. Still, the historical significance of this place is its real appeal, and I felt lucky to see the spot from which man first set course for the moon.

After a few hours we returned to the Beast and once again headed inland toward the large and calm waters of Okeechobee, the lake that feeds Everglades. Here we cooked, ate and camped under a sun which set slowly and colourfully in the distance.

This was exactly the sort of experience I was looking for.

Okeechobee At Sunset

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Georgia & Northern Florida

As we awoke from a shallow sleep in a deserted car park next to the still waters that surround Skidaway Island, I sat in the Beast and contemplated where we were. Looking at the map, the geography was obvious. I could see that Florida was within striking distance and that, after we tore ourselves from bed, we could reach the border within a couple of hours. However, the problem was that in my mind I had no idea about what made Georgia tick historically, politically and culturally and this left me feeling disorientated and unable to really understand what was around me.

I needed to do a little research…

With the British Carolina’s to the north, Spanish Florida to the South and French settlements emerging in modern day Alabama to the west, the state of Georgia started as a pocket of land that was being eyed by colonialists in every direction. Previously, it had been the home of an ancient ‘Moundbuilder’ culture that predated the native American tribes like the Yamasee, who in the late 17h Century allied with the British before the Yamasee War, a conflict that would become one of the most successful acts of defiance by Native Americans against colonialism and European rule (even though it did ultimately end in failure).

Anyway, with the Yamasee War won, the area was purposefully and actively depopulated. This paved the way for the ‘Province of Georgia’ to be established and named in honour of King George II. Unlike for previous British colonies, the early path of Georgia would be defined by the emerging British parliament rather then its troubled monarch. So in 1733 parliament funded the first boats for new settlers who were leaving from England. They also supported the invitation to encourage German Lutherans, Scottish Presbyterians, French Huguenots and Jews to also settle this land in a bid to ward off the influence of Spanish Catholicism to south. This decision proved pivotal. Understandably, upon settlement many of these communities were reluctant to embrace the Church of England and so dissented against British cultural rule. By 1776, this dissent had grown so strong that it directly influenced Georgia’s decision to sign and embrace the Declaration of Independence.

Despite this, the Georgian city of Savannah remained in British hands until they finally departed with the thousands of African slaves who had helped to defend it under the promise of freedom. Many of these people were rewarded with resettlement in Great Britain, the Caribbean or Canada, where thankfully, attitudes toward the slave trade were evolving. Back in Georgia however, this evolution was not being embraced at all, and with this policy, this state increasingly identified itself with the Confederacy, an allegiance that would result in it becoming one of the major battlefields of the American civil war.

St Augustine

Both the Southern identity and the Spanish influence were obvious as we approached Florida, where a surprising number of confederate flags could be seen fluttering in the breeze. Our first stop over the border was St Augustine, the US’s oldest colonial city which was established in 1565, and which to my eye, is an attractive town saturated with Spanish influence. Here, we parked up the Beast and dodged the numerous tacky tourist traps that dominate its centre as best we could. Eventually, in search of rest-bite we found a bizarre private house that had been part converted into a museum for random objects, and part converted into an eccentric café. Here we ate well, and with our bellies full, we ventured back out onto the intricately decorated streets and walked toward the ramparts that used to protect this coastline.

Despite its pleasantry, St Augustine doesn’t really justify more then a couple of hours of attention, so we swiftly departed and headed to the far more appealing stretch of coastline immediately to its south. Here we found Flagler Beach, home to many a beach bum and surfer. This was the perfect place to camp between the dunes and beside an ocean rippled with smooth waves that relentlessly pounded a flat golden beach. I liked it here a lot.

Georgia

After a much-needed breakfast of cream cheese and bagel we packed up ready to leave Charleston and continue our journey. The night before was still lingering behind my eyes as a dull rhythmic thud that was pounding gently, but this was tolerable. The night was an enjoyable one and I was glad that it had left its mark.

We had met a few locals who were, rather surprisingly, sat in a small dark bar watching English football (that’s soccer to the uneducated) on a small flickering television set. Intrigued by their enthusiasm for the beautiful game, I had got talking to them and before long I was exchanging rounds of drinks.

After many beers and several glasses of bourbon, they had told us about the tight social community and the few good places to let your hair down in the city. They had also shared their frustration at the limited choices they had to socialise and the appeal of fresh conversation with outsiders. I have to admit that for me, the community that they described was actually rather appealing, especially when compared to the anonymity that can dominate much of the big city experience. But I guess that it is human nature to see the appeal in other people’s reality, and to take the good in your own for granted.

Before we left Charleston, I got talking to a woman in our Hostel who had managed to carve out a career as a professional traveller courtesy of the French state. …I’ll explain. Basically, she told me that she had worked out that if she works for a minimum period with a company in France and then quits, she is then entitled to two thirds of her salary in benefits for up to 12 months. So with this in mind she had been hoping between temporary jobs and seeing the world ever since leaving college 10 years earlier. I still can’t work out if this makes her incredibly resourceful or incredibly lazy, but if I am being honest, the fact that she had seen and done so much made me slightly envious.

At least a couple of the people that we had met in Charleston had encouraged us to head straight for the state Georgia and specifically the town of Savannah, which was a short drive south on Highway 17. This journey really emphasised the transition in the landscape from the northern states. Now Spanish Moss could be seen drooping lazily from Bald Cypress trees in and between occasional cotton fields that once facilitated the abhorrence of slavery. The almost sinister beauty of this place was emphasised by a rolling mist that appeared to follow us as we progressed slowly and hesitantly.


Eventually we arrived in Savannah’s historic district, which quite simply, is the most beautiful that I have seen anywhere in America. It boasts 22 manicured squares that are each circled by perfect examples of ‘Federal’ and ‘English Regency’ architecture. Between these impressive buildings stand wide pedestrian friendly roads that are lined by lush green trees that hang majestically in the gentle autumn breeze. It honestly looks like nowhere I have ever seen. We both loved it here immediately.



To most back home this city is probably most recognisable as the location of Forrest Gumps’ bench in the successful movie that bore his name in the mid 1990’s. Unfortunately, that now famous piece of street furniture has long since been removed and placed in a museum. However, the square where that famous scene took place still stands for anyone keen enough to wear a tight pastel suite and offer friendly locals a chocolate whilst waiting for a bus. We managed to refrain from doing this.

Kamikaze Camping

After many hours pottering through the pretty streets and shops that make up Savannah, we reluctantly left to seek a safe and appropriate place to sleep. This on the face of it may have seemed like an easy task. America is indeed a vast and predominantly empty space, so how hard could it be to find a quiet little spot to park up the Beast, set up our sleeping platform and get some much needed shut eye. Well, the answer to that question is that it is ‘very hard indeed’. First of all you have to deal with the fact that even though most of America is indeed empty, most of its’ empty spaces are owned and sectioned off by miles and miles of fencing that prohibit entry. Marry this with the fact that in a lot of southern states landowners have the legal right to shoot (yes that’s shoot with a lethal weapon) trespassers on their property, and you have an understandable recipe for fear. The only choices left open in this situation are either to find public land, which all looks deeply spooky in the dead of night, or to find a car park where the presence of vehicles are tolerated after sunset. If you are lucky you can stumble on this kind of car park quickly. If you are not, the search can take many hours.

This night it took many hours. Thankfully, we eventually found a car park next to a public boat launch on Skidaway Island, where we felt safe enough to sleep undisturbed by the slow driving pick up trucks with tinted windows that appear to dominate many late night roads in this country.

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North Carolina & South Carolina

For the first time on our trip we were enduring consecutive days without sunshine. Until now the persistent almost relentless good weather had actually started to cause us problems as we had both packed heavily to endure a cold, or at least a coldish American winter. Now after weeks of glorious almost uninterrupted sunshine, we had been forced to recycle a small handful of appropriate clothing. Therefore, it was with a sigh of relief that I put on my clean woolly hat and thick red hoody.

Still on the barrier islands that snake down the eastern shoreline, we continued south courtesy of a number of old creaking ferries that laboured through the cold choppy waters of the eastern Atlantic. The highlight of these islands was Okracoke, a place that was once synonymous with the fearsome exploits of one Mr Edward Teach aka Black Beard, an English pirate (from Bristol apparently) who terrorised ships on this coastline until his assassination in 1718.

View From The Beast

Eventually, we arrived at Bald Head Island, the location for some of the most frightening scenes in Scorsese’s movie ‘Cape Fear’. Here, a strange collection of pastel coloured houses stood pristine and eerily amidst a deafening silence. Nobody could be seen on the streets, yet cars could be seen parked outside almost every home. It seems that when this community moved to paradise, they did so to isolate themselves in giant cake-like houses that stand in insipid contrast to the natural beauty of both the sand and sea that surrounds them.

Bald Head Island

Our target for this portion of the trip was South Carolina, or more specifically Charleston, an attractive university town that sits roughly half way down the coastline of this historical state.

A bit of history…

Picture the scene. It’s the end of the 17th century. Back home Cromwell has died and the short lived British Republic that hat was his legacy has been replaced by the same monarchy that was so roundly defeated in the civil war. Now Charles II is king and he is rewarding those that supported his accession with favour and land. Up step eight British aristocrats now based in Barbados whose previous unshakable support for the monarchy is about to be recognised with the gift of Carolina, a colony which sits on the eastern shore of the America’s. Charles has named this colony in recognition of his father, Charles I whose execution in 1649 is still fresh in the collective memory of a nation that is expanding its control and influence all over the globe (in case you were wondering ‘Carolus’ is Latin for Charles. Apparently).

Now, with leadership secured, all is looking good for the colonialists. However, following the cheap sale of land to new settlers, Southern Carolina begins to seek greater autonomy, and by 1729 it has manufactured a split and recognition for itself as separate royal colony. This trend continues, and by 1776 South Carolina becomes the first American colony to officially announce their independence, first from Britain and then from the blossoming American Union in 1861. This act effectively kick starts the American Civil War.

Feisty lot these South Carolinians.


Charleston is a town saturated with history. Every street in its dimly lit centre stands as a monument to the industry and vision of those early settlers, whose legacy and achievements can be seen all around. In fact, so pleasing and pleasant is modern day Charleston, that it is hard to find a decent place to have a drink. This had the potential to be disappointing. But fear not. It is at times like these that Rebecca’s American insight is invaluable; ‘what we need is a dark doorway, some muffled music and the sound of loud laughter.’ She was right. Above a shop we heard what we had been listening for. Then a young hipster encouraged us to enter. This would be our first exposure to proper southern hospitality and the cause of our first hangover in 6 weeks.

© All Images By Paul

North Carolina

It had become a bit of a daily ritual on this trip, the searching for a suitable place to sleep whilst driving through a thick forest under a fading sun. So like many nights before and after, we spent the next evening driving on highway 168 doing just that.

Inevitably, after the day became dusk and the dusk became night we found ourselves close to the North Carolina border shrouded in an infinite darkness. It was at times like these that I acknowledged how alien true darkness is for me, a city dweller from a heavily populated and severely light polluted island. If I am being honest, it scared me more then I thought it would as we drove in the Beast completely unaware of what lay within the dark of night.

Eventually, as we could hear the sea lapping against North Carolina’s eastern shore, we turned left onto a causeway that extended onto a small island east of Jarvisburg. Here we found an expensive campsite that was completely exposed to a strong wind that whipped off the Atlantic Ocean. So after paying $30 to essentially park our car, we quickly wrapped up, set up camp and attempted to fall asleep.

Expensive Campsite

The next morning, after using the campsites only shower that sat in an outdoor cubical from which you could watch the clouds float above your head as you washed, we set off. It was at this point that the reality of the coastline could finally be comprehended.

I’m not sure why, but I had assumed that the American eastern coastline was a hard-edged barrier between land and sea. However, it turned out that the reality is far more delicate then that. It appears that a long line of thin low lying islands stretch south as far as the eye can see. Their bare and exposed beauty was a welcome surprise to me, as I genuinely did not know that they existed. Therefore with intrigue, I thumbed through the book of maps that Rebecca’s father had kindly lent us. This clearly showed a narrow road that extended south for 80 miles across these islands, which appeared to be linked by a variety of bridges and ferries. This was perfect.

After an excellent breakfast at “Stack ‘em High’, a restaurant where a friendly Ukrainian waitress served us our first taste of grits, a bland corn based American delicacy, we headed toward Kitty Hawk National Park. I was excited about this as it was here; between the huge imposing sand dunes that the Wright brothers first successfully managed to test fly a fixed wing flying machine. This means that it was here that the possibility of air travel first became a realistic proposition for humanity. It's quite a thought when you think about it.

Kitty Hawk

More Kitty Hawk

Next stop was Roanoke Island, another important site for the history of both America and the UK. This was (apparently) the location of the England’s first real attempt of a colonial foothold in the Americas in the 16th century. It was also the location of a story that goes a little like this…

After a first failed attempt 1585 Sir Walter Raleigh, Queen Elizabeth’s trusted explorer, attempted to establish a colony on Roanoke island in 1587. This time his aim was to build a functioning and sustainable community with woman and children. His ambitions were at least partially realised when upon this site the first offspring of white Europeans in America was born. The name of that child was Virginia Dare.

For the next 2 years Raleigh could not return to personally check up on the progress of the colony, as he was busy locking horns with Spanish. However, upon the eventual return of English ships all that could be found of that first community was the word "CROATOAN" (the name of a neighbouring island) carved into a tree.

The fate of those early settlers has now, for the last 400 years been the subject of intense and often wild speculation.

It's a nice story.

After walking around Roanoke Island for about an hour, we continued our passage south along Highway 12 through Pea Island and Cape Hatteras National Sea Shore. Here numerous small exposed communities of impressive wooden houses stood on stilts in defiance of a relentless bombardment of waves. Between these communities vast sand dunes clung onto a fine golden sand below a wide-open sky. This truly was a beautiful place.

Cape Hatteras National Sea Shore

© All Images By Paul

Virginia

‘Only in America’. This phrase has been on my mind since I last used it. Why? Well, upon reflection it really has to be one of the biggest clichés that exist.

I guess that it is a reference to how both Americans and the rest of the world view the exuberant fringes of US society. But to be honest I’m not too sure. From what I have seen, read and heard over the last 6 weeks all I can really say is that here at least, it looks like it is used by some to illustrate a sense of American exceptionalism and superiority. Which is ironic, as the very same phrase back home is used by an equal number of moronic individuals to mock and criticise. It’s a strange situation, and one that to reasonable people everywhere, is completely ludicrous. You see the truth is that America really does not have a monopoly on either superiority or bizarre cultural activity. It just happens to be the focus of more media attention due to its current cultural and economic prominence.

Fundamentally, America like so much of England, Europe and the rest of the World is not unique. The reality is that people in most countries are more similar then any of us care to admit. It’s just that as we all search clumsily for a sense of identity, many of us will hold the country of our birth aloft as being more sane and functional then anywhere else, for the single reason that this is what we know and understand. As far as I'm concerned, the fact that this happens everywhere is an example of how similar humans really are. You see when it comes down to it; we’re all looking for the same things... happiness, love, freedom, prosperity, wisdom etc. But due to geography, spirituality or specific democratic failings, we go about our activities and celebrate ourselves in many different ways. I guess that if there is one thought that sticks in my mind each day as I am repeatedly exposed to new communities across this country, this is it.

Anyway…

Like cheese rolling back home, tomatoe throwing in Spain, or family moped riding in Malaysia, today I saw a cultural activity specific to the emerging culture of a single country.

We left our comfortable hotel in Washington DC and headed south into Virginia toward Fredericksburg, the historical home of George Washington's family. This was another civil war site, and the location of a tidy well preserved small town that has obviously worked hard to maintain its heritage.

The day of our arrival was by coincidence the same day that locals dress their pets up in costumes for Halloween, and do what I could only describe as ‘Pet Trick or Treating’. This may actually happen elsewhere, but if it does I have never seen it. You have probably guessed what this is all about, however I will still describe it for you because it still confuses me to think about it. Basically, animals are dressed up in human-like costumes, and (you guessed it) they are walked between various houses and businesses whose owners bestow them with all kinds of treats and gifts.

I have to be honest about this and say that (to me at least) these animals looked miserable and uncomfortable through all of this. They seemed only to tolerate their handler’s enthusiasm due to the handfuls of food that were regularly being placed in their mouths. They were being treated like human children rather then the creatures that they are, and this just made me feel sorry for them. Indeed to my dismay, some were even being placed in prams and wheeled around by owners who beamed like proud new parents. This event really wasn't for me.

So, after about an hour I decided to leave Rebecca to document each and every dog, cat and human that was participating, and walk around the attractive streets of this pleasant town to take some photographs. Eventually, I returned to the Beast to listen to Mark Kermode's weekly podcast in bid to restore some much needed sanity to my brain (hello Jason Isaacs), before being joined by Rebecca and her full memory card.

It was time to progress south east toward the navel port of Norfolk, where we would once again meet the coast that would carry us down toward the southern tip of Florida.





© All Images By Paul

District of Columbia

As the days’ relentless rainfall finally abated, and after a rich golden sun set slowly on Baltimore’s attractive inner city, we decided to make our move. As the traffic upon entry to this modest metropolis had been so hectic, we hoped that the cover of darkness may provide a more frictionless passage to Washington DC. Thankfully, this proved to be a wise decision.

To be honest, I was sorry to leave Baltimore. It had provided what so many criticise American cities of lacking, a genuinely unique architectural aesthetic. This was a surprise, as so many people had told me to expect the opposite. However, I can now say with complete confidence, that not all American cities are the same at all, and anyone who says otherwise is simply wrong.

When we arrived in DC, we did so with a strategy. From a hazy decade old memory that has lingered long in the empty hole that is my mind, I recalled that the metro system provides a reliable and well functioning method of navigating between the various monuments and tourist attractions. So we checked into a comfortable motel in Cheverly, a nearby suburb from which we could get easy access.

DC Metro Station

Cheverly proved to be the perfect launch pad from which we could explore Washington DC’s (thankfully) pedestrian friendly central core. From here we could travel to and walk around the many miles of paths and walkways that link the various elements of Pierre Charles L’Enfant’s original design for this planned capital.

Despite two sore legs and an equal number of aching feet, I was glad not to be dependent upon a vehicle for the first time in weeks. It reminded me how constricted life can be when forced to use a car for every journey, and it brought home thoughts of the old world back home in Europe, where walking is a more prominent feature of everyday life.

All around us tall columns imposed a classic almost phallic interpretation of masculine architecture that could have been lifted straight out of ancient Rome. This is obviously a capital that was designed to intimidate foreign heads of state using tried and tested symbols of power. It’s not original, but its architectural posturing is definitely impressive.




That night we ventured into Georgetown, the friendly and bustling social centre for many who live in this city. This place provided the beating heart that was lacking in the more functional and imposing central districts. Here immaculately maintained Georgian inspired brick buildings provide temporary shelter for late night shoppers and inebriated but well-behaved revelers. This was more like it. It felt human and alive, like a well behaved version of Dublin on a Saturday night.

Georgetown Sunset

After a few days meandering between the various monuments and museums it was time to do what any visit to Washington DC really requires. It was time to attend a political rally. Thankfully, during our stay the more rational voices of America were congregating in front of Capitol Hill for Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert's rally to restore Sanity and/or Fear.


Some opinion (please feel free to ignore this)…

It appears that the political discourse in America has polarised in recent years and tribal tension between both camps in its strict 2 party system is at an all time high. This is partly due to the recent emergence of the Republican right in the form of the Tea Party, but it is also due to Democratic Parties’ reaction to this change to the political landscape.

In Britain, our problem is that both main political parties have moved toward the centre ground in search of votes and in doing so they have left little room for an increasingly bewildered electorate to make choices at election time (hence our hung parliament). In America, things are quite different. Here instead of chasing votes to the centre, political parties have actually shifted the very location of the national debate. Let me explain…

The political right has in recent decades shifted further to the right and the left has shifted into what was considered to be the centre ground. As a result when the two parties now reach out and agree with each other in order to facilitate change, the only policy they can agree on is policy that anywhere else in the world would be considered to be marginally right wing. As a result the right is the real location of modern American debate, and this is the real reason why a proper debate of more leftist issues (health reform, public sector investment etc) generate such violent and negative rhetoric.

Jon Stewarts attempt to bring reasonable balanced debate back to America is to be applauded and his central belief that most people are reasonable, and that most people can cope with differences of opinion is completely right, not just in America, but all over the world. Media bosses and political leaders need to just give them a chance.

Aggressive tribal politics is dangerous in any country, it decreases the quality of debate and as a result, it prevents the electorate from being able to form reasonable conclusions based on the balance of political argument. This in turn enables political parties and media outlets to dictate where on the political scale the national debate takes place, because leaders know they can rely on the backing of tribal supporters for whom their support is a defining characteristic.


On a lighter note, this rally also enabled me to see Ozzy Osbourne and Cat Stevens (two Englishman) perform on same stage in front of the central houses of national democracy.

Only in America

© All Images By Paul

Delaware & Maryland

I just spent an hour reading an editing my last entry. At this rate this blog is going to take forever. I need to just get on with it.

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes…

Ferry to Delaware

The next morning we caught the Cape May ferry that transports passengers between New Jersey and Delaware. Delaware had been a national focus over the last month as Christine O'Donnell, a representative of the newly organised Republican right and a Senate candidate for this state, had been dominating much of the mass media news narrative in the run up to the mid-term elections.

Some opinion…

The Tea party, as it is being called, derive their name from a feeling that they are being “Taxed Enough Already”, a reference in itself to the Boston Tea Party in 1773, where America quite reasonably accelerated its campaign of descent against the unfair taxation that they had endured without democratic representation in the British Parliament. To an outsider, their rhetoric appears to be low on rational fact and high on a provocative fundamentalist interpretation of the American constitution. It is highly critical of the economic stimulus package that was deployed by both Republicans and Democrats, and it appears to be using this criticism to derail the policies of a president who remains deeply unpopular within communities that do not see him as a palatable figurehead for America. For me, the Boston Tea Party reference is telling. It illustrates that this movement are comparing their small government ambitions with the original struggle, first for representation, and then for independence. This comparison simply does not stand up. Big government and high taxation do not imprison the American people who already pay one of the lowest levels of tax in the post-industrial world. In my mind, it is low levels of investment in coherent and efficient health and education policy that inhibits the potential of people in any country, not taxation in itself.

Anyway…

Our stay in Delaware was brief, as we immediately headed south toward the border with Maryland, one of the wealthiest states in America. Here our first destination was Ocean City, land once owned and originally developed by an Englishman, Mr Thomas Fenwick. Now Ocean City, which sits on a long thin island, is a popular tourist destination that has maintained a traditional perspective of what a Beach resort should be. It has a long boardwalk, countless low lying theme parks and an endless sprawl of hotels and cheap restaurants in which holiday makers can relax and gorge themselves to their hearts content.

Ocean City is also one of the few places in America that I have been to before. I lived here for a summer after I graduated from university and worked, first in a maddening theme park called Trimpers from which I had to escape (long story), and then in an insipid sweet shop called Candy Kitchen where I ate my body weight in fudge and taffy. My experience back then was one that has influenced the path of my life. It was the first time that I had travelled to a foreign country alone, and it was the beginning of my life as a fully independent adult. For this reason I had always remembered the place fondly. However, this time around both my mind and my heart sit in a very different place, so beyond a couple of hours spent nostalgically walking the down a heavily commercialised seafront, the appeal of this place was limited. It was time to move on.

Trimpers

Candy Kitchen

Our next stop was a campsite on the beach on the far more beautiful Assateague Island, which sits right next to Ocean City, but which requires a detour via the mainland in order to enter. Here wild ponies roamed free between impressive sand dunes that sat facing a long, clean and empty beach. Quite simply this was a beautiful place to sit by an open campfire, watch the stars and absorb the first few beautiful rays of early morning sunshine.

The next day we headed to Baltimore through the second day of rain of our whole trip. En route we crossed the impressive Francis Scott Key Bridge, which appeared to hover above the mist created by the deluge. This visit to a city most recently associated with the rather brilliant depiction of its drug problem in ‘The Wire’, will mostly be remembered for two reasons; it’s immensely attractive inner-city architecture and the fact that it was within this city that we received our first (very minor) driving violation. I guess that there has to be a first for everything.

Assateague Island

© All Images By Paul

New Jersey

As we left the scrubby outer suburbs of Philadelphia for the Garden State, I couldn’t help but think that we had neglected to give this large and historic city its dues. But like so often in life, it was the passage of time rather then the exploration of desire that dictated the future, and we had to leave.

It was whilst we crossed the border on Highway 30 that a decision was made. We would confront the Atlantic Ocean for the first time at Atlantic City. Why? Well this was the setting for Scorsese’s ‘Boardwalk Empire’, a HBO television series that had become a guilty pleasure for both of us when staying in motels cross country, so it seemed like an appropriate and relevant place for us to end to this first phase of our journey. So with thoughts of 1920’s grandeur, and an in-suppressible desire to catch our first glimpse of the ocean since California, we ventured on.

As we approached Atlantic City, the demise and decay of its various facades became increasingly obvious. Above us thick fluffy clouds hid the sun and cast deep shadows on all that we could see. Around us the tallest buildings stood like defiant structures that had recently survived a bomb explosion; each standing in a state of disrepair, each separated by wasteland and each seemingly inhabited by a community seemingly forgotten by a struggling economy. This is not what we were expecting.

Soon enough we could not travel any further east. We had made it. We had driven coast to coast and regardless of whatever happened next, nobody could take that away from us. This felt satisfying.

Point that we hit the Atlantic

After a very short celebratory walk past a collection of dishevelled fisherman who speculatively cast their lines into the bleak ocean from an unsafe boardwalk, we returned to the Beast. We then turned right and started the next phase of our journey toward the southern most tip of mainland USA, and Key West.

This route immediately took us through the current centre of this tired old city, which only appears to exist in order to remove the meagre contents of people’s wallets via its countless ugly casino’s. Honestly, all I can say about this place is that if Reno is Las Vegas’s tired older cousin, then Atlantic City is its drunk, clapped out, and now incontinent great grandmother. It really is such a shame considering its notorious and swinging past.

Atlantic City Boardwalk

Our route south then took us along the coast toward the southern most tip of New Jerseys' peninsular. Here we would eventually catch a ferry across to Delaware after a short stay in a motel, in which I would try a little experiment.

Upon checking in, I casually mentioned that I was a travel journalist writing a book about America. This was of course a lie, but it did provoke an entertaining reaction…

Immediately, the hotelier (motelier?) called two elderly people who I can only guess were his parents. He then proceeded to send them up to our motel room. Then, with a very genuine and concerned look on his face, he asked me to sit in my car for 10 minutes, just so that our room could be “double checked”.

Eventually, and with a little trepidation I was granted access. The room had obviously just been cleaned, a fact that just goes to show the fake reality that some of these establishments construct for visiting journalists.

Next time I am fearful of cleanliness, I will have to try this again.


© All Images By Paul

Pennsylvania

Upon arrival in the state where modern America was born, we immediately set out for Gettysburg, the site where in its infancy, it nearly committed suicide. Naively, we set out to find some reasonably priced lodging close by, but this being one of the most famous tourist sites in the US, this soon proved impossible. So, sick of evil hoteliers inflating their room rates, we headed out of town to find something cheaper. 15 miles out of town we found the Nesbit Motel. Here the rooms were a third of the price, so feeling slightly smug, we checked in and unlocked our room….

On the face of it, the room seemed fine enough. The bed was clean, the walls weren’t stained, and the faint murmur of dodgy activity in the adjoining rooms wasn’t too overbearing. I was relieved, and so quickly prepared myself for bed. Then, just as I was beginning to get comfortable lying on my back in front of an old television set, Rebecca pulled back the curtains.

Immediately, she stumbled back and with a face flushed of blood, she looked over.

‘What is it?’ I enquired. ‘Look’ she responded.

Hesitantly, I did.

Never before have I seen so many beetles in an inside space. Dozens of them clung to the fabric of the curtain, creeping over each other and generally looking sinister and frightening. Shit. We had both driven too far and it was far too late to find somewhere else to sleep, so there was only one thing for it. I would have to wrap each of these horrendous little beasts in tissue paper and dispose of them myself.

Now I don’t want to sound like a brave hero here, because I generally hate being anywhere near an animal smaller then a mouse, especially if it has more legs then I have limbs. But we had no choice, so with the same facial expression that a child pulls when they are forced to eat liver, I approached the beetles.

The following morning I was exhausted, unable as I was to sleep the nigh before, fearful of some kind of revenge attack. So after a quick breakfast at a petrol station, Rebecca guided the Beast back toward Gettysburg and some much needed fresh air.

There is something interesting about the violence that took place on this site, for it represents the high water mark of the Confederate advance north, and the beginning of the end of the American Civil war. Now, each battalion that fought on both sides is tastefully commemorated on this wide rolling and perfectly maintained memorial park on which most people drive between countless plaques and statues. Confused by everyone else’s laziness, we decided to walk.

Judging from the maintained segregation in this monument, and the merchandise available in the countless souvenir shops in the pretty adjoining town, people appeared to flock here for two main reasons; to either celebrate or commiserate what has past. You see for some (indeed for most), Gettysburg is a place of triumph where Lincoln addressed a solidifying union. However, for others it is a sad place, heavy with lost opportunity, where the reluctant end to an alternative vision of America first had to be comprehended.

For me, if there is one place that represents the division in modern America, it is here.




That night we made a push for the home of the Fresh Prince, and the Liberty Bell... Philadelphia, where under the cover of darkness we explored the last city that we would see prior to our arrival on the east coast and the end to the first chapter of our journey.

Philadelphia

© All Images By Paul

West Virginia

Our first destination in West Virginia was the impressive industrial town of Charleston, from which we continued north East on Highway 79. This took us to Sutton Lake, a place that we decided to investigate for no reason whatsoever.

One of the best things about the US is the opportunity that it provides for anyone to discover something unexpected and wonderful just by taking a random detour. Our visit to the small town of Sutton is a perfect example of this. Here, a now forgotten collection of brick houses that date back to the war of independence stand around a tidy but eerily quiet central square in which the names of local veterans of that war are still proudly presented. For me, this decaying place is a great example of the deep (Eurocentric) history on offer in the American East, where the urban aesthetic seems almost European by contrast to that on offer in California. Here, brick rather then wood seems to dominate towns as a primary building material, and that, in my little brain at least, creates a sense of permanence around almost every man made urban structure.

That night, we left Sutton town for its grand local lake. Here we sat on its banks, mesmerised by a roaring fire that protected us from what was definitely the coldest night that we have endured so far. Thankfully, a kind woman who lived year round in a local caravan offered us some chopped wood to make this possible. I fear for the consequences had she not done this.

Thank the lord for thermals.

The following morning we tore ourselves away from the comparative warmth of the Beast in order to pack up camp ready for the continuation of our journey toward Pennsylvania. Once we were ready to depart we, albeit temporarily, ventured deeper into the local woodland. Here we found several remote communities, each consisting of nothing more then 3 or 4 mobile homes and each partially obscured by thick forest. I would like to have spent more time here, but the locals made it clear that outsiders were not welcome via glares that pierced through their weathered faces. So with nothing other then a loose inclination to see Philadelphia, we left and headed toward the bland safety of the freeway.

Sutton

Sutton

Sutton

Sutton Lake

Local Forest

Remote Church

© All Images By Paul

Kentucky

The next morning I awoke with a pain within the pit of my stomach. An anxiety gripped me as I opened my eyes and stared at the strange Jacuzzi like bathtub that sat open and stained in my cheap motel room. For a second I thought that I had fallen asleep in the bathroom, ...but thankfully no, this bathtub was in the same room as my overly soft bed. How strange.

I was confused and disorientated. Then, slowly like the emergence of dawn itself, realisation descended. I looked over at the bin, which was hidden but only slightly obscured in the corner of the room. A mountain of dirty Styrofoam stared back at me. How gross. It appears that in a ravenous frenzy the night before I had been to Denny's, America's premier chain of cheap diner. I had ordered 2 soggy vege-burgers with 2 large portions of deep fried potato-like sticks. I had then returned to my motel room where, with Rebecca I had proceeded to devour this food with an enthusiasm that now, in retrospect, made me wretch. I was in a salt and saturated fat coma, and I quickly needed to get up and do some exercise. 50 sit-ups should suffice.

We were only 70 miles from Louisville and the Kentucky border. This was a short stroll compared to the 1000's of miles that we had invested in the road so far, so after a quick coffee we headed out on Interstate 64 through the Hoosier National Forrest toward the Ohio River and the real home of Bourbon Whisky.

Louisville emerged like so many cities that we had driven through to get here. A prominent and impressive downtown area poked through a ring of elevated motorways, and overlooked a flat sprawl that sat safely within its shadow. Upon arrival we decided to limit our stay between the impressive brick structures that define the city centre, and so headed out to Bardstown Rd, a low lying district of restaurants, tattoo parlours and liquor stores. Here we found a genuine gun holding local, a civilian with not one but two pistols strapped to his waist, who was sat in a camera shop unleashing fantasised accounts of his former professional glory to anyone who would listen. We asked him what we should go and see, as we would only be in town for one day. “Fort Knox” he replied proudly. So off we went…

Bardstown Rd - Louisville

Bardstown Rd - Louisville

Never before has an internationally famous landmark that promised so much, been so difficult to reach, and delivered so little. After nearly 2 hours stuck on a congested road on which we wormed our way through a hectic and aggressive Louisville rush hour, we finally arrived and performed two quick drive-by’s past an unassuming nondescript concrete bunker. Honestly, this was a complete waste of time.

To make matters worse a light had illuminated on the dashboard of the Beast. Concerned, I quickly referenced the cars handbook. It appeared that we had a ‘general failure’ with the engine and that we should check this out as soon as possible. As instructed, I looked under the bonnet of the vehicle. This was a mistake. Immediately, my lack of knowledge about the motorcar became blisteringly apparent. It was like trying to decipher the obscure hieroglyphics of a dead civilization. There was no choice. We had to head toward Lexington, a town in the heart of Kentucky to liberate ourselves of $400 dollars from the nearest official Hyundai dealership. How annoying, especially considering that, as far as I could tell, the guys who worked in this place appeared to spend 2 hours doing nothing but switching the light on our dashboard off. I guess that it is better to be safe then sorry in these situations.

After a night in a dirty and bug infested Redroof motel in Lexington we headed to east toward the border with West Virginia. Here we found Greenup County, birthplace of the Billy Ray Cyrus’s Achy Breaky Heart. This gateway to the country music highway was our first real introduction to the traditional woodland communities that would dominate much our experience over the next 200 miles. It would also introduce us to another wonderful state park at Greenbo Lake, which was gearing itself up for Halloween. In contrast to the muted and often cynical attitude to Halloween back home, it seemed refreshing to see a community coming together and devising ‘haunted’ trails through this beautiful woodland.

Greenbo was indeed an idyllic place to spend the night among its free roaming deer and self-made festive decorations, which swung from trees in the evening breeze.

This really was the perfect antidote to the disappointment of Fort Knox and Lexington.

Forgotten House - Greenup County

A Deer Saying Goodnight - Greenup County

© All Images By Paul

Illinois & Indiana

Sitting on the Western bank of the Mississippi and funneling traffic from Missouri across to southern Illinois, Cape Girardeau represents a cultural border town. Here, detailed and decorative architecture shroud the empty fronts of tired long closed homes and businesses that stand as a physical representation of a power that no longer stands independently, but as a major partner in a reluctant union.

Cape Girardeau is named after a French soldier called Jean Baptiste de Girardot, who in 1733 established a temporary trading post which, over time, has evolved into the pretty but tired town that you see here today. Now, via the Bill Emerson Memorial Bridge it connects Routes 34 and 74 and Route 146 on the other side of the Mississippi River. For us, it now also represents a (temporary) end of the Mid West and the beginning of our first (temporary) exposure to the American South.

And on to Illinois...

We were not going to be in Illinois very long and we needed to find a town where we could get both a badly behaved camera fixed, and some precariously exposed film developed. University towns are always a good bet for this, so we briefly ventured through the Shawnee National Forest to Carbondale, home of Southern Illinois University. This place had a vibe that both of us liked immediately. It seemed like a lively, friendly and creative community for which the university represented a strong beating heart.

This was my favourite town since Salida in Colarado.

Carbondale

Rebecca has a theory. I’m not sure that it would stand up in Europe, but here in America it has so far wrung true. Basically, she thinks that vegetarian restaurants tend to be located within the most interesting and creative parts of American towns. Well, from California right across to Illinois this theory has so far wrung true, and yet again, this time in Carbondale, it has wrung true once again. I guess that this has something to do with the fact that vegetarianism in this land of such staunch and enthusiastic carnivorism remains (for many) a deviance that can only be tolerated within same fringes of society that tolerate the most interesting art and music. Either way, it is a good rule that has served us well.

After a night spent close by in the cheap and well maintained 'Giant City State Park' we continued east on Highway 64 into Indiana. If our stay in Illinois was brief, our stay in the Hoosier State was going to be rapid, as we pressed forward with with haste on our journey to the Atlantic .

Whilst in Indiana, we stayed in a strange small town called Dale in a cheap motel from which we watched yet another perfect sunset disappear behind another endless American Highway.

Dale

Indiana Sunset

© All Images By Paul

Trail Of Tears

Eventually, we ended up on the Illinois border in the intriguingly named Trail of Tears State Park where we set up camp deep in a thick forest under the cover of an eerie and frightening darkness. Here, we could hear the faint rumbling of the mighty Mississippi River flowing aggressively in the distance. It felt satisfying to think about how far we had come, and exciting to think about how far we still had yet to go.

Then after what seemed like many hours, we fell asleep despite the concerted efforts of an officious park ranger and the movement of a plethora of unidentified tree dwelling animals.

The next morning we woke up to something truly beautiful. As we were now deep in the forest, the sun had taken longer then usual to wake us up. This meant that by the time we did emerge from the Beast it was already high in the sky, beaming down and illuminating the myriad of colourful leaves that dangled precariously from each and every tree.

Trail of Tears

Mighty Mississippi

Inspired, we quickly dressed and set out to hike a trail through a carpet of fallen leaves and under a threadbare covering of foliage.

In case you are wondering, the ‘Trail of Tears’ is the term given to the path taken by Native Americans (Cherokee, Creek, Seminole, and Choctaw) after their forced relocation to the small Indian territory that was ‘set aside’ for them in modern day Oklahoma. This long passage cost countless lives especially at this exact point on the Mississippi where between 4000 and 15000 Cherokee Indians died from exposure within the dead of winter. Surprisingly, to me at least, it was George Washington’s who instigated this policy. His proposal of cultural transformation for American natives inspired subsequent presidents like Andrew Jackson to pass and implement the Indian Removal Act of 1830. Think about it for a second. Not just one, but multiple cultures annexed or almost entirely obliterated by the ambition of an immigrant population. If this happened anywhere in the modern world, we would use two words to describe it; invasion and genocide.

Now, this wonderful state park preserves the native woodlands much as they appeared to the Cherokee back in the 1830’s.

This really was a beautiful, if poignant place to spend a couple days prior to the continuation of our journey east into Illinois and Indiana.

© All Images By Paul