Mission accomplished

All in all, I reckon its taken me three months to fully adjust to life post-travelling.

It takes a few days to restart your running commentary on the British weather, and a few weeks to accept the parental's house rules; long forgotten while you tended to polo ponies and fell off surf boards in Australia.

You spend a few more months fine tuning a CV that now includes the words

2009 - 2010: Lying on beaches, tending to hangovers, sunning oneself, seeing countries etc etc

...and hoping someone still wants to hire you because (or in spite) of the gaping hole in your work history. Finding a job is relatively easy. Trying to stick to the promise I will not, not, not, not get another admin job as long as I live, is harder. But in the end, the oft-uttered statement "Yeah, well, the economy is bad, and err, I'm going travelling to have a break from it, and err, you know, decide what I want to do" is now actually true, and not just the bullshit excuse I imagined it might end up being.

To be honest, once the job was sorted, the next thing to panic about was my social life. Upon returning home, every girl and your dog will want to fuss over you, but don't expect it to last. Social lives need careful cultivating, and they don't grow themselves while you're out of the loop for eight months. It didn't take long to realise that the busy social circle I'd once been a part of was now AWOL, and I didn't know how to get it back.

Truth be told, I spent recent weeks worrying that it was just me being left out before the penny dropped: things had just changed. A few friends had left London, others had moved abroad, some had gone travelling. The unemployed had got jobs, the bored got busier, the singletons got attached. C'est la vie.

Given all that, last weekend was the first time I felt truly settled since getting home. Employed, attached, and surrounded by friends who had finally managed to get their arses out of town and in the same vicinity for an hour; I stood in a chilly park in St Albans watching a massive fireworks display, with my Boy behind me, and a group of six good mates laughing in the background. The clincher? A text message from ex uni housemate the Stingray, newly engaged that night, and asking me to be her bridesmaid.

So, exactly a year after I left - am I glad I said 'sod all that' and went travelling?

Hell yeah. No doubt. Ipso, facto.

Best thing I ever did.

Do you know what would be really nice?

If, one day, you could book a round the world ticket and actually get around the world using the tickets you bought and paid for.

24 hours ago, I checked in online for my flight back to London.
5 hours ago, I arrived at the airport and re-checked in at the Virgin Atlantic desk, dropped my bags off and went to the gate.
2 hours ago, my name was called as I sat in the departure lounge.
1 hour ago, I was told my e-ticket didn't exist on the Virgin Atlantic system.

Half an hour later, I stood crying at the boarding gates as my bags were taken off the flight.

Despite having checked in - twice - and having a list of flights marked 'confirmed' on my itinerary, despite standing there with a boarding pass issued hours before, despite having travelled round the world on this very ticket...a last minute check on my final flight said that I couldn't get on.

I don't know who to blame. STA Travel messed up, a lot. Let's blame then because ultimately, they're my travel agents and despite the formal complaint I made for their last tits up performance, they still haven't even checked that everything has been re-issued correctly. Singapore Airlines messed up, too. They're who my e-ticket is with. Virgin Atlantic, yeah we'll blame them, too. As they didn't spot the error until 5 minutes before boarding.


I've just spent over £600 on a new flight for Monday, because quite frankly, I'm too tired to argue with any of them, and it's now 1am.

I just want to go home.

As an aside

Despite what the masses will have you think, the best way to see a city isn’t necessarily by donning a rucksack and digitally recording the tallest buildings.

That’s not to say that, while in New York, I haven’t taken full advantage of all there is to see and do. But when it comes to tourism, I always feel like there’s a better option. For example, we gave ascending the Empire State a miss, choosing instead to see it through blurry drunk eyes from the roof top bar of an adjacent hotel. We saw the Statue of Liberty and the Manhattan skyline from the comfort of the Staten Island commuter ferry and took in Central Park from the vantage point of a well positioned rock.

No photos exist of our visit to Ground Zero; but oh, the camcorders and disaster tourists were out in force. The things people choose to photograph on their holidays never ceases to amaze me. They stand there, smiling away, vacantly recording: Me in front of building. You in front of building. Us in front of building. Building on it's own. Move on. People plonk themselves in front of anything from Alice and Wonderland statues to French designer shops to the inscriptions outside terrorist attack sites these days. I don’t know about you, but seeing a teenage girl posing for smiley photos in front of a memorial to several hundred dead firemen leaves nothing but a bad taste in my mouth.

It’s the families and friends who have to sit through slideshows of that shit back home who I feel sorry for. Who wants to see a picture of you grinning in front of a building site where thousands died? Why, instead of videoing the information on the wall in the 9/11 visitor centre, don't you just put the camera down and read it?

I haven't had a camera since (both of) mine broke back in April. There's been some sharing going on, but largely, I've left the Boyfriend to it. And you know what? It's amazing what sights, sounds and smells the mind can remember when you give it a chance. It's been a constant frustration to me on this trip, realising how many people fail to give this other way of recording a try.

It all comes right in the end

Today, the Boyfriend and I did a silly thing. It was so ridiculous, that thinking about it, I don't know how we thought the day would be anything other than what it was.

We attempted to do New York without a map. Or guidebook. Or anything other than a vague sense of direction, for that matter.

Cue 11 hours of wondering around, looking for shops, looking for districts, trying to navigate the most confusing subway system in the universe (having seen NY's effort at an underground system, I will now laugh directly at any American I find struggling to make head nor tale of London's tube map), going uptown, downtown, up 32nds and down 59's, heading across Lexingtons and Avenues and ending up in a big, sweaty, confused heap with only a dying iPod Touch battery and some weak Starbucks internet to show for it...and...

...Ahhh. That's better.

Faced with the prospect of a Grumpy Day in New York, with a lack of phones denying any hope of splitting up and searching for a cure, I decided on drastic action.

"Can if you want, don't care" came the reply.
"Fine. Let's turn around and go back then"

So we walked one block back, and I stomped off into that trusted Visitor Information Centre, the Holiday Inn. Map and vague directions to 'Broadway shops' acquired from reception, and the day started to take a turn for the better.

See, we'd found Soho, and not the dodgy London kind. Slowly but surely, I began to get my bearings. And suddenly every shop appeared next to another instead of three blocks apart, as if hand-grouped by magical wizard spell or some kind of city planning initiative. Unfortunately, by this time it was 8pm and all the shops were shut. So we went to The Soho Room, had giggles and drinkies with the friendly bar lady, then got tapas.

It all came right in the end.

And you know what, now I know where I'm going, now that we've got a map and know about little parks with football tables (yeah! football tables!) and seating in the middle of the pavement, I think I'm going to like New York.

I'd attach photos from our failure of a day, but yeah. You guessed it. We also forgot the camera.

Trial and error, this travelling lark.

Trial, error, and Holiday Inns.

Owwwwwwwwwwwwwww

It's going to be weird going home. Once the novelty of seeing family, friends and the doggles wears off, it'll be back to the daily grind.

The thing is, I have no daily grind. The work question is going to pop up in the same breath as 'how was your trip?', and this time I'm not sure what the answer's going to be. Staying away from the comfortable clasp of a secretarial / PA role is the first challenge. Already, a job offer back on reception at the Little School of Horrors has landed in my inbox and been politely declined. It would have sorted out my finances in a few months, and helped with the County Council debt I racked up the last time I worked there. But for one, if an admin job is on the cards, it'll have to be in central London. For two, occasionally I value my sanity more than money. For three, the County Council overpaid me. They can wait for their cash.

Writing for magazines...well, that's always been something I've wanted to do. A little travel section here and there would be ideal now I've seen a bit of the world. But I know that going in that direction probably means more working for free. Having worked as assistant to The Writer for almost six months, I know internships are all good wonderful great experience, but it earnt me presicely 0. Some people can deal with that, some people have the drive to keep doing something when rewards aren't monetary. Perhaps I just don't. The fact is, I'm nearly 26. I want to move out. And I can't move out of home unless I'm earning real, actual, spend-me-money.

Sometimes it feels like I missed the writing career boat; that my CV is now outdated thanks to the wonderful array of secretarial jobs I've collected over the years.

---------------


One of the assignments The Writer gave me to research and write on his behalf last year was a "24 hours in..." piece for a trade magazine. While looking into the 'drink' section, I chanced upon my holy grail: a cafe specialising in beer, wine and accompanying cheese. I'd like to say that our choice to visit Philadelphia lay with some other reason; the history, even the famous cheese steaks...but it didn't. Truth is, ever since I'd written that piece, I've wanted to go to the sort of cafe I've been hankering after for most of my sociable life.

So, after a day sweating our way around Washington DC's famous landmarks, we drove to Philly, checked into our hotel (unfortunately the hotels I'd suggested in my piece were a little high end for our budget, the Holiday Inn would have to suffice) and I got googling. We spent the better part of the night upstairs in Tria, a fermentation school-turned-cafe, ogling and devouring an extensive menu of beers, wine and cheese. The menus were arranged according to taste, and by the time we'd bulldozed our way through all 5 pages, we were fed, watered and content. Staff, flavours and service, all was epic. London needs a Tria. I demand it.

Having never got to see the article in print, today I did some more googling. There it was, published March 2009 and now stored electronically online: the piece I'd researched, written, and received constructive feedback for. It was, of course, under The Writer's name. That had been the deal, and it did wonders for my writing and confidence. But today, seeing my work with someone elses name attributed to it no longer felt like an achievement. It just annoyed me. I wanted my name under it.

Perhaps I've still got that drive after all.

The final stretch

Ahh, the penultimate week of my travels has arrived. Eight months. Eight months of hostel, bus, car and country hopping is nearly at an end. But not before I scale the east coast of America in seven days and spend whatever's left of my vastly depeated travel fund in New York.

For the USA residents helping me on my way via comments and e-mail, rest assured that each morning the decision on where we go is influenced by all of your suggestions. It's a bit of a whirlwind tour, but since leaving Florida we've stopped overnight in Jacksonville, Florida (and grabbed pizza in Daytona Beach), before heading to Savannah, Georgia. Once our regularly scheduled programmes had finished being interrupted by a severe weather warning, we sampled some more southern style wings for dinner in the historic district. And yesterday we drove for hours through no less than three states, choosing to avoid the main interstate and take the coastal road instead.

After hours of non-stop driving through South Carolina, the seaside resort town of Myrtle Beach came into view around 4pm. "Ahh! Beach!" thought I, and my tired eyes brightened at the thought of a bit of sea-action. But see, me and the Boyfriend have a bit of an unofficial policy when it comes to stop-offs. If it takes us more than ten minutes to find a place to park, then forget it. If this seems a bit harsh, let me remind you that if driving is one of the most stressful things you can do with a partner, then finding a parking space when you stop probably comes in at number two.

The attendant in our first car park kindly showed us to a space, before telling us it would cost $10 for the half hour we wanted stay. We hot-footed it out of there, and several U-turns later (if I never have to do another U-turn again once home, I will have a good life) found a multi-story a few blocks from the beach front. We parked, went downstairs to the meter, and with it being 5pm the Boyfriend paid $5 for evening parking. The only other option was an all-day rate of $12. We got the ticket, only to find it was only valid from six o'clock. It had sold us an unusable ticket. We sent a plague of locusts to Myrtle Beach, banished it to hell along with all the other Places That Have Taken Our Money For Parking And Pissed Us Off Too Much to Use It In The Process (so far, Brisbane, Australia), and drove on to Wilmington, North Carolina.

Today was another long-bloody-drive. We'd planned on going through North Carolina and into Virginia via the Outer Banks, a picturesque chain of islands off the east coast. But half an hour before leaving, we did the whole 'lets just double check how long this will take' thing and discovered it was a 9 hour trip. Plus there were no ferries to get us to the first island until 3pm. In the interests of getting to New York on time, we decided to skip it and have a Moody Half Hour instead.

So, here we are. After a quick toe-dunk in the surf at Wrightsville Beach, we - sorry, I - drove 6 hours through sunshine, torrential rain and fork lightening to the university town of Charlottesville in Virginia. I'm tired, hence the slightly hum-drum nature of this post (my posts always seem to write themselves when I have miles of interstate stretching out in front of me, and conveniently delete once I arrive at my destination) but the more states we travel across, the more I realise:

Since leaving New Zealand, we haven't met any other backpackers doing this cross-USA trip. We don't have a guidebook, or even working phones. Just a cheap $8 map of the USA, netbooks and a car. Everywhere we go, conversations are sparked by people surprised by our British accents visiting their local areas. I'm not in the far reaches of Africa, outer Mongolia, or as far away as Australia. I'm only "over the pond", but sometimes it feels like I couldn't be further off the beaten track.

This is a difficult country to travel across, but for that reason, I kind of like it. 

Return to 1990, take a left at Mickey Mouse

When I was about five or six years old, my parents took me and my sister to Florida for two weeks. We rented a car, drove down to the Everglades, went to Busch Gardens in Tampa, Sea World, Universal Studios and - of course, the pinnacle - Disney World in Orlando.

I refused to have my photo taken (see proof, left), was too scared to approach any of the Disney characters for their autographs, and would only go on the sedate E.T ride after an encounter with a very realistic King Kong at Universal Studios. Oh, and the pool at our Holiday Inn was out of bounds after I lost a baby tooth while having a swim. I was a pain in the arse, but had the time of my little life.

It's the sort of holiday you rarely get to do twice. But having just spent seven days reliving my youth at Florida's theme parks, I have now learnt why. It is bloody knackering, and that's without kids in tow.

How's this for a week?

The Boyfriend and I drove up to Tampa on Monday from Miami, having got ourselves a multi-ticket for Busch Gardens and Sea World. We spent Tuesday being flung upside down on rollercoasters, Wednesday doing more of the same while watching killer whales dance to music. Oh, and we saw a polar bear. Yep, Sea World has a polar bear.

Trivia time! Do you know what happens when you see a polar bear?

You get the 'what else can we do!?!?!?!?!??!' bug.

Another $200 later, and we had Thursday taken care of: a day spent stretching our imaginations and 3D-glassed eyes in Universal Studios. Friday's ticket covered Universal's newer park, the Islands of Adventure. Here be more rollercoasters and more 3D, 4D, G Force than you can shake a stick at - and, randomly, an entire Harry Potter world reproduced to such detail that even I was impressed. As in, I don't really get it, like the whole Gandalf and wizards and Gryffindors and things, but other people went nuts for the place. They queued in their thousands for hours on end to buy plastic wands in boxes. Nuts. Saturday, we avoided the weekend crowds and bought significantly-cheaper-than-Selfridges- jeans. Sunday, we went to Downtown Disney and then, with me hankering after another dancing whale fix, back to Sea World for the evening rides and shows. Monday, with the weather preventing a water park visit, we returned to Busch Gardens. Tuesday...well, today, our bank accounts and brains bled dry of all their nutrients, we dragged ourselves out of Orlando and hit the road.

We'd leave the hotel in the morning and stay out until the theme parks had shut at 10pm, then find dinner while still drenched from a water ride minutes earlier. We extended the car rental by three days. Spent hundreds of dollars on theme park tickets, food and accommodation. And depressingly, saw more overweight parents carrying their saddeningly obese children on their electric wheelchairs than I'd hope to see in a lifetime.

We voted two to none to ditch the Greyhound tickets, and splashed out on car hire for our final week of travelling up to New York.

Money is at an all time low and the word sleeeeeeeeeepytired doesn't even cover it, but shit the bed...what a week.

And I reckon, give it another twenty years, I'll be ready to do it all again.

Will Smith said it was good, so we went.

Party in the city when the heat is on, all night in the street til the break of dawn. I'm going to Miami. Welcome to Miami.

Whether it was the driving, the near constant rain, humidity or all of the above - the Boyfriend and I arrived in Miami last Friday feeling slightly - well, I don't know. Not subdued exactly, but definitely mellowed. You may have gathered that America is a difficult country to travel around, and even more so when money is at the forefront of your mind. Even something as simple as eating isn't as easy as it should be. Most hotels and motels don't have kitchens, or anything other than a microwave if you're lucky. Consequently, I've never eaten out this much in my life. And nowhere has it been more difficult to find a healthy meal than America.

What's more, Miami was beginning to remind me of Los Angeles. Not on a visual level, just in the way that there was a level of expectation associated with it. Someone on my blog had mentioned the beautiful people who frequent South Beach, and err, Will Smith had told me it was sunshine and party central. But a day or two in, and we were finding Miami - which rained almost nonstop for the duration of our stay - a slight disappointment. While the Boyfriend searched in vain for a set of real boobs, I took one look at South Beach and sighed. As with most 'famous' beaches around the world, it wasn't much to write home about, lined, as it was, by sky high hotels. Independence Day was approaching and neither of us felt like doing anything, least of all paying $30 each to get into a club.

Sense of duty and a semi-clear sky made us leave the motel on Sunday more than anything, and I drove us down to South Beach in the afternoon to see how America rolled on it's national day. We parked the car, walked down the beach, and half an hour later, the heavens opened. The beach cleared, the restaurants and bars became sweaty and packed. We holed up in Starbucks, and spent the afternoon ducking in and out of shops on Collins Avenue.

After a good few hours of torrential downpour, it stopped raining. With two hours to kill before the South Beach fireworks display, we sat on a wall alongside the volleyball nets and palm trees, and chatted about all the places we've been over a bag of Kettle Chips. An orchestra set up on a stage; suddenly the area was buzzing with families, groups of friends, couples and dogs who had all come to watch. Flags were given out, fat men had their pictures taken alongside three hot cheerleaders.

"You know what? Don't you find that you lose perspective sometimes? Like, I've been away for so long now and we've been to so many beautiful places, it's like you get complacent." I said, swinging my legs against the wall.
"We're in Miami, for gods sake. Miami. And we're moping around like it's Iraq or something. In three weeks, we'll be back home. I don't want to go home and realise that I spent the last three weeks of my trip worrying about money and feeling like I wanted to be somewhere else."

We wondered onto the beach and sat down on the damp sand. The sun had set, and there were people everywhere setting off their own fireworks, or just chilling on blankets on the dark beach. A couple next to us had Frank Sinatra on their iPhone. No one seemed hammered, no one was causing trouble. Everyone was just having a good time. Suddenly, the sky was lit up as the first fireworks flew into the air, everyone cheered as blue, white and red lights rained down next to the water.

"Come here, you" he said, and put his arm around me.

And just like that, Independence Day was declared really bloody good. And oh, alright then. You got me. America wasn't looking too shoddy that night, either.

Wrong side

We have hired a car to explore Florida. Hot, humid, torrential-rain-ridden (while we're here, at least) Florida.

There is one downside to having a 23 year old Boyfriend; that I am designated driver for 9 days. If we wanted to add him, it would have been an extra $25 per day. This means, for example, that although he has been driving for 6 years and has never had an accident, someone over 25 who has been driving for 2 days can hire a car even if they only passed their test yesterday. It's a ridiculous system.

But I like driving. I'm a good driver. I'm a decisive driver. I can negotiate London's streets of confusion without a fuss. But driving on the wrong side of the road in America is a different story. Neither of us has done it before. We are the epitome of the perfect match, but the mood changes as soon as we get into the car. He yells at me, I yell back. We snap and wind each other up. He points out things that I've already noticed, advises me as we drive along. Pardon the pun, but it drives me mad. I think we're both a bit nervous.

It's not so much the driving on the right thing, but a whole new set of driving rules that have to be followed. You can turn on a red light, as long as no one's crossing the road. The traffic lights are across the junction instead of next to where you stop. American drivers do not, I repeat, do not use their indicators. They do use their horns regularly, though, and zoom up behind you in huge pickup trucks flashing their lights. Largely, I suspect, because they can't be bothered to think of another solution to the problem they face.. While exploring Miami Beach the other night, we discovered - much to my amusement - that the slightest of bends in the road are marked with great big flashing lights. Oh, and pedestrians have right of way...on the road. This apparently gives human beings license to shelve common sense, and walk out in front of your vehicle.

It's nuts.

But then we are in a country which celebrates Independence Day with an annual eating competition. Scoffing your face is a sporting event, apparently, seeing as it was broadcast live on ESPN.

Nuts, I tell you. Nuts.

Tourist seeks the New Orleans he read about in the newspaper

Stepping out of the airconditioned foyer of a hotel, the first thing that hits you is an intense wall of humidity. Clothes stick to skin in seconds, and no amount of Frizz Ease is taming the flattened mess on your head which was freshly tousled a few minutes earlier. It's hurricane season in New Orleans, and this morning's rain did anything but cool the city down.

Today we took the street car in the opposite direction to usual. Instead of going down St Charles Avenue into the lively French Quarter, we headed uptown through the picturesque Garden District.

The little cafes and small wooden terraces are soon replaced by immaculate white mansions, with huge perfectly manicured lawns. I watch a dog stretching out on a veranda, next to a set of matching white rocking chairs. The untouched houses line either side of the road for miles. "Bloody hell. These places are huge" says the Boyfriend. I'm pleasantly surprised and a little awed by the wealth on show; the Garden District a really pretty part of town.

A man sitting three rows infront of me seems less impressed. As the street car stops to let people on and off, it pauses momentarily next to a patch of derelict looking land to our left. It's messy and unkept, looks as if it once had a house on it, and seems out of place compared to the surroundings. I watch as the man three rows in front picks up his compact camera, aims it out of the window, and snaps a photo of what is possibly the most unattractive ten square metres in the vicinity.

It baffles me.

I imagine the man, slightly disappointed by the lack of destruction on show, going home and showing the photo to friends and family. Perhaps he'll upload it on to Facebook and label it "New Orleans". It's alright mate, I think to myself. I'm sure if you want to see some authentic Hurricane Katrina devestation, a bit of research and some balls will take you there. But something tells me you're unlikely to see it from the comfort of the tourist serving street car.

That being said, there's one thing I can't complain about...

...And that, my little pork pies, is accommodation.

Having been forewarned that hostels weren't amazing or more importantly, present at all in certain parts of the US, dorm rooms have been ditched in favour of hotels. And I've got to say, at around $50 a night, these humble little abodes have been nothing short of impressive.

See, I'm from London. If you pay $50 (that's just over £30) for a hotel within chucking distance of the city centre round there, you're probably going to end up peeing in a bucket and paying for your keep in sexual favours. Things were also different in Australia and New Zealand, where £30 would get you nothing more than two beds pushed together in something resembling a cell.

Out here in the good ol' US of A, we're sleeping like Super Kings. Literally. Apart from Vegas (which at £100 a night for a suite, complete with ridiculously large including a living room complete with chaise lounge, two TVs and - for some reason - two doors leading into an insanely large spa bathroom), we haven't paid more than $58 a night for a room. And generally, close proximity to the city, flat screen TVs, super king size beds, free wifi and a fully stocked en-suite bathroom has been the norm. It's fantastic.

It's a bad habit to get into, but sometimes I just can't resist a little pre-booking check of every hotel's nemesis, TripAdvisor. If you're not familiar, the TripAdvisor website is a bit like putting your accommodation choice up for discussion in a room full of neurotic OCD sufferers. If every review unanimously sings the hotel's praises, it's safe to say you're onto a winner. Simiarly, any that are wholly denounced by the masses are likely to be a no-go. What you don't need to pay too much attention to reviews along the lines of "Oh, it was alright, but there were cracks in the ceiling, my flight was delayed then my grandmother died while we were away, so I didn't have a very nice stay. 1/10", of which there are many. Because let's be honest, reading a rant might be entertaining, but realistically a crack in the wallpaper probably looks worse written down than it does in the room. So breathe and let it go, folks.

Or, just take my word for it. If you're ever in downtown Los Angeles, I can recommend Stay (although the website is awful). Those venturing to San Francisco, check out the Casa Loma Hotel. For Phoenix, I demand you look no further than The Clarendon with it's adjoining Mexican style restuarant, hands down the best of the lot. Even the pool had stars lit up on the bottom, for gods sake.

And with the Big Apple looming for the 20th of July, if someone can help me see through the absolutely baffling array of hotels in New York, I'm open to your suggestions of where to sleep. Nothing fancy, as long as it's clean, near a metro or something, and has space for my shopping bags and the Boy's lengthy legs.

Anyway, next stop, New Orleans, via the relative comfort of a Continental flight. Ahh, no Greyhound. Luxury.

Greyhound Bus + Backpacking + USA = Err...

Before embarking on the LA to New York leg of my round the world trip, the following travel options were considered and er, quickly discarded. Car hire (a no go at $2000+ for 6 weeks), an all inclusive bus trip like Contiki (pricey, the same people, no option to get off, 50 days straight bus tripping from place to place. Shudder), the train (HOW MUCH?!) and flying from coast to coast (bypassing the more interesting places I wanted to visit). So while travel options aren't exactly limited, they're not really that cheap.

Several people had mentioned the Greyhound Discovery Pass, which at $530 / £320 for 60 days unlimited travel anywhere in the US, was a clear winner.

Still, the Greyhound gets a lot of bad press. The word "dangerous" is bandied around a lot in backpacker circles and internet forums, and some might say it's cheap for a reason. It's uncomfortable, relatively slow, has strange travel hours, and does it's business in dodgy bus stations often located on the outskirts / seedier areas of town. However, for the price, lack of other similarly priced options and general optimism on my behalf, I wanted to give it a chance.

So far, lets just say my mind is far from made up.

Yesterday we arrived in Phoenix at 5am after a nine hour overnight bus trip. The sun was coming up as we grabbed our backpacks and walked out of the bus station. Arizona’s mountainous desert loomed behind huge expanses of freeway, and an arid heat that was already rising into the 30s warmed our faces. I checked the transport instructions hastily scribbled on a piece of MGM Grand branded note paper, and we begun the arduous walk to the nearest Metro station, following the directions to our hotel, in silence.

Last night's bus wasn't the longest journey we've done, or the most disruptive. We've done four bus trips so far, the longest being an exhausting, tranfer-ridden slog from San Francisco to Vegas. This one, however, was on time, had just 5 stops through the night and with a sleeping tablet I even got a couple of hours sleep.

It's just...ah. While I'm usually one to celebrate getting off the beaten track and have no problem mingling with the locals, some of our fellow passengers were a world away from what I've encountered anywhere so far. Notably, the men: huge, with shaved heads that were covered in tattoos. The designs were indecipherable, apart from the poignant black tear drops falling from their eyes, something I'd always thought was an urban myth until now. Add to this the lack of sleep, a Vegas comedown and the knowledge that in less than four days we'd have to do it all again, but for double the travel time, and something seemed to have changed overnight. Whilst I didn't ever feel threatened or unsafe, it left me with a bad taste in my mouth. The fact is, our relatively generous budget still only affords us the same transportation as ex-convicts. We both arrived subdued by the experience.

As we walked around the streets near our Phoenix hotel, me and the Boyfriend talked. It feels like America, particularly the south, is pretty inaccessible to us as “budget” travellers. I refuse to believe that it's because there's "nothing to see". For me, there's always something to see, even when there's nothing; that's why I'm always drawn to outback Australia. That said, clearly certain portions of this country have been designated the tourist areas, received huge investment in terms of transport and aesthetics, and the rest has just been left to get on with it. Take Los Angeles and San Francisco: two cities in the same state just hours apart; one with no sign of even the most downtrodden information centre, the other a flourishing tourist mecca.

Once you move away from these easily accessible places, with their leaflets, maps and 3-day-all-in transport passes, it’s actually impossible to get around and see the country unless you pay ridiculous amounts for car hire or taxis. The further away from the coast we get, and the more it seems like we’re venturing into territory that the tourists aren’t meant to see. Through the Greyhound, we're undoubtedly exposed to the more gritty parts of the US, but in a way, the lack of any other reasonably priced choice is irritating me. Travelling quickly and safely away from designated tourist spots soon becomes very difficult; almost like your eyes are being drawn away from anywhere that hasn't received the "American Dream-Gloss" treatment.

The upshot is that we decided to splash out on a flight to our next destination, as the exhausting 34 hour stint on the Greyhound through the southern states didn't really appeal.

And given all thats gone on there in recent years, I'll be curious to see where the US tourist bureau will be averting our foreign eyes in New Orleans.

What Happens in Vegas

Sun and strip, Paris, New York and Venice. Clack clack! Girls, Girls, Girls Direct 2 U! Fountains, lights and casinos. Room service and dollar tips. Using the concierge like Google. Fat people at buffets and real, actual lions on the main floor. Bud Light with lime in pool-friendly tin bottles. Forgetting to eat. Pool parties at Wet Republic, blond hair, fake boobs and men with shaved chests. Spa baths in huge suites, 19th Floor MGM Grand. All day drinking, World Cup matches, Sting and the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra in the Grand Garden Arena. Two for one drinks everywhere at the flash of a card. Does that include...? Yes? Brilliant. Two for one Jagerbombs. Studio 54 and acrobats hanging from the ceiling. Temporary friends made. Napkins written on. Fix him with a stare and utter just one sentence: "Boyfriend, I have to go home." Sunrise seen while embracing the toilet bowl.



Vegas-1, Jo - nil. And that was just Friday; 24 hours spent entirely in the hotel.

Seriously, if I'd known this place existed before now, I would never have holidayed anywhere else. And best of all, with the $200 the Boyfriend made on the slots, we've got a new fund running...for Disneyland.

Everyone should go to Vegas. Everyone. You, you and you. Just go*



*Be prepared to lose money, sensibilities, and a rather large chunk of your liver.

San Francisco and beyond

...is probably one of the nicest cities I've ever been to. It's sunny, it's got cable cars and trams and things, and if you go to Pier 39 you can see Alcatraz AND a shit load of sea lions just chilling on some platforms out in the sea. See?



But what I really want to talk about is American TV. And the adverts.

Seeing as hotels are currently working out cheaper than hostels for some obscure reason, my accommodation now has the luxury of a TV. So last night, knackered from a night on a Greyhound bus and a day spent walking around the city, we stayed in and relaxed. Spag bol, a bottle of duty free gin; The Office, Family Guy, Simpsons and South Park on the telly.

But here's what I don't get.

It's bad enough that there's around four advert breaks breaking up one half hour episode of whatever you're watching, but when one of those ad breaks comes between the end of the show and the credits, before going straight in to an entirely new programme for two minutes, then back to an ad break...it's enough to drive you insane.

Last night me and the Boyfriend sat there in our room absolutely baffled by the random scattering of adverts which interrupted our schedule of intellectual viewing.

"Why do they put up with this?" the Boyfriend exclaimed, after an episode South Park was interrupted for the fifth time. "It's infuriating!"

Then I tried to imagine your average viewer in the UK being subjected to any more than one advert break per half hour, without a country-wide roar of disapproval being voiced on several Radio 2 phone-ins and a mass mailing to Points of View the next day. I failed.

Which is why I'm looking forward to Thursday's destination of choice: Las Vegas. Apparently, our suite in the MGM Grand (oh yeah, I should mention that with 5 weeks left, the whole budget thing? Nah. Not happening) has not one, but two unnecessary TVs. So when one's showing adverts, we can just walk into the other room and watch something else. Which will come in very handy when I've got pissed, put the remainder of my travel fund on black in the casino, and lost. Genius, eh?

Ahhh. I'll see you after Vegas. Broke, happy, fat and married by Elvis*. Hurrah for excess.



*jokes. As in, we've joked about it. I won't. Promise.

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow, Verdict.

Yesterday

The Greyhound bus station is a 20 minute walk from my hostel, down 7th street in Downtown Los Angeles. Yesterday we went to buy our Discovery Passes which we'll be using to traverse this huge country over the next 6 weeks, and my nerves about being in such a visibly rundown area soon turned to something resembling anger. Here we were in one of the richest countries in the world, a global super power, where at one end of the street you'll find the sparkling high-rises of the financial district, and at the other, the grubby, derelict streets where the homeless, poor, cracked-out people stare with blank eyes outside shops where food-stamps are the currency of choice. When it comes to stark opposites, London doesn't even come close.

As the Greyhound depot came into view, so did two huge warehouses on the opposite side of the road. Black and white posters about America's immigration policy were stamped onto the sides, while from street to roof, broken windows thick with dirt gave a blurry insight into what lay within: reams of fabric and machinery.

American Apparel apparently has the highest earning clothing workers in the world, and that, ladies and trendybops, is where they're based.

Today

Today we bought a $5 all day metro ticket and did 'LA in a Day' - first stop, Hollywood Boulevard. After putting our hands and feet in the cemented prints of the the rich, famous and fictional, we watched Tom Hanks get out of his limo across the road and have his picture taken with Woody and Buzz from Toy Story 3.

Can't beat a bit of timing.

Tomorrow

The overnight Greyhound bus will be dropping us in San Francisco at the ungodly hour of 7:30am.

I'll be mostly irritable from lack of sleep.


Verdict on LA

The next time you're travelling and someone tells you to avoid an area, don't. Walk down the grubby streets, see what's there, then make up your own mind. But err, if it's 7th street in Downtown LA...do it in daylight.

First Impressions

Bleary eyed, slightly disorientated and looking a right state, as is the norm when you arrive in a new country seven hours before you left the last, the greeting I received seemed at odds with my lack of sleep and the stern questioning / scanning of various body parts two minutes earlier.

"In town for a modelling job?" asked the portly unformed man charged with collecting my customs form. I shook my head, more baffled than complimented. "No? My bad. Heh heh. Have a nice stay."

I wondered into arrivals smiling. Armed with an address and phone number, resisting the simplicity and expense of a taxi, I called my hostel and got directions to it via public transport.

Fifteen minutes later and I was on a bus where passengers seemed to actually talk to each other, rather than staring into the back of a fellow passenger's head. Not me though. My bleary eyes found a seat behind a man whose grey hair was covered by a black baseball cap, which promoted "The Future of Handguns" in stitched white lettering on the back. We progressed slowly away from the airport in roads thick with traffic, and crawled past the first of many billboards announcing

"Lose weight with the lapband! Call 1 - 800 - GET-THIN"

Oh yeah, thought I. Welcome to Los Angeles.

It was while I was waiting for my second bus at Union Street Bus Station, feeling every bit the conspicuous tourist with my engorged backpack and flip flops, that America made its first introduction. Whether it was my vaguely confused expression, the backpack or all of the above, no less than three people asked if I knew where I was going, needed help or what bus I was waiting for.

"The 33." I told the third, a woman sitting at the bus stop alongside me. "I need to get to..." I paused while I checked the alien sounding road names on the palm of my hand, "Seven and...main street? South main street? I think?"
"Seven and main?" she repeated.
"Yes, is 33 the right bus?"
"Yes that's the bus I'm getting. But you don't want to go to seven and main." A worried expression came over her face. "It's very dangerous."

Now, if there's one thing bound to spoil the mood when you've just arrived in a new country, it's being told that you're headed somewhere inherantly dangerous. Reading Lonely Planet and hearing rumours from other backpackers is one thing, but when your destination is denounced by a local...one does start to panic a little. The warnings continued as we boarded the bus. She told the bus driver where I was going, to alert me when we were there, then asked another woman on the bus to verify where I had to get off. This was between telling me how bloody awful downtown LA was, and most importantly, how I must not leave my hostel or wonder around at night on my own.

After assuring her that I had no such plans, and that my location choice was down to ease of airport access rather than suicidal tendencies, she seemed to relax. A bit. I, meanwhile, was about to disembark a bus in a dodgy area with $95 and a rather essential passport in my pocket.

There was only one thing for it. I steeled myself, hopped off the bus and enlisted the help of my long forgotten London Face. Usually reserved for people edging to nab my seat on the tube or for barging past people on Oxford Street, my London Face got me safely to my hostel where I'm sitting now, typing this, unscathed. But knackered.

So, good night Friday, it was nice seeing you twice today. But I've got a 6:30am appointment at LAX arrivals to pick up my bodyguard / Boyfriend tomorrow, so this girl's got to sleep.

Oh, and hello America. Nice to meet you.

Advice for anyone thinking of booking a Round the World ticket with STA Travel

...Don't.

When I finally get to Fiji (a day late, yesterday's flight as scheduled on my STA itinerary didn't actually exist any more, you see), I'll be able to explain more fully. Actually, it might be when I get back (a day early, because I had to rebook all of my travel segments and lost my initial flight to LA).

Until then, steer clear of these travel agents / clowns.

I'm off to laze in a hammock on an island and forget about all this unnecessary stress, which wouldn't have happened if I'd just booked the whole thing myself.

Bula!