After losing much of yesterday to delays and sleep, I was determined to make the most of the last day of my adventure.

In a moment of uncharacteristic sensibility, I actually organised most of my day whilst sat waiting for my flight at San Francisco airport. Because of this I finally got around to visiting a London attraction that I’ve been meaning to visit since it opened. I’ve had lots of opportunities, but just never seemed to get around to it - to go on the London Eye.

There is something pleasurable about seeing a large queue in England. Theres something even more pleasurable about spending a whole £3 extra when purchasing your ticket on the internet to enable you to bypass that huge queue. Ah the decadence of the act, walking straight past the queue and onto the ride - in England of all places, the motherland of queuing.

The London Eye is very impressive. I know its just an overgrown fairground ride, but with the views that you get I don’t care. It was a shame that the weather didn’t decide to play nicely - all murky grays and a reduced viewing distance.

It made me feel very childlike to play spot the landmark. Everyone else was obviously playing the same game. I heard one guy quite excitedly exclaim that he’d seen Wembley Stadium and reel off a host of facts about it. This interested me greatly as I’d been scanning the horizon looking for the arch, and I knew I was looking in the right direction. This guy was at the other end of the gondola. I shuffled over and asked him to point it out for me. Excitedly he pointed it out. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he wasn’t looking at Wembley - or indeed any football ground at all. The stadium he’d discovered was The Oval. I did point out the Emirates Stadium for him, even if I’d only spotted it because I was trying to spot White Hart Lane. Alas it was too gloomy to see the Lane, or Wembley. Great views of Westminster though.

Something else I managed to do was at last see District 9. I’d wanted to see it in the States but never got the opportunity. I went to Leicester Square and saw that it had started 20 minutes earlier. Knowing just how many trailers they seem to stick in front of films nowadays I asked if I could get in anyway. The woman behind the counter just laughed and told me it only had a few minutes left. Sensing my confusion she asked what time I thought it was and then laughed even more when I told her. Somehow I’d managed to set my watch to completely the wrong time when I adjusted it after getting off the plane. Not just a few minutes wrong, but a couple of hours. I hadn’t even noticed up to now. Luckily for me there was another showing starting in 15 minutes and so I eventually managed to see the film I’d been looking forward to for ages. It was worth the wait.

My little misadventure in time keeping had thrown my plans for the rest of the afternoon out. Leaving me just enough time to get grab a McDonalds on the way back to the hotel, get changed and then get out to Covent Garden for the final act of my adventure.

I wanted to end the trip on a high, so I bought a ticket to the Lion King in the West End. In the good seats. I really enjoyed the show, but felt more of a fish out of water then I had in a very long time.

I was sat front and centre of the balcony. Glancing around me I realised that I was the only single person there. Literally every other person within eyeshot was part of a couple. That theatre know that they are onto a winner showing the Lion King. I lost count of the amount of men I saw come back after the interval with a beer in one hand and a cuddly Simba in the other. The cynic in me would conclude that the tactic worked. During the ‘love’ scene (or as close as your ever going to get to a love scene in a Disney musical), I glanced around to notice female heads resting on male shoulders in all directions. Cuddly Simbas no longer in male hands. The couples to my right had the man on the right, the woman on the left and so leaning away to the right. On my left this was reversed, and so everyone appeared to be leaning off to the left. With myself in the middle, when viewed from the stage it must have appeared like some strange parody of the parting of the waves. I’d never felt like such a leper at that moment. I half expected to have the house lights come up and for the performance to be stopped whilst the relationship police removed the ‘single’ person. I had to stifle a laugh at the thought of the same thing happening at a showing of ‘The Producers’ - men appearing after the interval with a Frankfurter and a cuddly ‘Springtime Hitler’. Mel Brooks, if you’re reading..... The non cynic in me would have liked to have had someone with me for whom I could have bought a cuddly Simba myself.

The next morning the journey home was depressingly simple and familiar. I’m now back home, the clothes are in the washing machine. I’ve a glass of orange juice in my own glass, and I’m already planning the next adventure. I feel very tired, but satisfied. I went in search of a little adventure and with a million questions and doubts. I’ve returned with some answers and million more questions, but crucially with some clarity as well. Nothing has been solved, but doubts have been assuaged. More importantly, I did learn one vitally important lesson about myself. That lesson is a private one, but remembering it will have a huge impact in times to come.

I’ll probably write more short pieces. But for now I’ll end this journal with the following:

Only in Gatwick airport departure lounge did I finally meet an American that wanted to talk about America. Approaching me initially to ask about my laptop, we chatted for an hour about my trip and what impressions did I form about America. His advice for when I return:

“We’re mostly friendly people, but if you want someone that calls themselves American to give you an opinion, just wear a badge with either a Donkey or an Elephant on it. The assholes will be lined up round the block to tell you what to think whether you want to hear it or not”.

Neil Blakely
September 2009

Oh my what a strange day. I awoke this morning, to find the sun pouring into my room. Looking out the window, I saw not a single trace of fog in the air. It was as if San Francisco had decided on mocking me one last time.

I showered, dressed and packed my bags for the final time. I went outside to meet my airport transfer. A rather grumpy man, short with long grey hair, clumped together in a ponytail that was more like a single giant dreadlock. His driving scared me more then anything else I’ve experienced in America. I was sitting up front as I’d been picked up first and he said I’d be more comfortable. In reality all this meant was that I had a better view of the oncoming traffic as he overtook cabs from seemingly impossible positions. Ignored lights, pavements, pedestrians of anything else that may have slowed him down. With each further pickup, the doors would be slung open with such voracity that a straining crack could be heard as the doors reached the limits of their hinges. The van would then shake violently as the boot was slammed shut. Knowing glances were shared with the other passengers in the rearview mirror. The unspoken words were obvious - ‘I hope we get out of this alive’.

We eventually arrived at San Francisco International. With a screech of tires we pulled up. “All British Virgins get out now” he barked. It wasn’t a request. I looked at the terminal signs and spotted one that stated - British Airways, and Virgin Atlantic check-in desks with an arrow. I turned to my fellow passengers (victims?) and said, “anyone here on Virgin Atlantic”. Two lads put up their hands. “This is our stop, he’s not not casting aspersions”. Once the van had squealed away, one of the Brits said that suddenly he’d got over his fear of flying as he’s used up all his fear when we were on the freeway.

As I checked in the BA hostess asked if I’d like to make a little money on the flight. Now I’ll admit, my first thought was along the lines of, ‘is a BA stewardess about to ask me to be a drug mule’. “What would I need to do?” I asked. As it turns out, BA had oversold the flight. In return for me volunteering to miss my flight and catch the next, BA would pay me $400. As the next flight was only two hours after my own, I was quite happy to do this.

It’s a very strange feeling watching your flight arrive, be boarded and then take off without you. But it was only a two hour delay, and it meant that I could grab a seat in the departure lounge next to a powerpoint. BA were effectively paying me to browse the next and edit photos. Nice work if you can get it. Somehow, I’d also managed to spend a lot less money then I thought I would in the States. So last night, I booked a hotel in London and changed my flight back to Guernsey. This little windfall had already more then paid for that.

Eventually it came time to board my flight. Like the one before it, this was packed as well. I sat in my window seat and watched as we taxied to the runway. But we never made it there. We sat on the tarmac for a good half an hour until the pilot announced that we would have to return to the terminal to offload a drunken passenger that had tried to assault a steward. As soon as the gangway was connected, four cops walked onto the plane and headed down the aisles behind me. Then three more followed. Then finally another couple stood either side of the exit. The cops swiftly returned sandwiching a man that I had earlier stood directly behind and watched fumble with his passport as he tried to present it at security. He’d spent 5 minutes talking to the official then, becoming more and more animated as the official tried to move him on. When I presented my passport the official had said she’s not understood a word he’d said, but if he didn’t sober up in the next couple of hours he’s probably not get on whatever flight he was on. She was almost right.

For security reasons we had to wait as they removed the drunkards luggage from the hold. This done, we waited some more. Over 90 minutes had now passed since we began to taxi and people were starting to grumble. The pilot announced that as the plane had been in motion when the idiot took his swing at the steward, we had to await permission from the FBI before we could get moving. It was only later when we were airborne did it occur to me that this meant that every passenger on board was most likely vetted before we departed. When we eventually got airborne, we were nearly three hours delayed. If I had caught my original flight, I’d have been halfway to London by now.

My usual curse of being unable to sleep in moving vehicles came back to haunt me and by the time I arrived in London, I’d been up for a good 24 hours. Astoundingly my bag was the first off the conveyor belt and so I was off the plane and on the Heathrow Express in under 30 minutes.

My hotel in London is cheap, ideally placed, and tiny. Really tiny, with a wonderful view of a wall. At least I think its a wall. The window is one of those high placed frosted glass jobs that tend to be found in toilets. Its a hell of a difference from the Little America in Flagstaff. Most of the beds I’ve slept in over the last month, could not physically fit in here. But it is clean and tidy, and in that regard is all that I need.

I made the mistake of laying on the bed when I arrived. I awoke four hours later in pitch black, with a quiet moment of terror. Where was I, how did I get here, why is it dark and where the hell is the light switch? Once I gathered my wits, I went for a very short walk around the area. Such a short walk that I didn’t make it past the first half decent restaurant that I saw.

I stopped at the Golden Dragon Chinese. The food was tasty, cheap and came in a portion size that didn’t make me gasp. Around me the waitress scrubbed tables, breaking out into a line or two of Chinese songs. On another table a couple were having a thundering row. Tears were shed, voices were raised and the arguing only stopped for the occasional “what the fuck you looking at” if newcomers so much as glanced in their direction.

I stepped out into the cramped streets, the slight drizzle and noticed the folded out cardboard and crushed cans of Special Brew where the tramps had settled in for the night. Three cop cars went past, sirens blaring, lights ablaze. I was back in London once again.

Today started with a lie in. I awoke at 7am and on reflex jumped out of bed and into the bathroom. Only in the midst of brushing my teeth did I realise that for the first time since leaving Washington I had absolutely no reason to be up and about at this hour. I returned to my bed and dozed for another two hours of the most welcome and needed sleep I’ve ever had.

Some people are morning people and would regard returning to bed with scorn. I am most certainly not one of them. I’ve seen many daybreaks in my time, but the vast majority of these have been witnessed prior to retiring for the night.

Leaving the hotel at the much more reasonable hour of 10am, I tried once again to have my first experience with the San Francisco trams. My first attempt was aborted when I saw the queue at Fishermans Wharf and and realised it would take about 90 minutes to get aboard. The second attempt was only marginally smoother. I hopped straight onto the tram and enjoyed my trip to the top of the hill. After jumping off the California line and onto the tram on the route to Union Square we came to a complete standstill. “I’m going to need all the males to jump off” announced the brakeman. Most just looked at each other and stayed where they were. Myself and a few other blokes jumped off and walked to the brakeman. He explained that the tram had slipped the driving cable and that if we could push the tram a few foot back up the hill then he could re-attach and we could get going again.

The makeshift team, including the brakeman took our positions and braced. “Right on the count of three”. 1-2-3 heave.” One queue my pushed, we felt the tram give ever so slightly but if remained lodged in place. “Hold it. We’re going to do that again, but this time ‘you’ are going to release the brake when I say heave” he said whilst jabbing an accusing finger at the other brakeman. This time things went much smoother. With momentum building we managed to push the fully loaded tram back up the hill a few foot with surprising ease. I gather that this isn’t the normal procedure for catching one of the San Francisco trams, but it certainly made it memorable.

Together with Penny, a member of the tour party, the destination was the Museum of Modern Art. I’d read that they had a large portfolio of photographic work and that I was very interested in seeing. Penny particularly wanted to see the Matisse sculpture collection. We were both keen to see the current Richard Avedon portrait exhibition.

Viewing the exhibition with company was a much more pleasurable experience then solo viewing. Being able to exchange viewpoints and ideas about the presented works brought the work to life that much more. I came away from the Avedon exhibition with a great appreciation of his work - both subjectively and technically. He seemed to have a gift in capturing a subject in a distracted or vulnerable moment. Seemingly unaware of the camera even though they were in the process of a photoshoot. Of course given my own interest in photography, my eye was drawn to other details - such as specular lighting in the eyes in portraits of the Beatles, or the framing and focus on other shots. He really was a master in his chosen field. Each piece almost becoming a tutorial without words. It really does make you aware of just how much difference there is between those that are at the top of their profession and the rest of us.

Other then the photography collections, in which I had an obvious interest. I was surprised just how much I enjoyed the rest of the collections in the museum. As I think I mentioned after visiting the gallery in Chicago, I find modern art very hit and miss. Some works can be stunning. Others have you searching for the hidden camera as you wonder if the real installation is the screening of reactions to the plain white wall that the patron is confronted with. In short and put in much plainer language - San Francisco’s gallery appears to be far less stuck up its own rear then Chicago’s. Now I have just effectively banned myself from ever entering Chicago’s Museum of Contemporary Art again, I shall move on.

I seem to have subconsciously developed a routine in the larger cities. I plan to visit a couple of locations. I work out my route to the first - which bus route, street etc. I then head off and visit it. Leaving, I then wonder in a rough direction of the second stop on my itinerary. Of course when I say rough, what I mean is I know its say north of here. I end up walking for quite a while and get hopelessly lost with practically no clue where I am. Only when I realise that there is no hope of getting back on track, or I notice that time is ticking away do I make an attempt to figure out where I am and how to get to my intended destination.

Granted this is not the most time efficient way of exploring a city. But it does mean that I have gotten to see many buildings and pathways that I’d have missed if I just jumped on the nearest subway train. The strategy seems to work well in cities as it doesn’t seem to matter where you go you will find something interesting.

It was during my walkabout that it dawned on me what seemed so out of place about San Francisco. The city itself just appears to be dull. Not dull in the boring sense. But dull in the sense of lack of colour. Walking through Denver or Chicago they were full of colour, and life. San Francisco just appeared to be dull and lifeless. I saw more trash on the streets then I saw in most cities combined. The roads were cracked and full of holes. Even in coaches the day before, we would hit the occasional spin jarring pot hole. But now walking around the city appeared to be full of them. In some ways the city reminded me of myself just a few days before - tired and a little grubby. In need of a good clean and a little refreshing. California’s money problems are well publicised and I wonder just how much of an impact this has had on the general appearance of the city. Films and photos show a city with much more colour and life then I saw. So what is it that I missed?

One interesting thing that I did find what something so completely out of place and unexpected that I fell in love with it immediately and I want one in Guernsey. Trust me, its not that often that you will hear me wax lyrical about a plastic park bench, but this is that time. Supplied by Toyota as a promotion for the Prius. This was an example of advertising done almost perfectly. I say almost, because I still have no desire to buy a Prius. These were green molded plastic park benches. Above them stand giant daisy’s, the leaves coated in solar panels. Embedded into each bench are a number of of electric plug points. A small sign on each bench invites you to recharge your laptop or mobile phone, and whilst you’re doing that why not surf web using the free wi-fi? How fantastic is that? Free solar powered, Wi-Fi hotspots and recharging points. Yes ladies and gentlemen. I have travelled thousands of miles. I have seen the declaration of independence, and some of the most spectacular views that nature can provide. But a bit of injection molding and some free Wi-Fi and I’m on my feet applauding. Jaded? No. Geek? Oh yes!

Dinner that night was a farewell meal of sorts with the others in the tour party. In the last week of the journey,I had gotten to know a few of the group. In the cities, I would just go and do my own exploring and so did not really mix with everyone. But though the spine of America when we would be on long drives between destinations, everyone jelled much more. We went to a lovely Italian restaurant where I had very nice piece of pork, followed by an absolutely delicious chocolate cheesecake.

The others would be leaving in the morning, but I had arranged different flights and still had another full day, and a morning before my late afternoon flight.

I planned to visit the Exploratorium. A touch based science museum that I had seen advertised all over San Francisco. My plan was perfect. They opened at 10am and were fairly out of the way. I would get up around 8am, go out and find a diner and have a good breakfast for a change. Then go for a walk heading off in the general direction of the Exploratorium. Then if I was nowhere near it by 10am, I’d either jump in a cab or if I was near the bus route then I’d get that instead.

I found my diner, and did indeed have a good breakfast. I then went for my walk as planned. After a while I found that I was beginning to recognise places from the previous tour. Only this time they weren’t obscured by fog. After finding myself at the Civic Center, my hazy recollection of the map told me it was time to jump in a cab.

The cabbie did indeed take me all the way to the Exploratorium. Dropping me off right at the front door. 10:20am on a Monday morning. The kids would be back at school from the holidays and it wasn’t the weekend. I’d be able to be a big kid myself and play with all the exhibits myself. Mwahahhahah! *Ahem*.

My cabbie gleefully accepted his tip and drive off rather sharpish. I quickly realised why. A large poster board outside the door exclaiming ‘Closed Mondays’. A couple of frustrated Aussies stood near the door. “Taxi ripped you off as well?” one of them called. Indeed he had. My patience with San Francisco growing more strained by the second. Every time I find something to like, something else cancels it out.

The Exploratorium was thankfully in the grounds of the Palace of Fine Arts. I went for a stroll around the grounds to calm down and decide what to do. I remembered on the tour being taken nearby Golden Gate Park. The guide had mentioned that there was a museum with an exhibition of artifacts from Howard Carters’ discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb. Out with the iPhone, and another few quid piled onto an already large phone bill later, and I knew where I was headed. Now I just needed to figure out how to get there. I walked along the waterfront, hoping to spot a bus stop or even a taxi. The waterfront did give me a second opportunity to see the Golden Gate Bridge. However, despite the sun beating down, and this being by far the best weather I’d yet seen in San Francisco the tops of the bridge remained stubbornly engulfed in fog. I can look at photographs I took of the Palace of Fine Arts and see a glorious blue sky. Yet the Golden Gate Bridge, not even half a mile away every shot has a dull gray sky, and looks washed out. I guess the bridge and I were never meant to be.

I walked along the shore, being overtaken by joggers and cyclists (or bi-cyclists as they call them here. Given this is San Francisco, I wonder if this is a clever double entendre, or another Americanism like ‘straightaway’.) Given the density of the other pavement users, I was wondering whether to take my chances in the road.

Then I saw it, a bus parked up on the side of the road. The driver on a break and a short queue forming waiting for him to finish. Frankly, I didn’t care where this bus was going, just so long as it headed back into the main city. The doors opened at last and we all jumped on. The screen at the front of the bus then displayed the route number.

Surreptitiously, I looked up the route on the iPhone. I’d somehow managed to blunder my way right onto the very bus that would take me directly to the door of the De Young museum where the exhibition was being held. I’d like to claim it was my innate homing ability that led me directly to this particular bus. But we all know I’d be lying.

The Tutankhamun (or King Tut as the Americans seem to insist on calling him) find has long held fascination for me. My mother took a particular interest in it when I was younger. I can always recall her buying magazines or watching TV programs if they featured the find. Later on in fiction, the tomb would be the site of one Henry Jones Jr’s first adventure.

I’d love to be able to say that the exhibition blew me away, and that I felt history pouring from every surface - but I can not. The artifacts themselves are indeed generally incredible. Beautifully preserved, and the workmanship exquisite. However the way they were presented reminded me more of the showroom of an auction room. History, it would be fair to say, was not brought to life. From the $25 ticket price, and the surprise that the rest of the museum being closed except the Tutankhamun exhibit. The way that I felt rushed through the exhibition and that little information or background was presented, unless you opted for (at additional cost) an audio tour. The entire thing felt like a missed opportunity. To quote Lord Ventinari, they wished to “extract the maximum milk, with the minimum of moo”. I still have my fascination with the times of the Pharaohs. But much like the stuffed animals of the London Natural History Museum, I would rather see the natural setting then these glass cases and spotlights.

Across the road was the California Academy of Sciences. Now this was more like it. A huge and modern center, encompassing an indoor rainforest, an aquarium, a natural history museum and all below a living roof. The roof is covered in soil and grass. Providing heat in winter and cooling in summer. It collects rainwater that is used throughout the building. It is also covered in solar panels contributing to a reduction in energy requirements for the entire building. I wonder how long it will be before we see this kind of design used on new homes.

Ironically, even though this was not a place that had intended to visit. It was everything that I was expecting the Aquarium of the Bay to be. Giant tanks, from floor to ceiling, contained thousands of varieties of fish. From large to tiny, and from all over the world. Once again, I had the opportunity to sit and watch the penguins frolic in their giant pond. I think photographing penguins in the wild is going to have to be made as an entry onto my bucket list.

The indoor rainforest is incredible. Four floors of rainforest from a small river, with plants growing up to the ceiling. Parrots and other bright and exotic birds fly freely around the dome, whilst butterflies appear to occupy all non-moving surfaces - including me whenever I paused to take in the view.

One thing that always surprises me when I visit places like this is the reaction of the other visitors. Something like this is designed to be experienced. It cannot be taken in at a single glance. Wherever the eye falls there is something to see. Whether that be a macaw that you’ve just spotted sheltering from the fine mist under a large leaf, or trying to spot the bird that is making that song. Instead people just walk straight through. Up four floors and out in under a minute. I don’t mean that people should be bringing their packed lunches and staying for a morning. But surely 5 to 10 minutes is not out of the question? I just feel like asking people why did they spend the entrance fee if they are going to ignore everything. Maybe its just me.

My last night in America ended as many other had done - in a bar. After returning to the hotel. I decided to forgo the complete repacking of my suitcase until the following morning. Instead I found a bar, had a pizza and settled back to watch the American Football.

I don’t know what it is, but sitting in a pub in America on my own feels completely different to home. It could just be the greater feeling of anonymity in the cities. After all, your just another face. But in the smaller towns it is a more comfortable feeling as well. Guernsey, doesn’t feel like that. It doesn’t feel welcoming in comparison.

That will probably be my summation of America. It doesn’t really matter who you are, but you’re welcome to pull up a chair.

As soon as I knew I was doing this trip, San Francisco was the first place that I started looking at for places to visit. There were just so many things about the city that I was looking forward to visiting and find out more about. With this in mind its very hard to write about San francisco as anything other then a disappointment. However, this would probably be doing this city an injustice. Mainly the disappointment came from my own building up of the city in my mind as to be the icing on the cake for the entire journey. Possibly to a level it could never live up to.

My overriding impression of San Francisco is that it is a city that cannot be judged on the first impression. I don’t feel that I even began to scratch the surface and I have the feeling that what I was hoping to find has either moved on or has now far deeper below the surface then it previously was.

I have a sinking feeling that I arrived here 40 years too late.

After the previous nights late arrival and journey into a city illuminated in spectacular fashion the first impression after waking could best be described as ominous.

Standing in the shower trying to shake the desire to crawl right back into bed there came almighty boom, the rumbling continuing for a good 5 seconds or so. The building trembled and then the air was filled with the melody of the car alarm concerto. My reaction was quite obvious. Stifle a yawn and ask the question - “what the fuck was that”? It was of course thunder, but the other options running through the mind were earthquake, plane crash or bomb.

Grabbing a towel and running to the window, I pulled back the curtains to get my first view of San Francisco. Except that there was nothing to see. Only a blanket of fog that would have made Hitchcock or Herbert weep with joy. My view was so obscured that I could barely make out the cafes and restaurants across the street. Given that my reason for being awake at this hour was to join a tour a of the city taking in the Golden Gate Bridge my hopes this was was not filing me with much hope for the tour to come.

The tour began badly. Our tour guide was a German lady who has apparently lived in the city for the last 40 years. I can only imagine how severe her accent must have been all those years ago prior to the softening that comes with living in a foreign country for so long. When I think of accents that have changed over the years, my mind immediately springs to two - Jan Molby the Danish Scouser and Peter Schmeichel and the Danish Mancunian. Over ten years or so their accents amalgamated with the local dialect creating a whole new accent of their own. Todays guide was nothing like this at all. In fact she must be made from the same stuff as the worlds most Scottish man - Sean Connery. No matter what the part - American, Russian, Spanish - you know what you’re going to get with Connery and that is a Scottish accent. Over the years I’ve worked with Germans, and I’ve been to Germany - twice. This was without doubt the harshest German accent I have ever heard. Some sentences actually caused physical pain.

After 15 minutes the coach broke down. We waited an hour for a replacement coach to be sent from the depot. In my mind this was the time for damage limitation from our guide. The time to tell us some facts about the area that we had broken down in, or tell us her impressions of the city. After all she decided to live her and has spent four decades here. Surely she must have formed an opinion or two by now. Instead the hour passed in silence.

When we did get going I quickly realised that I really was not going to enjoy this tour. The weather was poor - something of course completely out of the hands of the guide - and fog obscured everything. She seemed to have no backup for this, continuing to give a canned tour exactly as though we could not even begin to see what was being pointed out. Instead we were helpfully told that the weather was beautiful yesterday and that San Francisco had one of the most stable climates in the world and that you almost never get rain at this time of year. Again just part of a canned performance paying no head to the fact that right outside the window was fog and drizzle. Instead we carried on listening to how great the weather is here as though we were in midst of a glorious summers day.

In a city this large and with one of the most interesting histories in the 20th century, what our professional guide felt would be of most interest to us as travelers were the trees - because “I know the English like gardens”...... At least 5 times were eucalyptus trees pointed out in different locations around the city.

Finally she moved onto those subjects that this city is most famous for. The counter culture revolution - dismissed as “hippies”. The peace movement - dismissed as “drug addicts” and of course the gay rights movements. “we have a large population of gay people here in San Francisco. Around 14%, and thats enough”. All three subjects dismissed out of hand without any relevant information. No mention of the Castro district and the first elected gay official. Dismissing as drug takers the seeds of the Vietnam war protests sown at Berkeley, which would eventually see marches on Washington and the fall of Lyndon Johnson.

We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. Or at least I was told that we did. I have no proof of this, so thick was the fog that that I could barely make out the bridge itself!

The tour ended down at Fishermans Wharf, where we were scheduled to to catch the ferry over to Alcatraz island. As I departed the coach, I noticed that our guide was was not exactly being blessed with tips. Most people walking straight past, not even offering a goodbye. So that was that, a tour of one of the worlds most well known cities reduced to the pointing out of various trees and delivered with as much passion as I would muster for a triple maths lesson on a Friday afternoon at school. Its hard not to sound petty or bitter, but over the last month I seem to have gained some experience with guides, and this was a very poor showing.

Visiting San Francisco without visiting Alcatraz would be like traveling to Egypt and not seeing the pyramids. It is somewhere that demands to be seen, and it does not disappoint.
It is one of those places whose name conjures a different image dependent upon your age. To some, it is the jail that housed Al Capone. To another generation it was where Clint Eastwood escaped from. To me it is synonymous with Nicolas Cage and Sean Connery. Stepping off the ferry, I couldn’t help myself slipping into a faux-Scottish accent and proclaiming “Welcome to the Rock”.

This really is another place where history just pours from every surface. You have that strange feeling of familiarity as though you have been here before having seen parts of the island in so many films over the years.

Two things struck me as I wondered around Alcatraz. First and most obvious the state of disrepair. It is very surprising just how poor condition the majority of the buildings are in. However this is easily explained by the second thing that struck me - just how exposed to the elements that you are. Living on an island, I’m well used to coastal winds. But being battered by a biting wind when just a few miles away in San Francisco barely a breeze could be felt was something of a shock. I walked through the prisoners exercise yard, with the wind whipping around my clothes and realised that the only escape from this was the cover of a dark and dank cell house. I could imagine what conditions must be like for inmates. This was a fairly pleasant, if foggy, day. Conditions in the worst winter weather must have been intolerable.

Some impressions of the conditions were provided by the rather excellent cell audio tour. Narrated by former inmates and guards this was an entertaining and informative introduction to the Alcatraz as a living community and not a collection of buildings with a history as I have always known it.

I returned to San Francisco with my rucksack weighing a little heavier on my back. This thanks to a lump of concrete from one of the demolished buildings. The National Parks now sell these ‘Rocks from the Rock’ to raise money for their restoration problems. My immediate thoughts range from ‘sucker’ to ‘how cool’, ‘customs will have a field day’ and ‘can I attach a magnet to it?’

I went for a walk along Fishermans Wharf in search of the Aquarium of the Bay. Another thing that I’d been looking forward to seeing since my initial search of San Francisco. The website for the Aquarium showed that they had two walk through tunnels filled with all kinds of species of fish that can be found around the bay. This was entirely accurate and really very good. What I wasn’t expecting was for this to be all that there was. I was expecting something more akin to the aquarium in Chicago. So despite what was available looking fantastic, I again could not shake that feeling of disappointment.

Fishermans Wharf was for me my least favourite place of everywhere that I have visited. As strange as my reasoning will will sound given that I’ve been to places like the Statue of Liberty, Times Square and the Washington monuments - I just found the whole area to be far too touristy. The entire place was crawling, and felt even more crowded then Times Square. Seagull swooped overheard hoping to get the bread bowls in which clam chowder was served that people discarded, mainly in the street it appeared. I find that I don’t mind the crowds so much when there is something to be learnt. Or like myself at the monuments, just wanting to get a feeling for the history of the area. the Wharf just did not appear to have any of these things. It was a collection of gift shops and food outlets. I’ve read that the Wharf is now the 3rd most visited destination in America. I cannot see why personally. It is lightweight and I had the feeling that many people where there simply because they had been told that was the place to go.

After making my way back to the hotel for a short rest and to drop off my big lump of concrete. I went to Union Square.

The main shopping district and where most of the ‘name’ stores are. I actually quite enjoyed the area. Other people I spoke to disliked it as much as I disliked the Wharf. I think that the difference was that I visited fairly late in the evening. Shopping is not my forte, and most stores were now closed. Most that is except the Apple store which was my reason for visiting Union Square in the first place. When I was in New York Apple released Snow Leopard. The latest version of the OSX operating system. Rather then have to baby a DVD across the country, I resolved to pick up my copy here in San Francisco. I entered the store with the intention of spending the $29 that Snow Leopard would cost. I left having spent rather more then that. A couple of days earlier Apple had held an even and released new iPods, including a new Nano with a video camera. Honestly, I just meant to look but when the assistant asked ‘and is there anything else?’ when I asked for Snow Leopard the words “Orange 16gb Nano” just kind of slipped out.

It is very pretty though.

Walking though the Union Square to the sounds of buskers and later a saxophonist that had me checking I wasn’t wearing a trilby and overcoat so spooky was the feeling that I was now on a film noir set. I walked back towards the hotel taking a pretty major detour through Chinatown. The sights and the smells reminded me, more specifically my stomach that todays food has consisted solely of a bun at the Alcatraz ferry terminal a good 10 hours earlier. Rather then doing the sensible thing and reading menus, I decided to pop right into the next establishment that I saw.

I walked in, to be greeted with a friendly “takeaway for you?”. Looking at the empty tables and chairs I asked if I could sit in. There was a moments hesitation before being shown to a chair. After taking my drinks order I was handed a menu. I now realised two things - first despite being in the middle of Chinatown, I’d just walked into a Thai restaurant. Secondly the opening hours for the sit-in part of the restaurant where quite clearly stated to close at 9pm. It was now 10:45pm. Realisation dawned that they had just opened up the seating area just for me. I felt a little foolish, but the hosts just laughed it off. Given I’ve been in pubs in Guernsey where they are putting chairs on tables around you a good couple of hours before closing. I can’t quite imagine the same reaction happening at home. The food was excellent, and despite being the smallest portions I’ve yet to see in America, were still much to large for me. Of course I left a healthy tip. I mean they opened up the seating area, served an excellent meal and despite the late hour I didn’t feel as though I was being rushed to the door.

I tried waddling back to the hotel. But a combination of the food and the now falling rain decreed against it. I stuck out my thumb and caught a cab back to the hotel to finish my first night in the city by the bay.

As expected the train journey was fairly boring. The train journey is known as the coast starlight but we only saw the coast for a short amount of time during the journey.

Funnily enough the only real stretch of coast that we saw contained the Channel Islands. Not my Channel Islands of course, but those nature reserve impostors.

The last hour of the trip though was a riot. Russell, a mischievous Scottish rascal (when his wife is out of earshot) decreed that our carriage would henceforth be known as the singing carriage. Every person that tried to pass was asked to sing a few lines for everyones enjoyment. A few ran a mile, but a few joined in with real gusto.

At one stage everyone was singing Twist and Shout, backed by a few girls that had wondered along and being recorded by a couple of previous victims, er, participants.

We arrived at Oakland station to late to contemplate doing anything other then go to bed. However seeing San Francisco for the first time from the Bay Bridge all lit up was the perfect way to be introduced to a new city.

Ah Los Angeles. What a city, incomparable to anywhere else I’ve been on Earth. But then I haven’t really been to that many places I’ve not liked before. Maybe Bournemouth. No, not quite. Blackpool with a bit more money behind it would be more accurate.

As ever we started with a tour. I’m struggling to remember the guides name. I think it may have been Jenny but I’m not certain. She did refer to herself as Brad Pitt’s Ex. A joke which got a little stale by the third time of telling. If she was, it became obvious why she was an ex and not a current. The volume of the tour bus did her no favours, having been turned up so loud as to wake the dead. After only 10 minutes of aural torture I was longing for Debbie and her ‘yahoos’.

We stopped at Grumans Chinese Theatre having walked along the walk of fame. Concourse with the hand and footprints was pretty cool, but there is nothing sader then seeing a theatre designed to be lit as night and flanked by photographers in the cold light of day. But this paled into insignificance compaired to the monstrosity that is the Kodak theatre. Built to be a permanent home to the Oscars. What they have created is a temple to tackiness. The glamourous entrance flanked by stores, to the left a courtyard with piped pop music and fast food at every level. The guide seemed extrodenly proud of the architecture describing it as a moment to the lens combined with Egyption themes. Nop, just a bland mess that could could pass for any shopping mall in the world.

So this was Hollywood. Allegedly the capital of style and glamour. No, just tawdry and fake.

We continued on our tour of LA, and I’m sorry to say that I could not see and single thing that I enjoyed about it. This was the archetypal city. Crowded, dirty, hot and full of traffic. I can’t say it was a disappointment, because it really was about what I expected.

To see some real style we headed to the hotel for the night - the Queen Mary. Once the last word in luxury being built as a sleek transatlantic cruiser pre WWII, and serving as a troop carrier during the conflict. Now she serves as a floating hotel in Long Beach.

She still has those elegant lines of a classic cruise liner and bedecked in the Cunard colours. My room was one of the old first class state rooms. Luxury rooms may have moved on a little since her launch, but make no mistake this was a large room with all the modern fittings and a good old-fashioned British toilet bowl. How I’ve missed them.

We were taken for a tour of the ship by the current Captain. A man who simply exudes the roll of sea captain just by looking at him. As the ship no longer sails, it is now an honoury position. However he did serve as a captain in the navy. The ship itself has a facentating history, and I thought that the captain spoke of the ship with a real affection. I was interesting to see the changes made to the travel classes made after the Titanic disaster. There was no steerage class. This was no tourist class. They were given the same amenities as the first class passengers, but smaller. The ship is beautifully decorated thoughout, retaining as many of the original fittings as possible.

I felt like a schoolboy let loose to to freely wonder the ship. I had a great time exploring and I just wish that I could have been aboard when she sailed.

I have to be up early tomorrow for the journey to my final destination. An 11 hour rail trip from LA to San Francisco. As much as I’m looking forward to seeing the city by the bay. I’m not that excited about the trip.

Nothing to really write home about, but I wanted to give a special mention to Chuck our carriage attendant. What a star you were. From the way you placed your hands on the womans buttocks to practically throw them onto the train. To the way you managed to turn my bed back into seats in incredibly quick time when I went to the loo at 5:15am, Even though I could have had another view hours sleep. I particularly loved the way that you managed to stick my bag and laptop on the top bunk and still close it.

If I hadn’t left my GPS tracker on the bloody train, I’d go as far to say you were the worst thing about it.

Seeing the Grand Canyon was one of the primary reasons that I wanted to visit America. This would most likely prove to be the high-water mark of the trip. Prior to leaving Guernsey, whenever I was asked what was I looking forward to, my answer always included the Grand Canyon. Everyone that has actually seen it for themselves would tell me how excellent it was and that I would not be disappointed by it.

The day began with a short ride to Williams. Here I knew that from there we would catch a train to the canyon itself, run by the Grand Canyon Railway. I wasn’t expecting the train journey itself to be quite so long, or quite so entertaining.

After were ushered to the end of the tracks where a small amphitheater had been erected we were treated to a short ‘Wild West’ show. A few cowboys with a good line of patter. Quite literally in fact as those unfortunates that identified themselves as celebrating birthdays or anniversaries were presented with a dollop of horse droppings each. I don’t know if anyone kept theirs, but it is hard to imagine that particular piece of memorabilia occupying a celebrated position of the mantle. I really enjoyed the show, much more then I would have expected to. I guess that they managed to tap into that little part that still exists in every man that would still prefer to be running around playing cowboys then getting on with the more expected seriousness of being a ‘grown up’.

The entertainment continued aboard the train. The cars were restored 60’s passenger cars, clean, comfortable, and chilled. Our car was looked after by Robert, one of the most excitedly energetic people I have yet to meet. Given that we are in America and people like Robert’s livelihood are dependent upon tips, I cannot be 100% sure if we were seeing his true persona, or is public persona. Lets just say that he’s either very good at his job, or this was a man that has found his calling. He bounded around the car filling water bottles, taking group photos and posing for photos himself. He then proceeded to stop and chat to each person. Sitting with them a short while to find out what they person wanted from their trip and making suggestions on how they could achieve that. I was sat right at the back of the carriage and by the time he reached me, he was still just as enthusiastic as our first step aboard.

Our car was then entertained by a wondering cowboy troubadour, whose name I unfortunately missed. He serenaded us with a couple of cowboy tunes and then after discovering Scottish people aboard with a rather more risque Scots ditty about what is worn under the kilt that made be glad I didn’t have kids with me that would ask for the joke to be explained to them.

My first glimpse of the Grand Canyon was not quite as awe inspiring as I had hoped. The train deposited its passengers at the small station, and the crown proceeded to walk up the nearby steps taking of to the South Rim village. At the top were throngs of people milling around and doing exactly the same as I was - trying to walk towards the rim and get that view of the canyon. My own first sighting lasted about a second, a glimpse snatched between a slight parting of the waves. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Surely there should have been thunder and fireworks, or at least my own orchestra to strike a chord. But it wasn’t to be.

My plan, one enthusiastically (as ever) backed by Robert, was to walk the Blue Trail. An easy 3 mile walk along the rim to an observation centre. This would normally take around 45 minutes, but I was planning on stopping for loads of photos and taking a fair bit longer. The crowd, deprived of coffee, nicotine and food for a whole two hours headed off to the cafes and restaurants leaving the trail relatively quiet and so I headed off.

Once out of the village, the view truly did open up and although there were no fireworks I began to sense just how extraordinary the canyon is. My entire field of vision was taken up by the huge expanse. It was impossible to see anywhere near the bottom and the only real sense of height was generated by looking at the edge of the curves on the same rim as I was standing and seeing them drop away. The trail itself was a nice walk. Easier then a lot of the cliff walks in Guernsey - mainly because there is a paved path following the edge of the rim, and benches every few hundred meters. Of course you could leave the patch and venture closer to the edge, but not too close of course. This I did frequently, and this provided the best views.

What is hard to imagine is the scale of the canyon. I sat at one point and realised that Guernsey could fit neatly into one of the curves and not even be close to touching the sides. Even walking along the rim for three miles did not change the viewpoint dramatically do to the extreme range between the bends. It was a staggering realisation that just a few days before I was in the Rockies having one of the very early stages of the Colorado River pointed out - at that point just a small stream. Then seeing something this huge and magnificent, but only a fraction of the whole, and knowing that it was carved by that same river that that stream was a part of hundreds of miles away.

My overwhelming feeling from the canyon was one of insignificance. We are here and gone in the blink of an eye, and yet the effect we are having on this world has the potential to far outlast the memories we will leave for others.

Today was a frustrating day.

We made our way into Navajo country, through the reservation to monument valley. Watching as the the mesa’s unfolded in front of us and then disappeared without the chance to stop and photograph everything started to wind me up more and more. Of course this was only to be expected on a coach journey, and we did make some stops at scenic locations. We stopped at a location called the Goosenecks. From a high vantage point we could see the river loop back along itself in a n ever tightening series of hairpin bends. Truly a spectacular sight. It was also the one time that I have come close to feeling angry on this entire journey. Shall we say disgruntled.

Here we were, standing to view one of the most amazing landscapes in the world. A true natural wonder. How long were we given to appreciate this magnificent vista? A grand total of ten minutes. Half of which were wasted as people shuffled off of the coach.

This kind of location was exactly what I’d dreamed of photographing since I’ve known that I’d be taking this journey. For the only time on this trip, I regretted not having my SLR and a wide-angle lens. Not that it would have made a difference. To try and capture the scale of the river and bends would be impossible without the assistance of a helicopter. Knowing the rush for time, I did not pause and consider the image that I was taking with each shot. Instead I started snapping away like an excited child handed his first camera. This did really matter though. With a subject as impressive as this, you can just point and shoot and have an interesting image.

No sooner had I started shooting then we were called back for a ‘group shot’. The rest of my time drained away as I tried not to look as angry as I was feeling and therefore ruining everyone else’s shots. In the end, I barely had time to get even the basic landscape shots, let alone hunt for interesting angles, as I would have liked. I honestly feel like I could have spent the entire day in this one place, but of course this was not plausible. Besides, we were moving on to Monument Valley and so there would be plenty more to shoot before the day was out.

At this time I’d like to make a heartfelt plea. To any makers of safety glass - please, please, please invent a non-reflective glass for tour busses. I’d love you forever if you did. The coach of course had its destination, and if we stopped at every dramatic landscape we would still be there. At most I would attempt to grab a shot through the window, but reflections made this both a frustrating and difficult exercise. For a snapshot the reflections are not too bad. But for what I wanted to achieve, they were simply maddening.

We next stopped at a spot on the road to Monument Valley that must be the most famous, and certainly the most photographed of the many vistas the location provides. To arrive there is wonderful. Obviously, I’d never been there before, but I felt that I had. The sight of the highway heading straight to the horizon, disappearing into the show of the peaks dead ahead is one that has been ingrained into mind for years. Photographs, movies, and TV shows have featured this view many, many times and now here I was standing on the very spot myself. Five minutes went the cry. Great.

I bounded to my position, determined to get the one shot that reflected the vision that I had always had in my mind. Another photographer and his girlfriend were slightly to my left. Him with tripod set up and SLR mounted. As I lined up my shot I realised one thing - he was stood exactly where I wanted to be. I asked if I could just nip in front of him to take my photo. That I was only there for a couple of minutes and I just wanted to get one shot and I’d get back out of his way. His answer was simple - no. So much for solidarity between photographers. With hindsight, I should have just been as rude back, said ‘tough shit’ and walked in front and took my shot. The guy proved to be an arsehole anyway. I was shooting a panorama and the fucker walked right in front of me. As we Brits say - what a wanker. I didn’t have time to retake the shot. I was already studiously ignoring the calls and watch tapping even before” I began shooting the panorama. Of course, I could have re-taken it. But I have a feeling that I would have been walking the rest of the way to Flagstaff.

The Valley itself was in the Navajo reservation. We were told that we would be stopping at a trading post where we would stop for a couple of hours. We stopped right in the shadow of one of the giant mesas. The only things around were a gift shop and a cafe. This was a real disappointment. After speaking to William, I had really been looking forward to talking with Navajo. But other then staff for the two amenities there was no-one there at all. we had also managed to stop in the one and only place in Monument valley where you could not really see the actual valley. Our location was akin to taking trying to take a photograph of Everest, when standing top of it. The only Navajo I spoke to was the waitress that took my order in the cafe. The shop itself was interesting though. Full of carvings, weavings and jewelry. The woman of the party seemed to have a field day there if the number of shopping bags when we re-boarded the coach was any indication. It was lucky for them as this would prove not to be the only Indian gift shop that we would see that day. Whilst on my search for a magnet (becoming something of an obsession), I rounded a corner to find a huge basket filled to the brim with slingshots that looked rather familiar. Yes, my deer-shot was made in China and it certainly wasn’t unique.

I did succumb to the tourist trap eventually. Buying my first pointless souvenir - a rather expensive one as well. For reasons that I still can’t fathom, I purchased a small wooden flute. Of course I have no idea how to get a tune out of it. But I think its pretty cool.

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When we left the trading post the guide gave an ominous warning. “Folks, you may has well get your head down for a few hours, as there is nothing to see around here”. We drove on for an hour and the man was completely right. There was nothing at all. Eventually, the monotony of the bland, unvarying landscape caused me to fall asleep myself. A first for me, as I have never been able to sleep in a car or on a plane before. I awoke just as we were pulling into a town identified as Cameron. I was told that I had indeed missed nothing at all in the two hours or so I was out, by the unfortunates that had stayed awake the entire way.

Cameron, could not be described as attractive. Even by the most one-eyed, biased person imaginable. In fact, to call it a town at all is pushing it. Cameron, consisted of a petrol station, a motel and you’ve guessed it - a gift shop. Even bigger then the last, filled with the exact same items that we had just seen. How long were we in Cameron? 45 minutes. 45 whole bloody minutes in a gift shop identical to the one that we had left but three hours before. At two of the worlds most spectacular views we were given a grand total of 15 minutes. Gift shops were given nearly three hours. I was not a happy bunny, and I know that others felt the same way.

All in all I felt that today was an opportunity missed. Whilst I’m pleased to have witnessed Monument Valley. I, and others, were expecting to meet and converse with the Navajo. I was hoping to learn more about their culture in their own words - to expand upon what I had learnt at the American Indian museum in Washington. instead we spent a long time driving, and a long time in gift shops. As I say an opportunity missed and a frustrating day.

The frustration has carried over to the hotel - the Little America in Flagstaff, Arizona. The hotel is beautiful, the rooms are huge and comfortable. Walking the length of the room, I am fairly certain that the room is the same length as my house. The room looks out onto woodland, and I have a small balcony. It is almost perfect... almost. The trouble came when we decided to look for a place for dinner. We then discovered that the hotel is in Flagstaff in much the same way that Easyjet fly to Barcelona. We are relatively speaking in the middle of nowhere. Thankfully the food at the hotel was good an fairly reasonably priced. But after a 12 hour coach journey, I was a disappointment not to be able to head out into the town.

Tomorrow though looks promising. Yet another dream to be fulfilled as we head to the Grand Canyon.

I left Grand Junction feeling rather the worst for wear. The local brewery charged only $3.00 for a pint of their own brewed beer. Between myself and Dave we managed to run up a tab of around $35.00. Unlike almost every other place that I had visited, I was not sorry at all to leave Grand Junction. Other then a few characters in the bar, the town held no interest at all. The hotel provided a list of entertainment available. The first two items on the list were a cinema and the pub. The third was the airport.

We passed through yet more spectacular mountain passes making our way to Silverton. It was a holiday weekend here in the States and literally hundreds of bikers on Harleys and the like were out on a rally, or just enjoying the mountains. Rather then sate my desire to cross America by motorcycle, this whole trip has only served to reinforce that. In fact every bike that we passed was like a little twisting knife. I’ve never felt more conflicted in happiness. Here I was passing through the landscape that I dream about but at that moment I would have given anything just to be able to swap and jump onto one of those bikes. Harleys back home are just lumbering beasts. Too heavy, too expensive and not enough performance. All show and no go. But out there on that mountain pass or the long roads through the forest the Harley made perfect sense. This was what it was created for and it was in its element.

We stopped at the most picturesque town. It labeled itself America’s Matterhorn. I was quite easy to see why. Sandwiched into the mountains and every building seeming to come from a 1930’s movie set. I popped into the most wonderfully bizarre shop. It sold everything from scorpions and spiders encased in resin, to indian carvings and wooden katanas. I walked away with a slingshot. The handle of which is a carved wooden deer. The head and antlers forming the ‘Y’ of the catapult. I must have walked past it ten times before I finally bought it. After all, when would I have the opportunity to pick up a find like this again?

The coach carried on through a landscape now completely changed by the hands of man. Instead of a tree covered rocky peak, the next mountain was open to the elements showing the mineral residue from a previous mining operation. Instead of grey and green, this mountain had a marble like texture of reds, and rusty browns. Quite beautiful in its own way, but also shocking in the scale that the landscape had been changed. The surrounding area was littered with the remnants of the mining operation. In some case the equipment had jut been left to rust where it had stood. It is easy to imagine that the operation was still continuing to this day.

Silverton is exactly how you imagine a wild west town to be. Unpaved roads, the saloon type architecture of a million cowboy films. Old bordellos and whore houses were now converted to family restaurants. Although one proprietor continued to dress as an old fashioned madam much to the delight of the traveling party. It seems the traditions of using a little cleavage to draw in the punters is effective as ever - whether the aim is to sell the pleasures of the flesh or a burger and fries. I made my way to a small diner and had a Buffalo Burger. For the first time I can say that I have tried a new exotic meat that does not taste like chicken. Now this just tasted like every other burger that I’ve had - only at twice the price.

The entire point of our journey to Silverton was to catch a train to Durango. Our transport for the day was to be an original 1920’s steam engine. Not a replica, but an original as the engineers were keen to stress. The route was a scenic one through the mountains, along cliff edges and following the route of the river. The train buffs in the party were like school children. As for myself I travelled with a huge smile on my face. There is something about steam trains that make for an exciting ride. The noise and the motion are unlike anything else. As is the reaction of anyone that sees one. We passed through small towns and people lined the tracks with cameras and video cameras. Everyone smiling and waving. Even when the route was parallel with roads, drivers and passengers would wave through the windows. Of course everyone was happy to wave back. The steam train has been a real highlight of this trip. Even at 3.5 hours I loved every minute of it. I’m by no means a train buff, but I can easily see the attraction of the steam engine.

We arrived in Durango with a bit of a shock. This was a fairly large sized town, complete with lots of shops and restaurants. I think we all expected to find the counterpart of Silverton. But this was a modern, but attractive town. More of a shock was what was lining the streets. Everywhere you looked were parked Harley’s. Every bar had a banner with some variation on ‘bikers welcome’. The whole town had a celebrationry atmosphere. One of a good time to be had. People wondered the streets looking at the bikes, and from the open doors of the public houses came rock music and the unmistakable sound of people having a good time.

I went to a chinese restaurant, ordering a duck & mushroom, with beef rice. They brought out the duck on a platter. I gulped as the plate was huge, and piled with a mountain of food that could easily have two people. The rice then followed, unbelievably this was an even larger dish then the duck. Both however tasted excellent and it was only the prospect of a walk back to the hotel with an overfull stomach that prevented me from eating more.

All in all, one of the best days of the journey so far.