Six hours in Chicago

MB:

Only had a six-hour stop off in Chicago, so we took advantage of the modern age by phoning Papa Booth to see if he could use his own world-wide-web prowess to locate us the nearest internet café in the Windy City.

CB:

However, the café he scored us was substantially out of Chicago and we got so cozy there it nearly resulted in us missing our connecting train. Lovely food though…

Losing track of time: Praying we'll catch the connecting train to St. Louis.

Washington, D.C

We departed New York’s Penn Station to head for Washington, D.C, a three-and-a-half hour trip which goes through Philadelphia. When we got to DC’s Union Square train station, we were immediately struck by how quiet it was compared to New York. The subway was eerily silent – nobody in our cart but us and one other man.

Washington subway: Nice handiwork, Catherine

Our youth hostel was a HI one, located not too far from Georgetown.

On our first full day there, we decided to have a squidge at the White House. We ambled down there and encountered this delightful American lady, who encouraged us to go on a garden tour of the White House at midday – it was a “real treat”, apparently.

Non-plussed, we followed her lead, going back at our alotted time, admiring George’s bushes, and generally trotting around the White House’s back garden. It was only on our way out – upon asking the security guys – that we realised that this was a rather special occasion, and people only got the chance to do it a handful of times during the year! This made us feel rather chuffed.

The White House ...and that would be me looking chuffed.

In the afternoon, went to Lincoln Memorial, saw Capitol Hill and then had a tour around Arlington Cemetery, which is actually in Virginia, and which is where JFK is buried. Oddly, you get a Ticketmaster gig-like-ticket for this – I will treasure mine forever.

You have to get on a golf-cart-type-thing to get to JFK’s grave, the cemetery is so huge. Whilst at his grave, I committed what could have been a massive boo-boo. An unexpected surge of wind dislodged my hat from its sweaty head-abode, and it was definitely heading for the eternal flame which Jackie Onassis lit when JFK was buried. This flame is protected by ropes and is not accessible to the public.

It briefly looked like we were going to have our American visas withdrawn and set back to Blighty for crimes against a national hero. However, somehow, heart-in-mouth, my hand-eye coordination came up trumps and saved the day, averting a story which may well have made the “And Finally…” section of News at Ten.

JFK's tomb - with eternal flame mentioned above.

Later, we drank and ate in Chinatown, where we ruminated over how fat we were both getting, and pledged to eat nothing but greens for the next twenty-four hours.

Started the next day by eating lots of cream cheese bagels, followed by a Big Mac extra value meal at the Air and Space Museum. Oooed and aahhed our way around seeing various spacesuits, aeroplanes, fecal matter waste-bags for astrounauts and the like.

New York, New York

“Is anyone from Japanese here?”  U.S Borders and Customs officer

Woke up in the middle of the most tremendous itchy fit. Upon returning from the shower, Catherine confirmed that I had indeed transformed into one big throbbing welt.  Something was seriously amiss, but there was no time to investigate as we had a train to New York to catch…

Getting on the train on the Ontario side of Niagara Falls, we were but minutes away from the American border – thus moments from a meeting with the U.S Borders and Custom Officers. I was panicking that they wouldn’t let me into their glorious country, as it was clear to anybody with even mediocre vision that I was potentially infectious.

Hivey-hi! Posing with a small portion of the welts that riddled my body.

I needn’t have worried: the Americans were too busy getting their tongues around some tricky language to care for my infected meat. “Is anyone from Japanese here?”, they asked those of us who’d been made to traipse off the train and sit in the small waiting room on the Canadian-American border. Some Japanese citizens commendably suppressed their giggles enough to be questioned about their visas. Catherine and I had our mug-shots taken and fingerprints recorded, before being allowed back on the train with a license to roam the U.S. Piece o’ cake.

After our 9-hour train trip, we were catapulted directly into the hustle and bustle of New York around midnight, arriving at Penn Station. Got on the subway and managed to find the place we would be spending the next four nights, the Candy Hostel. It turned out to be a nice part of NY, and we felt like we were living in a proper neighbourhood, rather than staying in a tourist hive.

At the hostel, we checked that nobody else was in our two bunk-bed dorm before turning on the light. Clearly we had not checked hard enough, for our lone (American) roomie was asleep on the top bunk. She woke immediately, said hello and announced she was going out, despite us offering to turn off the light so she could return to Mr Sandman. She had bags of cookies everywhere, long, lean legs, wayward hair and a crazed look in her eyes. I slept comfortably that night. 

Central Park: Completely unposed. Sheer luck. Honestly. Uh-hum.

Woke up the next day and decided that I really should go to the pharmacy. At Duane Reade, the pleasant but efficient pharmacist took one look at me and said I should see a doctor. Onwards to the next Duane Reade, where an appointment with their in-house doc set me back 100 bucks.

As I disrobed to show my blotchy body, the nurse gave me a look which mixed pity with thinly-veiled disgust: “You got hives,” she declared. She asked for my home address, to which I clearly answered in my English accent: “West Yorkshire”. The nurse was clearly in dream-land however, as my prescription label had my hometown as “New Yorkshire” – a fantastical amalgamation of places which still makes me giggle to this day.  

The doctor examined me and said she’d never seen anything like it. I got given a “shot”, with the nurse pressing her fingers really hard on the site after taking the needle out. Now I’m no stranger to injections, but her method of kneadling the injection site with her firm digits bloody hurt. However, as New Yorkers are quite the believers in tough love, I was too scared to tell her to stop it. Meanwhile, the doctor prescribed me oodles of medication (steroid creams and tablets, anti-histamines), which cost a hundred dollars or so. It was a rather expensive morning all around…

In my drugged up state, we went to admire some art at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I was dazed and confused, but Catherine enjoyed herself royally.

The New York skyline from the Met's roof garden.

Afterwards, we went to Chinatown where we had some tasty grub, then hailed a cab to ER, as instructed by the doctor if the injection failed to quell those hives. There, I encountered the most inept hospital receptionist ever propelled onto this fair earth. An interesting twenty-four hours, all in all.

Somebody's glad they took out health insurance.

However, from here onwards our days in New York took a cozy structure. After a ubitiquous Starbucks, we’d have a mid-morning snooze in Central Park, before going on to do “fun and/or cultural things”: Staten Island Ferry, Museum of Modern Art, Times Square, Ground Zero…

It was also in New York that we developed a habit for sitting on bar-stools, drinking beer and watching baseball.

(Go, Blue Jays, Go!) 

Drinking in Oxford…?

… then read my friend’s very helpful Oxford pub guide, compiled during our recent pub crawl around those parts. It’s ridiculously insightful. (My favourite line: ”We grabbed a bite to eat in here, can’t really remember it. Probably had a burger and it was probably ok”). 

Enjoy.

Podcasting away

Listen to mine and Lucinda’s thoughts on OK’s tribute issue to Jade Goody here.

And we’re Niagara Fallin’

“You’re doing a great job guys, just keep walking, you’re doing a great job.” A Maid of the Mist queue attendant.

Bid a warm adieu to Toronto at the Union Station, where we took the two-hour train ride to Niagara Falls.

Aah, what a glorious morning, I thought while enjoying the beautiful Canadian landscape en-route. Just how many breathtaking moments would I enjoy at one of the world’s most awe-inspiring natural wonders…?

Arrived at the tiny Niagara Falls train station, taking a taxi to our hostel, where we were met by an enthusiastic guy called Patrick. Never has man eulogised so much about a waterfall. Boy, we were excited.

Patrick pointed us to the general direction of the Falls, and thus to Canada’s answer to Blackpool.

Getting to the Falls required a walk down Clifton Hill (officially “the street of fun by the Falls” – or, a “mile of tat”, according to Catherine. Take your pick.). I can honestly say I’ve never seen so many amusement arcades, waxwork museums, fast food joints or tacky shops in my life. Breathtaking, indeed.

 

Catherine loving Clifton Hill

Our British nature kicked in, tut-tutting to each other that we’d never do this to a National Trust site, while scouting out which amusement arcades and foody treats we would enjoy after our ride on the Maid of the Mist.

 

Multi-tasking on the Maid of the Mist

The Maid of the Mist involves adorning a big plastic bag and being crammed onto a big boat with lots of other tourists, for a blast by the Falls; holding on something, anything, while listening to the taped voice of a man who clearly moonlights doing film-trailer-voiceovers rapidly detail the history of the Falls. Not the most profound moment I have ever had in my life, but sticky fun nonetheless.

We gave up on appreciating nature after this. Curious to see if two women could suffer death by sensory overdose, we ran to one of the many games arcades, where I inadvertently challenged a young child to a race on a two-player car game (see pic). Felt terrible. Whoops.

 

I "whipped his ass", according to my loyal supporter Catherine.

Having had our fill of stimulation for one day, we went for chicken n’ fries at Hard Rock Café. In the toilets, I suffered the embarrassing revelation that I had been wearing my skirt inside out AND back to front all day. Deservedly chided by Catherine upon return to table.

The death conundrum

We’ve had a seismic breakdown when it comes to dealing with death.

We live in fragmented societies, precariously held together in cyberspace. We hardly know the name of our neighbours, let alone pay our respects at their open casket. Gone are the traditional community structures which have, for centuries, made death the familiar and mundane.

We live in an age where death is grotesquely paraded through televised autopsies, but where anti-ageing products are incessantly advertised and instant fame offers an illusionary immortality. We’ve developed a resistance to our inevitable fate.

But our poster girl for instant fame, Jade Goody, has snapped us out of that delusion. She has brought us back into the cold reality – which is that for all of our virtual realities, we will die, and that death could snatch us at any given time.

Perhaps we are so engrossed in her tragic story because it has anchored us to a reality that we had lost – lost in the surreal haze in which she has had such a starring role.

Little tales’ YouTube of the Week

Draper’s Downfall

Because…it’s absolutely hilarious. Watch and giggle. (Thanks to Mr Oliver Shah for alerting me to this).

Little tales’ YouTube of the week

Because… I’m a sucker for 80s fodder.

Near misses

Ready yourself for 21 seconds of breathtaking stupidity, in one of the most effective public service messages ever to be transmitted through the BBC website:

more about “Near misses“, posted with vodpod