A farewell to arms

The start of our final week in NYC and indeed, the final week of our trip, saw Otto bedridden with some sort of pervasive death. Sequestered in his lazaret and feverishly sending us texts asking to bring home some water, “preferably Evian”, Kip and I proceeded to ignore him, opting instead to search for the best burger in NYC.

Located down a small dark corridor in the busy Le Parker Meridian in a self-consciously dive-styled tiny restaurant, we joined a vast throng of beef enthusiasts waiting for their chance to experience some more indifferent service in pursuit of flavour most vaunted. A delightful burger to be sure, and probably the third best of the trip. Sorry NYC, you can’t have it all.

On the topic of food, our last week in NYC saw us frequently providing custom at another of the Momofuku franchise, the milk bar, a destination which offers lusciously unhealthy sweet snackables. With the crack pie and compost cookie the items du jour, with great enthusiasm were we inundated with a suffusion of flavours all held together with dollops of butter, salt and sugar such that half a cookie was almost enough to ensure a complete arterial shut down. More potent was the crack pie, a tiny slice priced at close to $6. Little more does one need, however, when it is almost pure butter and sugar and one tiny nibble sends the body into fits of buzzing, crashing, and palpitations.

Exploring Columbia University with a freshly recovered Otto in later days, we wandered from this bastion of Ivy League moral fortitude and intellectual ivory battlements into the surrounding ‘hood of Harlem. Gentrified to a comforting extreme in the immediately local blocks, past 125th street, the somewhat ironically titled Martin Luther King Boulevard, Harlem immediately goes from middle class espressos to projects and a uniquely minority caste. Literally on the first block across the street there is a forest of projects and the only Caucasians to be found are those trundling around on tourist buses, pointing their cameras at the locals, eyes wide.

In the face of such a situation it really hammered home to someone from a relatively racial-strife free society the lingering tensions of racial polarization in a not entirely comfortable manner. Indeed, within the blocks north of 125th street there were discreet stickers on certain chain buildings depicting the red lion of Columbia University, claiming these to be safe havens for students.

In contrast to the discomforting divide offered in Harlem, Kip and my adventure into Queens was far less polarizing. Indeed, it seemed very much like any other charming neighbourhood of NYC, with the particular microcosms in the area we wandered being Polish then Egyptian. We also came across the first film we’d seen being made, the street moving at a snail’s pace and an angry local bemoaning semi-racially to me that it must’ve been made by the Jews who were all, no doubt, friends of the Mayor.

Back home in Brooklyn and in the next few days our apartment became home to all, revolving couch doors sleeping a different comer most nights as we met up with friends and strangers alike on various trips around the city. One prolonged evening in Brooklyn eventually found us on the roof of the apartment, defying death and lopsided roofing to gaze wistfully at the NYC skyline.

A trip to the Museum of Modern Art, hitherto avoided after previous trips, became an inevitability with the enthusiasm of new friends dragging us once again into its hallowed and touristy halls. As open minded as one can be, it was at times hard to reconcile my reluctantly jerry-rigged intellect with some fantastically pretentious and barely substantiated installations, including one memorable quote from a book yet unwritten and a bale of hay. The MoMA was, however, salvaged from the bitter annals of my mind by an impressive collection of impressionist and absurdist works that titillated far more than dehydrated plant matter.

With NYC throbbing with live music, one night Otto and I managed to catch a quiet gig in a rather pleasant underground venue to see A Storm of Light and Tombs, two thunderously heavy bands whose musical stylings deafened in the most rewarding way possible. Later in the week when we went up into Williamsburg to catch one of our favourite bands, Rosetta, we discovered a mere hour before the gig that they had had to cancel as their van broke down en route from Philadelphia. While Otto collapsed into the foetal position to weep, given that I was already at the venue I chose to soldier on, befriending local metal enthusiasts and cramming myself into the absolutely miniature subterranean venue where the band playing took up over half the space available.

Grungy local artists, most of whom I met at the bar unknowingly, provided an evening of close quarters thrashing enthusiasm before, still mildly dejected at not catching Rosetta, I wandered slowly home. Mere metres from our apartment, however, I saw an intriguing crowd spilling out of a local watering hole – one that was usually only memorable for playing spoken word poetry over the PA and selling $2 drafts. What lay within was a smoggy reggae gig, the likes of which was exactly what my hurting soul needed. Jamming well into the morn and with one band headed by the whitest kid this side of Otto who sang like a true Rasta, it was outside this gig that I had a most humbling experience.

Seeking respite from the heady interior of the bar and the impassioned gyrations of reggae enthusiasts, I met Alisha, a local of the Bushwick area – the ‘hood in which we had assumed residence. She informed me that she would never wander around here after dark by herself, let alone use her phone or headphones as she was on or getting off the train for fear of people grabbing them off her. Suffice to say, we had not been sticking to the strictures. Moreover, she told me of brutal murders that had taken place on the roof of her apartment and the way in which police and fire department impersonators frequently were let into people’s houses whereupon they would mug and violate them. To avoid this she insisted that you must always check for a police car before you let someone dressed as an officer in, then call the station and cross reference the badge number with that of the people at your door.

What was most concerning was that she said this all happened in North Bushwick, the good part of Bushwick. We were in the south.

Late night meet ups in Times Square after days of lame touristy activity gave way to retreats to the lower East side in pursuit of more grungy fun, stacked towers of PBR testament to the grungy aesthetic we so lovingly embraced and fortified with designer sorbet from a truly magnificent icecreamery nearby our favourite digs, one replete with flavours including cheddar cheese, basil, and Guinness.

Finally, with the last day of our trip looming most terrifyingly, Kip and I emptied our coin purses, counted our pennies, and headed off to Per Se for one last absurdly expensive meal. Clad in our must rumpled finery – suits being compulsory for entry, but not exactly easy to carry in a backpack for 2 months – we entered with the requisite lack of shame for two student travellers about to steadfastly refuse any bells and whistles to avoid further cranking up the price tag on a degustation meal. Things, however, began to get out of hand as the butter poached goodness of just about every item on the classically French inspired menu shifted the ratio of human to beurre about five courses in. Foie gras, caviar, six different types of salt, butter churned from eight magic cows and eight alone, chocolate as dense as prehistoric goo, and deserts as fancy as I was rumpled and unshaven left us bloated but smiling like children after too much red cordial. While the bill eventually turned out to be $110 more than anticipated due to the addition of Russian Tsar caviar and a giant wedge of fatty goose liver, there was no time or need for regrets as we cast our final dollars at the Maître d’ and sauntered off downtown once again.

Just in time to meet up with an old friend of journeys past and one last 5am visit to the ghetto gym we’d come to call intimidating, a last minute frenzied clean of the apartment and we were off, our trip a triumphant delight, but at an end.

Some interesting numbers,
~105000km driven, or 6530mi
19 states visited
46 days on the road
66 days away
$902 and change spent on two meals at two of the world’s best restaurants

Until next time.

Hot dog state of mind

There is a special romanticised, soft focus vision that the great cities of the world elicit from those who dream of them from afar. A perfectly elegant pastiche of half glimpsed notions drawn from all that drifts through our consciousness, these visions rarely, and to some sadness, find actualisation.

Whether it's a seething crowd of tourists, an unpleasant experience with a local or pubic hair filled hostel sink, or the fact that dirt, noise, and human sweat are elements not usually incorporated in the rosy tinted dreams of sweeping cityscapes, things never seem quite as you had imagined. Sometimes, you can almost taste the perfect vision in a sweet moment of rapture, but too often it is endlessly elusive, lingering just and forever out of reach.

New York, however, has thus far managed to live up to my vision of it.

This is not a case of the city being astonishingly perfect, but rather I think because my vision of New York glorified the sleaze, the filth, the absent silence, the hustlers, the tourists, the glitz, the poverty, the stink; the all things to all men. Such is it that my first week in New York City has been quite the experience.

Home for this period, and indeed until we leave, has been a charming little sweat box of an apartment. With temperatures reaching around 30 degrees celsius and amplified by the sheer weight of flesh, heat trapping walls of concrete and the relentless traffic, our pad with its two tiny windows and zero air conditioning has been more Turkish bath than pleasant evening respite. 

It is also - and quite appropriately, too - about the size of a microwave. With one bedroom and a futon taking up a majority of the floor space, Otto has been left sleeping opposite the tiny kitchenette such that my early morning rummagings are met without fail by his stale gruntings. More interestingly, whilst nosing through the kitchen cupboards we have come across quite the cache of paraphernalia as well as that which we assume, with wrinkled brow, to be a baggy of crack.

Our apartment is located in Brooklyn across the Williamsburg bridge then south west for a bit, past the safe walls of hipsterdom. We had thought it would be good fun to find our kicks in the warm bosom of gentrifying skinny jeans rolled up at the ankle, but sadly the area of Brooklyn full of nice little boutiques, organic supermarkets, festooned with hipsters and with only a few rough edges is a bit further in than our 'hood. 

Indeed, we had a good opportunity to soak in what could have been when we moseyed across the Brooklyn bridge to have a look at the south side of Brooklyn. Looking very much like a particularly pretentious corner of Sydney's inner-inner-West, it stood in stark compare to our sweet digs where we have the comforting rattle of the overland metro line two doors down and what appears to be a drug lab across the street.

On the plus side, it also has a ghetto gym about 10 minutes walk away which Kip and I joined with my clinging to the hope of clawing back some of my pre-season fitness before my storied return to the AFL field. Visiting there for the first time on Memorial Day - a purely coincidental timing - we found ourselves to be the only caucasians and the two scrawniest individuals at a gym packed with juiced up minorities, some of whom seemed to eye us with more than just casual indifference. I am also fairly sure that a Mexican kingpin was working out there the other day, his bling, gang tattoos and pant leg rolled half way up making me stare all the harder.

In sum, I cannot tell a lie. When we first arrived and I saw our tiny ovenpartment in a block in the 'hood that smelled like toilet disinfectant and with my mind reeling with the premonitions bred of too many hours of TV, I gazed around with much dubiety. That said, after only a week I have stopped noticing it and even come to embrace and enjoy my humble surroundings.  

More importantly, NYC is home to many exciting things to do, and with the freedom of having visited the city before and done all the necessary but often less than engaging tourist dribble, we have free reign to simply indulge ourselves in whatsoever takes our fancy. Such it is that cans and nosebag have been the order of the day. 

Given that it is NYC, only the best would do. Thus it is that in the past week I have eaten the best hotdogs in NYC (and thus assumedly, the world) from Gray's Papaya, the planet's best pizza at Lombardi's (this is actually what they claim - and Zagat backs it up), the best dumplings in NYC (for $3 no less) from the appropriately named Tasty Dumpling, the best ramen in NYC courtesy of David Chang of Momofuku renown, as well as a wonderfully overpriced pastrami sandwich at Katz's - again, the best in NYC.

On a less intestinal note, while wandering around uptown after visiting the Nike store in search of some fresh kicks for Otto, we found the entirety of Sixth Avenue had been closed for a swarming street market. Sadly, however, much of the market seemed to be selling the same low quality bootleg sunglasses and dodgy looking gyros - the US kebab - but Otto managed to find a bit of gold in the rough, purchasing a ridiculously fresh cap which he insists on wearing at an angle just a bit too jaunty, thus officially making him the whitest kid ever. 

The true standout of the week was seeing This Will Destroy You at the Bowery, a delightful venue right on the metro line from our apartment. A set of transcendently crushing post-rock left us and another of Otto's friend, Marlee, appropriately destroyed. Washed down with dive bar PBR, greasy New York pizza and a visit to a Chinese massage parlour turned night club called Happy Endings all capped off by Kip's wee-morning cocktail makings truly left me digging the world. 

NYC has also been home to our first bar fight, caught whilst watching the NBA playoffs. High rolling on PBR we had ensconced ourselves in a charming dive booth only to have our neighbour pick a fight with the bartendress, claim to be a boxer, and get his scuffle on with the bouncer. After he was subdued, sent into exile and calm returned, there was the quintessential moment where the awkward post-fisticuffs silence gave way to the restarted jukebox and with this, normality and the energy of the bar returned. I really couldn't have asked for more. 

The other night, however, I had perhaps my most New York moment. With Otto down at the Jersey Shore getting his GTL on with some friends, Kip and I, having turned down the offer due to the early start required - something not preferable after the previous evening's carousing - had spent the day hunting more food and supping joe from the fanciest cafes in Greenwich Village before trying to channel the beat generation by slurping cocktails and watching le cinema as we waited for word from Otto.

Digging the night we headed out looking for kicks and met up with Otto and his friend who was with a Scottish hotel heiress, proudly claiming to have spent $165,000 on shoes in Manhattan, currently wearing a $3000 pair. With these gentlefolk about town leading the way, we found ourselves in a very fancy club where, as I milled around in my shabby volleys, she talked to the manager and in short order had secured some prized table territory, its previous occupants being politely ushered away. 

New York City right there. 

Basking in the surreal quality of the experience and fortified with yet more cocktails, Otto got his dance on and I giggled incontinently. The next morning greeted me fully clothed, covered in pepper, and with a camera full of black and white photos of me and the bouncer and the bartender. A good night, then. 

I get the feeling NYC will keep them coming. 

The end of the road

As I resignedly gazed down at the filthy toilet seat I had been reduced to straddling with clenched tooth and palm, it was with a travel-weary ennui that I pondered bitterly, how has it come to this?

A few days before this most unpleasant nadir, however, I had been having an excellent time in Boston. Indeed, while I was busy in the hostel kitchen preparing a toothsome vegetable curry - part of a concentrated effort to nutrient enrich our diets - Otto was engaged in one of those quintessential hostel exchanges with an amenable Australian, Steve. Unlike most of these conversations which peter out after the banalities of travel talk, however, Steve, or 'The Tour Guide' as he would later be known, proved himself to be an engaging man.

So it was that we moseyed out with him and a few others from the hostel that night to Wally's Jazz Bar for, oddly enough, some Blues. We found ourselves sitting along the bar, an experience I'd hitherto avoided out of a fear of violating the sacred protocols of bar-drinking and customer-to-barman conduct. Nonetheless, with a pocketful of ones ready for tipping, I had little time to dwell on my concerns as my attention was wrested by both my new old man friend next to me with whom I discussed the NBA and the particularly intense gaze of the harmonica player in the Blues band who seemed unmoved by the music or those around him, his soup bowl hair cut and 80s spectacles protection against all that whirled hither and thither, Otto's limbs included as his proudly announced he'd "finished all [3] of my beers!"

Thus it was that the next day as Kip and I prepared ourselves for another exciting brewing tour and Otto, unimpressed by the subtle alchemy of beer, filled his pockets with acorns for a day's lone-wolfing, came across Steve in the lobby and quickly agreed to join him and some others on trip up to Harvard. What started as a small but hardy band of travelers soon blossomed into a ten-strong throng, weaving its way towards a famous university with surprising efficiency. One can only attribute this to the able competencies of The Tour Guide.

It was here that we were blessed with a remarkable tour of a most venerable institution, with Olga our diminutive tour guide managing to walk backwards in thongs whilst bellowing at the top of her small but powerful lungs a series of unspeakably lame puns and wearing a most vulgar straw hat - but one small part of her well-emblazoned ensemble.

Mildly amusing as she was, a $10 fee for a half hour tour seemed a little steep, so with a small amount of stooging we wandered on. Suddenly it was decided by the collective that it was time to move on to the Northside suburb of Boston in search of a large food market in pursuit of nosebag. In the organic way in which these social beasts work, we headed for the train once more, official tour guide duties passed from Steve to a man best known only as Gench.

With our usual foolish gusto, Kip and I tucked into clam strip sandwiches, a deep fried troll of the culinary world, before the wandering band headed to the illustrious cup cakery, Mike's. With cupcakes that were at least as much icing as cake, I battled my imminent sugar crash to make it back to hostel in time to go for a mid-AFL-season-second-pre-season run. It was exhausting.

That night Ralph, a large and charismatic man from the hostel, took us out for some free bowling and pool. While we could not access a bowling lane for a while and were forced to endure some truly awful pool and Miller Lite, it was worth the wait. With Steve and I using our tall man powers to win each of the lanes in the first round, in order to give those around us a chance we spent the second game attempting a variety of trick shots. Sadly, however, the well is only so deep when it comes to dreaming of different ways to hurl a bowling ball without risking the lives of those around you or your own muscular skeletal health. Without a doubt, though, the crowning triumph of the night was my left-handed-through-the-legs strike, a bowl so elegant it was met with the appropriate deference and celebration by the impressed onlookers. Tequila shots for the losers and self-satisfaction for the winners - an elegant evening.

Keen to finally visit the brewery, our last day in Boston saw us planning an early exit to Samuel Adams town, thinking our posse of the last day and a bit had all moved on. Most, however, while checked out, also wished to come down and see this most fabled house of beer. So it was that once again we set out but only to discover a few unsettling facts. Firstly, the only ID they'd accept was passports, thus depriving half of us of not only beer, but also the free souvenir glass, and also that the first tour was booked up, so we'd need to wait another hour.

Enterprising young people all, we passed the time on children's play equipment before cleverly drinking beer right under the noses of our indifferent tour guides. Take that, rules.

It was this night at 2am as I blearily eyed my email that I noticed an email from our host in NYC detailing that our lodgings were no longer available. Mildly concerned given that hostels had been booked up 2 months ago for the period during which we were visiting, we had an urgent team meeting and began searching for a new roof under which to shelter. Indeed, this was a panic that fueled the next day as well, the looming spectre of NYC homelessness most terrifying.

Before we left Boston we stole a moment to catch up with Kim, a friend of Kip and mine from the second day of our trip through Europe, meeting her and canning on in the UK when we were little more than rosy cheeked rubes in the big smoke. A pleasant Thai brunch under our belts, we began the drive up to New Haven once again battling the demons of speedy but expensive toll roads and our refusal to cough up the requisite pennies. Unlike our trip to Philadelphia, however, this time we met some success, suffering only a small increase in travel time for our miserly choices.

Sadly, New Haven has little in the way of accommodation, and we were thus forced to house ourselves some distance out of the city proper in a cheap hotel where once again I had to share a bed with Kip, the demilitarized zone down the middle shrinking evermore as his lonely snuffles filled the night.

Heading into New Haven the next day it was happy coincidence that our destination coincided with the location of the cheapest parking lot we could find. Louis' Lunch, home of the original hamburger, was on the menu, and Otto scampered off within seconds of our arrival. Simply a patty, some spreadable cheese, a single bit of tomato and a ring of onion sandwiched between two pieces of white bread, this was a lesson in elegant simplicity as well as quite possibly being the best burger I've ever eaten. Most likely due to the quality of the meat, but perhaps a tastiness enhanced by the no-nonsense service and cosy interior, I cannot argue with such a delightful experience.

From here we went on to explore Yale, taking photos of old buildings which actually appeared to have been made in 2000, as well as wandering into the courtyard of what we think was the law faculty, only to get locked inside. Thankfully, a blessedly repressed student let us out without asking any questions and we moseyed on.

From New Haven it was time for the final leg of our journey, a road trip to New York City.

Briefly stopping at our Brooklyn pad - home for the next two weeks - we headed on down to New Jersey to drop off our beloved auto of the last month and a half. An hour plus drive gave way to an address that definitely wasn't where we wanted to be. A small amount of confusion and a 20 minute detour had us at the drop off, only to realize that the rental firm had closed four hours ago.

As if we'd have thought to check.

Leaving the gruel parked there we left a handwritten note of love and the keys slipped through a mail box and went in search of the bus stop, leg one of our trip back to the pad. With the bus not due for another 30 minutes and a Family Dollar store around the corner, Kip and I decided it was snack o clock. Returning 5 minutes later with Malteser imitations and peach candies we found a frustrated looking Otto who bemoaned the fact that the bus had come within minutes of our leaving and that the next wasn't for another hour.

Thus it was that with a Chipole burrito scouring my insides, I found myself in the Shell bathroom, eyeing my porcelain throne and trying to remember if nadir meant what I thought it did. Things from here, however, only mildly improved. The bus eventually came and dropped us off at the train station, but after paying $12.25 for a ticket, we found that the train wasn't moving and that the line was closed. Then another train arrived claiming to go to NYC. We jumped on this with naive optimism that for once led us in the right direction. Then we shambled around searching for the correct subway lines from Penn station before deciding it was a good idea to pick up groceries on route to the apartment. Thus ensued a period of being lost accentuated by heavy and poorly designed grocery bags. Fun fun.

Finally we were all set up in our pad, ready to enjoy NYC for the next two weeks, but a little bit misty eyed at the end of our road trip.

Philly Cheese Steaks and the end of the world

At the end of the first Lord of the Rings movie, the fellowship of the ring is broken up after a brutal fight with the Uruk Hai as the hobbits are separated from rest of the fellowship. 

Virginia was our Uruk Hai.

With Otto carried off by the whimsy of more Chipotle burritos and covert shenanigans in this backwater of civilization and Kip keen to rekindle the friendships of many years and miles past, it was Ryan who soldiered on in the ascribed direction, my mount doom Washington D.C., tearstained face and shoulders turned eastward, the call of the Atlantic reaching deep into my soul and providing the straw that broke the flimsy spine of my loyal devotion to the fellowship such that had kept me in the mouldering orifice of Virginia for three long and irksome days. 

Also, I trust that I need not add that for the purpose of this analogy Otto and Kip are the hobbits and I the three manly warrior protectors all formed into one. 

On the plus side, this fellowship separation offered me the chance to drive to D.C. on my lonesome, the pelting rain no concern for this well-seasoned driver of the interstates, cagooled and safely ensconced in the fuzzed out sounds of my second hand Electric Wizard CD.

Like sunshine on a rainy day or the comforting crunch of a vegetable after too much fast food, Washington was the perfect antidote to my woes. Comfortingly peopled and perfectly not-Virginia, it was almost like being in Europe again as I wrestled once more with the burden of essential tourist sightseeing. Undaunted, I spent my pleasant evening alone making excitable ethnic friends at a local bar as Dirk Nowitski went about an historic playoff performance.

Sadly, the hostel of D.C. was not a bustling party hub, or indeed the hub of much at all, with its main demographic consisting of quiet Asians who were all wrapped up in bed with their laptops at 8:30 at night and a few night-owl grandmas, also replete with laptops. The only interesting people turned out to be 20 and unable to go a-drinking. Oh well.

The next day, anticipating an eventual call from Kip who would be making his way eastwards after an evening of moonshine and line dancing in the deeper backwaters of VA, and, irate as I was at the concept of paying $35 for a sightseeing bus around D.C., I rashly decided to embark upon a one man sightseeing foot tour. 

Rashness immediately became evident as I battled malfunctioning pigeon crystals and the rain to make it down to Pennsylvania Avenue and the big park where the Whitehouse, Lincoln Memorial, Obelisk, and Capitol Hill are situated, along with piles of war memorials and statues to men whose names meant nothing to me. Strangely enough, despite my deeply entrenched cynicism and dislike of such overt flag waving and its attendant shenanigans, I felt an odd stirring of appreciative vicarious patriotism. 

Maybe it was the rampant use of the word 'freedom' on everything, the hefty stoneness of it all, the flags whipping in the breeze or, most likely, the giant stone phallus, but my wanderings were far less compulsory tourist chore than intriguing trek through storied history and passionate Americanism.

With Kip finally arriving in the afternoon, we celebrated by cooking dinner with food bought from the mysterious Mexican supermarket next door, treating ourselves to a rare carnivorous feast with Otto otherwise engaged, $3 pack of chorizo held triumphantly to the breast. We managed to cap off the evening with yet more playoffs and a beer tower, one of the more imaginative ways of selling someone 3 litres of beer in a single unit. 

Our final day in Washington saw Ryan the long suffering take Kip to the exact same sites visited previously. That night, however, as we labored over a pot of curry, a man came bustling up the stairs and commandeered all of the kitchen, telling us there was to be a barbecue and all were invited. With a full spread of barbecued delights eventually laid out and a fridge full of beer, we took to the deck to see what was going on. I am still not entirely sure what was being celebrated, but of the entire hostel who had been invited, it was just me and my new friend, beer-brewer and Palestinian advocate Andrew, who, for some time stood mildly awkwardly with me on the balcony, swilling free beer and bantering the evening away.

Eventually we were joined by Kip and Edison, a gentleman who had come out to D.C. on an internship for his Senator from Nebraska. The balance of all American corn fed values and radical leftism and sleeve tattoos left me feeling uncomfortable, but it was nothing that could not be smoothed over with barbecued chicken and cornbread.

The deck eventually gave way to a mini pub crawl, collecting spanish men from downstairs and a large gay black man who worked at the hostel and spent the entire time on his phone, as well as another Palestinian activist along the way. An interesting crew.

With a trip to Philadelphia looming, in order to collect Otto it was time for another trip back to Virginia, one for which I was not at all excited, fearing once again becoming mired in the listless funk of fast food and motorways. After minor unpleasantness we once again left Virginia that afternoon and, fearing the toll roads of the east coast, we set the sat nav to 'avoid tolls' and trundled off in search of Philadelphia.

We soon discovered, however, that 'avoid tolls' roughly translates to 'average 35mph, a million sets of lights, and Amish countryside vistas'. We did, however, make it to Philadelphia and just in time for some highly post-modern watching of "It's always Sunny" capped off with an evening wander down South Street that gave way to the eating of the biggest slice of pizza yet.

On a cheese related note, the next day saw a confrontation towards which I had not been looking fondly at all: the inescapable intestinal battle with the Philly Cheese Steak. Such was the tumult of its passing that almost half an hour was required post consumption for digestion with no extra energy available to even hoarsely croak out conversation, swollen stomachs and sweating foreheads robustly expressing all that needed to be said. 

Many hours later saw the celebration of our escape from the shackles of protein induced catatonia with a journey north of the old city where we were staying into a gentrifying industrial area full of bars and debauch. Scattered throughout, however, and most eerie were the giant, deserted, dilapidated and decaying apartment blocks that suddenly gave way to a sprawling car park for a casino in the middle of this urban wasteland. A rather sad vision of America to be sure. 

Returning in the wee hours of the morn, Otto discovered that towels are not always offered in hostels. Thus it was that a shivering wreck of a man was found hunched under the hand dryer, trying to air dry himself in a lonely hostel bathroom. It has been quite a learning experience for poor Otto.

We continued to flutter around Philadelphia for another day achieving little worthy of note beyond humble poking around in old historical looking parts, being too lazy to queue to see the Liberty Bell and settling for a quick glance through a window instead, as well as the worryingly satisfying triumph of finding another good coffee house.

Onwards and upwards.

...and a little bit East.

East bound and down

The truest pleasures in life are most evident when, after a period of their absence or subsistence on their poorly executed imitations, one returns into their fold. Like a long lost lover's embrace, such a reunion sees one's stony hearted indifference give way to weak legged rapture and a rekindling of joy most sweet as the world seems more colourful, the air more pure and life more wondrous.

Thus was the case when we found Espresso A Mano, the only coffee shop we've managed to stumble upon in the USA that serves a palatable brew. Palatable, however, does not do justice to really one of the finer coffees from which I've supped. Indeed, what made this revelatory discovery all the more pleasant was the fact it was a two minute walk from our apartment in Lawrenceville, Pittsburgh, the up-coming hipster 'hood of Steel City.

Forced to reside there after discovering that Pittsburgh, like so many US cities, doesn't have even a single hostel, we were pleasantly surprised to find an entirely habitable loft apartment, replete with balcony and functioning kitchen. The only downside was that in squeezing all three of us in there, Otto once again had to pull out his Coachella air mattress while Kip and I established a demilitarized zone down the middle of the double bed as a paltry defense against the spooning impulse of the restless dreamer.

Pittsburgh, however, was only slowly reached after Otto insisted we detour via Falling Water, one of Frank Lloyd Wright's many renowned architectural triumphs. Not at all interested in it, let alone the falling water from the sky that twisted ever more my snarl of miserly distaste at an $8 entrance fee, the visit was redeemed by the fanatical zeal of the one man wolf pack, Otto.

While Kip and I listlessly wandered, waiting for Otto to slake his thirst for old people sightseeing, and the tour lady denied my request to utilise one of the shiny looking walking sticks, we could not fathom the lengths to which Otto would go to see inside Falling Water, an admission too dear in pennies and time for his otherwise consumption.

Mountain goat-esque, Otto clambered up a shelf of rocks to penetrate the formidable defenses of the money-grabbing trust, disguised by the lashing rain and eyes glinting with a yet unseen menace. Despite his best attempts to avoid security within the walls of Falling Water, after a brief mosey Otto had the twin pistols of old-people-tourism justice brought to bear on him: disbelief and polite ejection.

Looking disheveled, wet, but elated, we found him in the gift shop, busily buying his father a tacky t-shirt.

Well played.

Pittsburgh, while lacking the opportunities for Otto to demonstrate his rock-scaling abilities, was otherwise a rather indifferent experience. More of a city than the ghost-towns up through the mid-west on the way to Chicago, but paling in comparison to the bigger cities of the coast, it seemed a bit of an afterthought, its main purpose, as well as the defining theme of its populace's dress, seeming to be the propagation of another football franchise.

Our little loft apartment did, however, provide a much needed opportunity to recoup good health after the much maligned - and deservedly so - traveler's diet. Indeed, in the land of the deep fried it is hard to find a meal where the vegetables do not come in deep fried potato form, and the protein isn't in some kind of batter. While such trifles are delicious and fleetingly fulsome, the grim lower intestinal reality is one with which I can only contend for so long.

Thus it was that with steely resolve we went on a vegetable buying pilgrimage to a big organic supermarket, the notion of which seemed positively alien within US shores. Stocking up on grillable veg was but step one of my multifaceted hi-fibre plans, but I'll spare you the minute details. Suffice to say the plan played out to thunderous success.

While Pittsburgh wasn't exactly overflowing with things to do, Otto and I went on a cable car ride that led to a rather spectacular view of the city, even if the panorama will not win any postcard prizes soon, while Kip and I engaged in our usual fiendish devotion to tracking down local food haunts, visiting Primanti Brothers and Tessaro's.

Primanti Brothers, favoured by international gourmet Adam Richman, was our first stop as Otto wandered around Carnegie Mellon in search of a professor with whom he was to have discussions regarding things most mysterious and arcane. Home of sandwiches famous for having piles of fries and coleslaw in them, as well as embracing the American spirit of more is better, straddling this behemoth with one's jaws requires 5 to 10 minutes of pre game warm up.

Tessaro's, meanwhile, was simply another burger place with claims beyond its means. That said, their wood fired grill did imbue my 3/4 pound patty with some moreish flavour, even if I wasn't quite prepared to claim best-burger-ever. Highlight of our visit here, however, was our charming waitress.

Thicker than the Primanti sandwich, she recommended a magazine to us which she took with her every time she went home to Philadelphia to visit her family. Finding a copy of it for us, we were regaled with all kinds of exciting journalism, most of which was grammatically unsound, as well as a 12 page section of 'jokes' with sections including 'your mum' and 'funny put-downs'. While I have since misplaced my mustard stained copy of this rag rendering attempts to transcribe its terribleness wholly reliant on my memory (i.e. pointless), I do recall one full-page ad in it advertising a hub of nightlife which our kind waitress recommended. It consisted of a circle bearing the name of the venue, and in the centre of it was an angry looking midget who, according to our friend, ran around the venue giving shots to people, shooting them with water pistols, and so forth.

How could we resist?

Drawing upon several days' worth of willpower, we somehow ended up not at the midget terrorised venue, but at perhaps our grungiest dive bar yet, waiting to meet up with a friend of Otto's. So murky one could barely see, an issue redoubled by the allowing of smoking within its low slung ceilinged interior, it was like emerging from a cave when we ended up leaving to meet up at a gay bar. Not necessarily my number one choice, and one Kip feared with a passion that made me slightly curious, we headed out.

Since we were going to Otto's friend's lesbian friend's (yet it makes sense) deck party, the relocation to a gay bar with a deck was both natural and purely logical and our tagging along merely embracing the spirit of the evening. This venture was enlightening, however, as I learned more of Kip's fear. Indeed, sent as he was to the bar in search of a drink called 'smurf cum', he returned with his buttocks pinched red by invisible hands and full of smurf cum bought for him by sly twink-seeking bears. Who would have guessed it? Kip is the gay man's lolly pop.

Pittsburgh gave way to Virginia, a stop off again in lieu of Otto's connections across the US - but first via Espresso A Mano where Kip, the most avid patron, was bestowed with shirts and business cards to honour his dedication.

Virginia, to its great honour and disrepute - well at least Gainesville/Manassas where we were staying - is possibly the worst place I've ever had the great displeasure of visiting. Basically strip malls, malls, and fast food connected by highways, which, to the unwary such as us, become multiple mile wrong turns, with a 5 minute drive blossoming into a 30 minute festival of frustration.

Soundly depressing, I cannot begin to imagine why anyone would want to live here, a place where one local said all there is to do is "eat and have sex". Whilst ostensibly pleasurable enough, this actually is code for drive up and down highways to eat at the fast food chain of your choosing, then look after the baby you had when you were fifteen.

On the plus side, I derived endless amusement from the pronunciation of Manassas.

So it was that I left Virginia with glee, bound 1 hour north east for a much needed return to civilisation in that bastion of democracy, freedom and strangely engaging monuments that is Washington DC.

Kipstopher Columbus

After traversing some 5000 miles in the last month on a quasi religious zig zag to the east coast of the US in search of the holy triumvirate of the all-American road trip; beer, cheese and a coastline city, the allure of the road is such that is has become somewhat of a compulsion.

Periods of stasis, ostensibly opportunties to relax, unpack, and sit around, give way to restlessness and displacement, a funk from which one can only emerge when back on the road again. In this motion, however, lies the most frustrating part of traveling as so much is left behind.

In a normal day at home it is so easy to run into different people and not lament their passing by, moving on in their own direction as you go in yours. When traveling, though, there is a constant tension of loss and adventure, the singular sadness of leaving somewhere or someone behind tempered by the knowledge that beyond them lies something else to see, to engage with and to experience. Each new vista offers new opportunities at the cost of those left behind, people and places, to borrow the words of Kerouac, "going in the opposite direction in this too-big world of ours."

As the tales accumulate in the wake of our transcontinental movement, memories softened by intervening days and glowing in the warmth of that special kind of newly-formed nostalgia, the bittersweet reflections of travel are easy to fall back into in the quiet moments between incontinent drinking and responsible driving.

Our visit to Indinanapolis fell somewhere in the latter, a mere blip on the radar as a stop off between Columbus after Chicago. Passive aggressive hostel staff and a surprisingly avant garde pizza were the barely-worth mentioning highlights of our visit before we went off to Columbus the next morning with no idea what to expect.

Chosen simply because of its convenient geographic positioning, Otto bemoaned our emergence from the car for a two day stop over in what he thought would be a real hole of a destination. We found our hostel owner looking exhausted and cleaning up the grimy bottom level of his housetel where two nights previous had been a party, the remnants of which still required cleaning. Matt, a graduate of the local college, OSU - a quiet campus of 65,000 undergraduates replete with its own football stadium (the front of which was modeled like a cathedral, take it as you will) a basketball stadium, wifi-connected gardens, and endless dorms, libraries, gyms (with virtual golf) - was a charming gentleman who took us on a guided tour of the city and the campus en route to get some lunch.

It was also in Columbus that I saw my first frat house, as there was a street full of them two blocks away from us. It was not surprising, then, that it was in Columbus we were able to get a small taste of the absurd American college life. Indeed, as we wandered around the city, every street gave way to student accommodation, with every porch occupied by college kids drinking bud light and playing beer pong, corn hole, or some other tawdry drinking game otherwise exclusively relegated to B grade movies in the imagination of the rest of the world. Most impressively, this was on a Monday.

Indeed, that night we went to a couple of bars with Matt, the first of which served $1 jugs of beer (a pitcher in the US - an issue which caused a long and confused discussion with the bar maid), and at the second of which one bought a plastic mug from the bar which could then be refilled at $1 for a 22 ounce refill. As a result, both of these reputable houses of business were packed to the gills with grossly inebriated college kids. On the down side, it was here that I also discovered that light beer makes me unbelievably gassy, but that is Kip and Otto's problem.

Most obvious in this seething mess of people, however, was the unique college cultural derivation, the bro. Distinctly cast in either beige cargo shorts and a polo, or basketball shorts and a college-brand t-shirt, with optional wrap around sunnies worn around the back of the neck, baseball cap (highly recommended), flip-flops (American style), and sub-standard facial hair. Found either with Bud Light in hand or transporting themselves from one game of beer pong to another in an open top Jeep, the bro is something that really must be experienced. To be honest, there isn't terribly much wrong with the bro, but the sheer volume of beer-swilling bro-fisting enthusiasm and worrying homogeneity of demeanour and appearance began to weigh heavy on my soul as we approached the 2am lockout. My enthusiastic observation of the crowd eventually led to a rather passionate table-top speech following my teaching of some eager listeners about the refined mechanics of the straight arm scull, after which I received blessedly little recourse.

Adventuring into the German quarter of town the next day, one much maligned by my German roommate who bemoaned the low quality Americanisation of his home-land classics, we sought out one of the many alleged best burgers of America at yet another of the houses first visited by Adam Richman. At such a point I must take a moment to take issue at the preponderance of 'world best's offered by the US, with seemingly every city having at least one or two purveyors of a meat product and self-proclaiming such a title. I cannot blame the small proprietors, though, as the centre-of-the-world attitude that goes hand in hand with such naive claims is far more culturally wrought than that. Indeed, one need look no further than the currently played NBA playoffs, with the eventual winner proudly proclaimed the "World Champions".

Notwithstanding this somewhat annoying trait of Americans, one cannot doubt their hospitality, with our hostel owner Matt inviting us to a bonfire with his friends that night. A keg of beer and banter followed by a trip to a bluegrass dive bar can really endear a city to a man's heart, and thus it is that Columbus, while no one seems to know about it - something its occupants lamented to me frequently - seems to win itself very readily to all. Indeed, I too must confess to being smitten by its tawdry charm.

Midwest of darkness

Loathe as I am to wallow in odious cliches regarding roller coasters and wildly swinging emotions, our recent visit to Chicago was one such experience that perhaps warrants such authorial deviancy. Indeed, in three and a bit days we managed to accumulate a vast bill from the state authorities and a certain restaurant, saw Otto robbed for the second time, and had several authentic grungy local hipster experiences.

First, however, we had to finish getting there from Memphis, where we had bravely sought out the Kookamunga burger from Man vs. Food. When faced, however, with the grim 12,000 calorie reality of it and a bun the size of a dinner plate, wall-of-fame and stained t-shirt dreams of glory faded in the harsh light of the rational mind. Thus we shamefully left Memphis via the Gibson factory, tails between our legs. St Louis was next as another MVF stop - Crown's Candy and their malt shakes. Bravado once again gave way to sensible wussiness, as the 5 32 ounce malt shakes as thick as concrete were certainly too much for any one Kip.

Once we made it to Chicago we met up with our friend Victoria from New Orleans at a bar a few miles from our hostel for some big band Jazz at her friend's birthday. Having mistakenly chosen to pinch pennies and walk there, we soon found ourselves in a fairly industrial and seedy area.

Why such penny pinching?

Despite a cab fare only being about $10 between the three of us, we had just emerged from Alinea, one of the fancier restaurants in Chicago, where, unbeknownst to us, on top of an already abundantly large dinner and matching wine fee - an indulgence we thought we could afford at the time - was a 29% loading of tax and gratuity, essentially a fourth dinner. It would be vulgar of me to labor too long on the nuts and bolts of pounds and pence, but take only my euphemistic whimsy as the indication of truly shocking pecuniary strife.

One the other hand, Alinea also provided me with one of the most memorable meals I've had, and not only because of the dizzying bill. Fanciful and imaginative yet not at all over wrought and always fundamentally delicious, it spanned 15 courses of unforeseeable delight, one no doubt enhanced by the variety of fancy wines after two of which Otto was reduced to a giggling mess.

Particularly memorable was the dessert, a sweeping tapestry of variously styled and textured chocolate, cherry, marshmallow, and vanilla that was artfully arranged before us on a special table cloth by sous chefs from the kitchen. With each design unique to the table, it was then up to us to gleefully scoop it up, grinning like kids on Christmas. There was also a very clever three part rabbit dish, served in a special three tiered bowl, layered vertically. Thus the eating motion through it mirrored the descent down a rabbit hole to the bottom layer's intensely flavoured rabbit broth, heated by a single river stone.

The city of Chicago itself was like returning to civilisation after the abandoned city scapes of Memphis, Little Rock and St. Louis along the way. Each of which, while possessing a fairly intimidating built up area was basically empty, the streets barely populated. Chicago on the other hand was abuzz with people, our hostel in the University area near De Paul and three other smaller campuses.

The following day we met up with Victoria again for an authentically Chicagoan Jibarito, a Puerto Rican sandwich where bread is replaced with deep fried plantains, a sort of starchier banana. Taking us to the alleged birthplace of this arterial time bomb was pleasure enough, but one made all the sweeter by the knowledge that had we tried to make it here ourselves we would no doubt have been shot by resident gangbangers as we were in the heart of gang territory.

We were then given the distinguished honour of a 'hood tour, one made terrifying by not only Victoria's enthusiastic driving style, but also her warning that we ought forsake photography lest yet more gangbangers take offense to our actions or think we are up to no good. Wary but intrigued we moseyed around innocuous looking areas as well as the dilapidated, the street reality like an episode of The Wire to our painfully white eyes.

To cap off such an authentic evening we ended up at one of her friend's houses for a good ol' hipster house party where the men had beards, the women scary senses of humour, and thick rimmed glasses were handed out at the door. Marlboro Reds and craft beer the only acceptable auxiliary accessories. Even the house itself seemed like it was trying to be difficult, staircases mid balcony that went down to the kitchen and lop sided roofs giving a gloriously hip feel.

When we woke up the next day, however, it was with bleary eyed disbelief that once again we found Otto's pockets picked - although this time quite literally. With the sort of wanton abandon only inebriation can induce, his casually strewn pants had been rifled through, his iPod and $200 pilfered. interestingly, the thoughtful thief, while taking his credit card, had left Otto's $1 bills and his rare $2 bill. Moreover, he also appeared to have taken the hoodie of one of our room mates as well as my can of deodorant.

As the police worked tirelessly with all available resources to solve this most puzzling of crimes, we went out in search of what was allegedly the best deep dish pizza in all of Chicago. Burt's Place, beloved of Anthony Bourdaine, was about 14 miles from our hostel, a distance not at all troublesome to three gentlemen with access to a car. As Kip went to collect our beloved pack horse, however, he found that it was not where we had parked it.

In some deep, dark corner of state writ there lies scrawled an addendum to the law of the road - thou shalt not park within 15 yards of a fire hydrant. Coming from a land bereft of such devices and with no signs alerting us to this fact of city life, we had committed this most egregious slight against our host city, and for this deviance had our car towed and festooned with tickets. The grand total of our crime rendered tangible in sponees? $280. Thanks Chicago.

Thus we had to try and make our way to Burt's using the Chicago public transport system, something which, given the efficiency of their buses, we thought wouldn't be too much of a task. When we arrived at the train station, however, and were met with an empty, seedy looking frigid platform that was almost deserted and had no timetable, our confidence began to wane. With the deep dish ETA drawing near and no sign of our train after an altogether too pleasant 45 minute wait in the wailing elements as Amtrak trains hurtled past, buffeting the unwary, we decided to try and get a cab.

As these things work, it was at this point that the train decided to arrive, so an all out sprint was required to heave ourselves back up to the elevated tracks and onto the train. We did make it to Burt's on time, though. Having had to call ahead to get our pizza to come out of the oven after its 45 minute cook time at a point close to our arrival, we found ourselves tucked away in the corner of a hole in the wall restaurant in the middle of Morton Grove. Festooned with arcana, fading photos and mismatched cutlery, Burt's unassuming decor was part of the charm that was only accented by its pizza. Here deep dish meant not inches of bowel clogging cheese and meat product, but plenty of luscious dough and just an appropriate amount of the bowel clogging materials. It's a matter of subtle refinement and restraint, you see.

Realising our train would not return for a good 90 minutes, we were forced to get a cab home, an episode hardly worthy of recollection if not for the fact that our cabbie claimed to have lived next door to Lebron James back in Akron, Ohio. Not only this, but he also claimed to have performed unspeakable acts with Lebron's dearest mother, detailing their explicitness with altogether too much colour.

For our final night in Chicago we went out again with Victoria after sampling the house vodka at a local near the hostel. Pizza flavoured and lip burningly intense, I would not recommend it. Once again led out into the grungy burbs, we found ourselves at a biker bar playing the all-American shot game with some of her friends who were all too excited to buy the foreigners some drinks. De-lightful. As Otto approached catatonia, we headed out for 6am tacos with the promise of driving to Indianapolis the next day after an 11am checkout hovering ominously.

This, however, was not all with which we had to contend. While my poetic license might have implied that Otto had already been to the police to collect a report for his travel insurance claim, he had actually planned to do it the morning we were to leave. Thus, while Kip and I headed downtown to pick up the gruel, he went in search of the po-po.

Wandering through the labyrinthine downtown bat man scenery and bureaucratic city paperwork, Kip and I collected our beloved car from the impound and emerged into daylight to find the satnav had given up on life after almost an entire month of faulty service. With no map or any means of guidance beyond the stars, wind direction, half recalled street names and my ever faulty pigeon crystals, we somehow made our ever growing concentric city driving circles intersect with the po-po station, finding a bored looking Otto after the passing of some hours.

After impassioned negotiations with variously incompetent employees at Radioshack, we had a replacement satnav and were finally on the road.

Again.

Louisiana dreaming

Tasers and being, quote, "fucked by the long dick of the law".

These were two things we viewed with fear and reverence. Moreso, however, could these sentiments be found with Otto, something I attribute to both his diminutive stature and his encyclopedic knowledge of COPS. Indeed, as surely as Bear Grylls will eat an insect for protein and energy, the US police will taser you - at least, so went the thought process of Otto. 

Thus it was that when the blue and red lights flashed in the mirror as we were cruising down the Texan highway that Otto visibly clenched, his entire body tightening in anticipation of the sort of fucking usually reserved for ethnic minorities on TV.

With four wheels of Texas justice bearing down behind us, it was with confusion that we realised the impending dicking was actually reserved for us. I can thankfully recount that Yin to Otto's Yang, Kip the cucumber was driving, his all-black aviators symbol of his suave and ice cool disposition. 

"Excuse me officer, what seems to be the problem?"

Much as I wanted to ask this and fulfill my American police fantasy, I had been relegated to the back seat for my allocated nap time post-driving session. Not even Kip got to utter this time honoured offering of weak-kneed supplication, as the officer merely signaled for him to emerge from the Gruel.

Pretending that we, like Kip, were unruffled by the circumstances, Otto and I stole furtive glances at that which was taking place behind the car, but could ascertain little. Giving away nothing, it took Kip's return to the car with a small piece of paper before we could work out what had gone down. 10 miles above the speed limit, Kip had been coasting at 80 in a 70 zone, the only barrier between his pinched sphincter and the powerful member of the law a foreign driver's license and his look of boyish innocence. With merely a warning we escaped.

So our peaceful drive to Lake Charles, Louisiana, was a moment of group introspection and revelation as we concluded that no more were the speed limits optional.

Pleasantly unlike our police encounter, Lake Charles was a positively delightful place to be. Arriving in the afternoon and promptly finding our Holiday Inn - one fitted with some most sumptuous bedding and cable TV - it was at my not unforceful behest that we went back out to the road to visit the namesake of our destination, the lake. 

Arriving at a lakeside filled with boardwalks, yet keen for a swim, I excitedly asked a passing lady whether it was possible to do so. With the sort of chuckle only a husky native lady of the south could muster as she gazes upon a breathlessly enthusiastic honky, she warned that embarking upon such a dip would be most reckless given the snakes in the reeds near where we were. 

With the appropriate deference to the law of the lady, we relocated to a more swim worthy location where I discovered that Lake Charles is a bit like a giant stagnant puddle, its warm surface belying a murky green interior of dubious purity. Nonetheless, it was from this makeshift beach that I noticed Steamboat Bill's. In what would prove to be a crowning and memorable occasion of my gut's intuition trumping the negative orgones and pretense of Kip and Otto's misplaced fears of Creole loving, it was here that, after much cajoling, I finally managed to drag the unwilling troupe to dinner.

It only took as long as 4 pounds of crawfish take to come to the table in all their spicy, steaming glory, for apprehensions to fade and the requisite apologies to be offered as a feast of untold gluttony unfolded in the cracking of heads, snapping of claws, and peeling of tails. 

So we left Lake Charles splattered in crawfish juices and with Otto looking like he was seriously reconsidering vegetarianism if this is what suffering can make things taste like. 

Buoyed by crawfish, our trip across to New Orleans the next day was nevertheless one tempered by anticipation of our hostel: 60% rated and reportedly staffed by a crack addict surrounded by caged birds. Upon arrival the latter of these concerns was well and truly realised, our arrival greeted by the inarticulate skeleton of a man barely able to cogitate his way around handing out room keys. 

What proved to be of more concern, however, was the sprawled form we found in our room listening to gangsta rap on the speaker of his mobile phone. Mac, as he would introduce himself to us later, first made our acquaintance by inquiring as to our status regarding the possession of various substances and whether we would like to buy some. Not the greatest first impression to be sure, but it would be rash to jump to judgment regarding someone simply because of their baggy clothes and grills. Yes, he actually had grills. 

Mac actually seemed quite nice as we furthered our acquaint with him, and the rest of the hostel, while slightly grubby and staffed by a platoon of backwater rednecks - one of whom had a tattoo below a poorly stenciled eagle reading "Whereever I may rome" - while rough around the edges, was perfectly hospitable. 

Eager to explore the town and sample some more Creole cuisine, we headed out towards the French Quarter, pausing to visit a restaurant for some gumbo, red beans and rice, jambalaya, and etoufille - all of which were delightful. Not quite so delightful, however, was Bourbon Street, what we later dubbed the Vegas of the south. Riddled with the same sort of diseased looking crowd of its Nevada counterpart; US-bogans, old people, strippers, bros, and the homeless, it was a seething pit of flashing colours, beads and grenades - a heady mix of ever clear and mystery green drink in a novelty cup - proclaimed the strongest drink in New Orleans!

Seeking respite from this onslaught on the senses, the comforting nuances of a jazz bar were sought. With Fritzel's all stars jamming out about 1 foot from our seats, it was quite a delightful experience. Moreover, having peered in on several outfits on the way, it seemed we had found a particularly talented bunch with Kip so inspired he vowed to buy a clarinet. By far the stand out performer was the big fat black man on the drums and his dulcet voice - just the sort of jazz one longs for.

With the evening winding on and seeking to escape the tyrannical bar woman at the jazz club who hounded the crowd for more rounds of exorbitantly priced beer the second they were finished, all the while staring and keeping track of liquid levels, we met Mac on the street as he went in search of "big booty" and followed him in to a club. Filled with creepy old people and the variously deformed, there wasn't much of Mac's promised booty.

It was only when Kip tapped me on the shoulder as I contemplated the sportscenter rolling news bar that things turned for the better. Indeed, as I spun around I noticed Otto was once again having his glasses taken off by a bar wench, only this time instead of re-dressing him as in Vegas, she forcibly motor boated him. For those unfamiliar with the motorboat, this involves one party nuzzling the breasts of another party, usually willfully and under their own volition. In this case, however, it appeared to be rape. What followed was a series of grinding motions, another forced motor boating, and then the insertion of several tubes of bright liquid down the throat of the comely lass, whereupon Otto was encouraged to drink them from her mouth, still inserted. The price for such loveliness? $8. 

The look on Otto's face, however, was priceless. A mixture of shame, disgust, and horror that I had witnessed this and vigorously photographed it contorted his usually jovial visage in to a morose hang-dog look of pervasive and unending sickness. Little did he know that the next day he would wake with an allergy rendering his eyes red and swollen. I didn't know people could be allergic to breasts.

There seemed little way my night could be any more entertaining after witnessing this most deviant of displays, nevertheless, it managed to be just that. With the sort of naivety one does not expect of a man who handled the member of the Texan police force with such ease, Kip, too, fell prey to the marauding waitress. Wallowing in the sloppy seconds of boob rape and an aggressive looking grind. 

Kip's look of shocked and unwitting violation was only matched by my look of rapture. 

Much of New Orleans passed in the same manner, wandering Bourbon Street and the much classier - in a still down home N'Orleans way - Frenchman's Street, as well as nosing around the city and down the Ol' Miss. We also enjoyed for some authentic Po'Boys at Mother's, an institution of the city, where one can order a debris po'boy, with the chunks of beef that fall off the main cut as it roasts served in a sandwich in a puddle of roasting gravy. Delicious. 

We also met some rather entertaining characters at the hostel, one of whom turned out to be a sci-fi turned indie flick actress, as well as her cemetery enthusiast friend. There was also a Japanese guy with a really grungy portable amped guitar, who, late one night jammed with Otto for the entertainment of those sitting around the outdoor area. The New Orlean's jazz spirit was alive and well. 

On the down side we awoke one morning only for Otto to realise his iPhone had been stolen. Charging over night, Mac, having returned to the room at 5am and rumbled around, had then left, ostensibly to catch an early morning train, but in reality snaffling Otto's phone to no doubt later pawn it for some extra drug/grill money.

Travel insurance expenditure vindicated, leaving New Orleans we headed up to Little Rock for the night for no more reason than to take on the Shut-Up Sauce challenge at a barbecue place. Arriving on a Sunday, we found that the place was closed both then and on the Monday, thus rendering the impetus of our visit null and void. To our benefit at least, Kip had managed to book us a 4 star hotel for little more than a hostel would have cost, had one existed in Little Rock. So it was that I took advantage of all the amenities, and snaffled free water bottles and fruit, before we all took a few moments of our time to enjoy a steam and some whisky in the gym sauna. 

So it is that I find myself in Memphis, writing this out and watching Kip's underpants rotate in a washing machine and contemplating a 7 and 1/2 pound burger for dinner. 

Texas - where T is for barbecue

I'm going to be honest. Going into Texas all I could think of was gun totin' rednecks, steak, patriotism and bigotry. Years of immersion in stereotype riddled media had left me entirely prepared for the worst. As it was, Kip and Otto must have felt this to be the case even more-so, pushing, when we were in Las Vegas, to go north through Colorado than south through Texas en route to New Orleans.

I was unswerving, however, in my desire to go to Austin. I had no particularly good reason for this aside from the good word of B-rad and Cheesedick, but for me this was enough. Given then that I can be rather stubborn, to Austin it was, my faith in my advisors desperate for vindication.

Vindication, o what vindication would soon be had.

To begin, we arrived at 10:30 on a Saturday night and managed to make our way into downtown and 6th street by just after 11. Kings Cross traffic met Newtown sensibilities here as people awash in tattoos, ironic hats and beards traversed all directions. With a range of smoke filled bars, live music in almost every venue, the odd club and pedi-cabs to carry you home, it was an all-in hipster experience. Most pleasingly, however, was that unlike the pretense of Australia's hipster capital, Melbourne, Austin was far more laid back and far less ostentatious. Finally, high quality street dogs and pizza made the 2am Texan curfew much more palatable.

Given that Austin is known for its live music, Sunday saw us scanning The Chronicle, the gig guide to the city. As it was Easter it was a little bit quiet, but after cross-referencing ipods we found some high quality desert style stoner metal in Karma to Burn playing at Emo's that night. In what seemed to be a fairly prototypical Austin music show, the crowd was eclectic and eccentric. The first opener, Fur King (say it out loud) had to repeatedly stop to re-tune their instruments and fix their ancient amp, filling these transitional periods by bantering with the audience with such gems as, "I love boobies. Who doesn't love boobies?"

Honky, the second act, impressed me so much that I sit here writing wearing their band tee. Two guys in cowboy hats and big grey beards and a bear of a man behind the drums, the three piece appeared to be somewhat of a cult favourite and old as the scene itself. Suffice to say that they alone were well worth the price of admission, with the singer dedicating one song to himself and his two favourite things, "fishing and pussy".

For their last song people were jumping on stage to sing lines and they handed their instruments over to the Karma to Burn band members for passages. It was hypnotic. Karma to Burn, meanwhile, while commanding the headline position and a better sound, didn't seem to have quite the same charisma, despite an eccentric homeless looking drummer. Nonetheless, top stuff.

Earlier that day, meanwhile, while asking the hostel staff for vegetarian tips to better feed Otto, it was let slip that there existed a new and very popular barbecue joint in Austin. Hearing this all thoughts of considerate meat consumption were hurled aside in favor of pending plans for hedonistic gorging on animal flesh as Kip and I developed a slightly feverish look of carnivorous anticipation.

Making our first pilgrimage to the hallowed grounds of Franklin's Barbecue on the Monday only to discover it was closed, we unknowingly met the owner who told us to come back the next day before 10. Breakfast barbecue? Why, yes. This, however, is not the barbecue of Australia - that is just grilling here. American barbecue is an art form of smoke, slow cooking, rubs and marinades, and Franklin's Barbecue did it well enough to have a queue form outside an hour before it opened at 11am. At the front of this queue? Kip and Ryan.

As our fellow barbecue enthusiasts lined up behind us, we were introduced to Charles J. Lohrmann, editor of Texas Highways and Wyatt McSpadden, author of Texas BBQ. With one clad all in denim and the other describing his last visit to Franklin's for his book, it seemed we'd found some true Texans.

It was here we learnt the subtleties of Texan barbecue, specializing in beef and not sullied by additional saucing, although Franklin's was open minded regarding this. According to Charles, the brisket we were about to sample had been reviewed as "moist enough to bathe in", and with the promise of meltingly tender ribs and dense, beef-heart filled sausage links, drowning in drool we were finally allowed in to worship this church of beef. An hour later, a bloated, sweating, farting, gasping wreck of a man could be seen on a hostel couch. Meat sweats and shame, however, could not temper the deliciousness of that which I'd experienced.

Charles and Wyatt also informed us of some quality barbecue 30 miles south of Austin, so on the way to Lake Charles and having deceived Otto with the promise of civil war history, we went to Kreuz's barbecue in Lockhart in pursuit of the much vaunted and highly recommended pork chop. Suffice to say, the meat sweats appeared again, but I have no regrets. I did, however, make a point to embark upon a fibre dense diet for the foreseeable future.

While in Austin we also met up with one of Sleepmakeswaves' fan boys. Fan man might be a more appropriate term, however, given that Tom was a 48 year old soon-to-be radio DJ specialising in post-rock and IDM after growing tired of prog rock. After a fine Tex-mex dinner we caught the playoffs over fancy beers at a brew house (there's hope for American beer after all) as music was discussed ad nauseam.

All in all, Austin was not at all what I expect of Texas and every bit as good as I'd hoped. On to Louisiana for crawfish and gumbo, I say.

Pensive (read: pretentious) reflections from the road

There are few experiences as humbling as realising your insignificance. What's more, there's no more frequent emergence of such emotion than when traveling through the wide open spaces of a seemingly endless countryside.

En route to the Vegas via the Grand Canyon was one such experience, with the drive through the desert a mere forbearance to the vastness that is the Canyon. Indeed, once I recovered from being charged $44 to see it, there was a certain tranquility I experienced gazing upon such a tremendous vista - that is, when I could manage to do so around the people posing in a witty variety of stances for their collection of happy snaps.

I am a self-hating tourist, it would seem.

Nonetheless, I could have sat down and stared expansively for hours, mind bereft of distractions or concerns in the comforting awareness of my insignificance. Indeed, this was a feeling I'd become familiar with as we travelled from Indio to Austin, with the sheer space of America something I hope I'll never get used to.

On a less pseudo-philosophical note, on the road to the Grand Canyon we stumbled across the Last Stop gas station-come-restaurant, the subtle delights of which I will not soon forget. Encouraged by the all-American enthusiasm of the hostess, it was here that I supped on the finest burger I've experienced in America. A delight for all the senses and of the style such that one requires a shower post-consumption, I would readily return simply for another delicious mouthful.

From the Canyon we went to Las Vegas - an experience previously detailed - after which we undertook one of the larger driving periods of our trip as we made our way to Austin. First stop was Flagstaff, a rather charming little town an hour or so past the Canyon. Driving here was slightly testy, as Kip had warned me not to can too heavily as I would need to drive the next day. As it was, sunglasses on and passed out in the backseat, I desperately tried to recover from my bacchanalian excesses to avoid furthering the scope and fury of his passive-aggressive wrath.

Arriving late at Flagstaff and all quite wearied after the 300 odd mile drive and Vegas, we sought respite in sleep. Thus it was that Flagstaff, we hardly knew ye.

Next stop was a 400 mile drive to Albuquerque in New Mexico, a city I mostly associated with the brewing of crystal meth thanks to watching too much Breaking Bad. While I failed to see any telltale plumes of green smoke, the sleepy city was pleasant enough. While here, so exhausted by the low quality highway-stop food we'd supped thus far, it was time for some down home style cooking, the excitement of which around the hostel led all its occupants - grandmas and a shaman - to comment on the delightful smells issuing forth from the kitchen.

This was definitely where the party was at.

Judge not too soon was the lesson, however, as Ken the Shaman was quite a pleasant room mate, even if a slightly sozzled Otto mistakenly engaged him in a lengthy conversation regarding his series of youtube videos, which, it turned out mainly consisted of him emerging from hot springs drying his beard. On the plus side, a future collaboration between Sleepmakeswaves and Shamanizing could well be on the cards.

We also met traveling grandma Eileen, who - as far as we could ascertain - has no home and just travels around the US pursuing her children and grandchildren - and also eating the pasta sauce of enterprising travelers. Being engaged by her in conversation proved far more fruitful than anticipated, as our planned route to Odessa was apparently one plagued by fierce winds and wild fires. She also claimed to be able to drive to Austin via "San Anton" in one trip, something which, if grandma could do, so could three (strapping) young lads.

Thus it was that we embarked upon an 850 mile one-day road trip through New Mexico and Texas to Austin, crossing two timezones and driving until the wee-hours of the evening. Rotating through the backseat for restorative naps and with the driver getting to choose the tunes, it was a 7:30am-10:30pm balls-to-the-wall drive come singalong of the most disconcerting variety. This was particularly the case during Kip's periods at the wheel, his eclectic selection on his 'USA cruisin'' playlist an affront to all.

We also met John the McDonalds manager who befriended Otto on Facebook with the anticipation of their becoming "the best of friends" and Otto being his tour guide when he comes to Australia to explore his family history. Sounds like fun.

Of all the characters we met on the road, however, perhaps the most perplexing was my anonymous Mexican friend. Frequently calling my mobile, the novelty of our conversations soon wore off as the endless calls, chiefly substantiated by confused exchanges of "hello?"s, soon, by weight of contact, led to my increasing curtness and lyrical use of Spanish. "No hablo espanol" and "numero wrongo", while grammatically dubious and no doubt mildly racist, seemed to at least slow the tide of calls. Oh well.

On the plus side, by the end of our drive we ended up in Austin in time to experience Saturday night on 6th street, and it was definitely worth it.

Las Vegas

Las Vegas is like catnip for bogans. Thus spake Kip, and worryingly, it seemed to be the case. Dumped in the middle of the desert where there should rightly be little more than a few tumbleweeds, Vegas sits like a wart on the sparse and unforgiving landscape.

There seems no better symbol of American excess than building here a place named 'meadows' and subsidising it by draining water from all available sources at a terrifying rate and peddling sleaze, debauch, and endless filth while the sum of these parts is self-destructing at an alarming rate, yet not slowing down or even recognising any problem.

Moreover, this very same grotesque essence has an even more unspeakably vile exterior, plastic imitations of some of the world's most recognizable icons garishly reproduced for entirely pointless consumption, as any history, significance, elegance or cultural import is lost in their tawdry imitation. Baudrillard would have a fit. The Rialto Bridge, Eiffel Tower, Brooklyn Bridge, Trevi Fountain - it goes on. More depressing was not the fact that these paltry imitations existed, but the way in which they were peddled; stereotypes extrapolated out into hideous themes such that each great history was rendered as insipid and institutionalised as a McDonalds playground.

As a story of decay and impending fiscal failure, however, I doubt I'd have noticed the signs; mainly, the stalled construction of several buildings, were it not for our particularly excitable cab driver who gave us a 20 minute history of Vegas, detailing its rise and fall from grace, as well as that of his own; farm owner, neighbour of Mark Twain, gold prospector, real estate magnate - now cab driver, 200k in debt, and hunting down his Czechoslovakian bride from the internet.

Indeed, given the traffic around the place, the constant stream of old people whittling away at their pensions, families sending Dad off to win big while they took in the 'sights', the odd high-roller and a lot of bro-typical gentlemen looking for the infamous good time, I can only imagine quite how vulgar the place must have been in its heyday.

You might have gathered by now, that I was not a huge fan of Vegas. Indeed, simply walking around made me feel dirty. The place was coated in grime and desert dust, bankrupty billboards, and people walking around in parody t-shirts strained around their engorged paunches and just generally consuming at a rate only America could have conceived. Small Mexicans flicking cards and looking like they lost their souls many years ago offered flyers for women who could arrive in 20 minutes and around every corner was another strip club, fast food chain or Casino - not that the strip has any corners.

By far the best part of Vegas was downtown where our hostel was (but still only about 5 minutes from the strip). Downtown was home to some actually quite enjoyable eateries, desert-vibe, and all the pawn stores one could want to get those last few dollars for the ever-imminent win on the slots.

Speaking of which, in the grand tradition of manly-gambling, Otto embarked upon the slots with a humble dollar our first night in Vegas. This dollar soon turned into $40, which was then turned into $80 on the roulette table. Winnings pocketed and Vegas 'beaten', we embarked upon a pawn-store hunt in search of an $80 guitar so he could vent his poet's soul and hopefully win over some comely fellow travelers. While the latter is yet to eventuate, in our search of the perfect guitar we stumbled across the pawn shop from 'Pawn Stars' and I insisted we go in search of Chum-Lee. While we got inside, Chum Lee was not around, nor was there an affordable guitar. Downtrodden but glad to be able to claim to have queued to get into a pawn store - FROM TV (I think this is called living the American dream), we eventually found a guitar and all was well.

One of the stranger pressures of traveling is the urge to properly experience where ever it is that you are visiting. Given my lack of enthusiasm for Vegas, I feared that I would fail to get this experience, turned off as am by the vulgar excesses that seem to inform it. This made me sad.

I need not have feared, however, as hosteling absolution was at hand.

As Kip and Otto chose to catch up on some post-Coachella sleep debt, I opted to can-on with some other hostel mates. We were led by the mysterious Itai, a man who we discovered, after he led us around Vegas not going anywhere in particular for a good couple of hours, was not actually employed by the hostel. Rather, he was a party-enthusiast from Israel who'd been in town for a week. After not being allowed into a place full of high-rolling bogans and prostitutes because we had failed the dress code, we managed to get into a place full of low-rolling bogans and prostitutes. Hmmm.

Realising the doomed quality of our venture, a small splinter group left to enjoy some carousing else where. This was far more successful, with particularly notable our venture into the basement of the MGM casino for some authentic beer pong.

While not quite a Vegas experience, it was still ample fun, but the dream eluded me.

Thankfully there was still time.

Indeed, the Vegas experience finally came to pass the morning after the next day, when with a large and painful bump on my temple, no money in my wallet, no pants on, still drunk and in someone else's room, I awoke full of evils and with no recollection of half the night. I put this mainly down to traveling around in the back of a van with an illegal amount of people, stopping at 7-11 for booze and buying 'Loco', a vast can of 12% poison that tasted like the diabolical spawn of Donaghy Estate champagne and cold medicine. Simply evil.

Fleeting recollections have Otto being re-dressed by a dancing bar maid and Kip falling asleep on a bus until he was at the ass end of no-where in downtown Vegas at 4am in the morning.

Vegas, baby.

Road Tripping - Origins

"You're going to Coachella?"

Maybe it was the glazed, feverish look in my eyes. Maybe the fact that
like another assorted 80,000 rich white kids, ageing hippies, scantily
clad women and of course, bros, I was heading south through California
swarming every store along the highway. Maybe it was the four cases of
Bud I hoisted onto the counter top - but most likely it was all of
these factors that led the bored looking man behind the counter, like
so many before him, to utter and wryly chuckle, "so you're going to
Coachella?"

More statement than question.

This was day 4 of our road trip after landing in sunny San Francisco
on the 11th of April and Otto, Kip and myself were on the way to Indio
California for one of the world's biggest festivals. To begin however,
San Francisco.

Arriving early in the morning, it was never going to be an easy day as
we battled jet lag while vainly trying to make the most of our time in
San Francisco by exploring the city. Given Kip and I were in charge,
first point of call and an early lunch was the Swan Oyster Bar for
what is apparently the best New England Clam Chowder. Given my not
quite encyclopaedic knowledge of all things chowder I can merely
affirm its tastiness and delicious, if suspicious, chewy chunks. Would
bag again.

The next morning saw the sun's rays wash over a shame-filled Ryan as I
beheld the world through the sordid eyes of someone who had the night
previously supped from the dish known merely as pulled pork in a Blues
bar. Shame and pig-sweats abounded, and in search of absolution we
went questing bikes to cross the Golden Gate Bridge.

As my severely bruised pereneum would later attest, this was an idea
of mixed blessings, as with the delight of fresh air, exercise and
spectacular views came hand in hand the crippling of my ability to
comfortably sit for some period of time. On the plus side, this trip
also forced us to climb aboard the trams of San Fran which, although
dear to the tight-fisted student, were filled with amiable conductors
and helpful advice. This was sorely needed as this afternoon it was
time to pick up our car.

A small, red, Ford Focus that wobbles at highway cruising speeds and
would later become known as gruel - mainly for its ability to sustain
our travel, but provide little else - was awaiting us in sunny down
town San Fran. Worrying signs first appeared when we arrived at our
train stop only to realize we did not have the car rental firm's
address. Moreover, there was no wi-fi, useful map, or any means of
ascertaining where it was. At this point, two warring tribes of what I
can only assume were corner boys began a brutal game of fisticuffs
about fifty metres away. Scared in the way only white-kids from the
other side of the world can be, we huddled for safety in numbers with
other white people. One of these kind souls had a laptop and wi-fi, so
we found our address and were on our way again.

The next problem arose when 'Adventures on wheels', while the name of
the website, was not the name of the actual rental place, which turned
out to have a lot full of RVs and then one small red Ford. Highly
suspicious, and having detailed the million scuffs 100,000 miles wears
on a tiny shit-box such as ours, we hit the road for the first time.

Perilous and guided by the cheapest sat-nav Radioshack had to offer -
and a significantly better deal than that offered by the seedy
middle-eastern man Otto befriended and insisted we buy from - our
first trip, while a trial on the nerves, was successful as we made it
safely back to San Fran, picking out drug dealers on the way through
downtown.

The next day, however, proved somewhat more troublesome.

With a plan to cruise down Highway-1 while enjoying the coastal views
en route to Los Angeles, we started the day in driving rain such that
death seemed surely upon us in the ignominious trappings of a red tin
coffin. Unwilling to succumb to such a fate and in defiance of all
those hurling spite upon our craft we made it Monteray and the
sunshine. After this cheese-filled interlude we continued making good
time down the highway only to discover a land slide and no-detour made
the closed road a 2 hour (but breathtakingly picturesque) time sink,
thus putting us significantly behind schedule.

Fast forward 8 hours, and after 550 miles and 13 hours on the road, we
coasted into Santa Monica, LA. Lurching into the hostel we managed to
sort out all our mess in time to catch Kareoke at the local, with Otto
sending the crowd into throes of rapturous delight with a Miley Cyrus
ballad, and Kip, myself and a passing German tri-eting Queen's Don't
Stop Me Now. The Hostel's pub crawl then found us, and things kicked
on.

After putt-putting around LA in search of sites, Hollywood signs and
plastic-looking people, we hit the road to Indio in anticipation of
Coachella. Gridlocked in LA traffic, the 2-3 hour trip spiralled into
a 10 hour slug fest along the highway. Having finally reached the
grounds and claimed our tickets, more waiting then ensued as we queued
to get into the festival's camping grounds. By sheer chance we ended
up in the car behind Walshy, Cheese and Birchy (three of the guys from
SUANFC) as we waited to be searched. Meanwhile, an entire field full
of cars embarked upon a 2 hour long can and hot-box session, boding
well for that which was to come.

2am, and we had our camping spot. Wrapped in a thin blanket and
wearing every other item of clothing I owned, the desert chill and my
lack of anything resembling a mattress resulted in a restorative and
refreshing night.

750 miles in two days.

Thus began, however, three truly amazing days. There is little way to
describe the sprawling, decadent magnificence of Coachella, except by
viewing it within the rarefied perspect of an American. Indeed, only
an American could offer recycling bins, thinner plastic bottles, and
recycled water here and there and claim that a festival in the middle
of the desert with ice trucks driving in, generators blasting all day,
endless food and plastic scraps, millions of cigarette butts,
discarded tents and other camping items, and myriad more offenses
against sustainable life, as 'green'.

Oh well, such outrages cannot temper the delight of 3 days of
hedonistic music engorgement. Indeed, despite the searing midday heat
- one which could all-too-readily be escaped by hitting up the tent
where everyone was sprayed with hoses (another particularly
eco-friendly activity), by eventide and a few refreshing cans, all was
well in the world and the darkness alive with pulsating tunes.

Despite our humble campsite consisting of a $50 Target tent and, a $4
tarp rigged between the tent and the car's back windows for a small
awning, things were just as incredibly uncomfortable as you might
imagine. Ice-cold refreshment was all one had to battle the
unrelenting desert sun, and much was it needed.

Coachella was also a time of revelation, as I discovered the subtle
pleasures of repetitive beats, booming bass, and warped dub tracks on
the open mind. In the unique setting of a giant tent in the middle of
a polo field with lights flashing everywhere and thousands upon
thousands of screaming, drugged up humans, the heat-addled,
sleep-deprived, and variously otherwise influenced mind has little
recourse than to succumb to the mentality of the time and place. Not
that I'm complaining. Other notable acts numbered Gogol Bordello,
Titus Andronicus, DFA1979, Shpongle, and of course, Kanye.

Much the worse for wear, Monday saw us leaving Indio and heading for
some R&R in Vegas. 300 miles along desert highway with a stop off in
feisty Baker, Nevada, and blasting Kyuss all the way, it was a
surprisingly fun bit of highway driving, once again reaffirming my
life belief that anything can be made delightful with the correct
soundtrack. Thus it was that we found ourselves in Vegas, but I'll
attempt to put that into words in a later missive.