Day Ten - It was going so well, then we hit the Van Wyck

I feel as rough as a bear's arse in no uncertain terms. Trust me to go out drinking in an evening when I was only just recovering from an afternoon of beer and large vodka shots. I have the Mother of all Hangovers and I have no-one else to blame except myself... The things I do for Diane. I cannot believe I went out with Frank in Carmel last night and then we drank the town dry.

What can I say? I feel like I have been chased down by King Kong, caught, chewed up and spat out. My head hurts, it hurts when I blink, it hurts when I laugh (which I am not doing much of) and I feel like I am going to throw up - now you can enter in your own descriptions of a hangover here; tongue like sandpaper; grit in the eyes; little pixies burrowing in your brain and forcing your cerebral cortex out of your ears.

Anyway, yes. Frank and I went for a couple of swift beers last night; male bonding; getting to know each other; group therapy; whet the whistle, etc, etc. From a quiet little restaurant that closed at 10:00pm (two American pints of Budweiser) about a 10 minute walk from the house up the main road, past Lake Carmel and a few houses with porches that really needed an inbred little kid with no chin, bad teeth and overalls playing a banjo on them, what looked like a pool hall for gay bikers and the local fire station (I think, it was rather dark). Being a Monday night, there was not many people in the restaurant... actually we were the only punters in that night and the manager/owner/bar-keep looked suspiciously upset when we wandered in. We chatted, laughed, swapped anecdotes about Diane, about work, about our lives on different sides of the Atlantic. In a brief time I knew a lot about how Frank ticked, his attitudes to other people and his general American view of the world in general. 

We decamped from the restaurant bar because the closed and threw us out - and I was trying to be most most charming self but the vodka and lager was starting to catch up with me. So we wandered back down the road and on into Carmel itself, a one horse town in New York state that represented everything about middle America. Frank decided we should patronise the local Irish Bar as it had a pool table, music and the possibility of other human beings sad enough to want to drink until the early hours on a Monday night to Tuesday morning. The bar was situated in what can only be described as a shopping precinct, with a few restaurants, video library and general convenience stores. It did not look too exciting a prospect but Frank reliably informed me that it sold alcohol and in the gregarious state I was settling into that sounded absolutely fine. Thank you very much, Sir. Bar-Keep I'll have another drink over here please.

The bar was populated - thank God. I hate drinking in an empty bar, it feels wrong. Churches can be enjoyed when they are empty, but not bars. Bars are the social centre of a community and they must be enjoyed with some other like-minded members of the drinking classes. We enter, we sat at the bar and I asked the all important question, "Bar-keep! What time do you close?" His response was he will close when the last person drinks up and leaves, I told him I was thirsty and it would be a long wait then, set me up with a Guinness and Frank will have a generic bottle of American piss-water. We drank, we talked, we laughed, we got slightly more drunk. We ordered more beer, we drank, we talked, we laughed, we got a little bit more drunk. We ordered more beer (again), we drank, we talked, we laughed (I was beginning to get a bit raucous and close to the bone, my language was becoming what Americans think of as the British way - i.e. I was swearing quite a lot in conversation) and we were beginning to get noticed by the Bar-Keep and the other patrons. 

"Wow, you're effing British?" 

"No, Miss. I am effin' English, now piss off I am drinking."

"Wow, like what are you doing here? You're effin' British?"

"No, I am effin' English. Are you effin' deaf? I'm having a pint with my effin' mate. Now, seriously, eff off you are effin' annoying me with your effin' ridiculous accent and you eff-ulgy mug."

Jeez, I never knew I could be so charming! But I do say it with a smile on my face and in a pleasant, calm voice. However, being American and having no concept of either irony or personal space Frank and I ended up chatting to two local girls who worked in the video rental store next door - Becca was one of them and the others name who was determined to get a shag that night had completely slipped my mind. Both of them seem impressed with the fact that they used the vernacular phrase for female genitalia all the time (and the second most offensive word in the English language) as well as not being offended (or probably understanding) that I kept referring to them as Colonials that still owe an allegiance to the Queen. By the time we started to play pool & I was hogging the juke box trying to find some good English tunes I was starting to feel (as Frank put it) buzzed, or pished as I would say. My accent started to slip and I found myself flying between Wigan, Liverpool, Manchester, Glasgow and Frank's NY accent. There are certain words that must be pronounced in the accent they were first devised; pished must be said as if you are from Glasgow, ye ken? Gettin' pished and snaffulin' coo beasties! 

By this time there was a group of 5 or 6 people around me, firing questions left, right and centre. In my quietly buzzed brain I went into automatic mode and began having three different conversations and music, Manchester and my holiday. Then someone suggested we move to a bar that was open later... after that it gets a little hazy...

So I woke up, with 3 telephone numbers and Facebook name and no GAP hoodie, denim jacket or baseball cap. Oh bugger, I left them in the last bar we went to - and I can't for the life of me remember where it was. I remember smoking a cigarette outside, stopping Becca's friend from joining me in the gents toilet (I think a colourful English phrase was in order, as well as a prod in the bum with my foot for good measure), trying not to laugh at someone's attempt at pole dancing to Oasis - they were not sexy at all and the fact that I didn't know you could pole dance to "Don't Look Back In Anger" as well...

Here I am, feeling every one of my forty years on the planet and realising that it is time to go home and my holiday is nearly over. I have to shower, eat, pack and get ready to leave and be at check-in about 3 hours before the flight. So I will leave for now and continue when I have time...

... and I have time now. The airport is quiet, the duty free is closed and I have an hour until boarding. 

It is true what they say, it was going so well then we hit the Van Wyck Express (now there is a misnomer) Way. The last time this year I will take the Interstate to NYC, we drove past Manhattan Island, past the now familiar but still very awe inspiring skyline and on to JFK Airport. That's when we hit the Van Wyk. Busy? Busy? My God, I thought we should have brought camping gear and a tent. But we got through it, passing the two spaceships still docked at the the site of the Worlds Fair I checked in and Diane, Frank and I went to the terminal restaurant for my last US meal - burger and fries. 

I still feel rough, but the food did me good. A tearful goodbye from me to Diane and I felt I could not let go. It is amazing that it is only when you are leaving that you realise just how much you love someone. I could not thank them enough for all they had done for me, how they had put themselves out for me, how much they had arranged to make this birthday trip a truly memorable one, one that I will never forget. I could not put these feelings into words when I was with them, all I could do was hug Diane and try not to blubber in her ear. But I wipe my tears, stood like an Englishman and went into the terminal building on my own.

Now, my 40th Birthday Holiday is over. In 9 or so hours my Mum will pick me up from Manchester Airport. I will be jet lagged, tired, in need of a hot shower, brew and breakfast. My flight is being called - for the last time. I have to go home. Good-bye America you have survived me and I you. Until 2009 when I will return, there is a lot more of you to see and Diane has promised to be my guide again. 

Diane, I cannot thank you enough. I love you very much.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you...

Day Nine - Coney Island Baby (in the pouring rain)

It is raining today, for the first time on my holiday. The sky is grey and puppies & kittens are bouncing off the roads, unfortunately Frank has commitments again and is unable to escort us on our latest jolly around the Eastern Seaboard. So Diane and I reviewed our plans, renegotiated our routes, agreed and disagreed on the itinerary and then finally decided on a course of action. As Frank left for his office we headed over to the coast to visit Port Chester on the border of New York State and Connecticut again to have a mooch around the nearest Lotus Dealership and talk real cars with people with exquisite taste.

This time the dealership was open and I had a long chat with the salesman, we discussed the new supercharged Elise, had a look at the cars currently in the garage undergoing treatment; an Esprit; an Elise S1; an S2 getting a custom supercharger fitted. There was also a nice Ferrari and a couple of Porsche cars that I wasn't too bothered about. The showroom was bare because the franchise had been bought by another retailer and would be moving in a a few weeks, but we were given a pleasant welcome and Diane was suitably impressed with the cars.

Eventually we left and, much to Diane's disdain, I requested a visit to Coney Island. So another reprogramming of the SatNav system to take us down the coast and a two hour drive in the pouring rain that we hoped would have cleared by the time we go there. I've never actually been on a holiday were I have either driven or been driven so much, which in turn means I have never talked so much to one person. I think I've talked more to Diane in the past nine days than I have spoken to my (soon to be ex) wife in the past four years - which is probably a bad thing when you think about it. I've never been a particular gregarious person and not really talkative, but Diane is so easy and interesting to talk to I find that we chat for hours.

But I digress, again.

We arrived in Coney Island, with it still raining, to find Rhyl out of season. A desolate, wet, depressing seaside town that looks as if it's best times were over decades ago and the only people who would be there are there out of necessity not choice. It looked run down, empty and devoid of life; a tacky representation of a once profitable beach resort; populated by working Joe's and blue collars in tenement blocks with nuclear fallout shelters in their basements - another reminder of a time that has since long gone when everyone was in fear of being wiped out in a Cold War escalation and the thing America feared the most was a Red Under The Bed. 

So I wasn't seeing Coney Island at it's best, but we struggled on and feeling a wee bit hungry Diane suggested we try a hot dog at Nathan's, the original seller of fast food in a country that now lives on convenience. This was history itself in a country that wiped out it's original heritage in a government sponsored genocide in the 19th Century, so I wasn't going to turn it down. Even though is was a wet Monday afternoon I did expect there to be more people in Nathan's but we served straight away by a very polite girl (what else should I expect is the USA) where we ordered a regular with onions for me and a cheese-dog for Diane. I have to admit that the frankfurter was a lot tastier than my first in Battery Park and I was extremely impressed, may be there was something to Coney Island to look forward too. 

Walking down Surf Street we made out way towards the largest fun fair in NYC and the Cyclone, the oldest working wooden roller coaster in America. Again, because it was out of season the fun fair was closed, the side shows were shuttered and the whole place reeked of a winter of neglect. The alleyways were strewn with empty beer bottles, discarded fast food wrappers, chewing gum and used condoms; proving that the chav class was alive and well in our US cousins - trailer park trash is the correct phrase I think. There wasn't much else to do, so in the spirit of our search for world gastronomic delights Diane decided she wanted to eat Russian food in Brighton Beach which is just down the road from Coney Island, a little Russian community in the heart of New York and the back drop to the Nicholas Cage film Lord of War. 

Brighton Beach was an experience in itself, a Russian community where English was the second spoken language and the signs are written in Cyrillic first and the majority of them had no English translation. You could only work out what the shops sold by looking in the window, and sometimes even then you where struggling. We saw Ushanka hats for $300 that were obviously real fur, Russian delicatessen selling staple foods to the population and the look of the people was Slavic. If it wasn't for the fact that the elevated train ran above the main street and the occasional yellow school bus you could have believed that you were in Moscow. It was so strange to experience that; not even walking through parts of Manchester that are populated by the Jewish or Asian community do you get the feeling that you are not in England, but here I had the feeling that to some people the United States was a different country and they acted like they were still in Mother Russia. 

A walk up and down the main street revealed several likely looking restaurants we could try and using the time honoured method of finding one of the only restaurants with a menu translated into English. It was still raining, we were soaked through to the skin, cold and hungry again. Anywhere that served hot food, beer and a cup of coffee would do me, but Diane wanted Chicken Kiev and Borscht. We found one...

Borscht is a Russian vegetable soup made from cabbage, beets, onions and sometimes can contain meat. It's filling, warm and very tasty, especially when accompanied by a few Heineken's. I had kebabs for my main course, served with a few more bottles of Heineken's whilst Diane had her Chicken Kiev - which is not even an authentic Russian dish. We chatted to the waiter who asked us where we where from, once again out accents giving us away, and then chatted about football (3,000+ miles from home and I find a Manchester United fan, I despair. I really do despair). For desert Diane opted for crepes again and I had a look at the vodka list, which was in a menu of it's own and longer than the food menu. When the vodka was poured into what I first thought was a wine glass the measure was the equivalent of a triple in the UK. Vodka is meant to be "shot" and it took 3 attempts for me to finish it, by which time I was buzzing, Diane was hysterical and the other diners were curious about this stupid Englishman down vodka that you could have run a car off.

We paid and left with me feeling slightly worse for wear and made our way back to Carmel. Another day in America and another afternoon drinking and a night to look forward to with Frank and taking in a few local bars in Carmel.

Here we go again...

Day Seven - Molly's, was that a joke? Chilling over a Meat Feast & a Movie

I have just surfaced from my holiday pit and need time to reflect on what I saw last night. You will remember that Diane & I had been horse riding with Joe in the Catskills yesterday but had to cut short our apres drinks & conversation because we were meeting Frank & his work colleagues in a local bar near Carmel. By the time we arrived it had gone dark and the car park for the bar was reasonably full, people were milling around outside smoking, chatting & drinking and generally doing what the western world does on a Friday night; they were enjoying themselves.

We tentatively got out of the car, the wear & tear of the horse riding had taken a real toll on the both of us after sitting in one position for a couple of hours in the car and serious pain & stiffness around the thighs was setting in. Also with Diane performing a swan dive with tuck over the head of her horse she was feeling delicate but remarkable upbeat considering the height she fell from and the velocity upon impact with the ground. So, tentative steps across the car park was the order of the day... From the bar we could make out muffled music with a predominance of bass being played, which meant someone was playing the music very loudly, and I jokingly turned to Diane & said "We have both types of music here, Country and Western." Well, I definitely was eating my words later.

After paying a $3.00 entrance charge I moved through the main door and caught my first glimpse of bar-America...

... and I could have been in the Exchange Bar & Grill on Salford Quays and I had to remind myself I was in Molly Darcy's Irish Bar, Danbury, Connecticut.

The decor was one of a headache inducing infusion of a UK American theme bar & a US Irish theme bar. Wooden panelling everywhere, solid (faux) oak bar, open fronted cubicles for eating in, stained or brushed glass panels, sports memorabilia behind the bar and flat screen televisions showing an array of sports programmes including Na scar. The bar area itself sat in the centre of the building and the rectangle bar (including brass footrests and coat hooks) was accessible from both the eating or lounge area to the snug or entertainment area. The bar was also 4 deep around the "front" where we came in. The air smelled of greasy food, spilt beer, overly sweet perfume, unwashed clothes and hair spray... lots of hairspray... enough to punch a hole in the ozone layer the size of France. I could have been in a bar in Manchester, London, Dublin or New York, it was that generic; except for the clientele.

There was a cross section of society represented from the young to the old. Everyone mingling with each other quite unlike anything you would see in the UK. It was as if this was the only bar for miles or that the drinking population of the USA doesn't care where they are or who they are seen with because they only want a good time. I was surrounded by a myriad of people from the hot Asian girl of about 21 in a lime green dress that was sprayed on to the oldest swinger in town with his slicked back grey hair and plaid shirt open to the nipples; there was the skeletal middle aged women in unfashionable 80's stonewashed jeans and bleach blond hair to the fat bloke who puffed and panted as he carried a bowl of fried chicken wings around with him; there the goatee wearing mid-thirties wannabe love machine to the mid-twenties stylish (for Manchester in about 1995) woman who thought she could dance; there was the surgically enhanced brunette standing at the bar surveying the male patrons looking for a potential date like a vulture surveying the savanna plains looking for a rotting corpse to the young preppy kid living a life of frat-parties and beer chugging checking out her arse out and knowing full well he didn't stand a chance; there were small groups of married men on the prowl with their wedding rings removed (but still showing the telltale marks on their fingers) to the divorcee women who were just looking for attention and flattery for the night; there were the work colleagues oblivious to their surroundings and deep in discussion about whatever piece of office politics had surfaced that week to the married couples whose only conversational exchange was to ask what they wanted from the bar.

After a complete circuit of the bar we managed to spot Frank, sat on a stool & nursing a Budweiser. Most of his work colleagues had long since gone and the few remaining were introduced to me, although I am ashamed to say I have forgotten their names. I duly ordered my pint - Harp lager or Bass bitter, hmm not quite the selection of beers I had come to expect. With a pint of lager in hand I leaned back on the bar, made myself comfortable and began to review my surroundings. It was now that my previous comment regarding Country & Western music jumped up and slapped me in the face. There was a live band, rednecks and they were playing C&W music... Oh. My. God. I am in Hell. People were dancing to it as well, not just the redneck crowd but also, what I would class as if they were in the UK, the young kids too. People who should be in a club listening to thumping bass, old skool house, garage or cool grooves and generally throwing shapes in the Church of Dance were dancing like your dad at a wedding to old Garth Brooks, Jonny Cash and Lynyrd Skynyrd covers played very badly. I was in an Irish Bar in New York drinking weak beer and listening to a honky-tonk band...

... where was the film crew? This had to be a film set? I am going to appear on World's Greatest Cliches?

Once I had decided it wasn't a set-up - actually after I had recovered from a fit of hysterics that had Frank's work colleagues looking at me as if I was a deranged & dangerous lunatic, no amount of explanation would ease their fears either - I settled back to drink beer and people watch. I had already noticed that my accent was standing out like a sore thumb; shouting to people in an English accent is usually a way of attracting attention. I watched the dancers and tried to gauge the etiquette of dancing to a honky-tonk band, it seems that the "may I cut in..." approached worked for men, as well as the old favourite of standing at right angles to your potential dance partner and then ease your way round to face them by the end of the song. For women it looked as if the classic walk up to a man and grab him by the arm technique worked wonders, however when the scary looking skeletal blond woman tried that on me I almost poured a pint over Diane and if it wasn't for the fact that I have good upper body strength which effectively means I can tense the muscles in my shoulders and arms effectively to increase my mass to that of a blackhole and I am therefore immovable, I would have been pulled of the bar stool and landed face first into scary skeletal woman's torso... not the best idea in the world. I quickly shouted an excuse that I would dance later to her to ensure she let go of me and repositioned myself on the bar stool whilst scary skeletal woman selected a new target of the old, slicked back, grey haired gentleman next to me.

People where dancing and enjoying themselves. The bonhomie extended to the smoking area, when I went outside for a smoko and chat with one of Frank's employees and discussed the American car industry and why they produce such rubbish. Again, I was approached. Again, I was chatted to. Again, I failed miserably to get telephone numbers, email addresses or facebook names. My looks and persona were compared to that of Eddie Izzard and for some unknown reason everytime I swore (and by now I was getting a little drunk so it was more frequent) it got barrels of laughs. Back in the bar and more people watching, listening to Frank explain office politics and what was wrong with the world I began to wonder if I should make an approach to anyone, what would Diane think if I went over to flirt and chat-up a strange woman? With this on my mind I ordered another drink and settled back to decide who I was going to approach...

How about the hot Asian chick in the green mini-dress? Would my confidence survive that long to have a full conversation? How about someone around my own age, one of the lonely divorcees? They will be easy targets and given that only 5% of the citizens of the United States owns a passport will I be able to get by on the oddity factor? The vulture was definitely out, she had already locked on to her target and drowning him in the scent of her disgustingly sweet perfume. Shall I just make eye contact with a few hopefuls, smile and she if they approach me? No, I did that to scary skeletal woman to be polite and she took it as an invitation to the mating dance. So many women and so little time... about 2 minutes as it turned out because Frank announced he was hungry and time to leave.

So, reluctantly for the second time in a day Diane & I made our way back to the car and headed back into Carmel. This time to an all night diner where I enjoyed a cheeseburger, fries and a diet coke at 1:00am in the centre of Carmel. I listened to some extremely xenophobic conversation from Frank's work colleague that reflected the worst in America's foreign policy and was a damning indictment of the American media feeding jingoistic, chest slapping rhetoric to the masses. With a sour taste in my mouth brought on by eating greasy food and listening to a racist diatribe I fell into bed...

... Which leaves me here, now and ready to face the day. So... more later.

And later it is... It has been a complete waste of a day and I have had time to recharge my batteries. We drove to Port Chester in the afternoon to check out the nearest Lotus Car franchise, however by the time we got there it was closing for the Saturday - poor form as far as I am concerned because in the UK they would stay open until late into the evening. Needing nourishment we opted to look for a restaurant in the Port Chester area and Diane wanted to try Brazilian meal - luckily we found one locally called Copacabana that offered a meal deal... and what a meal deal it was!

For $34.50 you got two courses; the starter was a trip to the salad bar for all you can eat; the main course was a selection of meats... and that was it. Once you were ready for your main course the waiting brought round cuts of meat that had been spit roasted and offered you slices; prime rib; spare rib; sirloin; rump; topside; leg. There was also chicken wings, turkey wrapped in bacon & Brazilian sausage. The perfect meal for a carnivore like myself. With a beer accompaniment and the juices from the succulent meat pooling on the plates I was - literally - in hog heaven. However, the turkey wrapped in bacon tasted like dry bacon and the sausage wasn't particularly nice. All three of us called back the prime rib & I requested more of the sirloin (my favourite steak). It would have been possible to sit there all evening just requesting your favourite cuts of meat - the most enjoyable way I have found to do the Atkins Diet.

It was during the meal that Frank elaborated on his text from yesterday. Apparently Diane & Frank are having work completed on the septic tank for the house which is being funded by the local council/county government body. Whilst working on their house the council employee noticed a noxious smell - as one would when working on a septic tank. Believing the smell to be emanating from the house and akin to a rotting corpse the workman then telephoned the local police to report the suspicious smell. The police attended the house accompanied by cadaver dogs and searched outside the premises and then - when no-one came to the door - broke into the house. An APB (All Points Bulletin) was issued on Frank and a credit card check was made and Frank was found to have fled the state; now a matter for the FBI. All of this occurred whilst we were visiting Washington DC and contemplating a tour of the FBI Buildings, which would have made the tour interesting when Frank was escorted away as we entered. From what we can gather no cadaver was found - as Diane was with us at the time - and the police went away empty handed, but not before some officer decided to flick a cigarette into the mulch on the front of the house in 90 degree heat and allow it to smoulder away until the fire department had to be called.

All in all an eventful day by the sound of things and such a shame we weren't there to enjoy it. Unfortunately for Frank his indignation at the whole fiasco was overruled by Diane & I laughing so much we got funny looks from the other patrons and continually making jokes. Much to Frank annoyance we continued making jokes until we arrived at the cinema. We watched 88 Minutes with Al Pacino which was rubbish. We left, went home and I got to bed early... for a change.

Tomorrow is Manhattan again, I need all the rest I can get.

Day Six - Horses, Cavalrymen & Jack Daniels

After the travelling of the past two days I was looking forward to a slightly lazy day today, time to recharge my batteries, have a look through the photographs I have taken already, review the video footage I had taken and generally catch up on my emails and blogging. I rose later than usual, fought off the cats, showered and went downstairs to see how little Diane had planned for me today.

Frank had already said that he was popping to his office to sought through some paperwork - and hundred plus mile round trip to them - so whatever we were going to do today would have to exclude him unless we held on until his return. He also had errands to run and had promised that he would be out tonight with his work colleagues at a bar down the interstate, so if we wanted to join him later for a bite to eat & a few drinks then we were quite welcome. As one of my requests was to have a few beers in a local bar and peruse the nocturnal habits of born and bred Americans I - of course - graciously accepted his offer (well, beer was mentioned so there was no hardship in accepting!).

I sat in my, now, regular swinging leather office chair with associated footrest watching Gordon Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares on BBC America Diane decided to let me know what the pair of us would be doing today...

"Do you fancy going to the Catskill Mountains and doing some horse riding?"

Again that moment of dread; I have never ridden a horse before with the nearest thing coming to it being a donkey ride on Blackpool Beach when I was a child. But, of course, Diane had asked and I cannot refuse her. I also know that Diane is a keen rider and has been for several years (it was a good job it was springtime and sunny otherwise we would be indulging her other passion - skiing) so she telephoned the riding school (I was in for a shock), booked us in, programmed the Sat-Nav & off we went in - again - the most glorious weather imaginable.

The Catskill Mountains are about 100 miles North by North West from Carmel and it took us over a hour and a half, listening to 92.3 K-Rock and shooting the breeze about life, the universe and everything. Off the beaten track we wound our way through some real frontier towns, were the population are counted in double digits and houses had woodland instead of gardens. The higher we climbed into Catskills the more sparsely the population was and the more peaceful the surroundings. We stopped for 10 minutes so Diane could answer an email from Frank "Don't worry. Police did not find a body. Everything is OK." But more about that later.

We arrived at the riding school which was quite high up in the Catskills, off a minor road and down a dirt track that bottomed out Diane's car and into what can only be described as an encampment. Our horseman was called Joe, a character with no front teeth after an encounter with a horses hoof, bad eyesight and a passion for horses and one of Diane's friends. Joe had already saddled up a horse for Diane, not her usual horse as it was beginning to get old and a point that Diane kept complaining about. The different type of saddles Joe used were explained to me, English and Western and I was told I would be having a Western saddle - just like the good ol' cowboys... yee haw! He saddled up a horse called Dakota for me, helped me mount it, adjusted the stirrups, then gave me the bare minimum of instruction on how to control a extremely large animal by just moving the reigns ever so slightly and how to sit in the saddle, then I was walked into the corral and let loose for a few minutes to get used to the horse. That was it... we were off...

Joe is very gregarious and very animated. His passion for horses extends from his childhood in Brooklyn and his parents indulged him in riding lessons. He joined the army as a field photographer - a passion he still has today and was the one who took the pictures of Diane & I on the horses - eventually earning himself a commission into the Cavalry Regiment. He had to demonstrate his ability to ride with one handed, your left hand because your right hand was your sabre hand, and joined with the horse display regiment. From his technique you can tell he is a natural horseman and his demeanour puts you at ease as well, he offered advice and not criticism, praise when you rode correctly and gentle humour to berate you when - as I did - you look like a sack of potatoes on the back of a horse.

We rode through woodland and into the hills where Joe kept an overnight camping site, a place he brings hunters to during the summer months; when I say camping site I mean a level clearing where you can pitch your tent and water the horses for the night. He talked at length about the bears in the hills, wild turkeys, deer and the other assortment of animals living wild and open for the hunter. We rode on, all the time I am trying to make sense of the rhythm of the horse and trying to match my movements to it - failing miserably of course. We took paths over streams and down towards the nearest river and every so often stopping for a photo opportunity when the background scenery was particularly spectacular.

Joe was such an open and honest man you could not help but like him, he was funny, knowledgeable and full of anecdotes that would keep a dinner party amused for weeks. For the first time on the holiday I found myself genuinely enjoying someone else's company other than Diane & Frank. He was interested in me and asked questions - mainly about Diane when she was younger, how long we had known each other and the nature of our relationship. When I explained how close we are and what we think of each other he simply agreed and said that it was the way of things when people are so close to each other they consider themselves family.

We were moving up hill again and Joe was explaining to me about standing up in the stirrups when the horse cantered and along about a minute later on a dirt track road that bent over to the left and up a hill he shouted over his shoulder to stand up and lean in as the horse will want to let go a bit; then he was off at a full gallop. So was I. I have heard of the expression "the horse bolted" but never experienced it. I had now... Dakota went from canter to full gallop in about a second following Joe up the hill, stretching its legs out and accelerating away. I began to bounce in the stirrups, I also realised I would never be able to have children and I also realised I was in danger of going arse-over-tip if Dakota stopped suddenly. I remembered to grip on to the shoulders with my thighs and hold the reigns loosely in my left hand - never hold the pommel, never hold the pommel, never hold the pommel - I was standing up as far as I could and using my right arm to balance myself. I was, in fact, beginning to enjoy myself. I saw ahead that Joe was slowing down and reigned Dakota in as I was shown, Dakota slowed to a canter then a trot and eventually stopped a few yards ahead of Joe. My legs ached, my heart was racing, I was sweating but I felt exhilarated.

We rode down into a valley and crossed a river, stopping to let the horses drink - one thing I did realise is that when a horse wants to eat, drink, urinate or defecate no amount of clicking, kicks or saying "C'mon horsey" will make it move. Although Diane was against the idea - still complaining about her horse - Joe led us to the track, a flat piece of scrub and grassland when over the years an oval circuit had been worn down and allows the horses to gallop to their hearts content. We stopped again for a photo opportunity and I noticed that the scenery looked like we were in the middle of nowhere (we were) and that with very little signs of human occupation it would not take much imagination to believe you were in the frontier and that just round the corner John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart & Gary Cooper were riding along the trail we had followed, with Doris Day behind then singing "The Deadwood Stage".

On the track the horses galloped and again I was enjoying myself. Being flat grass and scrub the horses and Dakota in particular relished the gallop and exercise and the adrenaline rush of speed and the fear of falling off was thrilling.

But then Diane fell off... spectacularly... Well, when I say fell I mean she was launched over the crest of the horse and bounced a couple of times in the scrub, knocking the wind out of her and bruising her bum. I was worried, Diane was embarrassed and Joe was annoyed at her; berating her for using the English saddle. I could tell the banter between then was friendly as Joe conspired to tell me (loudly) that it wasn't the first time she had fallen and probably wouldn't be the last. Leaving Diane to rest on her horse, Joe took me out on to the track again and made Dakota gallop, he didn't ask if I wanted to gallop. We galloped and I finally got used to the movement of the horse and realised that I could enjoy this on a regular basis - however I don't think riding schools in the UK would allow me to do what Joe was making me do, first time on a horse, minimal instruction and full blown gallop. I can hear the bleeding heart liberal health and safety nazis tapping their self-righteous clipboards now. People like Joe are refreshing; they expect you to enjoy yourself; you know the risks and you have signed a waiver - after than I suppose anything goes. It is a lot more fun.

After a while Diane rejoined us having regained her wind and we headed back to the corral, all the while chatting and laughing, avoiding low branches and looking out for other people. We made it back and as I got down of the horse (slipped and rolled, not realising how tall horses are) I walked about to ease the muscle tension and - yes - I walked like John Wayne. Diane quietly let me know that Joe expected us to sit for a while, chat and have a drink with him. Of course, I agreed. We had plenty of time to meet Frank and to be honest I enjoyed Joe's company and wasn't looking forward to sitting in a bar.

To describe Joe's setup is to describe living at it's most basic. The corral consisted of a parked and fully plumbed Winnebago where Joe lived and worked, the enclosures for the horses including basic stables, a tent set out in the style of the 7th Army circa the American Civil War containing memorabilia from the late 19th and early 20th century, a enclosed cooking fire, flag pole and a newly constructed pagoda that contained a fridge doubling as a mini bar and a barbeque arrangement for cook-outs and hog-roasts. There is a lean-to containing hay and oats for the horses, a telegraph pole that linked Joe to the outside world, a shed holding all the detritus required to care for and ride horses and all this residing in a clearing in the middle of a forest in the Catskill Mountains. You look around and you understand why Joe is such an easy going and happy man, in the spring, summer & most of autumn months he teaches horseriding and arranges horse-trekking and in the winter months he is a skiing instructor. From our conversations he admitted that he was due a lump sum payment from the Army are being disabled out and that this lump sum would be back-dated to 2002, enough for him to buy a condominium in a ski resort and live off the proceeds whilst still being a ski instructor and horseman.

Joe cracked open a Hieneken for him & me, and a diet coke for Diane who was driving. We laughed, chatted, shot the breeze & listened to more of his anecdotes. I explained I was visiting the USA for the first time because of my landmark birthday celebration and Joe lent behind the bar and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels and two shot glasses, I initially refused but he was insistent and poured out a generous shot of JD - no ice, no water, no mixer - he toasted my good health and we sank our shots. It's been years since I drank JD and I haven't done it seriously since I was a student, the sweetness of the taste in your mouth followed by the shudder as you swallow and then the heat of your breath that makes your eyes water. Down in one and the slammed the glass upside down on the counter surface, to which Joe informed me meant that someone was buying me a drink and I didn't need the barman to refill my shot - I never knew that... So, in good spirits Joe refilled my glass as he was buying me a drink and we toasted old and new friends - again, down in one. Another bottle of beer made a surprise appearance. More laughing, chatting, and a quick review of the photographs taken that day. I felt as welcome and at home as I did when I was sat in Diane's front room and I also felt happy for Diane because here was another friend she had in America, it made me worry less about her being lonely - which is surprising stupid of me because she's lived in America since the early 90's. The bottle of JD came out again & for the last time as I opened my third beer, this time toasting the Queen. Once finished, and more stories relayed of Diane and her horseriding capabilities & her exploits in college - a prid quo pro situation between Joe & I - we were reluctantly informed by Diane that it was time to head home to meet Frank in the bar; we stank of horse & whiskey; we were battered & bruised; we were tired and stiff; but we were also happy.

Joe & I made our farewells and we headed back to Carmel to freshen up and head back out to the bar.

We were running late as usual as Frank's more and more frantic calls attested to, but we eventually returned to the house and had just enough time to change clothes, wash our faces and get back out. It was time to visit a genuine roadside bar and sample New York State nightlife - which differs from NYC nightlife of course.

Day Five - Their Nation's Capital... on a Segway

Day five or my adventure dawns and I rise out of my bed - hungover for some reason - to a hammering on my motel room door. Both Diane & Frank are up and feeling bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready to march around the Nations Capital, take in the sights, visit the White House and steal the Declaration of Independence... sorry, no wait. That was Nicholas Cage. I receive a text from Diane informing me that they are breaking their fast in the motel dining area and I am advised to join them presently, so I perform my morning ablutions & smoke my first cigarette of the day, then head off - still slightly fuzzy - for some scram & coffee.

The all American Breakfast. All you can shovel into your overused mush in one sitting. Cereal, toast (warm bread) but no marmite, fruit salad, fruit juice, coffee, English tea, make your own waffles, pancakes, jam, marmalade... I am not totally surprised that the USA has the highest proportion of obesity in the world given the vast amount of food they consume and the general unhealthiness of the food available. The dichotomy of the USA still amazes me; one the one hand there is the health conscious, image conscious seek for perfection portrayed by the media where no-one is ugly; on the other there is the reality of the vast number of fast food restaurants, huge portions, greasy food, and a fat & ugly populace brought up on a diet of burgers, franks & pizza; there is the image of nation as the most powerful and advance in Western Society, yet most of the population are so poorly educated they could not find their bums with both hands and a map; the idea of the Great American Dream were a man can achieve anything and will rise up through merit, but unless you can trace your heritage back to the Mayflower or your great-grandparents made their money in cotton, slaves, oil or molasses you can never rise all the way to the top - but more of that discussion later after we have had a look around the city.

Our journey from the State of Virginia to the District of Colombia is fraught as we hit the end of rush hour traffic but Diane's trusty Sat-Nav does her proud and we end up just a few blocks north west of the White House in an underground car park that offers excellent rates of only one of Frank's testicles as a down payment on parking the car there until 6:00pm. The sun is out, the sky is blue and it is hot already and only 10:30am (ish) with the forecast for it to get hotter... rapturous joy! It is at this point that Diane hits us with another one of her brilliant ideas - a segway tour of Washington DC. Digging out the ever present Blackberry (iPhones are far cooler) over a Starbucks & restroom break she Googles segway tours of Washington and after one false start (yes ma'am. We offer 3 tours a day. You can find us at... We have no places available today) we find a two-hour tour of the capital (i.e. the main bits, not the whole city) with the aptly named Segs In The City and book in for 2:00pm.

We have a few hours to kill before then so decided to wander over to the Spy Museum but that has a huge queue full of school children so we give it a miss and as Diane commented, she can always come back at later date, I won't be able to. We wander around for a few blocks looking at the buildings and trying to stay in the shade as it is getting hotter by the day. We turn a corner and there is the FBI Building - Mulder & Scully are in the basement - sitting in the middle of the city like a huge toilet wall, very reminiscent of the Arndale Centre in Manchester as it was before the bombing by the IRA. On each comer there is a FBI Police shed containing at least two armed officers who are extremely polite but very vigilant in the duty, we snap off a few photographs and I notice that we are being watched intently by the guards on the nearest corner so, as nonchalantly as possible, I walk over to them and ask if I can have my picture taken with the two of them in front of the FBI Building. Unfortunately they refuse, stating it was not possible, however they are still very polite and we quickly make an exit around the corner of the block. Here is the front entrance and Diane snaps of a couple of quick shots with me stood on the side of the road and a backdrop of the building and some FBI Police cars.

A quick sprint across the road and we end up and the Federal Triangle - a series of roads that contain all the government offices in one area - at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue which is, as you may know, the most famous street in America. We wander past the old Post Office, the Ronald Regan Building and cross the road to approach the White House.

Now that sounds easier than it actually was. To get to the White House you had to negotiate a busy road, dodge the CMOT Dibblers selling tourist tat, wind your way through a series of concrete barriers, pass as nonchalantly as possible the heavily armed police officers, negotiate more concrete barriers & gates, pass the Marines and then you can see - in the far distance - the familiar facade of the White House behind a heavy metal fence and quite possible marksman hiding in the bushes just in case you managed to smuggle an RPG in your bag.

Built between 1792 & 1800 from a design by James Hoban and expanded on the orders of George Washington because it originally did not seem a palatial as befitting the President of the Americas. The first encumbered was John Adams in 1801 and it was burned down by the British in 1814 and had to be rebuilt. It has housed all but one of the Presidents since then.

Again, the familiarity of the building itself is quite scare although I am used to seeing it either with a huge alien spacecraft hovering above it or decimated by a tidal wave or even in ruins as Jenny Agutter and Michael York try to find Sanctuary. It was difficult to get any decent photographs from the railings as half of Washington DC had descended on this particular position - and why not as it is a representation & the official domicile of the President of the United States - but did they have to keep walking into shot or just knock your arm when you've set up the perfectly framed photograph? There isn't really that much to see from this angle of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue so we decided to make our way down to the Washington Monument and have a look at that instead.

Following a quick rest stop whilst Frank replenished his blood sugar we made are way across Memorial Park and up the hill to the Washington Monument. With its raised elevation and central location the impressive obelisk stands 555ft & 5 1/8 inches with a capping of aluminum at its tip. It was originally conceived as a monument in 1848 when work began but was not finished to due financial constraints & the American Civil War until 1884, this led to different marble being used above 150ft and the shading is clearly visible. When finished it was the highest structure in the world but soon surpassed by the Eiffel Tower in 1889. The obelisk is a hell of a lot larger than it looks from the Lincoln Memorial and from the raised elevation you see the actual distance from the Reflecting Pool and the brilliance of the architects vision which makes the optical illusion from the view of the Lincoln Memorial even more impressive.

Again, happy snapping time and - to my surprise - I meet a couple from Manchester... but not England, apparently there is a Manchester in New Hampshire. After stopping and chatting we head back into the Federal Triangle, have a quick bite to eat in a mall and arrive at Segs in the City for our whistle stop tour of the capital on segways.

And now for something completely different.

After a brief demonstration from our Aussie guide and tour operator - including many near misses and potential prat falls - we headed off on what was a thoroughly enjoyable experience. Segways are a two-wheeled electrical self-balancing propulsion vehicles introduced in 2001 and use gyroscopes, motors and computer chips to balance & move the vehicle. We leaned forward to go forward, back to slow down & stop, and then leaned left or right according to which direction we wanted to turn, they are almost telepathic! The four of us (including the tour guide) whizzed through the pedestrians at a startling 5 - 10 mph on the pavements and used the disabled ramp access on street crossings to cross intersections. It was one of the most enjoyable ways to travel I had found to date.

The tour was expansive, taking in Department of the Treasury, the National Archives, the Media Museums & Canadian Embassy and on up to Constitutional Hill and the Capital Building. All the while our Aussie tour guide giving us the history of the buildings and firing questions at us - if we wanted to stop for a few minutes & chat about certain buildings or their contents he was quite content to let us ramble on. He was funny and informative and even I knew (guessed) some the answers, however the name of President who appointed the first woman to a cabinet post was a wild stab in the dark at FDR. We posed for photographs outside the Capital Building (see the photo) and whizzed around the grounds, receiving more and more information from the seemingly bottomless pit of trivia our guide possessed.

From Capitol Hill we followed the path of the offices for the members of Congress and Senate, passed the Supreme Court - and stopped here for a discussion on the current debates of the overturning of Rowe -v- Wade (i.e. a woman's right to chose abortion) and the death penalty as Cruel & Unusual Punishment. We then moved on back behind Capitol Hill and on to the front entrance to the White House, much to the Diane's joy as we had a view of the West Wing (the adminstration buildings in the White House) and home to the Oval Office - which was a surprise to me because I though the Oval Office was situated in the White House itself - and posed for more photos and a quick video.

After a little more chat we headed back, sunburned and sore from standing on the segways for over a couple of hours. After a brief rest stop to rehydrate, we head back to the car - dissect Frank to pay for the parking and drive into Georgetown for a bite to eat before the journey home...

... and we don't get stuck on Dupont Circle unlike Annette Benning in American President (a cultural reference for our female readers there). We find a lovely little French Bistro in Georgetown, refresh ourselves and then begin the long ride back to Carmel, NY, eventually getting home about 2:00am and falling into bed.

Another hectic day of adventure.

Day Four - Washington DC Road Trip & My first Chili Dog

Today I am 40 years old... What am I going to do on this monumental birthday? A day when - it used to be said when you had a family in your early twenties - life begins at (because, theoretically your children had left home by the time you are 40). Although this only seems to be the case if you are from a sink estate in Essex and are a regular guest on the Jeremy Kyle show or other such White Trash programmes. What have Diane & Frank got planned for me today?

Roadtrip! RoadTrip! Roadtrip! Roadtrip!

Actually, it is our scheduled visit of two days in Washington DC - the Nation's Capital. A 300 mile drive (there or thereabouts) that is going to take us a good few hours to get too (5 hours and 15 minutes according to Google Earth) across several states and numerous county lines.

It was a long trip...

...

... that was only interrupted by my first chili dog at the equivalent of a motorway service station somewhere on the new Jersey Turnpike. An experience I can only say that I would not like to repeat. They look like roadkill and - I would assume - taste no better. As well as the crossing of the Delaware River - made famous by George Washington.

We arrived at our motel that was just in the state of Virginia around 5:00pm and decided to have a rest for an hour or so before heading out to visit the Memorials by twilight.

I have to admit that the Lincoln Memorial is a inspiring building, the overly familiar statue of President Lincoln looking almost regal & benign surveying the populace that come to grace this hallowed hall with almost beatific countenance. It is a reverential place - a celebration of everything that is potentially good in the United States of America - in memory of one of the most visionary & determined leaders the country had. On either side of the statue are inscriptions of his most famous speeches, The Gettysburg Address, and his second inaugural speech as President of the United States - more inspiring than The Gettysburg Address and it was given just days before the formal end of the American Civil War and instead of being full of jingoism and sabre rattling at the impending victory of the southern state he speaks of the sadness and loss that the conflict has brought the nation and his ultimate belief that all men are created equal under the eyes of God regardless of race, creed or colour.

Unfortunately the reverential atmosphere is completely lost on the herds of high school children and bus-loads of overweight & badly dressed American tourists who flocked to the Memorial at night and overwhelm the building with their inane chattering, loud reciting of the speeches and general bad manners to fellow visitors.

Sitting on the steps of the Memorial Frank and I had a discussion on what Lincoln represents to the USA and its people. To Frank it was about power; who had it and who wanted it. To me it was about belief; all men are created equal. I think both points or view are valid, however I am inclined to think that Lincoln was a man of principal and not power - well, that's the fantasy anyway.

All in all, the Lincoln Memorial is one of the representations of the good the USA could do - as with the wording of on the Statue of Liberty. It depicts a purity of thought that is lost in today's society. It is a refreshing change to the Americana that the world is subjected to on a daily basis - a forcing of culture (or lack thereof) on the world - and a bullying mentality that will eventually be its downfall.

I am glad I took the time to visit it - it reignited my faith in the human condition.

The Washington Monument - an obelisk of granite - lies directly a head of the Lincoln Memorial and the optical illusion of the Reflecting Pool (I was tempted to run through the pool shouting "Forrest! Forrest!") is very clever. I was sat on the same steps where Dr Martin Luther King Jr gave his most famous speech following the "March on Washington" in August 1963 - almost 100 years after the end of the American Civil War and the abolition of slavery under the Thirteenth Amendment of the Constitution of the United States of America (an amendment that was not formally ratified by the state of Kentucky until 1970 and the state of Mississippi until 1995). It is difficult to believe that the civil rights of some individuals are still abused in the United States based upon their skin colour - it may not be common knowledge but it still happens in some of the southern states.

As the Memorial Park become too crowded with over enthusiastic Americans we decided to retire for the evening and find somewhere to eat. With Frank repeatedly telling us we were no longer in New York and these provincial towns will shut a 10:00pm - he is such a New Yorker - we drove to Georgetown, a north west suburb of Washington DC and reputedly a rather high end and fashionable place to eat (according to Diane). We parked, walked a while in the oppressive heat - did I tell you DC is built on a swamp? No? Well if you don't like humidity & midges the I would suggest you avoid it. Eventually finding a Sushi restaurant where I would be celebrating my 40th birthday in style over some warm sake.

Ah, sushi - Diane & Frank's favourite food and something I had not tasted sober before.

Not an experience I want to repeat either as it seems to be a acquired taste and I generally like my food to be hot and I am able to name the animal it came from in at least 1 out 3 occasions. The nearest experience I can get to it is when I was very young my brother thought it would be a good idea to force my head into a rock pool at the seaside and make me eat the contents - it tasted exactly like that rock pool... I endured it for Diane and promised to give it another go when I returned to Blighty.

After being ejected from the restaurant at about 11:00pm we absconded to an faux Irish Bar & I preceded to drink Guinness like there was no tomorrow to get the taste of the bloody sushi from my throat - it worked too... eventually... I was chatted to a very nice black woman who loved my accent and graciously allowed me to cadge cigarettes from her, I eyed up some DC hotties that came into the bar from whatever high powered federal job they did (tea making, photocopying, type & file) and eventually dragged back to the car an locked in my room until morning.

Day two of our adventure in the Nations Capital was going to be a busy one...

Day Three - Manhattan, it is actually quite large you know...

This is it, the day I have been waiting for. All the years of watching television and cinema - the most photographed city in the world and the scene of the greatest terrorist atrocity ever witnessed - I was finally going to have a wander around Manhattan Island. I was very curious as to what I would feel about the City That Never Sleeps; the familiarity of the buildings; the feel of the streets; the sound of the city; the look of the people; the taste of the hot dogs.

It is only about an hours drive from where I was staying and the the time difference was still upsetting my body clock but I was surprisingly excited by the journey in. Jumping into Diane's Nissan (this time, as Frank wouldn't risk the Mustang in NYC and after a while I couldn't blame him) we were on our way. I'll forgo the commentary on our conversations during all the trips, one thing I did discover is that everything in the USA is considerably further away than you think and conversation becomes limited after a while - thank you to 92.3 K-Rock (The Rock of New York) and the iPod plug-in! Needless to say Diane & I caught up with each other and I learned more about Frank because I'd only ever met him one before when he came to the UK many years ago.

Anyway, impressions of the Manhattan skyline from the George Washington Bridge? Amazing. Although you do feel like something is really missing when you see it. The WTC Twin Towers were such an imposing sight on photographs and even though it had been 7 years since the atrocities the image of the towers and the sight of them falling leaves a deep impression on you. But more about that later, when I visit Ground Zero. Driving in to the city I did have to laugh at an NY PD station in Queens that was right next door to a Dunkin' Doughnut shop.

The skyline is impressive and I have to say I was blown away by the sight of it all in one go. From the Empire State Building to the Chrysler Building. It is a very awe inspiring sight. But once we got into Manhattan the fun really begins. Just don't talk to me about traffic! How the hell do people drive in there? Why do they bother? I can see why more people decide to take Subway because I don't think I would trust a New York Taxi Cab. Maniacs. Absolute psychopaths on the road, with our fear or guilt about who they cut up and then the pull out. Hats off to Diane, if I was driving I would not have moved more than a block or two before abandoning the car in the middle of the road and waiting for it to be towed away.

We eventually made it through town to the area new the Empire State Building - a surprise to me because it is not in what they call Downtown - and found private off-road parking for a reasonable price of one of my kidneys and Diane's left arm. We wandered around a few blocks so I could take in the sights, smells and noise of the city although I was told that New Yorkers do not (1) walk on the subway gratings and do a Marilyn Monroe, (2) bump into people unless they want to get sued (3) raise their heads above shoulder level to look at the buildings. So this marked me out as a tourist immediately.

Because of the height of all the buildings in Manhattan you fail to get a real sense of scale with anything - yes everything is bigger in the USA but that does not necessarily make it better - however when you turn the corner of a block and see the Empire State Building for the first time you cannot fail to be impressed. It stands out like an art deco behemoth, 1,453 feet & 8 9/16 inches or 443.20 metres tall and 102 storeys with the antennae on top, completed in 1931 and on a clear day you are able to see the states of New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Connecticut and Massachusetts from the outside observation deck. But not one mention in all the literature that it was actually constructed by the Dalek Cult of Skaro - the only Daleks to ever have names (Dalek Cann, Jast, Sek & Thay) - you would think it was common knowledge wouldn't you?

The building itself is undergoing restoration in the common areas and queuing seemed to be the order of the day, although we had pre-paid for tickets over the Internet so our queue time was dramatically reduced. But our bags were searched and we were x-rayed (something I eventually got used to, as well as ensuring I carried my passport around with me at all time just in case some NY PD cop thought I looked like a terrorist) and having our mandatory official picture taken on a green screen back drop which, when you think about it, is also a good money earner for unsuspecting red-necks and a handy security measure as EVERYONE had to "pose" for the photograph (available at the exit for seventeen bucks a pop). Then there was the elevator to the 82nd floor, beautifully art deco crafted; another queue and chance to flog some merchandise, and then to elevator to the 86th floor outdoor observation deck.

Much has been written already about the view from the observation deck - it has been featured in many movies, notably Sleepless in Seattle - but the view is impressive and you appreciate the scale of the whole of Manhattan Island which is a lot larger than you think. From looking north to Central Park, Park Avenue and the rich people, to looking east towards the other art deco beauty The Chrysler Building, then west towards New Jersey and south towards Downtown, the WTC site and the Statue of Liberty. We happy snapped for an hour in between the bustle of the crowds some of whom annoyingly using the audio tour headphones and as such were crowed in different corners at different times whilst some unknown, yet fingers down a blackboard, voice intoned the various facts & figures, views and opinions on the building and the observable cityscape. I was surprised to find that Frank - almost a native New Yorker - had only been up the Empire State Building once or twice in his life and always as a part of some school tour. I suppose that when one lives with such a familiar landmark all their life the familiarity reduces it to the background and something you never really think about.

Anyway, we had a 3:00pm appointment with the Liberty Island Ferry and a trip to the most iconic monument in American history - the Statue of Liberty.

Another chase through Manhattan following Broadway all the way down to Battery Park. A white knuckle ride of jumping lanes, turning right on red, avoiding pedestrians, stop-start clutch grating never out of first gear driving by Diane who took it all in her stride with me whimpering in the passenger seat still feeling awkward with the realisation that I should have a steering wheel in front of me in this seat. Another hunt for private parking and the realisation that I can't give my other kidney so it will have to be my spleen this time so we can afford to park - should have used the subway or risked (I can't believe I am actually saying this) a taxi cab. But we made it, with time to spare and a good job too because the queue for the 3 o'clock ferry was horrendous; more queuing, more security, take your shoes off, take your belt off, waddle through this x-ray machine and try not to let you jeans fall to your knees; mill around in a seething mass of bodies mixing it with the great American unwashed to then be herded onto the ferry like cows into the slaughter house, run up the gangway,fight through the crowd to get a good view, find a seat and relax...

I am ready for a 15 minute ferry ride across the mouth of the Hudson River on a rickety old boat and I get seasick very easily - not one of my brightest requests for a sightseeing visit. But, once again, the Manhattan skyline makes me realise it was all worth it. Even more impressive from the sea the skyline appears slowly as the ferry pulls away from Battery Park to Liberty Island and once again I fail to grasp the size of Manhattan as Liberty Island is a lot further out into Hudson Bay than you imagine from movies and television. There is no sense of perspective on the screen that can quite match actually being there in the flesh, so to speak. Statten Island, Ellis Island (not going there today as it doesn't really interest me), the New Jersey shore line and the industrial docklands that make you remember that New York is a seaport are all visible to you as the ferry approaches from the north side of the island, skirts around to the south side and gives you an impressive view of Liberty herself before docking at the wooden jetty and being herded off again like cattle.

"Bring me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, temptest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Designed and built by the French in 1886 (no wonder the bronze has tarnished - you can never trust anything built by the French) The Statue of Liberty in the epitome of the United States of America and the great American Dream were anything is possible for anyone who wants to live in the Land of the Free. But sadly turned into a tourist trap and what once was true in the scripture is no longer true today and the only people welcome in America are people who are born in America, to American parents, worshipping the American God of Christian Fundamentalism - all other races can please queue at the gates & hopefully get a job in the black economy cleaning your house.

But, I digress... as usual.

Tickets were sold out to go into the statue itself but according to Frank it wasn't that an impressive tour anyway so we made do with wandering around Liberty Island and having a well earned snooze and happy snap session - some tourist shots, some arty shots and some genuinely weird shots of hisidic Jewish hats and park rangers on segways. The souvenir store was suitably tacky and the food kiosks looked suitably inedible and harbours of e-coli & salmonella so we ignored our hunger pangs and waited until we were back on the mainland. Then, herded back to the ferry because the Island was closing (it was 4:30pm - in the City that never sleeps), we mooed, baaed and clucked our way up the jetty and tried not to get into the queue for the Statten Island ferry, but to grab a decent stop to get more happy snap views of the Island as we left and more photos of the approaching Manhattan and Battery Park.

Disembark; Force your way through the throng; remember who your boat buddy was; congregate in a known area; eat your first hot dog off a street vendor; look around Battery Park; laugh at the unemployed actors pretending to be "living statues"; ogle the hot NYC women & try to snap a picture off before they realise; walk past a memorial to the WTC; find the car; go to eat...

More terror on the roads as we try to find a camera store; left at the side of the road by your best friend as they try to find another place to park; hang around on a street corner looking as inconspicuous as possible. Shop; Coffee in Starbucks; decided where we are going to eat; Back in the car; White knuckles; Off to Greenwich Village (again); wander around looking for a suitable restaurant; order what Frank orders (a burger - medium, hold the relish) and relax and enjoy Greenwich Village at night.

Greenwich Village, the coolest address in Manhattan and a very bohemian feel to it; lots of boutiques selling vintage clothes, cafe bars and restaurants, bars and clubs. Once again I notice the American attitude to customer service and have a long discussion with Frank of the nature of forced tipping after a meal regardless of whether you enjoyed it or not. We wander around Washington Square (I am Legend) and take in a few bars, the local beer is awful and I tend to stick to Guinness - smoking is not allowed in public buildings so I strike up conversations with random strangers who are attracted to my "funny British" accent and are fellow lepers in the Land of the Free. No numbers are exchanged but goodwill prevails and best wishes are given and received as I notice is has gone midnight and I am 40 years old...

Time to retire and a long drive home - more to follow on my birthday and the Nation's Capital is calling for our presence. Another busy day ahead of us... will Diane let my feet touch the ground?