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...