British Columbia: strangely like England

So...there's quite a lot to catch up on from my last blog, which documents a time which already seems far more than just five days ago. I'm writing this sitting in a Seattle coffee house, drinking exceptionally good cappucino, surrounded by hot, intellectually bearded men (apologies to the Major at this point, but they are). All around me are my goods and chattels, which have mysteriously expanded over the past few days. The bearded man to my left (mac laptop, ipod, book, fedora next to him on the table, making complicated looking calculations on a piece of paper) just looked over and raised his eyebrows as I pulled off my outermost layer to add to the general chaos.

I've just got off the boat after an overnight stay on Vancouver Island. A solo trip, characterised primarily by my overwhelming exhaustion, brought on by a 6am start and one of the worst nights sleep I've ever had in the stinking fetid hole of a dorm room in the Green Tortoise hostel. Olivia, you see, had skipped town to attend the wedding which was her primary reason for coming out here, and I was left on my tod for a few days.

So, after an afternoon spent in this very cafe, enjoying the atmosphere, the warmth and the men, followed by a whistlestop tour around Seattle's underground and a quick trip to the art gallery, I eventually laid my plans. I would get up early on Saturday morning, tootle down to the docks and try and get on the 7.30am journey to Victoria, returning on Sunday.

Accordingly, I staggered to the ferry port and hopped on.

British Columbia is totally unlike Seattle, and more totally unlike America than I would have expected. Admittedly I was only there for a day. But other than the cars on the right of the road and the dollar currency, it was almost exactly like being back in England. I spoke to the Major on the way over and told him where I was going. "Oh right, what's that like?" he asked. "I'm not entirely sure," I admitted, "but I'm expecting it to be a bit like going to the Isle of Wight."

And I was pretty much right. There was the harbour, filled with sailing boats bobbing perkily in the breeze. There was the imposing grand hotel, the Empress, overlooking the harbour. The weather was about the same as a nice British summer's day: sunny but cool. There were union jacks everywhere (British Columbia, remember). And later on that evening, walking back from the cinema (Robin Hood, moderately ok), it was just like any British high street on a Saturday night. All most peculiar: not entirely unpleasant, but made me realise how little, actually, I miss England.

Anyway, tonight we're off to Portland, and I still have to write about the bears but that will have to wait, as we've got to go and pick up our hire car. Over and out....

California here we come

I wrote this blog four nights ago, but haven't had a chance to post it yet. So here it is!

It’s 10.30pm. I’m not sure what the exact temperature is, but I can’t feel my left forefinger and I can see my breath. I’m sitting up in bed, wearing my leather jacket zipped right up to my neck, pyjamas and thick woollen socks. The only thing protecting me from the elements is a canvas roof and a tenuously strung canvas curtain. Outside, my food: cheerios, milk and tea, bread and peanut butter, is locked into a bear proof cabin.

I am in Yosemite National Park with my friend Olivia. We are possibly the worst prepared campers ever. All around us are groups of people bundled up in high tech outdoor gear, sitting around campfires which they have kindled themselves, probably by striking a flint on a rock. Mostly, they are sitting at special camping tables, eating hearty meals with proper cutlery.

We have the aforementioned bag of breakfast provisions, and two plastic spoons, which we nicked from a petrol station at the bottom of the mountain. We have no special camping gear. We have no frying pans, no bowls, no kettle in which to boil water for our tea. We don’t even have enough clothes to keep us warm, which is why we are currently huddled up together in the quite small double bed.

Nevertheless, we are on day one of an exciting road trip, which will last two weeks and take in the sights of northern California. I hope to be updating my blog daily with our exploits. That’s if I don’t die of hypothermia overnight.

I believe I have blogged on these pages about the High Noon Saloon: Leavenworth's premier night out, complete with micro brewery and karaoke. Anyway, it was my birthday two days ago, and what better place to celebrate? I will say at this point that I never meant to get up on stage three times; once should have been enough - but give me a microphone and a stage and I'm off.

There are always some interesting acts at the Noon. It has its regulars - some good, some not so. There's the skinny Elvis impersonator, who always turns up in a full-on, rhinestone encrusted white Elvis suit, apparently oblivious of the fact that, at approximately 90 pounds, he's not really beefy enough to fill the King's shoes. But he croons away, and isn't too bad, actually. Then there's the sweet older lady, who must be well into her sixties, who clutches the microphone as if she were drowning and warbles out old time favourites in a slightly off-key manner - endearing, but painful. Last night we saw one of my favourite performers. He seems to be channelling a mixture of Jesus and anarchist for his look: he is immensely tall, immensely skinny, and has a moustache and beard and long hair which he always wears tucked up into a slouchy beanie. He usually sports jeans and a hoody which hang off his lank frame, although last night he appeared in a full suit: charcoal grey, complete with waistcoat and brown shoes. His girlfriend, meanwhile, is generally in some kind of retro getup from around the 1940s - last night she was wearing a floor-length ballgown, with a long evening coat over the top. Her breasts always spill abundantly out of whatever she is wearing.

Anyway, the beardy one, after mooching round the bar for however long, will always, when it gets to his turn, leap athletically onto the stage, grab the microphone and start bellowing out some hardcore heavy metal song. Last night it was something which had the lyrics "fuck the president, fuck the president" repeated many times. His girlfriend, meanwhile, stares adoringly from the floor, mouthing gently along with whatever lyrics her love is belting out. Afterwards, they repair to a side room where they play cards - I like to think it is some old-fashioned, Victorian-style game. They are quite adorably in love, and have, on occasion, performed a duet, clutching each other all the while, and singing something retro and schmaltzy. I believe he is the son of some Army major out here, who obviously kept far too tight a rein on his son, who has now broken free of the parental chain and is pursuing his own path. And good on him, say I. I don't feel scared around him: he's clearly getting all his anger out on stage which is much healthier than taking a gun and shooting people.

Having neglected my blog for several days, we have now got to the point where David Cameron is the new PM. Nice. Even nicer that he is supported by Nick Clegg, my personal politician of choice. I think.

Anyway, it is interesting to see the American reaction to the British election. While most of my Facebook friends seemed to be bemoaning the ridiculousness of the British system, hung parliament, it'll never work, etc etc, I heard a news report yesterday, from a political commentator holding up our system as an admirable demonstration of democracy: two parties working together and "quietly getting on with it". It made me quite proud to be British.

Woke today, groggy, to a hung parliament. Stayed up until after midnight last night watching the BBC, hoping to go to bed to a new governmental situation. Needless to say, we didn't.

Yesterday was a fairly eventful day. We had decided to hold an election party and invite various Brits, plus interested Europeans round for a barbecue and to watch the elections via iplayer plugged into the TV. At 12 noon, we arrived home from a provisions shop to find a note stuck in our front door informing us that our electricity had been switched off because we had apparently failed to pay our bill (n.b the backwardness of the situation here means that even if you make an online bank transfer, it doesn't go straight through - instead, the bank sends a physical cheque to the intended recipient for them to pay in. It's not exactly a swift process). Cue a long, frustrating telephone call involving not being able to speak to a human being and having to hand over my credit card details to an automaton. The Major took over the situation, and eventually managed to make human contact. Would our electricity be switched back on today? Only if they could manage to get someone out, he was told. This was unlikely, and we would probably have to wait until tomorrow afternoon (i.e. today). 17 people coming for dinner and no electricity. Mon dieu.

Luckily, I am married to a quick-thinking man who spun them a story involving untruths I won't detail here. At 4.45pm, someone turned up and switched it back on. Ad hour later, the first of our guests arrived.

We were hoping, as I said, to be able to watch the whole thing and toddle off to bed. But when, by 12.30am, no definitive result had been made, we gave up.

This morning I am feeling a) exhausted and b) increasingly irritated that I am apparently one of the many overseas voters 'denied' their vote. I sent off for my ballot paper weeks ago - a fact I wrote about here - but didn't get any sort of communication through until the end of last week - far too late to get my vote in on time.

If the powers that be want a genuinely democratic government, they're going to have to get a bit more organised. Be prepared for queues, for one thing, and organise some sort of system for Brits abroad that doesn't involve relying on the vagaries of international postal systems. We have secure online banking, surely there must be some way of setting up online voting? It might help at home too - the so-called apathetic youth of today might simply find it too complicated to take half a day - or an entire day - off work to go and queue at their local polling station. Open to fraud yes, but at least everyone with an internet connection could vote, and the wonks would have to think of some way round the fraud aspect.

Most Americans round here seem to be oblivious of the furore currently going on in the UK. They're more concerned that the Dow dropped almost 1000 points yesterday because of the Greek fiasco. Interesting times.