So since I last posted, we've done Dallas (so to speak - not in the 'Debbie does it' kind of way), met a cowboy poet, recorded a song in Studio B in Nashville where Elvis recorded all of his Grammy Award-winning hits (I'll be storming up the charts soon, no doubt), lost one photographer (not by accident, he was flying home), gained a new one and have now wound up in Indianapolis.
This morning, through, we met a complete nutter. He was called Tom, and was convinced that he was one day going to turn the rusting hulk of what was once a plane into a house. This despite the fact that he's had it since 2003 and nothing much has happened. "We live in our imaginations," his slightly creepy non-paid work buddy Tim told us, with a strange high-pitched giggle. Too right you do mate. Let's not forget that this guy is working on a lot right in the middle of a military base, where just down the road is a rehabilitation centre for mentally damaged soldiers. Bound to be a bit of paranoia flying round there. Sure enough, after about five minutes, he said, "so there are 82 Sharia law courts in the UK now?" "Er, don't think so," I replied. "But they want Sharia law, don't they?" "Well, possibly, but there's a big difference between wanting something and getting it." "That's good," he muttered. Argh! As I said, a bit of a nutter.
But I warmed to him and his crazy ideas, and I wish him luck on his venture. I'd love to see a plane that was a house, mounted on a weathervane like he wants to do. I fear I never will, but I won't tell him that.
Then we got to Indianapolis. Petrol head city. Full of crazy drivers. One of the first we saw was a bloke reading the Koran, while talking on his cell phone...while driving. One side of his car was completely bashed in, perhaps not suprisingly. Then we saw a pimped up SUV with a sound system so loud the whole vehicle was actually shaking. Can't wait to see what tomorrow will bring.
Friday 27 August 2010
Tuesday 24 August 2010
The road trip, continued...
I've been on the the road with the Ford Fiesta World Tour for three days now, and already I've lost all sense of time. Ask me where I am and I probably couldn't tell you. Today when I was doing a video blog I had to retake it three times because I kept forgetting where I was filming from.
Nevertheless, it's actually quite fun. OK, so the 6am starts and midnight bedtimes aren't great, and driving for seven hours in a Ford Fiesta doesn't rank as one of the world's most orgasmic experiences, but I like the people I'm travelling with and we're forming a fun little team. As the only girl, I am like a little pet for the boys, and they indulge my slight tardiness in the morning, my need to pee frequently by the roadside and my constant requirement to eat with ease. I've also discovered that Anthony, the photographer shares my slightly dirty sense of humour which makes the long journeys rather more entertaining.
Plus, when we have a good story it's always good for a laugh. Today, for example, we were interviewing a guy who makes art on dirty cars. As in, he doesn't just write 'wash me' on the back, he actually spends time creating intricate artworks - which inevitably wash off moments later, which happened today. But before that happened, he had created the most beautiful drawing of two Texas longhorn cattle on the back windscreen of one of the Fiestas - I personally was gutted when it washed straight off when the storm broke. I'll post pictures later. Anyway, we all felt pretty jolly after we'd done the interview and there was a general high, which was nice.
Now we're on our way to Dallas, where tomorrow we're touring the Dallas Cowboys stadium. Two hours to go until we get there. Bring it on.
Nevertheless, it's actually quite fun. OK, so the 6am starts and midnight bedtimes aren't great, and driving for seven hours in a Ford Fiesta doesn't rank as one of the world's most orgasmic experiences, but I like the people I'm travelling with and we're forming a fun little team. As the only girl, I am like a little pet for the boys, and they indulge my slight tardiness in the morning, my need to pee frequently by the roadside and my constant requirement to eat with ease. I've also discovered that Anthony, the photographer shares my slightly dirty sense of humour which makes the long journeys rather more entertaining.
Plus, when we have a good story it's always good for a laugh. Today, for example, we were interviewing a guy who makes art on dirty cars. As in, he doesn't just write 'wash me' on the back, he actually spends time creating intricate artworks - which inevitably wash off moments later, which happened today. But before that happened, he had created the most beautiful drawing of two Texas longhorn cattle on the back windscreen of one of the Fiestas - I personally was gutted when it washed straight off when the storm broke. I'll post pictures later. Anyway, we all felt pretty jolly after we'd done the interview and there was a general high, which was nice.
Now we're on our way to Dallas, where tomorrow we're touring the Dallas Cowboys stadium. Two hours to go until we get there. Bring it on.
Sunday 22 August 2010
Guns!
So, I totally abandoned my poor blog while I was in England, which was an absolute blast. Five days in Yorkshire, a lovely English summer wedding in Gloucestershire, five days in Cornwall and then three heady days in London, trying to pack in as many people as possible. I've come back to Kansas to relax - along with several commissions, which should help me pay the credit card bill I amassed.
Except unfortunately I can't relax, as I'm off on the next trip - a week's journey across Arizona, Texas, Tennessee, Indiana, Arkansas and Michigan as part of the Ford Fiesta World Tour. What? Well, basically Ford has just launched a new Fiesta, and I've been invited on part of an enormous global trek in one of them. A nes Fiesta is driving from LA to New York, another from Northern Ireland to Dubai, another across South East Asia and another across Australia. Along the way, meanwhile, there are many adventures to be had.
Mine started this morning when I got up at 4am to catch a 6.10 flight to Phoenix. By 7.30 I was cracking on with the first activity - learning to shoot a machine gun. Seriously. Arizona (although I had never realised it) is the gun state - one in 50 people carry one and they sure are trigger happy. We were introduced to Katie, the petite and perky marketing manager at Scottsdale Gun Club, who informed us that she carries her own weapon (a Glock 27 handgun) but that her favourite to shoot is an M249 SAW (semi-automatic weapon) - "it's a lot of bullets and a lot of fun." Argh. Five minutes later I am trying my own hand at it - shooting, variously, a Smith & Wesson handgun, an MP-5, an AK 47 and the aforementioned SAW, which is bloody terrifying - you have to lie on the floor to shoot it, it pings bits of hot metal all over you and hanging out of one side is a belt of bullets.
Having thought that perhaps, I felt more at home in America than I had previously thought (I now love country music, for example), I've realised that I'm never really going to fit in - I just don't love guns enough. In fact, they terrify me. I don't think they keep you safer, I don't know why anyone would willingly carry something that is designed to kill another person and the smell of cordite makes me feel sick. Ah well. It was an experience, to say the least....
Except unfortunately I can't relax, as I'm off on the next trip - a week's journey across Arizona, Texas, Tennessee, Indiana, Arkansas and Michigan as part of the Ford Fiesta World Tour. What? Well, basically Ford has just launched a new Fiesta, and I've been invited on part of an enormous global trek in one of them. A nes Fiesta is driving from LA to New York, another from Northern Ireland to Dubai, another across South East Asia and another across Australia. Along the way, meanwhile, there are many adventures to be had.
Mine started this morning when I got up at 4am to catch a 6.10 flight to Phoenix. By 7.30 I was cracking on with the first activity - learning to shoot a machine gun. Seriously. Arizona (although I had never realised it) is the gun state - one in 50 people carry one and they sure are trigger happy. We were introduced to Katie, the petite and perky marketing manager at Scottsdale Gun Club, who informed us that she carries her own weapon (a Glock 27 handgun) but that her favourite to shoot is an M249 SAW (semi-automatic weapon) - "it's a lot of bullets and a lot of fun." Argh. Five minutes later I am trying my own hand at it - shooting, variously, a Smith & Wesson handgun, an MP-5, an AK 47 and the aforementioned SAW, which is bloody terrifying - you have to lie on the floor to shoot it, it pings bits of hot metal all over you and hanging out of one side is a belt of bullets.
Having thought that perhaps, I felt more at home in America than I had previously thought (I now love country music, for example), I've realised that I'm never really going to fit in - I just don't love guns enough. In fact, they terrify me. I don't think they keep you safer, I don't know why anyone would willingly carry something that is designed to kill another person and the smell of cordite makes me feel sick. Ah well. It was an experience, to say the least....
Wednesday 4 August 2010
I am totally loving being back home, but certain things keep happening that jolt me and point out the difference between my new short-term home and the real one. Last night, for example, I went to the theatre with my parents and some friends, and we all met up for a Chinese beforehand. After we'd ordered a round of drinks, my father asked if we could also have a jug of tap-water. He was informed that if we wanted tap-water, we would be charged 50p a glass. Cue father getting outraged and me hiding my head in embarrassment.
Nevertheless, he had a point. In this day and age, it seems outrageous to charge for tap-water, particularly if you're eating a full-on meal and paying for it. And me made me realise how lovely it is in America, where whenever you arrive at a restaurant, they bring you a full glass of iced water the moment you sit down - and don't look at you as if you're some sort of inferior bug if you don't order anything else to drink.
Of course our Chinese was probably the exception rather than the rule; however it made me realise that sometimes, our friends across the pond do have it right.
Nevertheless, he had a point. In this day and age, it seems outrageous to charge for tap-water, particularly if you're eating a full-on meal and paying for it. And me made me realise how lovely it is in America, where whenever you arrive at a restaurant, they bring you a full glass of iced water the moment you sit down - and don't look at you as if you're some sort of inferior bug if you don't order anything else to drink.
Of course our Chinese was probably the exception rather than the rule; however it made me realise that sometimes, our friends across the pond do have it right.
Monday 2 August 2010
Back in Britain
The eagle has landed: I am back in good old Blighty. Air Canada was not the most luxury of experiences, but they got us in half an hour early. Oh but it was lovely to be on British soil again. I sailed through immigration at Heathrow (a first) and profusely thanked the passport man, whose flat London vowels sounded like music to my ears (I think he was a little confused by such effusiveness combined with an English accent). It was all so wonderfully, familiarly home – posters advertising things I had actually heard of, a WH Smith, a Boots! So comforting after Barnes & Noble and Walgreens. Heathrow was looking beautifully clean, and I jumped on the tube and steamed through the western suburbs of Greater London, feeling nostalgic as I saw terraced houses glide by. On an impulse I hopped off in Knightsbride – I had time to spare, and ended up having an impromptu lunch with an old girlfriend. I have known her since she was a gawky 11-year old with braces on her teeth; now she is impossibly glamorous and does a very worthy job raising money for the Royal Marsden. Refreshed, and in possession of an enormous pile of magazines and papers to read on the train, I hopped back on the tube and headed on up to Kings Cross, where I was catching a train to York, near where I grew up and where my parents still live.
Unfortunately, I had forgotten about the utter, pettifogging smallmindedness of British officialdom, a concept I was swiftly reminded of when I got to Kings Cross. In a fit of organisation, and an attempt to avoid the exorbitant costs of the East Coast mainline, I had booked my train ticket months ago. Because of Air Canada’s efficiency, I still had an hour to spare despite the impromptu lunch, so thought I would try and change my ticket to an earlier train. A mistake, as it turned out. I queued, reached the front, and was told to go and collect my ticket from the machine and then bring it back to them. Off I went. I put in my credit card, carefully punched in my reference number and...nothing. The bank, a while ago, cancelled my card because of fraud, so the numbers didn’t match up. Back I went to the queue. Got to the front, told the man what had happened. He told me I had to call East Coast and explain the situation. I got hold of a nice Geordie girl, who said that, just this once, she would put a note on the system to allow me to collect the ticket I had already paid for, “as a goodwill gesture”. If there is anything guaranteed to get my blood boiling, it is that phrase. I told her, very politely and assuring her that i knew it was not her fault, that this was ridiculous. Surely people must change their cards all the time? What would happen to them? There was an option on the web page to make changes if that happened, she explained. But what about me – who’s been living in America, landed this morning, has no immediate access to the internet and now just wants to collect a ticket? She had nothing to say to that. Eventually, I managed to get hold of the damn thing. I decided not to change to the earlier train, which would have cost me an extra £56, even with my railcard. The whole procedure took me 45 minutes. Good thing I wasn’t in a rush. I am resolved to write a letter of complaint.
The whole experience recalled a similar incident in America recently, which happened with very different outcomes. The Major had to fly unexpectedly up to Wyoming, to rescue his parents. They are out on holiday, and had gone up to Yellowstone, experimented with horseriding and fallen off. My father in law spent several days in hospital with a few cracked ribs and a very bruised hip, and both p's-in-law were rather shaken. Valiantly, the Major volunteered to fly up and drive them in their hire car back down to Kansas so they could recuperate at our house. I took him to the airport, where we stopped off at the car rental office to add him onto the insurance. We explained the situation to the kind man in the parking booth, who took us straight to the front of the queue to talk to the supervisor. “I’m not really supposed to add you on without the main driver present,” she told us confidentially. “But I’m going to do it anyway. Clearly you need to be up there and sometimes the rules need to be broken.” Quite.
British trains are much smaller than America trains. We took the train to St Louis once; it took five and a half creaking, whistling hours with many stops, but the seats were as wide as armchairs and there was plenty of room, because no-one with any sense travels by train in America – to drive the same distance to St Louis, for example, takes a mere four hours in the air conditioned comfort of your own car. East Coast trains are invariably packed to the gnunwhales, no matter what day of the week or time of day, and I’m typing this on a fold out table that’s smaller than my (very miniscule) laptop, elbows tucked in. They’re also prohibitively expensive – if it was £56 to change my ticket with a railcard (Forces, there are some benefits to being an Army wife), goodness knows how much it is if you don’t have one. The whole notion of flexibility comes at a cost. But for all their faults, the trains do run regularly, travel swiftly, and are generally roughly on time. Of course you have to put up with the overheard conversations of your fellow passengers – at the moment I am listening to an old man in a tweed cap twittering (not in the telephonic sense) about his journey to his hapless seat mate. Mine is due to get on at Peterborough – selfishly I hope he or she misses the train so I get the whole seat to myself. In a mere two hours I will have completed my epic journey (Kansas to Toronto, Toronto to London, London to York) and already America seems like a million miles away (which I suppose it is, but I mean metaphorically as well as physically). I feel as if I have woken up from a dream and it's wonderful. Whether I will be ready to get back after two weeks I'm not sure. I'll keep you posted.
Unfortunately, I had forgotten about the utter, pettifogging smallmindedness of British officialdom, a concept I was swiftly reminded of when I got to Kings Cross. In a fit of organisation, and an attempt to avoid the exorbitant costs of the East Coast mainline, I had booked my train ticket months ago. Because of Air Canada’s efficiency, I still had an hour to spare despite the impromptu lunch, so thought I would try and change my ticket to an earlier train. A mistake, as it turned out. I queued, reached the front, and was told to go and collect my ticket from the machine and then bring it back to them. Off I went. I put in my credit card, carefully punched in my reference number and...nothing. The bank, a while ago, cancelled my card because of fraud, so the numbers didn’t match up. Back I went to the queue. Got to the front, told the man what had happened. He told me I had to call East Coast and explain the situation. I got hold of a nice Geordie girl, who said that, just this once, she would put a note on the system to allow me to collect the ticket I had already paid for, “as a goodwill gesture”. If there is anything guaranteed to get my blood boiling, it is that phrase. I told her, very politely and assuring her that i knew it was not her fault, that this was ridiculous. Surely people must change their cards all the time? What would happen to them? There was an option on the web page to make changes if that happened, she explained. But what about me – who’s been living in America, landed this morning, has no immediate access to the internet and now just wants to collect a ticket? She had nothing to say to that. Eventually, I managed to get hold of the damn thing. I decided not to change to the earlier train, which would have cost me an extra £56, even with my railcard. The whole procedure took me 45 minutes. Good thing I wasn’t in a rush. I am resolved to write a letter of complaint.
The whole experience recalled a similar incident in America recently, which happened with very different outcomes. The Major had to fly unexpectedly up to Wyoming, to rescue his parents. They are out on holiday, and had gone up to Yellowstone, experimented with horseriding and fallen off. My father in law spent several days in hospital with a few cracked ribs and a very bruised hip, and both p's-in-law were rather shaken. Valiantly, the Major volunteered to fly up and drive them in their hire car back down to Kansas so they could recuperate at our house. I took him to the airport, where we stopped off at the car rental office to add him onto the insurance. We explained the situation to the kind man in the parking booth, who took us straight to the front of the queue to talk to the supervisor. “I’m not really supposed to add you on without the main driver present,” she told us confidentially. “But I’m going to do it anyway. Clearly you need to be up there and sometimes the rules need to be broken.” Quite.
British trains are much smaller than America trains. We took the train to St Louis once; it took five and a half creaking, whistling hours with many stops, but the seats were as wide as armchairs and there was plenty of room, because no-one with any sense travels by train in America – to drive the same distance to St Louis, for example, takes a mere four hours in the air conditioned comfort of your own car. East Coast trains are invariably packed to the gnunwhales, no matter what day of the week or time of day, and I’m typing this on a fold out table that’s smaller than my (very miniscule) laptop, elbows tucked in. They’re also prohibitively expensive – if it was £56 to change my ticket with a railcard (Forces, there are some benefits to being an Army wife), goodness knows how much it is if you don’t have one. The whole notion of flexibility comes at a cost. But for all their faults, the trains do run regularly, travel swiftly, and are generally roughly on time. Of course you have to put up with the overheard conversations of your fellow passengers – at the moment I am listening to an old man in a tweed cap twittering (not in the telephonic sense) about his journey to his hapless seat mate. Mine is due to get on at Peterborough – selfishly I hope he or she misses the train so I get the whole seat to myself. In a mere two hours I will have completed my epic journey (Kansas to Toronto, Toronto to London, London to York) and already America seems like a million miles away (which I suppose it is, but I mean metaphorically as well as physically). I feel as if I have woken up from a dream and it's wonderful. Whether I will be ready to get back after two weeks I'm not sure. I'll keep you posted.
Sunday 1 August 2010
In limbo
I'm sitting in Toronto airport, having completed the first leg of my journey back to the UK. It's very peaceful here. Canada seems generally calmer than America, less brash, not so in your face (I have been here more than once before - Canada that is, not just Toronto airport; I'm not making a sweeping statement based on my experience of an airport). I quite like it, especially at 9pm on a Sunday evening with a seven hour flight ahead of me. But I do feel somewhere again, rather than nowhere. I am a little bit anxious about going back to the UK - home of work, friends, family.... I won't be able to hide any more. But I'm hoping to hit some editors with good features ideas and secure a few commissions. Bring it on!
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