In defiance of car culture I've decided to stop whinging and start cycling. I did it in London (10 miles a day, three times a week at least, to get to and from work) but although I brought my bike out here it has been languishing in the garage.

Until now. Yesterday, I decided to cycle to quilting class. And it was lovely - truly wonderful - to feel the wind on my face and be out in the fresh air. Admittedly I got some strange looks from drivers, and the hills were something else (I seem to have misplaced my bike fitness) but from now on, I'm getting on my bike and riding. After all, distances round here are pretty similar to what I used to do in London - four or five miles to a friend's house - and while I can't hope to cycle to university (23 miles would take me all day), I can do it in the meantime. And there are fewer lycra-clad lunatics round here, which makes the whole experience more pleasant (I don't do lycra: I ride a Pashley - upright, very ladylike, basket on the front). Today I'm feeling the burn quite pleasantly; tomorrow I'm going to cycle to the gym. Bring it on!

I'm about to (when I finish procrastinating by writing this blog) go for a run. I will have to run along the edge of the road and risk getting squashed by various bad drivers, but it's worth it to be outside. It's been a while.

I hadn't realised, when I moved out here, how dramatically my lifestyle would change - not just in the obvious ways, but the more subtle ones. But my ballooning waist and ever-tightening jeans are reminding me.

In London, I was on the move all the time. I cycled or walked to work - five miles there, five miles back. Even if I caught the tube, I would walk to the station and walk the other end. On top of the general activity, I went to the gym, swam, played touch rugby with my friends.

Out here I have joined the gym, it is true, but that's not cutting it. Because other than going there, I don't move around, at all. I drive, because I have to (walking to work - 23 miles - would probably take me at least a day, and would involve trekking down the highway - not a good idea). Meanwhile, even getting from house to car doesn't involve going outside.

It's not a good state of affairs, and I would love to walk and move regularly, but here it's hard, because walking is an anomaly. For a start, there are no public footpaths - no footpaths of any kind. Cross a farmer's field and you risk getting shot. And if you try and incorporate walking into your daily tasks, as I did last week, you come up against something. Last week it was a drive-thru ATM (yes, they have those here, along with drive-thru pharmacies). I was doing some jobs, which happened to be in the same place. I needed some cash. So I trotted over to the ATM. Only it was a drive-thru. Undeterred, I withdrew my cash and continued - after being stared at by every passer by, all of whom were amazed that someone was actually using their legs.

We have some friends who, shortly after they arrived here, were invited to a neighbour's house for dinner. It was about half a mile away, so they decided to walk. And were stopped by no less than four people, checking to see if they were alright and needed a lift.

Despite the open space, the miles of land, you can't move here - at least not under your own steam. So my waist grows ever larger, and I contemplate the misery of road running. Sigh.

There is a lot of bad botox in this town. Yesterday I sang in a concert with the KC Chorale and one woman caught my eye. Her forehead was so rigid that I couldn't tell if she liked what we were performing or not - she just looked permamently alert, and a little bit surprised. In the aisle across from her was a man with a suspiciously smooth forehead (he was well into his fifties) who was similarly inscrutable.

Now I'm all for a bit of scientific trickery when it comes to making oneself look good, and I haven't ruled out the prick of the needle should it come to it, but something grates when I think about not being able to actually show any expression. To me, the best faces are the ones that have a twinkle - and that usually means a few laughter lines around the eyes, or a face that's at least capable of screwing up with laughter. I can see it's a slippery slope - just a few little injections here and there and before you know it you end up like forehead lady. Admittedly she looked pretty damn good for what I assume was her age - sort of tight and bright - compared to some of the similarly aged ladies in the audience, most of whom looked Sunday afternoon kanckered. But worth it for not being able to laugh? I'm not so sure.

Afghanistan - stick or twist?

Should we pull out of Afghanistan? Is America doomed either way?

A conversation with the Major suggests yes. He posits this theory: that by pulling out, America will once again demonstrate its inability to win, even against a seemingly less substantial force (c.f. Vietnam). Everyone will think they are losers, despite their manpower on the ground in troop terms. Result: America is doomed as a superpower.

They stay in - troops are killed, innocent civilians are killed, but they do not feel able to pull out for the reasons demonstrated above. All their economic power goes towards keeping the war going; in the meantime, Russia and China creep up and beat them to the top in the superpower stakes. Result: America is doomed as a superpower.

It's simplistic, but he has a point. What is the solution to Afghanistan?

The taxi driver, the lesbian and the following of rules

To St Louis, as I mentioned in my earlier blog, where I encountered three people who left a lasting impression.

To invert the order of my title, I'll start with the lesbian, because she came first (metaphorically speaking). We were in a bar - pretty rowdy (it was Mardi Gras); I was enjoying my first martini of the night, still huddled in my furry coat because it was bloody freezing. She came up to me and started stroking the coat. She complimented me on my choice of drink. Then suggested a martini was like a woman's breasts. I wasn't sure if I'd heard her right, so smiled and nodded. We grooved a bit. She stroked my arm again and left. A minute later, I saw her kissing another woman.

I felt pretty chuffed. This woman was hot - great hair, figure, clothes. If I'd been that way inclined I'd have gone for it. Do I just have a massive ego, that i can now say I'm fanacied by women as well as men? Or was she just drun?

To the taxi driver. He was from Nigeria. Still had a strong African accent. We chatted - about the city, how long he had been here, whether he liked being a taxi driver. He was noncommital but explained it allowed him to pay for his children's college educations. His daughter was at Harvard, he continued.

That taxi driver summed up the American dream - that whatever your station in life, or wherever you came from, you can go anywhere. Nice to see it in action.

Next day, we visited the impressive Gateway Arch of St Louis - apparently the tallest national monument in the U.S. at 360 feet. We decided to watch an excellent and beautifully produced (by National Geographic) film depicting Lewis & Clark's intrepid expedition from St Louis tot he Pacific.

It was a beautifully large auditorium; plenty of room for everyone, cupholders in every chair. Although we were informed, once in, that all food and beverages were strictly prohibited. Anyone who had come in with something to consume could leave now. The lady in the row in front surreptitiously slipped her latte into the cupholder and covered it with her coat.

About a quarter of the way in, she decided to have a cheeky slurp. Big mistake. The lady in charge came marching over to her row. "Out, now," she hissed, pointing (and ruining my view in the meantime). The lady meekly obliged and the attendant marched back to her place.

Why? I can sort of understand the imposition of such draconian rules (although not, then, the addition of cupholders to seats), but surely there's room for a little flexibility? The woman had a lid on the cup for goodness' sake. She was an adult, not a messy toddler. Couldn't the attendant have turned a blind eye? But no, that is not the way it is done in the Land of the Free. Rules must be abided by. Thank heavens I'm only here for two years.

What, no books?
The Major and I took a trip last weekend, to St Louis. We went by train.
I like train journeys. I like that you don't have to concentrate on the road, that you can stand up and walk around, and visit the friendly people in the dining carriage for a hot chocolate and a burger (calories don't count on trains). I like that you can look out of the window and daydream.

But most of all I like the opportunity to read.

I love reading, in fact it is possibly my favourite thing in the whole world. If I was told I couldn't read any more I think I would actually die. So for me, a five and a half hour train journey is the perfect opportunity. I couldn't do any of the niggly, nitpicking jobs that take up reading time normally (like cleaning or washing up) and I didn't have my computer, so I couldn't blog.

I had taken books with me, of course, but another of my favourite things to do on trains is to catch up - and I mean really catch up - on some news and comment. So I will buy a selection: a newspaper, The Spectator, Private Eye - maybe a copy of Vogue for some light relief - and read them from cover to cover. It's my train treat.

We arrived in St Louis in plenty of time - almost an hour early. The perfect opportunity to buy some reading material - maybe even a new book. But although we searched high and low, there was not one place to buy such a thing.

We were in Kansas City, a sizeable city, with an enormous and impressive station, a hangover from the golden age of train travel. Lots of trains come in and out of Kansas City - it's right in the middle, after all. But although we could have, should we have chosen, purchased a fancy bodum cafetiere, a variety of African artefacts and every sort of food type under the sun, from sushi to bagels, we couldn't buy a book. Or a magazine. or a newspaper that wasn't the Kansas City Star and wasn't several days old.

The bookstore, we were told, had closed down a few weeks ago.

It is beyond me how anyone about to embark on a potentially long train journey (and they are mostly long in these parts, they don't have high speed rail yet) would not want to furnish themself with some reading matter.

Perhaps the travellers in America are all very organised and buy in advance. But surely half the joy of a journey is agonising over which magazine to buy, and coming out of Smiths or wherever with a fat carrier bag under your arm? I just don't get it.

A call from someone at the gym:

Gym man: "I'm just calling to confirm your appointment at 7pm tonight"

Me: "Yes that's fine. Is there any chance I could come a little earlier?"

Him (seriously thrown by this): "Errr, I'm not sure, I don't believe so."

Me: "So you can't see the schedule?"

Him: "Yes that's right."

Me: "You mean you can't see it?"

Him: "Yes that's right"

Me: "Can you see the schedule, or can you not see the schedule?"

Him: "Oh no. I can not see the schedule. I'm just the guy who calls people."

Sigh......