That last one got a bit heavy as we used to say in, dare I say it, more sensible times. Normal programming will now resume.

After bidding the Amish of Lancaster County farewell and completing a whirlwind circuit of Washington’s monuments and historical pageantry it was on to the spiritual home of American democracy – Philadelphia. In matters of spirituality, symbols are quite important and Philadelphia has one that ranks as high as, alright, not quite with Magna Carta but certainly with…..others – the Liberty Bell. It is up there with the Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo as one of the world’s most unimposing symbols as in it’s much smaller than you would expect and it’s got rather a large crack in it. So whereas Big Ben is still dinging and donging across London, the best you could get out of the Liberty Bell now would be a less than resounding clank.

It’s playoff time in major league baseball at the moment. I was here at this time of the year  in 1984 to visit some mines in the US and Canada and got to sit in various bars across both countries watching games culminating in the rather pretentiously named World Series between the Detroit Tigers and the San Diego Padres. I returned in 1988 to participate in some due diligence work in Cleveland and on the flight from Los Angeles to Cleveland the in-flight movie (there was only one back then) was Major League and on the return flight to Los Angeles the movie was Field of Dreams. Last time the CB and I were here in 2006, we went to see the New York Yankees play the Atlanta Braves at Yankee Stadium. So baseball on my trips to the US is as ubiquitous as red wine is on my pallete. Actually, that’s not quite the case of late. Our issues with wine and bars in North America have been well documented here. I’ll spare you the Philadephia story (involving the difference between reisling and moscatto). But I now choose my bars very carefully if red wine is to be actually consumed. The reason is that red wine is not as popular in most places (especially sports bars) as it is in our household so a glass of red wine in your average Irish pub will likely come out of a bottle first opened on St Patrick’s Day. That might be okay on March 18th but not so much in October. So it might look like red wine but that’s where the comparison ends.

As is our want, the child bride and I sought out a bar after the day’s sightseeing, the duration of which wasn’t significantly compromised by the Liberty Bell. In this particular bar we were introduced to a room full of fickle, fair weather, full-throated Phillies fans (I just broke my alliteration record). The Philadelphia Phillies were playing the New York Mets in a 5 game play-off series and at the top of the 8th inning of game 2 were one behind (and one game behind) so half the bar went home. Apparently their excellent record in the regular season and the experts’ expectation that they would flog the Mets, was not enough and that one run was insurmountable until it wasn’t and they won in the 9th. Those remaining in the bar lifted the roof off. It sounded like those who had left had returned with all of their mates.

Advance two days and the scene is repeated in New York. The CB and I are seated in an almost identical bar surrounded by Mets fans watching game 3. The Mets lead almost from the start and win easily and apart from the occasional half-hearted cheer, no one seems to care. And this is a perennially under-achieving team, over-achieving. Why the disinterest? Well we are one block from Madison Square Garden and about seven from Broadway’s theatre district. There is so much to choose from – baseball, basketball, ice hockey, football, the worlds best bands and plays – you can understand why there might be a team parochialism deficit, apart from for the city itself.

Something we did notice about New York this time is that it resembles a building site. On our recent cruise round Japan I remarked that there was enough bamboo in an extensive thicket in Kyoto to scaffold Manhattan. I think they took me at my word because there is scaffolding everywhere as countless buildings are refurbished. Either that or the Democratic Party which has almost North Korea like control of the city and state is giving lots of construction jobs to unions in return for donations, like they do in Victoria. Other infrastructure doesn’t appear to be faring quite as well though.

The only concession to the state of the rapidly deteriorating roads appears to be more bike lanes because I guess bikes don’t wear them out as fast as cabs. Further on the subject of transport, we caught the train from Penn Station to Newark Airport and sooner or later they’ll have to replace those trains’ six sided wheels.

That brings us to the close of this series. We are now on our way to San Francisco and I have a death-grip on my first red wine in an age. We lashed out as this has been rather a special trip so we’re travelling at the  front of the plane so this wine is rather good. I expect I’ll have a few more before we next talk. The sub-continent is under serious consideration so get ready for Curry Capers or something similar – that was the first thing that sprung to mind and I don’t have much time as I have to get back to this red.

Get ready for some political ranting. My opinions.This one’s a bit of a thematic mess and doesn’t flow but we’re getting to the end of the trip so I’m putting up random stuff.

We’re in the US again and the perennial issue which Americans face numerous times a day and about which we blow-ins stress over, is back at the forefront of considerations – tipping. It used to be that if a service was provided efficiently, cost-effectively or pleasantly, or a combination of all three, the provider would be rewarded via a tip. Then we were told that tips were necessary because the minimum wage was too minimum and providers needed tips to survive. So we’re moving from voluntary towards guilt-trip. Now the credit card machine comes with various percentage tipping options built in, one of which you are expected to choose and one of which isn’t necessarily zero. So now the customer isn’t just expected to reward good service but to also subsidise the waiter’s wage. Lucky business owner. If we’re contributing to the business do we get a share of the profits? That sort of socialism always falls over when it’s extended to sharing the losses also, so we live with it.

We’ve just been in Amish country in backblocks Pennsylvania. It’s the sort of place that brings out the voyeur in us all – there’s one, someone shouts and there’s another and that house has green blinds and washing on the line and no electricity connection. We’re all experts in finding Amish now. It’s a bit like whale watching or train-spotting except the Amish don’t move as fast (they travel in horse drawn buggies) and don’t have numbers riveted to their sides (they wear quaint clothes instead). Whilst they make the occasional concession to the modern world these days, like using batteries or communal phones, I can’t help thinking the world is technologically accelerating away from them and their Mennonite brothers and sisters. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing for them.

There are two things that stand the US apart from just about every other country in the world (apart from the Amish community). One regards the attitude to their veterans. Washington does monuments to their history, their wars and their veterans better than anywhere I’ve ever been. And the respect shown is heart-felt and admirable, for the most part. Attitude doesn’t always translate into action however so there’s work to be done in this regard. Government funding for illegal economic immigrants while veterans live on the streets is an over-simplification of a complex problem but the underlying premise has some legitimacy.

The other is the utterly unhinged (to those better endowed with common sense) love affair with abortion. Millions of mainly (this is 2024) women will never have an abortion or contemplate having one but will die in a ditch defending their god-given right to have one. Is that related to the “pursuit of happiness” outlined in the Declaration of Independence? And to justify this commitment  to “women’s reproductive health care” they’ll quote the 1% of tragic examples where compromises and compassion are absolutely necessary and ignore the 90+% of cases which are simply contraception after the fact because people (men and women) are too stupid, too lazy or too ignorant to take advantage of one of the many ways to prevent pregnancy.

So much for the deep and meaningfuls. Back to the quirky and irreverent (and irrelevant) with #12

Toronto is Sydney big and the hotel we stayed in was the biggest in Toronto so it was like staying in a railway station. But it did have one redeeming feature. In keeping with the dominant theme of this blog, it had a functioning bar – not a very big one considering the size of the hotel but we found a table and two comfortable chairs and they had what we wanted off the drinks menu so considering progress to date, that was a massive win. And ad nauseum, the following happened at the restaurant on the waterfront we lunched in earlier that day. I asked for a Peroni draft. Didn’t have any. Okay, a bottle of Stella. Didn’t have any. Okay a Peroni in a bottle – success. This is a BYO continent.

I haven’t been able to determine whether the following quote was originally said by Custer’s nemesis, Crazy Horse or by conservative commentator Lt Col Allen West. Incidentally, with every bit of global knowledge back to the beginning of time at our fingertips, you’d think it easy to find this out. Life’s too short. Back to the quote which has been used in the context of historical philistines destroying statues – not the Taliban or Islamic State but the rent-a-scum anarcho-terrorists funded by people like George Soros and their useful idiot middle class marxist apprentices who have to borrow mummy’s car to get to the protest. It goes as follows:
“History is not there for you to like or dislike. It is there for you to learn from it. And if it offends you, even better. Because then you are less likely to repeat it. It’s not yours for you to erase or destroy.”

So it was refreshing to see statues of both Queen Elizabeth II and Queen Victoria outside the Ontario parliament building in Toronto. And they weren’t graffitied either. Being in the fenced grounds of the parliament would help, especially as said grounds are patrolled by both protective services officers and peace officers. What’s the difference, I hear you ask? Well I asked a young lady peace officer and she referred to her powers of arrest and rather ironically, pointed to the gun on her hip to illustrate the difference. Fair enough, thought I. Those statues are in good hands. I can’t help but think that our state and federal governments would allow similar statues to be sacrificed on the alter of political correctness or historical atonement or imperialist apology or something. The rabid mobs would have had their way with them. But not in Toronto.

As if the Niagara Falls region needed anything else, it’s also a big wine growing region – who knew? This is still Canada and most of the time it’s freezing. Next thing, we’ll be seeing palm trees. Considering the almost continuous rant in this blog about the difficulty in securing alcoholic refreshment in this part of the world, this is rather ironic. For a part of the world that supposedly doesn’t get irony, there’s a lot of it. Unconscious irony anyone?

There are officially three Niagara Falls. The biggest and most spectacular is the horse-shoe on the Canadian side of the border. On the US side there are two but one, the bridal veil as it’s called hardly counts as it’s a thin ribbon of water compared with the bigger curtain right next to it. I guess because Canada has the spectacular one, as a sop to big brother they get to say they have two.

We’ve stayed in three hotels on this trip, where the bar was not functioning – San Francisco, Boston and Ottawa. WTF. That’s 3 on one continent – not good enough North Ameriica. We saw a ubiquitous Palestinian protest in Ottawa but non-functioning bars is something really worth protesting about. San Francisco was a diversion, you know about Boston and Ottawa was washing its hair or something. The Palestinian protest was on the corner of the block where our hotel is located. We are sitting in a bar (obviously but not in the hotel, also obviously) watching the aftermath as protesters fashionably decked out in their black and white scarves, worn just so across the shoulders wander aimlessly about. What does one do when the protest doth finish? Ironically a short time later, a bunch of Hare Krishnas occupied the same protest spot, banging their drums and chanting their mantras or whatever they’re called. Strangely they attracted zero interest from the Royal Canadian Mounted rozzers, unlike those ignorant shitbags lamenting the death of the world’s worse terrorist, who were surrounded by flashing lights and aggressively wielded batons.

While we’re in Ottawa it’s worth pointing out that like Canberra, when this place was chosen as the capital, the ever so polite Canadians had a chance to build a monument to democracy and its various various institutions. So why did they seemingly choose a Disney animator, so intent on taking the piss, to design the place? I’m looking at Parliament hill with its turrets and spires and towers and battlements and half expecting to see Shrek running down the road with Lord Farquaad in hot pursuit.

Since we started off discussing booze related topics, let’s continue. We were sitting in a bar in Montreal and I remarked on how similar modern western cities are. We could have been anywhere. In the western world. This distinction between the west and the rest has to be made because let’s face it, Boston and Cairo are somewhat dissimilar. What’s nice about some cities like Quebec City and Montreal is that they have preserved their old towns almost in their entirety or at least so they very much resemble what it was like around the dock areas 2 or 3 hundred years ago, minus much of the filth, crime and debauchery, or at least the obvious bits. Similarities in the new bits occur down to the smallest detail. The CB had a champagne cocktail (happy hour – but I’m not a cheapskate) and it was made exactly the same way as one of my secret recipes – sugar cube, dash of brandy and spray of bitters. Oh, and some champagne. I must have stolen that “secret” recipe at some point in the foggy depths of time but can’t remember when or from whom.

Incidentally, while the CB is drinking her champagne cocktail, I’m drinking a Polish beer called Zywiec (of course it had a “zyw” in it). It was that or a German grog. Poor form, I thought. O Canada, very unpatriotic. Here’s me hanging out for a Molson and I get Polish or German. Not even a Kronenbourg.

One other observation regarding Canada. It’s population on average appears considerably thinner than their equivalents to the south. The French influence could explain the absence of the twerking cohort amongst the female populace as they strive for that green salad shape. Not so the men and I put that down to French fres (ironically) being served by the cup in Canada but by the wheelbarrow in the US.

It’s hard to look like a local when you’re photographing someone’s front door because it looks cute then staring at a map and pointing in random directions. But if you want to sound like a local you’d better be able to pronounce the name of their city properly. So it’s not Budapest, it’s Budapesht and it’s not New Orleans it’s Nu Orlins (preferably pronounced as one word, so Nuworlins). Then we come to Quebec and learn it’s not pronounced Qwebec but K’bec. Fair enough, I guess. We have Launceston or Lawnceston as blow-ins say whereas to the locals it’s Lon’cstn with a long “c”. Best to ‘fess up to being a tourist, put on your “Bring Back the Biff” rugby league t-shirt as you walk round Kyoto and ignore the stares.

Speaking of uniqueness, is there a city in the world that doesn’t have an Irish pub? Okay, I’m not counting places like Tehran or Riyadh,  but come the revolution it’ll be “whack for the daddy-o there’s whiskey In the jar”. The child bride and I were in K’bec City, having strolled around the old, interesting bit. We had developed our daily dose of tired legs and a bothersome thirst so looked for somewhere to relieve both. Murphy’s beckoned. A bonus was the musician who started playing just after our beers arrived. He was picking his guitar in typical Irish style – all good so far- then he started to sing a clearly identifiable Irish song…in French. Quelle horreur. Imagine if you can, the Clash singing London Calling in Japanese. We were eating pizza so I guess were in no position to complain.

With all of the references to bars and beer on this trip, you’d think the child bride and I are staggering from one hangover to the next. That does happen on our cruises where booze is free and is always only a few steps (if sometimes faltering) away. More on this in the next instalment.

We’ve also noticed that unlike the US, there are comparatively few ATM’S in Canada. As previously reported there are more ATM’S in bars than in banks in the US. In K’bec City, the only one we could find was in a Bureau d’Change hidden away in a nondescript building. Maybe Trudeau had most of them removed out of spite because comedians keep remarking how much like Fidel Castro he looks (his Mum got around – ask the Rolling Stones) or because he wants to bring in credit card expenditure monitoring (by eliminating cash) because governments need to know where you are and when, what you’re buying, who’s up who and how far and whether you need arresting for buying a gas cigarette lighter and destroying the climate. No, no, definitely not that last one. Freedom rules ie we have rules governing your freedom.

We have bid farewell to y’all down south and lobbed into New York City. It’s drizzling and we are surrounded by light blocking behemoths down on 35th Street and the contrast with Nashville couldn’t be more striking. Adding a splash of colour, no doubt, will be every pimp for 500km with their flash limos and pink fluffy mirror dice. Why are they here, I hear you ask? It’s because around 140 world leaders with their extensive entourages are in town to condemn Israel at the UN. Isn’t that what they do at the UN? All of that illegal parking and extra traffic has turned the place into a carpark; the sort where parked cars are an active workplace.

Speaking of shit traffic, let’s move to Boston which is acknowledged as having the worst traffic in the USA. It’s as bad as the CB’s reverse parking. This and what I am about to tell you next shouldn’t detract from the fact that it’s a great place. If you like history, it has lots of history. If you like pubs, it has a pub street (and many more of course). They have mildly amusing comedians. The CB and I tittered at 4 of them in one of said pubs in Pub Street. And it has Cheers but we didn’t meet anyone who knew our names.

It also has a Holiday Inn (one of many so i won’t identify which) which is the tittering version of America’s Fawlty Towers. More frustrating than hilarious but here’s what happened. This hotel has a bar. It looks like a real bar with shelves across the back wall packed with various and the usual bottles of spirits and liquores and glasses of various shapes and sizes. There are tables and chairs with high chairs up against the actual bar and carpet on the floor. They have a drinks list that details various beers, 8 different cocktails, five red wine choices by glass or bottle and 5 white wine options although one was rose` which perhaps should have hinted at the confusion to follow. All up, a casual observer would be forgiven for assuming this was a normal functioning bar.

On night 1, after a trip into town, the CB and I decided to have a night-cap on returning to the hotel. It was about 9.30pm. We enter and sit at the bar. There are a couple of patrons present and a bloke slouched against the wall at one end of the bar. A toothpick or piece of grass between his teeth wouldn’t have made him look more casual. I assumed he was a cleaner or hotel worker of some description as he made zero effort to acknowledge us, in fact he didn’t move. Eventually I asked him if anyone was serving. He asked what I wanted. I asked him if he was the barman. He again asked what we wanted. I said we wanted a wine list. He obviously had it memorised because he muttered “chardonnay” and something unintelligible. By this stage I was fantasising about the scene in Ozark where the cartel’s hit man takes out a smart arse, decidedly unhelpful kid in a service station. To short-circuit a process which looked like going down-hill fast I ordered two Chardonnays which prompted him to push himself resignedly off the wall, slope down to the other end of the bar and return with two glasses. We drank them, cut our losses and left.

As we come from the school of thought that says repeating the same behaviour and expecting a different result defines insanity, we went to the bar again on night 2. Our asshole “barman” from the previous night wasn’t there. Maybe the cartels were in town. Another bloke was there with someone who appeared to be his off-sider. He was very polite but as we found, politeness is no substitute for bar-savvy if you are running a bar. So to short circuit the inevitable debate on availability, I pointed at the Chardonnay I think we had the previous night and said we’d have a bottle of that. Then the debate ensued. It eventually transpired that this laughably mis-functioning bar had no bottles of wine. Our man disappeared for a minute or so and returned from the cellar with half a bottle of Chardonnay and half a bottle of Chablis, which wasn’t on the wine list and was probably the unintelligible thing mentioned the previous night. It was in a green bottle and I was reminded of paint thinner so it was two more Chardonnays and an early night.

Now, when I travel, bars have a particular significance. The name of this site may provide a hint. I particularly like the way older hotels, especially those in India do bars with their wood panelling and leather chairs. So, dear reader, you will understand why my expectations are high. And let me remind you- in this case, we’re talking about a Holiday Inn. Elton John wrote a song about them for God’s sake. Love you Boston, but really…

You dear reader, have probably worked out by now that this expedition has a music theme. The tour we are on is actually called “Southern Sounds and Elvis”. The third and final stop on this troubador’s traipse across the American South is Nashville and there have been some interesting comparisons not related to the obvious musical evolution, broadly from jazz to blues to country. I’ve already reported on the improved salubriosity (not sure if I just invented that word) of the music districts from New Orleans to Memphis. The same applies when we move to Broadway and the music district of Nashville. At first glance, Broadway looks like a normal city street in any modern city. Then you notice the bars and the noise. It’s only “noise” because of countless competing venues all playing at volume 11. The hotels have improved as well, apart from our anniversary hotel in New Orleans which was as distinct from our tour hotels as the boots they wear in Nashville are from my thongs.

So whilst it seems cleanliness and respectability have improved as we’ve headed north – no “gentlemen’s” clubs on Beale Street or Broadway, unless they’re just not as obvious as “Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club” on Bourbon – that doesn’t mean the good burghers and burghesses of Nashville don’t let their hair down and their skirts up occasionally. I used to believe that if you closed your eyes and stepped into the street in Hong Kong you’d either get hit by a Rolls Royce or a taxi. In the fun district of Nashville it would be a pedal tavern or a booze bus. Actually, you wouldn’t be hit by one of these unless you are deaf. The yelling and yahooing which occasionally sounds like singing plus the music blaring from the vehicle plus the numerous bands all competing for audible band width, makes this square mile just about the noisiest on the planet.

The major industries in Nashville are health care, publishing, tourism and music. There are also 800 churches in the city which probably explains why they print more bibles than Gideon. While on the subject of religion, the child bride and I went to an NFL game yesterday to watch the local Tennessee Titans get boxed by the Green Bay Packers. After running onto the field about half of each team ran to one end and got down on one knee to pray. Most of the Packer fans were at that end but judging by their performance in the hotel bar after the game, I doubt they were the deities, the onfield prayers would indicate.

The Titans are building a new stadium which will have a roof so they can bid for the Superbowl or Superb Owl as vampires call it (look it up if that went over your head like so many bats…or owls). The roof should significantly reduce the prevalence of various sun-related skin problems as at least half the game clientele were sans hats. It was the hottest weather I have ever experienced at a football game and it’s a winter sport. The CB and I had wide-brimmed hats and were lathered in sunscreen and still came away with a decided rosy tinge. There must have been some very sore heads on Monday morning, especially if you add to the sun a dozen sherbets, the first of which is downed at a tail-gate party pre-game. And the game starts at noon so there is plenty of time to kick-on after kick-off.

Nashville is the home of the Country Music Hall of fame, which like the Elvis display at the Graceland  Mall or whatever the visitors centre, with its eight gift shops, is called, has countless gaudy, spangly outfits on display, boots and all. But there are more boots on display away from the actual displays, as worn by most of the young ladies in this town. And very fetching a mid-length boot is on a shapely calf beneath a very short skirt or very short shorts. I couldn’t help but be reminded of a Tom Robbins novel I read decades ago (I think it was “Skinny Legs And All”) in which a foot fetishist called similarly sexy footwear (to him) “follow me home and fuck me” boots. Not sure a comment like that would pass muster (see what I did there) in these more unenlightened or descriptively puritanical times but I’m not offended. I don’t know if you are but I don’t care.

Being a bit of a guitar fan, I couldn’t help but notice another trend, mostly time rather than geographically based. Early players of most genres used Gibson guitars (maybe BB King’s various Lucille’s had something to do with that). Then Martin (the best) acoustic guitars started to creep in followed by Fenders. The closest I have got to a Martin guitar was when my daughter bought her first house and the previous owner left a busted up Martin in one of the rooms after taking out all of the furniture. I had my eye on it but he came back and got it. Damn!

Actually, from a musical perspective, the highlight of this trip was a night at Nashville’s Grand Ole Opry where we were lucky enough to see one of our favourite bands – the rockabilly outfit, Old Crow Medicine Show. And they did one of our (I keep saying “our” but am pretty sure I speak as one with the CB, at least on this topic) favourite songs – “Wagon Wheel” which we lustily sang along to as did the whole audience. I have to say though, their version isn’t as good as the legendary Not Garfunkel’s version. I may have previously mentioned that I am a founder member of that band.

It’s now time to bid goodbye to the South and head to New York City. But first we had to negotiate Nashville airport. At various times during what seemed like an endless trek through the security process, I thought we were waiting for Godot but unlike Beckett’s lost anti-hero, we eventually found our way through the slowest security process I have ever encountered in dozens of airports all over the world.

They (whoever “they”are) say first impressions are everything and when we arrived Nashville did a Joey of Friends fame and asked us “How are YOU doing?” The answer was “pretty good darlin'”. Unfortunately last impressions are lasting. But don’t fret Nashville. If I had to choose a place to live in the US, it would be you. New Orleans – great place to party. Nashville – great place to party. Hang on, that didn’t come out right. Oh well.

Incidentally, speakin’ of darlin’, I have been called “baby” “honey” and “darlin'” more times in the last week than in decades of marriage. It’s something a bloke could get used to. On the other side of the same coin we’ve been wished a “blessed day” by random people a few times also. This is mildly disconcerting if you have watched The Handmaid’s Tale in which that is a standard greeting in the loony dystopian world this country becomes.

On Tuesday we travelled out of Louisiana all of the way through Mississippi. We hadn’t seen a hill since Denver by the time we got through the Louisiana swamp and this continued all through Mississippi. Almost as soon as we crossed the border into Tennessee things started to look up, including the front of the bus, as the topography began to change.

While rolling through Mississippi we were driving over some of the best farmland on earth. Of course this part of the world was conducive to sugar cane and cotton plantations with all of the slavery connotations that implies. So what better way to eradicate these memories than by covering this excellent soil with solar panels and wind mills. We might starve to death but all of that renewable energy will ensure we’ll be able to keep warm when the sun’s out and cool when it’s windy. Oh, hang on…. Fortunately my usual disquiet on seeing these monstrosities was becalmed by a visit to the BB King museum and burial place in Indianola. I’m inspired to buy a black Gibson guitar like his and forget every chord I’ve ever learnt so i can learn to play like him.

So we’ve travelled on Highway 61 of Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited fame and where 61 crosses Highway 49 near Clarksdale Mississippi is the famous Robert Johnson crossroads where he sold his soul to the devil in return for devilishly good guitar talent (apparently) and a location made famous in many other songs. There are many claims on this famous crossroads as there are many claims on Robert’s actual burial site. What we are pretty sure of is that he made it into the 27 Club courtesy of a cuckolded husband who supposedly poisoned him (on my birthday but 17 years before my actual birth). That was in the fine print of his contract with the devil. Always read the fine print. Otis Redding, another member of the Memphis blues and soul royalty was even less lucky than Robert Johnson, only making it to 26 thanks to a plane crash.

So New Orleans is primarily jazz (Louis Armstrong is the Elvis of New Orleans) and blues but Memphis is blues and rock and roll courtesy of one Elvis Presley. There are others who claim to have “invented” the various genres and those like WC Handy who was the first to write down blues music he was listening to over a hundred years ago in the Mississippi delta. But Memphis is blues and Elvis which means visits to Beale Street and Graceland respectively.

Beale Street is to Memphis what Bourbon Street is to New Orleans  but Beale is wider and significantly cleaner. They’re like a teenager’s bedroom, before and after Mum’s been in there to hose it out. But the music’s just as good in both. The CB and I were in Slinky O’Sullivan’s Irish bar and the music was being provided by a pianist who could play and sing anything. Two songs into his set he asked for requests and played them for the rest of the night. These guys and bands play for hours. None of this two hour, 16 song set kindergarten, namby tamby, Rolling Stones stuff for these marathoners. Anyway, our pianist mentioned he was asked to play a Metallica song the previous night. Not one to miss an opportunity, I asked him to play Metallica’s version of Whiskey In the Jar. An Irish drinking song in an Irish pub – what could be more appropriate. He did an admirable job but it was difficult to hear the two guitar parts over his piano and vocals.

The second night in Memphis we attended the Blues City Cafe and saw another excellent blues band fronted by a blind three piece suited black guy. What was additionally unusual about this guy is that he played the harmonica but like the Eagles who switch guitars every song because apparently one song puts them out of tune (they need to talk to Status Quo), he switched harmonicas almost every song. He had what appeared to be a customised bag of them – at least 7. I have never seen that. It could have been different harmonicas in different keys – I don’t know, but there you go.

Then it was on to Graceland. Of course those of you who have been there will know that the Graceland experience doesn’t just involve a house but also a combination mall/theme park/museum (with 8, count them, 8 gift shops) and a huge hotel, cutely called the Graceland Guesthouse. On first encountering this tourist behemoth which straddles Elvis Presley Boulevarde (obviously), the first word that springs to mind is “tacky”. The first complete thought that springs to mind once the full experience has been rationalised is that it’s a holy roller, evangelical, convention shrine, not to God but to Elvis, populated by slavish devotees who still worship him despite his dying 47 years ago on my birthday like Robert Johnson (86 years ago). I don’t know what it is about August 16th but it doesn’t like musicians. It didn’t spoil my birthday party because even though I can’t remember what music we were listening to, it certainly wasn’t Elvis.

The house, sorry, mansion is a bachelor’s paradise. There are man-caves everywhere, both inside and out. It’s a pity he had to share it with his grandmother, parents, wife and daughter. He did have an entourage however so I’m sure the expected shenanigans were got up to periodically.

Onward to Nashville.

Move over Budapest. Sorry Pokhara. On your bike Marrakech. New Orleans has stormed into first place on my favourite city list. I have to admit though, I’m a slut for a town with countless bars in which excellent music is being played excellently all day every day and the beers are icy and huge as in Huge Ass Beers. There are other things in life that are more important but I can’t think of any right now.

I thought #3 in this series was going to be the Big Easy wrap-up, but I keep thinking of more Cultural Learnings of America aka Borat. For example, the only place in Australia where you can guarantee the presence of an ATM is in a casino. Here every bar has one. They don’t want you to gamble but they certainly want you to drink. And cash is obviously king. Speaking of gambling, it’s illegal in Louisiana. Which explains the humongous Ceasars casino in the down town area – not. You have to give it to the locals – gambling is banned so they call it “gaming”. And the powers-that-be allowed that rather obvious loophole to ride. You have to ask yourself why. We’re now leaving Louisiana heading for Mississippi then Memphis so no more f…s will be given in this regard.

We’re now looking forward to seeing a hill. We haven’t seen one since Denver a week ago. I used to visit Calcutta regularly and was convinced that one day it would disappear into the swamp on which it appeared to be built. New Orleans is below swamp-level so the odds are that it will achieve oblivion before Calcutta. And as far as the landscape is concerned, “land” is a misnomer. It’s mostly water. Driving north past (through?) Lake Pontchartrain and we appear to have been on a bridge for the last half hour and that’s not the actual bridge over the lake which is apparently the longest continuous bridge over water in the world.

So now we’re heading for a change of scenery as the water seems to be receding and we’re back on dryish land. However there’s a lot to be said for sitting with a cold beer in a hot climate watching the world go by with good music all around. However spare me the appalling short pyjama fashion that some men appear to have adopted and I don’t want to ever see one of Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls” violently twerking, again, ever.

Where to start. Now I think I know how Borat felt when he had a chance to catch his breath after hitting these shores. The cultural overload down here makes New York seem like The Truman Show. Sorry for the references to two American films. If you’ve seen them, you’ll know what I’m talking about. If not….so be it. Anyway, I’m feeling inspired. I’ve been around this big old world (is that a song lyric?) and seen a thing or two but I ain’t seen nothing like this place with its bars and music and restaurants and it’s human zoo.

Speaking of a human zoo, I’m going to be a bit (factually) nasty here. I’m not referencing anything that isn’t widely known (that’s enough caveats) but if the bald eagle is the national bird of this country then type 2 diabetes is the national disease. We did the hop on hop off bus yesterday and at one stop 10 people got off and the bus’s tyres rose about two inches. And love, you really shouldn’t be wearing those tight short shorts. But feel free to express yourself, both figuratively and literally. Look, i could do with losing a few kilos but in this country i feel positively svelte  and the child bride could be a super model. All of those sweaty, squeaking, shaking thighs and cheeks must result in Curash being sold by the wheelbarrow. When you see the size of the meals they put in front of you, you understand why. I’m reminded of a roast beef sandwich I had in Times Square many years back. There were horns sticking out of one end and a tail from the other. And directly across Bourbon Street from our hotel is Huge Ass Beers. Says it all really.

While on the subject of food (and drink), the child bride and I had a very nice meal in a restaurant called Antoine’s (around since 1840). We were advised they have a dress code – jackets for blokes. It wasn’t policed to the extent that one bloke was wearing shorts and there were a few groups of very casually dressed young men dining and, I might add, behaving impeccably. Contrast that with the female groups (two bridal parties and four birthday groups) we encountered in various bars, both seedy and seedless. They were mostly “fine dining” shots and enjoying themselves at volume 11. Bit of roll reversal going on here.

If you don’t like drinking, there’s weed everywhere – the smell is unavoidable and after a few days, it’s in your clothes. The French Quarter is not the drug induced dystopian zombie world of some cities but I suspect in most places that attract large numbers of tourists, that is only tolerated in the less attractive parts of town. But weed doesn’t turn people into motionless, twisted lamp stands the way fentanyl does. And I suspect all of those competing sounds and masses of people frequenting numerous bars and clubs are incompatible with a slow, quiet crack-induced demise.

So you come to a place expecting to be on alert the whole time, and I guess to some extent you should be, but it’s been pretty cruisy so far. We finished up in Frenchmen Street last night which ironically is outside the French Quarter (hard to believe, I know) and where the locals go to party. It’s quite a walk back to our hotel, the Royal Sonesta in Bourbon Street but we did it and still had enough energy to visit a bar (called the Drinkery – got to love it) where a very loud rock band was playing our 60’s and 70’s music – Cream, Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix – plus a lot of driving blues, Stevie Ray Vaughan and Rory Gallagher style. That was a perfect way to finish stage 1 of this trip. Next comes the first organised tour part of this trip. We’re not quite finished with NOLA but in a couple of days we start our sojourn into the musical heartland as we make our way up through Memphis to Nashville.