They're Petrified And They're Ancient

I'm writing this in a coffee house at the top of the campus of the prestigious University of California at Berkley, surrounded by other individuals all beavering away furiously on their laptops. Man do I feel studenty! I also am trying to suppress mixed urges to yell out at the top of my voice about sociopolitical issues that irk me, exercising my rights to freedom of speech (do those rights apply to me as I am, technically, an 'alien' - cool!) while at the same time wanting to slap every hippy-esque student 'right-on' type for displays of outrageous hypocrisy. We passed a street vendor selling car bumper stickers. Among the obvious ones promoting sentiments like 'Give Peace A Chance' and 'No Blood For Oil' were some other more worrying ones, like 'Fu*k Israel'. Now I don't want to stir up a political storm here, but surely that is blatant racism? It is almost akin to spouting off that "there are two things in life you hate, racism and Jews" I thought these hippies/lefties etc were all about equality, free love, fair trade and such like? Ummm, interesting discussion point... Well, ideologies aside and back to the next installment of our little road trip.

With temperatures soaring it was deemed necessary to make a break for cooler climes. Not least because coupled with our own inability to regulate body temperature, Barry was experiencing difficulties chilling out too, resulting in her throwing the occasional hiss-y fit (every glorious and unashamedly cringe-worthy pun intended) and spitting close-to-boiling coolant onto the road. In an effort to chill everyone out some altitude was sought which came in the form of a visit to the Grand Canyon National Park. A small detour en route meant we took in the slightly mythical and mysterious Petrified Forest. Forest is stretching the imagination somewhat; desert would be a tad more appropriate. And were we as scared of this 'forest' (more superb punnage!)? Certainly not! Well, apart from Tim keeping his ever-vigilant eye out for rattle snakes, which Phil and I continued to remind him were all over the place. And out to get him. Disdain over location descriptions aside, the petrified wood we encountered was oddly intriguing. These ancient, fallen tree trunks had indeed been transformed into stone. As ever, there is a logical explanation as to why. Go google it. Brownie points were lost slightly when, on our way back to the car, we spotted a sign pointing out petrified sand dunes. Really. Come on, isn't that simply average, common or garden sandstone? Well, perhaps there are those out there who were absent from school the day the geography teacher enlightened their charges on different types of rock. Or am I just being cynical?


This side-show over, we pressed on and arrived at the south rim of the Grand Canyon. Wow. Simple as that. A bit like Argentinean steak, one should believe the hype when it comes to praise being proffered over this simply jaw-dropping spectacle. A big hole in the ground it may be, but some hole! Perched on the edge of the world it seemed, as we gazed over a mile down into the gorge cut by the Colorado river over the past few millennia. Granted, the world and his wife were there to gawp too, but there was enough of a vista spread out before us that the hordes of chattering RV vacationers melted into the background.


Not wanting to be caught up in a snap-happy tourist stampede we rose at some undogly hour in the morning to be one of the first to venture down a trail and into the canyon itself. Therefore following a sneaky spot of camping, coupled with an illicit bbq (the hyper-safety-concious park rangers deeming it too great a fire risk to allow city slickers to play with fire; us on the other hand deemed ourselves all but one step away from a Ray Meers level of ability to hack it in the wilderness and responsibly cook our catch al fresco), we joined a small handful of like-minded hikers and stomped off at 4.30 am down the trail. Not only was the temperature on our side, but the lack of the Jones' Big Family Grand Canyon Reunion 2010 (yes, we did spot a horde of such individuals, all sporting matching t-shirts emblazoned with the aforementioned slogan; we are in the States after all) and other such types meant that the sunrise we experienced alone, 3 miles in, was breathtaking. For me this vast abyss now holds pride of place at the top of my top-most-amazing-things-I've-seen-on-this-trip-so-far list. The only downside of walking an effective upside-down mountain was the 3-mile hike back up the way we'd come. By this time, the sun had not only got his hat on, but had well and truly come out to play. Phil decided to turn this return leg into an impromptu 'phis' session and stomped his way up as fast as his spindly legs could carry him. Tim also tried to stomp up as fast as his not-so-spindly legs could carry him, but it was the ginger wizard who hit the top of the rim first, looking, annoyingly, too fresh-faced for my liking. Tim redressed the fresh-faceness balance when he appeared. Although, to be honest, I was just glad to have got to the top myself. It didn't stop any of us, however from suppressing chuckles as we watched plenty more fat happy campers step off, knowing what would lie ahead. Snigger.


Realising we still had a full day in hand, the decision was made to push on north to Moab. We zipped through Monument Valley, gawping at the huge stacks of rock standing like giant needles rammed into the ground and trying to fathom just how they could possibly have been created. Tim corrected my mistake when I confidently pointed out the stack I was sure was the one that my namesake, all-round-good-guy and scientology-eschewing weirdo, Mr Cruise majestically free-climbed in the opening sequence of Mission Impossible. (It was actually shot at Dead Horse Point, for all you geeky film buffs out there.)


Now, I can understand why many of you dear readers out there would be wondering why on earth go to a place in Utah. That's Mormon-country, that is! But fear not, we are not now abound with multiple wives and spouting quite frankly ludicrous claims of the Risen Christ holidaying in America. Happily I can inform you that not only is the little town of Moab the gateway to the Arches National Park (more on that in a bit), it's also a bit of a Mecca for those who count hurtling up and down the sides of mountains on two wheels one of their primary pastimes. I am one such fellow, and a roadtrip to the States would not be complete without visiting the place us mountain-bikers in the UK talk about with wistful longing. While Phil decided that his man-suit needed a wash, the ever plucky Tim gamely joined me on what proved to be the most epic, adrenaline-fueled and bone-jarringly awesome rides I've ever done. Thirty five miles of mostly downhill, on bikes worth more that your average car that we'd rented from one of the many shops in town, left us exhausted, bruised, bloody but grinning from ear to ear. Moab, I salute you (in an gnarly, radicle, x-treme kinda way). (Which is more meaningful, I think.)


The Arches NP was as confusing and as spectacular as Monument Valley. Phil got all snap-happy and we scuttled around the place gazing in wonder at these natural stone bridges, giant rock fins and massive boulders balanced precariously upon the weakest looking plinths. Truly a geological marvel.


And then on to another of the States' marvels: Las Vegas, Nevada. When I say marvel, I do mean in a complete polar opposite to that of this country's national parks. A marvel Las Vegas certainly is. Marvelous it certainly is not. WIth Tim a Sin City veteran and Phil and I kinda ambivalent to spending any great length of time there, we decided to hit the Strip for One Night Only. We had driven through the night from Moab to get to the city that really never sleeps by the early morning. We checked ourselves into the Stratosphere hotel (the big, tall spacey looking one) and went for a stroll, trying to find a sports bar that would be showing the World Cup final. Blondies Bar proved suitable, and with a $20 cover charge affording us unlimited beer, we settled down for the big match. Happily the bar was also crammed with Dutch and Spanish supporters and everyone had a jolly raucous time. Which is where the raucousness ended as we miraculously transformed into lethargic old farts upon returning to our hotel room to freshen up, ready for this much-hyped big night out. We watched movies instead. Ahem. We are usually more rock'n'roll than that. We were just tired, y'know? A long night drive, and all that, right?? Who am I kidding. We wussed out in spectacular fashion. However, we were not that miffed. After exploring the Strip during the day, I think I can say with a degree of authority that Vegas is a decidedly odd and very tacky place, geared exclusively to relieve you of money at every opportunity and in every way possible. Casinos, bars, water, food, breathing; this all costs a lot if money. Now, I'm sure if you went with a big group of mates, with a wad of well-earned cash you had put aside and were happy to blow on a big weekend, and all dressed in dapper attire, then Vegas could be super fun. To three cash-strapped and slightly scruffy travelers, more akin to the great outdoors, the allure of this one-of-a-kind city simply didn't click. Definitely pleased to say I went but in no hurry to go back. Maybe some other time with a crowd, but not for now. Well, unless someone wants to change my mind. Which, being a sucker for a guided night out and happy to rescind all previous comments, I will gladly accept. Departing Vegas we nipped over to visit the Hoover Dam. Must say I was slightly disappointed to find it not constructed from leading-brand vacuum cleaners. A couple more hours on the road, and feeling peckish, we stopped off for a bite to eat in the town of Parhump. Yes it does rhyme with dump. And for a very good reason. There were more billboards advertising legal brothels (only in Nevada!) than could conceivably be contained on one place. One even promoted itself as an art museum too. Well I never!


Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Seems an appropriate enough phrase to describe our next little sojourn into one of the hottest places on the planet: The infamous (and reassuringly named) Death Valley. Duh duh derrrrr!!!! One again I can hear you all wondering why, given our aversion to all things scorchio, are we venturing into a place that Beelzebub would probably consider as a real-world summer retreat? Honestly, I don't know. In order to combat our clearly poor route planning, we again decided that the coolness of night would be our only chance to make it out the other side alive. This turned into us entering onto the valley floor by car (the real reason we were going was because the road from Vegas to the Yosemite transited through Death Valley) in the wee hours, 'camping' by the side of the road (Phil in the car, Tim and I on a park bench each and me in only my underpants it was that frickin hot) for a few restless hours before setting off at dawn. To be honest, the temperature was just about bearable, but one would be forgiven for thinking it was the middle of the day on a windswept desert outcrop. In the middle of summer. As the sun crept up, we found ourselves at the lowest point on the American continent, Badwater (a salt flat), some 235 feet below sea level. Cool! Well, not, but you get what I mean. We were not, however, alone. As part of our compulsory background information lessons to the area, Phil had informed us of this ludicrous-sounding ultra-marathon, starting at Badwater and going for 100 miles up out of the valley. The runners, at the hottest point of the day, have to run on the white road markings to stop their trainers melting on the black asphalt. Nuts. Well, turns out that we'd hit Death Valley bang on time, as we were soon passing these crazy individuals (and their support cars). The Badwater Ultra was in full swing! Seriously, you have to be slightly unhinged to want to do ultra marathons anyway, let alone ones set here. You could see Phil getting ideas in his head...


Safely out of the Valley of Death, altitude and latitude began increasing, resulting in temperature and testiness decreasing. Joy! Next and final stop on our detour off the Pan-Am was Yosemite National Park. Perched high up in the Rocky Mountains, this massive area of protected land really is something to behold. If you ever wondered where they did those Timote shampoo adverts, you know the ones, with the girl dipping her hair into some picturesque alpine mountain stream then flicking it back dreamily, while a fawn dear grazes nearby and a colourful butterfly flutters past, then this is the location for that shoot. The park rangers obviously do a fine job in managing the mass of visitors this place gets, as it almost looked too good to be true. But that is the amazing thing; this is exactly as it is supposed to look, as it always has done, way before humans deemed the outside to be reduced to a welcome distraction from built up suburbia. Managing to secure one of the last pitches on a campsite on the eastern edge of the park, an area known as Tolume Meadows, we got a well-earned night's sleep before striking camp and hiking a 7-mile round trip up to Cathedral Lake. This should actually be renamed Mosquito The Size Of Water Melon Heaven, for no sooner had we dipped our toes in the crystal blue mountain waters, our tranquility was shattered as these huge mozzies registered our presence and zeroed in. Tim actually struggled to do his laces back up as he was attacked from all angles by these flying parasites. No amount of DEET could suppress the sheer numbers, so giving it big legs, and with flailing arms like a bunch of hysterical schoolgirls, we dashed away from the lake shore and back into the relative safety of the forest. We regained our composure before we encountered the next pair of hikers coming up. Exchanging a brief hello as we passed each other, we nonchalantly warned them that 'there may be the odd mozzie up there, just to let you know'. Always ready to do a good deed to a fellow walker, us. We were soon back at the car and proceeded to drive the 50 or so miles across the park and back out the other side, stopping every now and again to gawp at the simply stunning scenery. Yosemite is now definitely well in my Top 5.


We soon found ourselves back by the familiar ocean as we rejoined the Pan-Am, or more accurately Pacific Coast Highway 1. This stretch of road that runs right up through California is a road-tripper's dream. A stop-over in the Cambria Palms Motel in the village of Cambria (funnily enough) was enhanced by the incredibly enthusiastic proprietor, Troy, who kept saying things like, "man, you guys are doing a sweet trip,' or 'man, I love your car,' which was all rather nice as we felt like minor celebrities, especial as we overheard him proudly talking about us and the car to other guests at the motel! Back on PCH1, we stopped by a certain Mr William Randolph Hearst's former coastal retreat, appropriately named Hearst Castle. A medieval castle it isn't; a magnificent example of European architectural fusion it is, housing priceless antiques; a real tasteful testimony to New World opulence. We toured the buildings, trying to conjure up images of what it must have been like to be one of Mr Hearst's esteemed guests. We also came away feeling rather poor. The road continued north past Big Sur, Carmel and Monterey, before we wound up at the self-proclaimed surfing capital of the world (presumably not counting Hawaii), Santa Cruz. Not really much to say about this place, especially as there was no surf to speak of what so ever. Ah well, never mind, we had a party invitation in San Jose anyway. A former (American) flatmate of Tim was visiting her younger brother who was celebrating his birthday. We checked into a very cheap and dingy motel nearby and partied with Jenny, her Yorkshireman boyfriend Brett (at last, another British accent!), Jenny's brothers Tristan and Gareth and Gareth's flatmate Eric. Muchos tequila was drunk. 'Nuff said. Eric happened to manage one of downtown San Jose's best pizza restraunts and gave us a free lunch the following day. Good work, fella! And so it was with fuzzy heads we left San Jose for San Francisco.


The City is a very cool place. Metaphorically and literally. As we arrived at the hostel at Fort Mason it was as if someone had decided we were missing England too much so turned off the hot and brought in a fresh supply of foggy coldness. Now I know we'd been stifling hot before, but this was ridiculous! At least it is far easier to get warmer than get cooler. Jeans, jumpers and hats were soon donned as we tramped up and down the City's streets. Tim was not on his best behavior, so was packed off to Alcatraz (Phil and I having done time on the Rock on a previous visit two years ago) and came back ashtounded that the Rock had become a tourisht atracshon (yeah, thanks Connery). Time was also spent hanging out with one of my friends and SF resident, Cameron; she was lovely and even cooked us supper one night. Setting off her apartment block fire alarm in the process then suffering the mortal embarrassment of explaining to the two fire-trucks that raced over, sirens wailing, that it was a pork loin that had got a tad smokey. The other residents huddled outside on the sidewalk weren't that impressed either. How we laughed! Time was also spent checking out places like SoMa, Haight Ashbury, Union Square and the iconic Golden Gate bridge. We also paid a visit to the Buena Vista Cafe, birthplace of the Irish coffee - one of those 11 am kick-starts that other beverages simply can't match. Not sure Tim was too convinced, though...


We have pencilled in a 'wine and cheese' day for tomorrow; we're off to Napa Valley and home to California's vineyards. I'm off to get some joss sticks. Till next time, peace and love, man.

All The Way From America

Land of the free. Home of the Brave. ...... and England's equals on a football pitch. Because Robert Green couldn't catch a cold.


The mystery and myth surrounding the south and central america countries and the complete contrast with Western culture was always going to be a spectacular part of the trip, but the lure of the most powerful nation on earth grew ever stronger as we approached it. The film and music industries have referenced so much of this huge country that every name and location is wrought with familiarity, and the thought of actually being there fills you with a childish excitement. Especially if like us you are particularly childish and excitable anyway. And like the child who's visit to Disneyland rests on one good school report / week's behaviour / cessation of fraternal hostilities, we had but one hurdle to cross. Unfortunately that hurdle happened to be the same one that the US rightwing media would have you believe the entire Mexican population is also trying to cross, namely the US-Mexico border. Although we were all armed with our physical attributes of non-Mexican height and skin colour, coupled with our ability to speak English without sounding like Speedy Gonzales, the anally retentive reputation of the US Customs officials did give us cause for concern. The fact that I had flown from the cocaine capital of La Paz in Bolivia to New York for a weekend, and then proceeded back to the US via the historic Cali and Medellin cartel lands of Colombia and finally the smuggling hot spot of Baja California, Mexico, made me feel like a prime candidate for some explorative rubber glove treatment [You'd have happily volunteered anyway Tim - Ed].

We'd been instructed that the major border crossing of Tijuana on Mexico's western coast would be an absolute nightmare due to the volume of traffic. This coincided nicely with the testimonies from various friends that if we stepped into Tijuana we would be shot. Do not go there, as my Aunt relayed to us from her friend, "por ningún razón." (For any reason whatsoever!). Unfortunately consulting the Foreign Office website gave us little more encouragement, as every single border town had arisen specifically to assassinate British tourists, but happily Phil researched the nearby crossing point at Tecate, where apparently a small percentage of Westerners had actually made it through.

As we queued in our cars with hundreds of other hopefuls in the blistering sunshine, we decided to give Her Majesty's Passports a little vocal support by belting some Springsteen out of the radio. Although we weren't actually Born in the USA, we felt he could help us Across the Border (Okay admittedly I did Google that one; Born to Run didn't fit. Worryingly he also sang Wreck on the Highway and You're Missing. Steady there Bruce. We're all friends here.) Anyway little did we know that the Boss' influence really did hold sway as we had no problems crossing into the US and even less leaving Mexico. In fact in our haste to cross into the States we had somehow missed Mexico's half of the border. This was a problem for two reasons. Firstly Phil had left his credit card details with Mexican customs as insurance that Barry would leave the country (and therefor not be subject to import taxes) and secondly Tom and I were eager for another stamp in our passports. The chief objective was quickly overcome, at the advice of a US border official no less, by simply walking back into Mexico through a curiously unmanned gate and up to immigration, but disappointingly we could find no-one to register Barry's exit with. After twenty minutes meandering, which included Phil's illegal pedestrian border crossing back into the US to retrieve the car documents, we gave up. It would have been pretty easy for the 3 of us to simply walk back through the gate again but a vague sense of responsibility led us back to the official pedestrian border crossing 100 meters away. The official who had advised us to walk back into Mexico had told us that he'd make sure we had no problems crossing back in. That now appeared to be conditional on us making it back before he and the entire customs desk changed shift, and of course we didn't. Luckily what Her Majesty requests and requires, Her Majesty doth get, and again our passports and obvious Britishness (I'm frightfully sorry but one of your chaps said we could just pop back through, what what) overcame the confusion. Admittedly Phil has had to cancel his credit card, and hopefully will be at the center of some international extradition crisis, but we had finally crossed into country number 14 and were cruising Californ-I-A.


One of the things we had to look forward to in America are the number of friends and family we could drop in on, and consequently spunge off, all the way up to Alaska. First stop was Tom's Aunt and Uncle in Orange County. Home of the Real OC, Clueless and a plethora of spoilt pseudo-Valley Girls. Awesome. Tom's family, Murray, Catherine and daughter Olivia, were actually in a beautiful part of Orange County called Mission Viejo and immediately cooked us up a storm on the first night with a steak barbecue, champagne, wine and homemade chocolate cake. Not a good move, it took them a week to get rid of us. While we toured round OC, shopped at the mall, chilled on the beach, watched the daily world cup football and generally enjoyed all the creature comforts we'd been denied for so long. Barry checked herself into a health spa and slowly regenerated into the mighty force of nature she had been before Tom and Phil broke her. We'd all like to say a very big thank you to the Page family, it truly was the most welcoming way we could have begun our tour of the States.

Tom had yet more family members dotted around California, and having spent 5 months trapped in a car with him I can certainly understand their desire for separation, but again Tom's Aunt Jane made for a great host in the famous and flawless Manhattan Beach. That weekend I hopped on a 6 hour (small fry) coach to Las Vegas to catch up with a Uni friend / make my millions while Tom and Phil caught up with family in Los Angeles. This included Phil's cousins Jonathan and Mary-Jo who were exhibiting their ingenious PieceHomes at the massive Dwell on Design Exhibition at the LA Conference Center and his other cousins, Roo and Lisa. Unfortunately Roo was away in South Africa, editing the forthcoming Blue Crush 2 movie no less, but his young'uns Zoe and Charlie were keeping things ticking over at home.

Vegas, meanwhile, really is a weird and wonderful place but it also has that sordid juxtaposition of wealth and wasteland that puts you a little on edge. It's a sort of Disneyland meets Amsterdam's Red Light District. Stop sniggering at the back. Obviously I'd be hugely more flattering if I'd won anything, or at least stopped when I was winning, but there's a reason they bring you free drinks while you gamble. Anyway, potential maternal recriminations notwithstanding I think I'll leave the Vegas stories at that. The only other bit of excitement on my little interlude was the 3 hour delayed return journey that resulted in an after dark arrival in Downtown Los Angeles. Not a good place to be. After ransacking my bag for clothes that offered no colour affiliations to the notorious Blood, Crip or Republican gangs I dropped my eyes to the ground and quick marched to the nearest skyscraper. Considering I was dressed in traditional, post-Vegas, Hobo attire, I had figured that I would attract little criminal attention once among LA's financial elite.

Although our raison d'etre for this trip is the Pan-American Highway which hugs America's western coastline, the States has so much to offer that we decided we should have a little trip inland. And having loosely decided on where we were going, we then decided to incorporate virtually every bit of scenery within an unreasonable driving distance of said route, and eventually settled on a fairly large loop around Arizona, Nevada, Utah, Nevada, Arizona, Nevada and back into California. Maybe not a traditional loop then, but certainly loopy. Before setting off though we had one more box office to tick, the movie Mecca of Hollywood. Another member of Tom's not so extended family (Feel free to delete that one Tom!) is a comedian who performs at the Laugh Factory on Hollywood Boulevard. Which I think we all agree is pretty seriously cool. We had already caught one of Jim's gigs on our way through Southern LA but he was a real gent and took time out on our last night in LA to give us a quick tour of the Hollywood sites. We all readily associate with the mighty Hollywood sign and glitzy Walk of Fame but Hollywood's real charm is it's rich celebratory history. From Charlie Chaplin's former lodgings to Al Capone's safe under the floorboards of the Formorsa Cafe, every street and building has a story and the wonderful accessibility to such national treasures is enough to set your heart racing.

[Britney Spear's Star]

Our next friendly port of call would be at my Aunt's house in Tucson Arizona, right back down on the border with Mexico and more concerningly, right back into desert terrain. We broke up the journey with a overnight camping stop in Joshua Tree, the first of many truly spectacular American national parks. The landscape is flat, dusty and decidedly desert-like, but these beautiful trees (actually they're closer to cacti than trees) stand as silhouetted sentinels. Probably the most famous Joshua Tree adorns the cover of the U2 album of that name and it's easy to understand why they used it.


We had an early start the next morning, which was lucky as the early start was thrust upon us by a desert sun that shows little respect for nylon tents bereft of air conditioning. As Barry was back in flying four-by-four form we took a two hour detour over some spectacularly rocky terrain which would have been a struggle to navigate on foot, but Barry gamely powered through to let us all know she was back in the game. We then had a 6 hour drive along interstates (motorways) to Tucson that was to coincide with the hottest part of the day. We had been warned about the heat, and we had halfheartedly planned to drive in the cooler hours of the day, but it's difficult to take that kind of thing truly seriously when every windows-down, British summer drive you have ever taken has been absolute bliss. The difference, however, that accompanies an outside air temperature that is hotter than the human body, is remarkable. And all of those remarks slot neatly into the central theme of, Oh my God it's so hot I think I'm going to die. We don't have AC, and opening the windows felt like hugging a giant hairdryer set to max power. Which meant we were trapped between driving a greenhouse or the aforementioned hairdryer treatment. Obviously the other option would be to stop the car and hop out but I'm pretty sure that disintegration type thing that Vampires succumb to under sunlight would have been on the cards. It was at some point along this drive that I noticed a new physical feature in myself. Namely after sustained exposure to oppressive heat and blasting hot air the inside of my eyelids seem to sweat, and the subsequent stinging blindness is not conducive to interstate driving.

Finally though we hissed into Tucson and were rewarded with a lovely couple of nights at a blessedly air-conditioned hotel and two excellent meals with my Aunt's husband David (My Aunt had unfortunately by then made her annual escape to a cooler and nephew free climate!) Tucson is the second largest city in Arizona and seemed like a cool place to hang out, but with a pool, air-conditioned room, gym and most importantly world cup football to keep us entertained we only made one daytime foray, down to the Titan museum which houses the only viewable Inter Continental Ballistic Missile silo in the States. And yes, it is every little boys dream. Shy of a bespectacled, grey suited man stroking a chubby white cat, the ICBM silo was the perfect setting for a Bond movie. ICBM's are one of the three methods of launching nuclear missiles, hence Nuclear Triad, the two others being from submarines and stealth bombers, effectively land, sea and air. Titan is simply the name for this family of missiles and they were used both as part of America's nuclear deterrent and also as part of their space programme. The missile is housed underground, with a retractable metal covering that opens up to allow it to fire. It's underground so obviously those pesky Russians can't blow it up and nuke America without fear of reprisal. Actually this is all about thirty years ago as technology has moved on, and all the Titans have been decomissioned and deconstructed apart from the one in Tucson. The retractable covering is set half open and concreted into place, to prevent the missile from being readily recomissioned and launched, otherwise it would count towards the number of Nuclear missiles the USA is currently allowed to point at undisclosed locations that may or may not be downtown Moscow.


After visiting the second biggest city in Arizona, only the numero uno of Phoenix itself would be a worthy destination to follow up with. Phoenix is the most populated state capital in all of America, a question that my housemates and I once correctly answered in a pub quiz. The fact that one of those housemates, Rob, is actually from Phoenix meant that feat was marginally less impressive, but it did at least mean we had Rob's family to call in on once we had arrived. Again the transatlantic hospitality was hugely appreciated as Joel, Pam and son Mark welcomed us into their home. Even the ever so slightly grouchy German Shephard Bergen warmed up to us, although admittedly the dog biscuits helped. Our second night coincided with the 4th of July and the most spectacular fireworks display imaginable. Americans have an infectious enthusiasm and the celebrations of national pride was a riot. Admittedly we were teetering on the edge of dressing up in colonial red coats and powdered wigs and brazenly marching down the street, but who wants to lose the same battle twice? On our final day we got our own American on with a quick jaunt around the Native American museum and a baseball game which was excellent. Yes it was strange to see multi-millionaire sports athletes with physiques more akin to darts players, but it would be wrong to openly mock them. That's just not cricket.