The end…of a chapter

Back home – reunited at Heathrow with Mum and Dad after nine months around the world

I don’t quite know how to start this. I might have had nine months in some of the most incredible parts of the world to give me inspiration, but this is probably the toughest post – if not one of the hardest pieces of writing – I’ll ever have to tap out on the screen in front of me.

Homeward bound

I’m sitting in a very comfortable World Traveller Plus seat, looking down as New York disappears below me. Even British Airways must have detected my sombre mood at check-in. Despite expecting to pay anything up to a £250 charge for missing my flight from LA to New York, to enable me to drive from coast to coast, I instead got a complimentary upgrade.

Perhaps our flag carrier sensed from my itinerary it had been something of an epic journey, and that it needed something special to soften the impending hammer blow of returning back to reality

Boarding for home

Yet even the extra legroom, wide, extra-padded seats, the three little buttons to control everything from lumber support to the extra recline, and the sumptuous upgraded menu is struggling to put me in a frame of mind where I can accurately put into words how I am feeling right now.

Going home was always going to be a difficult part of my journey, but the strange mixture of emotions flowing through me is different to what I had expected. One minute I am incredibly sad that the adventure I had looked forward to, a once-in-a-lifetime journey, that has brought so many positives, friends and fun to my life, is now over.

Nice comfy upgrade!

Yet there is also a sense that I am now looking ahead, a feeling that I am returning home to a fresh start, a new future, a clean slate to get my life at home back on track, concentrate on my career and plan more adventures in the future with the countless new friends and favourite places I have come across and discovered.

And of course, there is the excitement at seeing my family and friends again, who I left amid tears and beers in October, not knowing really how long it would be before I would be back. Sure, the intended return was May, but deep down I think I always knew it would be longer.

Amid all of this, somehow I need to write a post that sums up how I am feeling knowing I am just hours away from touching down at Heathrow and seeing my parents once again. After all, every good story needs a beginning, a middle and an end. A jaunt across Russia on the trans-Siberian railway provided something extraordinary to write about back then, and in doing so became a perfect starting point for my ongoing journal.

The middle wrote itself, with the Chinese tea scam catching me out and resulting in a ride in a police car; falls off motorbikes and cycles leaving me with lasting scars and memories of this eventful trip; learning to dive, learning to make coffee and learning that Australia is a very, very expensive place to visit.

Flying over New York

It was helped along with a good dose of problems – Thailand trains being delayed by six hours, leaving me to sleep rough on a platform for the night; a pain in the backside lodger back home that did a runner on me, leaving

Breakdowns in the Outback

my finances in ruins and putting my whole trip in jeopardy, a couple of Germans who managed to alienate an entire tour group I was on, being kicked out of a hostel in Darwin thanks to a ridiculous stay extension system, and who could forget about the time when I laughed at the spirits of Uluru…resulting in a broken down car and a sky-high outback garage repair bill for a good friend of mine. Who would have thought a fuel pump could cause so many problems?

My trans-Siberian railway group I met

There have been plenty of highlights too that have given me plenty to write home about – bungy jumps, skydives and icy adventures in New Zealand, some of the best friends I could ever wish for in my ‘Ballarat family’ in Australia, learning to surf on the waves of the Pacific, managing to drive all the way along Route 66 in a week, New Year on Thailand’s beautiful islands, climbing the Great Wall of China, the magnificent insight into history at the Terracotta Warriors and travelling on the fastest public transport in the world in Shanghai. The bone shaking 433km/hr we reached on that Maglev will live long in the memory.

Starting out in Moscow – with very short hair!

As I look in the British Airways Highlife magazine, I flick through to the map of the world, complete with all the BA destinations, and think back to that dull day in October when I did a similar thing and marvelled at how far I was about to travel. I looked at the maps of Asia, Australia and America and thought about how far away everything seemed. Returning home at the end of it all seemed just a distant thought, yet now on this flight I look at that same map and spot all of the places I have been. Suddenly the world looks and seems very small.

It has certainly been an experience getting around this great planet of ours, and here are a few of the figures involved.

  • 304 days
  • 26,000 miles (and probably a bit more!)
  • 14 flights
  • 13 long distance trains
  • 7 tuk tuks
  • 6 motorbikes
  • 6 hired or borrowed cars
  • 4 cycles
  • 1 helicopter
  • 1 campervan (courtesy Matt and Siobhan)
  • 1 police car (Chinese tea scam)
  • 2 trips to hospital (to visit Dirk)
  • 2 crashes (one motorbike, one cycle)
  • 1 bout of serious food poisoning (Malaysia, Christmas, great!)
  • 300,000 words (and counting) on my blog
  • Around 35 packs of two minute noodles
  • 3 boxes of souvenirs sent home

So what have I learnt on this journey? After all, so many people were telling me how I will return as a changed person. Its difficult to say whether I am or not – that will perhaps be down to close friends and family to be the judge of that.

On the trans-Siberian in the Gobi Desert

What I can say is that I return to British soil a much happier, relaxed, enlightened and clear-thinking person than I was before. I return with a whole load of new mates, too. Whether they are living on the other side of the globe in Australia or New Zealand, or close to home in Nottingham or London, I know I am lucky to have met some fantastic people who I am proud to call friends. Be they Colin and Sarah, who I had so much fun and banter with in southeast Asia, Dan and Laura, who I got to know thanks to an unfortunate chicken-dropping incident in Adelaide, only to go on and spend the next two weeks travelling north together, Russ, Soap and the Magic Bus team in New Zealand, Santi and Galli, my Spanish friends I met on the trans-Siberian railway, Jen from London, but with links to Lincolnshire, who I met in Thailand after she shouted abuse at me for staying too long on Koh Phangan, or Liz, a fellow journalist I met in Chiang Mai who I stopped by to visit at her home in Newcastle, Australia.

With Santi and Galli who I met on the trans-Siberian railway, pictured shortly after arriving in Beijing

There are countless other people too, who nine months ago were complete strangers, yet fate and our paths of travel led us to meet at some of the most interesting parts of the world. As I celebrated my birthday just yesterday, I had one of those moments when I realised just how many new people have become part of my life in such a short space of time. Humbled by some 130+ thoughtful messages and birthday wishes on my Facebook wall, I looked through the list of names. Among them, around a third were from people around the world who, during the last few months, got to know me as I did them, shared memories, travelled together and became part of each others’ lives.

Tickling tigers in Thailand

When travelling, background, nationality, gender, sexuality and race do not matter. When you walk into a hostel, step onto a plane or spend four days and four nights on one train, you are simply a traveller, a backpacker, and part of a brilliant community of people all making their way in one direction or another around planet Earth.

Learning to dive in Koh Tao, Thailand

And then there are the scores of renewed friendships that this journey has allowed me to refresh. The time spent with Hannah in Thailand, another journalist I once met on a plane returning from New York, but strangely had never met back home. Yet we were both travelling at the same time, met up in Thailand, who introduced me to her friend Laura and who we went on to spend a few brilliant weeks laughing, travelling, learning to dive, drinking far too many beers and buckets together and inventing the whole new game of the 7-Eleven bar crawl.

There was Neil, my old friend from Pizza Hut in Grimsby who I had last seen some 13 years ago and who now lives in Alice Springs, slap bang in the centre of Australia. A great guy who took a leap of faith by lending me his car for a trip to the outback,

With Neil in Alice Springs

only for it to break down on me and land him with a bill for more than $1,000. Yet despite that, not once did he grumble about what had happened. Our conversations continued from where they left off in the Pizza Hut staffroom in the late Nineties, our friendship was renewed, and I know that after losing touch, once again we are good mates again despite the distance.

There is Katrina in Sydney, another close friend who has helped me with accommodation on more than one occasion in her beautiful city since we met in upstate New York while working on the summer camp in 2002.

And of course one of the best renewed friendships was that with Nat, another close friend from Camp Nashopa in 2002 who, without a thought, offered me a place to stay in Ballarat, where I could stay for free, sort out my finances, plan the next part of my trip, and in the process, meet more new friends. Jess and her daughter Liv, who also invited me into their home (along with their pet dog Cleo, whose hairs I am still finding in my luggage and between the keys of my notepad), along with friends James and Jane who welcomed me into their circle of family and friends for three brilliant months.

With Nat, left, and Koa on my arrival into Ballarat…as Batman!

My time in Ballarat was easily one of the highlights of my nine months away. For a few weeks, I had a bit of routine and a place I could call home. Helping out at the Lake View Hotel, days out on the coast, pizza nights in and so many laughs that my cheeks are still recovering from all the aches.

With my ‘Ballarat family’

The term ‘Ballarat family’ I have already mentioned in this post, but it’s a term that quite describes how we became. For those few weeks, those special people in that part of Victoria could not do enough for me, and for that I will forever be indebted. For a few weeks in particular, times grew very hard and difficult, when a lodger in my house back home ran away owing more than £1,000 in rent.

Yet, despite only knowing Jess and James for a few weeks, they were there for me throughout with endless help with internet supply, generous supplies of meals, far too many beers and coffees shouted for me and the brilliant ability to put a smile on my face and give me a much needed hug when things got on top of me.

Nat not only offered me a place to stay, but introduced me to a new band of friends that I am lucky to know, and who, thanks to their love and support, stopped me from returning home when times got particularly hard. With just a couple of hundred pounds in my account back home, and finding it so tempting to just fly back to sort the problems out with my house in person, it was Jess who gave me some all important advice.

“Things will work themselves out. They always do.”

And they did, through some of the most remarkable ways. Not only did I end up tracking my elusive housemate down, claiming some money back from her (and there will be more chased up through court on my return) but I began making contacts within the travel industry

When my friends Siobhan and Matt visited from home, at the Round the Twist Lighthouse, Great Ocean Road, Australia

Which brings me on to this very blog, my website, afishoutofgrimsby. I don’t quite know where to start with this, mainly because it snowballed from something that I thought would be a good personal record, and something to keep the parents and friends up to date with what I have been up to, into something that in the end, helped me out with my travels in a way I never thought possible.

Blogging on the Mekong, Laos

I bought the domain name through WordPress after having a laugh with colleagues about how I, one of the most accident prone and clumsy people in the Look North newsroom, would probably struggle to make it around the world on my own. I’d be like a fish out of water, came the call – a man out of his depth.

“It worries me how you’ll ever make it round the world,” said one producer to me after I’d once again lost my car and house keys in some obscure place in the office.

And that was my inspiration for the website name, what with Grimsby being famous for its fishing heritage and all that. My friends laughed and agreed when I came up with it, all promising that they would check in on it from time to time.

A familiar view during my travels!

It was a steep learning curve to begin with. I’ve never set up a website before, and it was tricky to get my head around the layout and photo placement tools at first. Gradually, however, I got the hang of it, devising my own style and layout that was the most time efficient to upload yet easy to read and follow. It was my personal diary, written in a news story form at times, but for what I thought would be a few dozen close friends.

Now, more than 18,000 hits later, and being picked up and running as a weekly column in the Grimsby Telegraph back home, afishoutofgrimsby became something I just had to keep up. Its been difficult at times – spending so much time on the road, action packed days, nights out and early starts, combined with the pressure to be as sociable as possible, meant that I often spent any spare time I had tapping on a keyboard to keep the blog posts flowing. But poor internet, especially in Australia, New Zealand and Fiji, meant it was hard to keep up to date. Uploading the photos for one post alone would take up to three hours due to the file sizes, while the layout of each post easily takes another two hours, on top of the time it takes to write each one.

My birthday card for mum that I sent from Koh Lanta, Thailand!

Yet I knew that it would be worth it. I already look back at my posts from the first half of my travels and there are reminders of people and events that have already slipped my mind. And then, in Australia, with daily reader number growing, the website helped me down another avenue. I got in touch with Great Southern Rail, who enjoyed my website so much, they offered me travel on the famous Overland and Ghan trains from Melbourne to Darwin – the regular price of which would set me back some $2,500.

I had to put the work in, of course, but that was something I was already doing. In return, I found a way of subsidising my travel, and I know the posts were very well received by the railway company.

Freefalling in Queenstown, New Zealand

Following on from that success, Tourism New Zealand, which promotes the country, along with the Magic Bus, who tours the country, got me onboard with a hefty discount and free-of-charge media scheme when I arrived after my stay in Australia. It was a breakthrough that enabled me to experience New Zealand and all of the exciting activities in a way I never thought possible. My budget would never have stretched to even a quarter of the days out and adrenalin attractions that I actually experienced, yet this once little website that I hoped would prevent me from explaining the same stories over and over again back home had now started helping me with more exciting things to write about.

Bungy! Jumping the third highest bungy in the world, in Queenstown, New Zealand

To that extent, I’ll miss being attached to my netbook and its now polished-smooth keys from my fingertips. I’ll miss looking out for interesting little tit-bits that I come across to tell people about back home. When something goes wrong, it will once again just be something that goes wrong. There will be no more “ah well, its something for the blog” excuses. I’ll miss taking far more photographs than normal, just because the website might need it to explain a story. And I’ll miss all of the kind comments and support from those regular readers back home who have been with me for the ride.

Contrasts…snow and Skiing in New Zealand…

Because that is how it has felt at times. I may have been thousands of miles away from home, off the beaten track, sometimes fed up, hungry or tired in the middle of nowhere, yet it was always so comforting knowing that in some way, everyone was with me. I’d look forward to mum and dad talking to me about something I had written, or the odd email dropping into my inbox from a friend or work contact who I had made laugh, cry or smile with some of my writing. Or a note from a complete stranger, somewhere on Earth, who had somehow stumbled across my website and been inspired to get in touch after reading about my journey.

…paradise and sun in Fiji

Every day I would get a breakdown of where my website is being read, and the number of different countries and flags around the world that pop up still continues to stagger me. It was never part of my plan, yet I’m pleased it became part of my travelling experience. The knowledge that people were actually enjoying it – and still enjoying it nine months on, judging by the ever increasing views – was what kept me going, often until two or three o clock in the morning, to make sure that everything was kept up to date as possible.

Tubing fun in Laos

So where does afishoutofgrimsby go from here? To be honest, I still don’t know. My day to day job and career can limit my personal thoughts going out into the public domain somewhat, but perhaps there can be a way of continuing it through future travels or adventures. There is also a plan to turn it into a book, something mentioned to me by more than a few fellow travellers and friends along the way. Again, that is something I never imagined I would ever accomplish, yet I owe it to myself to at least explore the idea. And there will probably be a couple more updates as I make the transition back from a backpacking traveller into a clean-cut television reporter.

Ferry in Fiji

Yes, it will mean the longer hair will probably have to go, the travelling wristbands and cotton bracelets from tubing in Laos will have to be removed, and the shaver will definitely be brought back into daily action. But it has been great to throw myself into ‘traveller mode’ for a few months. It might have been a bit of a bet with a few friends from home not to get my hair cut for the entire duration of my trip, but now I’ve got used to it, I’m not sure it will be an easy day under the scissors. It might be providing Dad with plenty of ‘get your hair cut’ comments, but on the whole, the positive words of support for the longer locks far outweigh the negatives.

Even my closest friend Dan, who uttered ‘you and that horrible hair’ to me on the phone a few days before I arrived at his house in Connecticut, was forced to admit that he actually quite liked it. “I think it actually suits you,” he said. I’m still not too sure whether he meant it.

Laying on the International Date Line, Taveuni, Fiji

Aside from getting my barnet cut, there is also a family holiday to look forward to just a matter of hours after I step foot back in the country. Its dads 60th, and his wish is for us all to be together as a family for it, so we’re travelling to Cape Verde to be with my sister who is working out there. It will be the first time in two years that we have all spent quality time together, and its fair to say we’re all looking forward to it.

Getting closer to home

I’m now halfway over the Atlantic, cruising along at 613mph according to the little screen in front of me, and I’ve realised I have been rattling on for some time. Its probably time I get round to some thankyous.

I have been fortunate enough to meet so many incredible people on this journey, both friends and acquaintances who have made me laugh, shared a pint, offered a bed, cooked me a meal, given advice, lent a hand, loaned me a car, picked me up, taken photos, driven me around and generally been there for me when I have needed it. I have met countless others who have simply been part of the journey, on tours, day trips, on flights or on boats, or who I have just bumped into in a street and enjoyed a conversation with. There are far too many people to name, but for all those I have had the pleasure of meeting, chatting to, passing the time with, travelling with, sharing  and helping to make some wonderful memories with, I thank you with all my heart.

On the Great Wall of China

I must thank the companies and organisations in Australia and New Zealand, who, thanks to their free of charge offers and schemes, enabled me to do more than I ever dreamed of doing on this trip.

A huge thankyou to my managers and colleagues at the BBC, who have been fully behind my travels and gave my career break and website their full backing, including a lot of behind the scenes work with clearance regarding the Grimsby Telegraph newspaper column and some hastily rearranged return dates, knowing the knock-on effect it can have on contracts and extensions for other staff.

The biggest thankyou has to go to those of you who are reading this, who inspired me to keep going, to keep writing and to keep staying up until all hours, timing uploads and new posts to coincide with the working day in the UK, and who have encouraged me to share my experiences. I really have felt your support as I have made my way around the globe.

Saying goodbye to mum and dad in Hull, UK, October 2011

And finally, to my family, in particular my dad, Graham, and mum Lynda, who despite questioning my reasons for travelling in those early days when it was just an idea and queried whether I was putting my career at risk, got fully behind me and gave me their full support. When times got hard, it was my parents I turned to despite the miles, who have helped with visits to my house in Hull and subbed me a loan to help me finish my journey when I needed it.

I will miss watching my dad make his Treasure Hunt-esque visits to the huge map of the world they bought and placed behind them so I could see it in our Skype chats. He ran out of pins to stick in it the other day, after I clearly visited far more places than he originally thought. It was mums fault apparently. I’ll also miss watching how the postcards I sent from around the world would, one-by-one, appear on the frame of the map. An ongoing progress chart, but a gesture in itself that showed me how much my parents were behind me. At times, I’d like to think they got almost as much fun out of it all as me, plotting my journey, following my flights and reading my updates from the latest far-flung land.

Their support meant the world to me, and while it was hard missing Christmas and birthdays with them this year, I know I will treasure our family time from now on.

With Dan and Laura, Ayers Rock, Australia

You see, if there is one thing this trip has taught me, it is how I take everything in my life back home for granted. The best friends I could ever wish for, good health and a loving family. Sure, a nice house, car and a bit of disposable income are great, but in the grand scheme of things, and having lived on a tight budget for the last nine months, if there is one thing I have learnt it is indeed the old cliché that money isn’t everything.

I have travelled through some of the poorest areas in the world, where people live on just $1 a day, who just a generation ago lived in fear of their lives under brutal regimes, and who call a tin shed their home.

Sunrise at Angkor Wat, Cambodia

Yet, however poor, however destitute and however hungry or thirsty they may be, they would always have a smile. A welcoming hand, a thankyou, a look in their eyes that says ‘you’re welcome here’. And that was a huge lesson for me.

Dawn over London…and my first sight of home

And so I get back to my initial train of thought. While I may have had a beginning, and plenty of stories in the middle, this tale of a certain ‘fish out of Grimsby’ needs an end.

Even Hull got on the map approaching Heathrow. Nearly home

For that, I refer to some scribbled words on a hostel wall in my first few days of travelling in China. It was dark, I was on my own, and I was sipping a beer. My eyes wandered through the hutong lanes and upon the messages that had been scrawled by hundreds of travellers before me. My eyes became fixed on one of them, a message that seemed to resonate, and one that helped me sum up my reasons for making such an epic journey in the first place. I will never know the anonymous person who wrote it, but it was a few simple words that I hope inspire others thinking of putting their day to day life on hold for a while, taking a leap of faith from the rat race, and discovering the big beautiful world of ours that we are lucky enough to call home.

“Life is like a book – there’s a beginning, a middle and an end. The story that fills the pages in the middle is entirely down to you.

“But without travel, you can struggle to get past the first page.”

I realise I have been so fortunate to have this incredible opportunity, and its been a pleasure sharing part of my story with you. And who knows – maybe one day, there will be a second chapter.

My bag arrives at Heathrow. The end of an amazing adventure

Virtual Reality

Touching the Atlantic – coast-to-coast drive complete!

After almost nine months of continuous travelling, slowly making my way around the world, I felt incredibly close to home as I approached the east coast of the United States and the Atlantic Ocean.

Afterall, I’m now closer to my family and friends in Grimsby and the UK than I have been since around the end of October last year, when the trans-Siberian train took me to the far east. I could almost smell the Humber bank, almost see the HumberBridge – and I was about to see one of my closest friends.

But I didn’t need to get on a plane to see him. For Dan moved to Connecticut, a couple of hours north of New York City, almost two years ago now, spotted by the sports channel ESPN and given his own show at their American headquarters and studios.

I couldn’t think of a better place to end this epic journey than at his home in West Hartford with his wife Denise and son Nathaniel, my godson. For much of my adult life, Dan has been one of those who I have trusted, who has advised, encouraged, celebrated, listened to and supported me through many decisions I have made, including discussions when I was unsure about making this very trip. It felt right that I would end it with him and his family.

Heading towards New York City

But first there was another major milestone that Ian and I had to reach. We may have driven for thousands of miles, but for this to be a true coast-to-coast drive across America, we had to find a suitable place on the coast to touch the ocean. Afterall, I have a photograph of me touching the Pacific Ocean, I need another of me touching the Atlantic as proof of the achievement.

We left the Catskill Mountains behind and followed a familiar route towards New York – familiar as it was a drive we completed many times during our days as counselors at CampNashopa. The I87 took us around the northern outskirts of the Big Apple, the skyscrapers dominating the skyline out of the right hand side of the car, their peak being the unmistakable shape of the EmpireStateBuilding.

I looked at a map and decided that the town of Bridgeport would be the ideal place to mark the end of our coast to coast adventure. It was almost on the way to West Hartford from NYC, minus a short detour off the Interstate. It was a slightly rough looking town, but from the raised highway we could see the Atlantic Ocean for the first time.

Beautiful, umm, Bridgeport!

I think that is when the sense of achievement took over – a little over a week ago, I was driving the car around California, dashing along Santa Monica Pier in LA for those all important shots of the Pacific side beach. And now, with a whole lot of America behind us, we’d reached as far as we could go, pulling up in a parking bay beside a white sandy beach full of local people playing volleyball. Ian and I grabbed our cameras and walked towards the blue ocean that was lapping onto the shore.

We made it!

We’d just reached the gentle waves when we heard a commotion behind us.

“Guys guys, guys,” everyone was shouting, looking in my direction. My eyes darted across from the volleyball players who were getting my attention, to a police officer who was giving our car some attention. He’d pulled up on a quad bike, and attempting to issue a ticket. I sprinted across the beach.

“Is there a problem officer?” I asked, wondering what I could possibly have done wrong.

“This is not a parking bay,” he told me, despite it looking very much like one. Apparently there was a sign telling me so, not that we’d managed to spot one.

Well, it looked like a parking bay officer!

Cue lots of “sorry I’m a tourist, just driven across from Los Angeles, only grabbing a quick photo” spiel, which thankfully did the trick.

“Park it across the road, but we’re closing the park soon so be quick,” he told me, before speeding off on his quad.

Re-parked…surely it’ll be fine here!

I parked up and rejoined Ian, and had just got the camera out while having a paddle in the Atlantic when there was yet another commotion from behind us. This time it was the policeman shouting, who was also waving his arms around and looking quite angry.

I made another sprint across the sand.

“Just WHAT the hell would they say to you if you parked like THAT in Hollywood sir,” he barked at me.

I looked at the car. Its wheels were in the bay, I’d parked it close to the fence, it wasn’t blocking any traffic and I thought it was a neat bit of parking. But something told me that it wasn’t a good time to say “nice parking?”

“You’re lucky I’m not issuing you a second ticket, let alone a first. Get it turned around.”

Ah. And suddenly it became clear. I’d momentarily forgotten that the UK is just about the only country in the world that allows you to park a car facing oncoming traffic. Here in the States, it’s a parking offence. I looked around at Ian, who seemed to be just as embarrassed by my second parking offence in as many minutes as I was.

Touching the Atlantic, just over a week since the Pacific…and no planes in between!

I turned the car around, locked up again and rejoined Ian on the beach, sheepishly walking past the locals who, by now, had stopped playing volleyball and turned their attention to the idiotic tourist who keeps getting shouted at by the neighbourhood cop.

“Ironic, isn’t it,” I said to Ian as the water lapped around my feet.

“You drive thousands of miles across America, one of the most famous routes in the world, stop off at some of the most famous sights in the world, and almost complete the journey with a parking ticket at the final stop.”

We laughed. Reality was definitely getting nearer.

With the photographs taken, and an angry quad-biking cop on patrol, it was time to take our bug-spattered, California-registered motor away from its Atlantic viewpoint and back inland towards West Hartford. Who knows if it will ever see this side of the States again – at least it had a few stories to tell!

You don’t see many of these plates in New York

By now the sun was setting, and after three previous visits to the town, I could turn the sat-nav off and made my own way to Dan’s house. It was a strange feeling, driving back into a town that feels so familiar. I had a sensation that I was going back to what I know – stepping back into my ‘real life’ if you like, having spent so long on the road in unfamiliar places and countries.

I turned into his street, looking out for the large tree that stands in his garden, and pulled up onto his driveway. Something I have done a few times before, but never at the end of a 20,000+ mile journey around the globe. I could see through the glass front door as Denise turned around and a huge smile lit up her face, and Dan rushed outside. They had followed my journey through my blog, and now it was very much ending on their doorstep.

A welcome from Dan

“Mate, so good to see you,” said Dan as he gave me a manly hug on the drive. I introduced him to Ian, before we were both invited inside. It had just been Nate’s first birthday, so there was plenty of cake to welcome us, along with a celebratory beer.

“You’ve done well to put up with his stories all that way,” joked Dan, referring to his long-held perception that my anecdotes have a tendency to bore people. Ian laughed it off. I don’t think I’d bored him too much along the way!

A lot of miles added to the clock for this trip!

We chatted for about half an hour before Ian had to leave – while my drive against a deadline was over, Ian had a motor race meeting to be at north of Boston for the weekend, and had to make further progress north. Ian and Dan had never met each other before – one being a friend from Camp America, the other being a long term friend and coursework buddy at university – but they got on really well, and after  few photographs together in the living room to mark the occasion, Ian had to get back on the road.

Introductions all round!

It had been a brilliant leg of my journey, and to share it with a great mate who I originally met 10 years ago through travelling, enabling us to share memories, costs and driving duties with, had made it all the more special. I was gutted to say goodbye, knowing its likely to be a couple of years before we meet up again, but we had made a dream become a reality. Something we’d talked about 10 years ago at Camp Nashopa, and then speculated on in Melbourne earlier in the year, had become a reality. For me, it was something I had not initially planned as part of my trip, but I’m so pleased we managed to make it happen – even if it does mean I could face up to a £250 penalty for missing my flight to New York from LA.

Bye mate

I shook Ian’s hand and patted him on the back as he got back into our Ford Fusion and backed it off the drive. It had been our trusty carriage across the States, clocking up 3,809 miles since I drove it off the parking lot at Los Angeles Airport. It had taken in the Las Vegas strip, the Hoover Dam, the Grand Canyon and the deserts. It had crossed the mighty Mississippi River, completed Route 66, seen the skyscrapers of New York and almost had a parking ticket beside the Atlantic Ocean, but its journey was far from over.

Ian’s journey continues

As the headlights disappeared into the distance, Ian and the car were only halfway through their journey – to save a staggering £1,000 one-way charge, Ian will be at the wheel all the way back across America to the very same car rental place in Los Angeles that I picked it up from. Now that will be a sight on the rental agents face when they notice the clock. And don’t worry – we double checked it was on an ‘unlimited mileage’ basis!

After a good sleep, I was woken early in the morning by Dan, and a gorgeous little man called Nate. He was clearly confused as to who this strange person was that had mysteriously appeared on the sofa overnight. When I last saw Nate, it was a last minute trip across to America a few weeks before my travels, a journey I made to see him as a tiny baby, knowing it would be another year before I had the opportunity to visit my godson again. As soon as I saw how much bigger he’s got, I was glad I made the trip – he’s grown up so much since I was last here, and he’s almost at the walking stage.

With my Godson Nate

There is so much of his cheeky, happy personality coming out in him now, and he was a pleasure to be around. Dan and Denise have been blessed with such a well behaved little boy, and despite a few tears when he was first placed in my arms while his dad prepared his breakfast, I soon found a few ways to make him smile. It mainly involved his little green cuddly snake, or by feeding him. But, as is often the case, the more childish I became in trying to make him smile and keep him entertained, the better the result tended to be. And, of course, there were a few godfather duties to undertake too – there was a nappy change (well, I was in the same room at least) helping out at bathtime and trips to the park.

Dinnertime!

Infact, my time in West Hartford also fell on my birthday, which had been slightly planned if I’m honest. With July 16 being my 31st, and having spent a fairly miserable Christmas away from family and friends with food poisoning in Malaysia, I wanted to be around someone I knew to celebrate getting another year older. My flight back home was booked for the 17th, and so there was a second celebration with my family a couple of days later to look forward to. I’d celebrate my birthday in the States, and then two days later I’d be back home. It really was becoming very real that this journey was all but over.

A birthday trip to the park…for me!

To celebrate my birthday, I played on diggers, slides and climbing frames in the local park. I did, of course, have Nate as a convenient excuse, but it was a great morning of relaxing in the sun, watching as Nate made his way around various park play equipment, and tried his best to steal another kids truck and bucket in the sandpit. And, with his help, I got to dig a really deep hole in the sand!

Sandpit fun

Slidey fun

But perhaps the best part of the day was trying to encourage Nate to walk. He was so close to taking his first few steps, but was still settling for his half crawl, half drag leg technique when it came to transporting himself around the house.

“He’s so close Phil, any day now and he’ll do it,” Denise laughed as she tried to persuade her son to take his own weight on his little legs for the first time.

And he was.

With Dan at work for a few hours, Denise was playing with Nate in the living room. I could sense he was trying to walk, and was playing with a roll of kitchen paper.

“Phil, take this,” Denise said, passing me the kitchen roll.

Nate followed it with his eyes as it was passed to me, arm outstretched and a huge smile on his face. I passed it back to Denise, who encouraged Nate to get hold of it. She then passed it back, and as I held it up for him to get, for a few short steps, he walked over to me.

Denise and I both jumped up and cheered, delighted with his achievement. Sadly, our excitement wasn’t quite understood by Nate, clearly frightened by the sudden loud celebration, and who promptly began to cry. There followed many hugs and cuddles, and he was soon smiling again, as was his mum.

“Dan’s going to be so annoyed he missed his first steps,” she laughed.

Cake from Denise!

There were even presents, too, that Nate helped me open – my favourite American Peanut Butter-filled M&Ms, some Buffalo wing sauce, a block of spicy cheese and even a cake.

A great birthday!

It was a perfect few days of fun, relaxation and catching up with my closest friends. It was also a great way to re-acquaint myself back with real life. For three days, although there was talk of my travels, there was also much talk of life back home across the pond – of my job, a return to my family, plans for my house, new housemates to meet and what I will do about a car. For the best part of a year, issues which have been far from my mind, but within hours will become my life again.

A birthday Skype with the parents back home!

In a way, staying with Dan was a good stopgap, a nice go-between from my care-free travelling life to the serious, everyday real life back home – bills, bank balances, career and all.

Unwrapping the pressies!

But first, there was another deadline to meet, and, incredibly, another friend. I had to make my way to Newark airport, which, as many will know, involves a jaunt through New York City and on across the Hudson River to New Jersey. It can be a bit of a hassle, but there was a plan- and it involved the world famous Waldorf Astoria hotel in Manhattan. More on that in a minute.

Fun and laughter

As usual, Dan and I set off a little too late to make it a comfortable journey to the airport. There was a train from New Haven, but we were cutting it fine to make it, some 45 minutes away. There was a look of slight concern on Dan’s face.

“You know, in all of this trip, I’ve not missed a boat, train or plane that I was booked onto?!” I wryly said to Dan.

“And it wont happen on my watch,” he quickly quipped back, putting his foot down a little firmer on the accelerator.

Goodbye to Dan, Denise and Nate

He was right- we made it to New Haven station with time to spare. We said goodbye, although we both know it will only be a few weeks before we see each other again back in the UK, and besides, we’re pretty good at staying in touch these days thanks to the wonders of Skype and the internet. He waved me off, and I turned my attention to my cheap $20 US mobile phone I’d bought on Route 66. I was awaiting a text from my friend Nina, the public relations manager for the former Conoco, but now Phillips 66 Humber Refinery near Grimsby –and, it has to be said, someone who had been an avid reader of my blog during my time away.

During my stay with Dan, I had noticed Facebook updates from her indicating she was in New York. I dropped her a line, only to find out, coincidentally, that we would both be leaving the city on the same night – and from the same airport, just an hour apart.

At Grand Central Station in NYC: Anyone know where the Waldorf is?!

Sadly, my phone decided it wouldn’t work. Instead, it was the wonders of Twitter, and the occasional blast of free wifi that I would gain as we passed through stations on the train, that enabled us to coordinate a meet up.

Nina had treated her mum to a luxury visit to the Big Apple, informing me that I was to meet her at the famous Waldorf hotel. Now, this is beyond my standard of living even at the best of times, let alone at the end of a bank balance draining round the world trip. It was near to Grand Central Station, where I arrived, but I had no idea where.

Imagine, therefore, the looks I was getting as I made my way around some of the other well-to-do hotels around the central Manhattan area, with my long hair, traveller backpack, sweat pouring off me in the mid-summer heat and a general scruffy appearance, asking for directions to one of the most exclusive, luxurious and upmarket hotels in the world.

Exactly.

At one point, I swear I was pretty much laughed at, not even daring to look behind me as a tophat-wearing concierge of a nearby hotel scoffed at me. He did, however, point me in the direction.

I gingerly walked into the back entrance of the even more exclusive WaldorfTowers, to be met with an opulent gold and marble reception area, a place that exudes exclusivity. It’s the sort of place that you really wouldn’t expect a scruffy, smelly backpacker to suddenly rock up in.

Spot the one who doesnt quite fit in at the Waldorf!

“Hi Phil” said Nina, coming to meet me before my embarrassment at being in such a state at such a beautiful hotel got the better of me and I made excuses to walk back out.

With Nina at the Waldorf

We had a good laugh about the situation, and Nina introduced me to the bellboy and concierge, one of whom was from Thailand and immediately took interest in my stories of where I had been there and what I thought of his home country. They were incredibly friendly, and despite my appearance, had a lot of time for me.

“Would sir like to take a shower. We can arrange sir a room,” came an offer, meant in the politest terms.

Sadly, I was already holding up Nina and her mum from getting to the airport, so I had to turn down the chance of having a posh shower in the poshest facilities of my trip. I did, however, get a souvenir room card from the hotel thanks to Nina, and we shared a ride in a yellow taxi to Newark Airport.

Times Square from the yellow taxi… and on the way home

We passed through Times Square and the bustling streets that I have got to know so well over the years, telling Nina and her mum in the back about some of my traveller tales, and talking about how sometimes, the world can be a very small place.

While Nina was flying to Manchester, I was flying back to London where the adventure began nine months ago. I said goodbye to the pair of them as they were driven off to another terminal, and I prepared myself for a £250 charge for missing my flight from LA the moment I approached a check-in desk.

See you on the other side – of the Atlantic!

Reality was beginning to bite, meeting up with friends, preparing to see my family, little reminders of home coming thick and fast. But I’d just ended my shoestring trip around the world with a visit to the WaldorfTower hotel. Now that’s something I wouldn’t have written in the script when I left for Moscow in October last year.

For now though, it was time to go home.

Only at Nashopa

Back at Camp Nashopa – 10 years after meeting there

The sun was shining, the birds were singing and there was a distant sound of children playing. A gentle breeze rustles the leaves of the trees that tower above me, offering shade from the afternoon sun. Summer was in full flow in New York’s beautiful Catskill Mountains.

It was definitely a shorts and t-shirt day.

After six days of driving and sightseeing along America’s famous Route 66, the end of this mammoth road trip was in sight. My Australian mate Ian and I had driven more than 2,500 miles through 12 states, mostly until the early hours every night, stopping off and seeing some of the most magnificent scenery that the USA has to offer.

But there was one place we both had to visit, a place close to both of our hearts. Without this place, Ian and I would never have met, and indeed, much of my life, my circle of friends, and this particular trip, would have been shaped very differently.

Looking up ‘the hill’ at Camp Nashopa

This place is Camp Nashopa, a children’s summer camp in Upstate New York, two hours west of New York City, and where, back in 2002 at the end of my studies at university, I took a huge leap of faith and applied for something called Camp America.

For anyone unfamiliar with this, it’s a programme that enables young people to head across the Atlantic Ocean and work as staff members and counselors looking after and running activities for children at summer camps across America. It was something I had heard good things about during my studies, but with a long-term girlfriend at the time, it was a huge decision to make with the prospect of spending three months overseas.

But there was also a craving for travel and adventure bubbling away inside me. After all, my degree was complete, and a lifetime of work beckoned. With many of my friends making use of long summer and Christmas breaks to travel, while I worked at getting my foot in the door at the Grimsby Telegraph, there was a part of me that felt like I had missed out on some of the other opportunities that university can offer.

“It’s always best in life to regret the things you do, rather than the things you don’t do,” said Jack, one of my closest mates, and at the time, my housemate during the final year of my journalism degree in Southampton. They were words that rang true, words that made my mind up, and words that I continue to try and live by.

And so I headed off to a Camp America recruitment fair at Earls Court in London, armed with a CV and half expecting to walk away without any placement but with the thought that ‘at least I tried’.

“Do you know how to fix a lawnmower?” asked a silver-haired chap at one of the stands shortly after I made it into the large exhibition hall.

Thinking about dads electric mower at home, where the worst thing that can happen is the blade might catch a protruding rock and need adjusting, I said yes.

“Excellent, you can be our go-carts specialist,” came the reply.

And that was that. A couple of months later, I found myself on a jumbo jet and heading to New York for my first ever glimpse of the Big Apple, a whole load of new friends, and a summertime of fun and memories. The fact I had no idea how to maintain or repair a petrol driven go-cart played on my mind a little, but thankfully there would be a few others who knew what to do when it comes to stripping down an engine or two.

Ian and I at Camp Nashopa in 2002! Picture Copyright Glenn Kroll

Arriving early in June, it was my job initially just to teach the hundreds of kids how to control the steel-framed go carts and quad bikes, living, eating and breathing in the same space as up to 15 youngsters from 7am until 1am, six days a week. It was hard work, but a fantastic experience. Every morning there would be the sound of reveille, a bugle call that would echo around the camp, followed by a familiar call from Jerry, the boys head counselor.

“Counselors, get your kids up. Kids, get your counselors up. The sun is out, it’s a shorts and t-shirt day.”

It was a phrase that would live on, alongside the all-encompassing “only at Nashopa” catchphrase that would sum up some of the extraordinary events that would take place in the name of entertaining kids from across the New York area. They are phrases that, at many camp reunions since, get wheeled out amid memories and reminiscence about the summer of 2002.

Yep, thats me! Leading kids on the ATVs in 2002 (Copyright Glenn Kroll)

It was during a welcome meeting in the very first days of my time at camp that we were told “the Nashopa family will live with you” and that we would make friends for life, the bonds lasting forever. I admit that at first, I was among the many who thought it was a bit of the usual American cheesy, over-the-top but friendly welcome, being swept along with the initial happy-clappy feel of the place. But it was true, and 10 years on, that summer is still talked about regularly, people travel across countries, and even continents, to visit friends and keep up friendships that were built during June, July and August of that year.

As well as being a life experience, my time at Camp Nashopa allowed me to travel in the States and introduced me to scores of new people, many of whom became close friends who I am still very much in touch with. Among them are Nat and Katrina, whom I stayed with in Australia, and of course Ian, who was a counselor in the adjoining bunk to me. Back in 2002, Ian was among the friends who I had planned to travel across America with. But back home, towards the end of my stay in the States, my girlfriend at the time sent me an email informing me that she had met someone else. It prompted an early return home to try to save things, which ultimately were unsuccessful, and had the unfortunate downside of missing out on much of the travels and sightseeing I had planned.

For that reason, it felt like I was laying a ghost to rest by making this epic coast to coast journey across the States with Ian. It might have been 10 years on, and we’ve both aged and matured a little bit, but we were finally making the trip that we had both imagined and talked about during those days of teaching kids how to press stop and go on a go-cart. We might live on opposite sides of the world now, and we might only see each other every few years, but that ‘Nashopa bond’ has stayed with us, and so it was important that our route to the Atlantic Ocean passed by the town of Bloomingburg, enabling us to visit the place where our friendship began. A place that helped shape so many of our friends futures, and helped inspire so many of our future travels.

A familiar turn-off

Driving along the Interstate 84, we turned off at the town of Middletown, a place so familiar to us both with the Galleria Mall and Walmart being places where we spent so much spare time during camp buying supplies, relaxing and using the internet café to stay in touch with family and friends back home. We turned onto Highway 17 north, arriving at the Bloomingburg turn off a few minutes later. It was lunchtime, and we were both hungry. There was only one place we could stop. The Quickway Diner.

The Quickway Diner!

Quickway was famed among camp counselors, mainly because of its ability to supply artery-clogging – but tasty – food and drinks. When we’d tired of eggplant parmagiana for tea by the second week, we were in need of supplies to tantalise our tastebuds. And so Tanos pizza place – which, unbeknown to us at the time, was run by someone who would go on to get shot by the police during a bank robbery – supplied pizza, while Quickway supplied cheese, fries and gravy.

A familiar parking spot!

Now, when I have told friends back home of the delights of how chips, cheese and gravy go so well together, the usual reaction is to have a nose turned up and the outrageous idea of mixing the three foods together thrown out in disgust. Trust me, particularly at Quickway, it is a taste sensation!

Quickway’s famous Cheese Fries and Gravy!

And so we rolled into the car park of Quickway ready for lunch, and it immediately felt oh so familiar. The signage was the same, the general layout of the gas station and diner was the same, but Quickway has also had a bit of a makeover. It now looked much smarter from the outside, but thankfully retained its typical American diner interior. Infact, it was exactly how it was 10 years ago, reassuringly familiar, and thankfully, the famous cheese fries and gravy were still on the menu. And, they tasted just how we remembered.

Loving the Quickway experience once again!

Quickway was also the place where I first discovered Buffalo chicken, a spicy, tangy, bright orange coating that makes your lips zing. It was only right that I had the Buffalo chicken burger, a favourite of mine when I called these parts of the US home for the summer. Again, a tasty reminder of good times past.

Quickway Diner

We said farewell to Quickway and headed off to the town, swinging by the Last Chance Saloon, a pub where Ian and I spent so many nights in 2002, including the night of my 21st birthday. Drinking illegally for the first few weeks of my Camp America experience, thanks to the raised drinking age in the States, it was the place where I had the second ‘first legal drink’ of my life. It was closely followed by a second, a third, and many more, resulting in me having to ‘sign in’ at the main camp office at 1am with the help of three people holding me up, and collapsing on the soccer pitch.

The old Last Chance Saloon

Its not called the Last Chance anymore, but still has a familiar look about it, and we continued on the short distance to Camp Nashopa, pulling up outside the old Alderbrook girls bunk and parking up close to where the laundry once was. Straight away, 10 years melted away, a familiar place with so many fond memories that felt so normal to just park up by and wander to the main gate. Except, it’s no longer a regular summer camp. It was closed down a few years ago, and from what I understand is now used as a smaller Jewish camp. After a few photos by the main gate, Ian and I continued round to the main area where we have both spent a lot of time in the past – the go-cart track.

Nashopa Go-Cart track

Ian was a go-cart specialist counselor the year before me, so he too was keen to have a look around. It was only a short walk along the quiet rural road before a gap in the trees opens out onto the track. Its not used for go-carts anymore, and the surface is breaking up in parts, but the tyre walls that Ian once built were still in place. It was a surreal feeling to step onto the tarmac again after so long, but yet it only felt like yesterday that we were both last here. We could almost hear the sounds of the engines as the excited children would race around, us keeping an eye on them and ready to run the moment one of them would stick their front end into the tyres (it happened quite a lot!)

My old rules board!

We walked over to the main shed, where once I would spend hours at a time sat outside, watching over the track and talking to Nat, my go-cart companion who had equally as little knowledge about running the activity. Nevertheless, we ran it well, thanks to Mark and Igor who knew about the mechanical side of things, choosing to leave the educational side to ‘Go-Cart Phil’ and ‘Go-Cart Nat’ as we were nicknamed over the camp tannoy.

Perhaps the most moving part of the day was walking into the shed, that had been left open. The go-carts had been replaced by canoes, no doubt being used on the nearby lake, but there was a lasting reminder of those of us who once worked on the track.

We left our marks!

On the wooden walls of the shed, it was customary, as it was in bunks and rooms around the camp, to leave a dated signature behind, a potted history of all who had been before. And there they were, on the back wall – the spray painted signatures that Mark, Igor, Nat and I had left behind on our final day at the track.

That’s mine!

Still as clear as day, as if they had just been written, lasting the test of time and telling all who had been in the shed since about the special group of people who had once spent the summer manning the activity.

Mariners in the States!

I had even written a tribute to my football club, Grimsby Town, who back in 2002 were in a much better place than their non-league position these days. It brought back memories of how fellow counselor and good mate Steve Rose would tell me all about how Yeovil would rise from non-league obscurity and be playing the mighty Mariners one day. How little did I imagine that they would eventually rise through the leagues, occupying a league spot divisions above my beloved team 10 years later. And above, someone had declared me ‘sunbather of the year’ a title that I probably deserved thanks to the amount of time I skived away under the suns rays working on the tan.

Nat, from Ballarat – and her map of Oz that always reminded me of a cat!

As I looked around the shed, there were remnants left behind from the go-cart days, including the old sign board we used to have next to us with the rules for kids to follow.

Ian’s message

Even Ian’s old message from the year before my stay at Nashopa was still visible, something I remember reading back in 2002 – mainly because of the mangled steering wheel that was placed above it as a reminder of what can happen when things go badly wrong (it was one of the counselors who crashed!)

Stepping outside, I took a seat on one of the benches that I once asked children to sit on while waiting for their turn. I looked out on the track from the position I used to sit and watch from, picturing the go-carts and the excited faces that used to come hurtling around the final bend and down the straight before me. A time before I knew what I would be doing with my life, before any job offers at newspapers and the BBC, and before I knew for sure what direction any career would go once I was back home. At that point, I didn’t even know if I would be staying in the Southampton area where I studied, or returning back to my parents in Grimsby. Little did I know how exciting the 10 years between visits would prove to be.

Memories

Before long, a group of children appeared, walking down the hill opposite, and looked slightly concerned at the presence of Ian and I. We both decided not to outstay our welcome, or get into any trouble, so walked back out to the road and made our way towards the car. But before heading back to the Interstate, we decided to walk ‘up the hill’ to the main camp to see if anyone was around, just to see if there was a chance of having one last walk around Nashopa.

The front office

We couldn’t get far, thanks to a barrier being across the road, but we got up far enough to see the dining hall and kitchen area, as well as the main front office. We were hoping to see someone to let them know who we were, but there was nobody around, besides a few children playing. But we had seen what we wanted to see, and I think quietly we’d said the quiet ‘thankyou’ that we both wanted to say for the opportunities that this great little camp had opened up for us in the years to come.

It was a strangely emotional visit, a time to reflect on those good times in the past – our days in the sun, of barbecue cook-outs, carnival weekend, Tribal and Colour Wars, of drunken nights at the Last Chance and of nights being sat on a wooden porch until 2am waiting for the kids in your charge to go to sleep. They were days of sport, singing, dancing and laughter that not only enriched the lives of the children we were looking after, but of the young adults from around the world who travelled thousands of miles to help run the camp.

Time to go..again

With the wonders of social media these days, those 12 year old kids who Ian and I looked after have now grown into 21 and 22 year old adults that we ourselves were back then. Many have dropped us notes over the years to say how they’d always remembered the time we all spent together in this small corner of New York. And now we’d been back to keep our own memories alive, to keep our affinity with the camp burning, and to see it all for one last time.

Except, there’s something inside Ian and I that knows there will probably be another similar visit in years to come. There is something about it that pulls you back, to take you back to those fond memories and happy times. To remember the part we all played in so many people’s lives. And I guess that’s something you only find at Nashopa.

A special place – where every day is a shorts and t-shirt day.

A Giant Drive to the Windy City

Reflecting on a long drive in Chicago

Driving into Illinois, the final state for us on Route 66, it soon became clear that this was a part of America that is very proud of its links with the famous road. Much of the original route is still intact, providing the opportunity to drive along much of it while the masses of cars and lorries speed along the Interstate 55 which runs parallel just a few metres away.

Route 66 – and its replacement alongside

After lunch in yet another historic venue, the Ariston in Litchfield, believed to be the oldest café on Route 66, we were heading north on the final leg of this particular part of the journey, aiming for Chicago and the shores of Lake Michigan, the historic end of the road.

The Ariston, one of the oldest restaurants on Route 66

It was a drive that gave us many opportunities to stop and take in the some of the historic locations along what was, many years ago, the start of the route for people heading to better times in the west.

Stepping back in time

Its for that reason, perhaps, that the state of Illinois celebrates Route 66 with such vigour. All along the route, signposts, information boards and points of interest are clearly marked, a huge contrast to some areas we had passed through where at times it was difficult to even work out if we were on the right road due to a lack of signage.

We arrived in the town of Atlanta shortly before nightfall, the quiet streets bathed in the soft yellow and orange hues of the setting sun. A town of just over 1,600 people, the town is very much preserved as it was in the good times gone by, when thousands of people would pass through every year on the road.

Atlanta’s old Greyhound stop

As Ian and I wandered through the small gardens in the town, looking at the relics and paintings that adorn the walls, we were approached by a young woman who was also taking photographs.

Her name was Stacy, and she told us how she works for the Illinois Route 66 Scenic Byway organisation, dedicated to preserving, restoring and promoting the famous American road. The fact that there is such a group is perhaps why the journey was noticeably more enjoyable through the state. We chatted about where we had already been, the places where we had stopped, and Stacy gave us tips on where to stop off.

Big man and a big sausage

We said farewell, and Stacy continued taking photographs while the two of us went to see the giant. That’s right – a giant. Its known as Bunyon’s Statue, a 30ft tall man holding a giant hotdog. He once stood for 42 years in front of Bunyon’s Hot Dog stand in nearby Cicero, but moved to his current site a while back. He now stands tall, if you pardon the pun, in the middle of the town, close to the old Greyhound bus stop.

Bunyon’s Statue is one of the old ‘Muffler Men’, fibreglass statues designed to be used as advertising around the United States in the 60s. The original design was of a man holding an axe, but that got changed over the years so he could be appearing as anything from a Viking to a chef and holding anything from tyres and exhausts, to, well, hotdogs, depending on the business.

As we made our way back to the car, Stacy came back over to us. She could tell we were so genuinely interested in all that Route 66 had to offer, that she had been back to her car and brought us both a gift – a Route 66 registration plate. There was also a chance for a few photos with a genuine Rt 66 sign, before we said a final goodbye and headed back out onto the road, complete with our special mementos.

With Stacy, my gift and a famous sign!

By now, Chicago is firmly on all the roadsigns, the hundreds of miles slowly ticking down and the end of this long drive is in sight. We stopped for coffee at the Dixie Trucker’s Home in McLean,

Mixing it with the truckers in McLean

another famous stop along Route 66 which has featured in many guides, books and historic accounts. Its still very much a popular stop for trucks, with the colourful cabs all lined up perfectly as the long distance drivers took some refreshments onboard. They seemed to be a friendly bunch, peering out of their cabs and waving at me as I snapped away, clearly proud of their mammoth machines that they call home. Its one thing to be doing this journey for fun, but a whole new ball game to be doing it for a living. I could tell there was a great camaraderie between them.

Mean machines at Dixies

But we still had some serious distance to travel if we were to have a decent amount of time in Chicago the following day, and we drove on into the night. At Wilmington, just a couple of hours away from the end of the 66, there was one more sight to see – yet another giant. This one, another ‘Muffler Man’, is the famous Gemini Giant, named after the space programme and standing outside the Launching Pad restaurant. His space helmet may look more like a welding mask, but that is all part of the appeal.

Gemini Giant

After a stop at an old motel in Joliet for the night, it was just over an hour before we began hitting the outskirts of Chicago, and soon we spotted the famous SearsTower.

At the wheel into Chicago

Except, its not called the Sears Tower anymore – it was renamed the Willis Tower in 2009. For me, it was the most recognisable structure in the city, having seen it on so many films and television programmes over the years. We knew the Route 66 ended somewhere near it, so we used the towering structure as a point of reference to guide us into the city centre.

The Sears Tower guiding us in

It was strange pulling into the multi-storey car park we found, close to one of the city’s elevated railways with the noisy trains clattering by. We pulled into a space, and turned the engine off. For us, and the car, Route 66, bar finding the final sign, was over. A huge drive across the United States, from the southwest corner to the north east, had clocked up 2,789 miles on the car since I reset the trip computer as I pulled out of the hire car centre at LAX.

Some serious miles are clocking up!

We let the car have a well-earned rest as we set off to see the sights of the Windy City for the day, starting off with a search for the end of the 66. It was a walk that was to take us to the edge of Lake Michigan – as that’s where I had been told there would be some form of sign or plaque – but to get there we had to walk through the main gardens where there was a huge food festival taking place. Amid the smells and sounds of cultures from around the world, Ian and I set about trying to find both the official end to the road, but also to find the silver ‘bean’, a nickname given to Cloud Gate, a sculpture by British artist Anish Kapoor.

We made it to Chicago!

Both were difficult to find, and we both found ourselves walking around for a while, asking police officers and marina officials for directions. There were conflicting views on where the official end to Route 66 was located, but firm directions to the ‘bean’ structure.

A dip (of the toe!) in Lake Michigan

After dipping our toes into Lake Michigan, marking the furthest point we could go from Santa Monica Pier in Los Angeles to the end of the road in Chicago, we followed the crowds to Millennium Park and easily spotted the shiny silver structure.

The Bean

It really is quite a spectacular structure. Its far bigger than I imagined, the backdrop of skyscrapers seeming to dwarf if, but up close it towers above the hundreds of tourists who gather below. Its impressive for more than just its size and appearance, which raises questions as to how such a shape could be built, seemingly without joins and construction marks, but also because of the unique views of the city reflected on the surface. As a result, from some angles the sculpture appears to blend in to the background, the edges blurred as the reflection blends into the horizon.

Weird reflections

Underneath, you can walk through and take in the way the polished surfaces distort the reflections, sometimes making it hard to actually work out where you are when it comes to spotting yourself on the structure. It also provides for some peculiar photographs.

Big bean

Said to have been inspired by liquid mercury, to me it resembled something that had landed in Chicago from outer space, something more fitting to a huge prop from a sci-fi movie blockbuster, but I loved it. It was welcomed by people in the city from the moment it was unveiled, and overall its loved by tourists. And that’s one of the reasons why it has to be cleaned down and polished twice a day – trying to find a nice spot for a fingerprint-less photo was easier said than done. But we’ll let Anish Kapoor off for that – he had other things to get on with, including a design for the huge red tower at the Olympic Park in London.

A storm brews over the Windy City

As we took the walkway towards the Art Institute of Chicago, we noticed the sky was rapidly turning a deep, dark shade of grey. A view down one of the long streets stretching into the distance revealed a bright haze at the end of it. It was a sheet of rain, accompanied by a loud clap of thunder. We knew it was time to move, and quick. We headed back to Grant Park and towards the huge water fountains, the wind picking up rapidly and ensuring Chicago lived up to its nickname. Suddenly, another loud succession of thunderclaps, flashes of lightning, and huge blobs of rain began to fall.

Thunderbolts and lightning…very, very frightning!

It was a storm that came from nowhere, but drenched anyone without cover. The busy park quickly emptied of food festival-goers, all of whom had no dived for cover under marquees and tents set up around the site. Ian and I joined them, watching as wave after wave of heavy rain lashed down, and forked lightning lit up the sky. It was a storm that seemed to hover over Chicago, swirling around the skyline for around half an hour before slowly drifting away.

Grub up, under a shelter!

It was time that Ian and I didn’t really have to waste, but we made the most of the predicament by buying a couple of burgers from one of the park stalls and doing the best we could to shelter out of the storm by cowering under the small shelter provided by the stall’s roof and guttering.

As the rain slowed, our search for the end of Route 66 continued, again with various people struggling to show us the right way. After crossing the busy Lake Shore Drive for a second time, and with no sign of the elusive sign, we gave up and decided to head back towards the Willis Tower. We walked back up the road where we’d walked along a couple of hours before after leaving the car, and we paused to use some free wifi outside a coffee shop to do one last search to see where the road officially ended. After all, we probably won’t be completing the drive again anytime soon.

“It says its down here, in this street,” I said to Ian, trying to juggle a laptop, a phone and bag in the middle of a path full of business people and tourists.

And then we saw it. Up on a lamppost, about 12ft above the path, and what we’d managed to walk underneath completely oblivious just a few hours before.

“END – Historic Route” it said, the familiar brown sign we have been following from the Pacific Ocean.

We’d done it, we’d completed one of the most famous drives in the world, and we marked it with a photograph below the famous roadsign as proof. Our destination was reached, and we celebrated with a trip to the top of the Willis Tower.

Officially at the other end of Route 66!

It was yet another tall building to add to my list of tall buildings visited during this trip around the world, but this one is among the most impressive. At 1,730ft tall, it’s the tallest building in the United States, and with it being just a bit taller than the World Financial Center in Shanghai, it’s the tallest building I will have the pleasure of visiting during this trip around the world.

View from the former Sears Tower

Particularly enjoyable as part of the visit is the history of the building, being fed to visitors from the moment you first walk through the doors. There are a number of incredibly high speed lifts that whiz you to the top, to an observation deck 103 floors above the city. The view is understandably spectacular, offering views across Illinois and Lake Michigan to Indiana, Michigan and Wisconsin on a clear day. Amazingly, people at this height can even feel the building sway on a windy day, but thankfully the earlier storm had well passed by the time we reached to top of this iconic building.

Now, I’ve previously mentioned how the novelty of going to the top of tall buildings can wear off after a while. Well, the Willis Tower has done something to interest even the most hardened observation deck visitors – they’ve installed retractable glass cubicles that jut out over the ground some 412 metres below.

Sitting on top of the city!

And, even better, it costs no extra to step out onto the glass, watching as the edge of the building disappears below you, leaving just a thin surface of transparent molten sand between you and certain death. It is quite a feeling to actually step out, mainly as, with a fully transparent glass canopy around you, it genuinely feels like you are stepping out of the building and into thin air.

Vertigo, anyone?!

It provoked some humorous, staggered, nervous walks from others as they gingerly walked out over the drop. I looked down as the edge of this famous building stretched down to the ground below me. Ian managed to overcome his apprehensions about it too, and we got some great photos of us both in opposing pods. Stepping out of the side of the third tallest building in the world was certainly a memorable experience.

Ian on the Ledge

But we had to get back down to Earth. Our journey along the Route 66 was complete, but our roadtrip across America was far from complete. The Atlantic Ocean beckons – and there is plenty of driving to do if we are to make it on time.

We got back into the car and set out through the Chicago rush hour to meet the Interstate, and a long drive into the early hours across Indiana and Ohio. But on the way to the East Coast, there’s a special place that’s close to our hearts we need to visit…

Is This The Way To Amarillo? (and St Louis?)

Is this the way?!

I might be getting further from the glitz and glamour of Hollywood on Route 66, but I have just met my first movie star.

Well, I say movie star – she was actually the inspiration for a movie star, in the form of Sally, the blue motor from the film Cars.

Dawn – a movie star. All will be revealed!

Her name is Dawn, the owner of the Rock Café, about an hour north of Oklahoma City, but her story of determination and achievement rivals that of any great movie happy ending. So much so, that John Lasseter, the movie great behind Pixar, Toy Story and Monsters Inc, was so moved by her tale, that he based a complete character in his film Cars on her.

New Mexico-bound

It was one of many stops during two long days of driving that have taken Ian and I from the outer edge of the Grand Canyon in the west, through the Indian Navajo regions and deserts of Arizona, across New Mexico and now more than halfway along the famous route 66 towards Chicago.

It has been a journey of contrasting landscapes, mixing between wide expanses of nothingness, interspersed with a few hills, to mountainous regions of forests, rivers and greenery that glide by the windows of our Ford Fusion as we make our way east.

Navajo land

One of the interesting stops was at a Navajo village, set beside a rocky outcrop which was adorned with old paintings and advertisements from the glory years of Route 66. Around a giant tepee and set in wooden shops and stalls, Navajo Indian families tempt tourists in with typical headdress and moccasin souvenirs. For the next couple of hours, we would see many typical Navajo homes and ranches dotted alongside the road, taking us on to Albuquerque and a lunch stop for some typically Mexican food.

New Mexico was an interesting state to pass through, and very much a place where, for the first time, it no longer felt like I was in the United States.

Cacti and little houses – New Mexico

The typical American wood-clad houses and neighbourhoods had changed into much smaller and low-rise homes with a far from typical American appearance. They reminded me of the small terracotta-coloured homes you would find in Mediterranean or Morocco, and I’m presuming what you would find in Mexico, although I have never been there to back up that assumption.

Either way, travelling through the state at times felt like we had been transported to another country somewhere, but with Texas on the horizon, it is only a matter of time before the big, brash normality of the USA is restored.

The continental divide – where rain drains to Atlantic or Pacific either side of the line

Life on the road is becoming increasingly normal as we eat up the miles. Ian and I are sharing the driving, doing anything up to five or six hour stints behind the wheel. It is not uncommon for us to fill up the tank, sit behind the wheel and drive until the gas has all been burnt, only stopping again to fill up once more or grab a bite to eat – or to top up on the caffeine levels thanks to copious amounts of cheap coffee you can buy at the service stations.

Not only that, you get a wide range of different flavoured creams to pour into it. So far, the ‘chocolate, Irish Cream, hazelnut and French Vanilla’ concoction I produced during one particular coffee chemistry routine at the pumps has been my favourite – and you get a bucket-sized cup of the stuff for less than a pound. Take that, Starbucks!

Thumbs up on the road!

Much of the driving in the early part of the roadtrip was done along the Interstate system to save a bit of time and keep to our tight schedule, but thanks to some long drives into the night, we’re now dipping on and off the old Route 66 much more.

Woaah, we’re halfway there….

One of those drives took us through Texas in complete darkness, including a point where we crossed the halfway point on the route at Adrian. With 1,139 miles either side of us, the Pacific to the left, Chicago and the lakes to the right, we knew that we were making good progress.

There were lighter moments too, including our arrival into Amarillo. Sadly, with it being so late at night, we couldn’t stop properly to have a look around at the town made so famous by ‘that’ song. We did, however, find a copy of the single hidden in my iTunes library on my laptop, and thanks to a double-ended headphone jack, played it on repeat a few times as we cruised through the centre of the town. Well, it would have been rude not too.

We found it!

With no sign of sweet Marie waiting for me, or Ian for that matter, we continued on to Oklahoma, a state where we use much more of the original Route 66 thanks to the tolls introduced on its turnpike and highway system. Besides, it gave us many more chances to see the beautiful old towns and villages that this famous road passes through, many of which were founded purely to service the traffic that once made its way through in such large numbers.

An old Route 66 gas station being restored

Originally known as the Will Rogers Highway, Route 66 was built to serve as a major path for those who migrated west at times of great hardship, looking for a new future and money away from the populous cities in the east.

People doing business along the route became prosperous thanks to the growing popularity of the highway, and up sprang huge numbers of service stations, cafes, restaurants, truck stops and diners. But, with the rise of the Interstate Highway System, traffic was gradually taken away from the 66, and with it the livelihoods of thousands of people who made a living and depended on the through trade.

Some originals still survive

Many of those former businesses now stand empty, disused and dilapidated along the roadside. Once busy villages and towns full of neon signs and life have become empty shells, a ghostly reminder of how the boom and bust lifestyle of those times still have an impact even now. It is a sad sight to pass by former gas stations and diners where the signs have faded, the roof has caved in and windows have long been smashed. It is impossible to pass by and not think of how it all must have been during the Route 66’s heyday.

But there is a growing band of people now fighting to keep the highway alive, and indeed, in many villages, those sites of historic interest – the former gas stations and eateries that once fuelled a migrating nation – are being restored and repaired as a lasting attraction and reminder of the road’s importance.

The Rock Cafe…and Sally!

Which brings me on to The Rock Café, which was established in 1939 at the dawn of the motor age and a time when Americans were starting to move around their country. The venue is even built with rock excavated during the building of the road.

Dawn Welch bought the struggling café in 1993 as visitor numbers dwindled when traffic on the 66 began to dry up. But where other small towns and villages along the famous road were being deserted, Dawn went against the flow of businesses heading back to the big city. She turned around the café’s fortunes, serving good food, a big welcome and plenty of nostalgia and memories for people making the long trip.

Just one of Dawn’s messages and gifts from John Lasseter and Pixar

Indeed, it was her passion and commitment that inspired John Lasseter and his team when they stopped by while researching for the film Cars. So taken by her personality and dedication, they would go on to visit many times, basing the character Sally Carrera, the blue car, upon Dawn.

“When you watch the film, there are so many little things that they picked up on from me and included in the plot, even right through to problems with my neon sign,” she says, smiling at me from an opposite table.

And so all was going well – the walls were full of momentos and nik naks from the glory years of the 66, celebrities would have their photos on display, and for anyone who was travelling from west to east, the venue became a ‘must visit’ before or after hitting Oklahoma City’s busy streets.

Heartbreak

But disaster struck in 2008. Her entire livelihood burned to the ground in just a few hours. All that was left standing was the original stone walls, a few charred remains and the trusty original grill, affectionately known as Betsy, which defiantly remained in situ in the kitchen where it has prepared more than five million burgers since being put in place in 1939.

Firefighter tributes and thanks on the wall

For most people, the nightmare of that night would end the dream, but not Dawn. When most experts were telling her to bulldoze the remains and start again, Dawn was defiant.

“It was just a fire, not the end of Rock Café,” she told one reporter at the time.

Tasty lunches being served again

A year later, she proved good to her promise of rebuilding the café within the original walls. A broom, almost worn to a stump during the clean-up, frames photographs of the damage and helmets worn by firefighters as they tackled the blaze on the wall of the new café. Some of the charred Route 66 books sit on shelves as a reminder of the inferno which once took hold on the spot where they now stand. Betsy the grill is once again cooking some of the finest food around, to the delight of diners from across the world.

Betsy the grill still churns out the tasty food

“Which t-shirt do you think we should sell?” Dawn asks me soon after I have taken my seat at the dining table, pushing her laptop under my nose.

There are two designs – a red shirt with a white motif depicting the grill, Route 66 logo and ‘Betsy’ draped across a grill. I told her to go for the one including the grill – with the advice that it is a major selling point of the café that she should embrace and make much more of a feature of.

“You’re right,” she beamed. “That t-shirt it is,”

With Dawn at the Rock Cafe

And so somehow, I had now decided which t-shirt one of the most famous cafes on Route 66 will be selling from now on. Dawns enthusiasm for her business, her customers and the famous road that passes by the window is infectious. It is easy to see why one of Hollywood’s most famous film producers wanted to include her in a movie, and Lasseter’s personal messages around the restaurant are proof of their close friendship.

Messages in the bathroom

After a very good cheeseburger and fries, prepared on Betsy of course, it was time to move on. As is tradition, and indeed encouraged by Dawn and her team, I signed my name on the wall of the bathroom, a lasting mark of my journey that joined the countless others who had passed through before me.

Leaving my mark…

From Oklahoma City, Route 66 turns north and up into Kansas, although not for long. Infact, we took more time taking photographs to document our arrival in yet another state than we did actually on the move through it – just 30 miles or so meant we left almost as quickly as we arrived.

Kansas…briefly

It was about an hour in the state, full of farms and rural fields evoking memories of the Wizard of Oz. Thankfully, there were no tornados, but sadly no yellow brick road either – just another long leg of driving through Missouri and up to St Louis.

McDonalds logos are a bit different in St Louis…

The skyline is dominated by the Gateway Arch, which at 630ft, is the tallest man made monument in the United States. Built on the west bank of the Mississippi River, it commemorates Thomas Jefferson and St. Louis’ role in the westward expansion of the United States.

Top of the arch

With just a couple of hours in the city, we decided it was the main attraction to see and bought a ticket for perhaps one of the strangest forms of transport on my trip. Thanks to the narrow design of the arch, you are transported to the top inside a peculiar monorail-type machine, where groups of four are ushered into pods that somehow stack up on top of each other as they cleverly move around the structure to the top.

St Louis from above

Every few moments, the pods are all mechanically moved to keep them upright, jolting and rocking as the four minute journey inches everyone to the top for spectacular views across two states. Below, paddle steamers that once filled the Mississippi sail around with a few tourists onboard, taking in the views from the brown-coloured river.

Long way down

The windows at the top were small and narrow, affording just enough room to look straight down below for a strange feeling of suspension, with nothing directly below us thanks to the clever design. Headroom was limited at times, but it was definitely a great half an hour of taking in the vista.

Mud pie, anyone?!

Heading back to the car, we stopped to touch the Mississippi, only to be surprised at finding a number of dead fish on the banks of the river. It turns out the waterway can be particularly polluted in places, and it was sad to see so much wildlife suffering the effects. We turned around and headed back to the car, looking back at the arch. From the bottom, it can look like some kind of futuristic space vehicle, something from a science fiction movie that has landed in the centre of the city.

Back at the car, the final leg of this long road journey to Chicago was upon us. We could almost hear a groan from beneath the Ford badge as we approached to wake our transport from its brief slumber. Either that, or Ian’s getting hungry again.

Getting Our Kicks On Route 66

The start of the Grand Canyon

Five hundred miles into the world’s greatest road trip, and already the landscape that surrounds the western end of America’s Route 66 has provided plenty to smile about.

From the swaying palm trees of LA, the baron plains of the Nevada desert and the bright lights of Las Vegas, its been an exciting few days – and today gave us perhaps one of the most spectacular natural features on Earth to look at.

The Grand Canyon was a must-do for us, despite time being against us if we are to reach our goal of the East Coast within six days. Its one of the planet’s most powerful and inspiring landscapes, created completely by Mother Nature, and somewhere I have always wanted to visit. There was no way it was going to be missed off the trip for the sake of the extra five hours it would take to make the detour.

Lake Mead comes into view

But first there was a wonder of another kind to visit, and this time its one of a manmade variety. The Hoover Dam is just 30 miles south of Vegas, and is one of the world’s greatest engineering feats. It pauses the Colorado River in its tracks, provides irrigation, helps prevent flooding and enables a huge swathe of the western United States to draw power from the phenomenal power of water.

The magnificent Hoover Dam

Built between 1931 and 1936, 21,000 workers helped construct the huge dam. It came at a huge cost, both financially and in human life – more than 100 people died during the building phase. Its sweeping, arched wall rises 726.4 feet from the base, topped off with what was once the main road between Las Vegas and Phoenix. Now, a new bypass goes over a breathtaking bridge which links both sides of the deep canyon. Its known as the Colorado River Bridge, and takes traffic across with both sides blanked off to prevent motorists becoming distracted by the impressive dam that dominates the view from whichever angle you look at it.

Passing under the huge new bypass bridge

And as we passed underneath the mammoth bridge to our right, the huge dam came into view on the left. At first it didn’t seem as huge as I remember from looking at photos or watching it take a starring role in the Transformers movie, but then I could only see a tiny part of it from the passenger seat of our Ford Fusion.

First glimpse of the dam

After parking up the car and stepping into the searing desert heat, we walked down to the road and along the top of the dam. It was surprising how low the wall was which separates the walkway from the sheer drop down the entire side of the structure to the pumping and generator stations at the bottom. Around them, the water visibly swirls as millions of gallons of H2O makes its way through the pipes and turbines at up to 85mph, generating up to 2,080 megawatts in the process, before reforming into the Colorado River and ultimately making its way towards the coast. There are 17 huge turbines, providing an annual power output of around 4 billion Kilowatt-hours to cities as far away as Los Angeles.

A long way down

The dam is also where two states meet, with clocks on the main inlet towers showing the local time for both Nevada and the neighbouring Arizona. At the centre of the dam, a plaque marking how it is officially classed as a modern wonder of the United States. The point offers perhaps the best view of Lake Mead, America’s largest reservoir created as a result of the dam being built. It was clear how the drought in the area had taken hold, with a white deposit on the rock faces, a bit like a bathtub mark left behind by minerals, showing the usual level of the water.

Lake Mead. Dam it.

It led me to think about what would happen if there was a sustained period of heavy rainfall, and the water level was to rise above the watermark to the height of the dam. Apparently, an overflow system, known as spillways, have been built into the design, a bit like the little overflow hole you find in sinks to stop you flooding the bathroom. Obviously, its on a slightly bigger scale, with millions of gallons of water being allowed to flow through special channels to bypass the dam. The system has only been used twice apparently, and that’s probably a good thing – the force of water gushing through the world’s biggest overflow pipe apparently wrecks the concrete and rock linings inside, leading to a fairly hefty patch up job afterwards.

It took five years to build the colossal structure, and when finished, the Hoover Dam stood as the largest electric-power generating site in the world, as well as the largest structure made out of concrete. Its an amazing thought when looking from above that what we were standing on contained enough concrete to build a road from San Francisco to New York, a fairly hefty six and a half million tonnes of the stuff.

Behind the dam

After an hour of wandering around the top of the dam, marvelling at the work that had clearly gone on many years ago to design and build it within the rock formations around it, it was time to move on. We left the car park and drove along the road across the top of the structure, thinking it would lead us out and away, only to come to a dead end.

The Colorado River continues on its way…as do we

“Oh well, I can say I drove across it as well as walked it,” joked Ian, looking for a place to turn around. We’d momentarily crossed into Arizona, but were soon saying hello to Nevada again as we searched for the road to take us across the new bridge and on towards the Grand Canyon.

To make up a bit of time, we cheated a little. Of course, the old Route 66 isn’t recognised anymore, with the road being declassified, but the giant Interstate system which took over does closely follow the old route. Infact, parts of it were built over the old 66, and for the hundreds of miles in the West until we reach Oklahoma, the Interstate 40 follows the old roadway, frequently crossing or going under the motorway of yesteryear. It means we can make up time by nipping on and off the Interstate to visit places of interest along the way, such as the countless small towns and villages that came into existence purely because of the through trade given to them by the 66.

Former Route 66 town

One of them was the town of Seligman, halfway between Vegas and the Grand Canyon, and so a great little place for us to break our journey, stretch our legs and take in a bit of nostalgia. It has the feel of a town whose heyday was a long time ago, yet is still dining out on its Route 66 past. There is an abnormally high number of shops and stores, still plying for the trade afforded to them by people like Ian and I, who have stopped off to have a look at what the R66 towns used to be like.

Its as if many of the store owners set out to have theirs as the quirkiest, most photographed outlet in the town, with anything from wacky signs to half an aircraft fastened to the wooden cladding and beams. On one building, a mileage chart showing how there was still 1,737 miles to go before we reach Chicago in a few days time. Right now, in the intense heat and dust of the Arizona desert, the Windy City seems a long way off.

Seligman

We stopped for a couple of drinks and snacks at one of the shops, opting to give them some of the trade they seem to so desperately need, as opposed to the countless multinational petrol stations dotted along the Interstates.

A quick breather!

It was another two hours of driving along endless straight roads through deserts and very flat scrubland before we reached the south rim of the Grand Canyon National Park, pulling up at a window with a very cheery park ranger and handing over the $25 admission fee. The road carried on to a car park, full of campervans and other motorists from across the States and as far afield as Argentina.

Heading to the Grand Canyon

We followed signs to Mather Point, which apparently gave a view of the canyon. I say apparently, because up to now there has been no sign at all that we were anywhere but a flat part of the Arizona countryside. With mountains, you get to see the land changing, gradually getting more and more mountainous. When you approach a major river, more often than not you’ll get a glimpse of it somewhere as you get nearby. A volcano usually has a conical appearance that you can see miles away – you get the picture. Here, there was nothing.

Breathtaking

Nothing, that is, until you reach a railing and some trees. That’s where the ground, terra firma, the rock I am standing on, just falls down to a mile below me. A huge expanse of the Earth’s crust appears to be missing, instead creating a strange, sub-ground level mountain range. As holes in the ground go, this one is certainly something to behold. I was in awe. Most people I had spoken to who have visited this huge crack in the ground had all told me the same, that is something hard to understand. It was certainly the case.

The Grand Canyon

My head was struggling to work out exactly what was going on in front of me. It was telling me I was at the top of some sort of mountain, looking out over a range below me, yet I had not climbed any mountains nor noticeably gained any altitude. Instead, far, far below and in the distance, the sun was glinting off the surface of a river, the Colorado River, and the creator of this incredible natural wonder.

Ian and I taking in the view

It’s the mind blowing scale of the Grand Canyon that has the effect on anyone who visits. Walking to a pinnacle that juts out just enough to enable you to look straight down into the bowels of the earth, I looked out ahead of me. Across the other side of the canyon, the north rim, some 10 miles away as the crow flies, but what would require a drive of more than 200 miles to reach by road.

The giant scale is pretty hard to show…

I couldn’t stop looking out, trying to comprehend the scale of what sprawled out in front of me. It was one of those moments when, as a mere human being and as a guest on the planet, you can feel very, very small and insignificant. A bit like when you try to get your head around how many stars and potential for other planets there are in the Universe, this was something that can almost mess with your mind.

Colorado River flows far, far below

Thankfully, there was plenty of information on hand to explain how a giant crack can seemingly appear in the surface of the earth the way it has. In a nutshell, its all down to the way the plates that form the Earth moved together, creating the layers of different rock, which were then cut away by the eroding force of the river over millions of years.

Shadowlands

But the information can just baffle your mind even more, like the fact that the rock you can see in the lower layers can be up to 1,840 million years old. Hard to get your head around the time involved.

Driving further along the south rim afforded us more spectacular views of the Grand Canyon, and as we progressed a few miles east, the valley widened slightly to give more expansive views of the river which over the millions of years before has cut its way through the rock.

A bit close to the edge!

With the sun beginning to get lower in the sky, we knew time was getting on and we still had the most substantial part of the drive ahead of us.

The sun begins to set over the Canyon

We thought we’d be on our way by the mid afternoon, but as we’re finding along the way, sometimes the journey can take a lot longer than planned. There was a growing concern we might struggle to make it across to the east coast in the timeframe we’d set, and so we knew we had some long stretches of driving ahead to make up time. But we said farewell to the Grand Canyon and watched through the window as the Arizona landscape showed us the start of the fantastic feature, with the canyon stretching out like veins across the surface. Memorable.

A good view of the Colorado River on the way out

We set off towards the Interstate, aiming to reach a point of interest marked on our map as ‘Meteor Crater’. Now, its not everyday you get to see a meteor crater, and with two blokes on a road trip, of course we had to go and see it. We were determined to get to see it before darkness fell completely, but by the time we reached Flagstaff, still some 40 miles away from said crater, the sun was rapidly disappearing over the horizon. But still we pressed on, arriving at the turn off with just about enough light to see over the surrounding fields. Unfortunately, it was also a quiet country road at about the right time of the evening for the local rabbits to be out and about looking for dinner.

Never tired of views like this

Sadly, one of them, a young looking little thing, went looking for food far too close to the front of my oncoming car. I could see there was a brief moment of confusion from the animal, a fleeting thought of ‘left or right’ before making the fatal mistake of trying to run back to where it had come from. Bad move.

With a thud, it disappeared underneath me. I immediately put my head in my hands on the steering wheel, trying to see in my wing mirror if by some miracle the rabbit had made it out of the back without being squashed by a wheel. I couldn’t see. I felt awful.

I know that from time to time, these things happen – after all, I never set out to be a rabbit killer. But I love animals, and its always hard knowing something has just met its end thanks to me. Unless it’s a wasp or a mosquito, because they don’t count.

We continued following the signs to the meteor crater, with Ian telling me not to worry about the rabbit. By now, its getting properly dark, and arriving at the gates to the crater, the place had closed an hour earlier anyway. We did, however, get to see the outline of the mound of earth created by the impact. Whether the view was worth the life of a poor baby rabbit was debateable. We turned around and headed back to the Interstate.

“Now just go careful, we don’t want any more casualties,” Ian joked as we set off back in the opposite direction along the single lane road, knowing we’d probably have to pass a horrible mess in the road that I had created.

“Knowing my luck, I’ll wipe out mum as she’s out investigating where her little Johnny has got himself to,” I joked.

It was a joke I was I hadn’t made. Approaching around the same point that I had wiped out baby bunny, suddenly a large grey figure jumped out of the bushes to the right of the road, about five metres in front of me. There was no time to react.

Thud.

“Woah, there goes another one,” laughed Laingy in his brilliant Aussie accent.

I have to admit, I laughed with him, mainly out of surprise at the chances of such a coincidence happening. I felt, and still feel, dreadful about what happened, but there was genuinely nothing I could have done. And now, according to Laingy, I’m a rabbit serial killer.

We stopped at a Dennys a few miles down the road, mainly to eat but to also inspect the car for any damage. Thankfully there wasn’t any, and we tucked into a huge meal. We’d originally planned to reach New Mexico by the end of the day, staying around Albuquerque, but progress was slow thanks to our sightseeing. Time was getting on, and we’d eaten far too much, yet again underestimating American portions. Ian came up with a great idea.

“Shall we just stay somewhere around here, have an early night and get away early in the morning?”

I agreed, and we found ourselves a motel in Winslow, Arizona. Tomorrow will be a very long day of driving.

Viva Las Vegas

Meeting my mate Ian in Las Vegas

I hit the jackpot in Nevada, and it wasn’t because I’d run into some luck on the roulette wheel.

It was where I met my travel buddy Ian, a good mate of mine known as Laingy, who had arrived on the Las Vegas strip in style – in a convertible Mustang.

It had been some journey for him too. While I had been driving through the night to this bright light city, Ian had been flying through the night to Los Angeles from his native Australia before hiring a car and making the same journey through the desert.

It all followed on from a conversation we had on my last night in Melbourne, where I’d been talking about my onward journey and how I’d quite like to complete the trip with an overland stretch going from coast to coast in America. One of the only problems back then was finance and the fact it would mean spending a long time on my own.

“I might be up for a bit of that – its something I have always wanted to do,” Ian said over a pint.

Meeting Ian – Mustang Laingy – in Las Vegas

And from there, the idea snowballed. Fast forward a few months, and in the searing Nevada heat, I’m walking across a dusty car park just off the Las Vegas strip to once again shake Laingy’s hand.

“Welcome to Las Vegas,” I said, laughing.

“Bloody hell, 24 hours ago I was scraping ice off my car, and now its 45 degree heat,” he laughed back in his usual Aussie accent.

It was a slightly surreal meet-up, orchestrated through free wifi spots and Facebook messages thanks to the lack of a mobile phone, but we’d managed it. I’m well on the way home now, but to have a good mate with me with similar interests will make this leg all the more memorable.

The end of Santa Monica Boulevard – and the ‘official’ end of Route 66

While Ian had to travel to Vegas the quickest way possible, I had begun my Route 66 adventure from Los Angeles by starting at the end. Officially, Route 66 was the way the population migrated west from the Chicago and eastern states following the war and great depression. Known as the ‘mother road’ it was built to help people make their way towards the Pacific in search of work and riches.

Santa Monica Pier

As a result, California is often seen as the end of the road, with Santa Monica pier the finishing point for this great American journey. And so it was only natural, making the first leg of Route 66 solo, that I took our car to the far end of the road, to Santa Monica Boulevard and to Santa Monica Pier, complete with its markers that this was, indeed, as far as you can go on the 66. Any further, and you’d end up wet, which is precisely what I did.

Touching the Pacific for the final time – next ocean, the Atlantic

Having spent six months with the Pacific being the ocean I have looked at off the coasts of Australia, New Zealand and Fiji, it was time to finally say goodbye to it. I had learned to surf its waves, been washed up onto its shores at Bells Beach in Oz, spent countless hours gazing at the horizon over its glinting waters and bobbed around on boats upon it, and now it was time for a final paddle and a photo. After all, you cant make the coast to coast trip over the States without the obligatory proof shots  touching the opposing oceans of the Pacific and Atlantic.

I’ll become familiar with signs like this over coming days

I walked to the end of the pier, taking in the street entertainers, music and atmosphere along the way. The mist and smog which had shrouded LA during my three day stay began to lift, revealing the beaches of Santa Monica to be just as stunning as they appear on the big and small screen in movies and television programmes back home. They were full of people enjoying an extended holiday period, families from across the States who have made their own epic journeys to the coast. Now it was my turn to head east, and ultimately, back home – from now on, every mile I make in the car is a mile closer to home, and the end of an unforgettable nine months.

Tribute to Route 66 at the end of Santa Monica pier

The 66 starts at the junction with Ocean Boulevard, and after one last photo of the Route 66 marker tribute to Will Rogers, one of the world’s greatest celebrities back in the Twenties and Thirties, I got back in the car, took a last look at the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean, and set my horizons to the Atlantic, more than 3,000 miles away.

Have map, have badge, and at the official end. Just 3,000 miles to go

It felt completely normal to be setting off, pulling away from a parking bay, knowing that there was such an epic drive ahead. It was slightly surreal if anything, getting into a car and turning the radio on as if I was just popping down to the shops. Yet for me, this was a one-way journey east.

‘Turn left at the traffic lights…and just keep going’

The drive through LA took me all the way through Beverly Hills and past the Hollywood Sign, where I stopped for one final look at the nine famous letters, before heading out to the Interstate 210 north.

Santa Monica Boulevard

Its not quite following the exact route of the 66, but then its impossible to follow it all of the way these days anyway, as much of the route has been repaved, re-routed and re-classified. Besides, passing so close to Las Vegas, it would be rude not to pass by and spend a while amid the bright lights and high rollers.

First, there was another minor detour. There was an interesting place I wanted to visit on the way, a place that I had seen on a Discovery Channel programme a few years back, and was amazed by the scale of it. All I will say is have you ever wondered what happens to aeroplanes when the airlines either go bust, cut routes or simply retire some of their aircraft?

Aeroplane boneyard in the Mojave

Well, they get sent to California and to the Mojave Desert, a place that I have to drive through in order to reach Las Vegas. Because the air is so dry, and days of rainfall are so few and far between, metal doesn’t rust. And a Boeing 747 is made up of a lot of metal, which if left sitting in the elements for too long without maintenance, will corrode and render hundreds of millions of pounds worth of plane useless.

Scores of planes doing nothing

So they get flown to the aircraft graveyards and boneyards of the Mojave Desert, where attempts are made to remove or disguise logos and distinctive paintwork before the planes are left to sit in the sun on an extended holiday of their own.

Mojave Airport

They are easy to find, with the bright metal fuselages and tails sticking out for miles in the flat desert plains. During the airline slump post September 11, hundreds of aircraft were once stored here as people stopped flying and airlines cut costs. While the numbers are nowhere near as high now, it was still quite a spectacle to see so many perfectly good aircraft simply sitting on the sand instead of cruising through the skies filled with hundreds of people.

The famous Rotary Rocket on display at Mojave

After being spotted by a security van taking photos, it was time to disappear, so I took off down the road towards the famous Edwards Air Force Base, a giant development that takes up a significant proportion of land, around half the size of LA, alongside the dual lane route 58 to Barstow, one of the first major towns on Route 66 outside of Los Angeles.

Cruising through the desert

From here, I picked up the interstate 15, a motorway that shoots straight up to the Nevada border and on to Las Vegas. While Vegas was never on Route 66, most people who make the journey divert themselves to the gambling and entertainment mecca for a few days, if anything just to experience it. It only adds a couple of hours onto the journey, to and from the city, but it was a definite huge tick on the bucket list to visit the place.

Watching the sun go down in the West, behind me

I had timed my journey to arrive in Las Vegas at night, driving for some five hours through the pitch black desert with a couple of coffees and a bar of Hershey chocolate for company. I watched the mile markers tick down to just 100 to go, while hundreds of Californian registered cars would fly past me, no doubt full of LA residents and workers desperate to get to the fun-filled spot in the desert for a weekend of excitement.

I was still 60 miles out when I first noticed the sky ahead changing. There was a distinct glow up ahead, while the blinking lights of aircraft began to appear around me as they circled before landing their Vegas-hungry payload at the purpose built airport by the main strip.

Driving into Vegas

With two long drags up some incredibly long hills, complete with warnings to turn off air conditioning to prevent engines overheating in the scorching desert heat, the glow started to get brighter, and with a final push over the hilltop, suddenly my windscreen was filled with the millions of dazzling lamps from the desert oasis known as Las Vegas.

It was incredible how the city seemed to appear from nowhere, and seemingly stretching for as far as the eye could see. It was a moment that I wished I had someone with me to share it – an almost magical time at getting my first view of one of the world’s most famous playgrounds, and a sense of achievement in the fact I had managed to somehow navigate there without the help of a satnav (paper maps – how retro!)

New York, New York – my first glimpse of the main strip

I continued driving, arriving on the outskirts of the city knowing that somewhere amid the neon glow was my hostel, which according to its website was near the famous Stratosphere tower on the main strip. I saw a sign for Las Vegas Boulevard, and knowing that was the main strip, made a left turn and headed straight onto it.

It was hard to concentrate on the road ahead. As I passed the huge, mock,  New York skyline that marked the New York New York casino on one side, the famous MGM Grand on the other, I slowly made the stop-start drive along the main street. It was a Friday night, and I found myself caught up with scores of other Californian-registered cars that had clogged up the road as people made a similar getaway for the weekend.

Joining the jam with a view

For once, though, I was glad to be in a snarled-up traffic jam. It was the perfect way to take in my first Vegas experience, a place that was alien to me having never visited before, yet felt so familiar having seen it so many times in films or on television.

The names of the casinos alone roll off the tongue, mentally ticking them off as I made my way from intersection to intersection. The Mirage, Monte Carlo, Paris, The Venetian…and then on my left, the huge dancing fountains and music of the Bellagio, followed by the gigantic area taken up by Caesars Palace.

Everywhere I looked, there was something going on. From street performers to musicians, magicians and tourists all jockeying for position on the sidewalks, to fellow wide-eyed motorists driving along, taking photographs and smiling as this adult wonderland we’d suddenly found ourselves in.

It was quite a spectacle outside!

And still the familiar names passed by the window – Treasure Island, with its pirate ship frontage, Circus Circus with the huge clowns and big top, or the sleek-looking Wynn complex. In fact, while I was expecting a substantial amount of neon, flashing lights and huge, money-no-object structures and hotels, the overall size of the place was the main surprise for me. It took well over an hour to make my way in the car from the south end of the strip to the north, finally spotting the familiar mast-like Stratosphere structure, and eventually, after a couple of stops outside McDonalds to use their free wifi, pulling up at the Hostel Cat. My $19 bed couldn’t have come soon enough.

Friday night, my first night in Las Vegas, and I was in bed by 2am!

I’ve arrived!

The earlyish night, by Vegas standards, paid dividends the following day however. For one, the heat in the Nevada desert can sap the energy out of you – the thermometer hit 47 degrees, and just walking outside the air conditioned comfort of the hostel was enough to send you running for immediate shade. Door handles become red hot, the metal panels on the car could quite easily double as a griddle plate, and a day of sight seeing was out of the question.

“We’re going to the pool at the Monte Carlo,” came a cry from reception, raising a cheer from the fed-up looking hostel guests who were clearly sick of the heatwave gripping this part of the States.

It sounded like a good idea, and besides, it meant I would see some of the Vegas strip during the day, even if it was from the window of the hostel transport.

Erm, this could be a squeeze

Except, what the guys from the hostel failed to explain was that we’d be sneaking-in to the Monte Carlo casino, to use their pool, and that the transport was a beaten up minivan without any seats. And when they said it would be a hostel outing, it really was, as 26 hot and sweaty backpackers began the difficult job of packing into a van the size of a small Transit.

“Let me just close the anti-police device,” said Chandler, from the hostel, as he pulled a cloth curtain across the windows to stop authority eyes from seeing just how many people had been crammed into the back.

They’ll be my hands then…and i’m probably gasping for air

And still more people were climbing in through the door. I’d wedged myself into a back corner, where gradually the air began to thin and sweat began to drip from the mass of packed in bodies amid the heat and the greenhouse effect that the van had without a breeze. Thankfully, and with a record of 29 people once stuffed into the van, someone was prepared and brought along a water spray to cool us down as we made our way to the far end of Vegas.

And out everyone gets!

“Right, we can’t all go in as one group,” said Chandler as a steady stream of people clambered, fell and dragged themselves out from the back of the van, resembling something from a game of Twister that had gone badly wrong.

“They won’t let us in, so we have to pretend we’re going to the bar. Look at the menu, then just drift through the door to the left, grab a towel from the guy at the towel stall and meet back over to the right,” he continued.

Having sneaked into a fair few VIP areas over the years, I can honestly say this was the most blatant blag I have ever been a part of. Standing outside the glass windows of the bar, a group of 26 was whittled down into a few separated groups of threes and fours. Within a couple of minutes, we’d more or less tripled the patronage of the bar, yet nobody had ordered a drink. The barstaff looked confused at this mass of new customers, yet had very little to do. And as quickly as we’d all appeared, we’d all disappeared through a door and into a pool, amid a variety of excuses. I opted for the ‘I fancy a hotdog outside on the terrace,” excuse, before exiting stage left.

We’re in! Vegas pool party!

Somehow, we’d managed it. We had access to a huge pool, posh deckchairs, a river rapids area and even a DJ putting out some of the latest tunes for us all to listen to. It was a great pool party that we’d crashed, and all for the price of a dollar towards the hostel van’s gas account. I guess this was all part of the Vegas vibe.

Bright light city gonna get my soul…

After a few hours of doing everything I could to avoid the attractive, bikini-clad waitresses who were offering to fetch me a very expensive drink, I made my way to one of the casino halls to use yet more free wifi. Ian had arrived, according to Facebook, so I caught one of the Vegas buses and managed to spot where to jump off. As if by magic, and standing by his jet black Mustang that he’d hired for the same price as a flight from LA, was Ian. We headed straight to the airport, so he could return his car, get him signed up as a driver on ‘our’ car and headed back for more free wifi to book some accommodation.

Following Mustang Laingy down the Vegas freeway

Here came another surprise. I knew hotel rooms could be cheap in the city, but I had no idea just how cheap. For just £5 in the week, you can secure a double room near the strip. It was cheaper than my hostel, and I’d had no idea. It was partly down to this that we made a snap decision.

“I think we’re going to need longer in Vegas,” I said, knowing there was far too much for us to see in just the few hours we had initially put aside after Laingy’s arrival.

Brilliant rooms for peanuts

The fact that we could book a double queen bed room at the Stratosphere for just $35 was another factor. It would mean that we’d now just have just five days to drive the entire length of Route 66 and make the 12 hour trip from the end of it in Chicago to the east coast, but we’d calculated it was just about achievable.

Ignition on, aircon cooling the car – was a tad warm!

There had been a few people in recent weeks who acted with surprise when I told them about the short time frame we had to complete the journey. “You’ll never get to see anything, or stop anywhere,” was the usual word of warning.

But Ian and I were in agreement that driving the Route 66, and making a coast to coast journey and seeing all the changes in scenery along the way, was the experience and what we were both in the States to do.

Beautiful Bellagio gardens. Impressive, considering its next to the lobby!

It gave us a couple of days and nights to explore this magnificent place. From wandering around the incredible malls and hidden cities that lay at the base of all the casino resorts, to taking in some of the free shows on the street, to losing the obligatory few bucks on the casino tables and putting a couple of dollar bills in the penny slots, we pretty much managed to ‘do’ Vegas.

The Strip

It is a place that I am finding difficult to describe in words, which for a wordsmith, I know, is a pretty poor show. But Las Vegas is simply one of those places that it is very difficult to comprehend unless you experience it with your own eyes, ears and senses. We spent our sightseeing day visiting as many of the casinos as possible, and when I say ‘casino’ I don’t necessarily mean the gambling halls.

Film-set feel to malls in Caesar’s Palace

For Vegas is more than just Blackjack, Poker and Roulette, or placing bets of up to $15,000 on the roll of a dice (and that was just the top maximum bet we’d managed to spot) Deep in the bowels of the towering hotels and casino complexes, I was surprised by how much there was to do aside from feed money into machines. There are, of course, the glitzy big money shows featuring anyone from Celine Dion to David Copperfield, a whole range of restaurants and dining facilities, exciting white knuckle rides and experiences, but for Ian and I, the fun was in just being in Las Vegas itself.

Vegas -it even has curly escalators!

It was about walking around the streets and through the blissful air conditioned malls, complete with clever sky effects on the ceiling to make it feel like you’re outside, and the famous canals of the Venetian. It was wandering around and suddenly stumbling across statues that move and breathe fire as part of an hourly show. Or looking closely at the incredibly intricate detail on the walls, decorations, ceilings and décor that, at times, makes it feel like you are sightseeing on a big budget film set, rather than browsing through a shopping centre. Even the security people in each casino wear different outfits to match the surroundings.

And they sing on the gondolas too!

For people watching, soaking up the atmosphere, smiling at the power of the Bellagio’s water fountains as they thunder into the sky, watching the free shows such as the Sirens pirates at Treasure Island or marvelling at the fire and water show at the Mirage Volcano, there really was plenty to do – and on the whole, it doesn’t have to cost a penny. And, another surprise for me, was just how many families were in town on holiday to enjoy the experience with young children, even toddlers.

You don’t get this in Grimsby’s Freshney Place Shopping Centre

Infact, after hours – and miles – of walking around the desert delight, I think Ian hit the nail on the head when it came to describing what Vegas feels like.

“It’s like being part of a huge theatrical production,” he smiled as we dived for another blast of air conditioning in one of the malls.

The Stratosphere, my home for the final night in Vegas

He was right. It was so easy to lose all sense of reality here. There are very few clocks around, so time is no issue – as Elvis said in his song about the place, ‘turning day into nighttime, turning night into daytime’ – is a Vegas speciality. And the casinos have a very clever way of making sure everything is on hand, should you need it. The fact that most resorts have a McDonalds, Starbucks, Burger King or Subway incorporated somewhere within them is, of course, great for convenience, but the simple fact is that it’s a deliberate ploy to keep you in their four (or many more) walls for as long as possible. The longer you are, the more you spend, the happier the casino boss is and the bigger the next construction project for the brand will no doubt be.

Bellagio by night

You see, Vegas is a city built on gambling. It is only as stunningly impressive as it is, thanks to countless millions before me making a journey to the desert, and leaving with pockets and bank balances empty. It is a strange thought to look around and wonder at all the fortunes lost – and being lost at any one moment – which in turn will be put back into building bigger and even better resorts for future generations to enjoy. For this small part of Nevada, the recession is merely a word under ‘R’ in a dictionary.

Famous fountain fun

I could write for hours in depth about all that there is to see – in just a couple of days, we barely scratched the surface. My top tips will always be to make use of the free parking underneath each casino, and not to be afraid of driving half a mile down the road to the next complex. It really is a deceptively huge place, with the scale and size of the hotels proving deceptive when it comes to walking around.

And I could write all about the free shows too, such as the fountains set to music outside the Bellagio every 15 minutes. But I did very little research about attractions like these, and to be honest, it came as more of an enjoyable surprise when I watched them. I wasn’t expecting the fountains to be powered so high by some of the most sophisticated water jet systems in the world – the ‘boom’ that comes out of the fountain as air powers gallons of water into the sky is impressive, echoing around the strip and rattling through your body.

The Volcano erupts

The impressive jets of fire from the volcano, which erupts every hour outside the Mirage at night, combined with atmospheric music and lighting, attracted hundreds of people even late at night, while the Sirens pirate show at TI, complete with cast, fireworks, cannons and a sinking ship, brought the feel of a West End show to the street – and for free, four times a night.

Driving along the Vegas strip

Visiting Vegas on a backpacker budget was always going to be tricky, but with careful planning in the time we had, we set a schedule of all the free shows and made our way along the strip seeing all that there was on offer. It was proof that you don’t necessarily need buckets of cash to visit the place, and infact, there were many people using the cheap accommodation to relax by the pool by day, and just take in the atmosphere at night.

Backpacking…Vegas style!

I did, of course, have a flutter, setting myself a tight limit of $50 to play with during my three nights in the city. With $40 still burning a hole in my wallet on the final night, it was time to hit the blackjack table in the Stratosphere before bed. Well, you can’t come to Vegas without at least having a little bit of a gamble, right?

Half an hour in, I was holding my own. My piles of $5 had actually grown, and I’d hit blackjack a couple of times. I sensed I was having a run of luck, and started adding more chips to my stake. For a while, it went well, almost doubling my initial playing fund.

One of the casinos

And then I began to listen to the croupier, a lovely Chinese woman who I think enjoyed the experience as much as Ian and I, laughing along as we made jovial remarks about the way the hands were falling. But then, as quickly as the good run began, the bad luck came in, probably helped by her not so good advice. The dealer began hitting 21 on almost every hand, beating my 19s and 20s even when pulling up to five or six cards from the stack. By 3am, I was down to my last few chips. I put all of them on the table, apart from one.

I promptly lost, but put my final remaining, white, $1 chip in my camera case.

It’s true, the casino, in the end, will always win, especially here. But my last chip from Las Vegas wasn’t going back into the Stratosphere bank. It was joining us on the Route 66 adventure, and coming home with me.

I will…when I’ve saved up some more pennies!

California Dreaming

Hello Hollywood

Los Angeles – home to Hollywood, the most famous people in the world, playground of the rich and the birthplace of American cinema.

It’s the showbiz and glamour capital of the world, so it was only right that I spent my final night in Fiji with an acclaimed surfer, bikini model and filmmaker.

It wasn’t quite how you are thinking – she had kindly let me jump into her private taxi to the airport at Nadi after I, as usual, left things too late to get there in public transport.

For once, I had a decent excuse, having spent around half an hour searching for my camera that had managed to go missing from the resort reception, where staff were supposed to be keeping an eye on it while the battery charged. I was quickly sent into a mild panic when I returned from a shower to find just the charger beside the sofa where I had left it.

After much searching, hunting through my bags, shrugged shoulders from the security bloke who had been sat in the reception area the entire time, and almost a resignation that someone had helped themselves to my camera so close to the end of my trip, it mysteriously appeared again behind the reception counter.

Quite what was going on I don’t know, but with the time approaching 6.30pm, a two hour drive to the airport, and a flight to America leaving at 10pm, complete with a recommended three hour check in, it didn’t take much for me to work out I was suddenly cutting it far too fine. That’s when I met Alison, who for much of the afternoon I had seen draping herself over the hammocks on the beach while her friend took photos. I’d presumed they were making some kind of publicity shots for the Beachouse, but it turned out they were working for the man who makes the hammocks.

With Alison and Sarah at Nadi airport

With just $24 remaining in my wallet, after barely eating anything aside from free provisions in an attempt to save myself from taking any more cash out from a machine, I knew $15 would be needed for a public minibus back to the airport. But with barely enough time to catch one, I was pointed in the direction of the two girls who were busy loading tonnes of stuff into a taxi.

“I don’t suppose I can get a lift to the airport with you guys could I? How much is it?” I asked.

I was told it had set them back $120, so explained my situation and offered all I had in my wallet.

“Oh sure, just jump in its no problem,” she said cheerily.

It turned out they are both working on a freelance basis, as a model and photographer, specialising in some incredible surfing and underwater photography. It included promotional shots for Mojo Surf in Byron Bay, Australia, where I learnt to surf, and we talked about Adsy and the guys there I got to know in the couple of days I spent with them in the water. The girls dabble in journalism too, and both have websites that are well worth checking out here and here.

We spent the entire journey talking about our travels and line of work, looking at photos they had taken and finding out how they were managing to travel around from job to job, keeping costs and living expenses to a minimum. It was an exciting lifestyle, and one I could have talked about for hours, but sadly they were catching a flight back to their homes in Hawaii.

“Look, don’t worry about the fare, we’d have had to pay it anyway. Keep the money in your pocket and get yourself something to eat in departures,” Alison said as we arrived at Nadi’s international terminal. I tried my best to at least give her a few dollars, but she wouldn’t accept it. It was a lovely gesture, and yet again another example of the kindness you can find from complete strangers when you’re in a tricky situation far from home.

We had photos together before saying goodbye, promising to check out each others blogs when we find time. I left them as they made their way to the Air Pacific check in desk with the hope of avoiding another bill of more than $1,000 in excess baggage that they had been stung with on the outbound flight.

The next leg

And so I made my way to the Los Angeles check-in desk for the longest flight of my entire trip, a 10 hour journey across the Pacific Ocean and the date line to the west coast of America. My original plan was to tour the west coast, going as far north as San Francisco, before flying from LA to New York to see friends and then back home at the end of July. But then I had the brainwave of ending my travels with something special, eyeing up how much of the globe I had travelled overland, and thinking about how great it would be to drive from coast to coast across America.

Route 66, the Pacific to the Atlantic, more than 2,400 miles along America’s ‘mother road’ to Chicago and then over to the east coast. Its the stuff of dreams for any petrolhead, and I grew to think of it as a fitting finale to an epic adventure. I even had my friend Ian, from Melbourne, and who I met 10 years ago while working on a children’s summer camp in New York, interested in the idea. With just about enough funds, it was a goer.

Stupidly, however, I managed to forget it was my dad’s 60th birthday on July 21, and had an awkward conversation a couple of months back where I had a slightly upset father who believed I’d snubbed him for an extra week on my trip. I had to explain myself and how I’d thought he was only 59 this year – well, he does look good for his age (I know he reads this!)  – and being out of the loop on the other side of the world, events back home had passed me by.

With my sister Amy working for travel company Thomson in Cape Verde, dad told me how he wanted us all to be together for a week over his birthday. His idea was for us all to fly out to the island on July 19 for a week of sun, fun and relaxation together. It would be the first time in around two years we will have all been together, and a fitting way for us all to spend his birthday together.

The upshot of all this was that I had to shave some time off the end of my travels to get home earlier. I had to juggle around my plans to get back to the UK in time for the flight, meaning I am now flying out of New York on July 17. To do this, Fiji was cut from two weeks to six days, my time in the States was reduced by a week, and it would mean less time with my best mate Dan, wife Denise and my godson Nathanial in Connecticut before my flight back to London.

I was determined to still do everything I had planned, however, even if it did mean keeping to yet another tight schedule. I worked out the road trip of a lifetime was still possible, and my overland adventures that have become a bit of a theme of my journey would continue.

Big bird

I boarded the Air Pacific jumbo jet at Nadi knowing that as well as flying substantially closer to home, I was about to become a time traveller. The quirk about going fully around the world is that you gain time when you cross the International Date Line in the Pacific Ocean. It means you don’t lose any travel time, and even stranger, you arrive in America before you have even set off for the airport.

Touchdown in LA – before i’d even left my Fiji beach!

My 10pm flight from Fiji on the Tuesday landed at Los Angeles International Airport at 2pm on the same Tuesday afternoon. It would mean a single day lasting a staggering 42 hours, and with only a little sleep on the flight, I arrived in America with that horrible zombie feeling.

Nice wheels

Worse still, arriving at the Budget car hire centre at LAX, I had yet more problems with my bank thanks to the ongoing restrictions HSBC have put on my account after assessing I was potentially a victim of card cloning. With a £200 limit on transactions in any 24 hour period, the £400 hold that the hire company needed to take from my account wouldn’t go through. Neither would they let me ring the bank from the office to get them to authorise the transaction. Instead, it was a search for some free wifi at the hotel across the road, where yet again Skype got me out of a sticky situation.

“We’ve given you a complimentary upgrade,” said the assistant behind the counter before directing me to a parking spot outside.

And there it was. Gleaming white, sparkling in the California sun, and a lot bigger than the budget economy car I had booked for the trans-America drive. It’s a Ford Fusion, and for the next two weeks, it will become home for Ian and I as we make our way east.

Finally got wheels!

Ian doesn’t fly in from Melbourne for a couple of days, and we’d agreed to meet in Las Vegas, so for the first few days I was on my own. One of the advantages of having a car is that I’ll be able to get around so much easier for the next few days, but more than that, it means the days of lugging all my belongings around on my back are finally over. Most of my bags will be able to stay in the boot of the car, meaning after more than eight months of wandering streets with my entire belongings strapped to me, my back can finally get a rest

California plates

I stepped inside the car, put the air conditioning on full blast, and tentatively slipped the automatic gearbox into drive, inching my way out of the car park and onto the streets of LA. Being a fairly regular visitor to the States, I quickly got the hang of driving on the roads again, and headed to a McDonalds (where else?!) for some free wifi, booking myself into a backpacker motel near the airport.

It was a slightly strange place, with its fair share of odd people, but with a pool, free breakfast and dinner, unlimited coffee and wifi, all for just £12 a night, it was too good to turn down. I booked in for three nights, dumped some belongings and set off to explore the city.

My hostel/motel…and a plane going to nearby LAX.

And what a city it was. My first night I spent getting my bearings, working out the Interstate system and how to get around to the various famous parts of LA. I headed to the beaches, to find hundreds of people preparing for Independence Day with bonfires and beers. The famous Venice and Santa Monica beaches and resorts were thriving with people enjoying the start of the holiday period. There was very much a relaxed atmosphere about the city.

Beach bonfires for July 4

It left me with my own problem about what to do for Independence Day, a day when America can celebrate all that is good about being, well, American. I searched the internet and narrowed it down to a couple of options to experience the day. It was either a night at the LA Bowl for some kind of America-fest, with what was described as the most patriotic night and the most spectacular fireworks in California. Or there was a baseball game between the LA Dodgers and Cincinnati Reds. I could get a cheap ticket online, and was just about to book, when another sporting fixture flashed up on my screen. It was for LA Galaxy, home to David Beckham.

Now, I’ve not had much luck when it comes to watching one of England’s greatest ever players in action in the flesh. I missed opportunities when he was playing back home, and so thought I would get the chance to see him play when I watched Real Madrid take on Espanyol at the Bernabeu a few years back. Unfortunately, he managed to get injured again just before the game, and while it will always go down as one of the most exciting games of football I have ever seen – a dramatic last minute 4-3 win that saw Real go top and win the La Liga as a result – I resigned myself to the fact I would probably never get to see Becks play in person.

So, thanks to a $70 ticket being offered for just $19 online, and free Independence Day fireworks afterwards, my mind was made up. I would spend the night celebrating US independence from British rule by watching the most American of sports. Soccer, or football to give it the proper name.

Griffith Observatory, Los Angeles

Before that however I had my sights set on seeing possibly the most famous sign in the world, in perhaps one of the most famous neighbourhoods in the world. The Hollywood sign in, erm, Hollywood.

While picking up the car keys from my room, I said a quick hello to a tall lad with glasses, who asked if I was going to the beach. I told him I wasn’t, but was off to explore LA.

“I’m on my way to Hollywood, for a look around. You’re welcome to come along if you fancy the ride out,” I said, expecting him to say no.

Instead, he said he’d love to. His name was Tommy, who it turned out was quite a quiet bloke and who was slightly awkward to keep conversation flowing with, but he was nice enough and it was company for a few hours. He was from Washington state, and in LA searching for work in IT. Yet he had lived in LA for years, and had never been to visit the famous sign in the Hollywood Hills.

The streets of Hollywood

“I can’t help but laugh at the irony of an English bloke, on Independence Day, taking an American bloke to go and see one of his country’s most famous sights,” I laughed as we climbed the dusty pathway towards the huge white letters.

The sign was one of the sights I had been most looking forward to seeing in this part of America. It is something we have all been brought up with, and a sign we see thousands of times, usually without realising in cinema and television. Interestingly, it was erected in 1923 and originally said “Hollywoodland”, the main purpose to advertise the name of a new housing development in the Santa Monica hills. But for whatever reason, the sign was left up and became something of a novelty.

Hullywod

The sign isn’t the original, however. By the 1970s, that had fallen into a state of disrepair, and while various pranks have been played over the year where letters have been rearranged or covered up, the sign, having bits of letters broken or missing, once actually read “Hullywod”.

We came across a steep side track, where two guys were scrambling up to another path. We followed, eventually catching them up. I got talking to one, wearing a red shirt, who was called Justin. They were visiting the city from another part of America, and were excited about getting so close to the sign.

The track ended up on a former road that winds its way up the hillside, towards a communications mast at the top. At this point we still couldn’t see the sign, despite approaching the peak of the hill. We did, however, come across yet another dusty track to our right. We followed it, climbing up another rocky pathway and discovering a plaque dedicated to Hugh Hefner, clearly his favourite lookout over Los Angeles which sprawled out to the horizon in front of us.

Amazing views of downtown LA

To our left, we could see a fence, and just a few metres below us, the giant ‘H’ that starts what is probably the most famous sign in the world.

“Lets go down there and touch it, I’ve always wanted to do that,” said Justin, who we’ve only just met.

I wasn’t too sure what the legal situation was when it comes to approaching the sign, but there seemed to be a worn track down the hillside towards the six-storey high letters so presumed it must be ok to get a closer look. But then my conscience got the better of me, after all, there was a fairly hefty steel fence along the side of the road that I had somehow found myself on the wrong side of.

So close to the sign

In the distance I could see some form of warning sign, and a security camera that was pointing in our direction. Call me a chicken, but I decided the risk of arrest wasn’t quite worth touching the huge white metal letters.

Hmmm

Besides, I quite like America, and a ban on visiting the country after a spell of bird for touching one of their icons would be really annoying.

So I turned around and headed back for the relative safety behind the fence, watching Justin and his friend make their way down to the sign and touching it, making a metallic sound that echoed around the hilltop. They made their way up, laughing and joking about their achievement, and leaving me regretting not making the descent with them.

Back on the right side of the fence!

Then we all saw a police or ranger van pull up at a bridge far below, blocking one of the return tracks to the car park. Justin and his mate decided that they had better leave on a separate route, and took a trail through the bush back down to the bottom. Tommy and I made our way around the normal way – after all, we had done nothing wrong.

I will never know if the other two got arrested, as the last time I saw them they were stumbling down a rocky path, but I do know more about security at the sign having looked it up on the internet. As well as banks of CCTV cameras that I could see at the top, the sign is also equipped with motion sensors and infra red devices. Once they are triggered, the LAPD helicopter is automatically dispatched, and people are usually yelled at from a loudspeaker onboard and promptly arrested at the bottom of the hill. I’m just glad I didn’t take the risk!

Looking out for rattlers on the way!

After spending most of the afternoon looking out over LA and at nine huge white letters, I headed back to the hostel to drop Tommy off with a long drive down the Sunset Strip and along Sunset Boulevard and Santa Monica Boulevard to the main interstate. It doesn’t quite feel real to be driving along such famous streets, but the plush gated houses along both sides of the road in these incredible neighbourhoods are a reminder that the world’s rich and famous call these streets their home.

Driving along some familiar roads

Speaking of rich and famous, it was time to travel to the Home Depot Center Stadium to watch David Beckham in action for LA Galaxy. The stadium was smaller than I imagined, and it was festooned with Beckham memorabilia and photos, while almost everyone wearing a Galaxy shirt had his named emblazoned on their backs.

With Robbie Keane at the Home Depot Center Stadium

He really has become something of a cult hero over here, as well as back home. I arrived just in time to see the teams come out onto the pitch, amid much American fanfare and waving of flags. Fireworks were launched from the pitch, and everyone stood for the national anthem. A Saturday afternoon game at Blundell Park for Grimsby Town versus Fleetwood this was not.

After scouring websites for team news, checking out injury pages, even looking at the David Beckham fan sites to check he hadn’t been dropped or injured before the game, I looked for the familiar figure on the pitch. Except he wasn’t there. I checked the bench. No Beckham either. Others around me were asking the same question, including the family next to me who had turned up especially to see him.

Beckham no-show

“The same thing happened to me in Madrid a couple of years back,” I told them, before being accused of being the bad omen for the night.

And I was – despite my checks and research, Beckham had been banned after picking up a yellow card in the previous match. Instead, I sat through one of the most boring games of football I have ever witnessed (quite a statement from a Grimsby fan!) where even the likes of Robbie Keane and Landon Donovan failed to impress.

Robbie Keane taking the kick-off

In addition, sitting with American fans while watching the sport is a completely different experience to anything back home. It seems the actual action on the pitch is just a side show – the main reason for people attending the game is to try and eat and drink as much as possible within the 90 minutes of play. I swear some people see it as a challenge. A couple in front of me brought an entire coolbag full of pre-prepared meats, salads, bread and pasta. A full evening meal, to eat while watching football from the stands.

Candy Floss…can see that going down well in the Pontoon

And you can forget a meat pie and a pint here – it was all about candy floss, churros, nachos and hot dogs. Basically, baseball meets football, America meets England and everyone leaves the ground three stone heavier than when they went in.

Their keeper was a bit of a dinosaur

On top of all that, and not content with the action on the pitch, the crowd tries to entertain themselves too. At half time, a dinosaur came onto the pitch (I know Beckham is getting old, but that’s not me being funny – it really was a dinosaur) and families had to shoot the ball past the dinosaur to win tickets to some theme park. Kiss cam came on the big screen, forcing some of California’s most hideous couples to smooch in front of thousands, and in the process making far too many people gag on their nachos.

Blurgh

Then someone came out and launched t-shirts into the crowd. There was some kind of ‘lucky seat’ game that meant everyone had to search under their chair for a golden ticket. Then a row of people in front of me started jumping around after being chosen as the ‘lucky row’ to appear on screen and win something free (probably food related).

In addition to all of that, while the game was going on, one section behind the goal was constantly making noise thanks to being orchestrated by a man in a pit with a loud speaker, along with much arm swinging, chanting and the odd rhythmic ‘dee-fense cha cha cha’, the sound of which just makes me baulk at the abuse of our national sport.

Loudspeaker man. An idea for Blundell Park?!

I did, however, see the reasoning behind the loudspeaker man – without him, the atmosphere would have been deathly. Even the family next to me admit that Americans simply don’t know how to behave at the ‘soccer’. They don’t know whether to just stay quiet and eat (which on the whole they do) or let their inhibitions go a bit and cheer for their team.

Instead, they have many failed attempts at a Mexican wave, that old chestnut that was once common in the Eighties but probably hasn’t been seen at a football ground back home since, well, about the Eighties.

Glittery confetti for scoring a goal

Eventually they got it going, and I admit, I joined in. It wasn’t because I wanted to, or because there was peer pressure to join in with the Americans around me, who, by now, had embraced their English visitor who could explain all the rules and give stories of football across the pond. It was simply because it was something to do, and it took my mind off the banal game in front of me. It was either that, or buy something else to eat and drink. Perhaps we see part of the problem here.

The Beckhamless Galaxy went behind in the first half thanks to a weak goal by their Philadelphia counterparts, before levelling in the second half with a goal that sent everyone wild in the stands. There was even blue and silver confetti launched from the top of the stand that fluttered down on everyone to mark the momentous occasion.

Independence Day fireworks

They went on to lose by conceding a stupid and sloppy injury time goal, which left everyone heading to the nearest burger stand for a final feed before taking their seats again to sing ‘God bless America’ and ‘Born in the USA’ en masse while thousands of dollars worth of fireworks went up in smoke above one of the stands.

The smoke starts to take a starring role

It would have been a great display if someone had worked out which way the wind – and therefore the smoke-  was blowing and planned accordingly. Instead, after half an hour of obscured flashes and flames, everyone headed out to the car park and joined a queue for the interstate.

I, meanwhile, headed back to the car with the knowledge it probably was, now, the last chance I will have to see Mr Beckham bend it on a pitch in person. I did see Frank Lampard and his missus in the ground, apparently meeting Becks to watch the game, but that was as close as I got to seeing a free kick expert in action on the night.

Back out in the famous neighbourhoods

I had a couple of visits to Hollywood Boulevard during my time in this famous part of America, enjoying a couple of strolls along the Walk of Fame. It was no other than Journey’s star that was the first one I actually recognised along the strip amid all the past movie, music, radio and television personalities who have their fame recorded in the most permanent way with a red marble star in the sidewalk.

Don’t Stop Believin’!

The walk of fame is surprisingly long, a good 20 minute walk in each direction, and it can be good fun spotting the names you know, from Elton John to Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera to Arnold Schwarzenegger. There were special stones for people like the crew of Apollo 11, including Neil Armstrong, who set foot on the moon for their special achievement, while the LA Dodgers and various industry partners get special mentions in the path for their help with promoting the area and the Oscars.

Grauman’s Chinese Theatre

After spotting Journey’s star, I didn’t stop believing at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, where I marvelled at how small some of the world’s most famous hands and feet are in the cement stones that make up the famous forecourt.

Had to be done!

Grauman’s is known as one of the most famous movie theatres in the world, built by famous showman Sid Grauman who is seen as one of the key figures behind cinema. To have a hand and footprint taken here is often seen as a career highlight, even by the most famous of celebrities. Apparently, there are two stories about how the tradition began: one has Mary Pickford as the actress who stepped in wet cement on her way to see the magnificent new building shortly after it had been finished, and the other credits Norma Talmadge with the misstep. Grauman decided it was a wonderful way to have a permanent record of the stars, and began inviting selected film personalities to put their hand and footprints in concrete.

He might have saved Private Ryan, but he’s got skinny feet and tiny hands

To this day, the world’s most famous people get on their hands and knees here to leave a lasting impression – and their films are often premiered in the theatre within. It was fascinating to wander around, braving the throngs of tourists and spotting the many famous names and messages.

Parked up in Beverly Hills

Amid more driving through Beverly Hills, I called in at the Apple store in Hollywood to finally sort out the long-running saga of my iPhone, which has not been right ever since it was unlocked by O2 back home and upgraded to iOS5 through iTunes. Regular visitors to my ramblings would no doubt have picked up my frustrations at carting my iPhone around the world with me, only for it to sit in my bag redundant most of the way after it either breaks down or locks up on me. Since inserting a New Zealand sim card in it, once again it had been rendered useless, somehow locking itself to Vodafone Australia despite being supplied with an unlocked device in Sydney.

Having spent $40 on Skype credit with four separate calls to Apple support, who in turn pass me on to Vodafone, who in return send me an email three days later telling me it was an issue with Apple, who then send me back into this vicious circle by sending me back to Vodafone, I had grown sick of being passed from pillar to post.

Sorting out my phone in the posh districts around Rodeo Drive

I walked in and for once their sickly smiles and warm welcoming style couldn’t cut through my frustration. I went straight for the top, asking to speak to a manager, which resulted in me getting an appointment straight away at the ‘Genius bar’. Where I was told they wouldn’t unlock it, there was nothing they could do, and it was an issue with my carrier.

There was no way I was leaving until it was sorted out, and so I sat myself down and told them as much, fed up with Apple and the phone networks around the world constantly passing the buck. I dug my heals in. After being asked to explain the who sorry tale three times to three different people, eventually the manager was sent to speak to me.

“I have explained the story so many times, I have a case number, can you not call Apple support and get the rundown of what has happened before finding me a solution to all these problems,” I asked.

“I’m sorry sir, I cant call Apple support, they are nothing to do with us.”

So not only can they not communicate with the networks they sell their phones to, they can’t even talk to sections of their own company.

“This was a phone issued in Australia, we can only change phones issued in the States,” came another little gem, that only served to raise my frustrations.

“So, effectively, you can’t travel anywhere with an iPhone because if you get problems, you can’t get help, and the networks around the world lock your phone even it its unlocked,” I said.

“That is the case I’m afraid, yes.”

It was a ridiculous situation, and an area that really needs highlighting. Iphones, as great as they are – simply the best bit of kit around if I’m honest for ease of use and capability – have one major flaw. Once you put another sim card in, it will lock to that network. You then have to faff around getting it unlocked again, only for it to lock to the next network you put a sim in from. And when you need help from Apple, because it is officially a carrier issue, it can be like getting blood from a stone, constantly being batted away back to whoever supplied the sim card.

Not a bad area to be stuck in an Apple store!

This time, however, I wasn’t going anywhere, and they knew it. I was eventually given a phone to call customer support on, while sat inside an Apple story, because the different members of staff couldn’t possibly talk to one another. And there I sat, for the next hour and a half, to some engineer somewhere in America who looked into all of my accounts, replacements and problems over the past few years.

“As well as Vodafone Australia, your handset is locked to a network in Korea,” I was told.

The plot thickened.

“The serial number on your account is for a handset from Korea. Have you had one from there?” I was asked.

While I had visited Seoul for an hour between flights in November, there wasn’t enough time to have a drink, let alone buy a new phone. I repeated my serial number three times to make sure.

“I have spotted what it is – someone has written a digit down wrong on one of your replacements.”

Somehow, in Meadowhall, one digit went down wrong. Instead of my phone, it registered as a complete stranger’s handset in Korea. And since that day, their phone has been unlocked on numerous occasions by networks on my behalf, while being accused by me of not carrying out the procedure. It turns out they were, but not on my handset.

“I’m really sorry sir, it does seem to have been a mistake by one of our staff that has caused all of these problems.”

I relayed this to the staff around the Genius bar, who a couple of hours ago had adopted the ‘its your fault, your problem, deal with it,’ mentality in trying to get me out of the shop. Suddenly they had all changed their tune, and to be fair to the manager, he couldn’t apologise enough, even giving me a new pair of headphones for free.

So now, with one solitary digit being amended on my records, hopefully that will be the end of this long running saga that has driven me mad. Its just a shame that for the majority of this trip, I have been without my music, maps, phone, emails on the go, Facebook and Twitter in my hand, and everything else that helps while on the move thanks to the clever little touches incorporated into the handset. And Apple will be getting a strongly worded letter, complete with a claim for international phone calls and three new (cheapo) handsets I have had to buy in various countries just so I can make calls.

Woody loved getting in my shots

Relieved that I seemed to have finally got a result, I went for a pootle along Rodeo Drive, the shopping district of the stars, along Hollywood Boulevard to take in one last dose of the Tinseltown atmosphere, and smiling at how normal it felt to be cruising around one of the most incredibly rich and famous areas in the world.

Dolby Theatre…home to the Oscars

But it was time to move on – I have the road trip of all road trips to begin, and it was time to get my kicks on Route 66.

Bula! It’s Fiji Time!

Sunsets in the South Pacific ahead

Somehow almost a month has passed me by in New Zealand.

I arrived in Auckland as the Queen was sailing down the Thames on that soggy boat back home, watching online while trying to work out exactly how and what I was going to do in order to see the best of one of her Commonwealth countries.

Yet again, without firm plans, I was ‘winging it’, but like most times I have approached a new land with that sometimes scary theory, things worked out pretty well.

It was largely down to the great bunch at the Magic Bus headquarters in the city, namely Mike, Bobby and Daryl, who, after a tentative email from a prospective blogger with a strange website involving a fish, asked me to pop in for a meeting.

It was their offer of a north and south island pass, in return for documenting the journey, taking photographs and telling the world about the brilliant time I was having onboard their coaches, that opened up a whole world of adventure, adrenalin, new friends, nights out and memories that will live long.

My first Magic group, and driver Russ, in Wellington

I was lucky in that I had some excellent drivers and some great groups of people on my sections of the journey around New Zealand, and while it can be difficult to keep up to date with the website, particularly with the internet here often being slower than a snail working its way through treacle, it was good fun turning events by day into an online story by night.

Hard at work on the Magic Bus (and yes, that is the BBC Sport homepage…the free wifi helped me stay in touch with England in the Euros!)

While the offer helped me massively with my travel budget, little did I know that even more opportunities were just around the corner. I was put in touch with Julia, head of UK marketing for Tourism New Zealand, the people responsible for telling the world about what there is to do in this great country. After a couple of emails detailing my journey, my website and my day job back home, I was informed about a programme for members of the media and travel agents, and offered a pass. In a nutshell, it gives special discounts to enable those who spread the word about New Zealand to experience as much as possible during their time here.

If it wasn’t for Julia’s help, and the rest of the Tourism New Zealand team – including the Wellington office who at short notice helped issue my pass – I wouldn’t have been able to do half of what I have in the past few weeks. The blogs wouldn’t have been half as exciting, my bank balance would make even scarier reading than it does now, and I’d still be telling those close to me back home that I will never, ever do a bungy jump.

Still can’t believe I did that!

And so, for these reasons and to say thankyou, the least I could do was make some time to call back in to see everyone in Auckland, before catching a 1pm flight out of the city and to the Fiji Islands. I have a plan to spend a week on a beach in an attempt to bring my heart rate down and catch up on sleep after an exhausting but exhilarating few weeks.

But first I had to say goodbye to a bunch of people who had become good friends – my south island Magic Bus family. We’d spent the last couple of weeks falling about laughing, falling out of planes and falling over drunk together, but with the bus schedule to keep, they were heading up to Kaikora. It meant they had to leave me in Christchurch, so I woke up with everyone else in the dorm and made my way outside with them to say goodbye.

Goodbye to the Magic Bus, and some good friends

I was sad to see the bus disappear down the road. While most of my trip has been made independently, it was great to have a large chunk of stress, worry and organisation of the New Zealand leg taken care of. While the Magic Bus does function as a ‘hop on, hop off’ bus service around both islands, I, and many others, use it as a basic tour. It gives you the camaraderie and banter that you get on a full tour with the people you are with, the social time and the sightseeing, and of course you all end up staying in the same kind of hostels together. But you are not tied to that chain that sometimes comes with a tour – if you like it somewhere more than you were expecting, simply stay a bit longer and catch the next bus that comes along. Or the one after that, if you really like the place. And if you fall in love with the place, well there’s nothing to stop you continuing your journey in a month, in six months or even up to a year, thanks to the way the ticket works.

But I think the beauty of the Magic Bus way of travelling around the islands was that it never felt like a tour. It was more like one of the best road trips you’ve ever been on with mates, except your mates are new friends you’ve just met, and the driver happens to be in control of a huge bus. As they say in these parts, it’s ‘sweet as’!

Bye Magic Bus :-(

With just a day before I fly out of Auckland, some 1,000km to the north,  it meant I was on a tight schedule – I had deliberately left my Air New Zealand flight from Christchurch until late in the day, giving me enough time to gather material for a feature on an earthquake-hit city that captured my admiration and imagination.

The bus drivers helped further grow my love of the Christchurch too. With my supply of New Zealand dollars dwindling in my pocket, trying to hold off withdrawing any more with my departure so close, I happened to find two incredibly helpful drivers who saved me a few quid on getting to the airport. The first, picking me up from outside the hostel I had been staying, simply saw the bags I was carrying, gave me a wink and said ‘sit down mate’ after I asked if I could get a through ticket to the airport.

“Its just easier to sort it out at the bus station,” he said with a smile.

At said bus station, I was pointed in the direction of the Number 3, which takes me up to the airport. Seeing that I only had a large note, the driver asked if I had any change on me. I did, all $3.50 of it, quite a way off the $7 needed for the fare.

“You’ve just asked me for a ticket to this little neighbourhood. Lovely place, here’s your ticket,” he said with a wink. I handed over my $3.50. It’s little things like this that just don’t happen back home, where rules are rules and the customer very rarely comes first. Two gestures that I think typify the Kiwi spirit that I have already grown to love, the laid back, friendly and helpful way of life that I could quite happily get used to.

Those drivers probably don’t remember me, and I hope I don’t get them into trouble by revealing the little favour they did for me, even if it was in the long run saving them a bit of hassle, but it meant a lot and it didn’t go unnoticed. Worthy of a nice note on here anyway.

My ride back to Auckland

A couple of hours later, I was back in the noticeably warmer, but far wetter, north island again and arriving back into Auckland. Having stayed at the Nomads hostel on my arrival, I opted for the Base hostel for my final night, having been looked after at the sister establishment in Queenstown so well. I’d been offered a discount on my room and checked in.

“Oh, Phil, there’s something here for you too, it was left a little earlier,” said the fellow Brit working on reception.

It was an envelope with my name on it. I was intrigued, and waited until I could drop my bags off my back in my room before I opened it.

“Please have 5x free drinks in Globe bar on your last night in NZ, courtesy of Base.”

Nice touch!

It was from Amy, another fellow Brit who has also made the move to the country and with few plans to return anytime soon. Part of the Base marketing team, I’d spoken to her on the phone earlier in the day while I was walking around the ruins of Christchurch. It was another gesture that put a smile on my face, and I made my way down to the bar to take up the kind offer while trying to plan the next phase of my journey.

Four pints later, little had been done in the way of planning but I had managed to read a Fiji leaflet in between watching a game of killer pool taking place on the tables in front of me. That counts towards research I guess, and besides, winging it is the way forward.

I was quite well behaved and managed to get to bed relatively early ahead of a hectic morning of meetings and dashing across Auckland to the airport. The first appointment was with Julia at Tourism New Zealand, whose office was a short walk away from the city’s iconic Skytower. Having only been in touch with Julia by phone or email, it was great to put a face to her name. We went for coffee nearby and could have talked for hours about the adventures I’d had in New Zealand, her advice on what else there is to do in the country, stories of other journalists who have spent time here from London and about how well the media scheme had worked for me.

With Julia at Tourism New Zealand HQ

Apparently, there had been some really good feedback, and I returned to Julia’s office to be introduced to a few people who had helped out with my last minute application, and who, according to Julia, had become fans of my blog and wanted to meet me! It was a real surprise – rather like when I’m writing for a newspaper or filming for television, where it becomes ‘just’ a job and you often forget that an audience will read or watch your work, it’s easy for me to forget that what I am writing for fun is actually being read by people. It was funny to hear them talking about some of the topics I had been blogging about, and I was glad to hear they had enjoyed them.

I was then told, as a thankyou for my work, that there was a small gift for me – and after being led through the open plan office, was presented with a fantastic Pure New Zealand outdoor jacket, and a warm Merino Wool thermal top. It was a lovely gesture, one I had not expected, and I will wear them with pride back in the northern hemisphere, remembering the brilliant three weeks I had spent in a stunningly spectacular country.

With time running out, and goodbyes all round, it was a quick dash down the road to the Magic Bus offices where I met Daryl, the manager of the company and a fellow travel enthusiast. It was more of a debrief and a mutual thankyou – I was glad to hear they had loved reading about my tour with them, and the company is sharing the blog through its social media outlets, meaning my hits are rising and they can spread the word about the product they offer. Win, win!

For me, the past few weeks and months have taught me something else about the creative art of blogging. Before this trip, I admit I’d never contemplated a blog before, thinking it was something that people do for a bit of fun, or, like me, to help keep a personal record of day to day life or a journey abroad. For the first time, however, I realised how much of a powerful tool a good blog can be, and that is being recognised by businesses as a useful marketing device. From a company perspective, giving up a spare seat or making time for an extra bungy jumper costs next to nothing. Yet the reach and publicity that a well written blog can offer, right down to a specific audience, can be invaluable. And, above all, I have realised it is a great way of keeping a note of everything i’ve done. Eight months in, and i’m already looking back at my first entries, surprising myself at what I have already forgotten.

Now time was really getting tight, and my plans to catch the regular airport bus had to be ditched. With less than two hours before my flight, I had to splash out on a taxi, a whopping £30, which for any backpacker, is a large chunk of cash. But it was either that, or miss the flight by catching a bus and paying out an even larger chunk of cash to Air Pacific for the next available seat to Fiji.

Auckland, and New Zealand, disappears from view

Thankfully, I made the flight. I was lighter in the pocket, but I even had time to spare. With no accommodation booked, it surprised the older couple I was sat next to on the three hour flight.

“Aren’t you worried about what to do when you get there?” they asked me.

Landing in Fiji – greener than I was expecting

I told them that whenever I ‘wing it’ something usually works itself out. And the theory was proved right in front of them when I turned my phone back on upon landing in Nadi. It immediately sprung into action – a text from Graham and Kelly, my friends from Australia who I’d met up with in Queenstown. They had also flown to Fiji on the same day as me, and had set themselves up in a backpackers hotel on the nearby beach.

“I’m going to meet my friends – looks like my accommodation situation has been decided,” I joked with the couple, who seemed glad that I at least had someone to go and meet.

There was one major problem I had to overcome before then, however, thanks to my lovely bank HSBC. I’ve not really touched on this in the past, but since Darwin I have been unable to use my Visa card as a debit card in shops, hostels or anywhere else with the swipe card system we are so used to paying for goods with. It is all because my details were apparently recovered by the police in some sort of raid, somewhere, and there is a risk my card may have been cloned. So, for the past two months, I have been forced to take out large sums of cash from ATMs everywhere I go, at considerable expense thanks to the overseas bank withdrawal charges (imagine how much the banks are making thanks to this convenient ‘security measure’) and pay for absolutely everything with cash.

Bula Fiji! Touch down in country number 12.

Arriving in Nadi, with no Fiji money – or any other currency, for that matter – I headed to the cash machine at the airport.

“Transaction declined by issuer” are not words you need to see on the screen in that situation.

So, I needed to ring my bank. Except the time difference means it’s the middle of the night back home. And besides, my New Zealand sim card, nor my calling card, work in Fiji. And I have no cash to buy another phone card, or to make a call. And that was the vicious circle I found myself in. No cash, no way of calling my bank to get more cash, which means, I have no cash.

After about half an hour of scratching my head, searching for any leftover money in my bag that I could perhaps change, and trying not to scream at the woman who kept coming over and asking me ‘Do you have a problem sir. We have lovely hotel,” I came up with a plan – Skype.

I haven’t used it to make proper phone calls to anyone before, mainly because I just use the free webcam chat to speak to family and friends, but now it was about to help me out in a massive way. The only problem was I needed the internet.

I made my way to departures to use the airport wifi – which I had to pay for. Thankfully, my card still works online (strange, because if I was to clone a card, I would probably use it online?!) so I bought wifi access, to then buy Skype credit, to then have an infuriatingly difficult conversation with an overseas call centre who couldn’t quite get her head around the fact the call quality wasn’t great because I was using a poor internet connection for a call due to the situation the bank had left me in.

Anyway, it was yet another frustration with my bank (I won’t get started on that stupid calculator thing…I’ll be ranting for some time) but I was glad to finally get hold of some cash, jump in another taxi (only £5 here, for about the same distance as in Auckland!) and I was glad to see Graham and Kelly smiling as I reached the reception. I was definitely in need of a beer – and to ditch some of my layers from the cold of New Zealand. It was nice to be digging around in my bag for the shorts rather than a scarf again!

With Kelly and Graham again, after arriving in Fiji

We walked along the beach and had dinner at a nearby restaurant, being entertained by Fijian dance and watching one of the best fire shows I have seen on my travels. They were a great bunch of performers, and we all ended up taking part in the show towards the end, complete with some wacky dancing from Graham.

Kava time…

Graham and I went for a couple of beers at a nearby backpackers, where we were handed a special drink. Its called Kava, a Fijian speciality, drunk from a hollowed out coconut shell in a social setting with everyone sitting around a big bowl of the stuff.

About as appealing as a glass of water from the Humber

Its is actually made from the ground up roots of a plant on the islands. It looks like pond water, smells like pond water, and strangely enough, actually tastes like pond water. So why does everyone drink it here?

Down in one

A few seconds after being cajoled into downing an entire shell full in one, I began to find out why. My tongue and lips began to feel tingly, before getting that weird numbed feeling, rather like when the anaesthetic is wearing off after having a filling at the dentist. Consumed in large amounts – as the Fijians do – it has the same effect on much of the body.

Struggling to control the gag reflex!

I stuck with just two shellfulls, the second time coming close to vomiting the entire lot over the people kneeling and sitting in front of me, which probably wouldn’t have been the best way to make new friends. Graham, too, had a try of the brown Fiji wonder water. He wasn’t a fan either. And come 5pm the following day, when I still had a peculiar headache, I was becoming even less of a fan.

Graham tries the local loopy juice

There was one benefit of being at the Bamboo Backpackers drinking muddy water though – I got talking to one of the staff, who told me about some of my options for the islands. Graham was tempting me to join him at 7am for a trip with Kelly to Beachcomber Island, a place that is apparently like paradise, although from what I have heard, is also home to all-night partying. For now, i’m done with partying, and there’s a big part of me, now I am here, looking for a bit of an adventure. With the beaches around Nadi being just ok, the one bit of advice everyone gives you and agrees on is to get away from the airport area as soon as you can. So I have to go somewhere.

The beach at Nadi

While beaches are blissful and relaxing, they don’t give you much to write home about. But then to go island hopping, and see the country, costs a fortune, and funds are low. There is one place I know of though that might just solve all of my problems. The only problem is, its off the beaten track and will take a mammoth journey to get to – but then, I will probably only ever have one chance in my life to reach it.

I’ve got a night to sleep on the decision, but its a decision that really could  take me to the far side of the world.

Like what you’ve seen and read about New Zealand? Visit the official website at www.newzealand.com

And if you’ve loved the Magic Bus journey, find out more at www.magicbus.co.nz