road trip USA

Put your hands across the water...

... and meet our US cousins. I've mentioned previously that I believe that the USA does welcome and courtesy very well, and better than we do in the UK. This seems to be contrary to public perception in Britain, where a lot of Brits seem to believe that the stereotypical American is loud and brash. I find that, overwhelmingly, most Americans seem to have good manners. Where's your evidence, I hear a few readers ask? Simply this: in three weeks, every interaction I have experienced with Americans - bar one - has been outstandingly courteous, warm, and welcoming. The one exception was a 20ish shop counter clerk who continued his gangster rap discussion at full volume across the shop with his hip-hop-hoodied buddy whilst holding out his hand for my credit card. I considered (briefly) drawing attention to this lapse in his national standards, but decided against it. After all, I might have got myself shot -this is the USA, after all - and I'll get to gun control tomorrow.

Tonight I encounter an outstanding example of courtesy. On check in at the Ramada, there is a "happy hour" when the motel management very decently lays on some wine, beer, soft drinks and nibbles for their new guests, who gather in the lobby and natter. It's no big deal, and I turn up late-ish after a long drive. (I'll mention time zones in another blog!) Three groups of guests are already well established, and rather than butt in, I take my glass of wine and pretzels to a chair and soak up the atmosphere. An attractively gurgling and smiling baby catches my attention, and he makes irresistable eye contact and beams infectiously at me. It's impossible not to smile back. The parents are involved in a discussion about fishing (I think) with another guest. I'm a bit dopey after hours of driving, and just enjoy relaxing and of course it's fun to see a baby enjoying himself.

WIthin a few minutes, McKenna, the baby's mother, picks him out of his buggy, brings him over to my table and introduces 6 month old Baby Dane to me. Earlier in the day, I had avoided taking a photo including school children because our British climate of paranoia about adult interaction with children is making us - including me - fearful of making any sort of contact with the children of others. Yet here is a mother doing the most natural thing - proudly introducing her baby to a complete stranger (a foreigner to boot) and striking up a conversation with him. McKenna is on the road from Colorado Springs with her husband Scott, who is a pipework installer at an energy plant in the vicinity. I mention to her how Mrs Tripper and the Little Nippers used to accompany me on business in Kenya, and how rewarding those travel experiences were. She is somewhat wistful about this, as she yearns to travel, but has never been outside the USA - although she has travelled widely within the States. I encourage her to believe that her travel dream CAN materialise - I did not get onto a plane until I was 27, and have now visited over 30 countries.

So: if you read this, McKenna: you've got a lovely baby, thanks for taking the trouble to introduce yourself to a visitor from England: and don't give up on your dream to travel.

Missouri

Having extricated myself from St Louis, I head west again, in search of a bed for the night. It's STILL raining, and the soil in the fields is glistening and dark - almost black. Another reminder of Kenya, which has its rich black-cotton soil. (Talking to Bill, a native, I discover that the locals pronounce this Missour-a, not Missour-i. I mention to Bill that we pronounce my home county as Bark-shire, desite it being spelt Berk-shire. He counters by mentioning their own New MAD-rid (you and I might call it New Ma-DRID.)

Somewhat behind my self-imposed schedule, I encounter the quaint little Germanic town of Hermann. There is a hoarding outside the town that invites travellers to visit the Hermann Motel, and proudly boasts its wifi facility. I present my credentials - as a member of AARP I receive a discount - and ask in passing if the wifi is operational.

Sue tells me that wifi is not working in the block of smaller rooms, and she graciously upgrades me without charge to a larger room in the other block. Well: I really like this place. The room is huge - so huge, in fact that I pace it out - and discover it is 21' x 15'. It's a bit spartan, and some of the fittings are showing their age - eg the bathtub - but overall, it is very clean, smartly presented, and very comfortable with 2 king beds to choose from. I notice in passing the neat historic cemetery beyond the motel , but it's dusk, it's raining still, and instead of a reccie of the historic graveyard, I settle instead for Lyndee's, the Mom and Pop diner/restaurant on the corner that Sue has recommended.

Ribs 'n' Kraut

Brenda, the charming waitress, invites me to choose. It's not far from closing time, but she is very willing to spend time helping me order. Under her guidance, I opt for the Ribs and Kraut (well, I did say the town is Germanic!) She recommends the german potato salad rather than the mash, and takes the trouble to find out which beers are in stock. (Being 30 yards from my motel door, I feel I can indulge myself in a beer.) My accent attracts attention (apparently my voice is lovely) and I reciprocate by asking where she hails from.

With only modest coaching, she sits down with me and gives me a condensed life story. Although she does hail from Missour-a originally, she moved to Cope (R36, exit 405) in Colorado where she owned and ran a restaurant, and (I think) a bar. She talks wistfully of her time there, and her eyes mist over as she mentions her White Picket Fence. (Americans have a thing about White Picket Fences, along with motherhood and apple pie.)

Something happened to terminate this dream, and I don't want to pry into what might be a difficult area. Anyways, she moved back to Hermann when a friend asked her to help out with dealing with the house of a recently deceased friend, and she has stayed ever since. Says she is really happy working at Lyndee's, and if she waits tables there for the rest of her life, that will be just fine. Being a slow eater, and late to start, I do of course run over their closing time substantially, but there is no pressure, and they even stay behind so I can dash back to the motel, put my batteries back in the camera (they were charging) and capture the diner on film.

I settle down for the evening satisfyingly replete - with food, with relief at finding my way out of St Louis, and with further evidence of a warm welcome to visitors.

Missour-a: it's beautiful countryside...

Next morning it's wet again, and I'm beginning to feel that, like Tina, I Just can't stand the rain. After a hasty photocall whilst trying to keep the camera dry, I inadvertently head north and make an abortive trip across the Mississippi (it's so wide that I have time to reconsider my orientation whilst crossing) before relenting, pulling out the Aztecs Survival Kit Compass, and heading west. The radio stations are all playing Mothers Day songs (just how many of them can there be?!) This prompts me to think that I really ought to send one to Mother in England (even though we had apparently already celebrated this marvellous example of non-commercial festivity in March).

California, California...

Having just passed through a small community called California (still 1500 miles from The Other California) on the way through Syracuse I spot a Post Office proudly flying its flag, and this gives me the chance to meet Harold at the Gift Depot next door, where there are cards, and he gives me a precis of the history of the town. He writes for the local newspaper, which he thrusts into my hand so that I can read later, and it is only after I've left that I realise I've walked out without paying for the 50c publication. My apologies, Harold.

The Post Master
I step next door for guidance on posting, and Theresa the very helpful Post Master explains what is needed. She also answers a question that I have been pondering for some time: what area does a US Zip code cover? I ask because my own Postcode covers only about 5 houses in a 200 yard stretch. Theresa confirms that the US zipcode relates to the post office where the post is sorted for that address.

Apparently the US postal service has equipment that reads the postcode, reads the first line of address (ie hopefully the house number) generates a barcode, and then handles it automatically. Theresa spends time with me, generously stamps up a local card for me with her official postmark, and sorts out the mail for N.Carolina and England, and all for the princely sum of about $3. I mention that I've heard of Syracuse before, and Thereas laughs - probably the University in New York she says. (I find myself in another Syracuse, in Kansas, a few days later. I'll return to the subject of town names!)

Have I provided sufficient evidence of overwhelming courtesy to prove my case, do you think?

Independence

I'm still in Missour-a ( just) as this is a suburb just to the East of Kansas City, which straddles the state line between Missouri and Kansas - and it's still raining.

The check-in clerk at the ironically named Red Roof Inn (ironic because it has a blue tarpaulin over the roof) admires my accent, and on establishing that I am from Bark-shire, proudly announces that his 44th great-grandfather was William the Conqueror. He has his geneology chart in his car to prove it, and takes me through it in some detail that evening. (It's OK, I wasn't hungry anyway, and my mission is to get to know local folk...)

Independence is most famous as the late President Harry S Truman's private home where he lived with his wife Bess until his death. It is a remarkably unspoilt and homely neighbourhood, and indeed on a damp Saturday morning, I am the only visitor to the area.

Perhaps in due course, we English will be blessed with the Gordon Brown home?

Oh, and by the way - with reference to the heading of this page, I have had 6 days of virtually consecutive rainfall, with just the odd break - does that deserve the title Monsoon?

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