The Great American Diner

USA, Day two. I was excited. And hungry. Time to find the Great American Diner.

This was one of the quintessential American experiences I’d been looking forward to - part of the good ol’ America eulogised in films and modern literature. The authentic America, unique and untouched by modern chains and their homogenising tendency.

Influenced by a hundred movies, books and magazines I had a vision in my head of what my ultimate diner would be: a fifties-style restaurant, intimate and noisy, crammed with ravenous customers, the back-to-back tables lined up along windows lit up by neon signs.

Smiling waitresses would patrol the black-and-white tiled floor, chewing bubblegum and offering endless coffee refills, whilst behind them on the red vinyl-topped seats along the chrome-fronted counter locals would plop themselves for sustenance: a lardy trucker scoffing down scones and gravy; a gaggle of peanut-butter kids slurping noisily on milkshakes, perhaps even a harassed-looking cop stopping by for a gallon of coffee.

The jukebox would be on, pumping out Elvis and Jerry Lee and out in the car park a gang of brylcreemed bikers would pull up on their Harleys…

My stomach rumbled and I came back to New Orleans.

My mouth was salivating like Pavolov's dog by now and I approached the reception in our hotel and asked the friendly chap behind the counter if he could recommend anywhere good to eat.

“How about I send you to MacDonalds?”, he replied. Without a hint of irony.

Stunned and starving we wandered through the soulless streets of the Central Business District, resolving to enter into the first diner-looking place we came across. Shortly one came up ahead - ‘Krystal’ - surely it would be ok.

We couldn’t have been further from the truth.

From behind the counter stony-faced staff stared fiercely back at us, clearly loathing both their job and their unfortunate patrons.

We munched on rubbery chicken nuggets and starchy chips, observing the schizophrenic woman nearby who was jabbering away to herself about the swingers club which is apparently opening opposite.

Looking up at the wall I was amazed to discover that this emporium of misery was not alone but indeed one of chain, each one offering an identical experience. Synthetic. Plastic. Soul-destroying.

Time to start again. America can’t all be like this, there must be my diner out there!

I resolved there and then to scour this land in search of it, my mission to hunt down and devour the finest food they could offer in a bid to create my own hit parade of American diners.

Tom’s top ten American diners

1) Louis’s café, Baton Rouge, Louisiana

In a scruffy part of town, some way out from downtown lies this gem of a diner. It was everything I hoped for and more - the good old American diner in all its glory.

There were red leather and chrome stools lined up along the counter, just as they should be. Behind it a couple of two cooks busied themselves over steaming pans behind and a large flat hotplate piled high with streaming hash browns.

One of them, a dozy fellow in a Mickey Mouse hat threw more onions on, muttering to me ‘only a few months and I’ll be getting’ me a proper jawb’ while his colleague - a gruff old timer with a deep cajun drawl - hurried frantically between pans to keep up with the orders. He wore a Louis’s café t-shirt, the owners face staring out from behind the grease, along with the slogan ‘Warrior. Statesman. Frycook.’

Black and white checkered tiles covered the floor, where back-to-back benches were arranged against the windows, above them hung neon signs for American beers and the café’s sign, reflecting in the puddles of water gathered on the swampy ground outside .

Back inside a skinny young waitress with large hoop earrings took our order. A Chicken breast sandwich with crispy bacon, salad, three cheeses and chicken, served on a po-boy (grilled French baguette) with hash browns (chunks of potato fried with spring onions).

I washed it down with tea and copious free refills and admired the scene all around me: lively, happy, families, swathed in beads, heading home after Mardi Gras parades.

I’d had hit the jackpot first time! Could anywhere else better this?

2) Mama Hamil’s Southern Cooking, Jackson, Mississippi

Welcomes don’t come any warmer than those at Mama Hamil’s. Perhaps it was because we were foreign and they all wanted to dig our accents but then everyone else seemed to leave with a smile as well.

It must have been the food. This is southern hospitality at its finest: the best ‘country cooking’ and the best service around.

We were enthusiastically greeted and introduced to the head chef, the entire staff seemed to come and introduce themselves before a place was reverently cleared for the matriarch herself.

Mama Hamil was the deep south personified - god-fearing, polite and hugely hospitable - and beside herself that she had customers ‘all the way from ingerland’. Her voice was wonderful and sing-song in that Mississippi manner and she regailed us with stories from the area and her own trip to London.

We tucked into a buffet that’d vanquished an army of Mongols. There was a a huge spread of vegetables and meats, all of which the staff insisted we tried.

I munched my way through fried okra, butter beans, black-eyed peas, boiled sweet potato, turnip greens, sweet corn, rutabaga, BBQ ribs, pork hunks and meatloaf. Then, as my stomach started to protest I was steered towards the puddings - well it would be rude to refuse. So I tried just three: banana pudding, bread pudding and peach cobbler, all sweet and delicious.

Finally, feeling like Mr Creosote , the grotesque Monty Python character who little explodes from overeating I had to refuse kind’s Mama’s offer of ‘just another piece of pie’ and call it a day. We bid our farewells and left with big smiles and a complimentary bottle of Mama’s special BBQ sauce.

3) Arcade restaurant, South Main St, Memphis, Tennessee

This famous old diner has been going for some time and over the years has become a much-loved institution.

It stands at the southern end of Main Street, an area which was once buzzing back in the sixties, before falling victim to the inner-city decay which characterised Memphis in the seventies.

Now with the regeneration of the area and situated just around the corner from the Civil Rights Museum the Arcade is starting swinging once more as people come back to the area.

It’s popular with locals and tourists alike and we joined the queue waiting for a table as our trolley driver stopped by at the counter for coffee.

Elvis used to be a regular here back in the day and the place has featured in a plethora of movies including ‘Walk the Line’; ‘Mystery Train’; ‘Great Balls of Fire’; ‘21 Grams’ and ‘The Firm.’

It still retains much of its fifties-style ambience whilst the décor also hints at the owner’s Greek background, with photos of busy moustached chaps on the wall and a light Mediterranean feel.

The chow was certainly marvellous and I highly recommend the ‘Number One Breakfast’, a veritable feast featuring biscuits (scones), gravy (not the British version: a thick, creamy white sauce), bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, hash browns.

Plus they brewed the finest cuppa I found in the country - worth travelling some distance for.

4) Mickey’s Diner, St Paul, Minnesota

Mickey’s is one of the few old dining cars still running. Founded in 1939 it’s on the National Register of Historic Places and the big corporations have found themselves having to build around it.

It stands there defiantly, a cream and red cabin anomalous amongst the tall sleek modern buildings, holding out against the tide of sameness that seems to sweep all before it.

Inside Mickey’s is small and cosy, with little elbow room between you and your fellow diners within its narrow confines. Customers squeezed up along the counter while we squashed around a small table, fiddling with the mini-jukebox which each table boosted though none seemed to work.

It seemed overwhelmingly popular - with a queue of waiting customers patiently stood against wall - and has played host to the famous, from featuring in Easy Rider, to feeding the Beach Boys, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Meryl Streep.

The gruff though humorous waitress baffled me with range of egg options that only an American can offer and soon I was tucking into a delicious feast described as an ‘All American breakfast’: two sausages (round slices), two eggs and potatoes O’Brien (an an enormous pile of hash brown potatoes, onions and green peppers).

We left, making room for some long-suffering people in the queue. Well worth the wait.

5) City Café Diner, Chattanooga, Tennessee

Open 24 hours, Chattanoogans are lucky to have this place, located right in the heart of downtown. It’s one of those serendipitous places that you only chance across by accident or - in our case - on the recommendation of a cabbie.

Outside the frontage is draped in star and stripes, inside it’s the full works. Jukebox pumping out rock music, neon lights, busy kitchen, happy customers and, somewhat strangely, purple seat covers.

The attentive waitress kept the drinks flowing as we poured over the large menu. Seeing I was hungry she helpfully suggested the ‘Hobo’s Banquet’.

A fine choice: homemade fries with American cheese melted on top, fried eggs piled on top of that, and top off with gravy (of the American, white sauce, variety). Biscuits (scones) accompanied this, along with a side of Canadian bacon, just for good measure.

A very welcome place for this little hobo.

6) Lou Mitchell’s restaurant, Chicago, Illinois

Another place which seems to be a bit of a local institution. It’s certainly got a venerable history, being founded back in 1923.

Situated just around the corner from Union Station, on a busy avenue, it proudly its status with large flashing signs.

It’s a larger, busy affair inside, tables and chairs, with a few set around several mini-serving counters. We opted for the latter amongst the coffee-and-a-paper locals.

Customers are welcomed at the door and each given a doughnut hole. Ladies and kids also get a mini box of Hershey’s duds. Nice touch.

My fry-up came served in a skillet (saucepan) - it was more presentable than it sounds and the sausage and eggs slipped down a treat.

Not as filling as I’d hoped though for that price. Perhaps it’s the cost of the ingredients, most of which seem to be organic. Organic diners - whatever next?

7) Leo’s Diner, Cambridge, Massachusetts

A modest little place which belies its grand surroundings, situated as it is just off the Harvard campus.

Leo’s is a decent little place for lunch, albeit one where many people seem to call in for takeout rather than linger.

Inside it’s all sit-up stools and yellow vinyl counters, pictures of famous patrons plastered all over the wall, from the rubber-faced Rolling Stones and Carlos Valderrama, the Colombian footballer with the electric shock hair, to local boys Ben Affleck and Matt Damon.

A busy little moustachioed man in a beret beavered away quietly and efficiently behind the counter, calling us up to the counter to collect our food. No bubble-gum chewing waitress here.

There was something else missing as well: noise. This was a curiously quiet diner, perhaps the studious atmosphere over the road has rubbed off it - I spotted at least two Harvard students in earnest discussion over their fry-up.

As for the food? Well it was worth the weight, with a generous thick omelette stuffed with bacon and broccoli, complemented nicely by thick fries and buttered toast.

Leo’s - a greasy spoon to oil that large brain of yours.

8) Comfort Diner, New York City, Manhattan, New York

Situated on East 45th Street this place is in a great location for refuelling after burning the credit card on Fifth Avenue. It’s in the heart of Manhattan - Grand Central, the Chrysler Building and the UN are all nearby.

Inside it looked like an upmarket Burger King: booths and tables and stools around the serving counter. The jukebox played a fine selection of Motown and Rock & Roll hits; the staff seemed, not unusually for the US, all Mexican.

The menu also offered a slightly classier (and pricier) selection than the average diner.

The general ambience seemed to suffer from lack of natural lighting giving the place a slightly cramped feel. This was Manhattan after all.

We took a booth near the door and ordered the buffalo burgers. They proved to be mighty filling, coming in a toasted bap with salad, coleslaw and sweet potato fries. Look out for their own mustard too, a mild yet tasty concoction, coming in their own labelled jars.

A cosy, albeit slightly sterile, place to come on a cold, wet day.

9) Miss Syracuse Diner, Syracuse, New York

Another dining cabin and one surely not known to the outside world. Downtown seemed empty, almost abandoned as we made our way here on a cold, wet Sunday morning. Perhaps that’s why it was so quiet.

And perhaps that’s why it felt more homely and hospitable. The staff seemed on first-name terms with many of the customers who were clearly regulars.

Small but perfectly formed inside, the cabin was filled by booths along the window, a couple of small tables in the corner and a kitchen out back, watched over by a gangly youth.

The local radio station garbled away as the overly-attentive waitress took our order and kept returning every couple of minutes to apologise for the ‘delay‘.

It was worth the wait and soon I was digging into links (sausages), fries (cubed potatoes) and onions, two eggs (over easy) plus toast, tea and juice.

The real American deal, Syracuse-style.

10) The Filling Station Café, Bryson City, North Carolina

Not a diner by any stretch of the imagination but still worth squeezing in due to its distinct character and great service.

The owner turned out to be a New Yorker, a ’half back’(i.e: he’d moved to Florida only to soon get disillusioned with the place, move again and end up half-way home, here in North Carolina).

He turned out to have an interesting story and proceeded to tell us it as he shouted our orders to his staff.

We’d gone through the motoring-themed menu chalked up on the wall - ‘Dipstick’, ‘Timing belt’, ‘Filler Up’ - etc before settling on the Cuban, a mighty sarnie I’d heard about back in the bar across the way (I’d be given specific instructions on how to order it).

Anyway it was brimming with meat, cheese and salad and certainly delicious. Well worth a little detour - you never know you might get a free chocolate cookie…

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Guns, beerlube and Jesus: Roadside adverts

Something’s got to relieve the pain of travelling by Greyhound in the US - for me it was the roadside advertisements.

There was a multitude of great advertisements which helped me to pass the time, making me gasp, chuckle or even howl out in amazement.

These massive great hoardings dominate the interstate landscape, interrupting your view and towering over chain motels, fast food outlets and anything else that has the misfortune to be backed up against these great highways.

Like so much in the States anything goes and - if you’ve got the money - it seems you can hire these hoardings; securing your own personal patch on which to try and flog your wares to the captive motorist.

The following few should give a flavour of what‘s out there…

“Nobody’s perfect - that’s why you need plastic surgery” - Texas

“We sue lawyers.” - Texas

“What can I build for you?” - Texas

“Get the trucking job you deserve” - Texas

“18 wheeler wreck? 1-800 Lawsuit” - Texas

“Cowboy. Your all -American dealer” - Texas

‘www.myhurricaneikeclaim.com. 888-IKE-CLAIM-4U’ - Louisiana

‘Experiencing Jesus Again’ - Louisiana

‘Give us your gun and we’ll give you $1,000’ - New Orleans, Louisiana

‘Our business stinks, but it’s picking up’ - rubbish truck, New Orleans, Louisiana

‘Get your hunting and fishing licence today. Call 1-800-GOHUNT’ - Mississippi

‘Tennessee - where Elvis lives’ - Tennessee

‘Abstinence works’ (Sponsored by the Girl Scouts) - Tennessee

“You can have Jesus forever. Call 1-800-NEEDHIM’ - North Carolina

“Hell is truth seen to late [sic]” - Church sign, North Carolina

‘Naughty adult shop - home of the famous beer lube’ - truck/shop, Wisconsin

“Depression can be dangerous. See your doctor” - Minnesota

“Been rear-ended?” - Minnesota

“Abortion is a death in the family” - Minnesota

“Congress has gone to hell” - Minnesota

‘Prison area - do not pick up hitchhikers’ - Michigan

‘We’re happy to sell to gunmen and terrorists’ - Boston, Massachusetts

‘Coming soon - Spring, and Jesus’ - New York State

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How to…travel by public transport around the USA

The USA is an enormous country where the car is king. Travelling around by public transport is not the norm and even most guidebooks assume you are driving everywhere. Gathering information about public transport has been time consuming, so to save you the hassle here‘s what we found out.

Buses
It is possible to get around most of the US on the bus, although in comparison to Mexico the bus system is far behind. Greyhound has elicited groans for years, and yes it is grim, but thankfully some better buses, such as Megabus, are starting to challenge their stranglehold.

If you’re first in the queue for the bright blue double-decker Megabus you can secure a table and four chairs in front of a video screen, and if you’re lucky they will be playing films. The seats are comfy with leg room and the onboard toilet is useable. Despite the better quality the prices are often cheaper than Greyhound. We met a woman who had bought a return from Chicago to Detroit (a five and a half hour journey) for $2.50. Buy in advance and you can get a real bargain. They keep their prices low by offering a no-frills service; you can only buy tickets on-line (you get a reservation code that you show upon boarding), you have to put your bags in the hold yourself and they have no bus stations (only bus stops by the side of the road). The only disadvantages that we found are that the service only serves the north/northeast of the country and if the weather is bad you have to wait for the bus in the rain.

The Megabus drivers are great entertainment, each seemingly running their bus in the manner they seem fit. Our Chicago to Minneapolis driver made the rules of the journey clear to its mainly springbreak passengers,
“No chewing gum loudly - no smacking or cracking. Gentlemen please raise the toilet seat and put it down again. Don’t play music loudly - that’s what headphones are for.”

On the other hand Durrl (spelt Darryl on his name badge), our Minneapolis to Chicago driver, was a one man entertainment machine. He was playing his personal collection of DVDs (“I thought the kids might like Iron Man”) and was genuinely sorry when the DVD kept skipping over the rutted roads of the Mid-West. He grinned back over his shoulder, while battling to keep the bus upright in strong winds and rain, until he got the thumbs up from us that the volume was fine. As Blades of Glory skipped itself to the end Darryl changed tack and got on the PA system,
“Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time ever in Megabus history this is your chance to come down to the front and make an announcement over the microphone. Come on down!” No-one budged so Darryl continued,
“We got a beautiful girl upstairs on her way to become America’s Next Top Model and we got some world travellers sitting here right behind me on the lower deck.” A shout-out on the Megabus - it doesn’t get much classier than that! And on he whittered congratulating people for the size of their phone or the food they were eating until finally some passengers came down the stairs and grabbed the mike,
“I’d like to say thank you to the driver for getting us here safely and to say happy birthday to my nieces for Thursday.” A round of applause. Durrl liked that and came back with an Eddie Murphy style,
“O, o, oooh! We’re gliding like Egyptian silk!” This man clearly enjoys his job and made the eight hour bus journey so much shorter. Public transport has never been such fun.

There are, apparently, a few bus companies travelling between one city’s Chinatown to the next (various websites, just google ‘Chinabus‘), but again only serves the northeast at present. The buses are, apparently, of about the same standard as the Greyhound, but are cheaper. Boston bus station has a particularly good array of bus companies serving different destinations.

When all else fails there is the Greyhound. It does connect to most cities in the US and is often cheaper than taking the train. We didn’t find it a dangerous experience, just a depressing one, with some of the worst customer service we’ve encountered on our trip. However, it works and we used it extensively between Texas and Ohio. Check for deals online and, if you can, book ahead because when you book more than three days in advance your travel partner gets a half-price ticket. You need to arrive at the Greyhound station an hour before departure to pick-up tickets (you just get a reservation code online) or to purchase tickets. They never seem to sell out, and if a bus is full they just put on another one for the same journey.

When you’ve bought your ticket put your bags in the queue by the departure gate - you want to be one of the first on the bus so you can pick good seats (we prefer near the front and as far away from smelly people as possible). You and your hand luggage may be subject to an airport style security check and frisk, as was the case in Memphis, so keep penknives, scissors, nail files etc. in your backpack for the hold and not in your hand luggage. Greyhound buses are fairly standard coaches but lack the comfort and movies of the Mexican buses, so take your own entertainment.

Both the Megabus and the Greyhound stop every few hours for a loo and food break. Greyhound seems to have a close relationship with fastfood chains, whereas the Megabus usually stops at a service centre where you can make your own choice.

Trains
Travelling by train is definitely our preferred method of public transport in the US. The seats are comfy with plenty of legroom, there are plug sockets so you can work on your laptop, there’s a dining car and the toilets are acceptable. They are better than British trains in terms of comfort, although delays are also not unusual.

The view from the train is often much better than the soulless, corporate chain lined interstates that the buses favour. The train can take you through farmland and forests and alongside rivers and lakes.

Amtrak runs the trains in the States. You can buy tickets on line or at the station, with online sales offering the best deals. There are weekly ‘hot deals’ and if you are planning to travel extensively during a two or three week period, a rail pass could be a good option.

Turn up 30 minutes to an hour early to collect your tickets (if purchased online) and wait to be directed, or sometimes escorted, to the train. The waiting areas in the stations are generally more comfortable than those for buses.

The only drawbacks for us have been that Amtrak does not operate services across the whole country and only in the northeast does the service seem to be frequent.

Travelling around the States on public transport is perfectly possible, provides a great insight into parts of America you might not otherwise encounter and can even be great fun. If only there was a Durrl on every train and bus!







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Welcome to Canada, from Tim Horton

“Who is Tim Horton?” I asked the immigration official at the Detroit-Windsor border.

I’d never heard of the chap and yet, within a minute of arriving in Canada I was being shepherded towards him by a pleasant young lady with a maple leaf on her uniform.


We’d just stepped off the ‘tunnel bus’, a vehicle which carried us under the Detroit River and across the US-Canada border.

It was only going to be the briefest of encounters with Canada (heading as we were to see friends in Ontario) but time enough, we hoped, to notice and appreciate some of the differences which Canadians seem so quick to stress between their homeland and the US.

Every Canadian we have met during our travels so far has seem anxious to put considerable distance between themselves and their cousins to the south. Without fail every item of baggage they carry seemed to be clearly emblazoned with the maple leaf flag.

I guess it for the benefit for ignorant non-North Americans like myself. Canadian and American, I’d struggled to tell them apart, the only clue being the accent which usually I didn’t pick up on. They spoke the same language, drove the same cars, ate the same food, indeed they seemed so inextricably entwined, did the differences Canadians friends had stressed to me really start with a simple hop over the border?

It started promisingly. There was none of the stony-faced procedures and paranoia in crossing the border here. Just patient smiles, efficient service and an explanation that Mr Horton was a popular purveyor of coffee beans and bagels.

We left the building and entered the bright sunshine enveloping Windsor, Ontario. Windsor…it seemed to ring a bell. Wasn’t it familiar?

I bought sandwiches from Tim Horton’s and glanced at the new currently. There was a imperious looking-lady stamped on the five dollar bill and her regal visage also gazed out from the dollar ‘loon’. Hadn’t I see her before?

Outside the Maple Leaf flag fluttered in the breeze, alongside the flag of Ontario. Something stared back at me from a corner of the latter’s design: diagonal crosses of red, white and blue.

It was coming to me now. Britain! That funny old place where I used to live. The Queen! The Union Jack! Had I taken a wrong turn somewhere?

It became more confusing as we caught our ride and headed north. We passed Charing Cross Road, another city called London, Aldershot, Chatham-Kent and Tilbury. There was Essex county, Middlesex and even Oxford.

I spotted a sign to Leamington ‘ Tomato-growing capital of Ontario’ and another for ‘Dorchester-on-Thames Golf Club’.

This was getting too much. Way back in the olden days, when the British arrived to nick yet another large chunk of land that wasn’t theirs couldn’t they have at least displayed more imagination?

Fancy coming all this way, braving storms and harsh elements, hostile locals and moose attacks, and then naming an their exciting new discovery after a nondescript town in the commuter belt.

I was still wondering about this when we passed yet another Tim Horton’s. That makes it at least fifteen by now in under two hours. These Canadians must really love their coffee.

Just who was this Tim Horton fellow? It sounded rather nondescript a name for a coffee empire magnate, perhaps more like the scrawny kid whom fellow pupils would try to set on fire with a bunsen burner during chemistry lessons.

I soon found out that he was a former hockey player, a sport which I am reliably informed in Canada rivals the world’s major religions.

This helped to explain the other names which weren’t derived from a leafy Surrey suburb. Wayne Gretzky Parkway for instance.

Though many of the names were familiar, the locals had an odd way of pronouncing them. The broad accents of Chicago and Detroit were now well behind us and we found ourselves adjusting our lugholes to a decidedly Scottish-inflected manner of pronunciation, with plenty of ‘oots’, ‘aboots’ bouncing around, coupled with the uniquely Canadian mannerism of adding an ’eh’ at the end of every sentence.

The night closed in and I endeavoured to keep myself awake. It had been twelve hours since we’d left Chicago.

“What are you planning to do tonight”, I asked our ride.

“I dunno. Probably drink beer and throw axes in the back yard.”

Half an hour passed and the Niagara Escarpment rose up before us and soon we were in the streets of Hamilton, home of our friends Doug and Linda, and part of the large urban sprawl (fondly referred to by locals as the ‘golden horseshoe’) stretching around the south-western edges of Lake Ontario up to Toronto.

The next morning we ventured down to the lake itself, one of the five famous ‘Great Lakes’. Across the waters steam rose from one of the large steel mills on which the city’s economy is based. Another stood inactive, work recently stopped as the demand for steel plummeted. Down in Detroit they are not building as many cars as usual.

We headed up Queen Elizabeth Way and into Toronto (or ‘Tron-oh’ as the locals seem to call it). We ate a curry and watched Critical Mass cycling past HMV, Lush and the Black Bull pub.

It could have been London. We had to try something different, something which we wouldn‘t find back home, something local, something Canadian.

“How about wine tasting”, Linda suggested.

Canadian wine. I learn something every day.

Soon we were passing between vineyards, the bright sun blazing down on the cold earth, before pulling up at a smart modern building, all crisp stark lines.

The company Prius stood in a reserved spot out front, smooth jazz played inside. Slender men in designer glasses and tight black tops moved with suitable sang-froid amidst the minimalist décor, polishing glasses and laying out breadsticks. Tim Horton’s this was not.

We were impressed by the sustainable features of the building and soon umming and ahhing over the tasting notes: their wines were ’not the least austere’, offered ‘great fruit parity’ and came ‘buttressed by beautiful acid’.

Oz Clarkeisms aside they did offer something I’d never encountered before: ‘ice wine’. This local speciality involves picking ripe grapes when frozen, yielding less water, the same amount of sugar and a more highly-concentrated juice. The result: a much sweeter wine, which comes in smaller bottles.

Suitably tanked up we headed for the town of Niagara-on-the-Lake, just down the road from the famous falls themselves. Amongst the fine nineteenth century buildings stood the Prince of Wales Hotel, The Angel Inn, the Royal George Theatre…(and no Tim Horton‘s). Oh dear: it was all getting too British again.

I couldn‘t help but be drawn to a shop called ‘Taste of Britain.’

Welsh tea towels, DVDs of The Vicar of Dibley, Midsomer Murders and Only Fools and Horses, and a collection of foodstuffs that wouldn’t disgrace our village shop back home. There was Marmite and Typhoo, Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut and Bisto granules, Branston pickle and Lyle’s Golden Syrup, Yorkshire tea…

Yorkshire tea! A week ago I wouldn’t have been able to control myself, my body yearning for a decent brew. Yet now , staring down the barrel of our impending return to Blighty my enthusiasm was somewhat dampened.

Lara, on the other hand was dancing with delight, nostalgia and excitement sweeping her up into a giddy dance on the spot: “They’ve got salt and vinegar crisps! Ooooh!” she squealed as I dragged her outside.

Back in the street my nose sensed the heady waft of bacon sandwiches, my ears picked up the sound of clinking china and from somewhere, I could swear, drifted the solemn tones of a Radio Four announcer.

Was this Canada or the Cotswolds?

It was all too much, too soon: we had to get back to the US.

It wasn’t far - over the river in fact. Just turn left at the falls.

Ten minutes up the road the magnificent Niagara Falls thundered in a roar of mist and spray. Large chunks of ice still clung to the sides whilst on the Canadian side the skyline was pitted by a strange assortment of ugly towers.

There was the usual range of ‘amusements’ somehow deemed essential complements to a natural attraction in North America: Guinness World of Records, Hard Rock Café and of course a sprinkling of casinos.

We shivered before the huge horseshoe falls, marvelled at the sheer volume of water plunging over the ledge and our friend Doug was robbed by a fortune-telling Gypsy (ok it was a plastic one in a machine but one that the Daily Express would surely wind itself up about nevertheless).

It was time to leave. We headed for the rainbow (bridge, that is, not the one hanging down below in the mist) and the joyous queue at the US border. Linda was nervous: she loathes crossing into the US.

“I could do with a cuppa before going there”, she said “Shall we go to Tim Horton’s?”










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World in Slow Motion - Best Travelogue 2009

We won!! After two months of nominations, voting and judging panels, those lovely folks at Lonely Planet have declared World in Slow Motion the winners of the Best Travelogue Award.

Many thanks to all of you who gave us your support and votes.

For those of you interested in the technicalities, we came second in the public vote (with a whopping 1,189 votes - more than the winner in some categories), scoring 7/10 points, and first in the judges decision, scoring 10/10 points, giving us a grand total of 17/20 points. Click here to see the final scores and winners in other categories.

We're so pleased that people out there like this blog and are dead chuffed for our work to be recognised; it makes for a nice ending to our trip.

There are just three weeks until we're back in the land of tea and crumpets. But before then there are plenty more stories to tell...

Thanks again.
Lara and Tom



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Back in Minnesota

After nearly nine months on the road, coming back to Minneapolis, where I lived from 2002-2003, is the closest that I have come to feeling at home for quite some time. It is also a gentle reminder that our homecoming is just around the corner.

With less than a month remaining, the end of our trip is in sight. Our sailing date from Philadelphia to Antwerp has been brought forward by nine days so we have had to change our itinerary and prepare ourselves for our return. Over the past few weeks Mission Mississippi has taken us from the deep south to the extreme north of the United States, from the mouth of the Mississippi in New Orleans to its source in Lake Itasca; from crazy Mardi Gras parties to the frozen wilderness of northern Minnesota and everything in between. For me, Minnesota is the beginning of the end, time to start preparing myself for the ‘real world'.

Minnesota has an extreme climate which reflects on people’s personalities. It fluctuates between -20 and +40 ° C between the seasons of winter and road-mending (the locals favourite joke). We arrived on the warmest day of the year so far, when Minnesotans were bemoaning the long hard winter and preparing themselves for the frivolities of spring and summer. In the Twin Cities (of Minneapolis and St Paul) the snow had melted and people were starting to thaw out - the streets and bars were full and coats were open. However, in the north of the state the snow was still thick, people were huddled inside and you could walk on the frozen water of the lakes.

We noticed that people didn’t seem quite so fascinated by us Brits in Minnesota, as very few random strangers had commented on our accents or inquired as to who we were and what we were doing, in contrast to the warm reception we had received in the southern states. I don’t think it’s because people are any less friendly, for they are, but they are just more reserved and perhaps think it rude to ask. The difference is much like that in Europe between the austere Finns and the gregarious Spanish. Perhaps that is why I am drawn to Minnesota so much - it does remind me of Scandinavia, my mother‘s homeland. It is known as the state of 10,000 lakes, is covered in silver birch and pine forests and people go to their cabins in summer. Indeed many of the settlers in Minnesota came from Scandinavia.

I also hold the climate partly responsible for the three pillars of Minneapolis/St Paul culture - theatre, heavy drinking and politics. The cold drives you indoors to drink, think, talk and create. Minneapolis has the biggest theatre scene in the U.S., after New York City, including the annual Fringe performing arts festival. The Twin Cities can also be politically outspoken, as recently demonstrated by graffiti outside the National Republican Convention. The array of liquor stores and funky bars is testament to the drinking culture.

It is strange to return to a former life, one that has been carrying on in parallel in my absence. It is like visiting history. Minneapolis looks the same - my favourite liquor store, coffee shop, bars, the Wedge supermarket - and most of my friends are still here. Even more remarkably people still remember me and have been incredibly nice (and not just Minnesota nice) to us - buying us drinks and dinners, taking us to diners, housing us, entertaining us at the roller derby and theatre and mending our increasingly temperamental laptop.

Minneapolis doesn’t look as aesthetically exciting as, say, Chicago, and isn’t a major tourist destination, but underneath it is full of quirky and fun places to explore. It has an interesting mix of Germanic/Scandinavian settlers, resettled Hmong and Vietnamese, Mexicans and more recently Somalis. It makes for a fantastic array of restaurants. It is also one of the more progressive cities I have been to in the States. People cycle (even in the below freezing winters it has one of the highest commuter cyclist rate in the States), shop at co-ops supporting local agriculture and the gay scene is blooming. It is also a hotbed of not-for-profit organisations, such as my former workplace, the Institute for Agriculture and Trade Policy, where we gave a presentation and a radio interview that will be available at Radio Sustain next week. People in the States have been some of the most interested in our trip so far - it really seems to spark the imagination in a country that is waking up to the realities of climate change.

We’ve been crazily busy in the Twin Cities as I tried to fit a year’s memories into one week so there has been little space for reflection. Now on the eve of our departure from Minneapolis I’m starting to reminisce, about our trip around the world in slow motion and about previous departures from places I love. It’s going to be hard going home. Minnesota has been a wonderful trip back in time and has also provided a gentle insight into what is to come back in Blighty.







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Turning thirty at the roller derby

“It’s springtime!“ boomed the commentator at the Minnesota RollerGirls roller derby. An exciting time for Minnesotans as they come out of frozen hibernation and a big day for me as the first day of spring is my birthday.

The Legendary Roy Wilkins Auditorium in downtown Saint Paul was full of thousands of roller derby fans revved up on springtime warmth and ready to cheer on the Minnesota RollerGirls. I had no idea what to expect. Then the lights started flashing, the music started blaring, the blue-haired commentator started shouting and out skated (roller skates, not blades) the Rockits and the Garda Belts. Two teams of feisty women in florescent minidresses and brightly coloured, pattered pantyhose (a much more fun word than tights!).

Roller derby has been reclaimed and revamped from the ashes of its 1970’s predecessor. As the programme clarifies, ’Hair pulling, punching, etc. went the way of macramé and satin jackets.’ That said, roller derby is still a full-on contact sport. Ten women (five from each team) are on the circular track at the same time - two jammers, six blockers and two pivots. The pivots lead the pack around the track while the jammers try to make their way through the blockers to the front. Points are scored when the jammer passes members of the opposite team. Blocking tactics are pretty ferocious - pushing, shoving and pulling are all par for the course, with girls going flying off the track into the audience, crashing down on their knees, belly and bum. We winced when Dudezilla, co-captain of the Rockits, collided with two others and had to sit out the rest of the show.

The best part of watching ten women whizz around a roller rink isn’t their short dresses (although Tom may disagree), but their names. All players have an alter ego that the commentators clearly enjoy: There’s Harmony Killerbruise, Flora Flipabitch, Venus Thightrap and the crowd’s favourite, Suzie Smashbox, which was chanted around the auditorium. My favourite is Chinese Takeout, my former flatmate, now an Atomic Bombshell celebrity. These girls really are superstars around town - you can buy their player cards, people queue up for autographs and they get recognised when out on the tiles. They do it all for love not money - training three times a week, competing in tournaments and volunteering in the community - for all the money raised from ticket sales, sponsorship and merchandise goes to charity.

When it’s all over Wet Spot, the janitorial artist, does a final lap of the track cleaning up spilt beer and firing T-shirts into the crowd through an automatic drainpipe.

Fun as the roller derby was, we shunned the official after party in favour of my favourite bar in Minneapolis - Nye’s Polonaise Room. Nye’s is an eccentric bar with an eclectic crowd. It’s all heavy velvet, thick carpets and candle light. White-haired locals sat around a piano and crooned karaoke oldies; hipsters laughed and sipped martinis; a transvestite chatted up the doorman and through the double doors in the polka bar the (self-proclaimed) world’s most dangerous polka band was in full swing. An old man alternated between growling down a microphone and playing the trumpet while his large-kneed partner remained seated playing the accordion. People young and old did bad dancing in front.

I’m not sure what women of my age are supposed to be doing - having a successful career, buying houses, making babies perhaps? - but right now I am having fun doing random things in strange parts of the world.







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