The Naïve Brit’s Guide to
An American Road Trip
(Arizona - September 2008)

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Sunday 7

Packing.  Frantically printing off everything.  More packing.  More printing of everything, holiday related or not.  In a fever of panic and excitement now.

Broke news to dog about boarding kennels but he didn’t seem to take it in, or didn’t want to – I think he’s in denial.

Monday 8

Driving down to London, my thumb suddenly went numb, couldn’t feel it at all.  Bit worrying but put it down to excitement and nerves. 

Then two fingers went numb.  Right, okay, clearly having a stroke. 

Then my hand started swelling like a balloon! 

I was going to die before seeing America!  (bummer!) 

Was just about to start panicking when I realised that, as I did a last swoop of the house before leaving for all the ‘just in case’ items, I’d put some hair bands around my wrist, which were now cutting off my blood supply.

Daft cow.

Arrived at Copthorne Effingham and bombarded reception with the all-important questions: where do we leave the car, where’s our room, and do you have WiFi?

They charged for WiFi.  Tsk.  Even in some hotel in the middle of the Yorkshire countryside they had free WiFi.  Grudgingly handed over my £2.50, they gave me a card with a pin number, then told me it was only available in the lobby in full view of the world and its mother.  I had to sit in front of the bar and the reception desk with dozens of people walking passed to post my Sunday Mercury article.

As the Copthorne Effingham was pretty much in the middle of nowhere (but close enough to London to be a bit stuffy), the only thing we could do for the evening was… partake of the local beverage.  So we did.  Partook quite a lot actually.  Well, we are on holiday.

Tuesday 9

What.  A.  Day.

Left the hotel for Gatwick airport at 7.30am in plenty of time for our 10.45 flight.  Found the Virgin Atlantic check-in, along with hundreds of other passengers – shoals of suitcases produced a kind of rumbling thunder. 

I had an e-ticket and check-in paper, but I’m always suspicious of ‘self-printed’ tickets so I’d printed off everything to do with our flight, an entire ream of stapled pages which I plonked down on the counter, saying, “Whatever you need, it’s in there somewhere.”

Got rid of the luggage, which always calms Hubs down and stops him rushing from terminal to terminal screaming Where do we take the bags?, and settled in for the wait.  Which was boring, as it always is (especially when you’re a smoker who can’t smoke).

“You know,” I said to Hubs as we chowed down on McDonald's McMuffins, “I have a good feeling about this holiday.”  30 seconds later, our flight was delayed by two hours.

Sigh.

Bought books, newspapers, magazines and duty-free cigarettes.  “Is there anywhere in this airport where we can smoke?” we asked the cashier.  She shook her head.  “Can we borrow a pair of scissors then?”  We stood at her counter, cut open our nicotine patches and slapped them on.

Just when we thought (a) we were going to die there, or (b) someone else was going to die if we didn’t get a cigarette soon, our flight came up on the screen and what seemed like several thousand people started running towards the gate.

Virgin Atlantic have massive two-tier planes, but we weren’t allowed ‘upstairs’ to have a quick look because ‘upstairs’ was for posh people, and we certainly weren’t posh people, we were the plebs in economy class.

London Gatwick to Las Vegas is a 10 hour flight, which is nothing short of a test to see how much the human body can endure before it has to have a straight jacket wrapped around it.  The first two hours aren’t too bad as you’re still running on adrenalin - settled down, read everything, figured out the entertainment system (as did the pilot, so we ended up watching the first 20 minutes of our chosen film three times – ‘Nim’s Island’ is pretty good, ‘Forgetting Sarah Marshall’ rubbish except for Russell Brand).

Four hours in you start getting a bit agoraphobic, trying not to think about pounding on the door screaming to be let out at 30,000 feet.  Fortunately the plane was big enough to get up and walk around every now and again, stopping rigamortis in its tracks.  They should organise jogging sessions down the aisles.

Virgin gave us a blanket and a pillow when we got on, which I was thrilled with – freebies!  They also handed out free headphones.  Go Virgin! 

The swines took them off us before we got off, but we got to keep the Virgin red toothbrushes and the single squirt of toothpaste.

They also kept you constantly supplied with food and drink.  It seemed every half an hour they came down the aisles handing out stuff.  God forbid you should feel even vaguely hungry on their flight.  I was heavier when I got off than when I got on.

We approached Las Vegas airport – thank god, nearly over!  I don’t know if the pilot was new or not, but we seemed to do a few loop-the-loops before he finally decided to land, by which time several people were looking decidedly green. 

Our first view of the Vegas hotels, standing like monoliths in an otherwise flat landscape, was breathtaking.  I was peering out the portholes (which, alarmingly, have a hole in them) hyperventilating.

Long wait for immigration, where they took our fingerprints and photograph, but I saw my first Genuine American Policeman, complete with gun, so that woke me up a bit. 

Long queue at customs, which was worrying because my nicotine patch had, by now, fallen off – I felt like yelling, “GET A MOVE ON, I’M A SUSPECTED MENOPAUSAL WOMAN AND I NEED A FAAAAAAAAAAAAG!”

Made it through without getting arrested, which is always a relief.

The biggest queue was for the hire car (free shuttle from McCarran Airport to all the car hire companies).  I felt my life force just ebbing away as two old women who clearly didn’t have a clue (and they were driving!) dominated the attention of two members of staff.  Just what you need after travelling for over 12 hours.

We finally got to the front and were directed to the garage.  There stood four Chrysler Sabring convertibles, red, pale blue, royal blue and white.  “Pick which one you want,” said the man in charge.  My God they were big buggers, I so want one.  We picked the white one and set off, top down.

Okay, Hubs, no pressure, just get used to automatic transmission and right hand lanes and we’ll be fine.

‘Just turn left, right and right to the Luxor Hotel,’ we were told, so we did, and made it up to the Strip without killing ourselves or anyone else (ph-ew!). 

And left into the Luxor Hotel, only it wasn’t the Luxor Hotel, it was the Mandalay.  Back onto the strip, and left into the Luxor, only it was too far down the road to get to the entrance, so we had to turn round and go back to the main road again.  By the time we actually got there we knew the top end of the strip like the back of our hand.

 “You’ll need to put your top up,” said the valet as we pulled in.  Except we’d only had the car 20 minutes and didn’t know how to do it, or shut the windows, so he did it for us and he drove it away and we hoped he wasn’t some scammer who was making off with our hire car (he didn’t, we tipped him profusely in gratitude).

The Luxor foyer is just eye-bulgingly fabulous, with huge Egyptian statues everywhere, floors rising up in tiers and an atrium.  The reception desk is enormous and efficient, like something from a sci-fi movie. 

We asked for a smoking room and were given one on the ground floor, right next to some slot machines.  We thought noise might be a problem, but (a) we were too tired to care, and (b) once you shut the door you couldn’t hear a thing.

The room was nice and comfortable, the window-wall slanting to form part of the pyramid shape of the hotel.  Two double beds and a shower room.  Good enough for us.

Bit blurred, but the sign reading ‘CONSERVE ENERGY Turn off lights when leaving’ in
our room had me clutching my sides with laughter. 

I mean, this is what the Luxor Hotel looks like at night…

Lights running all up the sides, and a whacking great spotlight shooting into the sky

And this is Las Vegas at night…

Could there be any more lights?  Could they use any more electricity?

We didn’t unpack as we’re living out of suitcases for the next two weeks whilst we indulge in our dream of driving around America on our very own road trip. 

There is an eight hour time difference (backwards) and we’d been travelling for most of the day, so at 4pm (midnight at home) we went for a walk to wake us up.  We got as far as the Excalibur hotel a block away, and then had to admit defeat.  We were absolutely knackered.

Bed by 8pm (4am ‘real time’, I think… not sure, I hate numbers, fiddly little things).

Hotel:  Luxor at south end of strip (the weird pyramid shaped one).  You can catch some good rates per night on their website (around £75).  TV, but no fridge in room.  Coffee making facility (crap coffee).  Charge $12.99 for 24 hours of internet… pah!  Nice place to stay for the experience, but with slot machines and gaming tables right outside our door, not exactly ‘homey’.  Also too far away from all the other hotels, at the south end of The Strip, so lots of walking involved.

Wednesday 10

We’ve gained eight hours, which is quite nice.  What isn’t so nice is that we were wide awake at 2am (10am real time, so a lie-in for us).  Forced ourselves to stay in bed until 4.30, then raced out of our hotel room at 6.45 expecting Las Vegas to be deserted.  It wasn’t.  People were playing poker and roulette and sitting at the slot machines, loads of them.  Amazing!

We burst into the glorious sunshine (sunshine!) and heat (heat!) to take our first look at The Strip. 

Wow.  I mean, wow!  Everything’s just so big, so enormous, so stunningly massive.  All those famous hotels, and here we were, looking at them In The Flesh.  Our jaws were dragging on the floor the entire time.

Hubs takes a great photo of me apparently wearing a safety ring on my head!

Right, crack of dawn, where to eat?  Guide books were full of recommendations for lunch and dinner, but I hadn’t read anything about where to go for breakfast.  We needed breakfast.  There was a place open called Fat Burgers, which didn’t sound especially appetising, so we ended up at… McDonald's! 

Tsk.

We asked for McGriddles but got McBiscuits, which is actually a scone, with egg and bacon on, very strange.  And American bacon isn’t like our bacon, they must starve their pigs, or else the pigs are anorexic, there’s so little of it.

The internet said The Strip is big, take flat shoes, there’s going to be a lot of walking involved.  They weren’t kidding, it goes on for miles.  I had this vision in my head that it would be a grander version of Broad Street and wasn’t prepared for the sheer size of the place.  Even the road is bigger than we’re used to, multi lanes.  Pedestrian crossings count down the amount of time you have to get across to the other side. 

“You have to be pretty fit around here,” Hubs said, “Wouldn’t stand a chance with a zimmer frame.” 

He actually started jogging when the countdown dropped into single figures, convinced we were about to be mown down by the traffic.

Hubs tries to blend into the god-awful carpet for a sneaky fag in one of the casinos

We dived into a couple of hotels.  The Venetian was quite impressive with its ‘real sky’, but the others, once you got passed the astounding façade, were all pretty much the same inside, just hundreds of slot machines and gaming tables.  It was a bit like a tarted up, shiny, non-shabby Blackpool.

In one of the shops we bough some beef jerky, which we’ve never tried, and a half bottle of whisky.  Hubs told the girl I’d be drinking it in the gutter outside, so she put it in brown paper bag!  He got a firm clobber for that.

Jet lag is a terrible, terrible thing – every molecule of your body is flopping with exhaustion by 4pm local time (midnight ‘real time’).  It’s a real struggle trying to stay awake and exhaustion takes the edge off the excitement.  I was in a major coma in my hotel bed by 4.30.

Hubs woke me up a couple of hours later.  It was like being woken up in the middle of the night.  I was knackered, but determined to see the fountains outside the Belagio.

But first a couple of drinks in Harrah’s, where bottles of beer were only a dollar (cheapest on the strip apparently – they also do rather nice frozen margaritas).

So we were in this bar when I spot a man coming in.  There were loads of people there, but this one stood out.  This was a man I’d been hoping to see.

A Real Cowboy.

You could tell he was a real cowboy right off.  He wore a proper Stetson, was 6’4” and walked like John Wayne.  When he came up to the counter where we were standing and ordered his beer, I nearly passed out from the sound of his accent.

Oh yeah, a Real Cowboy alright.  No doubt about it

Seeing me hyperventilating (and fed up of me gripping onto his arm and hissing, “Look!  Look!”) Hubs started up a conversation with this tall cowboy.  His opening line was, “My wife’s told all her friends she’s going to kiss the first real cowboy she sees.”

The cowboy looked a bit taken aback, as well he might when faced with a jet-lagged Brit.  “Well,” he drawled, “You’ll just have to talk to my wife about that.”

His wife came over and we all started chatting.  We also chatted to Elvis who just happened by (I touched Elvis, and he didn’t seem to mind… well, he was drunk, but even so). 

I was, by this time, in coma mode and a bit hyper-excited in a just-about-to-die way, but I think I managed to form Actual Words.  Whether they made sense or not is debatable.

The cowboy and his wife were wonderful, just brilliant.  When he lifted his hat to me I nearly passed out.  He was raised on a ranch, served in the US Army and was now a police sergeant in Arizona.  I mean, he was adorable, and the most gentlemanly gentleman I’ve ever met in my life.  He and Hubs shared a passion for cowboy films and country music, his wife and I shared a passion for AbFab… ya can’t go far wrong with anyone who likes AbFab.

We all went to Hooters for chicken wings (served by skinny girls who didn’t look old enough to be up that late), then next door to Dixies, a country and western club with live music.

I never dance, not ever.  I generally just sit in a corner tapping my foot in a really meaningful manner, maybe indulge in a bit of shoulder shaking if I’m particularly enthralled (or particularly drunk).  But I was up there dancing with the rest of them.

Hubs – bladdered beyond belief – just kept yelling, over and over, “I can’t believe this!  This is brilliant!”

And it was, the entire night, a marvellous testament to the welcoming attitude of Americans.

As we left I asked the wife, “Can I kiss a real cowboy?”

She gave permission, and I gave this gentle, handsome, polite man a kiss on the cheek.

OH YEAH!  I DID IT!  I KISSED A REAL COWBOY!  Yeeeeeehaaaaaaaa!

Poured ourselves into a taxi at 2am (2am!) back to The Luxor, and staggered through the bustling foyer area invigorated but waaaaaaaaay beyond exhausted.  A young girl tottered passed us in impossibly high heels.  Everyone turned to watch her strutting her stuff.  Then we passed a British bloke who was yelling into his mobile, “I’ve just been propositioned by a hooker!”

Only in America.

Thursday 11

Woke up at 7am because I knew I’d have to sober Hubs up before we set off on our road trip, the drunken bum. Slapped him around a bit, but I don’t think it made much difference, his face still looked like it had been put through a ringer and trodden on by several dozen people wearing hobnail boots.

“Get coffee!” I bawled at him, sending him out to Starbucks outside our hotel room, “And pastries!  And water!”

Oh he was hungover alright.  His eyes were bloodshot and the size of micro-dots.  And we were setting off in a matter of hours.  Good start, being pulled up by the local police for DUI!

I poured coffee down his neck, forced him to eat the pastries, and mimed slapping him across the face several times until he told me to stop.  Then I dragged him upstairs to the Luxor atrium to indulge in… yep, McDonald's again, this time a McGriddle, which was sweet (yuk).  Square eggs and strips of what might have been bacon from a miniscule pig were forced into his body, then I took him outside for a sobering walk.

Tsk.

Behind those glasses Hubs' eyes looked like something that should be in a glass jar at
some medical reserach centre

Eventually, when he looked marginally human again, we retrieved our car.  And off we went down the strip, totally terrified.

“Turn right,” I instructed as the designated map reader (I hate being the map reader, there’s just so much responsibility involved), “Then turn left.”

“Left where?” asked the wide-eyed driver.

“Down there somewhere.”

We had some crappy map the hotel had given us (Be Prepared is my motto) which gave no idea of scale, so of course we went the wrong left (feeling lucky we’d done a left at all without killing ourselves or anyone else) and headed off the wrong way.  Whilst this might be catastrophic in the UK (ah, talking like a world traveller now!), all roads are straight in the US, so we just took a right and ended up on the right road again… eventually. 

And then, suddenly, we were on the interstate, the highway, bombing it in our convertible down four lanes.    

Aaaaaaaaaargh!  But actually it wasn’t too bad, the interstate was pretty empty and there were good signposts.  Brilliant signposts actually, they told you which restaurants and motels were at each exit, and gave you plenty of warning about turn offs.  And they’re all straight, running like black rulers into the distance.  Driving on them was a piece of cake (says the passenger confidently, but the driver wasn’t screaming so I took that as a good sign).

The scenery was spectacular.  It started off as desert as we drove up to and across Hoover Dam (not massively impressive, but then I’m a Scorpio, water just don’t do it for me).  In the far distance, rain clouds.  Yep, rain clouds.  We stopped to put up the car top.  Even the raindrops were bigger than normal, everything here is mega-sized.

We drove across the desert plains marvelling at the ‘homesteads’ of people who were far removed from the rest of society.  A shack and a car surrounded by hundreds of miles of dusty nothingness.  I mean, I’m all for a bit of peace and quiet, but that’s taking it a bit too extreme.

We stopped at a place called Chloride – “the ghost town that refuses to die” – for a sandwich at this little shop that was literally in the middle of nowhere.  On the window was a sign reading “And your Avon representative is… ”  We sat on the wooden porch eating our gigantic sandwiches, and a biker strutted passed.  “Enjoying your sandwich,” he drawled, “I just stopped on by for a cee-gar.”

While we were there, the sky darkened dramatically and the thunder rolled in.  There was lightning too, which set off my paranoia about the sky wanting to kill us no matter where we tried to hide (our house was hit by lightning a couple of months ago).  It rained for about three minutes – I don’t think I’ve ever seen three minute rain before, three days yes, three weeks yes, but never three minutes.

We were on Route 66 and there were loads of Harley riders on the freeways, some hauling trailers behind them, and not small ones either (not in America, they simply don’t do ‘small’). 

The trucks are something else, just monstrous buggers, trucks with a capital T.  I was tempted to do a Thelma and Louise and mime for them to blow their horns as we passed, but didn’t because I’m British and way too reserved (I also didn’t want the driver to be rude so I’d have to shoot it and blow it up).

And RVs, oh my God the RVs!  I always wondered why American ones were so big.  In our country they wouldn’t be able to move, not with road islands and perpetually bendy roads.  But here, just straight roads, nothing to stop ‘camper vans’ from growing to berluddy massive proportions.  Not only were they large, but there were two types.  One was more like a trailer being pulled by a Dodge that could be unhooked and left, the others were complete RVs that towed – and get this – a separate car behind them. 

I was worried about finding hotels along the way because I hadn’t booked anything, not wanting to be tied to ‘we have to be here by this time’.  I needn’t have worried.  The freeways are geared to travellers and at each exit sign it told you what hotels and restaurants were available at each town. 

After driving 250 miles we stopped at a town called Williams outside Flagstaff at about 4pm.  It’s such a cute town, typical America with a main street and cars that park at an angle to the kerb.  It’s only a small place, but it has about 10 different motels geared towards Route 66 travellers.  Hubs stopped at the only one that didn’t have WiFi, in fact probably the only hotel in the whole of America that doesn’t have WiFi… that takes talent!

Still jetlagged, we wandered out about 6pm in search of food.  No shortage there.  The hotel reception recommended a steak house, and we had possibly the best steak in the whole universe.  They’re big on beef around here, definitely not into lamb or pork (or real bacon).

Bed at 8pm!  This time zone thang takes a lot of getting used to.

Hotel:  Hotel Six at Williams.  Small but comfortable rooms.  TV but no fridge or wifi, breakfast not included.  Only $60 a night, a bargain if you just want a place to rest your head.  Staff exceptionally nice, very helpful and friendly.  Lovely little town with plenty of places to stay and eat on ‘Route 66’.  All American hotel rooms have free air conditioning and ice machines somewhere.

Friday 12

We decided to stop at the hotel in Williams as apparently everywhere gets full at weekends.

A wander into town to take in the sights.  Hotels and restaurants and gift shops abound, but what’s this, a proper ‘cowboy’ shop?  Hubs was positively chomping at the bit.  My ambition in life was to kiss a cowboy (check), Hubs was to buy a proper cowboy hat.  So in we went, and were immediately pounced upon by a woman holding out hats and telling him which one suited him.  She wasn’t wrong, he got one that makes me want to Stand By Ma Man and cover him in kisses. 

Is that a cowboy I see before me?  Hubs in full John Wayne mode.  KWOAR!

We strode further down the main street and I got myself a (much cheaper) hat, so now we look just like ‘locals’ (gone native, or Gone Country for those Alan Jackson fans out there).  Or else we look like stupid tourists – but who cares.

Drove out to a meteor crater along roads which still make us catch our breath, they just run like black rulers across the landscape and disappear into the distance.  Crater was at an altitude of 6,000 feet, which is quite high when you come from low-land Birmingham, UK.  As I was walking up the steps I breathed in but nothing happened, I literally had to catch my breath (what a wimp).  I was that woman hanging over the stair-rail gasping, “I can’t breathe.  I can’t breathe!”  Tsk.

Crater spectacular, like a really big dent in the ground.  There was a six foot astronaut (obviously not a real one) strategically placed next to an American flag at the bottom of the crater, but you couldn’t see him unless you looked through a telescope, that’s how deep it was.

Hubs yakked his face off to some Canadians, who said they hadn’t been that impressed with Vegas either (we felt like freaks not liking Vegas all that much).  We may cancel our hotel for the last two nights and stay somewhere a bit more scenic… that’s if we come back at all, of course.

We ran out of cigarettes and, as America doesn’t do Superkings, bought Marlborough, which made me think of Marlborough Man.  It was The Pioneer Woman who first brought to my attention to the fact that there were real cowboys in the world (because when you live in a big city you don’t really think about things like that much).  It’s all Pioneer’s Woman’s fault that my ambition was to kiss a real live cowboy. 

Did I tell you I’d kissed a real live cowboy?  I shure did (sigh).  Having achieved that I felt I needed a new ambition, which was to kiss a real live American policeman.  “But the cowboy was also a sheriff,” said Hubs (yes, not only a man who’d grown up on a ranch, but he was also a sherrif and a trucker… I mean, couldn’t you just die with awe!).  “Yes,” I said, “But he wasn’t wearing a uniform so it doesn’t count.” 

Oh yeah, there are caveats attached to my lifelong ambitions, I’m very meticulous about these things.

Some bikers on Harleys (what else) pulled up outside our hotel, about 10 of them.  They unloaded their suitcases from a van that was following them – so not free and wild after all then.  Each biker hauled in two suitcases apiece, even I don’t have that much luggage.

Din-dins was in Williams, a place where they had live music.  We asked for a table but they were full, so we waited inside at the fabulous 50s style bar and had drinky poos.  After 45 minutes we still hadn’t been seated, so we went back outside to catch the waitress.  I sat on a bench smoking a cigarette as the ‘bikers’ came in.  They were German, and two of them looked at me a lot longer than was comfortable as they strode passed.  Perhaps the new top I was wearing exposed a bit too much cleavage; Jordan would have baulked at that top.

It was funny actually because not only did the ‘bikers’ look at me like I was a hooker, but they all wore slacks and beige jackets.  No, really, they’re riding down Route 66 dressed in leather, all thinking they’re Peter Fonda or Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider, and then they revert back to middle aged men.

Anyway, back to our starvation.  Hubs strode up to the waitress in his Wrangler jeans and cowboy hat.  He then did something that made my eyes bulge and my jaw drop.  I watched as first he tipped his hat and then asked, in a deep American drawl, if they had any tables, ma’am.  She pointed at one table, but he (clearly in John Wayne mode) pointed at another and, still twanging like a local, asked for that one.  He got it.  Of course he got it, I don’t see how anyone could have refused my tall, hunky husband in full cowboy gear. 

We sat down, just as the live singer stopped his wailing, but the food was nice (biggest burgers on the planet!).

And ‘home’ to bed.  Today we were awake until 8pm, in a coma by 8.01. 

So how long does it take to recover from jetlag exactly?

Saturday 13

We have this map we’re using which covers all the Grand Canyon area from Las Vegas to Monument Valley.  We look at it and think ‘oh we’ll just pop down that road today and have a look’.  But the map is deceptive, what looks like a little drive is a journey of epic proportions.

First off, a shopping trip.  I don’t know why, we just sort of found ourselves outside Wallmart in Flagstaff.  My god things were cheap.  Wrangler jeans $15-19!  Got ourselves a couple of pairs each, plus shirts for a fiver ($10), sunglasses $7, a rather nice jacket for Hubs for $35 (about £17) and a pair of trainers each for around $20.  Amazing!  We were in there a couple of hours marvelling at everything, but then we got a bit overwhelmed with it all and actually started bickering.

We didn’t stop bickering as we drove down to Sedona.  We’re normally mild bickerers, but only when we shop or decorate.  Here we were, on our dream holiday, snarling at each other.  Hubs just kept yelling, “Take pictures!  Take pictures!”  He was positively rude when we stopped at Oak Canyon for something to eat, and I nearly hit him at a viewpoint half way up a mountain when he just walked off and ignored me.  Not like us at all.

When he ignored my directions coming back and turned when he shouldn’t have turned, I sulked mercilessly.  When we eventually got back to our hotel we had a fierce discussion and cleared the air.  I think we’ve been needing to ‘clear the air’ for a long time but haven’t had time in our busy lives.

The 150 mile round trip from Flagstaff, through Sedona and Cottonwood was magnificent.  We didn’t expect the enormous gorge we suddenly encountered, the bendy roads going down and down and down (“Take pictures!”).  Picturesque just isn’t the word, in between our bickering we just kept gasping out loud and crying “Oh my God!”  It was so beautiful.

We kept passing trees that had a loud noise coming from them like aliens were landing.  When we asked, they weren’t birds as we thought (looking like idiots as we stared up at trees), but big crickets - Cicada.  As we at our toasted sandwich the thickness of a paving slab at Oak Tree Canyon, they were all around us.  Quite freaked me out actually, I had visions of these locust-type things all descending on us.  They were everywhere.  Noisy little buggers (or big buggers, we didn’t actually see any phew).

I picked out about 132 houses where I’d like to live.  Anywhere here, in fact.  On the I-89 back to Williams we drove passed ranches, acres and acres of land with horses grazing in picket-fenced fields.  As Lloyd Grossman would say, ‘Who lives on a ranch like this?’  Lucky buggers.  Coming from a rather cramped city, I’ve no idea what its like to have That Much Space.  I’d like to try it.  Really like to try it.  [Middle Son: Sell house, send money].

Back to our hotel room rather berluddy knackered at 5pm to open up a 1.75 litre bottle of whisky that cost £7 (definitely moving), had our spat, got as tipsy as we could before falling into our customary coma at 8.30pm (we’re getting better!).

Driving through gorgeous Cottonwood, took a back photo of the town and caught this biker 
- he gave me such a look as he rode passed, as if to say 'Did you ask before taking my picture?  Well, did you?'
This was the only road island we encountered on our entire journey.

Sunday 14

Decided to have a lazy day and not drive far.  I scoured the multitude of magazines and leaflets we picked up (they’re everywhere, you’re certainly not left short of information) and booked us on a horse ride at Mountain Ranch Stables just outside Williams.  We’re gonna go on a trek on horseback through an Arizona forest, yeeeehaaaaaa!

But first, time for a bit of major panicking.  Oh yeah, I can do panic just as good as anybody else, if not better because I do it so little and have vast reserves to draw upon.  I drew upon them Big Time.

We’re leaving Williams tomorrow and continuing our road trip.  Next stop, Tusayan to go look at the Grand Canyon.  Only we haven’t booked a hotel anywhere in Tusayan, and everybody we meet sucks in their breath when we mention it and say, “You’ll never get a room in Tusayan unless y’book.”

Cue panic.  I don’t know why, I just got it into my head that we’d be roofless and lost in America and we’d be arrested for vagrancy and never see our families again.  So we drove down to an internet café* and scoured for hotel vacancies.  There were none.  We went up to the information centre, who gave us a phone number to call for all the hotels in the Grand Canyon area.  I rang the number, no vacancies anywhere.

This was about the point where the panic went into screaming overdrive.  We went back to the internet café, but it was Sunday and closed at midday, so we went to a coffee house where they had WiFi, only their WiFi didn’t work on my laptop so I used their computer… and still couldn’t find a hotel anywhere within a 100 mile radius of the Grand Canyon.

Looking calm on the outside, but inside I'm screaming (outside internet cafe in Williams)

Hubs eventually took a firm hold of my arm and tore me away from the computer as I howled about having no place to stay.  He walked me firmly to the car and gave me a Good Talking To.  I calmed down.  I envisioned us sleeping in the car at the Grand Canyon National Park, and decided it wouldn’t be that bad. 

Bugger it anyway, I’d used up at least three years worth of panic in one go, I was too exhausted to panic any more.  Karma would take care of us, it usually did (although was it aware that we were in a different country?  What if Karma couldn’t find us?)

To calm me down, we looked in an ‘estate agents’ window and decided we could definitely afford to buy a house here.  Then we went completely mad and bought a new suitcase for all our Wallmart purchases.  It’s a Route 66 suitcase, absolutely fab.

At the allotted time, we drove down to the horse stables attached to a big hotel just outside Williams.  We were a bit nervous because neither of us had been on a horse for longer than we care to remember.  They said it would be a gentle walk for beginners, but what if the horses thought otherwise, what if the horses suddenly decided to take off?

Oh stop worrying.

In actual fact, the ride was fantastic, walking gently through the Arizona forest with our two guides (the type of people to whom you just want to say ‘Can we live with you?’).  Hubs looked right at home on his giant of a beast, the epitome of a Yorkshire cowboy.  You ride one handed, and I felt like John Wayne’s missus, just ambling along, one hand resting casually on my thigh (occasionally grabbing onto the pommel to prevent embarrassing crashes to the ground).

I’ve only got little legs and the horse (although it doesn’t look it) was quite wide, hence the ‘slump’ to prevent my pelvic bones coming apart. 
Hubs, on the other hand, looks like he’s been on a horse all his life.

Cheered us up no end.

Collapsed in our hotel room after watching the moon rise, and ate tortilla chips and dip for our meal that night, ready to set off in search of an elusive hotel early the next morning.

I wasn’t going to panic.  I was so not going to panic.

* The bloody internet café clearly had a firewall made of fresh air and imagination.  It gave my website a bug of some sort that sent a load of junk to all my ‘feed’ people – for which I apologise.

Monday 15

Up and off early, to Tusayan, to find a place to stay (hopefully).  Its quite a high altitude up here and that makes your mouth suddenly go dry.  Cotton mouth.  Gagging to swallow.  Fortunately we took loads of water with us wherever we went, and even more fortunate, it was cold water, courtesy of our little polystyrene ice box (which was a godsend – thanks to Sue for telling us about them or else we’d have never known such things existed).

Pulled into one of the hotels in Tusayan.  Yep, they had a room, $250 a night.  On to next one, where the hotel receptionist said, “$204 a night,” like she didn’t believe for an instant we’d pay that much. 

“We’ll take it!” I snapped indignantly, and suddenly we had her undivided attention.  Couldn’t book in until 4pm though, so we hauled our suitcases to reception and said, “Can we leave these here?” without giving them much chance to reply before we were racing back to the car again.

We drove up to the Canyon, all excited.  $25 for a seven day pass, a bargain!  Pulled up at the first car park, straining not to look over and see it, the big place.  We were very excited.

Parked up.  Rushed to edge.  This was it, what I’d waited decades for and which I never thought would happen.  I was going to see The Grand Canyon in all its glory.

It was stunning.  Impossible to describe.  Just immense.  You stare at it in awe, look away, then look back and gasp, ‘Wow!’  Over and over again.

“Its breath-taking,” said Hubs.  Clearly not as the man wouldn’t stop talking.

We drove round, pulling into every car park we came across to gasp Wow! repeatedly.  There are some railings, but mostly you just walk very very carefully along the paths at the edge.

It was brilliant.  Brilliant.

I'm here, I'm actually here!

Step away from the berluddy edge!

Bit of a Titanic moment (which Hubs refused to indulge in - he has his 'image' to consider)

I'm so happy, oh so happy...

Drove through the village and to the end of the road, where there were a couple of hotels I’d tried to book.  The Angel Lodge hotel was not quite the scenic place I’d imagined.  Sure, its got cute little lodges overlooking the canyon, but right outside the lodge doors are thousands of tourists trooping passed.  The place was heaving.  Met a couple from Yardley, Birmingham – small world!

“What do you think of it?” they asked Hubs, indicating the Canyon.

“Well,” Hubs said, “It makes the Cheddar Gorge look like a crack in the pavement.”

Well put.

We walked around, all hot and sweaty and dusty, to the place where a track goes down into the canyon.  People were walking down it, you could see them getting smaller and smaller as the disappeared down, and down, and down.  Madness.  I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than consider treking miles in scorching temperatures.

Despite the heat, a tall, elegant, blonde woman swanned around looking as cool as a cucumber in a cotton dress.  Why can’t I ever look like that?  Cow.

At 2pm we were knackered and went back to the car for a sleep.  Woke up an hour later and found another couple asleep in the car next to ours, one foot sticking out of their window.  As we stirred, they shouted, “Morning!”

Made copious notes of our trip, some of which I can actually read

Checked in at hotel, berluddy massive room (for a berluddy massive price).  Instantly dived into the bath and partook of the complimentary toiletries.  Felt like Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra.

6pm, back to the Canyon to catch the sunset.  As did several hundred other people, who simply abandoned their cars at the side of the road and raced to the Canyon edge.  I’ve never seen anything like it, huge crowds teetering precariously on cliff ledges as the sun went down, clinging onto rocks and leaning over sheer drops to get a good picture.

Hubs and I sat holding hands on a rock as the sky turned orange.

“Let’s stay until the stars come out,” I suggested romantically, so we did.

It got darker, and darker.  What happens in the Canyon when it gets dark is… it comes alive.  I kid you not, a bug the size of a golf ball landed on my foot.  Startled, I looked around and saw small furry things scuttling over the rocks we were sitting on.  Strange rustlings came from bushes.

“Okay lets go!” I cried, jumping up.

We walked down the now pitch-black path back to our car.  There was no one else around, not a soul, except for all the creepy things in the buses and in the cracks and running across the path ahead of us.

And then the bats came out.  I like bats, have a bat box at home and like to watch them fly around the house at sunset.

But in the dark, alone in a strange place in the middle of nowhere, bats can be pretty bloody scary when they flash passed mere inches from your person.

“Walk faster!” I said to Hubs, tugging at his hand.  He was laughing, I was on the verge of having a pretty spectacular breakdown.  “Run!”

Around a corner we found some people.  Phew, relief!  But the walk back to the car was one of the scariest things I’ve ever done.  Pitch black, no light anywhere, and our car out there somewhere.

The worst bit was actually opening my door and getting in, right next to an overgrown area.  I tell ya, I could actually hear the scraping of rusty blades and the breathing of starving zombies as I threw myself into the passenger seat, quickly slamming the door shut behind me.

Picked up a ‘Wendy’s’ on the way home.  Hamburgers.  Quite the biggest hamburgers I’ve ever seen.  The bag they gave us containing two was at least the weight of a three year old.  Hauled it back to our ‘posh’ hotel room like naughty school children, opened the bag, and two hamburgers exploded across the table.  Delicious.

A marvellous, marvellous day.

Hotel:  Squire Inn, Best Western Inn at Tusayan.  Berluddy expensive at $204 a night, but luxurious room with two Queen size beds, wide screen TV, fridge (noisy bugger), and a bathroom you could happily live in.  Staff were courteous but not particularly friendly, and someone coming into our room in the middle of the afternoon meant they weren’t sure we were actually there!  Couple of good restaurants, lounge bar, gift shop, concierge to book helicopter/plane flights, and free in-room wifi.  Non-smoking rooms, but we were on the ground floor and only had to go down a couple of short flights of stairs where there was, as ever, an ashtray provided.  Continental breakfast included – not to our taste, but plenty provided in the buffet (sweet fruit, sweet porridge, sweet pastries and sweet cereals – my kingdom for some berluddy toast!).

There is actually a place in Tusayan called Seven Lodge, which is next to the Best Western, where you can stay the night for $75.  But it doesn’t take reservations, you just turn up and take pot luck.  We actually arrived too early, before they were open at 9am, so we might have got a room there, but Hubs was too impatient.  Anyway, it was nice to have a ‘grand’ (and berluddy expensive) room for our stay at the Canyon… worth every penny (well, nearly every penny, there were a lot of pennies involved).

Tuesday 16

Today, a picnic at the Grand Canyon.  Stopped off at Tusayan’s grocery store about 10am to pick up provisions.  “Got any sandwiches?” I asked the woman at the counter.

“No,” she said.

“Got any ice?”

“Yes.”

Pause.

“Where is it?” I asked.

“Outside.”

Oh forget it.

Got to the counter with a few provisions and said, “Can you change a $50 bill?”

She didn’t even answer.  I was killing myself laughing at the sheer misery of her.

We drove deliriously into the park and picked up some grub at the village deli.  While Hubs was packing the bags, the check-out girl turned to me and whispered, “Is he a real cowboy?”

“No,” I laughed, “He just thinks he is.”

“He sounds like a real cowboy,” she said.

Hubs was well chuffed when I told him.  There was no stopping him strutting his stuff after that.

We drove around, stopping off at every scenic point we came across, marvelling at everything.  We had an absolute blast.  At one place a van pulled up and all these blindfolded people got out.  The 'leader' made them all hold onto each other as he guided them to the edge of the Canyon.  They were about to see it for the first time.  When they finally took their blindfolds off, they gasped and the watching crowd cheered.

Ate lunch sitting on a rock overlooking the Canyon at Lipan Point, how brilliant is that!  Whilst chomping away, a couple of people jumped from rocks down onto a narrow path a good way below.  I tell ya, some people there are just plain mad, I was having cardiac arrests for each and every one of them.  I mean, c’mon people, it’s a mile-long drop, be a bit more careful!

“This is one place where you certainly don’t want to slip,” I said, as Hubs helped me off the rock.

And guess what happened next.  Yep, I tripped, fortunately forwards and not backwards over the edge otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this now.  Hubs gripped firmly onto my jeans belt at the back and pulled me up like a stringless marionette. 

And then I tripped again!  Oh yeah, if you’re gonna do something really stoopid, do it somewhere where there’s lots of people to witness your stoopidity, and make sure you scream out in alarm to attract their attention.  37,000 people all turned as one to look at me, obviously hoping to see someone falling over the edge*.

Went back to our hotel room to recover from my near death experience.  Hubs had a bit of a nap while I surfed t’internet.  In the middle of the afternoon, someone tried to open our room door. 

“HELLO!” I yelled. 

The door stopped opening, but didn’t close.  “My boss sent me over,” came a voice, “He said this room is empty.”

“Well its not!” I yelled back.

“Are you sure you’re meant to be here?” the voice asked accusingly.  “Did you check in?”

“Of course we did!”

“I don’t think you’re meant to be here,” said the voice.

“Well they gave us a key and everything.”

“Who is it?” Hubs asked groggily.

Upon hearing a man’s voice, the room door suddenly slammed shut.

Freaky.  We kept the door locked after that.

Next: a helicopter ride over the Canyon.  The hotel concierge had booked it up for us that morning.  Didn’t know how much it cost at the time (£130), we just knew we had to do it.

The airport was just a mile or so down the road, where there were loads of people waiting to ‘go up’ and a dozen helicopters taking off and landing like a swarm of  busy bees.  I was quite nervous, having never been in a helicopter before, and hoped I wouldn’t (a) pass out, (b) throw up, or (c) start screaming hysterically.

I didn’t.  It was great, swooping over the forests and then suddenly coming to the Canyon edge and going over.  Every molecule in my body cried This shouldn’t be happening and We’re falling off the edge and We’re going to die.  But of course we didn’t.

We shared our ride with some young things who were travelling from New Jersey to Los Angeles.  They were great fun.  And the helicopter pilot, Joshua, was quite a character (in an I’m So Gorgeous kind of way).

The ride itself was out of this world.  We swooped and dived and zig-zagged over the entire canyon for almost an hour.  Best ride of my life.  I’d do it again in a breath, just for the initial shock of tipping over the edge.  Exhilarating.

Back on internet after helicopter ride (I may have a problem – I started shaking whenever I couldn’t get an internet connection).  Came across a website which actually found us a hotel for the next three days in Page.  It gets busy at weekends and I was worried (but not panicking) that we’d be left stranded.  Now we didn’t have to worry, so we went off to the hotel restaurant to celebrate.

It was a ‘buffet’ menu for around $18, which was extremely reasonable.  I’m more of a grazer than a gorger, so I don’t like big meals, which is more than can be said for my dining companions.  They piled their plates up high and still went back for more.  Do they not eat for weeks and then stock up?  How can anyone eat half their own bodyweight in food in one sitting?

They did the best apple pie on the planet.  I mean, I don’t go for apple pie all that much, but this was to die for. 

Bed full and satisfied.

Another fine day.

[Damn fridge kept me awake most of the night, humming like it wanted to be a rock star – hmmmmmmmmmmmm I wanna be a rock star hmmmmmmmmm.]

* I actually looked it up on the internet; about 50 people die at the Grand Canyon every year, some from medical conditions like heart attacks and strokes, some from suicide (scenic place to die?), and some from stupidly clinging onto ledges at the edge to get ‘good photos’.  Take care out there, people.

Wednesday 17

This morning we were up at 6am, racing for the ‘continental breakfast’ before setting off.  If you’re into sweet stuff, you’ll love it in America.  If, like me, you’re more the savoury type (or unsavoury), you’ll be hard pushed to find anything edible in a ‘continental’ buffet-type breakfast.  I’d give my soul for a piece of toast, a fried egg, or a proper bacon sandwich (drool).  As it was, it was a choice of sweet pastries and sweet rolls, but hey, what the hell.

We were on the road by 7am, off to Kayenta to find somewhere to stay while we marvel over Monument Valley.  We had to drive through the Grand Canyon National Park again, joy of joys, then up through Cameron (where there were dark clouds looming, although it didn’t actually rain) and into Tuba City. 

City?  It was tiny, and not all that pretty either with its piles of sands, electricity pylons and scattering of dusty shacks and trailers.  ‘Painted Desert’ it was called, but it looked like an open cast mine to me… but maybe I’m being too harsh.  Signs selling Navajo jewellery at the side of the road read ‘Nice Indians’ and ‘Turn now, its okay’, which made me laugh.

As we passed through we tuned into their local radio.  God it was depressing.  We turned it off before we started sobbing.  There were no other radio stations to tune into (out here in the middle of nowhere)… or else we’ve broken the radio.  Need music. No mobile phone reception either, so if we break down we’re screwed.

The secret to finding hotels when you haven’t had the foresight or the intelligence to book ahead is to Get There Early.  The internet may say that all hotels within a 100 mile radius are fully booked up, but hotels seem to keep a couple of rooms on hold.  You get there early enough, you’ll get one.  They probably charge extra, but how much is that freedom worth? (I guess not a lot when you’re sleeping in the car in some dark layby).

We pulled up outside the Great Western in Kayenta and raced into reception.  We thought it was 10.15am, but what’s this, we’ve lost a whole hour driving east?  Like when did that happen?  And will I ever get that hour back?  I could have done great things with that hour.

“One room, two people, two nights,” we gasped, crossing our fingers.

We got it.  Last one apparently, although they may say that to everyone who asks, just so they can suck in their breath and charge double.  $120 for two nights, which is no big deal, especially when the room contains the biggest bed I’ve ever seen in my life (it has three pillows across it and, strangely, three cups and a coffee pot big enough for three drinks, what do they get up to around here?)

Spent rest of day driving round town, having a meal at the Blue Coffee Cup Café, which serves proper food (their Wednesday special was meatloaf and real mashed potato, delicious).  Right opposite was a McDonald's (hoik spit) which had a banner sign reading “God Bless Our Veterans,” and then it showed a waving American flag.  Down the road, outside a church, was a sign reading “We Support Our Troops.”  I love their patriotism, wish we had it in our country.

After stuffing our faces and praising the cook (who seemed quite surprised to be complimented) we drove down the road a bit to have a quick look at the Monument Valley area without actually seeing the Monuments, we wanted to save that for tomorrow.  Nevertheless, the scenery was, as always, spectacular.  We’re just in awe pretty much the whole time – mouth open, eyes bulging.

We noticed cars driving down this dirt track and just followed them.  An outdoor market (or car boot, or ‘swap meet’ as they call them over here) for Navajo people.  We walked around, the only white people there (didn’t look the least bit like tourists!)

“How much is this (dated) CD?” I asked.

“$16,” they said.

No, don’t look like tourists at all - didn’t get the CD.

Back at Kayenta, we headed to the nearest ‘supermarket’ for provisions.  We walked around the shop marvelling at the choice of produce they have over here, there must have been 30 different types of salad dressing alone.  Then something terrible happened.

We were walking round and I was saying, “Look how much choice they have!  Look at the size of their ice cream cartons!”  Hubs was mysteriously silent.  We walked the entire shop, and at the end he turned to me and, in ominous tones, said, “There’s no drinks section.”

No beer!

At the check-out he came right out and asked, “Is this a dry town?”

It was, because it was Navajo territory.  “But there’s a place down the road where you can buy beer,” said the man at the check-out.

“Where?” Hubs asked, a bit desperately.

“At Mexican Hat,” the man replied, “About 40 miles away.”

Hubs likes a beer in the evening, but he’s not willing to do an 80 mile round trip to get it.

Hubs discovering it was a 'dry' town.

Hubs said he wasn't the least bit surprised, he felt a bit suicidal himself, what with no beer to drink

He invaded my whisky instead as we slobbed in our room for the night, recharging our batteries for the Big Day tomorrow.  Tomorrow we see Monument Valley in all its glory.  Its Hubs’ lifelong dream.

Hotel:  Best Western Inn at Kayenta.  Nice room, looked like a proper American motel, which I liked.  Biggest bloody bed on the planet, had to seek out Hubs during the night he was that far away.  Powerful shower and deep on-the-floor bath.  Fridge and wide screen TV.  No smoking room, but stood outside door on balcony; ashtrays, as always, provided.  $120 per night plus taxes, includes rather nice breakfast (various toasts, boiled eggs, cereals, yoghurts and pastries).  Liked it.

Thursday 18

Every day I keep saying “That was the best day ever!”  But today really was the best day.

Continental breakfast (sigh) in the hotel at 7am.  But what’s this?  Real food?  Toast (oh thank you Lord) and boiled eggs.  Totally stuffed my face, then made off with a Danish pastry (which I didn’t actually eat because it was too sweet… and because I was stuffed: “Your eyes are bigger than your belly,” Hubs often says, and in actual fact this is pretty accurate).

Actually, a word here about Hubs.  I’ve noticed something over the last few days I never knew about him before.  He’s a terribly neat suitcase packer.  Every day, at each hotel, he unpacks his entire suitcase and repacks it immaculately.  I laughingly called him ‘anal’ this morning, but he just pointed at my suitcase, bursting at the seams and looking pretty much like a sale rack at Primark, and won the argument without uttering a single word.

Then we hit the road, man, headin’ off t’Monument Valley (I think I’m mixing my accents there, American meets Yorkshire and has a fight over vowels… Yorkshire wins hands down for sheer volume).

I digress.  I’ve had a drink in my hotel room before typing this (despite this being a Dry Town… shhhh, don’t tell anyone), and I tend to ramble when the body’s sucked in a whisky… or two.

They have shuttle buses from Kayenta to the Grand Canyon, but you don’t come all the way out here to look at one of the planet’s greatest natural wonders in a bus.  You have to do it in style, in a convertible car with the top down, and that’s just what we did.  You see so much more when there isn’t a roof over your head.

We set off just after 7am local time wearing t-shirt and shorts.  Nearly froze to death, lost all feeling in my limbs.  Made Hubs stop by moaning a lot about hyperthermia and how difficult it would be to ship my body home, and he put up the lid and tossed me a jacket.  And a fatality was narrowly averted.

Monument Valley, wow.  I mean, wow.  I mean, WOW!  We drove to a tiny town called Mexican Hat where, to Hubs immense relief, they sold beer.  We sauntered in and the woman running the shop said, “Are you Australian?” (we get that a lot here).

“No, British,” I said.

“Oh, I thought you were Australians because of the hats.”

“Oh we’re just acting out our fantasy of being cowboys,” I told her.  We’re fine until we open our mouths.

The woman was mad about Mary Poppins and Inspector Morse programmes.  “I get the cable BBC channel,” she said.  We ‘shot the breeze awhile’, bought some beer and some ice, and then carried on, marvelling at the scenery. 

We were going to drive the hundred miles or so through Monument Valley, stop in a town called Bluff, and then come back to view it all from a different angle, but we ended up carrying on to a town called Blanding.

Blanding was lovely, just how you’d imagine a typical American town.  We popped into a deli for lunch and got various goodies for $10 (about £5), then set off to find a scenic place to eat, which ain’t that hard in Monument Valley.  Met up with a couple from Ireland and ‘shot the breeze’ with them awhile… you meet people wherever you go and share travelling tips and anecdotes, I love road trips.

I was trigger happy with the camera and just kept taking photos left, right and centre.  Oh, and some short movies too.

Yes, we were that happy we just had to sing!

I was taking pics of staggering rock formations on the left side of the road when Hubs said, “I’d quite like to see where I’m going.”  I was holding the camera right in front of his face.  “Sometimes,” he drawled (he’s taken to drawling a lot now in his cowboy hat and jeans), “You’re just such a woman.”

He still has the bruise.

On the way back down through Bluff we stopped at an ‘historic monument’, which was rather interesting; how Mormoms first came to the town and how they struggled to settle.  There were photographs of some rather miserable people, but then if you’ve travelled for weeks across arid and bumpy desert, I guess you’d look like that.

On the way back we blew out our camera, it just gave up the ghost and begged for mercy.  I put it away, but then we came to the entrance to the Navajo Reservation which offered more views of Monument Valley.  We stopped off primarily to get an ice cream because I was in the passenger seat sweating my socks off and screaming for an ice cream like a stroppy toddler.

Dusty track right behind me, disappearing into the distance

There was a ‘road’ leading down from the visitors area, you could see cars driving down the dusty track towards towering formations.  Hubs hummed and huffed a bit, muttering about low car and rental insurance, but I forced him to go have a look.

Had I been driving, I’d have given up at the first bumpy hairpin bend, got out the car and sulked until some man came to save me.  Fortunately, Hubs was driving, and he did an excellent job. 

“It’s just like rally driving isn’t it,” I cried, weak with relief that I wasn’t behind the wheel as we bounced along the track. 

“Rally driving is faster,” said Hubs, navigating over a rut big enough to hide an elephant or two. 

“Slow motion rally driving then.”

I’m so glad we made the effort.  It was the best view, the best place, exactly how we’d imagined Monument Valley to be.  You could drive right next to the rock formations and look up, marvel at the sheer immenseness of it all.  It was amazing, I was awestruck.  I walked over to a fallen rock to give a picture some dimension, and looked up at this solid, sheer wall of rock.  I was rendered speechless.  It was an incredible moment.

It was also rather dusty, not being a proper road and all, and our white car turned red.  There were some dodgy moments across a dried up river bed and some deep ruts, but our convertible did us proud.  We drove behind huge 4 x 4 monsters that were pottering along like fairy cakes.  I mean, isn’t that what they were built for, off road driving like this?  Tsk.

Wowed beyond belief, we drove back towards Kayenta and our hotel.  Along the road I saw something I hadn’t seen before – I’d heard about it, but had never actually seen it. 

The traffic ahead suddenly stopped.  As we drew closer we saw a yellow School Bus had pulled up.  It puts out a read sign reading STOP, and both sides of the road come to a standstill as the kids get off and cross the road in complete safety.  I was well impressed.

Filled up red-tinted car with petrol (gas), and flopped into our room.

It had been a hell of a day.  We’ve recovered from the jet lag but are now suffering from sensory overload.

I love this country (have I mentioned that?), its just so spectacular.

Friday 19

No rush today, we’ve got our next hotel booked up for three days so the pressure’s off.   

Brilliant sleep in the vast bed, then sauntered down to breakfast, where a couple of Germans were quite abrupt with the ‘waitress’, who thought she’d found two abandoned bags on a chair.  “Dat is my bag,” the man yelled at her, and she dropped the bags like hot coals, “You vill not touch ze bag.”  Tsk.  I could see Hubs aching to say, ‘Don’t mention ze war,’ but silenced him with a look.   

We have so far covered 1,270 miles of American country… and loving every single minute of it.  Today we head to Page.

“This is a good time to set off,” said Hubs, pulling out of the hotel car park.

“Yes,” I sighed, “If only we knew what time it is.”

“We might get our Lost Hour back if we go west,” he said, then burst into song: Go West by the Village People.  Not pleasant.

If I get my hour back, I shall treasure it always.

There are so many bikers on the roads being followed by luggage vans I’m surprised there’s anyone left in Germany. (In my day, as a ‘proper’ biker – cue Hovis music – when you went on long journeys you packed what you could into two panniers and topbox/rack, including a tent and sleeping bags for ourselves and two children.  But then I can talk, we’re swanning around pretending we’re cowboys.)

The drive over to Page is pleasant enough, but then you catch sight of some monstrosity sitting amongst the glorious landscape.  Three huge chimneys pouring out smoke – some power station or other obliterates the scenery.   

Page itself is nice though, big enough for all your needs.  We topped up on provisions and some deli for lunch in a local Safeway (we love deli food… and cheese and jalapeno ciabatta bread, yum yum).  Oh, and beer, because God forbid we should ever run out of beer again.

Steel reserve for the steel worker turned cowboy - nothing less will do

Our ice box containing 'essential supplies' (tsk)

Then, because we’re bored of having no radio stations to tune into (and have resorted to singing, quite badly, in the car - see clip above) we purchased some CDs: Johnny Cash for Hubs, and Now That’s What I Call Country Music for me.  I’ve never bought country music before, but I like it, a lot (where’s the salt, where’s the god damn salt – not on the CD by the way, just something that’s been in my head since our night out with the cowboy and his wife… ah, good times).

As we couldn’t book into our hotel until 3pm, we drove down the road a little and came across a dusty track.  We didn’t know where it led to, we just followed it, as we're apt to do.  At the end, a car park.  Below the car park, some ancient volcanic rock (inhabited by about a million tiny lizards) and Lake Powell.   

Well of course we had to walk down there, mostly because we could.  In the UK a place like that, with steep rocks and unattended water, would be cordoned off, or else you’d have to pay a fortune to walk on a designated pathway and not be allowed in the water.  But here, just go for it – a notice board at the top simply said ‘Play Safe’.

We stumbled down the rocks in the midday heat (mad dogs and Englishmen) with our deli lunch in a bag, but no water and no hats.  We found a rock underneath an overhang that gave some shade, and sat on it to chow down on lunch.   

Then Hubs completely deserted me and went back to the car for water and hats.

I was on my own.  Alone.  Sitting on a hot rock surrounded by lizards and who knew what else.

Was I scared?

Oh yeah.

Hubs was gone ages.  I did wonder if he’d taken the opportunity to abandon me and drive off, waving cheerily out the window as he raced to some American waitress he’d met somewhere.  Then I started wondering if he’d perhaps lost me, would never find me, would never discover my desiccated body.

Then I started worrying that I hadn’t watched enough Ray Mears survival programmes.  What should I do to find water? (I thought this despite sitting next to a whacking great lake).  How could I light a fire (rub two lizards together?)

Then, as time passed, I started to imagine the spiders underneath the rocks, scorpions in the crevices and snakes in holes.  I was about to be eaten alive by the wildlife.  I had only a chicken wing and a burrito (very nice) to protect myself with.

My very own version of The Blair Witch Project, minus that yukky nose blubbering.

Suddenly a shadow fell across the rock I was scrunched up and quivering on.  A long, dark, ominous shape.  And then something fell from the overhanging rock and landed at my feet.

My hat.  Dropped by Hubs.  Who had managed to find me again and rescue me with water.

My hero.

He then strode off again to find the water.

Plan to go swimming in Lake Powell tomorrow!

We drove round to Wahweap (Waaaaaaaaaaaaaahweap) to look at the boats on the water.  Nice boats.  Nice lake.  Unlike the UK (I know I keep going on about it, but its hard not to mention the differences), people just pulled up with their boats and lowered them into the water, they didn’t have to pay or be a member of a boating club first, it was just there for them to use. 

We saw someone filling up his boat at a petrol station (obviously on a trailer), and a boat called Ship Faced, how perfect is that?

As you drive along it signposts ‘view’ sites, where not only do they have benches for you to sit down in comfort as you admire said view, but there’s a slatted roof to shield you from the sun.  All terribly civilised and well thought out.

We watched ants scuttling off with our burrito crumbs, great swarms of them.  Wondered if they had American accents.

We stood on Glen Canyon dam and looked down the non-dam side to emerald green waters at the bottom of sheer cliffs.  Along the roadside grew Brugsmania (Angel’s Trumpets), my favourite plant which instantly dies upon sight of me (obviously the way to grow it is to stick it in some sand and neglect it – mine tend to either freeze to death or drown).  Pale purple coloured too, which are like really rare.

Tried to have a quick doze in the car, but we’ve dropped around 3,000 feet from Kayenta and its bloody hot down here, we would have been tinned cooked humans within minutes.  (High altitude = hot but no sweating; Low altitude = much heat and much sweat).  Eventually booked into our hotel early and they reluctantly let us in – not the cheeriest folk in the world, those receptionists.   

Down a couple of flights of stairs and along endless dark corridors (think The Shining) to our room.  I immediately took a dislike to it, our first imperfect hotel in America, but the view is rather splendid.

Slob, type, slob, type.  A drinkypoos on our filthy concrete patio, watching the sun go down, watching rabbits at the bottom of the hill and the bats fluttering in the darkening sky.  Quite a wonderful moment.  Hubs dragged me away when starvation threatened to overcome him.

We dashed across the road to The Steak House.  “Its not going to be like McDonald's is it?” I asked.

It wasn’t.  The place was heaving with people all sitting outside under the stars.  The staff were efficient and attentive – ours had come from New Zealand and we had a good yak.  Steaks were delicious (but rather pricey).

Hauled our stuffed carcasses back across the road and sat on our patio area awhile, looking at the stars  Coming from a city, I don’t often get to see a sky without light pollution (I can spot six or seven stars from my back garden), so on my list of things to see was a clear sky full of stars.

And here it was, in all its non-polluted glory, and it was berluddy fantastic… felt like I was floating in space.  Had to stop when I felt faint from craning my head back so far.   

Hotel: Quality Inn at Lake Powell, on the edge of Page overlooking the lake (one of only two hotels with such a view).  Comfy king-size bed with a multitude of mini pillows, but room looks a bit shabby and run down.  I wasn’t happy when we first arrived and moaned because we’ve been spoiled with fridges in our room (and in this heat you need a fridge to keep your drinks cold, unless you particularly like drinking water at bath temperature).  The ‘free wifi’ also wouldn’t work because our room is in the bowels of the hotel, and the patio windows and patio area with its two dirty plastic chairs are in need of a damn good clean.  The view’s good though.   $99 plus taxes (I always forget about taxes) per night.  It’s a place to stay, but I wouldn’t particularly recommend it.  Again, when we checked in mid-afternoon, there was a sign on the door saying ‘No Vacancies’, but a man at reception was getting ‘the last’ overpriced room.

[And no, I didn’t complain to the hotel about our room because (a) the hotel was full, (b) I’m on holiday, (c) as it was an internet booking they said they couldn’t change the room (when I asked for a smoking one), and (d) even if they had another room, it might not have had such a wonderful view.  Oh, and (e) I don’t think you’re supposed to moan on road trips, I think you’re just supposed to take it as it comes, the good with the bad (and the ugly).]

Saturday 20

Woke to the wondrous view (once we fought to get the hefty curtains open at the grimy panoramic window).  Discovered that the toilet in our strangely shaped ‘bathroom’ fills up too much – when you go to ‘wipe yourself’ (ahem) you do it underwater and wash your hands at the same time!  Nice.

Leisurely breakfast, which was rather good, in a room with another panoramic view (where we could see that other hotel dwellers actually had tables with their plastic chairs on their balconies… yep, still whining about the hotel).

And where to today, honey?  Let’s go on down to Antelope Canyon and see what’s happening there.

Driving never gets any less enjoyable, any less spectacular.  Even a quick trip from Page to Antelope Canyon (with Johnny Cash in the stereo) was just a joy.  Sometimes I want to cry because everything’s so amazing, I’m such a soppy git.

Went and had a look at the boatyard – sorry, ‘marina’ - which was smaller than the one we looked at yesterday in Waaaaaaaaaaaaheap.  There was a road leading off, so of course we followed it, because we’re weathered road trippers now and if there’s a road there we’re gonna take it.   

A gravel car park, empty apart from one man cleaning out his pick-up truck.  He was wearing the smallest pair of swimming trunks I’ve ever seen in my life, and was as brown as a conker.  “Hiya,” I said, as I’m apt to do now, being a traveller of America.  He scowled at me and didn’t reply.  I resisted the urge to throw rocks at him (there were plenty of rocks lying around just crying out to be thrown at rude semi-naked men).

There was a footpath amongst the rock and the sand.  Again, we took it.  Didn’t know where it led, but it had to lead somewhere because some of the boot tracks in the sand had GAP written on them, and if GAPpers went down there, then so shall we.

It led to a tiny little ‘beach’ area, with the lake lapping up against a pebbled shore.  I had a paddle.

Hubs, in full cowboy mode (I hope it wears off when we get home) didn’t want to ruin his carefully cultivated cowboy image by getting his wranglers wet.  He looked bloody hot.   

I just looked like a laundry pile with a face, but then I always look like that.

Coming back up to our car I saw something amazing.  Little animals scuttling about.  WILD CHIPMUNKS!!  How fabulous is that!  Chipmunks running free and wild (and not in a cage as we’re used to seeing them).

Aaaaaaaaaaaaand back in the car, up the road, to where a lot of cars were parked.  Looked like there was something going on, so we went in and I paid for something, but I wasn’t quite sure what.  We knew – because we’d read the leaflets – that there was a pretty cave around here some place and only guessed that this was it.  $52 for what I presumed would be a truck ride.   

“How long does it last?” I asked the Navajo in the pay shack.   

“30 minutes there, 30 minutes back,” they said.   

Oh good, a nice little journey in a tourist truck, that would be pleasant.

Except I noticed there weren’t any truck tracks in the dirt, and the people waiting around for the next ‘guided tour’ were all wearing trainers and backpacks and looked like they’d just trekked round the world.

Bugger.

A Navajo boy appeared.  “Tour!” he said, and set off.

Walking.

Oh God.  Having survived my dad’s incessant ‘seven park walk’ round most of Birmingham in my youff, I’m not a great fan of walking, or anything really physical come to that unless there’s alcohol, books, a computer or rude stuff involved.  And here we were, about to walk through the desert at midday with no apparent shade, for 30 minutes there and 30 minutes back.

Hubs pierced me with a laser look.  “It’ll be fine,” I told him cheerfully, wondering what they did with dead tourists.

We walked a little way from the shack, me, Hubs and about a dozen 20-somethings (young, thin things hoik spit).  Armed only with half a bottle of water and me wearing sandals, we were never going to survive.

We all trooped along, and then the guide showed us a deep crevice in the ground.  Yep, very interesting, now where’s the cave?  The young, thin things started climbing down the crevice.  God there’s just no stopping some people is there, show them a hole in the ground and they’ll crawl into it.  There was no way I was going down there, so I thought I’d wait for them round the other side, where this cave probably was.

Doesn't it just scream CLAUSTROPHOBIA!

Hubs pushed me into it, the berluddy brute (he said he was ‘helping’).  The crack in the ground just went down, and down, and down.

Oh my God, the beauty of it, the gloriousness of sandstone rocks eroded by water and time.

Down, and down, and down.  Metal steps, gaps so narrow I had to turn sideways to squeeze through (but so did the young thin things I noticed… ha, bet you’re glad you brought your big back packs now aren’t ya!).

And down, sliding over the rocks, easing our way through narrow passages, stopping to take pictures.  I’m not claustrophobic, but there were a couple of points where I felt the walls were going to crush me.  I kept it in check and didn’t scream, but did vaguely wonder if a helicopter rescue was out of the question.

The claustrophobia disappeared, to be replaced with unmitigated horror that the steep track down (and down) meant that, at some point, we were going to have to turn around and come up (and up).  Down is easier than up.  Up meant I was definitely going to die.

And then, suddenly, stairs leading up to daylight.  Quite a lot of stairs actually.  I’m not yet a couch potato (more time required), but due to my lack of exercise as a transcriber (see ‘dad’s fault’ above), my chances of winning an Olympic medal at anything other than typing in a comfy chair were pretty slim.

Up the stairs, trying to look cheerful, trying to look as though I did this every day, trying to look like I wasn’t going to burst into tears from exhaustion and cry for my mommy any minute.

Only another 30,000 steps to go!

I got to the top gasping.  Gasping.  Ranulph Fiennes would have baulked at the steepness of it.  There was a man standing at the top of the stairs and I tried to move passed him without gasping and puffing and panting, but holding my breath so it didn’t come out like an unoiled steam engine only made things worse and I nearly passed out.   

Scrambled onto a rock and spent a good few minutes trying to acquaint my body with oxygen again in a hee-haw kind of way.  The eye spots gradually disappeared and we sauntered on back to the shack and (thank God!) our car.  Hubs slipped the young guide a few dollars as we went… the kid was clearly stunned to be handed a tip by this tall rugged man who looked like John Wayne but actually hailed from Bradford, Yorkshire.

It was exhilarating.  “Let’s do it again!” I cried.

“Get in the car,” said Hubs.

Off we drove to… Wallmart again.  I think Hubs has a serious problem, but there was a method to his madness.  The ‘secret’ place by the lake we discovered yesterday needed a revisit… with a towel.  £2 for a rather nice one, how good is that!  £3 for the biggest sandwich I’ve ever seen in my life – it was like a whole loaf with ‘stuff’ in it and could easily have fed a family of seven.  We bought it for lunch.

Quick dash back to the hotel for Hubs to change out of his cowboy gear (tsk) and then down to Lake Powell.

And iiiiiiiin the water, oh yeah.  Hubs wearing shorts and pretending the water wasn’t a bit chilly (while his testicles clung somewhere around his ear lobes), me in shorts and a top which became transparent when wet (will I never get it right?).  After spending a good 10 minutes inching myself into the water, I splashed around impressively with my feet firmly planted on the ground.

A local told us to be careful on the road because we were near an airport and there were apparently a lot of head-on crashes in the area.  They’re dead friendly around here (not literally of course).

Chowed down on our family sandwich, barely making a dent in it.  And then we lay back on the sandstone rocks looking up at the sky (its big in America, goes all the way round!).  I can’t remember the last time I lay on my back watching clouds drift by.  Probably the last time my garden lawn was dry enough to lie on, which would be about two years ago.

We were well chilled, but forced ourselves back to the car when our liquid refreshments ran out, dragging ourselves up the rocks like stroppy children.  I had to change my shorts (which were still wet) into the new ones I’d just bought at Wallmart (never one to walk by a bargain).  Knickers too.  Its very difficult to remove wet shorts and wet knickers in the front seat of a car, and I’m sure there’s a couple of traumatised Americans who still haven’t fully recovered.

On our way back to the hotel late afternoon, we passed a couple of tourist trucks with groups of people sitting in the back.  We pulled up alongside them at traffic lights, and they all waved furiously, looking for all the world like we’d just told them they’d won the lottery.  They obviously saw us slouched casually in our convertible, top down, hats on, Johnny Cash (my Now That’s What I Call Country doesn’t get a look in!) on full blast, just cruising on down the road, and thought we were real cowboys.   

My apologies to all real cowboys for bringing a fine profession into disrepute, but hey, we’re on holiday, we’re acting out our fantasy (well not actually mine, more Hub’s fantasy, so all hate mail to him please).

Another quiet night in our hotel room watching the sun go down, the bats come out, me flinching at the rustling in the bushes all around our patio.

Sunday 21

Woken in the night by;

1. Hubs going out on the ‘patio’ for a smoke at 2am (he’d fallen asleep at 7.30pm, tsk).
2. Hubs chatting to two Navajo Indians who just happened passed our ‘patio’ carrying a case of beer at 2.05am.
3. The multitude of mini-pillows trying to suffocate me.
4. The bloody people in the room upstairs who would not leave their patio door or air-con alone.  Honestly, it was like a scene from Ace Ventura Pet Detective; open, shut, air-con on, air-con off, open, shut, open, shut.

Anyway, had a bit of a lie in and then a leisurely breakfast.  I checked my emails on the hotel computer because I’d sent one to Middle Son a few days ago casually asking if everyone was alright back home and he hadn’t replied, so obviously I’d convinced myself that the whole of England had been wiped out by floods, lightning or aliens.  Fortunately he’d taken the time to finally reply, saying everything was fine, and all was well with the world again.

“And what shall we do today, honey?” asked Hubs (we started calling each other ‘honey’ the minute we landed on US soil, very odd, especially since our normal terms of endearment tend to be ‘smelly’ and ‘dog breath’).

“Wanna go here,” I said, pointing at the Grand Canyon North Rim, which was only a couple of inches away on the map but was actually a two hundred mile round trip.

Hubs decided on somewhere a bit closer, Marble Canyon, and off we went.

God the scenery just never ends, and neither does the sky.  We’ve gone waaaay passed the ‘wow’ stage and are now resorting to expressing our emotions using expletives, as in ‘Farkin’ ‘ell that’s big!’ or ‘Berluddy ‘ell that’s impressive!’

We stopped off first at Horseshoe Point, primarily because there were a lot of cars parked there and we didn’t want to miss out on anything that everyone else was enjoying.  A slight walk up a hill promised us a good view of bendy bit of Lake Powell, except when we got to the top of the hill you got a good view of the mile long trek you had to take before you got to see the bendy bit.  We turned round and went back – we did swimming and canyon crawling yesterday, ain’t doing nuffin’ physical today.

We zoomed down to Marble Canyon, crossing some mountains and stopping off to take some scenic photographs to add to our collection of thousands.  And also for me to buy some Navajo Indian jewellery from a stall.

“You magpie!” Hubs said.

“But they’re all so preddy and shiny,” I said.  “How much is this?” I asked the ancient Indian woman, holding up a small pair of earrings.  “$45,” she replied with a straight face.  Obviously didn’t get the earrings, but did get a couple of necklaces which have left a shapely white bit in the tan around my neck.

Hubs, in cruise control mode, shot straight through Marble Canyon without stopping.  “Shall we go back now?” he asked.

“No!” I cried.  “Just carry on a bit and see what’s there.”

Carrying on a bit entailed driving alongside Vermillon Cliffs, which were just exquisite.  We headed towards Jacob Lake across a landscape that just cried out to have cowboys and Indians galloping across it.  Totally flat desert, the odd shack and dust storms dancing like fairies.   

Then we started to climb up, and the desert changed to forestry, the heat went a bit chilly, and we hit almost 8,000 feet.

Jacob Lake was pretty but tiny, with just a petrol station and a general store.  We went in for lunch but there wasn’t one single savoury item in there, all they sold were cookies and cakes, so I forced myself to eat some, washed down with a bottle of Coke, sitting on a rock in the middle of the forest.  I mean, sometimes you just catch sight of yourself and think ‘Look at me!  Look what we’re doing!’

And then something terrible happened, something unexpected and really rather stupid.  I got a migraine and half the scenery disappeared in a kind of Aztec shimmer.  I opened my purse for my tablets but they weren’t there.

Weren’t there!

I was in the middle of nowhere with no medication.

Gr-eat.

“S’up?” said Hubs, noticing that I was emptying my bum bag all over the floor and swearing a lot under my breath.

“Tablets,” I said, “I don’t have any tablets.”

I all but took the lining out of my bag and dismantled the car looking for the elusive pills, but they weren’t anywhere.  I’ve had migraines since I was 11, how the hell could I not have any tablets on me, and why now when there wasn’t a Boots the Chemist in sight!

“Go ask where the nearest drug store is,” I said to Hubs, and off he went.  I searched my bag and car again, getting pretty bloody frantic because a full-blown migraine involves a lot of pain, quite a bit of up-chucking and a complete dissociation of the body from the brain.

He was gone about a day and a half, then sauntered back.  “The woman in there said to take these.”

“What are they?” I said, snatching a box from his hands, ripping the wrapping off and tearing the top off.

“She said they’re good for migraines, but you’re only to take three.”

I tipped 17 tablets back into the bottle, then waited around a while to see (literally) if they worked.

Oh my Lord they did!  The relief!  I’ve tried every migraine tablet on the market and never known any other medication apart from my own to stop a migraine in its tracks.  Aleve, they’re good, does exactly what it says on the bottle.

And off we went again, back the way we came.

Hubs, who had never wanted to go to Jacob Lake in the first place (“Just a nice quiet day,” he’d said) fairly shot back down to the desert and across it like a heat seeking missile.  Vermillon Cliffs weren’t any less pretty the second time, despite the speed at which we passed them.  We were going that fast that I armed wrestled the wind outside my window and built up quite an impressive bicep.

Over a mountain and down into Page.  Honestly, a jet fighter couldn’t have done it faster.  He skidded left into… Wallmart (again!) for lunch.  We apparently like their burritos because we keep eating them, but we went all healthy and bought potato salad as well.  We haven’t actually eaten that much while we’ve been here and often miss an evening meal, must be the heat.  But do I look any thinner?  I do not.  Curses.

Back at our hotel, slobbed on the patio awhile, then the luxury of an afternoon nap.  More slobbing, followed by a drink at the hotel bar.  “I’ll have a Long Island Ice Tea,” I told the young girl behind the counter.

“Are you sure?” she asked ominously.

“No,” I whimpered.

She recommended something that wasn’t likely to have me splayed out on the floor in an alcoholic coma, and very nice it was too.  

The bloke sitting at the bar kept staring at us.  When we left I heard him say, “Were they English?  They shure sounded English.”  I love that.  I’ve never sounded more British in my life, I am a cheaper version of Joanna Lumley (I keep choking on invisible marbles).

Had a meal in the attached ‘Navajo’ restaurant because we couldn’t be bothered to go anywhere else.  And what was on the menu tonight?

Fish and chips.

Not the best meal, but we didn’t die afterwards so not the worst meal either, just yer average frozen fish dinner (and cheap enough).  At least we got served by the single harassed waitress faster than the people sitting behind us, who were there when we arrived and were still there (and starving) when we left.

And out on the ‘patio’ area again to look at the sky.  And what a sky, thousands of stars twinkling in inky blackness.  It was perfect.

“Look at all those cars coming down into Page,” I suddenly said to hubs.  A long string of lights like a diamond necklace headed towards us in the distance.  “Too close for cars,” I said, “They’re motorbikes, loads of them!”

The string of diamonds turned towards Page, and like a couple of hyperactive kids we ran up to the front of the hotel to watch them pass.  I’ve been on bike rallies, I’ve pulled up at destinations late at night, tired and road weary, and that’s exactly what they looked like, berluddy knackered – but they did manage a wave and a ‘hiya’ at the two dopey tourists standing watching them.  About 30 of them pulled into the Travel Lodge Hotel up the road, so that was a bit of excitement for them.

Another fine day.

Only one more to go now (sob wail howl).

Monday 22

Waaaaaaah, our last full day, and are we miserable about it.  Sure, we all think when we’re on holiday, ‘Wonder what it would be like to live here,?’ and then you promptly forget about it and catch the plane home.  This time it’s more a case of, “We gotta live here.’  Its so beautiful.

I woke at 5.30 to find myself in an empty bed.  A quick scour of the oddly shaped room and I discovered Hubs sitting out on the patio outside looking deep in thought.  I think he was a bit worried about leaving the gorgeousness of the country and heading back to Big Bad Vegas.

A hurried breakfast, tossed our keycards at reception, and we were off, to the nearest petrol station to fill up on ‘gas’.  All along the side of the petrol station was a rampage of Brugsmania (Angel’s Trumpets), they’re everywhere, left alone to fend for themselves without food or water.

Aaaaaaaaaaaand they’re off, shooting back across the desert alongside rock formations that looked like medieval castles.  I would have took a photo but the camera was flat – Hubs’ only job was to keep it topped up, tsk.  Even the phone camera was on its last legs.  So… a pictureless day.

Here's one I took earlier - I luuurve this car

We shot through Zion National Park like a fighter jet, but the blurs of it I managed to catch looked breathtaking.  We had to pay $25 to get in and we weren’t stopping, but it was worth it for the views and for the long, dark tunnel.  The zig zag road up the mountainsides were pretty impressive too.  They also stole an hour of our time (again), but we got it back again later (phew).

Zoomed down into Kanab, which is the cutest little town, ‘proper western’.  On the way in we passed idyllic little ranch houses and ‘Land For Sale’ signs, and I whined and howled and cried, “Want!  Want!”  Space!  Space!

Washington City, on the other hand, was like an open quarry.  “Stop here and you die,” I said to Hubs, and we continued our search for a hotel.

Our last night in America.  I had certain criteria.  “Gotta have wifi, gotta have a view, gotta be typical American like a motel or something.  Oh look, there’s a place called Littlefields down the road, let’s try there.”

So we did, and all I can say about Littlefields is it would make a great location for sequels to The Hills Have Eyes.  I tell ya, we were lucky we made it out of there alive (Hubs was humming Dueling Banjos from Deliverance).

And back on the interstate again, into Mesquite, which definitely has delusions of Las Vegas but was pretty enough.  We drove up and down the road looking for a place to stay.  “What about there!?” I said, pointing at one place.

“Yuk,” said Hubs, “Look at the colour scheme!”

He gave me mere milliseconds to choose somewhere to stay, so no pressure!  Eventually came across a ‘proper American motel’ which said they had wifi but in fact didn’t.  It was run by Asians, so probably not ‘typical American’ then.  Tiniest of rooms, but nice enough.  I’m sitting outside now, on the walkway, not a care in the world and typing this up.  S’great.  We’ve driven 250 miles with very little effort today across three states, Arizona, Utah and Nevada. Go us!

Funnily enough, I don't immediately associate Utah with skiing - who knew!

We’re still miserying about having to go home tomorrow, but are treating ourselves to a Chinese meal next door later to cheer ourselves up (having consumed a whole bag of beef jerky and sunflower kernels on the way here – fart food).   

I haven’t realised all my ‘dreams’ and ‘ambitions’ yet – like having a malt and some grits (don’t know what they are but I know I want them), or kiss a policeman in full uniform, but that just means I’ll have to come back.

And come back we will.  Be quite nice to live here awhile (other people do it, why not us?)

UPDATE:  Well we had our delicious Chinese meal at the restaurant next door, where I consumed two Sex on the Beach cocktails which rendered me a bit drunk actually.  I couldn’t eat all my meal and they asked if I wanted to take it home with me!  So civilised.

The night was a nightmare.  Not the hotel’s fault, but suffice to say I slept on top of the bed fully clothed with a chair jammed up against the door.  The room was so small and so hot we had to leave the air conditioning on, and was it berluddy noisy!  I woke to every car door slamming outside our cardboard door, every time the aircon changed its settings (on its own, spooky), every time I heard one of the other residents cough or break wind.  Yeah, I wanted to stay in a typical American hotel, and it was fun in an awful kind of way, but I’ve done it now, don’t think I wanna do it again.

Tuesday 23

Awake at midnight, at 1am, and at 2.30am (when Hubs got up and did noisy things around the room, I think he was still asleep actually).  Eventually woke yet again and croaked, “What’s the time?”  6am.  Okay, give up, get up.

Ooooh I was miserable.  Our last day.  Heading back to Las Vegas today and I ain’t the least bit happy about it.  Hubs shot us across three states yesterday barely pausing to draw breath or draw on a fag (we don’t smoke in the car), so today I pointed at a squiggly line just before Vegas that had ‘scenic route’ written all over it, through the mountains and down passed Lake Mead.  He either took it, or I’d cry all the way down the freeway into Vegas.

It was lovely.  Peaceful.  Scenic.  Mountainous.  Desertous.  Beautiful.  Johnny Cash played on the stereo, until I cried, “Can we please play something else?”

The road was long and windy (the long and winding road da da da) and went on for miles, and miles.  In fact, quite a lot of miles, I was convinced we should have turned off somewhere and hadn’t and were now heading off towards Phoenix.  Oh good, miss our flight, have to stay here, no problem.

With Hubs driving, I had to resort to taking my own photo's a lot

Quite artistic don't you think?

Sadly, we saw Vegas sitting ahead of us, just peeping through the gaps in the mountains.  The right road.  Tsk.  I suppose there’s always a Shirley Valentine moment at the airport (Hubs threatened to disown me if I strayed too far).

Coming into Vegas was like having your eyeballs assaulted.  After the peace and serenity of the rest of the country in north Arizona, the multitude of signs was akin to  being battered with a baseball bat.  Again, if I’d have been driving, it would have been one of those moments where I’d have just stopped the car in the middle of four lanes and got out.  Hubs, on the other hand, was as calm as a cucumber, actually laughing as we navigated our way to the drop off point for our hire car.  Everything was very well signposted, as always, and the view of the strip as we came in was once again impressive – Vegas is spectacular, but not as spectacular as our 2,000 mile drive around the country (sigh).

They took our car away, our lovely white convertible!  Wah!  They just ticked it off and said, “You’re done.”  Easy.  They didn’t even look it over, so we’re fine about all those crashes we had (kidding!).  Also easy, the shuttle bus back to the airport – they think of everything around here.

I did plan on ‘checking in online’ this morning, but in the end couldn’t be bothered (subsconciously hoping we’d have to stay), so hadn’t got anything except my e-ticket.  Not a problem, went through the drop off point like a knife through butter, collected our passes, and we were on our way… to the interminable wait inside the airport.

Slapped on two nicotine patches to take the edge off our screaming abdabs, bought duty free cigarettes, ate a Burger King that was roughly the size of my granddaughter, then sat down to wait.

And wait.

Still waiting now as I type this, looking out at the runway, at the Luxor Hotel where we first stayed (and recovered from our chronic jet lag).  I’m sulking so bad.  It’s the first time I’ve ever not wanted to go home.  I love it here.  I want to stay.

UPDATE:  A plane to Frankfurt was at the next gate to ours.  While we waited and pottered and typed and sighed, we watched them boarding.  “You vill board the plane now!” said the announcer, “Come now!”  Hysterical.

And then it was our turn.  Sigh.  Here we go, back to our real life.  Goodbye Las Vegas.  Goodbye Arizona.  Bye America.

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

[Hubs says he feels naked without his cowboy hat.]

Wednesday 24

We flew through the night, literally through the night.  Darkness doesn’t last long when you’re doing 230 miles an hour at 30,000 feet.

We left Las Vegas at 4pm local time and were due to land at London Gatwick at 10.30am the following morning.  There was turbulence along the way.  I like flying, but I’d never experienced a ‘rough trip’ before.  It was like sitting on a roller coaster ride going up and down, up and down - the downs so bad I found myself suddenly gripping tightly onto the seat in front of me.   

I glanced around, alarmed, not sure whether to start screaming or not, and noticed that everybody else – that’s everybody else – was more concerned about the wine they’d been given with their dinner spilling over.  All the passengers were sitting there, apparently unconcerned that death was battering on the wings, holding glasses of wine out in front of them.  I put my blasé face back on again.

The meal was, as always, vile, but this one particularly disgusting because it was only luke warm.  Something laughingly called ‘beef stew’, although I didn’t see any actual meat in it, just a slurry of what was possibly warm mashed potatoes.  Shortly after dawn, they came round and tossed hot egg and cheese muffins at us – they weren’t very hot either, but we ate them anyway.

Then, around 9am, something happened.  Something Really Bad.  The semi-heated food started to affect me.  I had this ominous feeling in my abdomen, and made a bolt for the loo.

I was in there for Quite Some Time.  Fortunately the loos are small enough for you to evacuate from both ends at the same time.   

When I went back to the seat I asked the chap at the end of our row if he could swap seats with me.  “I don’t feel very well,” I said, and he was up and over in mere seconds, dragging Hubs over to sit next to me lest I should ‘do’ anything.

Another impromptu bolt for the loo, holding onto the handrail as the plane started circling around London.  Was I allowed to sit on the loo and heave down the sink as we landed?   

I struggled back to my seat, thinking Hurry up and land!!!!  It seemed to take forever.  As soon as the wheels touched the runway, I whipped off my seatbelt and fought my way through the crowds in the aisles for the loo again.  I wasn’t the only one, there were several others making strange noises in the loos next to me.  Damn plane food.

We set foot on British soil again.  Damp.  Grey.  Miserable.  And, of course, raining.  Everything looked a bit grubby somehow.  Post-holiday blues hit us like a sledgehammer attached to a speeding truck.  I would have cried, but I didn’t have the strength.

We waited an hour for our ‘courtesy’ bus back to the hotel where we’d left our car.  The car started straight away.  Hubs drove on the right almost immediately.

We set off.  It was a crap journey.  The roads were busy and frantic.  Then there was a downpour and everything came to a virtual standstill.  More traffic.  Nothing like the long, empty roads of Arizona (sigh).

A mere hour from home, Hubs had to pull into a service station because of chronic jet-lag.  He could barely see straight he was so tired.  We both fell asleep in the car for a long time.  When we woke up, the car wouldn’t start.  Hubs had left the lights on.

He yelled, “Get out and push!” in a semi-conscious but quite forceful way.  I was a bit taken aback because (a) Hubs never yells, and (b) I don’t do car pushing.   

Despite (b), I found myself at the back of the car, pushing against it with everything I had, which admittedly wasn’t a lot, not with jet-lag and food poisoning.  I was heaving and gasping and thrusting and… er, straining.  The car suddenly stopped.  Hubs had put on the brakes.

“Why have you slammed on the brakes?” I cried.

And Hubs replied (and get this), “Did you not see that car coming?”

“No!” I hollered back, “Because I’m facing the ground shoving a ton of berluddy metal across the sodding tarmac!  I didn’t realise I had to watch for traffic at the same berluddy time!”

It was then that I stomped off into the service station for some Coke or Red Bull or Speed tablets, anything to keep us awake.  Behind me I heard Hubs marching over to some rugby players and bawling, “Bloody fell asleep with the lights on, can you give us a push?”

They did, quite impressively in fact.  We set off again.  Only because the battery was flat, it affected our sat nav system, which was programmed to take us to the boarding kennels to pick Sam up.  “Pretty sure we shouldn’t be heading towards Coventry,” Hubs kept saying, but on we carried.

Eventually realising that Coventry is nowhere near the boarding kennels, Hubs turned around and went back down the same motorway for 80 odd miles.  I rang the kennels: “We’re going to be late!” I cried.  “Pick him up tomorrow,” they insisted.

We wouldn’t get our dog back until tomorrow!

We eventually made it home at 5.30pm, seven hours after we’d landed.   

Nice to be home (not!)

Miscellaneous

• I’d thoroughly recommend hiring a convertible car if you’re thinking of doing an American road trip.  A convertible means your view isn’t limited to just the windscreen and side windows, you’ve got the whole world above your head, perfect for driving through canyons and marvelling at the scenery.  The windscreen was also perfect for resting your camera and taking unhindered views of the world ahead.
   

• I have to admit that I stole pens and all the tiny toiletries from each hotel we stayed in.  Well, they were meant to be used aren’t they?  in the super-expensive hotel in Tusayan Hubs had to stop me making off with the bath towels and the bedsheets.
   

• Another great thing I like about America is that although you can’t smoke in most hotel rooms, they always provide a nearby smoking area.  Unlike Birmingham city centre, where there are only maybe two public ashtrays provided (and if you dare drop your nub in the street you’ll be arrested and fined and probably beaten to within an inch of your life), here ashtrays are everywhere – have a smoke, just don’t leave a mess is the message.  Nice.
   

• They did seem to have a problem with the Brummie accent in America, but surprisingly understood Hubs’ Yorkshire one perfectly.  When asked what sauce I wanted on a burger, I said “Tomato.”  The burger boy looked at Hubs and said, “Was that tomato?”  Being in America has brought out the Truly British accent in me and I now speak like Joanna Lumley.  Didn’t stop them asking if we were Australian though.
   

• As we drove through Sedona/Cottonwood, I noticed a clothes shop called ‘Dahlink, its so you!’  Brilliant.
   

• Something else I really liked about America was the road system.  The freeways were virtually empty and certainly nothing like the frantic motorway system we have over here (admittedly the UK is slightly smaller than America!).  In towns the main road would have two white lines on the tarmac.  This meant that as you reached the white lines, you’d look at connecting junctions and see if there was anyone waiting to pull out – then you’d let them pull out and take your turn merging with the traffic.  All terribly civilised.  Contrast this with the road-rage attitude of the Birmingham motorist, who will risk life and limb pulling out into traffic (that will risk life and limb to prevent it).

          There were quite slow speed restrictions in towns, and everyone adhered to them, which encouraged you to adhere to them.  As you approached a town, a machine at the side of the
          road would tell you how fast you were going, and change as you slowed down.  Great idea.

• Another great idea is they a separate channel on the TV giving you a rundown of all the facilities available and a brief history of the area.  There are magazines and leaflets giving you information everywhere, which included maps that were better than the one we’d bought.

THE END (sniff)

Have laptop, will travel

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