'From sea to shining sea'

Our final port-of-call in Utah was Zion National Park, a hilly, green oasis in the middle of the waterless desert, and also the place where they filmed 'Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid', if that helps you to picture it. We hiked alongside the rushing Virgin River, skimmed stones, and stood (and got soaked) underneath 'Weeping Rock', a big round, you guessed it, rock out of which trickle big droplets of water at a steady but relentless pace. Apparently it takes over 1200 years for each droplet to percolate down through the rock from the top to the bottom. Think on that. So the water that drenched us entered the rock in 809 AD, the year when Emperor Saga succeeded Emperor Heizei as emperor of Japan, as I hardly need to remind you. I may or may not have consulted Wikipedia to find that illuminating nugget of information.

Apparently Zion National Park is so named because the Mormons, trekking wearily across the desert in search of their promised land, thought they had found it when they reached this place. Brigham Young, one of the leaders, declared upon his arrival that, although he agreed it was very nice, it was 'not Zion'. The name 'not Zion' stuck and, over time, the 'not' part fell by the wayside. It's now one of the oldest and most popular national parks in the country, with over three million visitors per year. That weight of numbers has apparently encouraged them to pay lip service to eco-friendliness, as in a message on the hand-towel dispensers in the restroom they had advised us to use the electric dryers. Next to the message someone had scrawled, with admirable succinctness, 'why don't you just not put this here?'. Fair point, I think.

On Saturday we drove a hell of a long way back to Los Angeles; it was the first time in the whole nine-week 

odyssey that we had returned to any given place, and it felt a little weird. Tony and Erica once again were generous enough to put us up, and put up with us, as we recuperated before flying back to Boston on Monday. It would be going too far to describe it as a culture shock, but Boston really is quite different from the West Coast. There are still Starbucks' and McDonalds', of course, but then they exist in Tokyo, too. Coming back to the East has underlined for me the astonishing diversity of this nation.

America is a country the size of a continent (if you ignore Canada, which most people seem to), and it is geographically, topographically and climatically extremely varied. Landscapes exert a tremendous pull on the people who live in them, so it is no surprise that the people of the coasts, the people of the mountains, the people of the humid South, the people of the desert, and the people of the stultifying, waving-corn flatness of Middle America should be so utterly different in so many ways. On top of that, there are pockets of disparity so drastic that they are practically nations in their own right, like the Mormons and the Navajo Nation, and of course, huge and rapidly expanding populations of minorities. It has been said before by people vastly more qualified to talk about such matters than me, but I think it's true so I'm gonna say it anyway - America is a land of contrasts; almost anything you say about it is true, and the opposite is true too. It's extremely rich and extremely poor; it's the model of federalism but also highly regionalised; it's a place of immense hope but simultaneously full of anxiety and nihilism.

And yet, given all that, it is a much more harmonious place than one might expect. The country could comfortably envelope Europe, a continent (if you want to call it a continent) of countless, often incompatible, cultures, languages, and world-views, yet America is, to a large extent, unified. The 'American Dream', for want of a better expression, is responsible for a great deal of heartache (if 'Death of a Salesman' has taught me anything...), yet there is something to be said for it as an agent of uniformity. Everybody in this country has a shared ideal, something with which to relate to all those around them. The slightly unattractive side-effects may be introspectiveness, isolationism and, sometimes, superciliousness, but the trade-off is a pretty robust sense of national well-being; the people know what their country is about, and that has to be a positive thing, at least as far as individual happiness is concerned. There is no equivalent 'European Dream', or even 'British Dream', which perhaps explains the correspondent identity crisis in those places.

This could all be changing. One of the reasons for the aching void in the British national consciousness is surely postcolonial guilt - Britain used to be exceedingly confident in what it was and where it was going, but this jingoistic attitude died with the empire that fostered it, and was replaced by frantic soul-searching. If I might dip my toe into the murky waters of current affairs, it would seem that America could be entering a post-imperial (certainly post-Bushist) age, in which the old certainties are disappearing. Whether this will precipitate the disintegration of the American ideal, or serve to reinforce it, remains to be seen. It should be interesting.

After that thoroughly unwarranted pseudo-intellectual digression, back to the real world. So, yeah...we're going home tomorrow. It's very bizarre. There are lots of things that I'll miss about the States - the food, the friendliness of the people, the landscape, the lemonade. But it will be nice to be able to pick up a sports section without being bored to tears; nice to be able to ask for 'water' without being stared at/misunderstood/laughed at/all of the above (delete as appropriate); nice to watch programmes on TV rather than adverts.

What have been my highlights of the trip? I know you didn't ask but I'm going to tell you anyway. It's literally impossible to pick just one, so I'm going to throw a tedious, disorderly and inevitably incomplete list at you that will probably just be confusing:

hiking to the top of the waterfall in Yosemite, taking the paddlewheeler on the Mississippi, going to the baseball in LA, cycling by the Pacific, the 'Bean' in Chicago, Capitol Reef, hiking amongst the Redwoods, swimming in Lake Michigan, the Grand Canyon, having a great time doing nothing in Charleston, Universal Studios with the Vickers', the enormous buffet in Las Vegas, Guys and Dolls on Broadway, watching the breakers roll in off the Pacific in Gualala and Bandon, Slide Rock State Park with Crawfs and the gang, Point Lobos State Reserve, skimming stones in Zion, swimming in Yosemite, Monument Valley, Six Flags Magic Mountain, the National Museum of the American Indian in New York, the whole train journey, eating Wendy's in front of 'Walk the Line' on our final evening with the car, Canyon de Chelly, my first swim in the Pacific, driving Highway 1

Still awake? Good. That's about all from me, and from this blog I'm afraid. I hope you've enjoyed reading it, at least more than we've enjoyed writing it, because it's been a right chore to be honest with you. I'm joking of course...but you knew that. It's time to go home. Take care y'all.

- Adam

'Are you crazy? The fall will probably kill ya!'

Capitol Reef is, as I'm sure you've guessed, not really a reef at all, but is so called because the early settlers thought it looked a bit like one, and I suppose it does, in a way. Only, you know, without the water...and the fish. In reality it is an arid, rocky wilderness, having as its centrepiece a series of smooth-sided rock formations that together are known as the Waterpocket Fold. It is the least popular of all Utah's national parks, which seems a shame, because we liked it very much, although it was quite nice not to have to fight past fellow tourists all the time. The Reef felt more authentically Western than, say, Monument Valley, which, though incredible, suffers a little through overexposure. It also, apparently, used to be a favoured hangout of Butch Cassidy and his Hole in the Wall gang, which makes it well worth seeing in my opinion.

We had some fun shouting things at Echo Cliff, which is exactly what you think it is, and took a good look at some of the abandoned buildings left over from when the Mormons settled here, including a one-room school building so small that it made Sark school seem like Eton. Capitol Reef is also home to some truly remarkable 'petroglyphs' - pictures etched into the cliff-face by the Fremont Indians more than 1000 years ago. As one of the recurring images is a bighorn sheep, it is thought that the Indians 

carved the symbols in response to a famine, hoping to conduce the gods to provide more game to hunt. But who knows - it could have just been graffiti.

The following day we went to Bryce Canyon, which is an extremely odd place; an eerie landscape of jutting red rock pillars called 'hoodoos' that are quite enchanting. These sandstone sentinels keep watch over dramatic vistas of the Utah desert that sweep in all directions to the horizon. It's very beautiful, in a weird sort of way. Also very orange. 'Bryce Canyon' is a misnomer, as it is not really a canyon at all, but I can see how they made the mistake. The other part of the 

name recalls Mormon settler Ebenezer Bryce, who memorably declared, with a delicate sense of understatement, that it would be 'a helluva place to lose a cow'.

Bryce Canyon is higher than anywhere I've ever been before, and I've certainly been feeling some of the giddy effects of the altitude. It probably doesn't help that I've spent the majority of my life at more or less sea level (actually in the sea as often as possible), although Scarlett seems relatively unaffected, so maybe I'm just being pathetic. Fortunately we only spent a few hours there before descending to a less ridiculous altitude, so it's all good.

That's your lot for now. We only have a few days left on the road before we return to Los Angeles and then head back to Boston, and then home. A week to go. Bet you're excited.

- Adam

'Who are those guys?'

Four days, four incredible experiences in the awesome Southwestern desert. On Saturday, the weather having sufficiently improved, we made the bold decision to venture to the Grand Canyon. When we first arrived, there was a layer of mist obscuring it from view, which, though quite atmospheric, was more than a little irritating; fortunately, we stuck it out, the fog rapidly rolled away, and we were treated to a simply unbelievable view. It really is as amazing as everybody says it is. It may not be the biggest canyon in the solar system (that coveted honour, as I'm sure you don't need me to remind you, 

belongs to Valles Marineris on Mars - can you tell we went to an observatory the other day), but credit where credit's due, Mother Nature surpassed herself here. As I said in Yosemite, I don't fully understand the geological forces required to transform the earth in such a way, all I know is that I'm grateful to them.

The canyon is almost too big to properly get a handle on mentally. At over one mile deep and stretching across practically to the horizon, it is an overwhelming expanse that stands apart, intangible. No photograph can truly do it justice, but I have to take pictures because I don't know what else I would do. Imagine discovering it for the first time - you're walking along, hands in your pockets, whistling a happy tune, and then suddenly you turn a corner and the earth opens up in front of your eyes. Bizarre.

What else have we done? Well I'm glad you asked. On Monday we met up with our pilot friend James, who we met on the train (43 hours turns out to be a long time to get know someone when you're on a vehicle you can't get off), and some of his pilot pals (who demonstrated themselves to be pilots through and through by arranging to meet us at an airport) in Sedona, a town situated in the heart of Red Rock country. There's no denying it, the rocks really are quite red. We had a whole lot of fun at Slide Rock state park, where the undulations of a river over dips in the rock creates a kind of natural water park. It was a bit like the flumes at Beau Sejour, only faster, colder, and in the desert. 

You can almost become desensitised to the landscape here once you get used to it, particularly when you're travelling through it for hours, but occasionally I am still struck by the astonishing incommensurability between here and home, and driving amongst the arresting rock formations around Sedona was one of those times.

Another one was when we went to Monument Valley, a stark landscape of sandstone pinnacles, and a place that demonstrates that rock can be more beautiful and more varied than you might imagine (some of the formations included 'Snoopy' and 'The Dragon', and really looked like them). These towering monoliths, rising imposingly out of the drifting red sand, are incredibly familiar, largely because producers of Westerns, notably John Ford, quite rightly recognised that this would be an ideal spot for shooting, in both senses of the word, and consequently they have become perhaps the archetypal Wild West image.

The feeling of timelessness that swirled around us as we stood beneath remarkable windows in the rock called things like 'the ear of the wind' and 'the eye of the sun' was accentuated by the beautiful, mournful flute music played by our Navajo guide. They can probably be forgiven any melancholy.

Straddling the borders of Arizona, Utah and New Mexico, and encompassing Monument Valley, the Navajo Nation today consists of around 300 000 inhabitants, making it the largest Indian reservation in the States. The people may be fully immersed in American culture, but to a reasonable extent it does feel a bit like another country. In 

1864, the Navajo were forcibly and systematically relocated to New Mexico, and although they were permitted to return to their ancestral lands a few years later, it understandably fostered a resentment that persists in some form to the present day. There are many shameful episodes in American history (the 1984 invasion of Grenada springs to mind), but few are more regrettable than this 'Long Walk', which formed part of the broader 'Trail of Tears' that resulted in the deaths of thousands of Indians.

On a less depressing note, we were afforded a fascinating glimpse into indigenous history at Canyon de Chelly, where the people whom the Navajo call the 'Anasazi', or 'ancient ones', constructed a number of elegant cliff dwellings that have so far survived the ravages of time. 25 Navajo families farm the canyon floor today, continuing where their forebears left off - the Anasazi's abundant harvests of corn and squash provided them with the resources to build their mysterious cliffside villages. Canyon de Chelly, though still enormous, is not nearly as big as the Grand Canyon and therefore, in a way, perhaps even more beautiful, if not quite as extraordinary. I actually felt more trepidation standing near the edge there than I did at the Grand Canyon, because the latter is just so deep that it scarcely seems real.

I apologise for the unnecessarily long, and long-winded, entry today, but we've done so much in the last few days and who knows when we'll have the internet again. Right now we're in a 'town', though really it is just a couple of motels and a gas station, with the hilarious name of Mexican Hat, and we're about to set off for the national parks to the west, beginning with the Capitol Reef, which sounds just about as incongruous as it gets in the Utah desert. I'll be sure to keep you, quite literally, posted.

Utah-kin' to me?

- Adam

'Get down! It's not a climbing frame!'

After leaving Yosemite, en route to the national parks of the Southwest, we drove down through the heart of the Californian desert to Bakersfield, which is apparently the fastest-growing city in the States, for reasons that are not immediately obvious - the only tourist pamphlets available at our motel were advertising attractions hundreds of miles away in LA and San Francisco, which ought to give you an insight into what sort of a place it is. To be fair, we didn't exactly see very much of it, as we arrived quite late and left quite early. But it did have a Denny's (who'd have believed it?), so it wasn't all bad.

The following day we took the opportunity to observe the compelling decadence of Las Vegas, the sight of which, rising like some sort of neon jewel from the desert, is pretty remarkable after driving through hundreds of miles of arid, 

sparsely-populated terrain. We elected to stay for only one night, fearing we might otherwise find it just a little too decadent, but, thanks to our dear brother Benj, spent it in style at the enormous, Egyptian-themed Luxor Hotel.

As we checked in, the receptionist gave us directions to our room that went like this: 'take a left at the Starbucks over there, walk all the way down to the other Starbucks, then take a right' - that was our first indication of the kind of hotel we were dealing with. Alright, maybe our very first indication was the fact that it was shaped like a pyramid, with a colossal sphinx guarding the entrance, but you get the picture. This impression was swiftly reinforced by the presence of a number of vending machines dispensing ipods and iphones. Who needs an iphone that immediately? Imagine if you tried to buy one and it got stuck, and you had to buy a second one to push it out, you'd be gutted.

The hotel was extremely cool though; very Luxorious (do you get it?). We did our best not to get swept up in the gambling, resisting the occasional pulse-quickening thought of, 'well, I've got five dollars, I could turn that into ten dollars, and I could turn that into a million dollars!'. We managed to restrict our involvement to only a quick go on the bewildering fruit machines, which yielded, unsurprisingly, no return. Only put in a dollar though, so the joke's on them. I noted with interest that there are no clocks and no windows in any of the casinos. The House always wins.

Nevada's unique existence as a haven of vice in a notoriously puritanical nation is the reasonably predictable outcome of its history as a frontier society; anxious that death was just around the corner, it's small wonder that people opted to indulge in a few games of chance, and other shady pursuits. Take that Wild West morality and leave it to bake in the scorching desert sun for a few hundred years, and you end up with Las Vegas. Moreover, I think people go a little bit stir-crazy when they're this far from the ocean all the time; perhaps that might also explain the frightening conservatism of parts of Middle America.

The ubiquitous neon reminded me slighly of Tokyo, but aside from that the city was completely unlike anywhere else I've ever been. It's bizarre that people are there every single night. Maybe a little bit sad too.

After another exceedingly long drive, over the Hoover Dam as it happens, we arrived in Flagstaff. It was so hot in Las Vegas (it's like driving through a sauna) that we were consequently very surprised, and not 

inconsiderably miffed, to find it cold and wet in Arizona. That was most definitely not in the brochure. It's probably because we have, without particularly realising it, ascended to almost 7500 feet above sea level, which puts us much higher even than Yosemite. The altitude only became truly noticeable when we tried to walk around 200 yards and I found myself disarmingly short of breath.

It's funny how absolutely anywhere can look like England when it rains. The name 'Arizona' is synonymous with the Old West, yet in the grey drizzle, with the dramatic mountains that surround Flagstaff obscured by fog, we could easily be in the midlands. It's still damp and murky today, so we've had to postpone our planned excursion to the Grand Canyon until the weather improves, since otherwise we won't be able to see anything. Instead, scratching around for things to do indoors, we passed a diverting morning at the Lowell Observatory, the place where, in 1930, an American astronomer discovered Pluto. Here's something I never realised: apparently the task of christening the ninth planet with a name was opened up to the global public; suggestions included 'Aero Nautus' and, rather more mundanely, 'Jean'. The winning idea of naming it after the Roman god of the underworld was proposed by an 11 year-old English girl in a telegram that read, 'new planet name. please consider pluto. suggested by small girl. for dark and gloomy world'.

According to our tour guide, Saturn is currently in a very favourable location for observation, so keep your telescopes handy. From all of us here, I'm Leonard Nimoy, good night, and keep watching the skis. Er, skies.

- Adam

'My god man...do they want tea?'

I sort of imagine national parks to be similar to parks in England, in other words a few picnic benches and a pond. Yosemite isn't really like that. You could spend practically an eternity here exploring the forested valleys. Sadly we only had one full day, so it was important that we make the most of it. Since we are,

 as I'm sure you can imagine, hikers by nature - Bear Grylls and I are very much kindred spirits - we elected to follow the reasonably demanding six-mile trail to the top of Vernal Falls.

We scrambled beside the rushing Merced river up a set of slippery stone steps, carved so elegantly (and precariously) into the rock that, after our experiences in Japan, I felt sure we would reach a temple at the top. While the roaring torrent of water cascading over the edge and thundering onto the rocks below is a singularly glorious sight to behold, it also generates a hell of a lot of spray, and we were absolutely soaked by the time we reached the top. The path is called the 'Mist Trail', which is definitely an understatement. Since it was a pretty hot day, however, this was quite a good thing, and we were rewarded for our efforts with some stunning views of the valley stretching out majestically beneath us.

Yosemite is just astonishingly, impossibly beautiful. It really does look like a canvas painting, or like it's been created on a green screen, because it's hard to believe that anything this spectacular could be real. Aristotle said quite a lot of things, including many pithy, university-friendly quotes, one of which I know to be, 'in all things in nature there is something of the marvellous'. Had he been able to visit Yosemite, he would have had to append his statement with, 'and in some things there are bloody loads'.

It's been a national park since 1909 (that makes it the centenary year, for those who are keeping up), and has always been looked after reverentially, by the Indians and the Europeans who displaced them alike. Even in America, a country that evolved from a colonising project based on the concept of 'land's gotta be settled', people used to engaging in a struggle to master nature took one look at Yosemite and said, 'hang on a minute lads, we might want to protect this'. I simply can't begin to understand the geological processes involved in creating a valley like this. It certainly makes you feel insignificant, in a good way.

Unlike in the Redwoods, this trail was reasonably busy, so we didn't feel the need to pollute the 

air with our singing, even though there are both bears and mountain lions about (didn't see any - it's almost disappointing). Along with other equally intrepid hikers, we had to share the path with a number of national park workers whose job description didn't appear to extend much beyond 'smash up rocks for a living'. Still, there are worse places to do that job I guess.

Afterwards we intended to drive to Glacier Point, the clifftop with supposedly the most striking views of the valley, and indeed got much of the way there, but we were thwarted by the sudden onset of an enormous

thunderstorm; we didn't think it was a particularly good idea to drive to the highest point for many miles when there's lightning knocking about. Hopefully we might get a chance to go back tomorrow on our way out.

It's going to be a wrench to leave Yosemite, but it's time to head for the desert. Las Vegas is the next significant port-of-call, with an overnight stop somewhere on the way. Should be a cracker.

- Adam

'Awesome like a hot dog? Like a million hot dogs sir'

Hello avid blog readers! I am JOLLY tired while I write this, so I warn you it will probably make about as much sense as a pig in a jam jar, but you don't mind do you?

We are in Yosemite National Park! We're staying in a hostel called Yosemite Bug, and they're not kidding. About the bugs, I mean. It's dark now, so every time we go in and out of our room to the bathroom we have to be superlightningfast so as not to let in the swarm of daddy longlegses that are hovering about outside the door. I hate them so much! I have thrice been engaged in mortal combat with one of their kind this evening and although I have a significant height advantage (not to mention the flip-flop weapon) they can put up a pretty good fight. It's mainly because they dive-bomb. Onto my head! Bleuurgh yukyukyuk.

So, it turns out I'm not really an 'outdoorsey' person. But Yosemite is absolutely amazing and I'm sure I will be converted to outdoorsism after we do the big 6-mile hike Adam has planned for tomorrow, because it's supposed to have some of the most spectacular views in the world. We did a scenic drive today (much more up my street!) and it was absolutely incredible - my brain just couldn't process some of the views as being real life and not a photo or painting or movie or something. It was awesome. 

And it's hot! The car told us it got up to 101F today, which is madness. This afternoon we went to a 'swimming hole' near the hostel, which was freezing but absolutely perfect - it's a natural pool in the rocks with a waterfall running into it. We had to hike there from the hostel (only for about ten minutes, but still) and it made it all the more satisfying. 

We have spent a great few days in Oregon, enjoying it's uncalifornianess (in particular the absence of sales tax - woohoo!) and it's English-countrylike scenery. We spent two days in Bandon; a small town on the coast, where we stayed in a lovely family-run motel with views of the sea. Importantly, it had a TV so we managed to watch the season finale of Lost, and we spent a whole day without driving anywhere which was marvellous! We had planned to go to Crater Lake on Thursday, but we found that the roads were still closed because of snow, so we skipped that and drove inland (for the first time!) to a very interesting little town called Ashland. 

We liked Ashland a lot because it reminded us of home, and there is a very good reason for that. It holds the Oregon Shakespeare Festival every year from February to October, and the whole town is modeled on Stratford, so it's a very bizarre English-feeling place. It's also absolutely full of hippies because the water from the river flowing through the town is supposed to have incredible healing qualities (and also because it's full of actors and all about the art, maaaan), so it seems like a very relaxed place. It was absolutely packed with school trips, of course, which took us back. 

We didn't actually see any Shakespeare plays (because they were sold out), but we did get to see a new American play called Equivocation, in which Shakespeare was the main character, having to write a play for King James about the gunpowder plot. It was... interesting. I have never seen Shakespeare portrayed with an American accent before! That was a new one. And I'm fairly sure they didn't say 'goddammit!' and 'you got me wearin this goddam diaper!' in Shakespeare's day, but I could be wrong. And hey, I shouldn't be too harsh - the acting was fantastic and it was great to go to see a live show, but unfortunately the play itself was an extremely thinly veiled comment on American society, dressed up as a historical drama... some of the comments about torture and unnecessary wars were completely transparent. Funny though! 

I'm going to brave the walk to the bathroom now... wish me luck!

-Scarlett

'If you can't do better than a bunch of old Romans...you ain't no brothers of mine'

Yesterday we ticked off the 23rd state of our journey as we crossed the border and began breathing in the sweet air of Oregon, which admittedly is a lot like the air in northern California, if noticeably a little cheaper, as there is no sales tax here. We found a nice, family-run motel perched on the cliffs in Bandon, a typical Pacific Northwest fishing community, and took the opportunity to have a much-needed rest day between exceptionally long drives. There's a storm brewing out to sea, the wind is howling, and raindrops are beginning to flick the window. It's pretty atmospheric.

Bandon is a town so reminiscent of Middle America that its residents must be constantly surprised when they wake up each morning and discover the crashing Pacific at the end of the main street; it's the only thing that rescues this otherwise sleepy community from aching banality (that and the apparently popular golf course, though as a general rule I feel the less said about golf the better). After the occasionally maddening sprawl of the cities we've been to however, such rusticity is quite welcome, and it's not exactly a backwater - we had some incredible thai food last night, for 

instance - unlike, say, Kansas, which really is just empty, with even Kansas City preferring to situate itself in Missouri than in the state whose name it bears. We've been for a couple of walks on the beach; rugged and windswept, the sea forbidding and grey, it is extremely beautiful, and reminds me quite a lot of Guernsey in the winter, even if at home you're unlikely to encounter any signs that caution 'Warning! It is illegal to harass the sea lions!'

The Pacific Northwest is, to my mind, one of the most fascinating parts of this country. It's not one of the more talked-about regions, but in many ways it is a microcosm of America - a whole host of diverse cultures (the Indians of course, the Russians, who established a series of outposts in the 18th century, the Euro-Americans, who flocked here during the Gold Rush, and even the Greeks, would you believe) competing and interacting in a frontier society, all strewn amongst astonishingly beautiful scenery.

And boy, is the scenery beautiful. After Gualala, we spent two days in Redwood National Park, in a cosy hostel that had expansive views of the ocean (it's becoming a pleasing theme of our overnight accommodations at the moment). There really are some big trees in these forests. The tallest stands at a neck-craning 364 feet. There is no viable way to fit an entire redwood into your field of vision, or indeed a photograph, though we had a good go at it, as you can see. They're fairly old too; the most ancient is no less than 2200 years old, which means that when Jesus was born it was already a pretty old tree. That's simply unimaginable.

We hiked a trail through the forest that, although only six miles long, felt a lot longer as it sneakily went up and down hills. It looked a lot like 'Return of the Jedi', which I suppose isn't that surprising since that's where it was filmed. As we traipsed along we had to resort to our full repertoire of songs, appropriately including those from 'Seven Brides for Seven Brothers', to try and keep the bears at a safe distance; we may have sounded a bit like we were trying to keep our spirits up in a collapsed mine, but we didn't see any bears so it obviously did the

trick, although it was a little embarrassing when we came across other bemused-looking hikers, who clearly had not been given the same advice (though who knows whether they made it to the end of the trail!).

We did occasionally work up enough courage to desist from singing long enough to listen to the unforgettable silence created by the towering canopy. As Scarlett pointed out, it's so quiet it actually hurts your ears, as they strain to hear something, anything. Unfortunately, after a while this precious silence was shattered by a lone fly, who appeared to take great delight in pursuing us doggedly for several miles along the trail. You've honestly never heard a fly so loud. We were told to 'keep the wildlife wild', but given the chance I would have killed that fly, so as I would.

I'd better sign off, otherwise I'm going to miss the beginning of the Lost three-hour season finale event, which ought to be incredible, even if it will be punctuated by adverts that say things like 'too old for acne but too young for wrinkles? Your skin is practically perfect, but don't worry, you can still spend money on it by buying this wholly unnecessary product'. Tomorrow we're making a right turn and heading inland to Crater Lake, before dropping back down into California on our way to the Arizonan national parks. Watch, quite literally, this space.

- Adam

'I can hear the Pacific singing'

I'm writing this entry in front of a big bay window that overlooks the Pacific Ocean, in a place called 'Seacliff on the Bluff', a hotel that is, as you might expect, on a bluff, in a little town called Gualala (whose residents have decided to pronounce the 'g' as a 'w', you know, just to spice things up), around 100 miles north of San Francisco. Our room comes equipped with a pair of binoculars for spotting wildlife; so far we've seen a cheeky seal lolling about in the shallows, and we're keeping our eyes peeled for grey whales, which are currently migrating past here back to Alaska. No sign of them yet though. I'm demanding my money back if we don't see any.

Driving up Highway 1 is truly exhilarating. The scenery is absolutely astonishing, as the road snakes up and down huge cliffs, in and out of thick forests, all the while with unforgettable views of the pounding surf below. Big Sur, a 90-mile stretch of coastline south of Santa Cruz, is particularly amazing. We stopped at a place called Point Lobos, which our guide book described as 'the greatest meeting of land and water on earth', or probably anywhere else for that matter. The picture is from there.

Of course, whoever's in the passenger seat has much better views than the driver, who has to keep his/her eyes fixed on the road, lest there be any lively detours onto the other side of the line. This can be a little frustrating, especially when Scarlett says something like, 'a whale! A whole pod of whales! They're waving to me! I've never seen anything like this...DON'T LOOK, for God's sake!'

The north coast is equally beautiful, but, shockingly, it's becoming decidedly cooler as we progress, which we weren't expecting. Fortunately next week we're gonna be heading to Arizona, where it should be scorching.

San Francisco was excellent too. It had a very laid-back feel, and is unique amongst the cities we've been to in this country in that it had hills (!), which made strolling around somewhat strenuous, but also frequently yielded good views (and photographs). We rode one of those iconic cable cars, drove across the Golden Gate Bridge, caught a terrifying glimpse of Alcatraz, and met up with Andrew Vickers, who it was nice to see again. 

We were persuaded by the catchy jingle on the TV commercial for hotwire.com ('H-O-T-W-I-R-E, hotwire.com!') to book a 4-star hotel room for very cheap in the middle of the city. It was nice, but barely any nicer than some of the other places we've stayed, and they tried to squeeze money out of us at every opportunity ($35 for an umbrella!). We also felt ever so slightly out of place. When we first walked in, fresh from sunny Santa Cruz and laden with bags, the dapper-looking concierge took one glance at our summery attire and said, in an unmistakably condescending tone, 'been enjoying the sun, have you?', which deflated us a bit.

In Santa Barbara and Santa Cruz I managed to swim in the Pacific, thereby achieving step two in my goal of swimming in every ocean. Some men climb mountains, some men run marathons...I figure I should be able to knock off the Indian at some point, but if anybody knows where I could swim in the Arctic or Southern, I'd be grateful if you'd let me know.

Just a (relatively) short entry from me today, which I'm sure will come as a relief to you. We're about to set off up the north coast again to go see the redwoods. Hopefully we'll spot some whales before we do.

- Adam

'Honest to Blog?'

I write this from a hostel in San Luis Obispo, a small town about half way along the section of California coast between LA and San Francisco. It smells slightly of dog, but is otherwise pretty nice (the hostel, not the town, although the town is nice too), and we got here in about 3 hours from Santa Barbara where we were last night. I don't know if it's typical of the town, but we have met literally the nicest people ever here - everyone in the shops and restaurants have been so out-of-their-way friendly and complimentary about our accents, my name, our clothes... all in the few hours we've been here! Amazing. The US in general is pretty good for that though - we've met some fantastic and really helpful people. At Graceland (all the way back in Memphis, 2 weeks ago), there was a couple in front of us in the queue for tickets who had some discount passes for the slightly more inclusive tour which they didn't have time for, so they just handed them to us and we got to go see Elvis' private jet and cars and all sorts of cool stuff for free! And this morning, in a car park at the beach, we parked and were on our way to pay $2 for the space when we met a guy backing out of his space who had payed his money but wasn't staying so he got out of the car to tell us to take his space for the rest of the time on the ticket (2 hours). It seems simple, but it's not something you experience that much at home, is it? It's nice.  

It has been ages since I've written anything for this blog! I've been having such a nice time relaxing in LA that I have barely had time. We have had a fantastico week, as Adam has already mentioned - sightseeing, rollercoastering, watching baseball games and seeing all the Vickers again - it's been fab. We have had a proper American experience! 

But now we're on the road and it's just about as awesome. I have been driving! On the freeway! It was hella scary to start with but I think we've got used to it now. It's fast, but not like the motorways at home (not that I've driven on them), but considerably faster than Guernsey and on the wrong side of the road, obviously. We've had a couple of weeks of 'observation' though, so we were used to it already.  Adam had a bit of a scary moment yesterday, though, when I had to accelerate to overtake a massive truck that was jiggling about and I was shouting 'SCARED! SCARED! SCARED!' for a few minutes, but it all worked out in the end. 

It's funny how people can't understand us half the time here. It's almost harder than being in Japan or something, because we're all speaking the same language... I always feel bad when they can't understand, for example, the word 'water', because I don't want to start describing it: 'the stuff that comes from the tap, you know?' because that would be weird, wouldn't it? So I just keep repeating it until Adam jumps in with an American accent and they go 'ohhh, warder, why didn't you say?' Tricky. I feel like a fraud saying things like 'do you sell band aids here?' or 'can I have some yohhhgurt sauce please?' in my english accent, but when in rome, as they say. 

Speaking of which, I'm gonna go eat a burger and some marshmallows...not at the same time. BYE!

- Scarlett

'Yes, some birds are funny when they talk'

We've been so unbelievably busy since arriving here in Los Angeles that the blog has shamefully fallen somewhat by the wayside, so our sincere apologies must go to the multitude of readers who have been anxiously refreshing the page every few minutes for the last week. We promise to get our act together. Suffice it to say that the remainder of the train journey across the Mojave Desert was superb, and we pulled into tinseltown without any problems; indeed, we arrived over an hour early (can you imagine that happening on Virgin trains!?). Tony and Erica, the family friends who have incredibly generously been putting us up this week, met us at the station, and since then have been showing us round this curious city.

LA is the prime location for experiencing what our guide book pithily describes as the 'delicious shock of the familiar' - the city is saturated with landmarks that are pillars of global pop culture, which makes sightseeing here a slightly odd activity because, in a way, you've seen it all already. Seeing in the metaphorical flesh something like the Hollywood sign, for 

example, is bizarre; it's just so iconic that it almost shouldn't be real. The backlot tour at Universal Studios is similarly strange (though brilliant) - the bus drives up Wisteria Lane, the practical set of Desperate Housewives, and past sets used in movies as diverse as 'The Grinch', 'King Kong', and 'The Great Outdoors', which, if you remember, featured the comedic dream team of John Candy and Dan Akroyd. Good film. Wisteria Lane, in particular, looks far more realistic on screen than it does up close, reinforcing my growing belief that the only 'real' America is the America of popular culture.

We did a whistlestop tour of the famous Getty Center (the best way to see art galleries, in my opinion, is 'within 45 minutes'), and got a good view of almost the whole metropolis from its hilltop location. It's quite unlike Tokyo, New York and Chicago, the three other cities we've seen from a great height recently. 'Los Angeles' is really just an umbrella term for a ragtag assortment of diverse minicities, each with their own geographical and social identity, from the gleaming ostentation of Beverly Hills and Rodeo Drive, to South Central which is, well, the opposite. The only connections between these self-contained communities are provided by the sprawling spaghetti of the perennially clogged-up freeways. It sounds like a nightmare, but from up high it's also noticeably greener and, thanks to the Great Pacific, bluer than the other cities we've been to - there are only a few heavily urbanised parts, all of which are quite small. I like that.

What else have we done? As I mentioned, we went to Universal Studios, which was predictably cool, and also, because we can't get enough of theme parks, to Six Flags Magic Mountain, where we became, in the words of the advertising poster, 'gladiators in the coliseum of thrill'. Genuinely. There were some quite extraordinary rollercoasters, including 'X2', on which the seats rotate independently of the car, which is as crazy as it sounds. All the while the signs around the park announced that 'we hope you have a Six Flags day!', which was nice of them.

Tonight we went to a comedy club where, excitingly, 'Tonight Show' host Jay Leno was performing. Apparently he uses the gig to experiment with material for the coming week's shows; based on his performance, it should be a hell of a 

week, because he was very funny. He looks even more like a cartoon character in person than he does on screen, if you can believe that. I reckon that if he had his caricature done, the artist would just do a portrait of his face exactly as it is.

Well that's about all for now. Sadly there have been no sightings of Tom Hanks doing laundry, or Julia Roberts out jogging, as I was led to believe there would be, but there you go, can't have it all I suppose. We're picking up the car tomorrow and heading off on Highway 1, which hugs the coast all the way up to San Francisco and beyond. Hopefully we'll be able to fill you in on what we get up to, as well as some of the other things we've done in Los Angeles. At some point I'll have to file a report on the baseball game we went to see the other night.

Take care y'all

- Adam

'Just naturally blabby I guess'

Our third and final enormous train journey is by far the biggest - all the way from Chicago to Los Angeles, a 43-hour epic. It sounds like a lot but actually, once you settle into a routine, it's really very enjoyable, and the first 24 hours have flown by. Before getting on we had visions of very quickly becoming sleep-deprived hippies, welcoming new arrivals with a flower necklace and a 'hey man, welcome to the party train!', but sadly, although we are a little short of sleep, that has yet to materialise.

The Union Pacific railroad cuts a path right through the heart of Big Sky country. After leaving Illinois, crossing the Mississippi in Iowa, dropping down through Missouri and passing overnight through Kansas (although we were still just about in Dorothy's state when we woke up, ruining the moment Scarlett had been planning for weeks when she prematurely declared, upon waking, 'I don't think we're in Kansas anymore!'), the train heads south and west through Colorado, New Mexico, where we currently are, Arizona and ultimately California before reaching the coast.

It seems a shame that more Americans don't get out of their cars and use Amtrak, because this train is remarkably comfortable. There's a big-windowed observation lounge, equipped with cushioned recliners, and a surprisingly reasonable dining car, which is staffed by a self-consciously eccentric attendant who is clearly lobbying for his own sitcom, and is a good place to meet fellow travellers. At breakfast this morning we sat opposite a Hispanic mother and child; at one point she asked us to look after her young daughter while she popped back to her compartment. The girl started asking us questions in Spanish,

but since the only Spanish I know consists of 'esto es un robo' ('this is a robbery'), 'vamos Rafa', and 'por favor, mantengese alejado de las puertas' ('please mind the doors'), I thought it best not to say anything at all, but to just smile apologetically, which was a bit of a shame.

The scenery here is, to be sure, just how I romantically imagined it to be, inhospitable and inviting at the same time. Panoramic vistas of unremitting, unforgettable emptiness, just green shrubs and rocky red hills, sweep gently in all directions to the distant snowcapped peaks of what, if my geography serves me, are the Sangre di Cristo mountains. Yep, this is the West alright, and I'm fully expecting to see Butch and Sundance come riding over the crest of every hill. There's something slightly odd about seeing in real life places that are so familiar because of television and movies; we thought that in New York as well.

I find the unchanging nature of this desolate, almost Martian landscape curiously comforting. The hauntingly beautiful scene I'm looking at now is, minus the occasional dotted farmhouses and trackside telegraph poles, more or less exactly what the first European explorers to venture this far into the interior would have seen centuries ago, and what the local Indians would have seen for millennia prior to that. I have the same feeling when I look at old pictures of Guernsey, like Renoir's 19th-century painting of Moulin Huet, in which the beach appears to be virtually the same as it is today. I dunno, I guess the knowledge that human life may be ephemeral, but the rocks re

main constant just reassures me somehow.

New Mexico, of course, remains to this day very much Indian country, the site of the largest reservations. When you consider that, if it were possible to compile a true human history of the Americas, European settlement would constitute only the final chapter of a longer anthology of a much more ancient, but unfortunately pre-literate, people, the fact they are now mostly squashed into artificially created reservations is just desperately sad. I could go on and on about this, but I'll spare you for now; I'm conscious of the fact that I'm beginning to sound like Alice Cooper in Wayne's World - 'Milwaukee has had its fair share of visitors, the Native Americans have been visiting here for thousands of years, only they called it 'Milli Waw Kae'.....'does this guy know how to party or what!?'

Above all, what this rail journey is underlining for me is how incomprehensibly vast this country is. It really is just endless. Consequently it seems faintly absurd that everybody here falls theoretically under the jurisdiction of one man in remote Washington DC.

We've just pulled into Albuquerque, which is not something I thought I'd ever be able to say. So on we go, only another 19 hours left before we reach la-la land. I've just been reading an article about how there is a growing campaign to partition America's largest state, creating 'Jefferson' on the coastal strip between LA and San Francisco, and leaving the interior to stay as 'California'. I shall endeavour to investigate.

- Adam

'The Human Trampoline'

Apologies to the many, many avid readers of this blog for the lack of posts in the last week - we seem to have been either on greyhounds, trains, or in hotels which don't have wifi (when do they think this is, the 20th century?). Anyway, you wait a week, and then two come along at once.

I'm writing this entry somewhere in amongst the rural flatness of the Great Plains, on our second overnight train journey, this time between Memphis and Chicago. We're gonna be crossing through states like they're going out of fashion - Tennessee, Arkansas, Kentucky, Illinois. The crucial difference between this rail trip and the last is that we're now in a 'roomette', admittedly with a heavy emphasis on the 'ette'; it's a lot like a room, but it's so small that they don't really call it a room...they call it a roomette. It's exceptionally cool though, and not as claustrophobic as it could be. I've always wanted to take a trip on a sleeper train, and it looks like that wish is being fulfilled. I wouldn't hesitate to say that this is one of the coolest things I've ever done, and in fact I've repeatedly let an increasingly impatient Scarlett know that.

Before we climbed aboard this train, we had an extremely busy final day in Memphis - after going to 

the hotel gym (!) we went bouncing into Graceland, Graceland, Memphis Tennessee. First things first, I have to confess that I've never really been all that into Elvis. Shocking, I know, but there you have it. Nonetheless, while I wasn't on the same wavelength as a lot of the other occasionally curious people there (one lady, Scarlett noticed, had a fairly sizable tattoo of the King on her ankle), I was, in a way, making a pilgrimage of my own, to the site of the pilgrimage made by Paul Simon in his brilliant song called, that's right, Graceland. The Mississippi Delta was, undoubtedly, shining like a national guitar as we followed the river down the highway through the cradle of the Civil War. Of course, Simon used Graceland as a metaphor (and also because it was a convenient two-syllable location in Memphis - he'd written the rest of the lyrics before settling on the eponymous word), but still, it's nice to know what he's singing about.

Having said I'm not that into Elvis, I must admit he'd grown on me a lot by the end of our extremely interesting tour. The house is surprisingly small, and feels unexpectedly homey, despite all the velvet rope. He was a bit of an enigma, old Elvis, but clearly he was someone who couldn't believe how much money he had suddenly acquired, so he bought everything he could think of; there's carpet on the ceiling, an indoor waterfall, disarmingly garish wallpaper in every room, his own racquetball facility (though sadly I made no progress in determining exactly what racquetball is), and a large private jet, the interior of which was clearly the inspiration for that bit in Austin Powers where he has a private jet. Evidently Presley couldn't spend the cash fast enough. Seeing Graceland also went some way for me to humanising this man who was and is an extraordinary myth - his basement pool table had a tear in it that apparently he made when an ambitious attempted trick shot went abruptly awry.

The Presleys' graveyard, in the garden of the mansion, is pretty sobering, and the substantial number of floral wreaths still being sent by grieving yet tireless fans are testament to the King's legacy, but in my head the mood was slightly punctured by the fact that I couldn't help but think of Spinal Tap while standing there. I guess it really puts a bit of perspective on things...

At the very real risk of repeating myself, American people, particularly Southerners, are so darn 

affable. When we arrived at Graceland, we were debating whether to buy the basic ticket that granted us access only to the house, or the 'platinum'  ticket that allowed us to also see the aeroplane and a few other things. It was only $5 more but still...that's how they get you. Sensing our distress, a couple in front of us in the queue (sorry, the 'line') turned around and offered us two spare coupons they had for the platinum tickets, since they would only go to waste otherwise. People do this in Disney as well; they go out of their way to give unwanted FastPasses to people at the back of the line. I dunno, I just don't think it happens to the same degree in Britain. We thanked them profusely, the man told me I had hair like Paul McCartney, said his father used to 

say 'damn those Beatles and damn their haircuts!' (which made me feel rather self-conscious), and we all had a good laugh.

Happily, we've now made sufficient progress out of Memphis for me to believe that we're not going to plummet into the Mississippi - during our Huck Finn-esque voyage yesterday, our guide (who had one of the most mellifluous voices I think I've ever heard) chuckled that, when construction of the rail bridge out of the city was completed around 100 years ago, the engineers themselves thought it wouldn't be long before it collapsed. So yeah, pretty glad to have avoided that one!

Anyway, I'll sign off for now, as I'm going to stretch out on my bed (that's right) and go to sleep, slash, watch Ferris Bueller's Day Off to get me in the mood for Chicago (sorry Benj, I mean...Chi...cego...doesn't really work when you spell it out, does it?).

- Adam

'Shining like a national guitar'

Memphis! We're walking in Memphis!! Well, not right now. Right now, we're sitting around watching TV in Memphis, but it's almost the same. We had lunch today in the Arcade Diner which was exactly like a proper diner, and Elvis ate there! Not while we were there, but once. Apparently. It was very delicious, and we had milkshakes and it was wonderful. Aaaand, we went to the Rock and Soul museum which was totally brilliant because they give you headsets and you get to listen to all the music as you walk around the exhibits. So I learned all about the development of Rock n Roll and Blues and Soul in Memphis while listening to it at the same time. It was great! And we saw costumes that people like Johnny Cash, Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis really wore, and Luciiiiiiillle the guitar, and Ike Turner's first piano and Al Green's bible. It was fantastico. 

And as if that wasn't enough, this afternoon we've been on a river cruise on the Mississippi in one of those paddlewheelers like in Ol' Man River.  And it had a narrator telling us lots of interesting facts. It was totally cool because when we got half way across the river we moved from Tennessee into Arkansas - a whole different state! And the man doing the talking had the most brilliant southern accent which I could have listened to all day. You may notice that we haven't been to Graceland, Graceland, Memphis Tennessee yet, but of course we will! Tomorrow. I can't wait!

We arrived here last night after an 8-hour bus journey from Atlanta, which was actually not as bad as it sounds... Firstly, our bus was driven by Morgan Freeman, which was really good (although it MAY have been someone who sounded like him), but also we had a half hour layover in BirmingHam, Alabama which helped. It also added to the list of states we've visited and the list of songs about places we've been to (WOAH Black Betty came from Birmingham way down in Alabama if you remember...) so it's all good. 

There was actually a really nice atmosphere on the buses - people are really open and friendly down here in the south, and they all help each other out a lot without any fuss. There was a lady sitting across the aisle from me who was moving house from Atlanta down to El Paso and she had a little girl with her and sooo much luggage that she had to push around the station on a big trolley thing and she was just chatting to anyone and everyone in this amazing southern drawl. At one point when we stopped, she asked me to look after her 'sleeping young'un' while she went outside for a cigarette, and she voiced everyone's worry about whether or not our bags had made it from the pavement into the luggage bit of the bus when she said, very loudly, 'if my bags aint under there, I'm gon' sue somebody.' It was funny. I think that the buses would generally be a fantastic way of getting around (they're comfy, clean and pretty cheap), if it weren't for the fact that the stations are often in really dodgy areas of town, so you really don't want to arrive late at night (which they often do). It's a shame really. But we're all done with the greyhounds now - that was our last one. 

Tomorrow night we're getting our second overnight train, but this time we have a 'roomette' which is very exciting... Doesn't it sound nice? We'll let you know how it goes! 

Scarlett

'A stranger's just a friend you haven't met'

I think South Carolina may be the most underrated state in the union, since people hardly ever talk about it and it's really good. I guess that's the essence of being underrated. Charleston is an absolutely beautiful place, the archetypal Southern port city (apparently it was once the wealthiest settlement in the colonies), filled with gorgeous old antebellum houses. Well, I say old. It's funny, when tour guides proudly announce that the building we're standing in or next to remains as it was in the mid-19th century, any Americans with us murmur to each other in astonishment. It's a bit different at home.

We spent a couple of days in Charleston more or less just wandering around the historic district and the waterfront, soaking up the tropical sunshine. Horse-drawn carriage tours are pretty popular here, which makes it curiously reminiscent of Sark. Everybody's so friendly. Our misguided belief that we were blending in, fostered in cosmopolitan New York and Boston, has been well and truly put to bed by our encounters with locals here, who can scarcely believe the accent. In a good way though. They're probably also given a clue by what I look like. If you were casting the role of 'A Tourist' in a movie, you'd want someone to look exactly like I do: cricket hat, crocs, camera.

We're in Savannah, Georgia now, which is similarly hot, green and Southern. It's a bit like 'A Streetcar Named Desire'. Charleston and Savannah were, respectively, the cradle and the denouement of the the Civil War - the first shots were fired at Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbour, and General Sherman famously spared Savannah from the retributive wrath of the Union forces because he considered it to be too beautiful to burn. Mark Twain once wrote that 'the Civil War in the South is like Ano Domini elsewhere, they date everything from it', and supposedly the rift is still keenly felt here, but I haven't noticed anything as yet.

Tonight we're taking the opportunity to watch some American TV, which is just as ridiculous as ever. Amusing adverts (sorry, commercials) we've seen include somebody urging us to 'turn in your old scraps of gold gathering dust', the slogan 'because they taste good' for Cheerios, and a hand cream that pledges to 'defeat dry skin'. Sounds epic. The other day, Scarlett was watching a programme called 'Last Cake Standing', which was exactly what it sounds like.

Tomorrow we're going to explore Savannah a bit more, before permanently leaving the Eastern seaboard behind, and turning inland towards Atlanta on Sunday. This is, quite literally, the place to stay in the loop.

Reeeed hot!

- Adam

'I've made a huge mistake'

You're not going to believe this, but I came away for an 8-week trip to America and I forgot to bring any tea. What kind of an idiot forgets to take tea to America?? I couldn't believe it. I did actually find some PG tips in a shop the other day but it was only a small box and it cost $6! And who can afford to spend $6 on tea? Not me, that's who. So I'm not feeling completely like Scarlett, but I suppose I'll get used to it.

We're in Charleston now! It's very lovely, but I haven't seen any dancing people yet. I'm very good at the charleston, so I'll probably have to show them how it's done. We had a very looong overnight train journey to get here - I know Adam has said this already, but the trains are so slow! And wibbly wobbly. But quite nice, in a sort of old-fashioned, I-feel-like-I've-gone-back-in-time way. We arrived at 5am, and although that would have been fine in any of the cities we've already been to (because most of them hardly, like, sleep and that), Charleston was a rather different kettle of fish. It was basically just the one room, and it only opened when the trains came through, probably 3 times a day. So we had to get a taxi straight to our hotel, where luckily there was someone on reception so we sat and read our books in the lobby (well I did anyway - Adam chose that moment to eventually fall asleep!) Anyhoo, we were very fortunately given a room at 7 so we had a nice long nap, and then spent the rest of the day exploring the city. There's all sorts of history here, but I'll leave it to Ad to tell you all that (he loves history). But it's very pretty - the buildings are so typically southern with wooden boarding all down the front and vines and porches with rocking chairs on. It's like in To Kill A Mockingbird! Have you read that? You should. It's just like that.

Unfortunately, it is unseasonably cold here (the story of our LIVES at the moment) and we are on STORM WATCH because there are great big T-storms about, according to the telly. So we're going to go out exploring today, but just better hope we don't get too wet.

The funniest thing happened yesterday. We went to get some food from this deli place we had seen, and we both had a salad and sat down to eat it outside. After a few minutes, the waitress came over to us and said 'you guys aren't American are you? I can tell because you eat your salad with a fork and knife. That's so weird!' And walked away. We laughed politely and said we were english, and then mumbled incoherently (as you do to be polite) and it was only afterwards that we wondered how you eat a salad without a knife and fork?

Ooo, I must just tell you about Guys and Dolls!! This is waaay back in New York, but we went to see the show on Broadway (courtesy of father) and we couldn't believe it but we had front row seats! Right in the middle!! And I hadn't looked anything up but it turned out there were some famous people in it. You know the Gilmore Girls? Of course you do. Well, Lorelei Gilmore (aka Lauren Graham) was playing Adelaide, and Nathan was played by the guy who was Oliver Babish in the West Wing (remember? his name's actually Oliver Platt), and who has just been in Frost/Nixon. And a lady who's in Frost/Nixon and some other people who were in Sex and the City. So it was very exciting!! And it was SUCH a brilliant show - the dancing was amazing and just like Seven Brides in places with men jumping around. And the acting was so awesome, even from, like, 2 feet away.

Right we're off out to explore. I think we'd better try the special Charleston blend ice cream. Oh, the sweet shops are amazing! And there's a whole array of barks of chocolate! (if anyone knows what a bark of chocolate is, please let me know..?)

- Scarlett

'Hold the sun'

I'm writing this entry somewhere in the blackness of North Carolina, halfway through our marathon overnight rail journey (the first of many) between Washington and Charleston. I've just read an article about how the government is preparing to lay high-speed track across the nation, but I don't know if it's worth the effort. These Amtrak trains are great lumbering contraptions, especially compared to our recent experiences on the Japanese Shinkansen, and right now our carriage is wobbling more than the American economy (there's that satire I promised you) but they're pretty comfortable, and they get you from A to B. The carriage is dark; Scarlett's asleep; in fact I think everyone on board is asleep, very possibly including the driver. Am I the only person in the world who can't fall asleep sitting up?

The train makes occasional stops at towns with evocative names, like Charlottesville and Rocky Mount, so how disappointing that they appear to be thoroughly unremarkable (I half-imagined the latter to be a high-altitude 19th-century Post Town surrounded by unlikely Virginian snow). The choosing of place names was such an integral part of the formative American experience (how else do you humanise or indeed Anglicise a hostile and unfamiliar landscape?) that the relentless homogeneity of these modern towns seems a shame, but there you go.

We had an absolutely fantastic 24 hours in DC, or 'The District' as its residents insist on calling it; it felt like we were there for so much longer than that. Our first port of call was, naturally, the White House, where we almost caught a glimpse of the Obamas' new puppy, but didn't quite. I know everyone says this, but I was quite taken aback by how small it is (the White House, not the dog) - you would really expect the presidential pad to be a spacious affair, but it isn't at all, it's quite cosy. In a good way, I think.

On the other end of the scale, I was stunned by how big the Washington Monument is; it towers over everything else in the city. They were very fond of that guy, evidently. The memorials to Lincoln, Jefferson, Roosevelt and the Second World War are tastefully presented, pleasant places to chill out and contemplate those men/events. We also went to the National Museum of American History, which had lots of history in it, so I was happy, and also Judy Garland's ruby slippers from the 'Wizard of Oz', so Scarlett was happy.

I really liked Washington. The glorious April weather may have had something to do with this; it's the only time of year when the city finds a happy medium between the gnawing cold of winter and the unbearable, swampy heat and humidity of summer (the climate was the principal reason for the choice of location for the capital of the union - it was hoped that its inhospitality would discourage 'good men' from entering executive politics).

Anyway, I'll sign off for now, since I'm going to have another go at falling asleep, as we rumble ever southwards into the enveloping blackness of the Carolinan night.

- Adam