Falling for Niagara

On a spur-of-the-moment decision, Two Dinners and I decided that as we were so close to the border (hey, a five hour bus trip is nothing, after my Atlanta-DC experience), the possibility of going to see the magnificent Niagara Falls up close and in person was just far too good to miss.  So following another nocturnal Greyhound journey, we pulled up at the US-Canadian border (another stamp on my well-used passport) and crossed the line.  Now it has to be admitted, aside from the Falls themselves there isn’t really much to do in Ontario short of Toronto, but the opportunity of viewing something this spectacular (there’s that word again) doesn’t come about every day, and its certainly not something I regret.  The Falls represent starkly the watery border between America and Canada over the Niagara River.  However due to the kidney-shaped lake at the bottom of the two sets of Falls, the actual dividing line is somewhere in between, with the “Bridal Veil” Falls on the American side and the more stunning “Horseshoe Falls” residing on the Canadian side.

Bridal Veil Falls (American side)

Due to both their height and stature amongst daredevils and thrill-seekers, the Falls have also been the site of many world famous stunts.  The first trapeze artist to cross the famous Falls on  a rope was Jean Francois Gravelet, better known by his stage name of “Blondin”, who first walked the whirlpool rapids on June 6 1859.  On the 18th of September 1860, Blondin not only walked across the Falls gorge on a rope, but offered to carry Edward Prince of Wales, who was in attendance, on his back.  The Prince declined, so Blondin instead carried his manager Harry Colcord across and back instead, and was rewarded by the Price with a purse of gold coins (though history does not record how on this occasion Colcord split the reward between performer and manager!).  Other famous successes include that of Annie Taylor, a 63-year-old schoolteacher from Michigan, who was the first person to go over the Falls in a wooden wine barrel in 1901.  Others of course have been less fortunate in their attempts to conquer the famous Falls, and there are stories and testaments all over the River paying tribute to those brave or foolhardy souls who attempted the impossible,and paid the price.  Yet my favourite story of all the Niagara legends comes from 1960 when on a riverboat trip, the seven-year-old Roger Woodward miraculously survived unscathed after being swept over the Falls wearing just a bathing suit and a life-jacket.  Now there’s a guy with a pretty major story to tell in later life!

The Falls up close

Going across the border and back on several occasions (unlike certain other countries on my trip, there is no charge for “border hopping” in Niagara), we were able to see both sets of Falls up close and personal – the picture above for example was taken from a small viewing area virtually under the Horseshoe Falls, accessed by a rock passageway.  Staring through another window from this tunnel at the water thundering down I could really see the sheer force of nature that this really is – little wonder that the town is now powered almost exclusively via generators hooked up to the Falls themselves.  On a different trip, we took a boat from the Canadian side right up to both sets of Falls (the spray from which seems to have temporarily knocked out my camera, after a full year of near-constant use!), and once again the power of the Falls is quite breathtaking.

Horseshoe Falls (Canadian side)

We only stayed in Canada for three days but I am really glad I saw the Niagara Falls, especially to contrast these with the similarly impressive Victoria Falls at the start of my tour.  As you may remember from that earlier blogpost, Zambia was going through its dry season at the time I visited (great for white water rafting, not so good for viewing the Falls in all their glory) and the all-round “Wall of Water” effect, such as that seen in the picture above, was reduced to a channel-jet of water, as in the case of most “ordinary” waterfalls. Both Niagara and Victoria Falls are special waterfalls, and I’m really happy to have been able to see both so soon after one another.

Two Dinners and I are now heading back to New York for a couple more days before the inevitable flight back home – already I’m preparing for the readjustment to life back in the smoke, and have applied online for jobs all the way from Canada – hopefully my keenness will not go unnoticed!  In the meantime however there are still a few days left of this trip, and I intend to make the most of them.

New York, New York

New York – where everything is bigger, brighter and (at least in the minds of mein hosts) better than anywhere else (a case in point: Madison Square Garden, billed as the most famous arena in the world – though I believe that the Colosseum would give that claim an argument).  The city is built on the banks of the Hudson river, the latter being named after the explorer Henry Hudson who discovered New York Bay by accident while on a mission for the Dutch East India Company.  A useless navigator, he was finally set adrift in icy waters while on another voyage by a mutineering crew and never seen again.  As for New York itself, the Dutch held onto the city they originally named New Amsterdam for another three years (in which time the new settlers drank with, traded, fought and eventually slaughtered many of the indigenous Native Americans), before the British took over the new colonies, relatively unopposed.  Oh well, happy dayz…

Liberty overlooks the NY skyline

So in between my humming Frank Sinatra and Billy Joel songs, I dug out a suitable hostel between Manhattan and (after some discussion) Harlem for Tom and myself to stay at for the two-week duration of our stay (“stay”!  I have gone from intrepid world traveller to a bloody tourist!).  Picking the larded one up at the airport the following day (not helped by Tom, true to form, telling me the wrong terminal…), it was great to see my best mate after a whole year.  Having flagged the first yellow taxi that came our way, we were ready to make our first stop – to a decent bar of course!  After a full year, some things never change…

Times Square

Wall Street, Central Park, the Brooklyn Bridge, Little Italy, Grand Central Station, Yankee Stadium… New York is home to hundreds of iconic buildings and landmarks which pepper our collective consciousness through American films and literature – as one advert for US tourism put it, “You’ve seen the films now visit the set”.  For this reason, it felt strange at times to be walking through places which I’d never seen before but seemed acquainted, even familiar with.  New York’s moniker of course is “the city that never sleeps” and it certainly lives up to the slogan, with several shops, bars, clubs and restaurants staying open seemingly all night.  I’m sorry to say that I didn’t test the theory out exhaustively but as you can see from the picture above, New York is a twenty-four hour party city, and it was great just to dive in and enjoy the fun.

View from the Empire State Building

Top of both our lists of things to see/do in the Big Apple was to take a tour up the Empire State Building, the views of the city below inspiring both awe and vertigo – whether or not the old penny myth is true I have no idea, I have no wish to be the poor sidewalking sucker down below who comes to attest to the truth or falsity of the theory.  With no bars or nettings (other than the small mesh pictured) in place, the tiny view of the traffic below seems to be enough to deter would-be suicidal jumpers. Moving further into the city, we stared up at the enormous Rockefeller Centre (the name of which naturally inspired a chorus of: “whoooooooooaaaa, take her in your arms –  Rockefeller…!”), with J.D.R.’s list of principles outside the entrance of the huge skyscraper.  Deciding that having already seen life from the top of the Empire State Building, a further journey into the thin-air zone wasn’t required, so we headed on into the city to see more of the sights.  One of the most appealing aspects about New York is that – like London – many of its best and most quintessential sights are both found under the skin of the city, and free to view for anyone with the patience to seek them out.

"Imagine" circle in Strawberry Fields, Central Park

For example, while in a phase of being utterly museum-ed out, I suddenly realised that one of the major sights I had planned on visiting had so far gone unseen.  Barely four blocks from our hostel was both Central Park’s “Imagine” circle at the centre of its iconic Strawberry Fields, and the Dakota Building, where the former Beatle was assassinated by deranged loner Mark Chapman on December 8, 1980.  Walking past the Dakota now, you could be forgiven for missing the significance of the building completely (though anonymity was one of the main attractions for the publicity-wearied Lennon).  Taking the short walk across the road into Central Park, I did my best to ignore the variously enflowered peaceniks dancing around – a Lennon fan I may be, but a hippie I definitely am not!!   Aside from this minor irritation, the small tribute is poignant yet manages to keep the slushy over-sentimentality that can spoil similar sites to a minimum – something which the dry Lennon would no doubt have approved of.

The Staten Island Ferry terminal

A few days later we travelled southward on the subway with the intention of seeing the memorial to the 9/11 attacks.  This however appeared to be a plan under construction and aside from the small but touching plaque to the side of the main building area, there was little to pay tribute to the hundreds of people who lost their lives in America’s most devastating terrorist attack.  Later we discovered that plans for a memorial site on Ground Zero itself have now been shelved to make way for an even larger pair of office towers – money really does talk in this country.  So with more time than we thought, we took the subway down to Brooklyn to first walk back over the world-famous Brooklyn Bridge, before getting on the (free) Staten Island Ferry to take a trip over to the Big Apple’s less famous cousin.  While there is little to see on the little New Jersey isle, the views of both the New York skyline and the Statue of Liberty make the voyage well worthwhile.

In short, New York is a city to visit when life has become stale – a real “happening” city with a genuinely unique flavour, it is certainly one of the most fun American cities I’ve now visited.  While I have only a few more days to enjoy both America and my trip remaining, I intend to make the most of both.

Georgetown

Founded in 1751 within the State of Maryland, Georgetown is one of the oldest parts of the District of Columbia and certainly one of its grandest.  Unlike the National capital six miles down the road (which Georgetown actually predates by 39 years), the university town was not named after the country’s first President, but possibly King George II who reigned at the time of its founding, or alternatively after its founders, George Gordon and George Beall.  In any case, Georgetown is bustling with its own history, both local and national.  Favoured as an out-of-town location for US politicians, I paid a visit to the famous President’s restaurant where JFK proposed to a coy Jacqueline Bouvier, Harry Truman would read the papers over coffee and doughnuts in between Congress sessions, and Richard Nixon used to eat alongside his family dog.  The place provided some good eating, too.

Georgetown University

Beginning with a wander around the grounds of the prestigious university (of which I briefly considered applying for a Postgrad degree a few years ago, before reading about the student fees…), I saw straight away the difference between the US Ivy League and our own British counterparts – the facilities on offer really do put those of UK institutions (with the possible exception of Oxbridge) to shame, though a comparison of student attainment and achievement would be an interesting one.  But back to Georgetown – the University is a former Jesuit-run institute and is now the largest Catholic university in the US, retaining close links to the magnificent church opposite the main university entrance.   Founded in 1789, the University includes amongst its alumni the likes of Bill Clinton, Lebanese Prime Minister Saad Hariri and the current President of the Philippines, Gloria Macapagal Arroyo.

The Exorcist steps

Another jewel in the gem-encrusted crown of Georgetown is the famous set of steps just round the corner from the university, which were used as the setting for the climax of the 1973 film “The Exorcist” (whose author William Blatty is a former student of Georgetown University) in which Fr. Damien Karras, overcome and on the brink of demonic possession, hurls himself out of a sixth story window and falls to his apparent death at the bottom of the steps below (though naturally makes a comeback in the execrable film sequels).

Unlike the grand constructions of Washington DC itself, Georgetown is more European in its architecture and – in my opinion at least – far more enchanting as a result.  Yet the pronounced difference between the two makes for an impressive contrast, and is all part of the American charm.  Yes, DC has been interesting to visit, marking as it does the second-to-last big city I will see before my journey back to the UK.  As entertaining as it has been however, DC is not somewhere I would want to live or work in (though would love to return to at some point).  I now look forward to meeting up with my old mate Tom in one of my most eagerly anticipated cities, the Big Apple itself.

Washington DC

First of all, if anyone reading even thinks about taking the Greyhound bus beyond a four hour journey – don’t.  These idiots can’t be trusted to run a bath let alone a cross-continental bus system.  After what was meant to be a sixteen hour bus journey eventually spilled into thirty-three when Greyhound first overbooked the bus (seeing no reason to apologise to those people who were simply pushed away), then the bus stopped in Charlotte, NC, for repair and eventually a full-on replacement, I eventually pulled into Washington DC a full day late, and with no hostel booking to fall back on.  This was NOT the way I planned my arrival.  On the plus side, I had my old mate Norma McCorvey to fall back on and after a breathless (not from tiredness rather than rage, after a furious argument with yet another rude and incompetent service “manager” at the Washington bus depot) telephone call to Dallas and various calls from her side to her “buddies in DC” I had somewhere to sleep the first night, with a religion and politics think tank in the heart of the city.  So after a shower and brief nap, I decided to have another search for a hostel, as pull-out beds are only good for so long (and after two consecutive nights on a bus, are hardly the thing of dreams).  As luck had it I struck gold almost straight away, with the local YHA having an unexpected check-out (unexpected since they – and every other hostel in the city – had stubbornly protested fully booked status the night before, as my bus-based phone calls became increasingly frantic).  So I moved my things over and went out with my new think-tank friends for one of the most relaxed lunches I’ve had in ages.

Washington monument

Like many capitals, Washington DC was founded as a compromise between the competing claims of other established cities in the early U.S.  The northern cities of Boston, Philadelphia and Baltimore were considered as too “northern Yankee” for the southern States, and similar claims from southern cities were dismissed as being too wedded to the agricultural south.  The eventual agreement struck was to found the new city on banks of the Potomac river, along the midway point of the the thirteen colonies, and the District of Columbia was born.  However, the Masonic elements are clear in many of the original buildings (all of the American nation’s founding fathers were high-level freemasons), a point I remarked upon as my bus entered the city to the sight of the obelisk Washington monument, at the top of which sat a flashing light – if any of you readers  have seen an American dollar bill with the Masonic “all seeing eye” at the front, you’ll know what I mean.

Lincoln memorial

Meandering down the gigantic walkways alongside the enormous monuments can be pretty imposing – the walk from the Washington monument across the National Mall with the reflecting pool is dotted with memorials to the fallen from various world conflicts, the most impressive in my opinion being the grand but moving fountain tribute of the World War II memorial.  Moving all the way down the long pool (the one in which Forrest Gump is reunited with Jenny at the anti-Vietnam rally), I eventually reached perhaps the most iconic tribute to an American President, the Lincoln Memorial, in which the enormous statue of the victorious civil war sits surrounded by the written words of his famous Gettysburg Address.  It was at the steps of this famous monument that Martin Luther King also delivered his “I have a dream” speech, making the site unique in its commemoration of two of the greatest orations – and orators – of all time.  Moving on across the State line into Virginia, I walked to the Jefferson memorial where – again – a huge statue of the former President stands at the centre of a great dome with his most famous writings etched into the walls around him, namely those of the American Declaration of Independence (below).  As undeniably impressive as these constructions are, there is something slightly cultish about them I felt, and would certainly be out of place in any European capital.

Jefferson memorial

Of course, one of the biggest draws for me personally even – or perhaps especially – after a year out of the game, was the political aspects of DC.  You literally cannot move in this city without seeing a national treasure which makes you want to hum the theme tune to the West Wing.  I managed to spend an entire day walking through the Capitol building (there are actually three of them), which houses both chambers of Government, the Senate and the House of Representatives (Congress).  Built in the centre of a grand park alongside the equally impressive U.S. Supreme Court, America’s legislature is a grand and ornate structure with its immediately recognisable spire (which seems to rely heavily on the design for St. Paul’s Cathedral).  Each of the three buildings seem to burst with information relating to the foundation of the Union, the early debates and disputes between the founding fathers, and the recognition of rights for its citizens across the newly-formed nation (though of course, the Union took a while to recognise the rights of all of its citizens).

Capitol building

On my way back from a day in which I had been bombarded with two hundred years of American history, I decided to take a stroll back through Pennsylvania Avenue, number 1600 of which is perhaps the most famous house in the world, the former plantation mansion White House.  Tours now are so limited as to be arranged only through writing to your local Senator (i.e. no foreigners allowed!), so the newly elected President was saved my intended barrage of what to do to buck the current administration’s ideas up.  Outside the huge gates,  there was less of a police presence than I was expecting, certainly in comparison to Downing Street or the Houses of Parliament, though I would assume that a covert Secret Service presence combs the surrounding area 24-7.  What I did notice was the constant stream of various protesters, from a demonstration giving voice to the electoral abuses and vicious crackdowns in Iran, a human rights group calling for the closure of Guantanamo Bay, all the way through to a (clearly mad) individual holding up placards arguing for the abolition of the British monarchy – wrong country, wrong leader, you might think.

On my final day in the Capital I decided to take a bus to Arlington Cemetery, another world-famous landmark based across the Potomac river in the State of Virginia.  The 612 acre large ground is the burial ground for almost a quarter of a million military personnel and their dependents.  The original property belonged to the Confederate General Robert E. Lee, but was initially confiscated by the victorious army, after which Union soldiers were buried around the house so that Lee could not use it again.  When the civil war ended, the cemetery increased and eventually became the national military memorial.  In addition to the military graves around the parkland, the cemetery also marks the final resting places of the two elder Kennedy brothers, President John F. Kennedy and Senator Bobby.  While Bobby Kennedy was always my favourite (especially when compared to his cowardly, hypocritical and terrorist-supporting youngest brother Edward), I personally found the small fountain by his grave more artistic than moving, and even his memorable message of solidarity to black South Africans (carved in stone over the shallow pool) did little to dislodge the feeling that as honourable a statesman as he was, perhaps a place in a cemetery devoted to those who gave their lives for their country was a tribute too far.  In contrast, there is a genuine sense of poignancy where the eternal flame is lit over the grave of JFK, his wife Jackie and two of their infant children.  Once again, some of President Kennedy’s most inspiring words are carved around the entrance to – though not around the actual – burial site, and the feeling of calm tranquility is tangible.

JFK eternal flame, Arlington cemetery

Just as I was leaving the cemetery, I switched my phone back on and instantly received a text message from a friend from England, who was conveniently doing some work experience in Washington DC.  Curiously enough, the last time I saw Peter was while I was cycling around the Sea of Galilee and coincidentally bumped into him at the Rock of Peter in Capernaum.  Serendipitously – again – he was just leaving Arlington so we quickly met up, and headed to a bar in Georgetown to exchange news, views and surprise at the amazing coincidences of our meetings (either that, or I have a stalker…!).  As this is the penultimate full day of my time in DC, I will visit the academic centre more fully tomorrow – to be blogged….

Florida in four days

A bit of a diversion at this point – after initially planning to head over to Charlotte, North Carolina to meet up with a mate I met in New Zealand, (eventual) contact revealed that Louise was actually in New York for the week, and wouldn’t be back in time.  Ho hum.  So negotiating sweetly with the Greyhound staff, I decided to change my route southwards and visit another foreign friend down in Jacksonville Florida, Jill who I met in South Africa.  But: problems aplenty, as I didn’t have an up-to-date telephone number for her, landline or mobile.  Arriving unexpectedly threw up the possibility that she too would be out-of-town (even probability, since I knew she was planning to a trip to New York), or she could have no time to meet or go out.  With old and faithful Facebook being the only way I had of getting in touch, I dropped her a line with my mobile number enclosed (a kindly garage assistant with limited internet access winning my Good Samaritan of the Day award), I bit the bullet, changed the ticket, and headed south from my interim point of Atlanta.  Arriving in the middle of Jacksonville in the late afternoon to no mobile messages is not a spiriting experience.  I headed toward a cafe to grab a salad and work out my next move – Lonely Planet USA, already maligned in my mind for its vague and at times useless “suggestions” for places to stay, was doing little to change my opinion, and I was kicking myself for having been so stupid as to throw myself into a town of which I had no idea and, beyond friendships, no particular interest.  In other words, I was feeling pretty fed-up.  Then just as I was finishing my salad, my phone went and the most welcome voice I’ve heard in months squeaked that it was great I was here, couldn’t wait to see me, and did I need picking up?  Fifteen minutes later, the “Angel in a flaming red Mustang” (they really do have some flash motors over here) pulled up, and I was soon introduced to Jill’s parents and – almost the most welcome of all – a shower.  Bliss!  While I was only planning to spend a few days in Florida before heading on north, Jill explained that we would have to head to Tallahassee the following day for her to meet with her former university professors.  Tallahassee being the State capital, there was plenty of “political crap” as she put it for me to see, so I was more than happy to come along.

With Jill at the plantation

On our first full day in Tallahassee, I took a walk through the historic streets which at times, seemed straight out of “Gone With the Wind”, or a similar southern novel.  When the former States of East and West Florida were merged in 1824, Tallahassee became the administrative centre of Florida primarily as a compromise choice (both politically and geographically) between the existing former State capitals of St. Augustine and Pensacola.  Visiting first the old State Capitol building (why, oh why can’t Americans learn to spell correctly?), I took a walk through the State Senate and Congress rooms which while no doubt historical, seemed to lack the grandeur of the State chambers of Colorado, let alone a national legislature such as Westminster. However, the displays of the various history of Florida’s capitol building were certainly enough to keep a political boffin such as yours truly enthralled for several hours.  Following this journey into the State’s political history I then took a visit to its judiciary, namely Florida’s Supreme Court building, where in 2000 the US Presidential election was eventually settled in favour of one George W. Bush.

Florida State Capitol building

On our return to Jacksonville the following day (that is, after a large breakfast of Apple pancakes and Florida orange juice), Jill asked me if I would be interested in visiting the town’s former cotton plantation.  While many Jacksonians are understandably reticent at the mention of such a stain on their State heritage, the continual existence of the plantation plays a major part in providing a hands-on education of Florida’s past, not only during the time of slavery but also the State (and nation’s) economic dependence the cotton trade, both before and immediately after the American Civil War.  For me, seeing the tiny plants which slaves, servants and (later) sharecroppers would have to pick, and the tightly knotted cotton buds from which all seeds would need to be extracted, was not as imposing as the sheer heat of the day – around forty-two degrees – in which they would be forced to work up to twelve hours, in addition to preparing their own food and other personal tasks.  Even walking through the former slave quarters – small hovels made out of seashells and cement, which the slaves were forced to build themselves – I could feel the heat emanating from the walls.  Yet what to me was one seriously hot day was pretty standard to Florida’s climate – no wonder the plantation was built so close to a river.

The former slave quarters

At the end of my four days in Florida, I am now due to head north on a loooooong bus journey up to Washington DC, nirvana for a simultaneous political junkie and “West Wing” fan.  So following these four days, a lot of fun and some additional sightseeing (as well as meeting up with a great mate who I definitely hope will allow me to return the favour by visiting London soon) I think I can say for certain that despite my initial feelings, I am very, very glad I changed that Greyhound ticket.

MLK and Memphis’ mixed history

On my final full day in Memphis, I decided to visit the superb National Civil Rights museum which is built upon the site of the Lorraine motel, where on April 4 1968, Dr. Martin Luther King was assassinated by a single bullet while about to go to dinner with Ralph Abernathy, Samuel Kyles and a young Rev. Jesse Jackson.  As in the case of Kennedy, various conspiracy theories continue to abound concerning the eventually convicted James Earl Ray, an escaped prisoner from Missouri, had help in the assassination or if was even involved at all – eventually captured in London having fled the country, and convicted on the basis of a guilty plea made ostensibly to avoid the possible death sentence, and a web of “circumstantial” evidence, Ray later protested his innocence of the murder but died in prison in 1998.

Lorraine motel room, site of the assassination

The museum is split into two sites – the first, dedicated to the evolution of the civil rights movement, is built around room 306 where King spent his last night (the room itself is virtually identical to how he and Ralph Abernathy left it, complete with beer cans and dirty ashtrays!).  The second site is built around the lodging house opposite where Ray fired the solitary shot, and the subsequent case against him.  While commentators have speculated as to the motive of Ray, racist by his redneck upbringing but not thought to be such to the extent of murderous tendencies, it has been suggested that financial inducement – a $50,000 Mafia contract was out on King – was his likely motivation.  Ray, who travelled under the alias of Eric S. Galt (as well as having used as many as seven others) was identified as the occupant of Room 5B of the guest house, where witnesses identified as the direction from which the fatal shot was fired.  However, since no witness actually saw Ray fire the shot (or even with a rifle), a web of circumstantial evidence was gathered connecting him to the killing.  This included Ray’s fingerprints on a rifle and scope later discovered near the scene, as well as dum dum bullets of the type used to kill King.  Perhaps most damnable of all was Ray’s departure from the country, a fact which the prosecution underlined as hardly being the actions of an innocent man.  While the King family themselves have since questioned Ray’s culpability, I happen to feel that the various evidence against him is pretty overwhelming, and on this occasion see little evidence of any form of conspiracy.

Statue of N.B. Forrest

While Memphis obviously has a major historical legacy (and not just in the realm of the civil rights struggle) plus a fantastic music scene, more infamously the city is also the birthplace of Lt.-Gen. Nathan Bedford Forrest, a Confederate war hero turned co-founder of the Ku Klux Klan in 1868.  Though Forrest later both regretted and recanted this organisation (which began initially as a practical joke society, albeit a cruel and racist one, playing on the superstitions of the newly “freed” slaves), I was amazed to see a statue of the man – apparently unmolested – in Walnut Square, off of Union Avenue.  In fairness to whatever remains of the Forrest family (and I don’t just mean the Gumps), Nathan B. Forrest III and great grandson of the aforementioned, was the first American General Officer to lose his life during the Second World War, while participating in a bombing raid on Kiel, Germany.  Yet the irony of the Stars and Stripes flying over the statue of the original Forrest is likely to be an irony which the old Confed would probably not have appreciated.  Oh well.  Incidentally, as I was lining up the photograph below, a young black man was sitting under the steps of the statue.  When I lifted my camera to take the picture however, he quickly darted away – as if to say “don’t associate me with this fool!”.  I suppose I can hardly blame him….

Walking on Beale Street

Boarding the bus back to my hostel, I had the good fortune to be driven by Mack, a friendly bus driver who seems to be the only driver on my particular route from the city back to Cooper Street.  Mack, while initially having that bouncer-like ability to refuse all communication, eventually broke and has been a really good source of local info on places to visit, where to eat and catch some good blues music etc.  Just after I got on at the terminal, a white woman in an electric wheelchair go on, having been helped by Mack to board.  Putting a quarter into the machine, Mack informed her that she was 50 cents short, the fare being 0.75 for disabled passengers (its $1.50 for able-bodied customers).  After initially protesting that she’d put the full fare in, I was just about to offer to put in the remaining money when she suddenly screamed “WELL I DON’T HAVE IT,YOU F—— N——“, before continuing to abuse Mack in the same way.  Finally losing his patience, Mack told her to get of the damn bus, before adding “That’s the last ride you get from a N——“.  Watching the woman’s face contorted with rage as she was ejected (in the middle of the Jackson neighbourhood, the residents of which had obviously heard the exchange – I didn’t fancy her chances), I couldn’t help thinking that as far as America has come since MLK, it still has some way to go yet before it really becomes the “Promised Land”.

Tomb of MLK

A week later, following my brief stay in Florida, I decided to break up what would have been (and for different reasons, eventually turned out to be) a twenty-three hour bus ride with an overnight stay in Atlanta, Georgia.  As this decision gave me a a day’s worth of sightseeing before my bus to Charlotte NC departed,  I went to visit the Martin Luther King centre in downtown Atlanta, built next to the Ebenezer Church where King used to preach, and just up the road from the very house in which he was born.  After visiting both and the educational centre which further tells the story of his life and that of the civil rights struggle, I visited the place which is perhaps most special of all namely the mausoleum where Dr King and (thirty years later) his wife Coretta were laid to rest.  While I felt none of the spiritual tinglings assured me by several new friends and acquaintances, I was glad to see that despite the relatively public nature of the grave – now at the centre of a large water feature – the grave remains a genuine place of prayer and tribute for a great man and his ongoing legacy.  Rest in Peace MLK.

Walking in Memphis

Taking the Greyhound once more, this time up the Mississippi Delta (which really was shining like a national guitar), I eventually touched down in Memphis, Tennessee.  The city holds iconic status for many reasons civil, political, cultural and musical, yet my visit was as Paul Simon put it, to “be received” in Graceland, home of the King of Rock and Roll himself, Elvis Presley.  Having slept off the considerable bus-lag (and enjoyed a fantastic ribs dinner at the half-century old Rendezvous restaurant), I began my first full day visiting the legendary Sun Studios, where Elvis cut his first ever record “That’s Alright, Mama” which was followed by four more hits before his contract was bought up with RCA Recordings.

Sun Studio

Sun however can boast a proud history even before the 22-year-old Elvis walked through the doors – its alumni includes blues legends Howlin’ Wolf, Little Milton, Al Green and BB King, to name a few.  Ike Turner recorded what many musical historians hold as the first ever rock and roll song “Rocket 88” here at Sun (released under another label) before owner Sam Phillips decided to expand his business from simply recording artists to publishing them on his own label.  Following Elvis’ reluctant departure, Phillips signed and recorded new acts including Carl Perkins (whose self-penned “Blue Suede Shoes” gave Sun its first million-selling single), Jerry Lee Lewis (whose “Great Balls of Fire” was Sun’s biggest ever hit), Roy Orbison and Johnny Cash.  The recording studio has also been used subsequently by acts including U2, Paul Simon and Bruce Springsteen.  Both the flooring and ceiling panelling are unchanged from the 1950s heyday as are the various instruments on display so while visitors are not allowed to touch, these undoubtedly lend even greater lustre to the atmosphere of an already magical place.

Sun recording studio

Graceland itself was of course the highlight of the day – passing through the famous gates sent a tingle down my spine, and stepping through the front door into the house itself it appeared virtually untouched from the way in which Elvis had left it back in 1977.  With the dining room on the left and the lounge area on the right, at the end of the latter was a grand piano where he would practice, often with the baby Lisa-Marie at his side.  Moving from the kitchen area – the hub of the house, according to Lisa-Marie herself – into a magnificent television room where three sets were playing, Elvis having installed the three after hearing that President Lyndon Johnson would watch all three American news channels simultaneously.

Graceland

Passing through the ornate games room into the “Jungle room”, this was decorated with a dark green shag carpet and the wooden furniture – both hand-chosen by Elvis himself – was carved with the likenesses of various wild animals.  Apparently the old circular armchair in the top right corner of the photo below was a particular favourite of Lisa-Marie’s, and it now seats her childhood teddy bear – a detail further immortalised in Mark Cohn’s song of the blog title: “There’s a pretty little thing waiting for the King, out in the Jungle room”.

The Jungle room

Moving beyond the living area into the “trophy room”, which is now filled to bursting with hundreds of gold discs, and other paraphernalia.  Here, one can admire the various suits and costumes worn throughout a twenty-year career in showbusiness – from the leather jumpsuit worn he wore in his 1968 comeback concert to the tuxedo (plus Priscilla’s dress and veil) worn at their 1967 wedding.  Finally arriving at the swimming pool at the back of the building, one arrives at the climax of the tour – Elvis’ gravesite, alongside those of his parents and paternal grandmother, decked with flowers and tributes from around the world.

Grave of Elvis Aaron Presley

Other exhibitions displayed on the remaining Graceland grounds include props, costumes and posters from the sixty-odd films Elvis starred in (some of which to be fair, were actually pretty good); a look inside his personal jetplane; his car collection (including my personal favourite, the pink cadillac), and an account of Elvis’ eighteen months spent in the US Army.  Coming back overloaded with Elvis trivia (though not yet entirely Elvis-ed out) and humming the title song to this blogpost, I will definitely be checking out some more of the King’s hits and films when I get back.

Cajun, Creole and BBQ

One dedicated to Miss Lafferty here, concerning exclusively as it does the delights of Southern cuisine.  Perhaps a good way to introduce this post is to make the point that I have eaten relatively healthily since arriving in the States, due primarily to the offensive nature of processed meat against my refined palatte (or as Bob Hoskins once put it: ‘What I’m looking for is something that can contribute to what England has given to the world: culture, sophistication, genius. A little bit more than a hot dog, know what I mean?’).  However, earlier this morning as I pulled on my recently-washed jeans, I noticed immediately the tight fit around my stomach: proof either that my jeans have shrunk, or two weeks of Southern cooking has had a very swift effect.  As you can see from the picture below of the last Texas BBQ I enjoyed before heading down to N’Awlins, meals don’t tend to be packed with the “5 a day goodness” I was previously getting through.  The South, they say, shall rise again.  Along with my cholesterol.

BBQ lunch

The two Louisiana styles are most easily distinguished in their origins, which are borne out in both the style and various flavours of the meal: Creole (coming from the phrase les gens de couleur libre – free people of colour) being a blend of French cuisine laced with Caribbean spices, whereas Cajun cooking tends to be both hotter and routinely (if not invariably) involving a form of seafood – the more heads the better, as the local saying goes.

Rice, beans and cajun sausage

Wandering into one particularly recommended Cajun joint in between jazz sessions, I ordered a local favourite: blackened tuna steak and rice and mustard greens.  This is a tuna steak fried in garlic butter until almost burnt, then seasoned with black, white and red pepper and other spices.  Despite my initial reservations around the burnt aspect, I can only say that I had no complaints.  On another occasion, I found myself eating dinner in Jackson’s Square, the centrepoint of the French Quarter and decided to order a local poor man’s favourite, red beans and rice.  This arrived with a continental-style creole sausage, the perfect compliment to the plainer (though no less delicious) accompanying fare.

As “Satchmo” used to sign off, ‘red beans and ricely yours’!

New Orleans and all that jazz

Arriving in New Orleans at the dead of night (the consequence of a “helpful” bus driver holding back at every stop to allow latecomers to board the Greyhound bus), my first day and night in this historic city seemed to be spent on practical issues – but what I neglected in my first eighteen hours I more than made up for in the remaining ninety-six.  My hostel is based in the old Garden District, which as well as coming right out of an Anne Rice novel, it also provides one of the lovelier walks (if one can stand the intense heat) down St. Charles Avenue, past the enormous statue of Confederate General Robert E. Lee, and into the hub of “N’Awlins” life.

A Streetcar named... 2012

Teaming up with my new (and only) dorm-mate Jon, we set out to explore the city.  Pausing only for a “ribs stop” (more on that later), we took a wander down the main Canal Street and into the French Quarter to survey the balconied wooded mansions.  While Hurricane Katrina decimated much of Le Vieux Carré in 2005, much of the beautiful old city remains unscathed and rebuilding operations continue in those parts which were damaged.  In the evening, we took a walk with several of our fellow hostellers down Bourbon Street to check out the local music scene and by the end of the night, I had surprised myself in the sense that I never would have guessed how much I could like jazz.  It has certainly never been a favourite before now but stepping into the Maison Bourbon to the sounds of local band Fats Williams and the Skinny Three, all of us were instantly hooked and remained there until closing time, after the band had played their final encore.  The city’s unofficial motto of laissez les bons temps rouler (let the good times roll) is in evidence every night, and over the next few nights that I remained in N’Awlins, I would routinely take a stroll down Royal, Bourbon or Frenchmen Streets, listening out for the sounds of a local jazz band in full flow: Hello and welcome to Jazz Club – Niiiiiiiiiiice!!

Grrrr-reat!!

Of course, the undisputed King of Jazz, not only in New Orleans but the South and probably the world over, is local boy Louis Armstrong, whose statue in the park which also bears his name pays testament to a career devoted to “the pulse of life”.  While few of the local bands attempt to recreate any of the old classics of “Satchmo”, any of the many jukeboxes in the city have a wide selection of numbers by the jazz trumpet maestro, and I have regularly found myself walking or taking the Streetcar back to the hostel humming such tunes as “What a Wonderful World” and “All the Time in the World”.  Also within the gates of Armstrong Park is the simple yet poignant Congo Square, which from 1740 was the only open space where slaves were permitted to congregate.  Gathering every Sunday to dance, sing and play the music which they had carried with them from West Africa, the Square must have become a rare (if not unique) oasis of freedom for as many as six hundred slaves at a time, seeking respite from their bitter toil.  As the local information centre records, the music played at the weekly gatherings eventually developed into the beginnings of the Mardi Gras culture, as well as New Orleans jazz and rhythm and blues music we recognise today.

Louis Armstrong as “King Zulu”, 1949

The following day we took an early Streetcar ride down to Jackson Square, the centre of the French Quarter overlooked by the ornate St. Louis Cathedral, to visit the Presbytére museum, which hosts the vibrant Mardi Gras exhibition.  The ongoing display pays detailed tribute to the world famous festival, as well as its various traditions and rival parade groups, the undisputed king of which is the “Zulu Club”, the founders of the original parade and whose primary male and female paraders are annually crowned King and Queen of the Mardi Gras.  This is seen as a huge honour, and in 1949 both the city and recipient were thrilled when Louis Armstrong, N.O.’s most famous son, agreed to be “King Zulu” at that year’s parade.  With various costumes on display, the general rule is clearly “more is more” with the more colourful, outrageous and even grotesque creations being the ones that attract the most attention.  Also in evidence within both the parade history and outfits was the city’s various voodoo tradition, having been brought over from the (now) African country of Benin, continued in Haiti, mixed with an element of Catholic iconography before the final hybrid version was brought to the Mississippi shorelines.  This superstition appears to have taken such a hold that the tomb of Marie Laveau, a nineteenth century voodoo “priestess”, is claimed to be the second most visited gravesite after Arlington Cemetery (which may or may not be so, but I still didn’t pay it a visit).

Queen of the Mardi Gras costume, 2008

Leaving the museum we stopped for lunch back in Jackson’s Square, and as I was munching through a Po’ boy’s sandwich (traditionally a baguette filled with a form of cheap meat, usually mutton, lettuce and pickles – though mine was crawfish), I noticed on my LP map that we were sitting less than a hundred metres from Avant-Peretti house, where Tennessee Williams lived between 1946-7, and where he wrote “A Streetcar Named Desire”.  Finishing up, we wandered across to the modest building outside of which a woman in her seventies was sat wearing a purple balldress, a huge red feathered hat and uproariously playing old jazz favourites.  Given Williams’ literary predilections for both the blue piano and harmlessly eccentric/insane women, it was I thought the most fitting tribute which would hopefully have made the old playwright smile.  Following this entertaining diversion, we slowly meandered through the old French market before strolling back down the “Moon Walk” (named after an early city planner) along the Mississippi river and watched the riverboat lumber past.

Riverboat over the Mississippi

With African, French, Spanish, Latino, Italian and Caribbean influences on everything from the cooking to the architecture, New Orleans is certainly the most cosmopolitan city I have yet visited in the U.S., and possibly throughout my entire trip so far.  It is also quite possibly the most fun, even outshining Las Vegas for round-the-clock entertainment (it is also less expensive and, despite the high-crime rate around the city, less risky on my wallet…).  So while I am definitely sorry to be leaving the Home of Jazz, I am now heading for the House of Blues in Memphis, Tennessee.  This I am looking forward to, just as much as I ever did N’Awlins.

JFK

Firstly, thank you all so very much for the various emails regarding the previous post – it’s nice to know that people actually read these various scribblings, and your gracious corrections are always appreciated (particularly from Mum, who gently reminded me how “mesmerised” I was in the subject)!  I was indeed being a little self-disingenuous in my declaration of a lack of knowledge of Dallas, not least in regards to the subject of this current post namely the site of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy on November 22nd, 1963.

The JFK museum

As well as coming to Texas for campaigning purposes (ahead of the Presidential election in 1964), Kennedy had arrived in Dallas in order to personally settle a dispute within the State Democratic Party concerning his civil rights legislation.  Riding in an open-topped motorcade to a hugely welcoming crowd (the wife of Texas Governor Connally, riding in the same car as the President, even turned to him saying “Mr. President, you can’t say Dallas doesn’t love you!”), shots rang out as the car made its way down Dealey Plaza, and the 35th President of the United States was dead.

Dealey Plaza and the Texas Book Depository

A suspect was quickly apprehended – Lee Harvey Oswald, a Marxist dissident who had recently returned from an aborted defection to the USSR.  With a supposed motive and the discovery of several photographs of himself clutching a sniper’s rifle, Oswald’s guilt in firing the shots from the Sixth Floor of the Texas Book Depository where he also worked was quickly assumed by the world.  However, when Oswald was himself assassinated while in custody by local nightclub owner Jack Ruby, the case appeared to have been shut.  However, numerous conspiracy theories have continued (some with more weight than others), including the following:

• Kennedy was killed as part of a high-level CIA/FBI plot in order to prevent the President from curtailing the powers, most specifically that of J. Edgar Hoover;
• The Mafia were taking revenge on Kennedy for the administration’s crackdown on organised crime (spearheaded by the Attorney-General and the President’s brother, Robert Kennedy), particularly after some shady favours given the young Senator up to and during his Presidential campaign in 1960 (several authors have since noted that Ruby’s subsequent killing of Oswald, ostensibly to save Jackie Kennedy the ordeal of giving evidence at a public trial, bore all the hallmarks of a mob “hit” to silence a possible informant);
• Disgruntled members of the Cuban exile community, furious at Kennedy’s refusal to launch a sustained invasion of Cuba to oust the Marxist dictator Fidel Castro, carried out the killing;
• The assassination was carried out on the orders of Castro himself, in retaliation for Cuba’s humiliation during 1962’s missile crisis and the imposition of heavy sanctions following the attempted Bay of Pigs invasion.

Given both the astonishing number of witnesses and/or associates of several of the major players connected with both the assassination and the subsequent investigation, a deeper plot has long been suspected.  The discovery of the cine film shot by local resident Abraham Zepruder, showing the image of Kennedy being wrenched “back and to the left” (i.e. diametrically opposite the Grassy Knoll, from which several witnesses also reported hearing shots) at the time the fatal head shot was fired, has long left me convinced of (at the very least) the existence of a second gunman/men, if not a full-blown conspiracy plot.

The Sixth Floor Window

The sixth floor of the Book Depository (why, oh why can’t Americans use a simple word like “library”?), where Oswald is alleged to have fired from, is now a museum devoted both to Kennedy’s life and the assassination and subsequent investigation.  Going through the various exhibits, it is impossible not to wonder what kind of President Kennedy would have grown into had he lived and, as expected, won a second term of office.  Yet even these various items and testimonies from the great and the good do not match up in terms of a physical feeling of history so much as when one simply walks across the Dealey Plaza road, and over the cross in the road which now marks the spot where Kennedy was hit with the final head shot.  Leaving the museum (and, after the intermission of some proper Texas BBQ ribs, fried okra and beans), we moved down Market Street to inspect the Kennedy memorial, an enormous white monstrosity of poor design and (IMHO) pretentious interpretation.  The local theory goes that the Texas Southerners approved the hulking design as a final act of revenge against a President that they despised, even in death!

View from the grassy knoll

In terms of Kennedy’s own legacy upon the world, he most certainly left his mark in terms of his first standing up to the Soviet Union, the space race and the beginnings of legislation guaranteeing civil rights to black Americans.  However I believe that it is in terms of his articulate expressions of hope towards the future that best lays testament to a great, if occasionally flawed, human being.  The speeches in which he challenged the world still live on today: in particular, “Ich bin ein Berliner” and “Ask not what your country can do for you” are still hailed as being amongst the most eloquent and uplifting words ever expressed by a world leader.  In one such speech, Kennedy remarked that “History is the memory of a nation”.  With these words in mind, it must be said that history has judged Kennedy kindly, as it often does toward a charismatic individual cut down in the prime of life.  Whether of course Kennedy (who after all, was the President who first ordered US troops into Vietnam) genuinely deserves accolades similar to that of say, Reagan, whose legacy in staring down Communism is surely beyond reproach, is debatable.  Yet the vision and optimism espoused by Kennedy have clearly inspired generations of Americans to reach further both domestically and internationally – a fitting legacy in and of itself.