Days 200 to 203 - Eatlots In Seattle

Author - Grant

Based In - Seattle, Washington

Photos - http://www.flickr.com/photos/32017704@N03/sets/72157618595716152/

There is no doubt that we are seeing the Pacific North West at its very finest because when the sun comes out to play, so does its residents .  Thanks to a climate not too dissimilar to Northern England, on the rare occasion that the sun does make an appearance, everybody makes a huge deal of it with every grain of sand at the beach covered with greased up bodies and every blade of grass in the parks crammed with frisbee flinging fathers.  So when I look back at the photos of our time in Seattle, there aren’t a huge number of monumental things that I can drone on at length about because the majority our time there was spent wandering around soaking up the thrilling ambiance of this outstanding city.

Of course, as various promotional posters told us, “no trip to Seattle is complete without a ride up the Space Needle”.  What they really mean is “I know our city is incredible for mindless meandering but that doesn’t result in dollars in the city’s coffers so please pay $16 each for a 30 second ride in an elevator to get exactly the same view as you can get from the top of any of the seven hills that surround Seattle...please”.  Yes, it’s a lovely view as the distant snow-capped mountains and the city’s tallest buildings sandwich the idyllic island strewn bay but the price tag is still a bit steep.  Luckily we managed to visit at the same time as North America’s largest folk festival was in full swing around the base of the needle, giving us the opportunity to gawp at a plethora of crazily dressed hippies and to tap our toes to the many bands.  Still, my favourite attraction was a chap walking round wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and carrying a cardboard sign declaring “punch me in the stomach as hard as you like for $5”.  The economy is hitting real hard in these here parts...

On more than one occasion we heard that the Olympic Sculpture Park was well worth a visit but I was not particularly keen, still reeling somewhat from the sting of the Space Needle.  When I learnt it was free, however, all my protestations vanished and hence we found ourselves doing something uncharacteristicly cultural.  It wasn’t long, though, before I remembered why this sort of activity is rarely on the schedule as I felt the familiar hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention, the blood progress from simmering to boiling and my voice getting louder and louder as I came face to face with a bunch of 25 foot tall, rusting metal tubes that were supposed to symbolise “spaces or volumes created by the slightest opposition to their masses or penetrated by vectors, traversed by momentum...abstractions which resemble no living things except by their manner of reacting”.  I know they say that art is subjective - well this sort of art isn’t.  It’s bollocks and that isn’t my opinion, it’s just the truth.  It does explain, however, the signs warning that dogs may not defecate on the surrounding lawns - clearly they are worried that someone might pickle it and charge 50 grand for it.

Another sign that we chose the perfect time to visit this region was the abundance of Farmer’s Markets on offer.  Whilst our lack of kitchen means that we can rarely take advantage of their incredible fresh offerings, we still sadistically visited three during our time in Seattle as I find the opportunity to gaze longingly on their wares just too much to resist.  Kate also seems well up for it and it has taken me a whopping seven months to work out that is because nearly every farmer’s market in the land contains a creperie where she can get her fix of banana and nutella.  The pick of the bunch had to be the famous Pike Place Market which was bought in 1965 by a guy called Yokoyama who changed the management practice by making it an incredibly fun place to work and declaring it to be world famous.  As he says, “We took a stand that we were going to be world famous.  We just said it and it became so”.  I like this idea of self-fulfilling prophecies which is why I describe myself as a Calvin Kline model in the lonely hearts ads.  Still, the result of his initiatives is a market of mighty fine produce that is served with real showmanship.  This is best exemplified by the fishmongers who chant orders in unison and perform a fish throwing routine that Cirque Du Soleil would be proud of.  The dweeb cook inside me couldn’t help but think that the 15 foot tosses must somehow bruise the fish but then I remembered that it’s all in the name of fun and that Le Bernadin are unlikely to be buying from here.

On the subject of food, we once again treated ourselves shockingly well with some mighty fine seafood at Ivar’s (I’m not sure what will stick in my mind the longest - the huge, juicy fried oysters or the freaky man named Stacey who we shared a table with), surprisingly high quality steaks at The Keg (where a prime rib filled me up for an entire 24 hours) and a cracking diner across the river in Fremont called Roxy’s (where the green eggs and ham might be the best brunch eggs I’ve had the pleasure of getting the other side of).  But the most surprising meal was the best pizza of my life in Piecora’s which sat in the heart of Capitol Hill, Seattle’s overtly gay-friendly district (it didn’t require a particularly strong gaydar to work this out thanks to the abundance of tight shorts and punk drag nuns).

So as I have hopefully portrayed, we had a blast in Seattle and it definitely goes down as one of my very favourite cities that we have visited but the sun definitely helped as apparently this place has the highest suicide rate in the country during the months when the sun sets at 4pm and the rain forecast is measured in months rather than hours.  Being English, all that does is confirm exactly why pubs have roofs but I guess that’s what they mean about being two nations divided by a common language.

Next stop is our second foray into Canada on this trip as we’re heading directly north to Vancouver in British Columbia.  Kate will be here for the full week whilst I’m only hanging around for three days before heading back to the UK for the FA Cup Final.  After that, a combination of our excitement and impatience means that we’re going to cut the rest of the trip short and make a bee-line for Santa Barbara to begin some real house-hunting.  What this means for Eating America is that we’ve got one remaining blog from Vancouver and then it’s all going to be over as I’m doubting there’s going to be much of interest to report as we spend 3 or 4 days crunching out 1250 miles on the southbou

Days 197 to 199 - Portland’s Dark Secret Unveiled

Author - Grant

Based In - Portland, Oregan

Photos - http://www.flickr.com/photos/32017704@N03/sets/72157618350619875/

We spent a total of four nights in Portland and (to completely plagiarize someone else joke) like one hit wonder Natalie Imbruglia, I’m torn.  On one hand, it definitely has more plus points than your average city but it has exactly three big negatives that put me off wanting to live here.  As such, I’m putting Portland in the same category as Lisa “the bike” Hughes from my High School - thrilling to occasionally visit but not somewhere I’d want to spend too much time in.

Let’s start off with the positives...and the first one is a monster.  In fact it’s such a big tick that it almost overrides all of the negatives on its own.  It is, of course, beer.  Apparently Portland has more micro-breweries per square mile than anywhere else on the planet (a fact I overheard somewhere and cannot back up but it sounds both impressive and correct) which has spawned the rise of the brew-pub.  Considering that Kate isn’t drinking, bless her for enduring more than a handful of these dens and, more importantly, of volunteering for designated driver duty.  It might sound harsh that I haven’t given up alcohol to show her support but I have given up caffeine which is harder than it sounds in a country that runs on java.  Anyway, back to the brew pubs.  Obviously each place has its own identity but they do have a few traits in common such as minimal decor, dog-friendly outside tables, a basic and limited food menu and a line-up of superstar beers that rarely contain less than 6% alc by volume and almost always taste like what I imagine is served in the bar in Heaven.  It’s going to be almost impossible to return to drinking the regular piss churned out by the big breweries after this mini Oktoberfest but it does prove that America makes some fine artisanal beers that can more than adequately indulge my IPA habit.  But more than just the quality, it’s the culture that goes along with it.  It’s a sad reflection on my weakness but one of the biggest things I miss about the UK is the drinking culture and so it brings a smile to my face and warmth to the cockles of my heart to see big tables of friends sat around in the middle of the afternoon necking fine ales, laughing heartily and smoking like they still haven’t figured out they’re kind of bad for you.

Next on the plus list is the grub as every category of food we have partaken in was top drawer (excluding the McDonalds which we’ll chalk up to a pregnancy craving).  From the fresher than fresh Voodoo Donuts (covered in the last blog) through a plain old panini at J’s Cafe (served with an abundance of style, love, originality and kettle crisps) to simple brew-house snack plates (such as the garlicy humous in the Lucky Labrador served with a loaf of fresh, crusty bread) and full blown meals...we’ve been a bit spoiled.  The creme de la creme, however, came on the last night thanks again to a tip from 17’ 3’’ Brooklyn Mike.  Like a troll that at first appears unfriendly, Montage sits under a bridge on the north side of the river that splits Portland but clearly we answered his three questions correctly as we gained access to the, at first glance, classically beautiful dining room.  It’s only on further inspection, once your eyes have adjusted to the low level lighting, that it becomes apparent that something is a little amiss.  It’s nothing in particular but the combination of the servers who may be wearing traditional uniforms but, in true hipster style, they are all a couple of sizes too small which reveals the obligatory tattoos and the cooks who are on full show (especially from our kitchen facing bench) and look like they all need a good wash as they continue their presumably years-old competition of “who can shout ‘Order Up’ in the most ridiculous and loud fashion”.  Or maybe it’s the paintings that are versions of classics (such as the last supper) but with chefs taking the lead characters and somehow they all look like they are cutting up lines.  Still, please don’t think this is a criticism as it all makes for a really unique atmosphere as there is never a dull moment in here...and, as a bonus, the Southern themed food just enhances the whole experience.  To start, Kate ticked ‘veggies’ off her daily list of things to eat whilst preggo (more on this another day as it’s an incredible chore) by having a salad whilst I had sautéed frog’s legs with a smoky, spicy cold remoulade.  I’ve only had frog’s legs a few times but these were far and away the best I have had as they were tender, juicy, meaty and surprisingly big which is always a crowd pleaser at the MacNaughton table.  Only after having the appetiser did I remember that I forgot to order the house speciality which is an Oyster Shooter (a freshly shucked west coast oyster with lashings of the same remoulade and fresh lemon juice) so I fit one in between courses for good measure.  For mains, Kate had the Buttermilk Fried Chicken (3 crispy drumsticks) with garlic mashed potato and a succotash of veg whilst I had a spicy macaroni pasta dish with andouille sausage.  They were both excellent but nothing could top those legs which will surely replace Lisa Smith as the thing I think about last before drifting off to sleep for the next few weeks.  Now the shocking part was still to come as the total cost for the food portion of this meal came to less than $30 which is just incredible value.  Another home run from the Mike guide to the Pacific Northwest.

I realise this entry is getting a bit big now (and it’s nearly dinner time) so I’ll try to limit the unnecessary detail but also well worth a mention is Portland’s proximity to a vast amount of nature (the vast and beautiful Forest Park is on its doorstep), the beautiful river front and its vibrant downtown.  Still, as I mentioned at the start, three things hold it back from promoting from great to exceptional.  In true Miss World style, let’s do them in reverse order of importance...

In third place is, unsurprisingly, the weather.  We caught the place in the middle of summer but annually it gets about 150 days of rain which makes Manchester look almost tropical in comparison.  Second place goes to the inhabitants who admittedly provide some world class people watching fodder but it just seems like everyone is achingly cool and unique which would be seriously hard to fit in with (and yes, I do understand the non-sensibility of trying to fit in with uniqueness but you get my meaning).  So that just leaves the crowning reason why Portland is not somewhere I would want to live and it is such an appalling characteristic that it almost makes me sick to write it down.  I’m just going to blurt it out and let you make your own decision.  Portland invented the shopping mall.  There, I said it.  Apparently the Lloyd Center was the first mall in America and its success spawned the global phenomenon which has directly resulted in ruining too many of my Sundays outside the football season.  I could have forgiven the place for Nazi sympathising but inventing Shopping Malls is a step too far for me.

So there you have it, such a great city but with such a dark secret.  Tomorrow we leave for four nights in Seattle.  Fingers crossed we don’t discover they invented the Chick Flick.

Day 196 - Twenty Thousand Miles And Counting...

Author - Grant

From - Eugene, Oregon

To - Portland, Oregon

Via - Salem, Oregon

Miles Driven - 102

Photos - http://www.flickr.com/photos/32017704@N03/sets/72157618393725640/

Sometimes traveling days area bit naff because we do nothing other than sit in the car but today’s trip from Eugene to Portland was only a couple of hours so we still had a full day to fart around.  In addition to this, I was also keen to get full value for money from our expensive hotel room so I was never going to be checking out until just a few seconds before midday.  As such, the morning was spent cycling along the 15 mile park-laden riverside path that divides Eugene which was crazy pretty and was made all the more entertaining by watching a woman chase her dog through a lake in order to retrieve her retriever who was busy retrieving swans by the neck.

The trip to Portland was noteworthy for two reasons.  Firstly we hit the 20,000 mile mark and secondly for being the least crooked road we seem to have driven in the past month which was pure bliss.  Usually the nicest roads are the minor roads that take us through numerous villages but I have to say that it was quite a relief to be back on a huge interstate.  They say that the best bit about arriving is the journey - well that’s only the case if you arrive not feeling like you’ve just spent a month at sea.  Lunch was a seriously serene picnic in Salem, the state capital which seems tiny but I guess that Oregon isn’t that well a populated state so it makes sense that it looks more like a model village.

We’ve been looking forward to getting to Portland for a while now, not just because of its reputation as an all round cool place but also because it contains Voodoo Donuts.  If you haven’t heard of this place then it’s a really kooky, 24 hour place that serves a multitude of weird and whacky styles of deep fried dough.  Their signature donut (which we had, obviously) is the shape of a voodoo doll complete with raspberry blood and a pretzel stake through the heart and our other choice was a donut covered in maple syrup icing and topped with a couple of slices of crispy bacon.  They were both ridiculously/dangerously good and I get the feeling that this isn’t going to be our only trip there over the coming days - they’re even worth enduring the side order of hipster attitude that comes with every purchase.

We’re here for another three nights so I’ll probably do a blog later this week covering our entire stay.  Lazy but hopefully more interesting.

Day 195 - Dream Catchers, Soap Dodgers & Man’s Samplers.

Author - Grant

From - Redwood Forest, Northern California

To - Eugene, Oregon

Via - Grant’s Pass, Oregon (fine city, fine name)

Miles Driven - 180

Photos - http://www.flickr.com/photos/32017704@N03/sets/72157618305632849/

Ignoring secret trips back to New York for doctor’s appointments and an unscheduled trip back to the UK, we’ve been in California in California for a whopping 50 days which is almost a quarter of the total time we’ve been away.  Clearly that is partially explained by its size but it is also a reflection of the diversity of this incredible state which has us heavily leaning this way as a place to settle and raise little Goodison (it’s a name I’m beta testing in the hope that repetition will lead to acceptance).  

Still, today’s route took us north and into Oregon, a state that everyone we have met has spoken incredibly highly of...if it wasn’t for the weather.  The good news for us is that we are catching it in the middle of a heat-wave and what locals would define as a drought (i.e. 5 consecutive scheduled days without rain).  In a bit of bad planning our our behalf, our chosen overnight stop was in Eugene which has a huge athletic history (it has produced an inordinate number of national athletes and is the home of Nike) and was in the middle of a track meet.  As such, the only remaining dog friendly room in town was a top of the line suite complete with jacuzzi...a sodding waste of money when you consider that I am already married and that she is already ‘with child’.

Arriving on a Saturday did, however, mean that we caught the weekly market which is the life and sole of this town.  This wasn’t your run of the mill brik-a-brak market though as Eugene isn’t your run of the mill sleepy town.  From what I could gather the most common profession is beatnik, the town hair-do is dreadlocks and the uniform is anything tie-dye.  As such, the market sells an abnormal amount of dream-catchers and veggie dhal.  The entertainment, however, is priceless with Janice Joplin impersonators and bongo-drum circles providing the soundtrack to the numerous jugglers and impromptu foot-sack games.

Despite costing the same as a night at the Waldorf Astoria, our hotel is perfectly located - opposite a park and right next door to the best pub in town.  One of our very few regular readers, Mikanos, recommended the McMenamins chain - if not for the food then definitely for the beer and I’ll now treat his every word as biblical as he was spot on.  This particular night they had six beers on draught and they offered a sampler that contained a few ounces of each...but where’s the fun in that?  As such, over the next couple of hours I did the man’s version of the sampler tray by  having a pint of each.  In summary, the IPA was magnificent, the wheat beer was beautiful, the lager was crisp but tasty, the fruit beer was raspberry-tastic and the two stouts were exceptional but could also be used to pave roads.  The food was the very definition of hit and miss as the chicken wings were perfect (crispy, juicy, spicy) but the sandwiches were a bit drab.  But really, who cares when the beers are so good?  My dining

 partner who can’t drink, that’s who.  Instead she had to be content with sitting in the setting sun, drinking pints of milk and watching the cheeky raccoons steal garlic bread.  Apparently these franchises are plastered all over Oregon and Washington.  Looks like the next two weeks aren’t going to be too tough...

Days 194 - The Rubbish Guide To The Redwood Forest

Author - Grant

Based In - Redwood Forest, Northern California

Photos - http://www.flickr.com/photos/32017704@N03/sets/72157618266811119/

There are loads of great things to do in the Redwood Forests.  There are also three rubbish things to do and today we managed to find all three.

First up was a hike up one of the few dog friendly paths in the forest which delivered heaps in terms of equally magnificent and mysterious redwoods but unfortunately its consistent gradual climb nearly destroyed Kate who currently has the lung capacity of an asthmatic geriatric at altitude.  Apparently that is one of the many, many pregnancy side-effects that she never ceases to educate me with on a minute by minute basis.  Some of them are well known (lack of energy, strange eating habits, fat ass etc) but some aren’t so well documented such as the need to watch a minimum of fours hours of reality TV each day, preferably whilst hugging a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.  I digress.  The point is that the hike turned into a crawl and it was a relief to both of us when the climb abruptly ended way short of its advertised length.

So as this was supposed to be an active day and the hike failed to deliver, I decided to have a go at one of the bike paths recommended to us by a ranger but either she had never ridden it or she has thighs like a professional wrestler as the first couple of miles were close to vertical.  Luckily the next six miles were fairly flat (and, incidentally, laden with wild elk...yummy) but by the time I caught up with Kate I was caked in mud and shaking like a shitting dog.  Strike two.

The next disappointment was in the form of a walk through Fern Caynon.  Yes, it was a canyon and yes, it was indeed lined with fern but the problem was the path which doubled as a fast flowing river.  Being a mere mortal, I like my walking surfaces to be more...you know...solid and less...you know...drowny.  Strike three.  Time to revert to something with a guaranteed success rate; eating.

I’m not going to bother with words for this bit - I’ll just tease you with a picture.  Doesn’t that just make you want to jump into your monitor and bathe in it?  It’s a cross between beef bourguignon and a good old British stew.  And it was bloody lovely.  Not bad work with one pan and a half working electric hob.  Go on, it’s OK to drool.

Day 193 - The Longest Day Is Actually In May

Author - Grant

From - Mendocino, California

To - A Dank Cabin Deep In The Middle Of A Bear Filled Forest

Miles Driven - It Felt Like Thousands

Photos - http://www.flickr.com/photos/32017704@N03/sets/72157618352901666/

Today was a long day.  Sometimes that means more time to pack in more fun stuff and sometimes it means that it felt like there were more than 24 hours between midnights.  Today was the latter and can justifiably be spelt with more than one ‘o’.

Firstly I was inexplicably awake just after 6am.  At first I thought it was the ghost of Jessica Fletcher goading me to join her in a morning jog (complete with white rolled up towel round the neck)...but then I remembered that she isn’t dead.  The elderly ladies bladder, however, is with us as Molly was demanding her morning walk a whole hour earlier than usual.  It did, however, allow me to explore the bluffs of Mendocino which were pretty spectacular in the daily morning fog.  A few miles under the belt even before the milk man had thought about stirring - could this be the beginning of a fit new regime?  In a word, nope.  All it did was to bring on a rampant hunger that hopefully Norm could satisfy.  Given that we were the only people staying in the B&B (well, apart from crazy Lisa who seems to earn her keep by massaging landlord Norm in the kind of arrangement usually reserved for senior politicians), breakfast was a veritable platter of goodies but the only thing more rampant than our hunger for food was our thirst for knowledge about the houses history.  Unfortunately it turned out to be a bit of a damp squib for a couple of reasons.  Firstly, the interior of the house was never used for filming so only a few shots of the exterior were filmed which rarely required Angela’s attendance and secondly, Norm was clearly bored of regaling the story and was too busy blushing at Lisa’s brazen insistence that today’s ‘massage’ will be at 10:45am.  It’s enough to put you off your granola...ish.

So after leaving the house to the mysterious background sound of squelching, we once again braved the wobbly, puke-inducing northbound Route 1 in search of the abundant redwood forests that blanket Northern California.  Whilst clearly still a bit groggy from the drive, we found ourselves forking over the princely sum of $5 for the privilege of driving through a massive redwood with a Dodge Grand Caravan sized hole in it.  This was wrong for a couple of reasons.  Firstly we had been through a sequoia with a hole in it, albeit on foot, just a couple of weeks ago and I feel there is only so many trees a man should pass through on one trip and secondly, from that experience we learnt that cutting a car sized hole in a tree shortens its lifespan.  Still, we’d already parted with the $5 by the time these two thoughts had properly formed so the priority turned to obtaining full value for money.  As such, we drove through the tree...twice, walked through it once, all three of us emptied our bladders and the only reason we didn’t reverse through it was because Kate vetoed it because she was embarrassed.  That girl will never understand the value of the dollar.

Next up was the 30 mile Avenue of The Giants which you probably don’t need me to explain was a crooked country road through a forest of redwoods that were up to 500 feet high and 2000 years old.  Our tour was cut short, however, by fallen tree that had brought down a power line.  Upon closer inspection, the scene  was a bit more gruesome as a car had ploughed head on into one of the trees.  We arrived at the same time as the first response fire vehicle and only after considerable goading did the lone fireman check inside the car for victims; using the excuse that some of the power lines might be down and live to delay his inevitable inspection despite all the wires clearly still being accounted for propping up the fallen tree.  Thankfully however, the car was empty so we’ll just assume that the occupants had got out and walked northbound for assistance.  I also like to believe that my childhood pets are either still touring with the circus or romping round that animal friendly, 100 acre farm in the country.

In all the excitement, neither of us had noticed that midday had long gone without either of us demanding lunch.  Earlier in the day Kate had suggested that we stop in Eureka for a bite to eat which I thought was a fantastic moment of inspiration (please tell me I’m not the only person that finds that funny) and so we rolled into town looking forward to some country charm.  Instead, we found out where tramps and street cleaners retire to.  Kate insisted on eating lunch in sight of the car for fear of it being sold for parts and I think even Molly found the dominant scent of urine overpowering.  It didn’t put me off annihilating a curry infused cream cheese bagel with shredded carrot and cucumber though.

After lunch we only had another seven thousand or so mile to drive before reaching relative civilisation but our lack of earlier planning blew up in our face when neither of our phones had reception meaning we were forced to drive blindly through the state park in search of a roof for the night.  After a few dead ends, both figuratively and literally, we have settled for staying the next two nights in a 150 sq ft cabin made of cardboard that sits just yards from the highway.  As a result, when an articulated lorry passes at 65 mph, it feels like the huff and puff of a certain insistent little piggy.  On the plus side, it’s got a couple of electric hobs so let the magic commence.  All we need now is a shop.

Day 192 - In Jessica’s Footsteps

Author - Grant

From - Napa, California

To - Mendocino, California

Miles Driven - 150 wibbly wobbly ones

Photos - http://www.flickr.com/photos/32017704@N03/sets/72157618266058215/

We all know that Kate is what is commonly known as a “sicky person”.  You know the type.  Pale skin, clammy to the touch...basically like a scouser in the Costa Del Sol.  Hence it is with a certain amount of amazement that she has gone through the first three months of pregnancy with minimal nausea and I would even go as far as to say that she is reveling in the situation at the moment.  Clearly there must be some good reason why pregnant women generally get sick (probably a knock-on effect from eating the forbidden apple) and hence I took matters into my own hands today by ignoring Kate’s pleas and the the straight freeway that would have taken us from Napa to Mendocino in three hours and opting instead for the silly-string Route 1, five hour version along the cliffs.  Clearly this was the more scenic route as we hugged the cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean but just 30 minutes in I knew we’d made a mistake as Kate had stopped speaking and instead just concentrated on exhaling nothing more than Carbon Dioxide.  It was looking touch and go for a while but we survived the following 4 1/2 hours thanks to regular stops and Kate’s new anti-nausea alternative medication...fries.

Now the reason for choosing Mendocino as our stopping venue is, once again, deeply embarrassing.  The McNamara’s obsession with 1970’s piss poor murder mystery series is already well documented so I’ll not go over old ground and Mendocino is of particular relevance because it contains Jessica Fletcher’s house from Murder She Wrote.  In the terrible, terrible program, it is supposed to be Cabot Cove in Maine but in reality it is here in Northern California, presumably because of its proximity to Angela Lansbury’s favourite Bingo Hall.  A little more research unveiled that the house is a guest house and that is why I am sat typing this, Fletcher-stylee, in front of a log-burning fire in the cottage out the back of the house.  I’m half expecting someone to knock at the door asking for my help to shed light on the gruesome demise of some local dignitary.  If it does happen then I’ll not put you through an hour of atrocious acting and a wafer thin plot line - instead I’ll just go straight to the victim’s jilted lover and get them to confess all at the drop of a hat.  Yep, I’ve been exposed to a few too many episodes in my time round the various McNamara residences.  I also know more about Star Trek than I would like to admit but that’s a story for another time.  What was truly hilarious was watching Kate act all nonchalant as local looney Lisa showed us round the Angela Suite in the main house and pointed out the typewriter that Jessica pulls the ‘Murder She Wrote’ paper from in the opening credits.  It was all somewhat at odds with the excitement with which she texted her sister (a fellow fan of all things Cabot Cove) whilst out of Lisa’s eyesight...

Unlike the average Murder She Wrote episode, our stay here is all too brief as we head further north into the Redwood forests tomorrow but not before Norm provides us with Angela’s favourite breakfast and a full history of the significance of the house.  I might just have a cereal bar in the room...

Days 190 to 191 - Mythbusters, Napa Edition

Author - Grant

Based In - The Napa Valley, California

Photos - http://www.flickr.com/photos/32017704@N03/sets/72157618265974227/

I’ve always been led to believe that only poor quality, inexpensive wine will cause hangovers and, being a tight arse that will happily drink draino for a cheap high, I have never really had the opportunity to test the theory.  As such, in the spirit of Mythbusters, I happily put my liver on the line all in the name of research.

Monday was the day chosen for the ill-advised experiment because...well, because all day drinking sessions on a Monday are one of the many perks of being on permanent vacation.  First stop, the Clos Du Val vineyard for a tasting session.  Now this might not seem like the most appropriate way to announce such personal and monumental news to the world but it is at this point that I am going to slip in that my wife is currently 13 weeks ‘with child’ (which is very exciting, we’re both over the moon, blah blah blah etc etc) and the reason I mention it is because clearly she can’t drink.  And by ‘can’t drink’, I mean that it’s socially unacceptable and bad for the baby rather than whenever she has a couple of glasses she lip-syncs to Brittney Spears whilst stripping on the pub table.  So I mention it here because her tasting session involves rolling a couple of molecules of wine around her mouth leaving me to neck mine and glug the rest of hers.  20 minutes into the day and I’ve already put a cocktail of six rather cheeky vinos (ranging from $30 to $150) down my throat.  It is at this stage that I hand Kate the car key and apparently I have that glint in my eye that says there is going to be trouble.  Of the wines we tried, I loved the Merlot (like an alcoholic blackberry smoothie complete with super smooth, creamy and vanilla finish) and Kate took a shine to an unoaked chardonnay for its crisp taste and relative cheapness.  As such, a bottle of Merlot came with us for a later date and a bottle of the chardonnay was purchased to consume with the picnic lunch we had taken with us.  What, you’re not drinking Kate?  Oops, guess that means I get to quaff the bottle on my own as everyone knows that unoaked chardonnays turn to poison just 45 minutes after the cork comes out...although I might have started that rumour.

So with lunch consumed and a good bottle and a half of wine inside me, it’s time to do what any sensible Napa visitor would do...head to another vineyard for another tasting.  In complete contrast to the homely, friendly atmosphere at Clos Du Val, Darioush was a bit pretentious thanks to being flanked by dozens of roman columns and being frequented by swarms of Hooray Henrys.  Put it this way, when they offered us water for Molly, it was four bottles of Von imported from Sweden .  My addled brain, however, recalls the wines being pretty special...especially the Cabernet Sauvignon which is what Napa is renowned for.  Still, at somewhere between $80 and $200 a bottle, I wasn’t piddled enough to splash out.

By this stage it was late afternoon and the vineyard tasting rooms were closing so it was back to the hotel for some R&R...and to tuck into the exceptional bottle of Merlot from Clos Du Val.  So by the end of the day I had put away close to three bottles of wine but felt surprisingly good.  A glance in the bathroom mirror, however, told a very different story.  Bloodshot eyes surrounded by skin that a panda would mistake for his photo negatives and my intentional beard had turned from suave to hobo within the space of 12 hours.

Still, the question remained as to whether I would get a hangover after drinking such fine wines all day.  As Molly licked my feet at 6:30am on Tuesday morning, the mystery was solved.  I was a good-for-nothing mess and stayed that way up until lunch...when a couple of large glasses of Broken Spur Zinfandel set me straight.  In fact it was so nice I handed Kate the car key and bought a bottle to take away ‘for a later date’ (i.e. 7pm that night).

We’ve left Napa now and it’s a bloody good job else I would have to start the remaining blogs with “my name is Grant and I’m an alcoholic”.  But the moral of the story is, it doesn’t matter what the quality of booze is, put enough down your throat to tranquilise a hippo and you’ll regret it the following day.

Days 181 to 189 - San Frantastic

Author - Grant

Based In - San Francisco, California

Photos - http://www.flickr.com/photos/32017704@N03/sets/72157617800750975/

First and foremost, I feel we should issue a public apology to the city of Santa Barbara.  I should have known that by declaring the place as our current favourite living venue in the country, it would befall a catastrophe of epic proportions and as I type this, it is still ablaze with 10% of the population currently sleeping in evacuation halls and nearly 100 homes resembling overflowing ashtrays.  From now on, if we like a place, I’ll keep it to myself although I am happy to endorse Anfield stadium, Liverpool as an ideal spot to settle down just in case I do possess mystical powers.

Still, we’ve spent the last week some 350 miles north of the disaster zone in a city that should rightly be awarded Philadelphia's nickname as the city of brotherly love.  I am, however, confident enough in my own sexuality to declare that I really like the feel of this city but as I don’t want to put a hex on the place I’ll not go overboard with the compliments.

In summary, we’ve had an awesome time here thanks, mainly, to the city’s world class tourist attractions.  Alcatraz alone is worth the trip, unless you live in Guantanamo.  The place strikes just the right balance of learning and mindless wandering and I would have happily spent the day there but I knew that some world-class clam chowder was waiting back in San Francisco hence we were back on a boat after just two hours.  Still, it’s an incredible place with a crazy history.  For instance, did you know that...it used to be a fort before it was a prison, it closed in 1963 as it was basically rotting away, most of the prison guards lived on the island with their families in accommodation just metres from the prison walls and that for 19 months after it closed as a penitentiary it was occupied by Indian Americans protesting about land rights?  Our photos might not quite get across just how small the cells are as I would struggle to lay down in anything other than the fetal position (but then again, I am a freak of nature) and the pitch black solitary confinement cells weren’t even fun to stand in for 3 seconds posing for a picture so a week would understandably drive you insane.  The dining hall was clearly the most dangerous room in the prison because plastic knives and forks either hadn’t been invented or this was a particularly eco-friendly prison so the ceiling was littered with pepper spray canisters that could be remotely detonated in the event of a riot.  But the most interesting stuff was, naturally, the escape stories which ranged from crude to genius.  Personally I like to think that the five inmates who made dummies of themselves sleeping using soap, tunneled out of their cells with spoons, spent a year escaping from their cells every night to build a raft on the prison roof made from dozens of stolen raincoats and finally escaped without harming a single guard made it to safety despite being some of America’s Most Wanted criminals.  Odds are they are either still giggling on a beach in Costa Rica or, more likely, running a hedge fund out of Bermuda.  Either way, such inventiveness deserves rewarding in my books.

The Golden Gate bridge and its surrounding parks have also entertained us almost daily during our stay.  We’re walked across it, driven across it, admired it from the city, gawped at it from the beach and taken pictures of it from every angle other than from above.  Exactly why a mile long bit of metal has provoked the kind of adoration I usually like to reserve from Maxim cover girls is still a mystery to me but it’s kept me strangely enthralled and that’s all that matters I guess.  Wandering around the vast Chinatown (and, of course, sampling its lip-smacking goodies such as my old daily staple of char siew pau - bbq pork filled steamed buns) was a nice Singapore throwback although our never-ending, lifelong search to find dumplings on a par with those served at Din Tai Fung once again proved fruitless.  Still, as always, it was bloody good fun trying.  And we had some surprisingly good meals local to us in South San Francisco (or, “the ghetto”, as “real” San Franciscans probably refer to it) as the otherwise dodgy, drug-addict filled high street contained a top Italian and a cracking sushi place.  Weird but true.

Despite all these good eats, it’s been a surprisingly healthy stop as I’ve reached the stage where I can only fit in clothes sold at speciality Sumo shops and hence I have dusted off my running outfits (which for the past couple of months have been used solely as buffet eating outfits thanks to the elastic waistbands and expanding lycra) and have resumed using them for their intended purposes.  We even got up early on the morning we left SF so that we could join in with a monthly event where they close the roads to traffic along a 4 mile stretch so that cyclists can potter about without the fear of being t-boned by an irate cabbie on the 17th hour of his shift.  Whilst you would think that having our photo taken with Barack Obama should have been the highlight of the day (ignore the fact that his pose doesn’t change one millimeter between photos), actually it was topped by running round the bases in AT&T Park, the home of MLB team the San Francisco Giants.  Admittedly sliding into home base was over the top but I’m sure that the scars won’t be permanent but the photos will last forever...

The bad news is that, as much as we love this diverse, fun, incredible place, our house hunting has revealed that we can’t really afford what we would want to live in.  We would have to either get a condo in the nice part of town (a no-no as the 14 floor round trip pee walks required by Molly at midnight and 7am are enough to drive a man crazy) or have the size house we want but in the ghetto (also a no-no as our bike ride took us through a huggie-bear infested ghetto where the N-word was thrown around like buns in a school canteen and I’m sure people were eyeing up my tooth fillings for their resale value).  Perhaps the outskirts will serve our purpose more appropriately - we’ll find out in the coming days as we head north to Napa and Sonoma.  I just hope we have a sober moment to check out the local realty agents...

Cold Turkey Wanring

Apologies once again to those who use Eating America as their crack replacement as we'll be going quiet for about a week.  We've just reached San Francisco and the inner-Brightoner in me has booked us into a hotel for a week so that we can fully explore every nook and cranny of this city....and visit Alcatraz, of course.

Keep it real y'all,

G-Force (it's a nickname I'm trying out) & The Gingers

Days 176 to 180 - Bear Thrills

Author - Grant

Based In - Yosemite National Park, California

Miles Walked - The equivalent of a marathon

Photos - http://www.flickr.com/photos/32017704@N03/sets/72157617562718532/

After five days in Yosemite National Park, I am proud to announce that we are completely at one with nature.  Admittedly the cable TV, central heating and fully fitted kitchen helped bridge the gap and I’ll confess that I’m still not happy with the insect world (as the numerous spiders whose brains are now smeared across the bottom of my shoe can attest to) but the fact remains that we have survived a week amongst the bear and mountain lion infested woods of this incredible park.  Obviously I’m exaggerating as we haven’t seen anything more deadly than woodpeckers all week but that hasn’t made the pitch-black midnight walks with Molly any less intimidating.

So what have we done all week besides walk and eat?  Actually, nothing but just those two activities have kept us incredibly busy.  Day one we decided to walk Molly into the ground and took her on every dog-friendly walk in Yosemite Valley which added up to 7 miles of zig-zagging between monstrous monoliths and huge waterfalls whose spray you could feel from half a mile away.  We’ve seen some cool things on this trip but Yosemite Valley is definitely up there as one of the most incredible sights we’ve been fortunate enough to lay eyes on.  As always, the photos don’t quite do it justice but I find that if you take one you particularly like and triple its impressiveness then that’s a pretty good approximation.

Our cabin (which is the size of the average garage but feels like a palace to us after months in motels) is an hour drive from the heart of Yosemite so on day two we stayed local where the highlight of the day was stumbling (literally) on a golf course.  Turns out this 9 hole, full sized course is the only one located in a National Park so it would be rude not to play it.  And the best part is that it didn’t officially open for another couple of days so it was free.  Hence it was rude not to play it twice!  As a result of being officially shut, there weren’t any flags out but those kind of details are only important for real golfers as I’m still at the stage of aiming for the big flat bit of grass half a kilometer away from where I initially smack it.  Still, either not aiming at anything specific or not having a constant audience (i.e. being a billy-no-mates) really seemed to improve my game.  No flag, lonely golf is clearly the way forward for me.

Day three we headed further south to Mariposa Grove which is home to the biggest and hence the oldest sequoia trees in the country.  Now I’m no botanist so I wouldn’t know a sequoia from a pencil but even the least cultured Milwall fan couldn’t fail to be impressed by these colossal mega-trees.  Our walk took us past the biggest and oldest of them all (the Grizzly Giant) which is a frightening 2700 years old and, to give you some sense of its enormity, its branches were thicker than the trunk of any non-sequoia in the forest.  Another indicator is that some had arches cut into their trunks to allow cars to drive through and their pine cones were the size of babies.  Others had fire damage resulting in caverns that were bigger than our old apartment.  Seriously, they were crazy big and mighty impressive but I’m realising that it sounds like I have some sort of big tree fetish so I’m going to wrap this paragraph up now.

We’d been forced to suffer perfect blue skies. constant sunshine and comfortable 65 degree temperatures every day so it was quite a relief to wake up to drizzle and grey skies on day four which gave us the perfect excuse to minimise the physical exercise and spend an inordinate amount of time sitting around reading, catching up on chores, watching god-awful films (The Incredible Shrinking Woman and Brewster’s Millions) and generally relaxing.  These are the kind of days where I use the sentence “I can’t wait to have a home again” a few too many times.  Maybe that is why I took full advantage of the kitchen and turned into the perfect housewife; baking bread and muffins, making packed lunches every day and taking a full 24 hours to plan and cook a smorgasbord of comfort dinners.  I’ve almost already worn out the “don’t mess with the chef” oven gloves that my mum gave me when I was last in Blackers.  Perhaps that’s why we finally sat down and semi-planned out the rest of the trip today?  The result is that I reckon we’ve got exactly two months on the road left in us as we’ll not feel like we’ve had the full American experience until we see Yellowstone and Mount Rushmore.  

I’m getting ahead of myself though as tomorrow we leave for the liberal, steep slopes of San Francisco.  I’m not panicking though, it’s still well within wine country.

Days 174 & 175 - Bum Nirvana

Author - Grant

Based In - Santa Cruz, California

Today’s Photos - http://www.flickr.com/photos/32017704@N03/sets/72157617467473875/

On paper, Santa Cruz has everything you could possibly want from a town.  Perched on miles of stunning cliffs overlooking the mighty Pacific Ocean, it has a more youthful feel than any of the coastal towns to the south thanks to the 13,000 students at the USC campus on the outskirts of town.  Nowhere is this more obvious than on the main beach which seems to hold a constant beach volleyball party complete with banging music and the teeny-tiniest bikinis that are required on beaches that don’t otherwise allow naturists.  The local government has even had the foresight to install those 25 cents-a-go telescopes on the very same seafront as the bevy of bouncing beauties although presumably they were designed for spotting marine wildlife rather than for shortsighted perverts like myself.  If you’re a surfer then it looks like paradise but Kate wouldn’t let me ride the tubes because...well, because I’m crap at it and would undoubtedly kill myself on the treacherous rocks that helps turn this sport from past-time to X Factor here in Santa Cruz.  

Appealing to my origins, there’s a boardwalk amusement park complete with 85 year old wooden roller-coaster and the perpetual smell of candy apples which is my equivalent of mom’s apple pie.  Fitness freaks can join the hoards of cyclists that ride the plethora of bike paths including the 10 mile round trip path that traces the cliffs from the boardwalk to the Natural Bridges State Beach.  There’s even an unofficial dedicated dog beach (unofficial because the entry sign says ‘No Dogs’ but it’s a case of strength in numbers and if any officers want to dispute that then I’ll be standing behind the guys with the two rottweilers).  And this dog beach doesn’t just mean a patch of sand covered in excrement - it’s actually pretty idyllic as the dogs compete with the numerous local seals in an unofficial ‘loudest bark’ competition.  The seals win, flippers down.

So given this huge number of plus points, why haven’t we got our checkbooks out to buy a home here?  One word.  Bums.  Actually ‘travelers’ is the more accurate description as they pile all their belongings into the back of a truck/van/SUV and roam the country without any contemplation of getting a job.  Wait a minute - we fall into that category.  Oh god, we’re part of the problem.  Hold on a minute, we must have some distinguishing features?  Ah yes, we cut our toenails more regularly.  And neither of us has braids.  And we rarely smell of urine.  And we’re barely ever wandering the streets, drunk as skunks at 7am...but that’s not by choice...damn those social norms.  Of course that didn’t stop us being incredibly nosey and

 gatecrashing an open house for a property that we couldn’t afford on the seafront and it was there that the lovely Lori (who thought it hilarious that in England her name means ‘truck’) told us that Santa Cruz’s highly liberal tolerance policy differs from places like Santa Barbara who gather up bums and travelers, throw them in a van and take them to the county line.  Clearly SC’s policy is more ethically sound and I’m all in favour of it (hell, I’m even happy they have roller coasters to ride and year round sunshine) but I’m going to take the hypocritical stance and say ‘not in my back yard thanks very much’.  I’m not sure if this makes me a snob or just pure evil but if you’re giving me the choice of living somewhere that you are routinely given the opportunity to ‘come into my van and I’ll show you my dingo’ (don’t laugh to hard, this actually happened to us) or not then I’m going to choose not.  Having said all that, it looks like a top place to go to Uni.  Ah to be young again.

Tomorrow we head a bit north and a lot east to Yosemite National Park for 5 days of hiking, biking, cooking (we have a cabin with a kitchen for the first time in months) and no phone service.  Awesome.