Chapter Five

Time-Travelling by Greyhound

Keep Movin’, Movin’, Movin’...

We managed barely a couple of hours sleep but we made it to the Detroit Greyhound bus station on time. Richard and I had ambivalent feelings that morning. We were very sad to say goodbye to Bob and Bruce, who had become good friends over a fantastic summer, but we were very excited to be setting off, in the words of Simon and Garfunkel, ‘to look for America’. It is the home of popular music and the dominant art-form of the 20th Century, the movie. So these will be the underlying themes of our adventure.

Before I left England, Bill, Jeff and the rest of our group had all requested postcards from ‘Wild West’ towns, like Tombstone, Dodge, Wichita or Cheyenne. Names of places we had grown up with when Westerns were never off the telly. They wanted nostalgic reminders of those endless summer days when ‘Cowboys and Indians’ was the only game to play. We used to make our own bamboo bows-and-arrows and we fired lethal pebbles at each other with home-made elastic guns. We even made rifles powered by long lengths of elastic cut from inner-tubes of bike tyres. A typical battle would end with quite a few bruises and cut heads. Happy days! Hostilities would only cease temporarily when we were called in for dinner (never called lunch) or to avoid a menacing gang of ‘Teddy Boys’ coming down the street.

The golden age of the T.V. western was the late 50s and early 60s, and we wanted to visit places to evoke distant flickering black and white memories of James Garner as ‘Bret Maverick’, Ty Hardin as ‘Bronco Laine’ and Clint Walker as ‘Cheyenne Bodie’. The Greyhound bus took us down memory lane as Richard and I reminisced about Ward Bond leading the ‘Wagon Train’, and the voice of the Western, Frankie Laine, singing ‘Rawhide’, which starred a young Clint Eastwood as Rowdy Yates. Ranches had names like ‘The Ponderosa’, ‘The High Chaparral’ and ‘Shiloh’. In addition to the fictitious world of the TV Western our road trip will bring us into contact with real-life legendary Western figures such as Buffalo Bill, Wild Bill Hickok, Wyatt Earp, Davy Crockett, Billy the Kid, Jessie James, Kit Carson, Butch Cassidy, the Sundance Kid, Geronimo, Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. Their names have been kept alive due to the Western movie genre in the cinema, but, as we shall see, fact and fiction have become a little confused.

As the silver Greyhound bus glided on to the highway towards Chicago, I found myself humming ‘Everybody’s Talkin’, the Harry Nilsson theme song from the movie ‘Midnight Cowboy’. Richard and I were no longer the ‘Symbolics’, we were now John Voight as Joe Buck and Dustin Hoffman as Rico ‘Ratso’ Rizzo. I’m not quite sure who was who.

America must be the only country in the world where song titles resonate everywhere. As we looked at our map of the USA it seemed to sing to us as famous songs jumped out everywhere. We had no sooner left the Motown city than we were passing through Kalamazoo, where Glenn Miller ‘Had a gal’, and from ‘My kinda town Chicago’ we passed Lonnie Donegan’s ‘Rock Island line’. As we pointed at places, we were never more than the width of a fingernail away from a classic. We even started to sing along. Our repertoire included ‘The Man from Laramie’ before ‘leaving our hearts in San Francisco’ and asking if anyone ‘knows the way to San Jose’.’ By the time we got to Phoenix’ we had ‘set the stakes up higher in Viva Las Vegas’ and wondered why ‘Jojo had left his home in Tucson Arizona’. We were ‘down in El Paso’ asking ‘the way to Amarillo’ before checking that ‘Oklahoma City is oh so pretty’ and we took ‘the last train to Clarkesville’. With ‘Georgia on my mind’ we eventually arrived back in ‘New York, New York’. If we can make it there, we can make it anywhere.

All the songs evoked memories of golden eras of music as we passed through the home of Rock and Roll, Soul, Motown, Gospel, Blues, Jazz and Big Band Swing. We learnt a lot. Take Country music for example: before I went to America I thought ‘Box-Car Willy’ was an antisocial infection picked-up by hobos riding the freight trains. Our pastime of picking songs from the map of America somehow doesn’t quite work with a map of Britain. Fiddler’s Dram sang about having a ‘lovely time the day they went to Bangor’. And was it Marty Wilde who ‘took a trip to Abagavenny’? They don’t seem to have quite the same ring to them. What about Wigan’s favourite son, George Formby? He sang about his euphemistic ‘little stick of Blackpool rock’. Was this the first rock record? But credit where it’s due, we do have ‘Mull of Kintyre’, ‘Penny Lane’ and ‘Waterloo Sunset’. Ralph McTell’s song ‘Streets of London’ must be the greatest ever written about a closed-down market, a bag lady with dirt in her hair and clothes in rags, and a mission for discharged seamen, so to speak.

Our map of the USA also explains why Americans always qualify the name of a place anywhere in the world by also naming the country: Paris France, Rome Italy, Sydney Australia, and so on. The rest of the world assumes that we know where major cities like, say, Venice, Athens or Paris are. Are Americans so unaware of world geography? Actually no, it’s just that all of the above places, and many more besides, are also the names of American towns, and often duplicated several times. They have all of the above, plus Glasgow, Aberdeen, Florence, St Petersburg, Melbourne, Oxford, Cambridge, Birmingham, Manchester and Bristol, to name just a handful.

Even mundane essential services in America seem to conjure up romantic images. Glen Campbell sings about being a ‘lineman for the county’, a great song which is basically about a bloke up a telegraph pole. Just to see the name Wells Fargo brings back memories of stage coaches being chased through Monument Valley in a John Ford western, while the ‘Pony Express’ was the title of a Motown-style hit by Johnny Johnson and the Bandwagon. At least we have got Postman Pat and his black and white cat. On the other hand, there is the all-time classic song by the Moody Blues about North Wales, ‘Nights in Prestatyn’.

Days of Future Past

Talking of the Moody Blues, I have just had an idea. (Yes, I know, it’s about time). They released an album called ‘Days of Future Past’ and this has inspired me to use it as the sub-text of our Greyhound bus trip. I will be leaving Richard periodically as I take a couple of detours along the way. Don’t worry, I will not be abandoning him, because, like Marty McFly, I will be going ‘back to the future’. My occasional excursions will be thirty years into the future when I returned to America as a teacher in charge of a couple of school trips. I will be back before he knows it. Now, did I remember to pack my flux capacitor?

From Chicago we passed through Iowa City and Des Moines. Since we were on a tight budget, Richard and I decided to sleep on the bus as often as possible to save on hotel bills. If a place was of particular interest, we would take an overnight bus to literally anywhere, provided it was about four hours away. We would then take the next bus back, which was often the same bus. We just had to get off while the cleaners came aboard. I became quite adept at sleeping in an upright sitting position, with my rolled-up sleeping bag acting as a pillow against the window. On the rare occasion when we treated ourselves to a night at a hotel, neither of us could sleep horizontally and we would end up sleeping upright against the wall.

En route we experienced a Mc Donald’s restaurant for the first time, since they had not yet began their colonization of Britain (McDonald’s opened its first UK restaurant in south London in October 1974). The waitress had a candy floss of yellow hair. She must have over-dosed on peroxide. Her lips were full and ruby red, and her eyes were framed in purple mascara. She was no oil painting, more an Andy Warhol screen print. I was tempted to order Campbell’s soup and a bottle of Coca Cola, but we settled for a ‘Big Mac’ and a milkshake, which became our staple diet for the next month, cheap and filling.

‘The road is long, with many a winding turn...’

In Omaha, Nebraska I saw a statue of a boy carrying a smaller boy on his shoulders, and the thing which caught my attention was the inscription on the plinth: ‘He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother’. I recognised this as the title of one of my all-time favourite records, written by Neil Diamond, and a huge world-wide hit for the Hollies. I found out about the story which inspired the sculpture. Two boys were making their way to an orphanage, and when the local priest commented to the older boy that he was carrying a heavy load, his poignant reply was, ‘He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother’. The story of the orphanage was portrayed in the 1939 Hollywood movie ‘Boys’ Town’, starring Spencer Tracy. As a post-script to this particular story, let me rub my magic flux capacitor and instantly travel a couple of decades into the future. I am still on a bus, but this time in Paris (and, for the benefit of any American readers, I mean the one in France, not Texas). I am a High School teacher in charge of a school trip, and sitting next to me is my headmaster, Mr Williams. ‘He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother’ (the song that is, not the headmaster), came on the radio and he told me how much he loved that song. I told him the story and, being a headmaster, he immediately saw the potential for a school assembly. A couple of weeks later he gave a memorable assembly which began with the Hollies singing (on record that is, school capitation doesn’t quite stretch to booking the real thing) and closed with a picture of St Christopher carrying the Christ Child. I hadn’t seen that connection; which is perhaps why he was a headmaster and I wasn’t. It’s time for me to get back to Richard on the Greyhound bus before he misses me.

We had a brief stop-over in North Platte, Nebraska; which, I must confess, I had never heard of. However, it gave us our first taste in our search of the mythical West. In 1883, a certain William F. Cody noticed that nothing had been arranged in the town to celebrate Independence Day. He put up posters inviting cowboys to show off their riding and roping skills. To his surprise, hundreds turned up and the show was an outstanding success. Cody is better known to us today as Buffalo Bill, and that is how his world famous ‘Wild West Show’ began. Up to that point he had already had an eventful career; He was a Pony Express rider at the age of fourteen, an army scout, an Indian fighter and buffalo hunter, and he went on to become one of the greatest showmen and self-publicists of all time. He was inspired by that other great American showman and promotional genius P.T. Barnum, who in 1871had started his ‘Greatest Show on Earth’ circus. When it came to the art of self-promotion those two made the boxer Muhammad Ali seems modest, shy, and retiring.

Within a few years Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show had gathered momentum, playing to sold-out audiences throughout America, including New York’s famous Madison Square Garden. The Buffalo Bill legend grew to make him the most famous celebrity in the world, and his ‘Wild West Show’ toured America and Europe for over thirty years. Even Queen Victoria went to see it in London in 1887. Two years later, the Wild West Show starred at the Paris World Fair which was celebrating the centenary of the French Revolution, but this time it had to share top billing with the sensational opening of the Eiffel Tower. One critic wrote the Wild West Show was ‘the greatest success America had ever sent abroad’.

The legend of Buffalo Bill was largely myth, created by an author called Ned Buntline who wrote over 1,000 ‘dime novels’ based on the life of ‘Buffalo Bill’; which ranged from elaborate exaggeration to pure fantasy. Buffalo Bill actually went as guest of honour to see a play about himself in New York, which of course was his fictitious self on stage. Incredibly, from then on he adopted the persona of the figure he had seen and started to act the part in everyday life. In modern-day parlance, he had become a ‘caricature of himself’. It was as if Basil Rathbone had watched himself on film and then became Sherlock Holmes, or if Daniel Craig wakes up every morning believing that he really is James Bond.

One of the stars of the Wild West Show was Annie Oakley, who became famous as a sharp-shooter with a repertoire of incredible trick shots. Another was James Butler Hickok, a flamboyant long-haired former scout during the Civil War who became known as ‘Wild Bill’. As with Buffalo Bill, Hickok’s gun-fighting reputation was created by outrageous made-up stories which somehow got him the job of Marshal of Abilene. I feel another song coming on: ‘Abilene, Abilene; prettiest town I’ve ever seen’. Good song, but whoever wrote it should get out more.

I would love to have been a fly-on-the-wall to listen to a conversation between Wild Bill Hickok and Buffalo Bill (an entertaining Double Bill) as two compulsive liars tried to out-exaggerate and out-brag each other. It must have been something like Monty Python’s ‘Four Yorkshire men’ sketch.

The Wild West shows re-enacted stories and battles to entertain the public in the same way as those in the Colosseum in Ancient Rome. They were greatly romanticized, with a relaxed attitude to historical accuracy, similar to modern-day American movies. However, despite living in a fantasy world, Buffalo Bill did have sympathy for the way the Indians had been treated and the Sioux featured prominently in his shows. Chief Sitting Bull was invited to join the show, and Buffalo Bill presented him with a gift of a show-horse which had been trained to perform crowd-pleasing tricks. He was regarded as the most famous living Indian and he was widely celebrated and respected as a former warrior. The finale to the shows was always a spectacular re-enactment of Sitting Bull’s victory at the Little Big Horn. However, defiant to the end, he could not resist insulting white audiences in his own tongue, forcing nervous translators to think quickly on their feet and change what Sitting Bull had actually said. As far as I know, Queen Victoria didn’t understand the Sioux language. She would not have been amused.

Indian Heritage

The history of the North American Indians dates back many thousands of years. It is a complex story, rich in culture and sophistication, but, like many indigenous populations throughout the world, ultimately ending in tragedy. Naively, Richard and I began our Greyhound bus adventure in search of the ‘Wild West’ of our childhood memories, but we found that the reality was very different.

Before the arrival of Europeans there were numerous Native American Nations throughout the continent, speaking hundreds of different languages. They hunted on foot and rarely came into contact with other tribes due to the vast distances separating them. There were occasional skirmishes, but generally life was peaceful and the concept of all-out war, one nation against another (which seemed to be a way of life in Europe), was unknown. Cultures and traditions in art, music and dance had evolved to a high level of sophistication. They were far from being the screeching savages of popular imagery.

Millions of buffalo roamed the Great Plains, providing the essentials of life; food, clothing and shelter. The horse was introduced via the backdoor, as it were, in the south-west of the country. Christopher Columbus brought the first horses from Spain to the West Indies on his second voyage in 1493, that is, the year after he ‘sailed the ocean blue, in fourteen hundred and ninety two’. Incidentally, the so-called ‘discoverer’ of America, Christopher Columbus, never actually set foot on American soil and, up to his death, never knew of the existence of an entire continent. He always believed that he had arrived in India, hence the name West Indies.

It was still nearly two centuries before the Indians got their hands, or should I say back-sides, on the horses. In 1680, a revolt by Pueblo Indians in New Mexico forced Spanish colonists to withdraw back to Mexico, abandoning a great number of horses. These were taken by the Indians and, within a century, horses were dispersed throughout the plains. The Indians believed that this new animal was a ‘big dog’ and had been brought from the sky and left for them as a gift from the ‘Creator’. Apache warriors on horseback became known as ‘Dog Soldiers’.

The horse transformed their way of life probably in a similar way to the introduction of the railways in Europe and the ‘Model-T’ Ford in America. Hunting became easier and the tipis (tepees) became bigger because horses were able to drag much longer poles than their dogs (real dogs) had previously been able to manage. This new form of transport meant that, inevitably, distant tribes came into contact with each other much more frequently. Human nature meant that conflicts and some battles did occur, but a code of conduct evolved. It was almost like a code of chivalry, similar to that of Medieval Knights in Europe. Being civilized peoples they realized that to annihilate each other would be futile, especially with the influx of guns in the 18th Century from trading with Europeans. ‘Ritualized warfare’ developed, and a mere touching of an enemy, known as ‘counting coup’, became a higher honour than killing.

In general the Indians were peace-loving and welcoming, and this is how they first treated the white man. At the earliest English settlement at Jamestown, Captain John Smith said that he and his first colonists would have starved if neighbouring Indians had not fed them and taught them how to plant corn. Following the marriage in 1614 of John Rolfe, one of the leaders of the colony, and Pocahontas, the daughter of King Powhatan, they taught the English how to cultivate and cure tobacco. It’s a pity they didn’t learn how to cure lung cancer at the same time.

Tobacco played a vital role in establishing a permanent foot-hold in America because it provided a highly profitable crop for export. It was introduced to England via Spain and Portugal, and the French Ambassador to Portugal played a prominent role. His name was Jean Nicot, hence the name nicotine. Smoking became a sensation in England, and I can’t help thinking that the marketing people who sold the idea must have been the greatest ever. It reminds me of the recording by the Canadian comedian Bob Newhart who hilariously parodied an imaginary conversation with Sir Walter Raleigh (Nutty Walt) along the lines of: “You roll up the tobacco? Put it in your mouth? Set fire to it?!! And then breathe in the smoke?” If that was today I think the entrepreneurs on ‘Dragons’ Den’ would watch the sales-pitch through tears of laughter before announcing, “I’m out.”

So what happened to disrupt the peaceful co-existence of the Indians with each other, and subsequently with the European settlers? It can probably be summed up in one word: greed. The Europeans wanted ever more land and resources, and when gold was discovered on Indian land that was the final death knell. In the 17th Century, the French had a virtual monopoly of the Fur trade; while the Dutch were primarily in the Beaver business (Anyone who has been to Amsterdam would say that they still are). Inevitably, conflicts started to erupt as the four main plains tribes (the Kiowa, Comanche, Arapaho and Cheyenne) were slowly displaced by the United States Government. The Arapaho and Cheyenne actually signed a treaty in 1851 at Fort Laramie, but they had very little idea of what they were signing, since they had no concept of individual ownership of land. They saw themselves as part of the landscape, equal with plants and animals. On the other side of the world, the Australian Aborigines had a similar philosophy. This point of view is summed up perfectly in the movie ‘Crocodile Dundee’ when the eponymous character, played by Paul Hogan, explains that Aborigines believe that ‘people fighting over land is like two fleas arguing about who owns the dog’.

Rock of Ages

Cheyenne, Wyoming was our next stop, and, in line with our ‘musical odyssey’, here is an interesting item of trivia: Robbie Williams had a big hit with a song called ‘Let Me Entertain You’ which has a great line, ‘look me up in Yellow Pages, I will be your Rock of Ages’, a juxtaposition of lyrics surely unique in the history of song writing. Hands up anyone who can identify a link with the City of Cheyenne... No?

The world’s first telephone directory was produced by the Wyoming Telephone Company and published in Cheyenne in 1881. Because of a shortage of white paper at the time, they were printed on yellow paper. That is the origin of the ‘Yellow Pages’ tradition which has spread throughout the world. I am not sure if ‘Rock of Ages’ was included in the original listings.

Cheyenne was originally known as Crow Creek Crossing and renamed in honour of the Cheyenne nation. The name Cheyenne derives from the word ‘Shyenne’, which means ‘aliens’ or ‘people of a foreign language’. It was given to them not by Europeans but by the Sioux. Due to Cheyenne’s strategic position on the Transcontinental Railroad, the city grew rapidly with a proliferation of rowdy and bawdy theatres and saloons. Paradoxically, an Opera House was built and the Union Pacific brought some of the best shows from the east. Lily Langtree was probably the most famous star of the day, and she performed in Cheyenne on her way to San Francisco.

They Died with their Boots on

To save money, Richard and I decided to take an overnight bus north to Montana. We didn’t really plan where we were going but, as serendipity would have it, we came across a place familiar to us. As we crossed the Big Horn River we remembered ‘Custer’s Last Stand’.

George Armstrong Custer, the most famous military officer of his generation, had led an attack on a Sioux village on the Washita River in 1868. The soldiers destroyed everything mercilessly and massacred many of the inhabitants. In a different attack by other troops, the Cheyenne had been massacred at Sand Creek, and these atrocities led to a government inquiry. Understandably, Custer was hated by the Indian tribes, but they had to wait until the next decade to gain revenge.

The Sioux, under the famous chiefs Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, formed an alliance with the Cheyenne and, in June 1876, out-witted Custer (He was after all bottom of his class at West Point Military Academy). The Sioux and Cheyenne lured him to the banks of the Little Bighorn River, and the warriors took revenge on Custer in the famous battle, leaving no surviving soldiers. In the aftermath, his body was stripped naked and disfigured. A warrior jabbed the shaft of an arrow up Custer’s penis. Perhaps this is why it has become known as ‘Custer’s Last Stand’.

One of Custer’s officers, Captain Keogh, rode a black horse called ‘Comanche’ and miraculously the horse survived. He became famous and honoured as a national treasure, never ridden again, living in retirement for another fifteen years. The other survivor of the Battle of the Little Bighorn was a mascot, a bulldog named ‘Joe Bush’. He stood guard amongst the mutilated remains on the battlefield until he was rescued a few days later. It is a sad story of canine devotion, similar to that of ‘Greyfriars Bobby’ in Edinburgh.

The Indian chiefs thought that the Little Bighorn would cause the American government to finally give-up trying to defeat the plains Indians, but, unfortunately for them, it had exactly the opposite effect. News of the Custer massacre caused outrage from the American public, similar to later historical events like the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbour in 1941 and the World Trade Centre attack by al Qaeda in New York in 2001.

Richard and I took another overnight bus back to Cheyenne and stayed a few hours before heading west. As the bus was leaving Cheyenne, we were flagged down by two police cars. An officer came onboard and spoke quietly to the driver, and then two other officers unceremoniously ‘assisted’ a man from the back seat of one of their cars. They escorted him to the bus and bundled him on board. He dusted himself off and flamboyantly straightened his clothing before saying goodbye to the policemen in a tone of overly polite sarcasm with undertones of insolence. They simply smiled and waved him off the way you do when finally getting rid of a guest who has long over-stayed his welcome. The bus was about three-quarters full, and every passenger had put down their books or magazines to watch what was going on. He was quite a presentable character, in his mid-twenties, of average height with slim build, and dark hair and a neatly-trimmed beard. He had neither the appearance nor demeanor of an armed robber or a mass murderer, which made the manner of his exit from Cheyenne all the more intriguing. As he walked down the aisle of the bus, he started to greet people as if they were old friends with a cheery ‘How ya doin’ or ‘Good to see ya’. Some passengers acknowledged him nervously, but most averted their gaze and continued reading. The seats in front of us were free so he slid in, but immediately kneeled on them and looked over the back the way irritating children do on long flights. However, he wasn’t about to start playing ‘peek-a-boo’ with us.

“Hey, how you guys doin’?” he asked enthusiastically, while offering his hand.

“Okay,” I mumbled, returning his hand-shake while avoiding eye contact.

“And what about you?” he asked, turning to Richard.

Being posher and more well-to-do than me, Richard replied with a very polite, “I’m very well, thank you for asking.”

Well, that was it.

“Hey, you guys are from England?” he said with that American cadence which turns a statement into a question.

“We are indeed,” continued Richard seemingly willing to engage this suspicious character in conversation. I wondered at that moment if Richard had actually looked up from his book to notice that this man had been run out of town by not one, but two police cars. I had no choice but to join in as the three of us chatted together for about an hour. The subject of why he was given a police escort to the city limits never came up. I don’t think either of us wanted to know the past misdemeanors of our new best friend. We chatted congenially, and I must say that he seemed a likeable, decent chap. But then again, so do all conmen. During a short comfort stop he insisted on buying us coffee. He told us his name was Brett and he was on his way to San Francisco to visit his sister. We found out that he lived in New York and worked for a show business ticket agency. When we told him that New York City was our final destination, he suggested enthusiastically that we should call him. A quick mental calculation told me that we would be enjoying his company for another thousand miles through the Rocky Mountains, Utah and Nevada to California. It would be a long way to sleep with one suspicious eye open.

Who Are Those Guys?

Laramie in Wyoming is another Wild West town to evoke childhood memories. The nearby Rawlins Penitentiary once held a prisoner called Robert Leroy Parker, who formed a partnership with Harry Longbaugh to become one of the West’s most famous duos. We know them as Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and their posthumous fame owes much to the eponymous movie starring Paul Newman and Robert Redford. Sundance takes its name from an Indian festival and the name is well-known today as a prestigious annual film festival, founded by Robert Redford. The gang’s ‘modus operandi’ was to blow up and rob trains. A memorable scene from the movie shows a carriage exploding to such an extent that it is showered by confetti as banknotes are blown in all directions. “Are you sure you used enough dynamite there, Butch?” was the immortal punch-line. It is right up there with Michael Caine’s “You were only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!” from ‘The Italian Job’.

Diamond Geezers

Here’s an interesting little story we came across in Rawlins:

In 1872, two bedraggled, wrinkled old prospectors called Phillip Arnold and John Slack walked into the Bank of California in San Francisco. They handed a tied-up sack to the cashier and asked him to put it in a safe deposit box. Pointedly, they mentioned that they were off into town to celebrate. The old-timers left the bank, but they had sowed some seeds of intrigue. Naturally the cashier could not resist opening the bag, which contained a fortune in uncut diamonds. He took it to his boss William Ralston, a rotund, avaricious man always looking for opportunities to enrich himself. (A banker... Out to feather his own nest... Surely not!) After an exhaustive search of all the bars and casinos of San Francisco, Ralston and the cashier finally found Arnold and Slack, who acted coy and defensively. Eventually they admitted that they had found a massive diamond field, but had not filed for ownership of the land. Ralston offered financial backing to mine the diamonds and the two naive prospectors reluctantly accepted the deal. They agreed to take Ralston and his mining engineer to the site near Rawlins, Wyoming, but only if they agreed to be blindfolded. Ralston returned ecstatic and paid the prospectors to begin production. He put together a financial syndicate including, amongst others, Baron Rothschild, one of America’s wealthiest businessmen, former Civil War General George McClellen, and none other than Charles Lewis Tiffany, founder of the world’s most prestigious jewellery company.

Once he had found out the location of the diamond field, Ralston then revealed his unscrupulous trait by threatening Philip Arnold and John Slack with clever legal arguments over the land ownership and illegal mining. He strongly advised them to accept seven hundred thousand dollars as their share. It was a substantial sum, but a mere fraction of the countless millions available. The prospectors were distraught but realized that they had no other option. Reluctantly they agreed and took the money. Rubbing his greedy hands with glee, Ralston quickly set-up production and the news became a world-wide sensation. However, closer inspection of the first batch of diamonds revealed that many already had marks from lapidary tools. The two supposedly naive, grizzled prospectors had spent their life savings of about thirty five thousand dollars buying diamonds in Europe. They brought them to America via Halifax in Nova Scotia and then set up their con-trick. I don’t know if this has ever been made into a film, but I think there is another ‘Sting’ waiting to be made.

The journey through the Rocky Mountains provided us with spectacular views, punctuated by much-needed periods of sleep. Semi-conscious, I heard the driver announce over the tannoy, ‘Medicine Bow, Wyoming’. Up to then I had always believed that it was a fictitious place in the television series ‘The Virginian’. Running parallel to sections of the highway were the original wagon trails from the pioneering days, and Brett pointed out to us the permanent grooves in the rock created by the wagon wheels. Just looking at these remnants of the past seems to bring to life the history of the west in the same way that the ruts of chariots can be seen along Roman roads all around the Mediterranean.

Bring ’em Young

Salt Lake City is inextricably linked with the Mormons. They were brought to Utah by Brigham Young, but, contrary to popular belief (and pub quizzes), he was not the founder of the religion. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints was founded by Joseph Smith, a farm worker from New York State. In 1820 Smith claimed to have seen visions of the Angel Moroni who led him to a set of golden tablets which he translated as ‘The Book of Mormon’, thus establishing the Mormon Church. The Mormons were unpopular, largely due to their belief in polygamy, and Smith was killed by an angry mob. He was succeeded by Young, who led his followers to a promised land, albeit of salt rather than milk and honey. No-one could have possibly foreseen that this would develop almost two hundred years later into a Broadway and West End Comedy Musical, ‘The Book of Mormon’. Perhaps Smith and Moroni were the forerunners of Gilbert and Sullivan, Rodgers and Hammerstein, and Rice and Lloyd Webber.

The great Salt Lakes and surrounding salt flats glistened in the moonlight like a view of the Arctic as we travelled through the night.

The Biggest Little City in the World

Reno, near Lake Tahoe, could be described as the ‘little brother’ of Las Vegas. It is smaller and less famous, but, being in the same state of Nevada, it offered the same attractions. Richard and I suggested lunch at a small, cheap diner, but Brett insisted that we should eat at one of the casinos.

“We are on a limited budget,” I stressed to make two important points. Firstly, we really did have to economise to ensure we didn’t run out of funds. Secondly, and more subliminally, I was reinforcing the fact that if our travelling companion had any plans to steal from us or to lead us into some pre-planned trap, such as a dark casino in Reno, then there wouldn’t be any rich pickings to be had.

“Cheapest meals in town,” answered Brett with a reassuring manner. He went on to tell us that casinos in Reno and Las Vegas provided excellent meals at unbelievably cheap prices. We were served a succulent steak with all the trimmings, which cost less than McDonald’s. It was in the casino’s interest to just break-even or make a slight loss on the restaurant if it meant keeping the gamblers on the premises for as long as possible. If they go off to a restaurant they might go to another casino and lose their money there instead. In Reno in 1899, Charles Frey invented a slot machine and called it ‘Liberty Bell’, and this became the model for all the slot machines that followed. Brett gave us another very useful piece of advice when he told us to just play the machines on the end of each row, because they are programmed to pay out more as a means of enticing potential gamblers. The ones nearest to the main entrances even more so, because there is nothing quite like the sound of coins cascading out of a slot machine to bring in people off the street. When we got to Las Vegas we gave a silent thank you to Brett every time we won and had a cheap meal in the casinos.

I can’t leave Reno without making some reference to movies. ‘Misery’, from the Stephen King novel, starring Kathy Bates and James Caan was filmed in the nearby Sierra Nevada Mountains, and the ‘Misfits’ starring Clarke Gable and Marilyn Monroe was filmed in Reno. It will give you some idea of the surrounding landscape to know that the Biblical epic ‘The Greatest Story Ever Told’, starring Max Von Sydow as Jesus, was made there.

Survival Kit

Carson City, the capital of Nevada, is about thirty miles south of Reno. It originated as a stopover for California-bound emigrants, and it was named after a 19th Century frontiersman called Kit Carson, a name I remembered from my childhood days. He was a popular figure in comics and books but today he is much lesser known than many other Western ‘legends’. It is ironic really, because he seemed to have been the ‘real deal’ and the stories about him were mainly true compared to the standards of the day. He was a buckskin-wearing frontiersman who had all the skills as a hunter, marksman, scout, cook, builder and rider. If he was alive today he would be a celebrity as one of those television survival experts. Carson was hired by a man called John Fremont, an almost forgotten figure today even though he gives his name to a famous street in Las Vegas. Fremont played a major role in opening up the American West. He led expeditions to explore and seek out new frontiers, to boldly go where no man has gone before. He was a man of ‘Enterprise’. In 1842 he mapped the Oregon Trail, a new wagon road that branched off from the Santa Fe Trail and worked its way northwest to Oregon.

Fremont produced maps and guidebooks to encourage pioneer settlers. His descriptions tended to be written in ‘estate-agent-speak’ to accentuate the positive. He coined the name ‘Golden Gate’ for the mouth of the bay. It was one such description which persuaded Brigham Young to take his followers to Salt Lake City. Mind you, John Fremont wasn’t the first explorer to be a little flowery with his descriptions of places. It is how Greenland got its name. A thousand years earlier, Lief Erickson sent back word of a lush green land to encourage Viking families to move. However, Fremont was generous and truthful in his writings about Kit Carson, which created Kit’s legend, and they formed a life-long partnership. The National media gave Fremont the nickname of ‘The Pathfinder’, taken from James Fennimore Cooper’s stories of ‘Natty Bumppo’, otherwise known as ‘Hawkeye’ and ‘The Pathfinder’.

Be Sure to Wear Some Flowers in your Hair.

We said goodbye to Brett at the Greyhound bus station in San Francisco. He scribbled his phone number on a piece of paper and insisted that we give him a call when we get to New York. Richard and I found a cheap hotel near to the station and, after a quick shower and change of clothes, we went out to explore this famous city.

There are several suspension bridges throughout the world which are marvels of engineering: the Bosphorous in Istanbul, Lisbon Harbour, and the Humber Bridge, to name just three. But there is only one Golden Gate Bridge. Opened in 1936, it is the iconic signature of San Francisco. It is not the highest or longest in the world, but in terms of natural setting and fame perhaps only Sydney Harbour Bridge (a different type of construction) could compete.

San Francisco is situated on the San Andreas tectonic fault-line, which stretches for 600 miles along the California coastline. This is part of the ‘Pacific Ring of Fire’, which succinctly describes the volcanic activity and earthquakes of the countries bordering the Pacific Ocean. The most devastating of the many and regular earthquakes in the San Francisco area occurred in 1906, when the city was totally destroyed. Even today it is a relatively low-rise city compared to others of similar population, and it is significant that the tallest building on the skyline is the Transamerica Pyramid, the most stable of structures.

On our first evening we found an English pub called the ‘Lord Nelson’ and we were made very welcome by the locals, who very hospitably bought us a few beers. The pub was located on Sutter Street which is named after John Sutter, a man of German/Swiss heritage who played an important part in the history of California. It happened to be on his land near Sacramento that gold was discovered in 1848 and subsequently sparked the gold rush of the following year. This is why the original miners were known as ’49ers’, as in the song ‘My Darling Clementine’.

The cable cars, ‘that climb half-way to the stars’, are inextricably linked to San Francisco. The system opened in 1873 when an inventor named Andrew Hallidie witnessed an accident where a horse-drawn tram slipped down a hill. By 1889 his new cable system was running on eight different routes, but the 1906 earthquake destroyed the infrastructure. The system was gradually restored, and, in 1947, the authorities proposed replacing them with buses. Thankfully, there was a public outcry and the present three lines were retained. San Francisco without the cable cars would be like Venice without the canals.

Nob Hill is thought to be derived from an Indian word ‘nabob’, meaning chieftain, because it attracted the very rich who built mansions with fabulous views. They were flattened by the 1906 earthquake. This is the origin of the term ‘big nobs’, when referring to affluent or senior figures, and ‘where the big nobs hang out’. These days in San Francisco, I think it has a slightly different connotation.

The Gothic-style Grace Cathedral is an impressive building with an eclectic design history. It was built between 1928 and 1964 and designed by Lewis Hobart, based on Notre Dame in Paris. The circular stained-glass window was designed by Charles Connick and made in Chartres France. The entrance doors are replicas of Ghiberti’s famous Baptistery doors in Florence.

When Richard and I were in San Francisco, the waterfront Fisherman’s Wharf was a run-down area and Alcatraz was not even thought of as a tourist attraction.

Back to the Future

It is time again to get out my flux capacitor and fast-forward thirty years into the future, and join our school trip. As Head of Art at the Deanery High School in Wigan, I have organised trips abroad for many years. My assistant tour leader and art department colleague is Janette, who shares my love of travel and has been on every trip.

The Fisherman’s Wharf is now refurbished in the style of a quaint wooden fishing village with a boardwalk, souvenir shops, attractions and excellent seafood restaurants. Pier 45 has been colonized by sea lions, and this has become a popular attraction in itself.

As part of our school trip, we took the ferry to Alcatraz for a guided tour of the infamous prison. In Spanish, Alcatraz means ‘pelican’, the original inhabitants from which the rock derives its name. It was originally the site of an army fort in 1859 as a strategic position for guarding the bay. In 1907 it became a military prison, and from 1934 to 1963 it was a maximum security federal penitentiary. Some of the tour guides are former guards and former prisoners, who were able to give us a real flavour of the grim reality of incarceration on the rock (Robben Island off Capetown is a similar experience). There is a rogues’ gallery of photographs and biographical details of notable criminals. Robert Stroud is better known as ‘The Birdman of Alcatraz’, who, contrary the 1962 movie starring Burt Lancaster, was never allowed to keep birds in his cell. George ‘Machine Gun’ Kelly was once public enemy number one, and his epithet neatly sums up his activities. Clint Eastwood starred as Frank Morris in the movie ‘Escape from Alcatraz’, but it is open to conjecture whether Morris actually succeeded in making it across the bay to the mainland.

The most notorious inmate of Alcatraz was the Chicago mobster Al Capone, who, despite a criminal career involving murder, extortion, prostitution, protection-rackets and bootlegging, was famously only convicted of tax evasion. Capone was one of nine children, most of whom worked for their brother Alphonse supplying the ‘speakeasies’ of Chicago with illicit bootlegged booze. One of Al Capone’s most heinous crimes was ordering the ‘St. Valentine’s Day Massacre’ of rival mobsters. If this event hadn’t taken place we wouldn’t have the classic movie ‘Some Like it Hot’. So I suppose we can forgive him for something.

Capone’s nemesis was the equally famous federal agent Elliot Ness of the ‘Untouchables’. Here is an amazing fact I came across:

In the 1920s a Prohibition Agent named Richard Hart worked in Omaha, Nebraska. He had changed his name for professional reasons, believing that his original name would be a hindrance to his career. Something of an understatement, I would have thought. His real name?... James Capone. That’s right, one of Al’s brothers. He must have been the white sheep of the family.

Incidentally, the term ‘bootlegging’ has its origins in 18th Century England, when smugglers would carry bottles stashed in their thigh-length leather boots, hence the name. However, in 1920s Chicago, thigh-length leather boots had a totally different connotation.

One of our guides, a former prisoner, told us poignantly that one of the cruellest aspects of Alcatraz was that it was so close to the city. He remembered New Year’s Eve as being a particularly sad time because the prisoners could actually hear the music and singing coming from the city, and they could see the lights and fireworks across the bay. They could almost touch freedom. So near, yet so far, separated by a relatively short distance but surrounded by deep, cold water with unpredictable, deadly cross-currents.

Blackbrook Reunion

One evening, our party congregated in the hotel foyer, ready to go out for a meal, and who should turn up to meet us but Jeff. You will remember Jeff from chapter one. He was my mate at school and Art College who was so timid that I had to look after his life-drawings of Rita to hide them from his parents. Geese would say ‘boo’ to him. How times change. He has been living in San Francisco for twenty years, and he is married to an American plumber named Laurie. She is a lovely woman whom Norma and I had met previously in England. These two are living proof of the theory that ‘opposites attract’. You remember that I said earlier that Jeff and Bill were like Laurel and Hardy, and Jeff was nicknamed ‘the Matchstick Man’ at school. At Art College he looked as though he had modeled for a Giacometti sculpture and it was debatable who had the most meat on them, Jeff or Myrtle Byrtle. Laurie, on the other hand, was built as though she belonged in the building trade. It is as if Jeff has stepped out of a Lowry painting and Laurie has stepped off a Beryl Cook painting to get married on a McGill seaside postcard. Jeff and Laurie met when he was having trouble with his ballcock and he rang her to investigate a damp patch. I never thought Jeff would turn out to be such a smooth talker.

I had rung them earlier to invite them to join us, after making sure, of course, that Laurie did not have a ‘call-out’ charge. Jeff was now a glass engraver working in San Francisco. His artistic talent suited his new medium and process, and he told us proudly that he had done work for Michael Jackson, Elizabeth Taylor and the Tiffany Company in New York. Jeff and Laurie joined us for the evening and everyone enjoyed their company. The following day they came with us to the Stanford Museum of Art to give us a little local knowledge.

It is time for me to climb aboard my virtual De Lorean and go back to the past, and re-join Richard in time to catch the bus to Los Angeles. We made sure we got seats on the right side so that we could enjoy the spectacular Pacific Ocean view as we drove south. We certainly picked up good vibrations along the Pacific Highway as we continued our surfin’ safari. The driver actually did know the way to San Jose, then Monterey Bay and Santa Barbara.

L.A.’s fine, the sun shines most the time...

Los Angeles, ‘the City of Angels’, is difficult to identify as a specific city. It is more of a conurbation which has gradually expanded to engulf something like 80 ‘mini’ cities and communities. Places such as Bel-Air, Beverley Hills, Hollywood, Malibu, and Venice Beach are just as familiar to us as the city itself.

Richard and I found a cheap little hostel near to the Greyhound bus station and stayed for just one night. We ventured out, but not far; just to get some kind of flavour of the area. We both felt that we needed to be vigilant and watch each other’s backs.

However, if we go back to the future... what a transformation! I am now in a tourist-friendly city which has a vibrancy almost to match that of New York. Our school party from Wigan visited all the famous areas of Los Angeles. Venice Beach is a lively place full of predominantly young people and local ‘characters’. It was founded by tobacco tycoon Abbott Kinney as an American version of the real Venice. He built canals which were fed by diverted water-courses, and he imported gondolas from Italy. Today only a few of the canals remain, and now it has a bustling atmosphere with jugglers, acrobats, one-man bands and buskers. It is the equivalent of, say, London’s Covent Garden or Las Ramblas in Barcelona. Venice Beach claims to be the home of skateboarding and rollerblading. Marty McFly should come back from the future to show off his hover-skateboard. Now that really would be a unique street attraction. A magnet for tourists is ‘Muscle Beach’, where bodybuilders work-out on the weights. This is where Arnold Swarzenegger started out on the road to ‘Mr. Universe’ titles and movie stardom.

As the school staff were patrolling up and down, keeping an eye on our school kids, our attention was drawn to a commotion where a crowd had gathered, all laughing, whooping, hollering and clapping, included two L.A.P.D. officers in their patrol car. We went over to find out what was going on, only to see Amanda, one of our year-ten girls, entertaining the crowd on a trick-cycle. One of the local hustlers, a lavishly-bearded, cowboy-hatted remnant of the hippy days made his living by offering odds that no-one would be able to ride his bike along a designated course. Many tried and failed, but Amanda was succeeding easily and confidently. She was showing-off like a rodeo rider at the Calgary Stampede. Apparently, the bike was designed so that it went in the opposite direction to the handlebars. That is, you turn right to go left and vice versa. Any rider quickly becomes disorientated and loses control, except Amanda. Her friends Lindsey and Carrie, who were cheering wildly, told us that she had a similar bike in Wigan and it was her party-piece (I never quite found out how she came to own such a bike). The Venice Beach hustler graciously gave her a $20 bill as everyone applauded loudly. I managed to get a great photograph of the girls posing with the two policemen in front of the police car, as the sun was setting over the Pacific Ocean, silhouetting the palm trees. We could have done with seeing those policemen again the following day. The $20 bill turned out to be a fake. However, we decided to compensate Amanda from our contingency fund.

Gonna Cruise the Miracle Mile

The two major art galleries on our school itinerary were the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) and the Getty Museum. Before we visit LACMA on Wilshire Boulevard, it is necessary for me to acquaint you with Wigan’s cultural heritage. Certain places in Britain are readily associated with specific things; we have cakes from Eccles, Chorley, Pontefract and Kendal mint cake. There is the Cornish pasty, Lancashire hot pot, Yorkshire pudding and Devon cream tea. Melton Mowbray is a town synonymous with pies, and it has only one serious rival as ‘Pie Capital’ of Britain... Wigan. Wiganers are known affectionately as ‘pie-eaters’ and, thanks to George Orwell, Wigan Pier is its most famous landmark. Even that has got a pie in its name. The world pie-eating championships are held annually in Wigan and, at the time of writing, the current holder of the title is, appropriately enough, a local man (It was a travesty that he wasn’t short-listed for the BBC Sports Personality of the Year award). The 2014 Pie-Eating World Championship actually made the national news, but only because it had to be cancelled. A student on work-experience delivered the wrong size pies. They had an incorrect circumference and surface area. Someone at the bakery must have confused the measurements, resulting in the 2-pie-R going pie-arse-squared over tit. The World Governing Body had no choice but to adhere strictly to the rules and cancel the event. Being dedicated athletes, the competitors ate all the pies as a training session. You are probably wondering what all this has got to do with a school visit to an art gallery...

The A-level art syllabus included a written exam, and several of my sixth form students were on this trip to America. The Los Angeles County Museum of Art is on Wilshire Boulevard, part of which is known as the ‘Miracle Mile’. We enjoyed the modern exhibitions and installations which contrasted with the traditional paintings by El Greco, Frans Hals, Boucher and Rembrandt. We spent some time looking at some of the religious paintings from the Renaissance period. Janette and I discussed the paintings with our students as they took notes. As part of their exam revision, I asked them some specific questions relating to their lessons.

In religious painting there are a number of recurring themes, for example: ‘Annunciation’, ‘Nativity’, ‘Crucifixion’, ‘Taking down from the Cross’, (known as the ‘Deposition’), and ‘The Mourning or Lamentation of Christ’ in which Jesus is lying dead while his family and followers express grief around him. In Italian this is known as a ‘Pietá’, (phonetically ‘Pea-ay-ta’), an Italian word meaning pity.

“Okay, let’s begin by seeing how much you can remember,” I said to my 6th form art students. “Joanne, what is this painting called?” I asked, pointing at a canvas by the 17th Century Dutch artist Rembrandt.

“The Raising of Lazarus,” answered Joanne confidently.

“Well done, and what about this one?”

“Madonna and Child,”

“Correct.”

We then moved on to a particularly poignant sculpture of the ‘Lamentation’, attributed to an unknown Spanish sculptor of the 18th Century.

“What is this subject called?” I asked Brendan.

“The Lamentation.”

“Correct, but how is this subject usually referred to in art history?”

Brendan paused for a second, screwing up his eyes as he tried to recall the name from the back of his mind. A couple of the other students put their hands up to answer.

“Just wait a second,” I said, “let’s give him a chance to answer the question.”

Brendan then opened his eyes as though he had just had a flash of inspiration and said, “I’ve got it... It’s called a Pie-eater.”

This prompted a few giggles from the students, and then all I could say was, “Well... if Jesus had been crucified in Wigan, I suppose the painting would be known as a Pie-eater.”

It’s amazing how laughter amplifies when reverberating in a cavernous gallery. Brendan appreciated the joke and I said to him, “I hope for your sake that a question about a ‘Pietá’ crops up in your exam next June.”

“Why?”

“Because you will always remember this.”

There is a denouement to this particular story. During the exam season Brendan came out of the school hall, after sitting his History of Art examination, and came to see me in the art room. He gave me a thumbs-up signal and with a big smile said, “Sir, a pie-eater question came up, and I wrote about the one we had seen in L.A.”

“That’s great news, Brendan. I’m glad you remembered it.”

“How could I forget? Guess who else cropped up in one of the other questions?”

“Who...?”

“Pie-eater Breughel.”

He passed his exam with a top grade. The last time I heard about Brendan, he had married a Japanese girl, had started a family and was living in Tokyo, teaching English as a foreign language. So, if ever you hear a Japanese tourist speaking English with a strong Wigan pie-eater accent...

When Richard and I were in Los Angeles, the Getty Museum was housed in a Roman-styled villa in Malibu. It wasn’t on our itinerary, but on an art trip thirty years later it was a major priority. In the intervening years it has been moved to Santa Monica, where the museum is now in purpose-built buildings in the mountain foothills, providing us with panoramic views of Los Angeles. The modern architecture, situated amongst meticulously tended gardens, is a perfect setting for the paintings and sculptures, a private collection begun by John Paul Getty, an American oil-billionaire and one-time world’s richest man. We arrived by funicular railway to be welcomed by a team of immaculately-uniformed ‘greeters’.

For some reason, I have always loved coffee shops in art galleries. I don’t know why, it must be the smell and general ambience. The restaurant at the Getty Museum was fantastic, and very reasonable, with a magnificent view. It was packed with families all enjoying lunch in a cultural atmosphere, and our pupils seemed to enjoy the day.

Mean Streets

There are roads and streets in certain cities around the world which are famous in their own right: Fifth Avenue and Broadway in New York, The Strand and Oxford Street in London, the Champs Elysee in Paris, and Lombard Street in San Francisco. None are more so than Los Angeles with Sunset Boulevard, Hollywood Boulevard, Wilshire Boulevard and Rodeo Drive. Readers who are of my generation will remember with great nostalgia the 1950s detective series ’77 Sunset Strip’ starring Efrem Zimbalist Jr.

We visited the Hollywood ‘Walk of Fame’, and had great fun star-gazing along the pavement in front of Mann’s Chinese Theatre. The road itself seemed a lot less glamorous than we had imagined, and yet there we were looking up at the iconic ‘Hollywood’ sign standing on the hillside. The sign began life as ‘Hollywoodland’ in 1923, a temporary structure to advertise a real-estate development. It became a tourist attraction, but fell into such a state of disrepair that local residents wanted it to be torn down. The developers sold the remainder of the land and the sign to the City of Los Angeles, who repaired and maintained it. They decided to remove the ‘land’ section in 1949, and actually replaced it with a brand new sign in 1978 at ten times the original cost; much of the money was raised by stars sponsoring individual letters. It was a marketing ploy which I think the original developers would have been proud of. There was a tacky souvenir shop nearby which would not have been out of place in Blackpool. We all bought an ‘Oscar’ to take home. Mine was in anticipation of the reception I was hoping to receive from parents and pupils at the movie premier ‘The Deanery Tour of the Golden West’. The Odeon, Leicester Square was booked-up so we had to settle for the bar at Wigan Rugby League Club.

Rodeo Drive is one of the world’s most famous and exclusive shopping streets, where scenes were filmed for the movie ‘Pretty Woman’, starring Richard Gere and Julia Roberts. We filmed our version with three of our sixteen-year-old girls parading and posing to the imaginary singing of Roy Orbison, which I would dub onto a soundtrack back at school. The girls were proudly wearing their Wigan Rugby League shirts as a small crowd gathered to watch. Being in Los Angeles, everyone naturally assumed that a ‘proper’ movie was being shot.

“What movie is this?” asked a sharp-suited passer-by as I finished filming.

“Northern Soul,” answered Janette, quick-as-a-flash, before I had time to reply.

“Music from Detroit...?”

“No, Wigan.”

He walked away bemused, scratching his head.

An Uplifting Sight

We had been dropped-off by our driver just around the corner from Rodeo Drive on Dayton Way, and he stressed forcefully that we must be on-time as there was a zero-tolerance policy to parking along the street. Only a very brief period was allowed for drop-off and pick-up. Our party congregated along the side-walk a few minutes early as everyone talked about what they had bought on Rodeo Drive. Things like key-rings, or pens, all relatively cheap, were bought as souvenirs. In fact, the ‘Pretty Woman’ girls went into Gucci and asked upfront, and without any embarrassment, what the cheapest items for sale in the store were. They bought some book-marks. They struck up a rapport with the sales assistants who had been watching them filming outside. Amanda, Carrie and Lindsey told us that the sales assistants were really impressed and amazed when they found out that they were on a school trip from England.

As we waited for our bus to arrive, an impressive-looking car came around the corner, glistening in the California sunshine. It was an open-top faux vintage style, modern but styled on something like a 1930s Bentley in highly-polished deep burgundy. The distinctive, if not unique, feature was that many of the tubes and pipes, which in most cars are out of sight, were external as a gleaming chrome display. If the Pompidou Centre in Paris was a car, this would be it. As the car pulled over and stopped opposite us, it got the desired effect. Everyone just stared in admiration with the inevitable tinge of envy. The driver, a man in his mid-thirties, paused just long enough to make sure that he had enough attention and stepped out of the car with the air of a star arriving at the Oscars. We felt as though we should roll out a red carpet to help him across the road. He had sleek, combed-back black hair and the profile of Rudolf Valentino. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, silk tie and a dark blue suit which seemed to shine as much as his car. His two-tone shoes finished off his ensemble perfectly. He glanced contemptuously at the ‘No Parking’ street sign, which was emphasized by a little diagram of a tow-truck hoisting up a car. Obviously it didn’t apply to him, whoever he was, or thought he was. He walked straight into a jeweller’s shop without browsing the window displays.

“He must be picking something up,” surmised Janette, glancing at her watch.

“Well, he had better get a move on,” I replied nodding towards a side street.

As if on a mission, a yellow tow-truck sped round the corner and, with the precision and speed of a tyre-change in a Formula One pit-stop, the mobile Pompidou was hoisted-up and on the move. As it passed the jeweller’s shop, our would-be movie star came running out carrying a small gift-wrapped package and waving frantically. The driver and his mate were obviously in no mood to stop and negotiate as they picked up speed. He tried to run after them but he was hardly dressed for sprinting, so he gave up after about twenty yards and looked for a moment as though he was about to throw his package at them, as it were. We watched this drama unfold with undisguised glee, even though we tried not to smile when he looked over in our direction. His body language suggested that he wished the ground would open up. He looked flushed following his exertions in the California heat. Rudolph Valentino had morphed into Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer. As he walked forlornly around the corner towards Wilshire Boulevard, we could resist no longer. Everyone burst out laughing, including members of the public across the road.

“We shouldn’t really be laughing at somebody’s bad luck,” I said, trying to suppress my smile, to a couple of our year 8 boys, Patrick and Ian, who were standing next to me.

“No sir, but it was funny.”

“Yes, I think we all share a ‘banana-skin’ sense of humour,” I agreed.

“It’s called ‘Schadenfreude’,” Janette interjected.

“There you are,” said Patrick to his mate. “I told you it was a German car.”

Forward to the Past

It is time again to travel back thirty years, but to us just a blink of an eye, and re-join Richard to catch the Greyhound to San Diego. We decided to take a day excursion into Mexico to the town of Tijuana, hoping there would be a brass band playing ‘Spanish Flea’. The bus was full, and Richard and I had to sit separately. I sat next to a dapper little gentleman who was very smartly dressed in a suit and tie and wearing a trilby. I nodded and smiled at him as I sat down, and he began a conversation straight away. He introduced himself as Harvey and asked, “Are you going to the track in TJ?”

I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, but he read my puzzled expression and added, “The horse racing in TJ... Tijuana.”

“Oh, I see, er no, my friend and I are just going sightseeing for the day.”

“Sightseeing in TJ? That won’t take long,” he answered with a laugh and dismissive wave of his hand.

Once we had got the ‘Hey you’re from England?’ ritual out of the way, we chatted convivially during the journey to the Mexican border. When we got off the bus, I introduced my new friend to Richard and he walked with us to the border crossing. Following our previous experience in Canada we had made sure that we had our passports and necessary documentation. As we approached the barrier, Harvey and the armed uniformed customs official exchanged a cheery hello.

“These guys are with me,” said Harvey and we were waved through immediately. ‘Here we go again’ we thought, but the old gentleman told us that if we had gone through official channels we might have been delayed for a while. We politely declined his invitation to join him at the races, basically because we couldn’t afford to lose any money. He suggested that we should meet him later so he could escort us back into the USA. Richard and I spent a pleasant day in TJ enjoying the sun, buying a few souvenirs and having our first Mexican meal. We tried our first tequila. The bar tender told us that it had been voted the best spirit in the world. We took it with a pinch of salt.

Sure enough, Harvey was waiting for us at the designated time and place and he greeted us with a wave and a warm smile as if he had known us for years. The three of us walked up to the border guard who simply waved us through.

“Did you win again?” he asked Harvey.

“Sure, don’t I always?”

It seems our friend Harvey was a regular race-goer who seemed to do pretty well out of the ‘Sport of Kings’. Back in San Diego he shook hands with us and slipped us a twenty dollar bill each. We protested, not too forcefully, but Harvey insisted that we take the money because he had backed a couple of winners.

“Enjoy your road trip and you guys have a drink on me.”

It was yet another fine example of genuine American hospitality.

‘If you see it once, you’ll never be the same again...’

Las Vegas has something in common with Tokyo, Blackpool, and Count Dracula. They all come to life at night. Today we think of Las Vegas as a ‘new town’ when compared to other cities around the world, but there have been continuous Native American settlements there since before the time when William, Duke of Normandy, decided to conquer Britain. Las Vegas was named by the Spanish in the 1800s and actually means ‘The Meadows’, which made me feel immediately at home. This name is derived from an oasis in the Mohave Desert, created by underground artesian wells. It became a stop-over on the Spanish Santa Fe Trail to California.

After the State of Nevada legalised gambling in 1931, I suppose the modern Las Vegas owes its existence to three people. Firstly, the New York mobster ‘Bugsy’ Siegal opened a luxury hotel/casino in 1946 and called it the ‘Flamingo’, the nickname of his girlfriend who had exceptionally long legs. However, his lucky streak didn’t last long; he was murdered soon after by disgruntled fellow-investors (who were also fellow gangsters). Secondly, the British chemist Sir William Ramsey must have played a part in the birth of modern Las Vegas. He discovered the gas neon in 1898. Then, in 1910, the French inventor Georges Claude discovered that an electric current emitted a powerful shimmering light when passed through neon in a glass tube. Frankenstein-like, those discoveries have led to the creation of ‘Vegas Vic’, the famous neon cowboy at ‘Binion’s Horseshoe’ in Fremont Street. It remains the world’s largest mechanical neon sign, and has featured in numerous television programmes, pop videos and movies. Perhaps the most famous is ‘Diamonds Are Forever’, when James Bond, played by Sean Connery, eluded the police in a memorable high-speed car chase along Fremont Street.

Las Vegas is an exciting, vibrant city which has become the entertainment capital of the world. However, my abiding memory of Las Vegas will always be one of disappointment and regret. If I really did have a time machine, I would travel back to rectify a big mistake in my life. I had the chance to see Elvis Presley live at the Hilton and, stupidly, I didn’t take it. When I got home to England the first thing my dad asked about my time in America was, “Did you manage to see Elvis?” The incredulous look he gave me when I shook my head still haunts me to this day.

Let me explain. Las Vegas in 1972 wasn’t the tourist-friendly city that it is today in the 21st Century. It was quite a dangerous place and we had been warned several times on our travels to keep our wits about us.

Richard and I had arrived mid-morning, and we left our bags in left-luggage at the bus station. We strolled around town to get our bearings and decided what to do that night before catching a 2am Greyhound to avoid hotel bills. We were intrigued and amused by many of the signs advertising an array of attractions and services. There were a bewildering number of chapels offering instant marriage ceremonies. It was all so casual and matter-of-fact, with signs on car parks instructing: ‘Marriages Park on the Left, Divorces on the Right’. The funniest was outside a bar in flashing neon: ‘Liquor at the front, Poker in the rear’.

We bought some food at a local supermarket, and spent the afternoon in a shady local park. Shady in more ways than one, but, unshaven and dusty, Richard and I were bedraggled enough to blend in with the park’s local inhabitants. At dusk we made our way back to the bus station to get changed for a night out in Las Vegas. I was part-way through a shave when the washroom door burst open and in walked an armed police officer. Richard and I were initially startled but then felt reassured that the local police were keeping an eye on things. Then it slowly dawned on us that it was us that he was checking on.

“So where are you guys heading?” he asked, night-stick (truncheon) in hand.

“We are going to try our luck in a couple of casinos,” I answered trying to act nonchalantly while continuing to shave. Then came the inevitable.

“Hey, you’re from England?”

The officer seemed to soften his stance as we explained that we had been working at a summer camp and we were travelling by Greyhound bus around America. He asked to see our bus tickets to confirm our story.

“Okay, that’s fine.”

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

“No, it’s just that you guys seemed to be spending a lot of time hanging out near the bus station, so I decided to check you out. Have a nice day.”

Our next visitors were three local characters who I guessed were in their twenties. They asked us what the police had wanted, and after ‘Hey, you guys are from England?’ they engaged us in conversation. We told them that we were going to play roulette in a couple of casinos, while again stressing that we were impecunious students. They told us that they had been to see Elvis in concert the previous evening and, if we were interested, they would be able to get us in. Apparently, one of them worked at the Hilton Hotel and could use his contacts, but I must have looked slightly dubious as I continued shaving. I clenched my fist instinctively as he put his hand inside his jacket, but was relieved when he took out the ticket-stub from the show. I was willing to trust them but unfortunately Richard was less enthusiastic, not being a fan of Elvis (a character trait I could never understand). Furthermore, we felt that we couldn’t spend a night in Las Vegas without experiencing the casinos. For us to split-up for the evening was certainly not a safe option, so I allowed myself to be persuaded. We had a great night and actually won some money, but in hindsight it was of little consolation. Looking back I probably thought that I would always be able to return at some time or other and finally get to see Elvis. How was I to know that he was going to die five years later? I remember hearing the news on the radio in August 1977 as I was going out to work; I was a teacher in Sydney (Australia that is, as opposed to Sydney, Montana).

Ladies and Gentlemen, Elvis has levitated the Building

I think I had better give my capacitor a good flux and re-join my school trip. In the 1970s even the thought of taking a school trip to Las Vegas would have been insane, but what a transformation thirty years later. No longer did anyone say ‘Hey, you’re from England?’; British accents could be heard everywhere.

I finally got to see Elvis Presley, even if by then he was a ghost. He was hovering in the air while wearing a rhinestone-encrusted white ‘onesie’. Was I hallucinating? Was my subconscious mind compensating me after all those years of disappointment over not seeing Elvis live in concert? Actually no... I was witnessing a wedding. It was at the Graceland Wedding Chapel, complete with a drive-thru altar. A young couple in a pink Cadillac were being married by Elvis, who was floating above them as an angel while conducting the service (I assure you I am not making this up). He had white tissue-paper wings which looked as though they had been borrowed from a Primary School Nativity play. It was so fascinating that we couldn’t help but gravitate towards them. Elvis just levitated. Then Elvis left the building... ascending vertically.

The marriage was perfectly legal and above board (even the dashboard). The wedding business is the second biggest industry in Las Vegas after, of course, gambling. There are over 300 weddings per day. Actually, it is an urban myth that you can just meet someone in Las Vegas, turn up at a chapel, and get married there and then. You need a marriage licence from Clark County Court House, which just happens to be open every day and will issue a licence on the spot. So there we have it. At least Las Vegas is trying to maintain some sense of tradition and decorum!

It seems ridiculous to refer to the Fremont Street area as the ‘old town’ but, in effect, that is what it has become. The area went into decline as the ‘Strip’ was developed, but fortunately it was revitalized while retaining its character. My old friend, the Cowboy at the Horseshoe, was still there, waving his arm as if to welcome me back. These days he is overlooking a pedestrian mall which is covered by a vast canopy roof of 12 million LED crystal lights. Spectacular sound and light shows are now a regular attraction.

There is a genre of 18th Century Italian painting called ‘Capriccio’. These comprised composite views of buildings, most real, some imaginary, to create a romantic, idealised fantasy scene. Buildings were moved around, often from different cities and countries. A notable example is the 1795 painting by William Marlow of London’s ‘St. Paul’s Cathedral set on the Grand Canal in Venice’. Las Vegas today is a real-life Capriccio. The Eiffel Tower shares a city-scape with the Statue of Liberty. This is not quite as incongruous as it sounds since the real Eiffel Tower in Paris is near to a replica of the Statue of Liberty. As we walked along Las Vegas Boulevard South (to give ‘The Strip’ its correct name), I couldn’t help regretting all the time and money that I had wasted travelling to see many of the world’s greatest historical places like Tutankhamun’s Tomb in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt, Pagodas in China, Statues in Rome or the Doge’s Palace in Venice. I should have just gone to Las Vegas instead and got them all on one photograph!

The popularity of Las Vegas is such that it has many of the largest hotels in the world, and more than twice as many hotel rooms as New York. It is the undisputed entertainment capital of the world, and it has now out-stripped New York’s Madison Square Garden as boxing’s premiere venue. The character of Las Vegas is exemplified by the Rat Pack: Sammy Davis Jnr, Dean Martin, with Frank Sinatra as ‘chairman of the board’. Elvis Presley is the epitome of the city, even though Liberace’s dress-sense and showmanship made Elvis seem subtle and understated.

Gambling remains far and away the number one attraction. Here is an interesting thought as we leave Las Vegas: All the numbers on a roulette wheel add up to 666, ‘the number of the beast’ as identified in the Book of Revelations. It is the number that Damian had tattooed on his scalp in ‘The Omen’. Moreover, Nevada became a U.S. State in 1964... on Halloween. ‘Viva Las Vegas’ has been adopted almost as a city anthem. Perhaps it should be changed instead to another Elvis song: ‘(You’re the) Devil in Disguise’.

About thirty miles southeast of Las Vegas is the colossal Hoover Dam, a massive curved concrete wall which has created Lake Mead on the Colorado River. Las Vegas would not exist in its present form without the Hoover Dam, which generates the hydro-electric power for the famous lights. In 1972, Richard and I crossed the dam on the Greyhound bus, but thirty years later on our school trip commercial vehicles were banned because of the threat of terrorism. That’s how far the human race has progressed.

Friends in Low Places

Flagstaff gets its name, literally, from a flagpole. On July 4th 1876, the centenary of the Declaration of Independence, a scouting party stopped at a tiny desert settlement. They decided to commemorate this historic event by cutting down one of the local Ponderosa pine trees to make a flagstaff, followed by a flag-raising ceremony. Apart from being mentioned in the lyrics of the famous song ‘Route 66’, another claim to fame is that the dwarf planet Pluto was discovered from the Lowell Observatory in Flagstaff.

Richard and I took a bus to the south rim and bought some overnight provisions at a small supermarket. We set off down the Bright Angel Trail to Indian Garden, where we would sleep overnight under the stars. There are some breath-taking sights to behold around the world, but none more awe-inspiring than the view across the Grand Canyon. It is 270 miles long, up to 18 miles wide and 1 mile deep, and yet, surprisingly, it is not the longest, widest or deepest on earth. It is impossible to compile a definitive list because they vary depending on whose measurements you read. Peru claims the deepest, Australia the widest, and either Namibia or China the biggest, but there can be no doubt as to which is the greatest. The Grand Canyon combines all the dimensions to create the unbelievable view which Richard and I gazed at open-mouthed. Even though it is one of the world’s greatest natural creations, familiar to us from magazines and television programmes, it still comes as a heart-thumping, eye-rubbing shock which almost defies description. So, goodness knows how Spaniard Garcia Lopez de Cardenas felt when he arrived at the canyon in 1540. There has been human occupation in the area for 12,000 years, and he is recorded as the first European to arrive there. I wonder how he described it when he went back home to Spain? No doubt there would have been a few guffaws and disbelieving smirks as he attempted to describe something beyond European experience. The gigantic gash in the Earth that we call the Grand Canyon has been carved over a period of six million years by the Colorado River, wind erosion, and flash floods cascading down. The layers of limestone, sandstone and shale provide us with a stunningly beautiful two billion-year time-line of geological history which is almost half the age of the Earth itself. The colour spectrum could not be more harmonious if it had been designed by an artist. The colours, hues and shades change with the light of the rising or setting sun, like the stained glass windows of a cathedral. In the Grand Canyon, the reds, oranges, ochres and umbers at sunset almost glow as if looking through stained glass.

By the time Richard and I had hiked to the bottom of the Canyon, we were barely able to stay awake. We lay on top of our sleeping bags and had something to eat, and, even though it was only about six o’clock, we both fell asleep as suddenly as if we had been drugged. The next thing I knew was that I was awakened, mainly by the cold, but also by a feeling of scurrying on my chest. I thought I was having heart palpitations and, through a semi-conscious haze, I even experienced blurred visions of Minichello stalking me with some evil pet. Whatever it was ran away as I stirred. I turned onto my side to see Richard still in a deep sleep, but it was like a scene from a Disney cartoon; a chipmunk was sitting on his head with three others sitting along his legs and body. I shooed them away and they ran playfully into the scrub. Neither of us became fully awake as we wearily climbed into our sleeping bags. We must have slept for a full twelve hours, only to be woken up by the brightness of the sun. We had breakfast and laughed about our night visitors and it was only then that we thought about other creatures such as rattlesnakes, coyotes, and spiders. We hadn’t checked about the indigenous fauna. Perhaps it was better not to know.

Papillon

As we sat there I looked up at the dome of uninterrupted blue sky, only for our tranquillity to be shattered by a helicopter flying through the canyon. I wondered who was aboard and what a fantastic experience it must be. Then I realized that it was me. My flux capacitor had transported me once again into the 21st Century. As part of the school trip we had booked flights with Papillon Grand Canyon Helicopters. It was incredible having such a close view of the Canyon walls, and, for a second, I thought I caught a glimpse of two familiar-looking hikers sitting on sleeping bags below us.

I read somewhere that the Grand Canyon gets deeper every year by a couple of millimetres. A rough calculation would make a difference of about ten centimetres between visits, but I have to be honest, after careful scrutiny, I couldn’t tell. We have seen some memorable sights on our school trips around the world: Madrid, Paris, Amsterdam, the Great Wall of China, Red Square in Moscow, or St. Mark’s Square in Venice. None has caused such a loud gasp of amazement from the children on the coach as our first glimpse of the Grand Canyon.

Once everyone had finished their helicopter flights, one of our ‘Pretty Woman’ girls, Lindsey, showed her entrepreneurial skills at the heliport. Everyone had had photos taken by the resident photographer. It is the kind of thing they do when passengers are embarking on a cruise or when screaming on a theme park log-flume. The pictures were on display in the foyer, presented alongside a souvenir certificate. However, the prices were exorbitant, aimed at the affluent American tourist rather than English students on a budget-price school holiday. The photographer seemed somewhat taken aback when everybody in our party declined to buy one, and he even started to follow us to the coach, haggling like an Egyptian street-trader. He looked increasingly desperate as we boarded our bus, and Lindsey turned around and went back to speak to him. She boarded the bus and asked if we could just wait a couple of minutes. The four girls then did a quick survey of all the children and staff of how much we would be willing to pay for a souvenir photo and certificate. The answer was of course a fraction of the price. She went back to the heliport and we were fascinated watching the body language through the plate glass front window. There was much gesticulating of arms, shaking of heads, and shrugging of shoulders. It was only when Lindsey started to walk away and then turned as she was called back by the photographer that we felt that the negotiations were coming to an end. Finally, they shook hands and Lindsey walked proudly towards us, smiling broadly clutching a pile of photographs. She then distributed them to everyone, including the staff, who gave her a spontaneous round of applause. Of course, she added on a percentage profit for herself. She had told him her price and would not budge. The photos were of no use to anyone else. He either sold them to her or was left with nothing. Not bad for a 16 year old schoolgirl. She was a very bright girl who went on to study medicine at University. She will have been working as a doctor for a few years by now, and I keep expecting to hear that she has been put in charge of the NHS budget.

Driving through Arizona, the traditional arts, crafts and cultures of the Apache and Navajo seemed to be everywhere. There were lots of small road-side markets, but we were on our way to Sedona, which our driver assured us had an extensive range of shops and galleries. Our guide gave us interesting background information. He told us that a famous Apache leader called Cochise had led constant raiding parties, and the Mexicans had tried in vain to capture or defeat him. He was a formidable, large muscular warrior who died in 1874. He had a younger contemporary named Goyaale, who we remember today as Geronimo. He was given this name by the Mexicans after Saint Jerome because it was often the last words of dying Mexicans killed by Goyaale. Troops charging into battle would often shout Geronimo as an expression of courage. This is why parachutists shout ‘Geronimo’ when jumping out of an aeroplane (more of which in the next chapter).

A Fist Full of Dollars

The approach to Sedona was like travelling through a real-life landscape of a ‘Road Runner’ cartoon with giant cacti everywhere. It was as if we were on the set of a Clint Eastwood ‘Spaghetti’ Western. Incidentally, this description is a misnomer since those movies weren’t actually made in Italy, but Spain. Perhaps they should be called ‘Paella’ Westerns, or, since we were on a trip from Wigan, ‘Pie-ella’ Westerns.

The Arizona temperature was searingly hot, which blasted us similar to opening the pottery kiln door in the art room at the end of an overnight firing. In Sedona there were numerous gift shops which offered the sanctuary of air-conditioning, and we wandered into one at the edge of a small modern mall, which was built to replicate the adobe structures of the Navajo. Janette and I were accompanied by a group of our year ten art students and everyone let out an audible sigh of pleasure as we walked into the ecstatic relief of the cool air. We gravitated towards the ultimate cool spot like ghost hunters in a haunted house, and we gathered in a huddled group competing for the optimum place to stand. I looked over towards the sales counter and noticed that we were being observed with some amusement by the proprietor. He had a face the colour and complexion of beaten copper, with wrinkles reminiscent of the pattern and texture of a dried-up Arizona River. He had long grey hair hanging like a curtain from under his straw cowboy hat, a substantial drooping moustache speckled with grey and matching tangled eyebrows. His facial hair was completed by a narrow vertical strip of grey from the centre of his bottom lip to the dimple in his chin. It wasn’t so much a beard, more a Brazilian. He had beads around his hat, neck and wrists, and he wore an embroidered waistcoat over a printed tunic. His blue jeans were held up by a carved leather belt which had a silver buckle, about the size of a manhole cover, which took the form of a Navajo chief wearing a full head-dress of feathers. The storekeeper’s ensemble was completed by a pair of carved-leather cowboy boots, worn outside his jeans. It was difficult to guess his age, which could have been anything from fifty up to being old enough to have been an original member of ‘Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show’. The creases on his face radiated from his eyes, which indicated a lifetime of laughter, and the twinkle in his brown eyes added to this initial impression.

“It’s certainly warm today,” I remarked with a touch of understatement.

“Warm? Man, it’s hotter than a rattlesnake’s ass in a wagon rut.”

It was a description so apt, concise and erudite that it should rank up there alongside the ubiquitous ‘bull in a china shop’ and ‘needle in a haystack’! His smile widened to a broad grin as we all laughed. I was looking for a few artefacts for our art department, and Janette and the girls were helping each other to choose various garments as if they were on a shopping trip along Oxford Street. There were cowboy hats, belts, boots, necklaces, and bracelets, as modelled by the owner. There was a vast array of carvings, moccasins, dream-catchers and hand-made jewellery. Janette chose a necklace for herself and a bracelet as a present for her mum. We went over to a section with rails of tunics, shirts and ponchos; and the predominant colours were ochres, umbers, and all the warm, reddish earth tones. Indeed, the pigments were a reflection of the surrounding landscape. A sign informed us that they were all stone-washed textiles designed, dyed and printed by the local Navajo Native Americans. Janette chose something she liked and, remembering my textile background, asked my opinion.

“I’m not sure how permanent the dyes are, but you could ask ‘Buffalo Bill’ over there before you buy,” I advised.

We took our purchases over to the pay-point and Janette put a bracelet on the counter.

“I’ve got this for my mother,” she told him.

“Mmm... That seems a good swap,” the owner drawled in a slow, deep tone. His face cracked into an open smile when we laughed.

Janette then placed the tunic on the counter and said, “Could I just ask about the dyes which have been used?”

“Sure, how can I help?”

“I was wondering about how permanent the colours are to detergents. After I wash it, will it be patchy?”

“No ma’am... it will still be Navajo.”

He had a droll sense of humour, as dry as the Arizona desert. I think he must have had some Navajo blood, because, interestingly, the Navajo are noted for having a sense of humour. They have a belief that the point at which a baby progresses from infanthood to becoming an ‘individual person’ is its first spontaneous laugh. ‘First laughter’ was an occasion for celebration and a time for ‘naming-ceremonies’. A curious custom is that a Navajo is not allowed to look at his mother-in-law, nor she at him. This is to maintain family harmony and avoid sexual tension amongst extended families that were living under one tepee (the atmosphere really was in tents). Many mothers-in-law wore little warning bells on their clothing to warn her son-in-law so that their eyes wouldn’t meet inadvertently (I kid you not). Even an accidental violation of this taboo would require a healer to perform an elaborate night-chant to dispel unhealthy spirits.

A kindred spirit of the Navajo must be Britain, a country which has a tradition of ‘mother-in-law’ jokes. A theory as to the origin of these is that they date from the post-war period of the late 1940s. There was a rapid increase in the number of marriages, followed by a baby boom. At the same time, there was a chronic shortage of housing which meant that families were forced to live in ‘lodgings’, sometimes with strangers but often with parents, including the dreaded mother-in-law. I spent the first four years of my life living in lodgings, but I can’t remember my maternal grandmother walking around the house with warning bells on her clothes. I would love to think that somewhere there is a Navajo stand-up comedian who has a name something like Les Dawson-Creek and an inexhaustible repertoire of ‘mother-in-law’ jokes. Or perhaps we have just met him in the gift shop.

Gunfight at the OK Corral

I think I had better do some more time-travelling, back to the 20th Century. I can’t leave Richard any longer sitting all alone at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. I will set my timer for a split second before that noisy helicopter flew over.

Before heading east, Richard and I decided to make a brief detour to Tombstone in Arizona so that I could keep my promise of a postcard home from the OK Corral. However, it proved to be another example of reality shattering our rose-coloured imagery of childhood heroes. The most famous lawman of the west was Wyatt Earp, but his reputation is based on over-hyped stories. A writer called Stuart Lake sold a story to a newspaper eulogizing over the ‘lawman’, and the myth and legend was born. He was the fabled Marshall of Dodge City and Tombstone, but research has cast doubt about the historical accuracy of this. Only briefly was he a lawman, as Marshall of Lamar, Missouri. Wyatt Earp associated with two ‘drinking companions’, a County Sheriff named Bat Masterson and ‘Doc’ Holliday, a dentist who pulled a gun more often than he pulled teeth. Holliday was a sickly, dangerously unstable character who would kill without hesitation at the slightest provocation. This unsavoury trio hid behind a façade of professional respectability as upholders of the law. In 1881 the Tombstone stagecoach was held up, and rumour had it that Earp, Holliday and Masterson had masterminded the robbery with the Clanton gang, who actually perpetrated the crime. It was Earp and his brothers and Masterson who led the posse, presumably to ‘Head ’em off at the pass’... and surprise, surprise, didn’t catch them. Later that year at the famous gunfight at the OK Corral, Earp made sure that nobody was left to ‘put the finger on him’.

We headed east through Arizona and New Mexico towards Amarillo, hoping that this is the way. Indian crafts and culture were ubiquitous as we watched the world go by. I turned to Richard with a joke, “Did you hear the one about the little Native American boy who went to see his village chief?”

“How can I help you child?” asked the Chief benevolently, as he held court wearing ceremonial garments and a full head-dress of multi-coloured feathers and beads.

“Everyone I know is called something like ‘Running Bear’, ‘Crazy Horse’, ‘Sitting Bull’ or ‘Bald Eagle’. How did they get their names?”

“Well my son, when a child is born it is held aloft to give thanks to the great spirits in the sky, and a name is chosen from its first sight of the world.”

“Oh, now I understand,” answered the young boy gratefully.

“Why, what is your name?”

“Two Buffalos Shagging.”

The most famous Western character from New Mexico was the quiet, softly-spoken William Bonney, better known as Billy the Kid. He started out on his life of crime by seeking out and killing two men who had murdered his friend and mentor. Although he began as an avenger, he ended up killing over twenty men until, eventually, he was lured into a trap and killed by Pat Garrett, a one-time friend.

Richard and I stopped in Amarillo just long enough to have a wash at the Greyhound bus station and get something to eat. Even though we were only twenty-four hours from Tulsa, we decided to head south towards San Antonio. We passed through Lubbock in Texas, which also has a connection with music and western movies. In 1957, a young man named Charles Hardin Holley went to a cinema in his home-town of Lubbock to see a Western movie called ‘The Searchers’. John Wayne starred as a character named Ethan Edwards, who had a catch-phrase which inspired Charles to write a song. We know him as Buddy Holly and the song became the world-wide smash hit ‘That’ll Be the Day’.

John Wayne was one of the reasons why we were on our way to San Antonio: to see ‘The Alamo’. It seemed an appropriate destination, since Richard and I were ‘Midnight Cowboys’. Incidentally, in the opening sequence of that film, which was directed by John Schlesinger, John Voight’s Joe Buck character walks past a cinema on his way to catch the Greyhound to New York. What movie was showing? ‘The Alamo’. That totally useless piece of trivia has been taking up valuable space somewhere in the recesses of my brain all these years. I am glad I finally found a use for it.

The Only Law West of the Pecos

As we crossed a bridge, I noticed a sign which informed us that it was the Pecos River. This reminded me of the movie ‘The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean’, starring Paul Newman as the eponymous judge. He advertised himself as ‘the only law west of the Pecos’ and he is another Western character who would probably be lost in the mist of obscurity but for a Hollywood movie. ‘Poacher turned gamekeeper’ or ‘set a thief to catch a thief’ are figures of speech which succinctly encapsulates the character of the judge. In his time he was, amongst other things, a gambler, a smuggler, and a saloon-keeper. He had a self-taught rudimentary knowledge of the law, and amazingly he somehow became a judge in Vinegaroon, Texas. Mr. Bean, sorry, Judge Bean made up his own laws and imposed an arbitrary system of fines, most of which he pocketed. Occasionally he would also act as a coroner, but he felt that the pay was insufficient so he would dream up ways of supplementing his income. He was known to fine a corpse for some imaginary crime, such as carrying an unlicensed gun or being drunk and disorderly before being killed. By amazing coincidence, the level of the fine always matched exactly the amount of money the corpse happened to have in his pockets at the time.

The Green Leaves of Summer

San Antonio in Texas was named by Spanish explorers after Saint Anthony because it happened to be his feast day when they arrived there. It was an essential, if brief, stop-over for Richard and me just to see the Alamo Mission; it was immortalized in the classic western starring John Wayne as Davy Crockett (When I was child growing-up in the 1950s a Davy Crockett hat was a must-have accessory).

During the war, when Texas was fighting for independence from Mexico in 1836, for almost two weeks volunteers held off vastly superior numbers of Mexican troops, led by Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. The story and level of bravery and heroism could, I suppose, be compared with the battle of Rorke’s Drift against the Zulus in South Africa (Just replace John Wayne with Michael Caine). The Mexican victory was short-lived, because they were defeated a month later at the Battle of San Jacinto by Texan troops led by Sam Houston. Now here is a point to ponder: of all the famous names that we came across in America, from George Washington to Abraham Lincoln, Buffalo Bill to Walt Disney, Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley or Muhammad Ali, whose name is most likely to be remembered world-wide as long as the human race survives? I would suggest Sam Houston. Not because of the city of Houston, which he founded. His was the first name, indeed the first word, spoken when humans first landed on the moon in 1969: “Houston, the Eagle has landed.” World leaders, conquerors, monarchs, sports and film stars all come and go, but when your name is the first word spoken on the moon, how famous is that? I am tempted to get out my flux capacitor and go back to 1836 to point at the moon and tell Sam the good news about his immortality. But then again, perhaps I had better not. I don’t want to risk being shot as a raving lunatic howling at the moon.

Way Down Yonder...

Nouvelle Orleans was founded in 1718 by Sieur De Bienville on the Mississippi. The French and Spanish alternated control for almost a century, until it was bought by the USA in the Louisiana Purchase of 1803. This history has forged a distinct Creole Culture, incorporating food, dance and music. The roots of Creole are complex, but in Louisiana it generally refers to French-speaking descendants of French or Spanish colonialists. The city has its own unique character. Roger Moore made his debut as James Bond in ‘Live and Let Die’, and the cinematography of the movie beautifully highlights the city of New Orleans and distinctive surrounding countryside. The opening sequence features a funeral procession, accompanied by a jazz band, along the famous balconied streets. These intricate iron balconies, fences, window grilles and gates have become a signature of the city, particularly in the French Quarter and Garden District. There are wrought-iron balconies, which are fashioned by hand, and those of cast-iron, which are made by pouring molten iron into moulds to create a more fluid design. Having worked in an iron foundry as a student in St. Helens, I felt as though I must be something of a connoisseur of the subject. I started to point out the different styles of balcony to Richard, until I realized that his eyes were starting to glaze over. He gave me a woeful look as if to say ‘You must be confusing me with somebody who gives a toss’. I took the hint, and removed my metaphorical anorak and ditched the train-spotter persona. It’s funny really, but I have yet to meet anyone who shares my passion for wrought-iron railings (Not even when I lived in Sydney, where the balconies of Paddington were an aesthetic treat. Well, at least they were for me).

When I stopped looking up at balconies and lowered my gaze down to New Orleans street level, I realized that I was walking past far more interesting attractions: peep shows, strippers and scantily clad ladies in doorways attempting to entice potential customers into dimly-lit bars and clubs. We didn’t need too much persuading. The stiffening I had been feeling in my neck from looking up at balconies seemed to mysteriously shift its emphasis to a different part of my anatomy.

The New Orleans Mardi Gras (Fat Tuesday) has its centuries-old roots in French and Spanish Catholicism combined with some African and Native American traditions. Jackson Square is reminiscent in many ways to the Montmartre district of Paris. It has a lively ambience where artists display their work and street musicians entertain a café society. The square is named in honour of General Andrew Jackson who defeated the British at the Battle of New Orleans in 1815 (At least we beat Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo in the same year. You can’t win ‘em all).

More than anything else, Jazz is the exemplification of New Orleans. This evolved from a number of sources: musical, cultural, geographical and economical. The music played in 19th Century New Orleans included that of African slaves, gospel, and spiritual, as well as European and American folk. Bourbon Street was (and still is) the most famous entertainment centre. Named after the French Royal Family, it was probably not far removed from the revelry of Louis XIV at Versailles in the 17th Century. The red-light district from 1897 to 1917 was known as Storyville, and many early jazz musicians found employment entertaining at the bordellos. When Storyville was closed down many of the musicians formed jazz bands on the Mississippi river boats, and some migrated to the northern cities, Chicago in particular. The most famous was Louis Armstrong, who moved to Chicago in the early 1920s. The brilliant comedy movie ‘Some like It Hot’, starring Jack Lemon, Tony Curtis and Marilyn Monroe, begins in Chicago when two jazz musicians witness the St. Valentine’s Day massacre. They escape the mob by disguising themselves as women and joining an all-female jazz band. The title of the movie actually refers to the different styles and personal preferences of jazz music: ‘Some like it hot’.

Trail of Tears

From New Orleans we headed east along the coast of the Gulf of Mexico on our way to Florida, through Alabama and Georgia. The area now known as Georgia was home to the Cherokee nation, and we learned a sad story. The Indians were unable to conform to the white-mans’ notion of productive agriculture and President Jefferson gave them a stark choice: civilisation or removal. The Cherokees in Georgia declared independence to create a ‘state within a state’, but the final nail in the coffin was the discovery of gold in 1828 on Cherokee land. An area west of the Mississippi was set aside, where Indian tribes could be self-governing with minimal control from Washington. Tribes resisted, but inevitably they succumbed to the pressure. In 1838, the surviving Cherokee set out on a six-month march under military escort. Thirteen thousand started out, but three and a half thousand died on the way. The Cherokees called it the ‘Trail of Tears’. They settled in the ‘free’ land of Oklahoma, which means ‘red people’. However, a mere fifty years later they were evicted yet again as the government opened up a ‘land rush’. Fifty thousand riders and wagons would race across the prairies to claim land by placing wooden stakes in the ground, literally ‘staking a claim’. Throughout the country, all of the Indian nations had gradually been defeated, dispossessed, up-rooted and generally ground down.

In 1890, Indian resistance was finally extinguished at the massacre of Wounded Knee, when the Sioux were gunned down by US soldiers in the snows of South Dakota.

Miami Twice

Richard and I were getting a little travel-jaded by now, and were in danger of becoming blasé and not fully appreciating the many fabulous and exciting places throughout America. As we travelled through Florida to Miami, we felt as though we were going on holiday. We were looking forward to spending more than one night at a hotel and the luxury of sleeping horizontally, in an actual bed, without the hum of the Greyhound engine. However, we found that, when we would lay down, the room seemed to spin around. I have experienced that feeling before, but it is especially weird when you have not had a single beer. What’s more, neither of us could sleep without the hum of the bus; it had become our womb (with a view). We managed to catch up with much-needed sleep on the beach, the soothing sound of the sea acting as a surrogate engine.

The signature architectural style of Miami and Miami Beach is Art Deco, a style of design, decoration and architecture which was popular in the 1920s and 1930s. It incorporates geometric shapes distinct from the flowing organic motifs of its predecessor Art Nouveau. That is, Art Deco is rectilinear rather than curvilinear. In its heyday, Art Deco was associated with luxury, glamour and ocean liners. Think of the television series ‘Poirot’, which won many awards for its authentic re-creation of the era, particularly the opening sequence.

However, Richard and I were a little disappointed by the slightly shabby, somewhat down-at-heel condition of the infrastructure of Miami. Apart from the weather, it was not dissimilar to a British seaside resort well past its glory days. Many historic buildings (historic by American standards) could have been lost to dereliction or demolition, but, fortunately, during the 1970s a conservation campaign led by a lady named Barbara Capitman saved them for posterity. Like the ‘Cavern Club’ in Liverpool, they could have been knocked down before anyone realized the cultural significance. I returned to Miami twenty years later (not a school trip this time) to see that the city has not only embraced its cultural heritage but proudly flaunts its style. Ocean Drive has many beautiful, pastel examples of Miami’s unique interpretation of Art deco. It is often called Tropical Deco Style due to the use of motifs like flamingos, sunbursts, tropical fish and shells, which reflect South Beach’s seaside location. Notable examples are the Beacon, Adrian and Cardozo Hotels, which were built in the 1930s.

There is a lively bar culture centred on the famous ‘Tobacco Road’, the title of a big hit, albeit one-hit wonder, in the 1960s by a group called the Nashville Teens. Don’t be fooled by the name. They were from England. I wonder if they chose their name the same way as our old friends The Bay City Rollers, by sticking a pin in a map of America. Again, it could have been worse... but we won’t go there again.

When we were in Los Angeles, Richard and I decided not to go to Disneyland because we preferred to visit the brand new Disneyworld in Orlando, which had been opened for less than a year. As a kid I had been regularly to Blackpool’s famous funfair, but this was on another level. The ingenuity, technical wizardry, Fairy Tale Castle and Main Street parade took us back to our childhood days. Southport would never be the same again.

We took a day-trip excursion to the NASA Space Centre at Cape Kennedy, and we were lucky enough to see Apollo 17 standing on the launching pad. It was (and still is) the last mission to land a man on the moon, and when it launched in December 1972 I had great fun back in Leeds commenting nonchalantly (bragging) that I had seen it in Florida. The space museum was very interesting and the rockets standing on display like a row of columns reminded me almost of ancient Greek or Roman ruined temples. Perhaps post-apocalyptic archaeologists will discover them and come up with some explanation about alien landings similar to Erich Von Daniken’s ‘Chariots of the Gods’ theory about the Nazca Lines in Peru.

Sadly, Richard and I had to split up in Miami. We hadn’t fallen out over my leaving him several times and flying off in a De Lorean into the future. No, we had different flights booked from New York. After a poignant goodbye at the bus station, I walked back to the hotel with the sadness, loneliness and demeanour of someone who had just been dumped by his girlfriend.

The Mexican Martial Art of Torro Defecaccion

Travelling alone for almost the entire length of the east coast, from Miami to Niagara Falls, took some getting used to. The downside was that it was lonelier, not as much fun, and less convenient for such practicalities as looking after each other’s bags while the other went to the restroom or ticket office. The upside was that I found myself chatting more to local people in restaurants or on the bus. Many of the bus stations had special seats which incorporated an in-built television. It was pay-per-view with a coin slot, and I wiled away many hours waiting for a Greyhound bus connection. The Munich Olympics were taking place, so I was able to keep up to date.

You remember when I told you about a conversation I had had with Juan Corona, the Mexican karate instructor at Maplehurst, and I said that it was a conversation which would prove useful to me? This is what happened:

I was waiting for a connection at some long-forgotten bus station somewhere in North Carolina. I was sitting, watching Olympic boxing on the small television, when I became aware of some men standing behind me, their faces reflected on the screen. My first thought was that they were watching my T.V. over my shoulder, free of charge. I was just about to turn around and give a disapproving frown when one of them sidled up and slid into the seat to my right. I continued to watch the Olympics, but he made no effort to put a ‘quarter’ into his own television set. I found this a little strange as these seats were specifically for passengers who wanted to watch the telly, and, besides, there were plenty of much more comfortable seats available in the waiting area. Then to my left, another man slid into the seat, again with no intention of watching the T.V. I continued watching the boxing only to see Britain’s Alan Minter robbed. The ‘home-town’ points-decision was unfairly given to a German. I was only half-watching because I was more concerned about these two characters either side of me, and the third one who was still standing behind me. I needed to make sure that I wasn’t going to be the next Brit to be robbed. I serendipitously pulled my bag closer to me with my foot.

“Hi, how are you?” said the man to my right as he held out his hand with the slickness of a salesman.

“I’m fine,” I answered as confidently as I could while accepting his handshake.

Then followed the inevitable question: “You’re from England?”

“That’s right,” I replied wearily while musing that if I had a dollar for every time I had been asked that question I would be staying at top-class hotels instead of hanging around for hours in downtown bus stations. However, this time there was something different. It didn’t seem to have that rising inflection, an Americanism I had become used to. It seemed more of a statement, as if he already knew the answer. Although this seems almost trivial, it nevertheless increased my already suspicious tendency about these three characters, and also the fact that they were surrounding me. My first instinct was to stay calm, act confidently and portray a friendly manner. I took the initiative.

“Hello, how are you?” I said to the guy to my left while offering my hand with American-style bonhomie. “I presume you are together?”

He seemed taken aback, obviously not the kind of reaction they were used to getting from potential targets.

“Oh, fine thanks,” he replied hesitantly. I repeated the same tactic with the large character standing behind me. He seemed dumbfounded, but his wild-eyed expression was probably a permanent feature. The first man gave me a thin smile and took up the conversation. It soon became apparent that he wasn’t quite as subtle or smart as he probably thought he was. He asked clumsy questions to find out if I was travelling alone (which of course they will have already known) such as: ‘Was anyone expecting me?’ and ‘Where was I headed?’

I told them that I had been working at a summer camp in Michigan and their spokesman kept up his faux-friendly banter and couldn’t resist asking me if I had been paid a salary. I kept up my friendly façade chatting congenially while maintaining confident eye-contact. I vaguely remembered reading somewhere that if you ever find yourself face-to-face with a grizzly bear, Do Not run away. Face it down and stand your ground. Oh yeah? I’m not too sure about taking that advice, but I thought I would try it with these three characters; after all, the one standing behind me displayed bear-like traits.

“So tell me, what were you teaching at summer camp?”

“I was a fencing instructor,” I replied nonchalantly, and then, without planning or forethought, I instinctively added, “and karate.”

The guy to my left seemed to flinch, and I caught a reflection of shoulders dropping behind me. However, the smooth leader maintained his composure.

“How interesting,” he said through a faint smile. “What grade are you?”

“Black belt of course,” I answered. “I wouldn’t be allowed to be an instructor otherwise.”

But, still, he didn’t give up as he started asking me questions about karate. Incredibly, and fortunately, his questions were almost identical to those I had asked Juan at Maplehurst. So I gave him exactly the same replies. It was uncanny. He even asked me about the difference between a brown belt and black belt. It was as if I had a guardian angel giving him the questions to ask. I like to think it was the one from ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’, Clarence Oddbody, Angel 2nd class, or should that be 2nd Dan? I must have been convincing, because I started to sense that they were about to let this potential catch off the hook. I detected a faint shake of a head to my left, and after a slight pause he looked at his watch and told me how much he had enjoyed our conversation. I pretended to be disappointed as they got up to leave, and I made sure that I shook hands firmly with all three of them. As I watched them walk away, I permitted myself a slight self-satisfied smirk. For the next half-hour I kept an eye on them as they continued to loiter, and when I was on my way to board my bus I had a little word with an armed security guard. It was one of those ‘don’t-look-round-straight-away’ whispered conversations. They were sitting with an unsuspecting traveller. As the bus was pulling away, I looked over to see that it was now their turn to be questioned, but this time by two security guards. If Richard and I had still been travelling together I doubt that we would have been targeted and approached. Travelling alone does help to focus the mind.

Washington DNA

The year before I arrived in Washington I was in Rome, and the year before that I was in Athens. If ancient Romans and Athenians borrowed my time-machine and travelled two thousand years into the future they would feel at home amongst the buildings of Washington DC. Apart, that is, from the lack of shops selling togas. Cars have replaced chariots, and they will notice that the world is much bigger than they had previously thought. Architecturally, Washington is the grandson of Rome and Athens. They share the same DNA, which of course stands for Doric, Neo-Classical Architecture (I am joking of course. DNA is actually the abbreviation of the National Association of Dyslexics). Australia’s capital city, Canberra, belongs to the same family. All over Washington are these identi-kit buildings which feature the classical elements such as columns, friezes, entablatures and pediments. Many of the buildings are world-famous through television and movies.

The White House, with its classical facade and scrolled Ionic columns, features almost nightly as a backdrop for TV news correspondents. In the first decade of the 20th Century, Theodore Roosevelt was the first president to call his official residence ‘The White House’ rather than the ‘Executive Mansion’. He ordered the construction of the now-famous ‘West Wing’ as offices, and the disgruntled members of the Presidential staff were unceremoniously turfed out of the main building to make way for Roosevelt’s six children.

Other examples of familiar landmarks are: the Lincoln Memorial, where Martin Luther King gave his famous ‘I have a dream’ speech in 1963, the Jefferson Memorial, the National Gallery of Art, and the Capitol Building, the ‘signature’ of the city.

I have been to over one hundred countries in every part of the world, and I am struggling to think of a place which doesn’t have examples of this most ubiquitous style of architecture. It must be one of the most influential, far-reaching and enduring of any art-form. This classical architectural style seems to have mutated and cloned itself to spread virally across the world. A smaller replica of Washington’s Capitol Building overlooks Havana in Cuba, and throughout the world there are public buildings replicating the classic style. Even Elvis Presley, not a man renowned for his subtle aesthetic taste, bought a house in Memphis called ‘Graceland’ with its now famous classical façade. Britain has numerous imposing examples with art galleries, museums, stock exchanges, theatres, and Victorian town halls.

The person who is most responsible for the popularity and longevity of this style is a 16th Century Italian architect with the glorious name of Andrea di Pietro della Gondola (You cannot have a more Italian name than that). He is better known by his nickname of Palladio. He studied the ancient ruins of Rome and revived the style, which became known as Palladian architecture.

In the pre-television days, every town in England had about a dozen cinemas, often with classic-sounding names. In St Helens, where I grew up, there was the Palladium, Hippodrome, Capitol and Rivoli. Invariably, they were built in the Palladian-style, and many still exist today all over the country. Those away from the town centre are now carpet or double-glazing warehouses, while those on the High Streets can still be seen above the shops, often with weeds growing around the classical columns. These days they are usually occupied by charity shops or discount stores. But the classical style of architecture still endures... from Graceland to Poundland.

Just before I leave Washington, here is an interesting little tit-bit of trivia I came across. On10th Street is The Ford Theatre, where President Lincoln was assassinated on April 14th, 1865. He was watching a play called ‘Our American Cousin’ when he was shot by an actor called John Wilkes Booth, who then jumped from the balcony onto the stage. Many in the audience thought it was part of the production until the full horror of what had happened became apparent. Booth had fractured his leg while landing but he was still able to get away amidst the confusion and panic. He rode with an accomplice, David Herold, to the home of Dr Samuel Mudd, an associate of his. The doctor set Booth’s leg, unaware of the assassination but, nevertheless, he was subsequently convicted of conspiracy and imprisoned. The doctor became a hate-figure, castigated by the public, but he was released and pardoned by Lincoln’s successor President Andrew Johnson in 1869. However, his conviction was never over-turned and Dr Mudd never cleared his name. That is the origin of the term ‘My name/your name will be mud’ when someone doesn’t do the right thing. It has nothing at all to do with wet soil.

Thundering Waters

I caught an overnight Greyhound bus north, through the Appalachian Mountains, to my penultimate destination of Niagara Falls. Amazingly, there are approximately 500 waterfalls throughout the world that are higher than Niagara Falls but, like the Grand Canyon, nature has bestowed a combination of dimensions to create an awesomely sensational natural form. It has the greatest flow-rate of any falls on Earth. Indeed, the only waterfall in the world to rank alongside Niagara in terms of physical and emotional power is probably the Victoria Falls in Africa, which were created by tectonic plate movements of the Earth’s crust. Niagara has a very different geological history, having been created by glacial activity along the Niagara River which flows from Lake Erie to Lake Ontario.

The Iroquois Nation has a different explanation as to the origin of the falls. Niagara takes its name from the Iroquois language, ‘Nee-ah-gah-rah’, which looks like the title of a Roy Lichtenstein comic-book painting. It means ‘Thundering Waters’, the sound made by the spirit of the waters, which was appeased by offering annual sacrifices. The Iroquois believe that the horseshoe of the falls was formed when the basin was scooped out by the frantic, thrashing death-throes of a giant serpent killed by a thunderbolt sent by a good spirit from Lake Ontario.

The name of one man is synonymous with Niagara Falls, Frenchman Charles Blondin. In 1859, a crowd of 100,000 gathered to watch in awe as he became the first man to cross Niagara Falls on a tightrope 1,100 feet long and 160 feet above the torrent. A tightrope walker is known as a funambulist, but it doesn’t sound like my idea of fun and, what’s more, the name looks suspiciously like an anagram of full ambulance. Blondin repeated this incredible feat with ever more dangerous stunts: he crossed blindfolded, he crossed on stilts, he carried his (very trusting) manager on his back, and he even stopped to cook a meal on a portable cooker half way across. The crowds gasped in horror thinking that Blondin must be crazy. Crazy? I would say unbalanced!

Arriving at Niagara completed the full circle of my Greyhound bus odyssey, having started out from Lake Michigan. Incidentally, the names of the Great Lakes have always been permanently embedded in the depths somewhere in my brain ever since our geography teacher at school taught us the mnemonic ‘Some men have excellent opportunities’: Superior, Michigan, Huron, Erie, Ontario.

Niagara Falls comprises the American Falls, The Horseshoe Falls, and the lesser known Bridal Veil Falls, a white water cascade aptly described by its name. The best view is from the Canadian side, and, as I walked across the bridge, I remembered the last time I had crossed into Canada after the baseball game in Detroit. This time I was punctilious in ensuring that my passport and visas were in order. Niagara is the fastest moving waterfall in the world. I don’t mean vertically, but horizontally. The thunderous flow has eroded the top of the falls to such an extent that it has moved back seven miles in 12,500 years. It is estimated that it will be gone in another 5000 years. Let me get my flux capacitor and time-travel to check that theory. Yes, that’s correct, but I didn’t notice any human beings. The planet seemed full of apes riding horses brandishing rifles. It’s nice to be back, and now it is time to catch the bus to New York City.

Big Apple, Small World

I went to the same hotel where I had previously stayed on my way to Michigan. One floor was still reserved for students, where guests would be required to share rooms. It had the atmosphere more of a backpacker hostel than a Manhattan hotel, and people were coming and going all the time. I was allocated a room already occupied by two others, who greeted me with a friendly handshake and pointed to my bed. It felt as though it was my first day at a boarding school. I presumed that they were together because the laughter and banter between them was as if they were old friends. However, it quickly transpired that they had only met each other the day before. Everyone had so much in common due to a shared experience of working at the summer camps and travelling around on Greyhound buses. The three of us went down to the hotel bar and we were good mates by the time we had finished the first beer. Sandy was a Scottish student who was studying medicine at Edinburgh University. He fitted the prototype, clichéd image of a Scotsman with his pale, freckled complexion and red hair, fashioned in the 1970s mullet style. Despite spending the whole summer outdoors in upstate New York, he still looked paler than Michelangelo’s ‘David’. He joked that we should have seen him before he left Scotland. As the comedian Billy Connolly put it: it takes a Scotsman two weeks in Spain before he turns white. However, Sandy was far from being a quintessentially dour Scot. He had a ready wit and the natural timing of another legendary Scottish comedian, Chic Murray, when entertaining us with some of his stories. Malcolm was an engineering student from Birmingham who had an outrageous laugh, so they complemented each other perfectly.

The following morning I went out to familiarize myself with the vibrant city of New York and to work out an itinerary to enable me to see as many of the famous sights as possible. I bought a tourist map at a magazine booth and started to mark off the places: Statue of Liberty, Empire State Building, the newly-opened World Trade Centre, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and as many as I could manage in three days. The ubiquitous taxis created continuously flowing yellow rivers in straight lines along the famous grid lay-out of the streets and avenues. There is a painting by the Dutch artist Piet Mondrian (famous for his simple rectangles and squares of primary colours framed in black lines) called ‘Broadway Boogie Woogie’. The vibrancy and movement captures the essence of New York as eloquently as Gershwin’s ‘Rhapsody in Blue’.

Pedestrian crossings were controlled by a simple instruction of WALK in green and DON’T WALK in red. I became quite adept at body-swerving and sidestepping oncoming pedestrians as two hordes approached each other head-on like armies in a medieval battle. It’s amazing how they inter-meshed and emerged on the other side without having made bodily contact with anyone. It was as if everyone has in-built human radar. After a couple of blocks, I just missed the crossing as the DON’T WALK sign flashed up. As I stood on the kerb at the edge of the sidewalk several rows of people quickly built up behind me, like at the start of a marathon. I watched for the lights to change as intently as a Formula 1 driver on pole position. I don’t know why, perhaps I was subconsciously afraid of being knocked over by some pin-stripe-suited businessman hurrying to a meeting in Wall Street. The lights changed and I was off to a smooth start. As the opposing army approached, I started to mentally plot my way through the mêlée, the way a rugby player or American footballer does after catching the ball from the kick-off. When the two front rows were a couple of yards apart our eyes met and we momentarily stopped dead in our tracks right there in the middle of the road. It was Brett. You remember him? He was the guy who was run out of Cheyenne by the police and who befriended Richard and me on the bus. When we had said goodbye in San Francisco I had no intention of giving him a call in New York as he had suggested. And yet, here we were face-to-face a couple of thousand miles on the other side of America in a city the size of New York. It was a chance in ten million. He put his arm around my shoulder and turned around to walk back to where he started.

“Hey John, it’s great to see you. I thought you were going to give me a call.”

“Great to see you too,” I replied, and, surprisingly, I meant it.

I delved into my pocket and, fortunately, I still had the card with his phone number. “I was just about to call you,” I lied while holding it up as proof of my sincerity.

“Well, I’ve saved you a dime. C’mon let’s go back to the office.”

We walked a couple of blocks through the canyons of Manhattan, chatting and laughing like old friends on a reunion. He asked about Richard and wanted to know all about our road trip. He seemed genuinely interested and gradually my long-held suspicion about him evaporated. I even remembered to ask about his sister in San Francisco.

We arrived at a respectable-looking, glass-fronted office building and made our way through the entrance lobby towards the elevator. He seemed to be well-known by the various receptionists and passers-by and, of course, Brett greeted everyone in his customary gregarious manner. This finally convinced me that he was a straightforward, genuine character, because I would still have been hesitant about going with him to some down-at-heel shabby building in a run-down area of New York. Brett had told Richard and me that he worked for a theatre ticketing agency, which proved to be the case. We emerged from the elevator on to a large open office, where about a dozen people were working at typewriters. Of course he had a friendly word with everyone, male and female, almost as if he had an endless supply of jokes, quips and innuendoes. He didn’t introduce me to any of his colleagues on an individual basis, but what he did do was stand on a chair and make an announcement. Why wasn’t I surprised?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said with surprising formality. He paused with the timing of a seasoned public speaker while waiting for the clacking sound of a dozen typewriters to subside. One man paused his telephone conversation and held the phone to his shoulder to listen to what Brett was about to say.

“You remember I told you that I had met a couple of English guys and travelled with them to San Francisco?”

“Yeah,” was the rather unenthusiastic reply from some, while others just nodded uninterestedly.

“Well, John is here,” he said pointing towards me as if I was some visiting celebrity.

This was met by a stony silence only broken when one of the girls replied, “Yes, go on.”

“Well, that’s it,” answered Brett, wondering why his office-stopping announcement hadn’t been met with exuberant enthusiasm. There were a few groans of disappointment but everyone acknowledged me with a nod, a smile and the occasional ‘Hi John’, as they resumed working. I chatted to one or two people and their biggest surprise was that I had accidently bumped into Brett out on the street. The boss came out of his frosted-glass office wondering what was going on and Brett introduced me to him.

He greeted me with a welcome hand-shake, and turned to Brett to say, “Don’t think you are taking the rest of the day off just because your buddy from England has arrived.”

“No? Well in that case John can come with me to all the theatres,” Brett answered while at the same time looking at me for approval.

“Why not? It’s just another way to see the city,” I replied, nodding in agreement.

Brett’s job was to go to all the Broadway and off-Broadway theatres to deliver tickets and to pick-up cancellations. His boss then turned to me and said with a twinkle in his eye, “I hope you’re not expecting me to pay you?”

“Er, of course not,” I replied flummoxed. “That thought never even occurred to me.”

“Would you like to see a Broadway show tonight?”

“I can’t afford a ticket,” I answered cautiously.

“That will be taken care of. Which one do you fancy?”

“Jesus Christ Superstar?”

“No problem, it’s the hottest ticket in town.”

Brett and I spent a couple of hours touring theatre land, and, of course, everyone in every ticket office knew and seemed to like Brett. We walked back to my hotel at about four o’clock and he told me that he would pick me up at seven. I went up to my room and Sandy was just making a cup of coffee. Malcolm had checked out that day.

“In the bar last night, do you remember me telling you about the guy who was forcefully put on the bus in Cheyenne?”

“Yeah, I do remember that story.”

“Well I have just been to his office and spent most of the day going to Broadway Theatres.”

“I thought you said you weren’t going to ring him?”

“I didn’t, I just met him in the street.”

Sandy was amazed at this chance meeting and even more amazed when I told him that he was taking me to see the top show in town. I showered and changed, and still half-expected to be stood up on my first date. Sandy and I were sitting watching Patrick McNee in ‘The Avengers’ on TV when the phone rang. Sandy answered and turned to me to tell me that my host was waiting to take us to the Mark Hellinger Theatre. I expected a ‘restricted-view’ seat, or perhaps one up in the ‘Gods’. Brett handed our tickets to the usherette, who greeted him with a beaming smile and a hug. It was only about ten minutes to curtain-up and most of the audience were, by then, in place. Brett led me down the central aisle and I was looking left and right to see where our seats are likely to be. Very few were still vacant but Brett just marched straight down to the orchestra pit and led the way along the first row.

“Hi, how you doin’?” he said to everyone in turn as they stood up to allow us to edge along.

I followed with a simple, “Thank you.” I was amazed to find that our seats were plumb centre of the row, the most expensive in the house. As we sat down, Brett looked behind him, left and right and had a friendly word with everyone. I sat down and took my ticket-stub off Brett. Not as a souvenir but to confirm that these really were our seats. Brett leaned forward to look over the orchestra pit to chat to the conductor and any musicians within ear-shot. They all responded in a friendly manner as they tuned-up. He then turned round to engage a middle-aged couple in conversation.

“My buddy here is from England,” he announced proudly. I turned and smiled to acknowledge the introduction and shook hands. I was beginning to feel like a VIP. The orchestra began the overture and it was time for curtain-up. When King Herod came on stage, I half-expected Brett to shout, ‘Hi, how ya doin’?’ The show was fantastic, and during the interval we stood up to stretch our legs. We chatted to members of the audience, or, should I say, Brett held court as if he was part of the entertainment. At the end of the show, the palms of my hands were tingling after applauding several curtain-calls, always a good yardstick by which to judge a show. We said goodbye to everyone around us and, naturally, Brett leaned over and shook hands with as many of the orchestra as he could reach.

“Do you wanna go backstage to meet the cast?” he asked rhetorically.

“Yeah, why not,” I answered with a nonchalant shrug, by now just going with the flow. I don’t know if he had a backstage pass, or if he knew the theatre’s security officers but he seemed to breeze through with his usual bluff, confidence and flamboyance. I got the impression that he was using me as an extra card because he made a special point of introducing me and saying that I had come over from England especially to see the show. Remember, being from England was still something of a novelty in those days. We mingled with the members of the cast and even joined them for their after-show buffet and drinks. If we were gate- crashers, nobody seemed to notice. I shared a plate of vol-au-vents with King Herod, Jesus turned the water into wine, and I had a quiche with Mary Magdalene. A few of the supporting cast invited us to a party at an apartment somewhere in New York, I haven’t a clue where, which went on late into the night. Brett escorted me back to the hotel in a yellow cab. He got out and wished me good night with a hand-shake and hug. I never saw or heard from him ever again. It was almost a case of ‘Who was that masked man’. In case you are wondering, I never did find out what made him Cheyenne’s public enemy number one. I didn’t like to ask. Why spoil a good night out?

After four attempts, I managed to get the key into the lock of my door and, as I was stumbling around in the dark, Sandy mumbled, “Is that you John?” Not such a daft question in view of the fact that another bloke was now in the other bed. Since I had woken up my room-mates, I told them the story of my night out.

“Will you actually be going to see any of the sights of New York?” asked Sandy with a hint of sarcasm.

I did get to see most of the places on my list, but at this point I am going to make my final journey back to the future because, like San Francisco, Los Angeles and Las Vegas, New York smartened up its act. I hope Sandy and our other friend, whose name I didn’t quite catch, won’t be disturbed again by me rubbing my flux capacitor under the bed clothes in the dark. I have set the timer for 1997, just in time to join another school trip, but a different one from the Golden West. I am also going to attempt to transport us back across the Atlantic faster than the speed of light. Here goes. Next stop: Wigan.

Somehow Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas no-more.

“New York, New York it’s a wonderful town, the Bronx is up and the Battery’s down, the people ride in a hole in the ground...”

“Shut the bloody door, I’m waiting to turn the car round!”

That was Val being dropped off by her husband on the school car park. It was seven o’clock in the morning and already there was a great party atmosphere as everyone was anticipating the vibrancy and excitement of the city that never sleeps - New York that is, not Wigan. Val, a gregarious, larger-than-life member of staff had barely let the car stop before jumping out and seamlessly performing the Gene Kelly, Frank Sinatra routine from the film ‘On the Town’. Like a Covent Garden busker she threw her arms out flamboyantly and gave an impromptu show for her large ready-made audience.

“She doesn’t get out much,” shouted her husband to everyone as he drove off laughing.

New York was such a popular destination for our school art trip that our party comprised not only pupils and teachers, but also some parents, the headmaster and several of the office staff lead by the school bursar Audrey, who arrived already in Western mode wearing a leather cowboy hat. The age-group of our pupils was from thirteen years to eighteen-year-old sixth formers, and, during the Trans-Atlantic flight, they formed groups and happily mixed with members of the public. As tour leader, I was very conscious of the fact that other passengers might not be too happy to be caught in the midst of a school trip, so I made sure I kept a close eye on any potential noise or misbehaviour. On arrival at JFK Airport, as everyone was collecting luggage from the carousel, I had to go to a telephone booth to ring to confirm that our two buses would be waiting for us outside the terminal building. As I was speaking on the phone, I became aware of a man and woman standing outside the booth waiting. When there was a pause in my conversation I pulled the door back and told them that I would probably be a few minutes and suggested that it might be quicker if they used one of the other telephones.

“Oh, it’s you we wish to speak to,” said the man in a distinctive nasal New York accent, straight out of the ‘Godfather’. At that moment, a voice came back on the phone so I was able to gesture to the couple to wait a second as I closed the door. As I was confirming my pick-up point my mind was racing ahead wondering if the American couple were about to make a complaint about something which might have happened on the flight. I replaced the receiver and stepped out of the phone booth to see what the problem could be.

“Can I help you?” I said, feeling myself going on the defensive.

“We just wanted to tell you that we have had a wonderful flight chatting with some of your students. They are a credit to you and your country,” said the American lady, with a beaming smile.

“Yes,” added her husband, “we fly to Europe regularly and we have never enjoyed a flight as much.”

“Well, thank you very much for taking the trouble to speak to me,” I said with a mixture of surprise and pride.

Just as they were shaking hands with me, a group of our boys and girls came over to wish their new friends goodbye. As I returned to the carousel, Janette asked what was going on. Of course she was delighted and I was pleased to congratulate the whole group when we had our meeting at the hotel.

“We have started as we mean to go on,” I added pointedly. I stressed to the students that we were in a city centre hotel alongside members of the public, unlike some tours where smaller hotels often cater exclusively for school parties. Consequently, I expected good manners and courtesy at all times, and especially when using the elevators. Show consideration to other guests and, for goodness sake, “Do not shout Sir at the top of your voice across a crowded lobby or dining room. Be discreet because some members of the public might not be too happy to be sharing a hotel with a large school group.”

“So what shall we call you?” asked one of the pupils.

“Call him Dad,” joked one of the staff.

Everyone laughed as I answered that ‘Mr Meadows’ would be fine but not shouted out.

Our rooms were on three separate floors, and I made a quick tour to make sure that there were no problems. I decided to go down to the lobby for a reconnaissance and I pressed the elevator button, which descended immediately from a couple of floors above. The doors opened and already in the lift were three of our year nine boys (fourteen year olds). Also in the elevator was a lady who immediately struck me as an archetypical New Yorker. She was quite elderly as she stood holding her pet poodle in her arms, and she had an air of quiet superiority. She was wearing a large hat and dark brown fur coat, and looked as though she had stepped straight out of the Marx Brothers film ‘A Night at The Opera.’ As soon as I entered the lift, the three boys all greeted me with an exaggerated, “Hello Dad,” and laughed.

I nodded to the lady who merely raised her eyebrows in acknowledgement.

“Hello lads, is your room okay?”

“It’s great, what a fantastic view!”

At the next floor, the elevator door opened and in stepped four of our fifteen year old girls.

“Hello Dad,” they all chorused with a giggle.

“Hello girls,” I replied, trying to keep a straight face.

At the next floor five more pupils joined us with the same greeting, obviously all pre-planned, “Hello Dad.”

The lift was now full to its limit, with the fur-coated lady now surrounded. Just as we reached the foyer, she spoke for the first time. She looked at me and asked, “Are all of these your children?”

Before I could answer, one of the girls chipped in with, “No, the rest of us are in four other rooms!”

I’ll take Manhattan, the Bronx and Staten Island too...

Like most major cities around the world, New York has ‘hop-on-hop-off’ sightseeing tour buses. I went round to the office of one such company and negotiated a good price for exclusive use of a double-decker bus and a tour guide for a day. It proved to be very enjoyable and very informative. Our guide began by explaining the origin of the nickname ‘Big Apple’. There have been several theories, but the definitive explanation originates from horse racing. In the 1920s, a sports writer named John Fitzgerald was in New Orleans where he heard jockeys and trainers talking about winning a ‘big apple’, referring to the big-money prizes in New York. He borrowed this colloquialism and ‘The Big Apple’ became the name of his racing column in the ‘New York Morning Telegraph’. The name quickly caught-on and the city authorities officially adopted the slogan in the 1970s to help to market New York. Outside the house where Fitzgerald lived has been officially re-named ‘Big Apple Corner’ and the plaque has become a tourist attraction. Of course, we had to have a group photograph taken in front of it.

Our local guide told us that the first Europeans to settle on Manhattan Island were the Dutch, which is how the district of Harlem got its name. After the Restoration of the Stuart Monarchy in 1660, King Charles II and his brother James, Duke of York (later to become James II) were determined that Britain should challenge the Dutch trading empire. In 1664, an expedition was dispatched to seize the Dutch colony of New Netherland. The British used ‘gunboat diplomacy’, a show of force accompanied by underlying threats. The Dutch Director-General, Peter Stuyvesant, surrendered without a fight and New Amsterdam on the southern tip of Manhattan Island was re-named New York in honour of the Duke of York. The British terms of occupancy were generous, and many of the local Dutch settlers stayed on. One was Claus Van Roosevelt, whose farm was where the Empire State Building now stands, and two of his descendants became President of the United States: Theodore and Franklin Roosevelt.

Our itinerary for the week in New York included all of the must-see sights, such as the ferry from Battery Park at the Southern tip of Manhattan to the Statue of Liberty and then Ellis Island. This was the place where immigrants were processed, and it is now a very interesting museum which charts the history of immigration into America.

Transatlantic migrants who could afford first or second-class tickets were allowed into the USA automatically. Ellis Island was for processing steerage passengers. After interrogation and inspections by doctors, migrants were categorized by chalk marks on their backs. They were stripped naked and given showers, then wrapped in blankets while their clothes were taken to be fumigated and de-loused. When the migrants were re-united with their clothes they were hardly a picture of sartorial elegance. It was the ‘Ryanair’ of its day. Clean but bedraggled, they were ferried to New York, and the grainy black and white documentary movies on show today at the Ellis Island visitors’ centre shows hordes of happy, smiling waving immigrants. This was authentically re-created in the Oscar-winning movie ‘The Godfather part 2’, when the young (and fictitious) Don Corleone arrived from Sicily. Many of these migrants became famous, such as Charles Atlas, a name which became synonymous with body-building, silent-movie star Rudolph Valentino, who arrived from Italy. Songwriter Irving Berlin, of ‘White Christmas’ fame, and movie mogul Sam Goldwyn were Jews from Russia. A young couple from near Naples passed through Ellis Island. They were skilled and hard-working, ideal immigrants to help build a prosperous 20th Century America. Gabriel was a barber and his wife Teresina was a seamstress, and they raised a family of nine children. The most famous of these children was born in Brooklyn in 1899. His name was Al Capone.

New York seems such a familiar place, even to those visiting for the first time, because it has featured in more movies than perhaps any other city in the world. It has been hit by a tidal wave, frozen solid, vaporised by Alien spacecraft, and a half-submerged Statue of Liberty was the final dramatic ending to the original ‘Planet of the Apes’ film starring Charlton Heston.

The Statue of Liberty or, to use its official French title, La Liberté Éclairant le Monde (Liberty Enlightening the World) is a huge sculpture on Liberty Island in the harbour. It was a gift in 1886 to the United States from the people of France, and is of ‘Libertas’, the Roman Goddess of Freedom, who holds a torch and tablet inscribed with the date of the American Declaration of Independence. The metal sculpture was designed by Frederic Bartholdi, and the internal supporting structure was designed by a certain Gustav Eiffel. The unveiling of the Statue of Liberty was marked by New York’s first ever ticker-tape parade.

The view of the Manhattan skyline was fantastic, and later in the week we saw a different aspect of the magnificent panorama from the viewing platform at the top of the Empire State Building. The 102-storey skyscraper stood as the world’s tallest building for forty years from its completion in 1931, and although there are now more than twenty taller buildings it is still arguably the most famous, thanks to King Kong probably. Its name is derived from the nickname for New York, the Empire State, and it has become a cultural icon with its distinctive Art Deco style. The entrance hall is a superb example of this, with inlaid polished marble in geometric design. The top of the Empire State Building is the best vantage point to view the city because it showcases the surrounding buildings which symbolise the character of New York. The 1930s Chrysler Building was designed by William Van Alen who utilized geometric patterning and made pioneering use of aluminium and stainless steel. The ‘sunburst’ was a favourite motif and this forms the basis of the famous apex of the building. As towers around the world compete with each other, from Dubai to Kualar Lumpur to Taiwan, and climb inexorably skyward, the Chrysler Building retains one record which will probably never be beaten: tallest brick building in the world.

Another distinctive skyscraper is the Woolworth Building, which opened in 1913. It was designed by architect Cass Gilbert and paid for, in cash, by Frank W. Woolworth, who made his name as a ‘five and dime’ king. The equivalent today would be if the owner of ‘Poundworld’ paid for London’s ‘Shard’ in cash. It is a Gothic style skyscraper which stands on Broadway and boasts an elaborate terra-cotta exterior and a sumptuous, ornate lobby in yellow marble, which showcases religious-style architecture. There is an extensive collection of sculptures, including medieval-style caricatures of Frank W. Woolworth counting his dimes and the architect holding a model of the building.

MoMA Met Guggenheim

Another day was taken up with visits to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, popularly known as the ‘Met’, the Guggenheim Museum, and the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA). The Met is the largest art museum in the United States, and, on a world-wide perspective in terms of size and exhibits, it ranks alongside the great galleries such as the Hermitage in St. Petersburg, the Louvre in Paris, the Prado in Madrid, and the National Gallery in London. It is located in a beautiful setting on the eastern edge of Central Park, along Manhattan’s Museum Mile.

A short walk from the Metropolitan Museum of Art is the Guggenheim Museum on Park Avenue, and you could be excused for mistaking it for a multi-storey car park. Whereas the Met looks like a traditional museum with its Greek style Ionic columns, arches, pediment and porticos, the Guggenheim, by contrast, is a plain concrete spiral encircling an interior continuous ramp around which the works of art are displayed. It was designed by the famous American architect Frank Lloyd Wright (he of the Simon and Garfunkel song), and it is totally unrelated to the surrounding buildings. But it works. Unlike say, the Louvre Pyramid in Paris or the National Gallery extension in London, the striking originality of the Guggenheim looks perfectly at home in its New York setting.

We couldn’t go to New York without taking in a Broadway Musical, and I had pre-booked tickets for our party to see ‘Phantom of the Opera’. It was the first time many of our pupils had been to see live theatre, so New York’s Broadway was as good a place as any to start. Next stop: Wigan Little Theatre.

The American Museum of Natural History is located on the upper west side of Manhattan, across the street from Central park. It was founded in 1869 and is one of the largest and most famous museums in the world. The comedy movie ‘Night at the Museum’ was filmed there and starred Robin Williams as President Theodore Roosevelt coming to life with the rest of the exhibits. Probably a tribute to the fact that the president’s father, also called Theodore, was one of the founders of the museum. I was particularly impressed by the artwork amongst which the various specimens were set. The depth and lighting created by imaginative use of atmospheric or exaggerated perspective was easily the equal of the best stage productions on Broadway or London’s West End. Whether it was a lion standing proudly in an East African setting, a model of the Great Wall of China, or Lhasa in Tibet, the transition from three to two dimensions were expertly executed. The settings were works of art in their own right, and the best I have ever seen anywhere in the world. Many of the world’s Natural History Museums seem obliged to fill the reception hall with a dinosaur, but, as far as I know, only the one in New York comes to life at night and rattles around the museum.

“How old is that dinosaur?” one of our pupils asked a rather vacant- looking uniformed attendant.

“Oh, let me see,” he answered, stroking his chin, seemingly grateful that someone had spoken to him to alleviate his boredom.

“That dinosaur is 68 million and 17 years old,” he informed us cheerily.

“That’s remarkably precise,” I interjected. “Is such accuracy now possible due to modern developments in carbon-dating techniques?”

“Possibly,” replied the attendant with slow deliberation, “but the way I calculate its age is that when I first started working here I was told that the dinosaur was 68 million years old... and I have been working here for 17 years.” I walked right into that one.

I have already referred to some movies made in the ‘Big Apple’, but the definitive New York movie has got to be ‘The Deanery High School Art Tour to New York.’ Now that really was a disaster movie. Wherever we went, we had three or four video cameras on the go. Everyone took part in the Frank Sinatra ‘New York, New York’ sequence: high kicks in Central Park “Da da da da, da da...da da da” on Park Lane, Broadway and in front of the Statue of Liberty. The headmaster was a real star and received a great ovation on the night of the premiere. Not so much the Odeon, Leicester Square, as the Wigan Athletic Social Club. Val was able to reprise her party piece first unveiled to the public on the school car park.

During filming, four of our year 11 girls offered to perform a Spice Girls’ routine. We had only vaguely heard of them as they had just released their first record. So we set up the cameras on Ellis Island and the students came running down the ramp from the museum and sang, “I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want... etc.” This was accompanied by all the moves and a well-rehearsed dance routine. They were so impressive that a few passers-by stopped to watch.

Skating on Thin Ice

One afternoon we all went to the ice rink in Central Park, another place famous from numerous films. We hired skates, and Janette and I ventured onto the crowded ice. Some of our pupils were filming us, so we hammed it up and played to the camera, knowing that the eventual accompanying music would be, you guessed it, ‘The Bolero.’

As we were in the middle of the rink, one of the lady officials came over to me and said in that nasally New York drawl, “Sirrr, I believe you are in charge of these guys.” She pointed to two of our fifteen year old boys who were skating round the perimeter of the rink at break-neck speed. They were in the perfect stance of speed skaters, which I had only seen on television, leaning forward with one arm behind the back while swinging the other arm left to right like a pendulum. I had to double-check to see if they were our students, then one of their friends came over to tell me that they were members of a speed-skating team back home. I had no idea.

“You will have to tell them they can’t go skatin’ around at that speed,” she said.

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to do that,” I answered.

“Why?”

“I can’t catch them!”

We made our way over to the edge and managed to intercept them. I told the lads that I was very impressed with their skills, but we have been warned that it is inappropriate on a crowded rink.

In the meantime, our Spice Girls tribute act had been performing on the middle of the ice and they started to attract a crowd of children, teenagers and some adults. After a few minutes one of the girls skated over and said to me, “Sir, they think we really are the Spice Girls, so we have told them that you are our manager.”

None of us knew what the Spice Girls looked like or that they had nick names of Ginger, Posh, Sporty etc; but we were told that their record had just entered the Billboard chart and they were soon due in New York. Not quite the Beatles in 1964, but at least they were beginning to make the news, and obviously all the local kids didn’t yet know the real group from our imposters. This caused a great deal of laughter amongst our party. I decided to play along with the hoax. I skated out to the middle of the ice and shouted for the girls to gather round.

“Now remember girls,” I said tersely, adopting my schoolteacher’s persona. “We are due at NBC studios later today and then at a press conference at Radio City this evening, so you must be very careful on these skates.”

The girls played along as they all nodded dutifully. By now we were surrounded by quite a crowd, including the uniformed attendant who earlier warned me about the speed skaters. I couldn’t resist turning to all the ‘fans’ and asking them to be careful not to cause the Spice Girls to fall over. They all nodded co-operatively. I was so convincing, I almost believed it myself. Then out came all the autograph books and pens as the fans started to hold them out to the girls. They were taken by surprise by all this adulation and asked me what they should do. I think they meant whether they should own up before it all gets out of hand. I was well into character by now, so I just said, “Sign your autographs of course.”

I skated back to the rest of the group laughing as the crowd got bigger and bigger. After a few minutes a couple of the attendants skated over towards us, but all they were doing was picking up some tables and chairs which they placed on the ice for the ‘Spice Girls’ so that they could continue to sign their autographs. We watched with amused amazement as queues formed at each table and excited children skated off looking at their books or pieces of paper. Word seemed to spread quite quickly, and more and more people started to gather. I was just beginning to wonder how to call a halt to the proceedings when our coach driver arrived to tell us that he only had ten minutes left on his parking space. By this time our girls were happily posing for photographs and laughing and joking with their fans. I skated over and put on my manager’s act to tell the girls that we had to leave since we were on such a tight schedule. As the girls were leaving they couldn’t resist a final, “I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want...” which received cheers, applause and some screams. The fans waved us back to the coach, including the uniformed attendant who gave me a special smile as she pointed proudly at her autographs. Our Spice Girls were star struck, but I couldn’t help thinking that we should get out of town before the real ones arrived.

New York proved to be one of our most memorable and enjoyable tours, and I think it is largely due to the magic quality of the city. It has a certain something, a je ne sais quoi, or, as the French would say, X-Factor. To compare like-with-like, there are similar cities situated in a more spectacular geographical setting, such as Sydney, or Cape Town or Rio. There are cities with a much deeper cultural heritage, such as Moscow or London, or Paris or Rome. There are cities with a more imaginative variety of modern buildings, such as Dubai, or Singapore or Kuala Lumpur. But, having visited all these places, my personal preference is New York because it has a unique personality; as a city it almost has a life of its own. So good they named it twice.