Detroit, MI

I jogged back from the parkrun and checked out of the hotel. I had thought there might be a bus line going from Livonia to the city centre, but not that I could find, not from near where I was. I had three hours, but with a 45 minute walk to get back to the bus I’d come in on, timing started to look tight and I opted for a cab. The driver was a grizzled silver-haired bear of a local, and we talked briefly about travels before he tried me on sports. “Do you follow sports?” is both a generic and nicely open question, but it occurred to me that, despite his admiration for rugby, we are nations separated by both our common language and our totally diverged sports cultures. Athletics is about the only one that we compete in at similar levels-having so few popular sports in common is surely uncommon for us around the world. Whatever the truth of that, I wasn’t far from a resounding “how about that local sports team, eh?”

I had two hours to kill before my bus, and wandered into downtown Detroit for lunch at a diner. It is as post-apocalyptic as the rumours suggest. Lonely Planet is absolutely right in saying that Americans will greet news that you’re heading to Detroit with a raised eyebrow and some crack about drugs and/or death, though the guidebook is at pains to point out that many exciting things are happening.

Not yet in downtown, they’re not. The atmosphere was set mainly by the huge Stalinist block that towered over the view as I looked into the city. Had I not been distracted by that, mind, I might have spotted the huge warehouse behind the bus station. From a distance, when I did spot it, I wasn’t convinced that a used and rare book store would really be operating from those premises, but up closer the new sign saying they were named “#2 bookshop in the world, 2014” is bright, a nice counterpoint to the faded lettering around the top of the building. That is four stories up, mind, so no small task to repaint.

There were very few people around, and those that were didn’t exactly have a sense of purpose. Other, perhaps, than the man in the deli, trying to get served. He resorted to approaching the cashier in the fortified central bunker; “just ring the bell.” He had. “He’ll be right out. ROGER!” It’s a place where everyone looks like they might be homeless, which is what I’d thought of that man at first, but I think that’s the air of decay speaking.

Spotting that huge block made me wonder just how similar American and Russian cities were in the middle of the twentieth century – did they try to outcompete each other in austere architecture, even while American consumers were enjoying the products of greater wealth? Detroit, at least, could easily be a Russian city.

I spotted a diner that looked uncrowded and walked round it, so as to comply with the instruction to ‘enter through the Leland’. The latter is a formerly grand old hotel that looks to be begging to be explored. It is very faded, not very welcoming as you enter at street level, with reception up the grimy stairs, and looks as though it is being used as much for housing as hotelling. The welcome at the diner was warm, though. After my burger and a quick listen to the conversation between owner and customer: “it weren’t more’n thirteen dollars” “mmm-hmmm,” I scuttled back to the greyhound station, which was warmer than being outside, Detroit’s long streets and empty plots provide little shelter from a cutting wind. The station was pretty full, but most people were waiting for other, delayed buses-just 7 of us got on for the Toronto trip, though more were to join in Windsor. For the first time I was asked more than a few questions at the border; where are you going, why, what do you do, when were you last in Canada, do you know anyone there, have you ever been arrested? But they let me in.

We picked up people in Windsor, sat around there for a while then headed on, for Chatham-Kent, London and then Toronto.

I checked in to my hostel and the poor tired French-Canadian girl who checked me in just about managed to tell me about the place and find the right room-at the second time of asking. By the luggage store she said that “when you checkout you should bring your **** down”, which I thought was overly colloquial until she added “the **** and pillow cover and duvet cover”. Oh, that ****.

Finally, a quiet day. Up early to get to La Guardia, once I’d flown in there wasn’t going to be much in Livonia, a western suburb of Detroit-that is, it is situated in the west, not full of saloons and people with itchy trigger fingers. Though some probably are carrying guns. That makes for a great day, one where I can catch up with photos, blog, laundry, tv, laziness.

La Guardia is only 9 miles or so from Manhattan, but has no subway station. The cheapest way to travel is by subway to Harlem then get a bus. I considered a taxi, seeing as my flight was at 9.40am and needed an early start even without a broken journey, but then found a happy medium.

She looked into her crystal ball and told me the NYC airporter bus ran from Grand Central station, six blocks away, every half an hour. Perfect.

I was early, getting the 7.30 bus, but so were most of the others on the plane and we all sat I the waiting area at the airport together. The chief flight attendant was Scottish, it took me a mo to identify the accent. Once we landed I was lucky in getting my bag but not in getting past people on the escalator so missed the first bus. I killed an hour and caught the next-which was delayed the four minutes I had needed the other to wait. After a change of bus I was through some of the suburbs and left with a 2.5 mile walk to the motel, passing wide empty parking lots but mostly operating businesses. Not quite the Detroit badlands, but not a thriving metropolis either.

I was there bang on the 3.00 check in time and lounged, before wandering back whence I came for some shopping and dinner. Glorious empty day.

New York City, NY

To New York, and my first travel-cestuous experience, in that I was to stay with someone I only met on this trip. Karen and I travelled from Cambodia to Thailand together, before she headed off for a connecting flight and I to Bangkok. We didn’t actually spend time together in Siem Reap, only meeting because my roommate knew Karen was heading to the airport at the same time, but she was still happy to put me up.

Karen had returned to work a couple of months before, so I was curious to know how the transition went. She was kind enough to meet me at Penn Station to then walk to hers – just 10 blocks or so. I didn’t know much about the city, and was reminded of the Alan Partridge “I’d like to go to New York” ‘you want Manhattan’ “well, I’d like to see the city. The Big Apple” ‘yeah, that’s Manhattan’ “er, right – so, I’m in Manhattan, which way do I turn?’. But I knew enough to realise that 10 blocks from Penn station had to be good. At least, I did once I realised the station is in Manhattan, and as we walked through “oh look, New York streets!” and turned onto Park Avenue, I spotted how lucky I’d been. Park and 36th, close to everything.

I checked the map and got straight out – Karen had work to do, and I had some precious sunny (cold) hours of daylight to use. North today, South tomorrow, heart of city covered. I walked north up Fifth avenue (yeah) just soaking it up. Honk! Yellow taxi! Yeah well, buddy (in NY accent) and more, then found Central Park – after I’d ducked into the Apple store just opposite to get out of a particularly fierce wind.

The park is just stunning. I’d been told it was big, and it is-for circumference, Richmond park beats it, 8 miles to 6 , but Richmond isn’t in the centre of the city, nor does it have the variety of bridges, fences, rocky outcrops and wild trees. Just a fabulous spot, and I was only slightly sorry not to be running it. It was very cold, and my machismo would probably have put me in shorts. I would have been the only one. I did step onto the ‘jogging route’ around the reservoir, the most popular route, so at least I’ve been on it.

In the evening I was treated to a great dinner – quite the swankiest of the last eight months – and then a tour, culminating in photos of Times Square. Piccadilly and Leicester squares have nothing on this one.

Washington DC, District of Columbia

I hopped on the train from Williamsburg and four hours later was in Washington, D.C. The weather was probably similar in both places, but the passage of time had taken an icy morning and turned it into a sunny afternoon. My hostel was an easy stroll from the station. I must have booked it because of that, but the booking was long enough ago that it came as a lovely surprise when I saw how easy my transfer was.

Union station is a huge and grand building, all too easy to look up, gawp at something and find yourself in everyone’ way, though I managed to avoid that, just, thanks to there being so much room inside. Friendly Jon checked me in early; he is one of two hostel staff with extraordinary Irish accents, though whether that’s just my hearing being slightly off or because they’ve Americanised them, I wasn’t sure. I was off into the sun to have a walk around, and take in the Air and Space museum, which was on both Jon and Lonely Planet’s favourite parts of the Smithsonian.

That museum is a huge enterprise, with its own castle housing information and offices, and separate buildings for the art, space, indian and other museums. I walked back to the station and then down to the Capitol, which grows impressively in your vision as you walk towards it. The idea was to build everything in the neo-classical style, which is grand and looks fabulous, though I suspect there was a time when it just looked like a new country attempting to borrow the grandeur of older empires by copying an architectural style. Turning right from the capitol I was on the mall, though not before I had noted the protestors on the lawn outside. That seems a step up from our government blocking protest outside parliament, though on reflection you can’t get very close to the White House either, nor does it have large spaces to gather on very near, so maybe they’re just as restrictive. A little less keen to squash rights people have had for years, though.

The mall is grand, and looked stunning in the sun. It’s a great place to run, though I’m off that at the mo, watching those galloping or struggling down the long gravelled pathways with envy. I ducked into the museum, a place to immediately look up and see the planes and rockets hanging from the ceiling. I thought I’d be most taken by the space section, and enjoyed the room on exploration, but we have Apollo exhibits in Britain so it wasn’t quite the ‘wow!’ moment it might have been. The space shuttle exhibits are elsewhere, too. But the sections on flight, WW1 and 2, were fascinating. There are a few too many stories from back when America was an underdog – my impression is that they still tell stories that way, having become addicted to the image – even now they have the largest military by some distance. But there was a great variety of exhibits, and balanced coverage of the Knights of the Air from WW1, a good film showing Hollywood’s aviation depictions after WW2 and plenty to chew on. On that note, less recommended is the space ice cream available in the shop, and being offered around by a couple of Brits. “It’s horrible” didn’t get many takers.

I continued down the mall and it’s all killer sights, with the WW2 memorial huge and grand, the

George Washington monument tall and imposing despite fences keeping us all away while work is done and the Lincoln Memorial the place to see. There’s a sign near the statue suggesting people keep quiet from respect, but it was a very noisy place; reminding me of the similar futility in the Sistene chapel, though at least there people whisper rather than talking talking talking. I had been listening to podcasts on the American revolution as I came upon the Gettysburg Address and had coincidentally just heard the Declaration of Independence read out before I saw the similar sentiments in the Address.

I wandered back via the White House before ducking in to the E street cinema for Ralph Fiennes’ joy-filled comedic turn in the Grand Budapest Hotel. Wonderful.

This week’s cinema: Inside Llewyn Davis – bleak. See it.
Grand Budapest Hotel – joyful. See it.

Reading: Terry Pratchett, The Wee Free Men.

Williamsburg, VA

Williamsburg is a curiosity. Some time ago the decision was made to preserve and rebuild (mostly the latter) the original colonial buildings as a living, breathing museum of the colonial town. Actors play the part of tour guides and gatekeepers, but are also there to add colour, sure to nod a hello as you cross the street and with regular reenactments of things that may or may not have happened. I had been warned off the latter.

The most interesting thing about having a town preserved in that state is that it predates America, a reminder that this part of European America dates from the 17th century. The Union Jack flies throughout, and William and Mary college was founded in 1693, second only to Harvard. That isn’t that old by European standards, of course, but it felt really old to me in context, which must be because all and any talk of American history starts in the late 18th century.

I’ll admit that I managed to circumnavigate the historic buildings at first. I’d walked what looked like the most direct route to my motel, down a road which ran out of pavement, taking me through a college and across the grounds of a new housing development. The motel was billed as Super 8, historic area, but I walked some way before I found the visitors’ centre. In part that was because I was trying to avoid the visitors’ centre; you only need a ticket to go inside buildings, and having been warned off the performances by Martin I figured the only other thing a ticket might give me was the chance to watch old furniture (copyright, my brother, 1980), and that was something I could happily miss out on.

So I walked an extra mile or two, realised I was walking at the edge of town and turned in. No sooner had I found the visitors’ centre than I turned my back on it, spotting a sign to the historic buildings. The place is beautiful – quaint probably sums it up perfectly, with old wooden and brick houses, shops with their old signs and gravelled pavements. Which they probably called pavements, back then. I wandered the streets happily, diverted briefly by the bull lowing in a field – and wondering how strong the fence design from 16xx was – before checking out the sheep in people’s gardens and enjoying the atmosphere in the central thoroughfare. About half the people there seemed to have tickets. You can tell, because they are worn like name badges, on the outside, so paying visitors look like they are part of a conference, freed from a keynote speech and exploring. Frankly, it’s enchanting, and that despite it being quite cold. I had luckily flicked through TV channels in the motel, and caught the prediction of rain for later. Sure enough, around 3 the rain started, and my tour of the university was cut a bit short. The Kimball theatre is on the area set aside for ‘modern shops’ – all built in old style brick so as to be in keeping with the rest of the surroundings – and I dived in there for a 4.00 film before sheltering in the warmth of my room for the evening.