Letters From America | Week Four: Fort Lauderdale, Florida, Fin.

All good things come to an end, eventually.

So it was with my month in America. After seeing some but certainly not all of Texas and more than I might have liked of New Orleans, as well as a sweet spot in homely Alabama - and it wouldn't do to forget the beautiful beaches and bawdy bars of Panama City - my time in the United States drew to a close more crushing than any holiday doldrums I've experienced.

Before I said goodbye to America, however, I spent the better part of a week frolicking in Fort Lauderdale and its surrounding areas. In Boca Raton, South Beach and Central Miami -- not to mention all the other places whose names I can't recall, for obvious reasons.

But wait, there's more! See, the folks we were staying with in Fort Lauderdale just so happened to have a huge boat moored on the Intracoastal Waterway, so we spent a couple of days motoring across the ocean. Fun was had, especially because no-one got seasick. Proper lite beers were drank in proper American proportions on the deck, from dawn till dusk. After that, I even managed to sleep for a few minutes!

That aside, I don't know that I have a great deal to say about Florida. Having recharged my batteries during the last leg of my trip - both figuratively and literally - I was good and ready to spend all my stamina points (also my remaining Monopoly money) on one last hurrah... but beyond a few short jaunts, Fort Lauderdale didn't really feel like the place for the variety of antics I had in mind. Truth be told, it's not exactly entertainment central. More like a massive rich person's retirement community.

Now that I think on it, though, there was at least one awesome spot. Namely the nearby watering hole: a pirate-themed put called Muddy Waters, which had swinging seats, neon toilets, and a sign that promised FREE BEER TOMORROW. Thus intrigued, I came back the next night, and then the next, but both times the sign said the same thing. I never did get my free beer.

What we did get was a lovely bit of local colour. We met a few fine folks, of course, all of whom seemed to want nothing more than to listen to us talk in our broadest Scottish accents. And on those rare occasions where there weren't gangs of Americans blackmailing us with booze, my traveling companions and I reminisced over delicious tropical cocktails about all the incredible things we'd seen and done in the States so far, up to and including said delicious tropical cocktails; I'd recommend the Blue Hawaiian and the Alco Pop.

Anyway, a few drinks down, the conversation invariably turned to more miserable matters. We'd all loved our time in America, but the sad fact of the matter was ever-present on our final nights. Our holiday was almost over. Like it or not, we were going to have to go back to Scotland shortly.

And Scotland? For all that living here has its plus points - the stark beauty of the highlands comes to mind, and the clime, which I'll politely describe as milder - there aren't an awful lot of 'em. The people are mostly mean, where in America almost everyone was warm and welcoming. The food is assuredly not as good. Gas is twice the price. Our government is like a spiteful childminder.

I know I shouldn't bemoan my homeland - I don't suppose it's all so awful - but coming home was a heady hammer-blow to the heart, and I'll admit I'm still reeling from it somewhat. Given which, you guys might have to give me a little time to remember myself, but here, I've been through this before... haven't we all? I'm sure I'll be back up to scratch before you know it.

One last thing before I go, in part because it's become a bit of tradition in these diaries, but also to give you an idea of what's to come on The Speculative Scotsman now that all the awesome guest bloggers whose work I've had the honour of hosting have spoiled you for quality content: on the long flight back, which was very long - did I mention that? - I squeezed shall we say a fair bit of reading in.

In the first, I powered through A Confusion of Prices by Garth Nix, Steve Rasnic Tem's terrific Deadfall Hotel, and the very fine first third of Aidan's favourite urban fantasy, Of Blood and Honey by Stina Leicht. Expect reviews of each of these three, in addition to most everything else I read whilst in America - excepting A Game of Thrones, because I have other things planned for that - on The Speculative Scotsman in the not-too-distant.

I also read a whole load of Y - The Last Man whilst in Florida, on good sir Ryan's recommendation, and like the man said, it was stunning stuff. Which is to say, another one of those unbelievably awesome things that, sadly, has to end eventually... like this once-in-a-lifetime holiday.

I say that, but equally this: I'll be back!

Because dang it all, I only saw six states. That means I have another 44 still to visit. :D

Letters From America | Week Three: The Cabin In The Woods

I've had a hell of a time in America, this past month. There've been good bit and bad, but of course -- as ever, the great and the terrible come together. Given which, it might be a trifle disingenuous of me to say I wouldn't trade a second of my many and various experiences here - there are a few I'd be glad to get shot off, in all honesty - so I won't. But by and large, I've had the time of my life.

Hard to believe, then, that it's almost over. But it is. Come Monday I'll be back in my proper place, installed before the curious control panel of The Speculative Scotsman, reading and writing and teaching - and talking about reading and writing and teaching to anyone who'll listen - just as if I'd never been gone at all. But I was. Gone. And I was gone a long time.

You haven't even heard the half of it, either. In the last of my Letters From America, dated near enough a fortnight ago now, we talked about New Orleans, and touched on Panama City Beach. So what happened after that? Hell, only everything! But let me cast my mind back...

In brief, simply because there's so much I want to burble about: from Panama City Beach the other half and I saw the third member of our impromptu party off to the airport for a quick hop along the panhandle; to Fort Lauderdale, where we'd be catching up with her again shortly. But not before more than 1000 miles of driving on the wrong side of the road, the perfect storm, a legion of oversized insects, and at long last, rather a lot of reading.

The thinking was, smack bang in the middle of our hectic month in America, we might just need a holiday from our holiday... a little downtime, to catch our breath and consider what we could and should expel it on next. To wit, we booked a couple of nights in a cabin in the woods between Dogtown and Fort Payne in innermost Alabama.

Surprisingly, this worried everyone we made mention of it to - though it's worth noting that none of them had ever been to Alabama themselves - and I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest that the names of the towns on either side of our quaint little cabin didn't help matters. We were told to make doubly sure we had appropriate plates on our rental car, and our Texan friends also insisted we stick to main roads wherever possible. Furthermore, we were advised to keep ourselves to ourselves. Basically to keep our mouths shut unless we couldn't possibly avoid it. Oh, and no taking the lord's name in vain!

As it happened, however, the most perilous thing about Alabama was the weather. Our cabin in the woods was far enough removed from it all that we only met a few folks, and those that we did meet were perfectly friendly. That said, several of the locals we encountered in the midst of our holiday-within-a-holiday essentially echoed the advice we'd been given earlier. So yes, we were careful. We hardly left the house, except to see a few incredible natural landmarks, and forage for foodstuffs. But then, that's all we'd planned on doing anyway, so our time in the cabin went off without a hitch, excepting the huge bugs that ate perhaps half of my body mass.

We weren't so lucky getting to the cabin in the first place, I'm afraid: the mildly strenuous six hour drive from Panama City Beach turned into an stressful eight hour affair when we hit massive traffic, and alas, almost immediately after that, we drove right into what I'm going to call a tropical storm... though I sincerely doubt it was anything out of the ordinary for Americans.

For wee British people like my pocket-sized traveling companion and I, it felt a lot like I imagine the end of the world would: in a matter of minutes, it went from late in the day but still quite light to night as thick as pitch. The sweltering warmth we'd almost gotten used to erupted into thunder the likes of which I'd never ever heard, and with it spikes of lightning that seemed to split the sky. To add insult to injury, seconds later huge hailstones started attacking us.

It was truly terrifying - certainly the scariest thing that I encountered in the six states I saw - but at the time, I thought the thing to do was push on through it. Me and my pride! I only pulled over when all the other drivers I'd been keeping pace with took to the hard shoulder themselves... then I happily hit my hazards and called a momentary halt to our adventure.

Nor was the drive up to Fort Lauderdale any laughing matter at the time, though I have had call to look back on it since, and laugh. On this occasion, ambition was my deadly sin. We were going to do two six to eight hour over a pair of days, but so close to the end of our time in America - or so it seemed to me - I didn't want to drag the thing out. I wanted to do it all in a day so we could get on with the last leg of our trip, and I did.

More's the pity.

But between one gargantuan drive and the other: happy days. Relaxing days. Also excruciating, exhilarating days. And why such a spread of emotions? Well, because I spend most of them reading, at long last, A Game of Thrones... which was magnificent. I did this ostensibly in readiness for the second season of the TV series, which I now plan to watch when it's concluded, and I've had the time to take in A Clash of Kings too.

Because once you pop, you can't very well stop, can you? :)

On which note, I'd better get packing, but I'll back on Monday with one last installment of Letters From America -- though truth be told it won't be a letter from America at all, because by then I'll be home again, home again.

Jiggety jig?

Sadly no... not so much.

Letters From America | Week Two: Lost Souls and Liquor in New Orleans and Florida

Last time we talked properly – that is excepting the intros and outros appended to each of the guest posts you’ll have seen on the site since – I had just arrived in New Orleans, having been knocked for six by the sheer size of everything here in the States. I should perhaps amend that observation now that I’ve seen a smidge more of this massive landmass; after all NOLA was dramatically different from Houston, and Panama City Beach – where I’ve been recovering since – is a whole other kettle of fish again.

But look at me and my seafood-based wordplay! If you didn’t know different, you’d be forgiven for thinking I was having a whale of a time here in America. :D

I am, at that... though New Orleans, as I intimated in the inaugural edition of Letters From America, was rather a shock to the system after the incredibly warm welcome we were treated to in Texas. Long story short: me and mine got off to a bad start on our first night in New Orleans, and though things were looking up by the time we left, I still hadn’t quite come around.

So I didn’t love NOLA, no. But by the end I didn’t despise it either, and after that first night – no gory details today, I’m afraid – to be able to say even that speaks to how much more pleasant the city was once we found our skinny Scottish feet in it.

Wait, I didn’t say the city, did I? You must excuse me – that’s not entirely true. I suppose we were in the city, which is to say surrounded on all sides by endless urban sprawl, but honestly, it hardly felt like it: we didn’t leave the French Quarter once during the entire time we propped up the Best Western on Rampart. Perhaps we should have, quite against all the advice we’d been given... not least because by the end of our stay, I for one was feeling a bit boxed-in.

In fairness to the place, I think the trips I’ve taken to beautiful little European cities like Krakov and Bruges and Bratislava somewhat spoiled me on New Orleans, without me even realising it. All quaint places, I guess, with beer and wine and good food and music in abundance, but none of the nastiness that kept cropping up here, nor the ripe aroma of piss and shit and sick in the air everywhere, and definitely lots less leering. Also: if you’re planning on spending more than a few days in the French Quarter of New Orleans, have your paperwork in order to declare bankruptcy in the midst of your trip.

My nostalgia for the New Orleans Poppy Z. Brite painted so perfectly in the books I swore by as a moderately freaky teenager probably didn’t help matters either. Lost Souls and such; especially the Liquor trilogy Brite ended up capping off her writing career with.

I did wonder how different the French Quarter would have been if I’d only experienced it before the horrors of Hurricane Katrina. I didn’t ask any such thing, obviously. It seemed impolite... not that decency seemed to be any sort of obstacle to the innumerable booths and shops and street-walkers looking to make a quick buck on glorious guided tours of the devastated areas.

But I should digress. At the end of my time in New Orleans, I was certainly keen to get on with the rest of this crazy-with-a-capital-crazy road trip, but we’ll be taking a few happy memories home with us, and it wouldn’t do to overlook them: one born hot and throbbing in Maison on Frenchmen Street – on open mic night and everything – and another, oddly, from a ghost tour with a guy from Haunted History who told some of the best spoken word stories I’ve ever heard. Ever.

So what happened next?

Truth be told, it’s a bit of a blur already. We drove for six hours in a rented Nissan, delighting in all the classic rock radio stations we kept picking up along the way, only to lose mere moments later. We stuck, cleverly, to the right side of the road, which felt wrong on so many levels. Eventually, we arrived at our beautiful apartment in Panama City Beach, and slowly settled in.

And then? Then: beer. On the balcony, and on the beach. A stone’s throw away from the sea and the sand, while the sun split the skies... oh my. I don’t mind saying it’s been kinda sorta stunning here. With Spring Break and March Madness mostly over, there was time and space to let everything we’ve seen and done here in the States to date sink in, and I’m glad of that. It was beginning to feel a bit surreal.

A few hours from the time of this writing, alas, we’ll be leaving Panama City Beach behind, and one of our party as well – though we’ll catch up with her on the back end of this trip. In the interim, the other half and I are heading to a lovely log cabin in the woods of upper Alabama, where by hook or by crook, there will be books!

Sadly there’s only been the one since last week’s Stephen King, but it was – how to describe it? – a bona fide beauty. A masterfully wrought political parable for the larger part, A Song For Arbonne by Guy Gavriel Kay also took in tragedy, romance, fate, friendship, and occasionally even farce. It couldn’t quite eclipse Tigana in my heart - I wonder sometimes if anything ever will - yet it’s certainly the best book I’ve read in a long time.

Do stay tuned for more thoughts of that sort shortly; I should have a review ready before I’m back in Britain. For the moment, my thanks to those of you who recommended it. And to everyone who plumped for The Lions of Al-Rassan instead, take heart in the fact that I abandoned several essential items of clothing in order to bring more books than I’d meant, among them that other Guy Gavriel Kay, which given the magnificence of A Song For Arbonne I’ve half a mind to read immediately.

On the other hand, A Game of Thrones is sat right there. Staring at me, even. The monster.

Speaking of which, how was the premiere of the second season? It kills me that I missed it, but maybe that’s for the best. Maybe this year I wait till I have all the episodes and watch them in one massive whack. Maybe that’ll give me time to read the bloody books I’ve brought all the way across the Atlantic...

Anyway! I’ll be back again next week with another of these sentimental Letters From America, but between times I’ve lined up another round of brilliant guest bloggers for you to look forward to. Remember to give them a warm welcome!

Letters From America | Week One: Love and Largeness In Houston, Texas

So, America.

Obviously not all of America. The place is bloody massive! I’m told, for instance, that there are more souls in Houston alone than in all of Scotland, and maybe I’m an idiot for believing as much – the source of said nugget of knowledge has told us several tall tales already (for entertainment’s sake rather than to trick the visiting idiots, you understand) and that may well be among them – but believe it I do. I feel like a speck of person in a land of immensity in every sense.

For instance, the many, many bottles and cans of Coke and root beer and beer beer I’ve orphaned like a wicked Dickens villain: they’re massive next to the tiddly little things we pay through the nose to drink in the UK, and the all-night drugstores from whence they’ve come (and gone) put our paltry convenience stores to stricken shame.

Meanwhile the highways are twice as wide and twice as long and damn near twice as fast as any of the motorways I’ve driven on over the pond. The cars are all huge too – almighty pickups that look like they could comfortably pick up typical British cars in their entirety, with room still to spare. Perhaps for a massive dog, or four. Or $400 worth of shopping from the local Kruger or K-Mart.

Anyway, America.

It’s big. That’s been my overriding impression of the States so far, but so far I’ve really only seen a single state. Texas, incidentally. We spent our first five days in Houston, with a friend and her family, and her family’s friends and family as well, as it happened. The rabble was a touch intimidating to start, but by the day our new bucket buddies corralled us to the Amtrak which brought us in to New Orleans – none other than The Sunset Limited! – I had a lump in my throat the size of Scotland.

I don’t know if we’ll ever meet these folks again, or see more of this state than the happy Heights of Houston. I certainly hope so – a little birdie informs me Austin is awesome also – but being realistic, it seems... sadly unlikely.

Of course they knew this as well as we. And yet they extended every courtesy. Made us feel at home when we were further away from home than we’d ever been before. They toured us around the sights. Showed us the lights, and indeed the lites. They bought near enough every damn beer; took us to the best bars and diners; advised us sagely on the best places to find good veggie food, and oh, what good veggie food it was! 

Long story short – and alas, my time is suddenly shorter than I’d thought – I miss it all already. Good people in a good place equals good times, I do declare. Houston was the leg of our time in America I was least sure of, but New Orleans and Panama and Georgia and Florida have a whole lot to live up to now. Speaking of which...

Actually, no, perhaps not – the night and the day we’ve spent in the famous French Quarter will have to wait till the next time we talk. For the moment I’ll just say it’s been a bit of a shock to the system. Certainly not a nasty shock... more like one of those one you get when you hold the rail on the escalator! But I digress.

Becaue these aren’t just travel diaries, are they? This is a blog about books, by and large. And there have been books... although they’ve been few and far between. I aim to get a great deal more reading done as soon as we leave New Orleans in the rearview; for the very moment, though, I have managed to finish one book of note.

As luck would have it, a surprise review copy of The Wind Through The Keyhole – which is to say the new Dark Tower novel by Sai Stephen King – arrived just in time to make it into my suitcase. As a matter of fact it was my companion while miles high in the big blue sky, and... well. I won’t talk too much about it today – I do hope to have a review of the thing ready to post upon my return to bonnie Scotland – but I’ll let slip this: bits of The Wind Through The Keyhole were brilliant. Specifically the long short story at the core of it, which Roland tells to his travelling companions.

But other bits of this sidequel of sorts, I’m sorry to say, were trying – especially given how long it’s been since I read The Dark Tower proper. Excepting the aforementioned story-within-a-story, I don’t agree that it stands alone at all. I wonder if it wouldn’t have been substantially more satisfying without the bumf of the first act and the last, in fact.

Alas, I’ve gotta git. I’ll get my thoughts on The Wind Through The Keyhole together at a later date, but right now, I understand there’s some world-class jazz to be had over on Frenchmen Street. I want to go to there!

All things being equal, there’ll be another Letter From America for y’all next Friday, but between now and then? SO MUCH AWESOME STUFF I NEED CAPS TO EXPRESS HOW AWESOME IT’S GOING TO BE! 

So do stay tuned. :D

Comic Book Review | Shenzhen and Pyongyang by Guy Delisle

This will be old news to many of you, I expect, but in my other life, I'm a teacher.

Actually, no. That's not exactly true... and thank the lord for that! Strictly speaking I'm an English tutor - I chair courses on reading and writing at a private education centre here in central Scotland - and one of the things I'm often heard to say to the high-school students in my care is that there are stories everywhere. Wherever you look, and you needn't look far, or wide, there are narratives unfolding, complete with characters, conflicts, climaxes -- really the whole kit and caboodle.

They might not be good stories by any meaningful measure, but they are true stories, and often, I find, that's enough. If in a piece of writing one of my students can capture some fleeting fragmentary truth - some glimmer of insight into how we work, or the way the world works around us - then never mind all the elementary spelling mistakes and so on and so forth; no amount of misplaced punctuation marks can take away from an honest, relatable portrayal of some feeling, or facet of our lives.

Now whether I have my teaching hat on or not, that's a sentiment I stand by whole-heartedly, so it's an odd thing - but no less a true thing - that I don't, in my spare time, consume a great deal of non-fiction. Not in any form that I can think of: not in film, not in literature, and - excepting Persepolis - certainly not in comic books. At least, not till now.

I picked up Pyongyang: A Journey in North Korea almost on a whim while out looking for a couple of last-minute Christmas gifts. I read the first few pages right there in the store, and immediately found myself hungry - like one of those hippos - for more. Home again, home again, jiggety jig, I polished off Pyongyang and its successor, Shenzhen: A Travelogue from China, in a wonderful, whimsical week of evenings. I'd urge anyone with an interest in comics books, or culture, to do likewise.

Guy Delisle is - or was, when he put together these "graphic memoirs" (as the blurb would have it) - a jobbing French-Candian animator. His trips to Pyongyang and then Shenzhen were for business rather than pleasure, to oversee the work of various outsourcing studios, and it's just as well, because as he illustrates, there's precious little pleasure to be taken from either of these depressing places.

Saying that, there's not a dull moment in these travelogues, and that's no mean feat, because at around 150 pages each, they're certainly not short, and Delisle spends almost his entire time abroad in complete and utter isolation. He can't speak the required languages, he's restricted to certain areas, and he's made to stay in the most appalling, anonymous hotels. Weeks go by without him talking to anyone at all, or doing anything particularly interesting, so he has to amuse himself somehow -- and us.

To that end, Delisle doesn't spend too long documenting any one thing. Both Pyongyang and Shenzhen are broken up into easily-digestible episodes, about the length of a single issue each, and though he spends the vast majority of them pontificating about what it is to exist in these cities, under their respective regimes, whether as a citizen or a visitor - riffing on this thing he heard or that incident he saw - there are also several sequences wherein he talks about his job, offering insight into and anecdotal evidence of the increasingly bleak business of animation.

These recollections are perfectly fascinating in their own right, but they also work to punctuate the more troubling aspects of life in China and the so-called axis of evil, and there are, shall we say, some very troubling aspects. In any event, Delisle has a real knack for teasing out stories wherever he goes.

Admittedly I've never read anything remotely resembling either Pyongyang: A Journey in North Korea or Shenzhen: A Travelogue from China, but I adored both of these books. Guy Delisle is a disarmingly frank author, and an astute cartoonist, too; these graphic novels are replete with such wit and insight, such good humour and clear-eyed observational engagement - even from afar - that I can't recommend them highly enough, whether to fans of the comic form or simply people with a passing interest in what life is (or was) like in these little-seen cities, particularly in light of the recent reports of Kim Jong-Il's death.

I've holidayed in some strange and dangerous places in my time, and though I know better than to ever say never, realistically I'm not likely to spend several months in China or North Korea myself. Guy Delisle's marvelous, Hergé-esque graphic memoirs are thus as close as I expect to get, and that's quite close enough, thank you very much.

Now, to lay hands on a copy of The Burma Chronicles as soon as humanly possible...