Travelogue : San Francisco

In which I wear some flowers in my hair.

I have a real antipathy towards cities, too many of then degenerate into the same grey rectangular blobs with citizens rushing from building to building. Change the names of the roads and the language on the transport system and many of them are interchangeable.

It is very rare that I will go to a city where I feel I could live, I could never reside in London and there is still a small amount of trepidation about New York. The only metropolis I have ever felt a yearning to become part of is the foggy and earthquake prone San Francisco.

At that statement I can hear the east coaster in Mrs G snort in derision. I subscribe to the wise words of Baz Luhrman’s Sunscreen that you should “live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft”. This is a place that refuses to be confined to the direct path. That’s how you end up with Lombard Street.
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Travelogue : American roads

In which I like driving in my car it’s not quite a jagwhar.

On one of my regular sojurns to New York we were taken on a road trip by Mrs G’s father, not the kind that involves an RV or a brush with the police, but a very nice road trip up Long Island to see some pretty towns, eat at a roadside diner and taste some wines.

Also to stop and look at trees, because I’m British and therefore the logic was that I should like trees. I had never shown any hint of arborphila or waxed lyrical about a magnificent birch but we were still going to stop in a layby so I could get my wood fix.


At one point, about 80 miles from Manhattan, it made me realise that living on such a small island this is almost all the way to London. Which is a place I would only consider getting to by train. Also to just go out and drive for a day is almost unheard of in England, a major tourist destination is never more than 20 miles away. But America is a big place and as such is allowed space to breath and that space is connected by the strangeness that are American roads.

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If we were having c̶o̶f̶f̶e̶e̶ tea now

In which I stick the kettle on.

If we were having coffee now then we would almost certainly be in a place where it was cheap and most likely awful. The reason I would be having coffee would be that, even though it was terrible, the likelihood is that the tea would be even worse. If there is one thing more horrific to an Englishman than bad coffee it is bad tea.

If we were having coffee now you would sit there with you fancyacappmahino and I would be trying to drink down a coffee hinted pint of milk with as much sugar and chocolate powder as possible. I don’t know why I think this is any better because I hate both sugary milk and chocolate milkshakes, so rather than have bad coffee-house tea I would rather drink a combination of three that I don’t like. That is how awful the tea is.

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July 4th in the UK

In which I celebrate the destruction of tea.

Today is July 4th, or as it is more commonly known across the Atlantic Independence Day. A day when people get to let off fireworks (unless in one of the four states that ban them), get out the BBQ and drink beer. Oh, and also remember throwing off the yoke of oppression from all those Hollywood villain Brits.

It’s the brave sacrifice of Australians like Mel Gibson that helped the colonials rise up against the diabolic taxation of King G and get representation in a constitutional republic (unless you live in Washington D.C.). For Mrs G it’s more important than that, July 4th is a day that she has to go to work while all her family and friends back home get the day off. Did throwing all that tea into the harbour not mean anything.

This is the interesting aspect of our family, she is a proud Yank and I’m a stiff upper lipped Limey. Our daughter is going to be a mix of both of our cultures so how will we celebrate cultural holidays where you celebrate the beating up of one parent so the other could be unoppressed? Will she grow up calling it Independence or Insurrection Day?

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