WEDNESDAY 13th. DAY 6......POINTLESS

Two days in New York and what to do? There is so much. The city, dived up into its usually straight avenues and streets going either Uptown or Downtown and East to West, make it virtually impossible to get lost, unlike one of the other great NYC institutions.....The Subway.

Now let's be serious for a moment, in 1969, this Nation placed not one but two men on the moon. So how come, 45 years later they have still failed to redesign, in any way, their Subway system? The Tube in London looks as if it has been designed by a super being by comparison. I'll start with the basics...mapping. The good old underground map as designed by " Harry Beck in 1931, stands head and shoulders above any other in the world by all accounts, except those who have merely mirrored its simplicity. Only a fool would try to follow the NYC subway map and understand its logic. And fools we were.

In our defence the only map we had, I had ripped from a hotel information brochure  the night before. This showed not only the stations, but street names, places of interest and districts. In tiny print. It was incomprehensible. Not to worry I thought, there will be maps ON the subways to help us out. No. Not even in the cars. Until later when we happened, after a detour to Brooklyn, upon a new 'state of the art' car. Not only did they have announcements between every stop but also ...wait for it....an individual line map IN the car so you could see what stops are coming up. Upon reading The Metro the next day, it turned out that this was a 'new innovation', one for which the New Yorkies were proudly slapping themselves on the Beck, sorry, back.

However, I digress away from my rookie error story which takes place during the aforementioned Brooklyn detour. To set the scene.......The NY subway is one hell of a place, almost literally. The carriages or 'cars' are air conditioned, but the rest of it is not. As you descend  from the poorly marked street level stations down narrow, tiled dimly lit steps, you are buffeted by a blast of hot air. It's as if you have opened the door of your local sauna and stepped inside. At least then you would be naked. Yesterday we were wearing rain gear against the storms that were rocking the city. And the temperature rises as we descended to a hellish place of utter claustrophobia. And it's dark., gloomy, grimy and old.  My friend JD would be running for the hills immediately.he gets a panic on in a small lift in Göteborg.  Sweat started to drip from every pore of my forehead and I could feel it running down the middle of my back underneath my t-shirt for good measure.. As usual Trish looked as if she had just walked out of an air conditioned room but Merlin was sharing my experience but redder in the face.

Our goal was The New Jersey Ferry and according to The Map, it looked straightforward, take the green line Downtown. Trouble was that when the train arrived there was no sign on the front what line it was on or where it was going. We just got on. Big mistake. We ended up having to change not only trains but lines within a station as well. At this point in our journey I would have challenged Sir Ranulph Twisleton-Wykeham-Fiennes, 3rd Baronet, OBE, commonly known as Ranulph Fiennes,  English adventurer and holder of several endurance records  to find his way. We wandered around following illogical signs until a disdainful  station official had to TAKE us to the right platform, like lost  children on a school trip.

Coming back was even worse. We wanted to visit Greenwich Village and managed to get there alright. A direct line. But then we needed to get Uptown. Merlin was in favour of asking people. The question was easy. 'Which is the next  train that will take us take us Uptown?' Easy eh? Standby for rookie mistake. When asking people it is vital to select someone who looks as if they might know but here in this melting pot of locals, tourists, non English speakers and nutters, they might look as if they know but......

It has to be said here that Merlin, full of advice, wasn't keen to do the asking, falling back on his lack of ability in English. That has never stopped him before over the 45 years we have known each other, in the bars and clubs of various countries. Maybe it was the type of question he had to ask, as he always seemed to be comfortable in other kinds of matters and with their preceding questions. Often with some considerable success.

First victim was a Chinese guy. He didn't even speak English. I then saw a likely target, a young teenage lad standing on his own gazing at his cell phone. I approached and asked the simple question, 'which train goes Uptown'? He was thus presented with a choice of two tracks. He turned and spoke. As he did so I immediately knew, through years of teaching experience, that the vacant look in his eyes represented a brain otherwise engaged, and not on the subject in hand. Pointing to the nearest track he mumbled  (another two clues there) 'that one, change at Union'. At that point I should have known better but I was hot, hot,hot and sweaty too and the train, with its air conditioned cars calling me, clattered into the station at that very moment. I was sold. We all jumped on.

Brooklyn is like Deptford in London. Our Charlotte used to live there. However that's where the supposedly Uptown train deposited us. Not even Downtown but Across town, across The Hudson, over a bridge and East. Unlike Deptford, Brooklyn is beginning to get a better rep for itself as has another area of NYC, Harlem. But it looked as if it was  going to be a slow process as we clambered down the rusty staircase, across the potholed road below the rusty iron track supports, where I envisaged many a car chase or drug deal had gone down and up the equally rickety and rusty staircase to the return platform. So much for Mr. Vacant.

It was then we all accepted that we were involved in a game of Russian Roulette subway style. We submissively got on the next train back and waited to see where it would take us, like lemmings to the slaughter. If the logic was that a train from the opposite platform of two would go back the way we came, we should be alright. But logic does not apply to the New York Metro. Not in any shape or form. We were finding that out the hard way.

MONDAY 11th. DAY 4 WASHINGTON D.C........TIPPING POINT.

Day 2 in Washington and we are now totally immersed in the culture of the USA. Only right and proper, for what are holidays for if not to experience the slings and arrows of outrageous foreign fortune? For those who have never been here, one thing you need to get perfectly sorted before you leave Blighty or wherever it is you reside, is 'tipping etiquette'. Get this wrong and as you depart taxi cab or restaurant, you can feel the cold hard steel of a stiletto stare between your shoulder blades.

Luckily I have been to the US before and dutifully, before we left, printed out the Trip Advisor Guide To Tipping. It's a six page document! Lurking within those pages are pitfalls galore for the unwary. The main problem is how much to tip. Different degrees of servitude require different degrees of tip. And this is where it gets tricky. As I mentioned, Trip Advisor are a help but clues to the extent of their usefulness are in not only their name but the word 'Guide'. The Final Decision is yours.

Of course this all impacts on the service you get from those that serve. Unlike the UK when on occasion you are treated like dog turd on the bottom of a shoe, as soon as you enter a bar or restaurant your 'host' or 'server' is on you like a rash. And it doesn't matter how many times you thank them, they will always respond with 'you're welcome'. It leaves you with the feeling that they actually not only want to be your bestest friend, but would also like to take you home with them, introduce you to their parents and leave you a consideration in their will. But get it wrong and your name is on The Blacklist, ever so slightly embarrassing if the restaurant happens to be part of the hotel in which you are staying and where you eat breakfast and occasionally prop up the bar. Like us.

One day we forgot to leave the DAILY tip for the maid. Trip Advisor was useful here. Don't wait for the end of your stay to leave a tip, it's a daily event because your maid might change daily. As we cautiously opened our room door that evening and pulled down the bed linen, I had an uncomfortable feeling that a horse head or worse, as left by Merlin's cat when he went away too often over a short period, would greet me. I needn't have worried all was well, but I left double the next day.

And then there was the cheery fellow who poured us our free Happy Hour wine and served our canopies on a nightly basis. He always made sure our glasses were full. He helped us with our bags. He was a good chap. He was on minimum wage. And I forgot to tip him before we left. What retribution might follow? As we made our way home tonight storm clouds were gathering above us in the humid skies, the weather forecasters predicted a storm which would be proceeding slowly up the East Coast tomorrow. As we are going in the same direction in the morning, I fear the worst. And it's all my fault.

TUESDAY 12th. DAY 5 ........THE CHASE

Today the heavens opened, and the taxi we were travelling in to Union Station narrowly avoided an accident when an oncoming car turned across in front. The Curse Of The Missed Tip was well and truly upon us. Then there was a traffic jam of cars for the station itself and we were unable to make a dash for it due to the torrents around us. I swear that some of the rain was hitting the ground and bouncing up. After two days of glorious weather during which we well and truly explored Washington's wide avenues with their enforced low rise offices, museums and apartments, we had started to get a familiarity with the place. We could walk to the White House without asking the way, we could catch a Trolley from our nearest stop and we knew how to get there too. We knew where the good eating places were and most importantly, we knew how to be back at our hotel perfectly in time for Happy Hour, and that from most parts of the city.

But depart we had to and under slate grey skies and pouring rain we boarded the 11.02 to New York City.

SUNDAY 10th DAY 3 WASHINGTON D.C. Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?

Today was a tourist day. Sometimes you have to bite the bullet and join the masses if you want to see the sights and sounds of whatever place you are visiting. And Washington is a big place with all the historic stuff well spread out. We started by agreeing to purchase two days worth of 'hop on hop off' tickets for The Washington Trolley. This quaint vehicle serves all the tourist areas and with the driver providing live commentary is not only informative but entertaining. We started by taking The Green Line which takes you to the North if the capital, or should I say Capitol. The highlight of the route, over an hour and a half in length, was the area of the city called Georgetown . This is one of the original settlements named after the King of England at the time of founding, George II. Many Presidents had sumner houses up here and needless to say property is exceptionally beautiful and exceptionally expensive. But they ain't so bright up there folks and they ran the gauntlet of annoying my wife by denying her alcohol at well past alcohol o'clock.

Feeling in need of refreshment we happened upon a 'bar and grill'. We, as veggies are not necessarily interested in the 'grill' element of this but hold on reader, we have Merlin with us, who loves the idea of total immersion in American 'culture' which includes experiencing their heart attack jobs, namely burgers with at least six inches between  the top and bottom of the burger bun once filling is applied. And that was what he got! But what we got, Trish and me, was a shock! As it was well after the aforementioned alcohol o'clock, Trish decided that a Bloody Mary was the order of the day. Our waitress, as accommodating as ever in this tipping paradise, took our order but then asked Trish for ID. Now, avid readers, this was a hot day 30+. We were pretty frazzled and in need of refreshment. This waitress was walking a suddenly taut tightrope. Did we have ID? No. Was Trish getting her Bloody Mary? No. Was my wife upset? Astonishingly at first No. Unlike her husband who pleaded her case, siting a daughter of 26 and an age of 47, she dutifully ordered a coke without rum or any other alcoholic enhancement. What a Woman! Secretly, I think she was revelling in the fact that she didn't look old enough to drink, here in the U.S of A. You know how women are. Me, a man would be just pissed off. But, I don't think that's ever likely to happen. Not now and not ever.

There followed a tour of the local shops during which Merlin picked up a copy of 'The Marijuana Cookbook, supposedly for son Ossie but.......... And then we were back on the 'Trolley' with 'Slim Dave' or whoever he was for the rest of the ride down to THE CAPITOL.

Of course the next stop was a visit to The White House. Although 'visit' is a loose term. There is obviously no chance of a visit and there is also almost no chance of a decent view, for it is now surrounded by trees and secret service police. The face of the building must now be viewed from afar, with ancient access points now terminated by cops on very fast and chrome heavy Harley- Davidson Motorbikes. Every now and then one of them would go roaring off into the distance in a show of subliminal power, all clad in leather and haha, sweating profusely in this thirty degree humidity. Many of the cops merely have the job of keeping people off the grass, for clearly in the old days the public were allowed to wander at will around the adjacent roads and avenues, including the surrounding green space. Not so now. A mere two step encroachment into an undesired area brings either a whistle or blast on a motorcycle siren. And you don't really want to ignore those warning signals, as you get the impression that all an sundry are poised on hair triggers, waiting for action, that thankfully never comes.......except......well except for the story of some daring nutter who, in a silver Honda, managed, somehow, to join in at the back of the Presidential motorcade as it roared down Pennsylvania Avenue and swept through the massive security gates in front of the White House.  He was only discovered when the cars pulled up to allow the President to get out! What happened next was not part of the story told to us on one of our 'Trolley Tours'. At least he didn't tread on the grass!

Saturday 9th August......Deal Or No Deal?

Sometimes luck is on your side. On the off chance I called a taxi company specialising in airport transfers last night, whilst holding a bag of frozen green beans to my left thigh, which had come up like a rugby ball. A rugby ball with no leather covering. I didn't hold out much hope of a favourable price, given that Ade and Fran Duke last week had been quoted £50 for transportation from Toddington to just the other side of Dunstable. Needless to say, the Dukemeister refused to accept this price and haggled them down to half of it with the skill of David Dickenson, but from up North.

Imagine then my surprise when I was quoted a mere £54 from our abode, about two miles from Toddington, to Heathrow. This was £11 more expensive than the train but, as it turned out, an hour and twenty minutes faster. Money well spent. And in true, preparing for the US stylie, we even gave our driver a tip! So there we we were with time to burn and taste the new and latest latest vodka concoctions for free, while we bought bog standard at two for a twenty note. However, no amount of quaffing was going to dull the stinging from yesterday's altercation with the Tarmac. And as I was going to find out an eight our journey squeezed into economy class was not going to help either. The whole experience reminded me of last year in the Caribbean when Merlin and I had joyfully snorkelled for an hour with no sun protection or even a t shirt as worn by the locals. The pain of the following couple of nights as I carefully turned over in bed, sticking to the sheets as a fly to its paper, was exactly the same as the pain from the scraped flesh of the pointy bits of my body, which had taken the full force of yesterday's slide.

The flight to Washington with my two U.S. first timers was uneventful, which is always good, and soon over. The next hurdle was getting through immigration and customs. A massively slow process and one that you have to grimace and bear. The officials are a definite victim of what Trish calls the 'uniform syndrome'. That is give someone a uniform and they turn into an officious jobs worth. They take no prisoners here. And truly some people must seriously test their patience. For a start they don't allow any line pushing. All aircraft personnel line up with us the passengers and when one of the crew jumped line he was sent to the back like a naughty schoolboy. Next it was the turn of a stressed looking business man. He too attempted a line hop and was told to get to the back. Foolishly he ignored this and approached the desk again. Looking up from his paperwork the official said 'what part of get to the back didn't you understand'? So scolded he wisely vacated the local space. I imagined this happening in the UK. The queue jumper would have been directly to the official's boss with cries of disrespect and rudeness. No such here.

The next queue was for customs where my travelling companions foolishly followed me into a line which turned out to be for one post, while the other line was served by three.  Too late to change lines our's slowly meandered forward. What was the reason for this? It turned out that we were being served by Mr. Magoo who inspected each and every passport inches from his nose as if each contained a vital clue to some mystery. Eventually we were in a taxi and on our way to Central  Washington.