Day 1 – Washington DC
The trip began with another halcyon episode in Terminal 5. The persimmons of the first-class traveller fell perfectly into place; decent coffee, a drop of morning single malt, a long Bloody Mary, a bacon sandwich, a crisp copy of The Times, a great view of the runway.
Six hours later and we were in D.C., quietish on a late Friday afternoon. Presumably all the politicos had flown back to their bases, getting ready for the next round in that never ending whirligig of US elections.
D.C. is a great imperial capital, deliberately so; much more a modern Rome than an Athens. Created as the federal capital to satisfy southern states after the revolutionary war, it is now the supreme expression of the USA polity and its official history. It has also become for many the symbol of all that is wrong with the USA – distant, corrupt professional politicians wasting honest taxpayers’ money
We checked in to a Westin, very comfortable, $65 for valet parking but round the corner from the city centre, and struck out for a spot of sightseeing. In Washington sightseeing is easy, turn round one corner and it’s the White House, another and it’s the Capitol, another and it’s the Ford Theatre where, arguably, USA history was denied a chance of real reconstruction. So many corners, so many sights. (For Europeans who scoff that the USA has no history, a trip to Washington would be an unanswerable riposte.)
The FDR, MLK and WW2 memorials were impressive counterweights to the massive monuments of Lincoln and Washington – well worth a visit.
Under the eye of Washington, we passed through the lobby of the famous Willard and had a couple of cold ones to counter the humidity. A hotel concierge recommended the “Green Turtle”, just around the corner, as the best place to eat nearby, and as a Willard concierge he knew his stuff. The crab cakes with a Potomac sauce were excellent, the IPA local and sharp and the bill within the reach of people not on politicians’ expenses.
An early night as tomorrow it’s off south!
Day 2 – DC to Fayetteville NC
Head out of DC, early. Out of the only place in the democratic world with no representation in its country’s congress. Over the Potomac into the fabled South, the most troubled section of the Union, leaving behind that theatre where Lincoln was assassinated and USA history changed for ever. No amount of statuary will alter that.
American breakfasts in one of those great inventions – the diner. Bacon strips, poached eggs, English muffins, links, endless coffee and a waitress who has endless politeness and smiles for the English.
Drive through Virginia on one of those Eisenhower interstates which defined the USA in an earlier age, before Cuba and Vietnam. A hidden state trooper flags us down and makes us pay $90 for speeding at the same speed as every other car on the interstate. “Out of state plates”, apparently; we find this out later.
Arrived in Fayetteville, North Carolina at lunchtime. The hotel is large and comfortable, with a bar attached and, round the back a cigar bar where the soldiers can repair to and perhaps think of Kipling and “a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke.” We are congratulated on our English accents, in that pneumatic way American lady bartenders can have.
North Carolina’s economy depends heavily on USA military presence and so our hotel’s bar is full of young, male soldiers who are drinking, not heavily in the English way but slowly and peacefully and clearly outnumbering the women. The bartender tells us that “Fayetteville is the only place where fatgirls can be picky”. In North Carolina fatgirls is one word.
Day 3 – Fayetteville NC to Savannah GA
Still fairly jetlagged we start at 04:00 in a serious rainstorm, so serious in fact we have to stop and let it head for DC and all points north.
Our destination is Savannah, Georgia and en-route we leave the interstate and see what the interior is like. We end up in a flyblown wooden shop which sells everything and is owned by an Indian who tells us he arrived in the USA over 30 years ago and now all he has is this shop in backroads Georgia. A not quite version of the American dream.
The South is obviously poorer than people imagine the USA. Off the main roads you see fewer people. The outskirts of Savannah have wooden houses with black people sitting on the steps and steps and playing cards on a Sunday afternoon. Find a good hotel in the Historic Quarter (which in the South is often a euphemism for the old white Planter aristocracy’s houses) and set off to look around. “The Distillery” is a narrow bar with solid wood décor and Sweetwater IPA and sells some decent salmon on rice later in the evening.
Early evening we sit on the balcony of “The Crypt” and watch the Savannah river roll on down to the Atlantic. Some research takes us to the “Churchill Bar” which, bizarrely, features a map of Manchester pubs on its wall. It also serves Manchester caviar which is mushy peas
Day 4 – Savannah GA to Montgomery AL
Leave Churchill behind and swing west to Montgomery, Alabama. It was a long but easy drive and we arrive in Monty around lunchtime. It was very quiet in the centre of town and it turned out to be “Confederate Day” – a state holiday in Alabama and elsewhere. This came as a shock, a state in the Deep South scarred by decades of violent racism celebrating a holiday in honour of the Confederacy. I asked one of our hotel’s young, black, female managers about this and she looked at me as if I knew nothing and simply said, “You know, the state of Alabama . . .” and went about her business. On another trip I was shocked in Memphis, the place of MLK’s assassination, to see a large statue of Jefferson Davis –the political leader of the rebellious secession which led directly to the Civil War. I obviously don’t understand the South’s tolerance of such displays.
Lunch in Monty station (Thai cucumber salad and tuna) and that iconic sound of America – the long loud lunar note of a mile long freight train passing through the station on its way to the endless interior. Strolled back to the hotel past the Alabama river.
Later on we dined on scallops and ravioli. It was a lucky choice of bar as we met a travelling pharmacist salesman who persuaded us to head on down to Biloxi, Mississipi on the Gulf of Mexico.
Day 5 – Mongomery AL to Biloxi MS
From Monty we made the short trip to the Pettus Bridge in Selma. This bridge was made infamous in 1965 when Bull Connor’s policemen attacked a peaceful demonstration led by MLK. It was peaceful when we crossed it, a million miles away from the violence which has led to it being made a National Historic Landmark.
Drove south to Biloxi. The temperature rose steadily as we got nearer to the Gulf. In our hotel we got given the keycard to an already occupied room. We got upgrades as a kind of apology and found ourselves in rooms the size of large apartments with several bedrooms, kitchens and balconies giving views over the Gulf.
Lunched in Shaggy’s where a barman told us how badly locals had been affected by the great storm-surge of Katrina. He said how grateful he had been by gifts and help which came in from all corners, but that the DC government had done nothing. Walking round later we saw evidence of the damage – historic ante-bellum houses in pieces in the streets, their elegant Greek columns destroyed, gardens in ruins.
A taxi driver who assured us he was a “constitutionalist” spewed unprovoked venom about Obama. He said that if Obama was assassinated he would buy himself a bottle of scotch and celebrate, he thought and added “and that sonoffabitch wife of his.” He was disturbed and it was disturbing to Englishmen – but, again, who understands the South?
Ended in the Beau Rivage Casino, a kind of mini-Vegas where the luck on the tables didn’t go our way, but the gumbo was very good. Next day New Orleans
Day 6 and Day 7 – Biloxi MS to New Orleans LA
Had our Biloxi breakfast overlooking the Gulf and chose health; yoghurt, fruit and Primula on bagels. Of course we wondered how New Orleans would look after Katrina – especially after the attendant political storm and the anti-Washington accusations. Surprisingly, in Biloxi there was little sympathy for their Orleanist brother southerners. Biloxi people felt that New Orleans had been warned about the dangers of its building policies, its refusal to reinforce the levees and that Katrina had been a just if Old Testament style nemesis. This struck us both as harsh as, our judgement coming from the UK, the victims seemed to have been primarily poor and black. But, again, who can understand the South?
Booked into the “Iberville Suites”, a magnificent hotel positioned on the famous Iberville Street. The lobby showed its city’s Orleanist heritage and its unique place in USA history – grand oil paintings, chandeliers, polished floors and, with a nod to the French, a lift which didn’t work very well for such a place.
We sought advice from the Reception and received the concise and very helpful travel direction, “Go out of the front door; turn right and it’s fantastic, turn left and you may turn up dead.” Lacking any Pioneer spirit we turned right and had a truly fantastic time.
The right turn took us into the historic French quarter, Bourbon Street, the Mississippi waterfront and the most impressive Bloody Marys I’ve had (in a fairly long career of investigation). It had green beans, okra, olives, slivers of cucumber, fresh tomato juice, loads of rocks and good vodka and was, I’m sure, healthier than the Biloxi breakfast. The assemblage was impressively mixed by a Blanche Dubois figure with just the right accent to make me order a second round.
There is an ambience about the streets and bar of the French Quarter: a couple of good old boys in flowered-shirts, smoking dark cigars, sipping bourbon in the shade of a good bar: a band suddenly sets up in the street and starts whacking out music. Everywhere people stroll in the Louisiana sunshine and all the time you know the great Mississippi, the greatest river in the USA and one of the greatest in the world, is flowing past all the way from Minnesota to the Gulf of Mexico. The river which gave New Orleans its starting point as a city, made it a slave market, whose delta forged a music from Africa that has influenced everything, and the river which as Paul Robeson put it more eloquently than anyone, “Old man river, he don’t say nothing at all.” (And I don’t think it’s because he ain’t got nothing to say).
We took a trip on a steamboat up the Mississippi, the sheer size of the late river is impressive. More fantastic spicy gumbo is served, perfect with a cold beer.
In the evening we go into Fritzels on Bourbon St, just as a jazz band was setting up. The tall black singer played a banjo and wore an impeccable cream suit and sharpish fedora, he was accompanied by a thumping double bass, clarinet, drums and cornet. It all makes for that great sound which only New Orleans can provide. It happens in small bars around the city and it’s free. Our musical soiree was finished off with grilled fillet of catfish.
The next day we were off to another aspect of the USA. Not the south. Not any part of a section. We were off to Vegas.
Day 8 – Las Vegas NV
Au revoir New Orleans, city of water, bought from France when Bonaparte needed cash to finance his wars. Howdy Las Vegas, city in the desert, built by the mob who needed the cash to finance their wars.
4 hours (4 hours!) of flight hurtles you away from the bayous and creeks of the Delta, the magnolia drawls and the southern hospitality into the desert heat, the stretch-limo valet parking, the clacking of the masseuse-cards and the timeless gaming-floors of the mighty hotels – you have arrived on the Strip.
No need to walk across the Strip: Stand on the escalator and get carried to the world of your choice.
A short ride from the airport gets us to the Flamingo, a historic Strip hotel which, strangely, has real flamingos strutting and preening around the beautiful gardens. Real things, apart from money, are not so obviously there on the Strip.
Breakfast at a McDonalds hits the spot, sometimes a McDonalds is just what you need, especially in Vegas. The rest rooms are less than a ten-minute walk from your table.
Digesting our breakfast and the kitsch of the Strip we go for a stroll to the Venetian. The Ponte Vecchio has never looked better, certainly not in artificial light; and the gondoliers thrust out their chests and know the score (it’s just one cornetto). After a route march we find the bar and blow $25 on a beer and a Bailey’s – sometimes a beer and a Bailey’s is all that you need.
The monorail to Old Vegas. On a serious recommendation we go to the “Triple George” and it’s a serious restaurant. It is the best looking steak restaurant west or east of the Mississippi – a classic horseshoe bar, correct lighting, intelligent service, and the tastiest porccini-ribeye I’ve ever had. Forget Manhattan, forget Texas, don’t even think about Europe (forgeddaboutit, as Pacino said in Donni Brasco), get on that monorail and start the feast.
Back on the tables the wheels of fortune kept on turning, providing that optimism of “only if that little ball would bounce into that little trap” – and essentially that is Vegas, the considerable rest of it mere adjunct.
4 hours (4 hours!) was not enough. At the tables we met a couple from Massachusetts, a white lawyer and his black wife, gambling like the rest of us and looking at that little ball. When we told him our story of riding through the Deep South he said “You went there, and you survived?” He was incredulous, telling us there was no way he would take his wife down there. Even in Vegas (which tries to get away from all forms of reality), it seems you can’t get away from the great unresolved schism in USA life – the legacy of slavery.