501 Places

Watching football should be easy

When I realised that I would be in Philadelphia at a convention for the start of the 2002 World Cup I could never have guessed just how hard it would be to watch a game. I mean, they have over 100 channels don’t they? And I was staying at the Crowne Plaza, so I would think they would have enough TV options to have at least one channel screening a game?

Wrong! I missed the opening game, having unsuccessfully flicked through every possible programme and found every sport except for football. ‘What is wrong with this country?” I thought to myself. Still, not to be defeated my work colleague and I asked around at the convention as to where I might be able to watch the England match the following morning. It was a 5.30am kick off local time, which made the challenge a little more difficult. But I guess we had asked the right people, because at around 2am that night I received a voicemail telling me of an address where I could see the match live, a little over three hours later.

Our taxi took us to the other end of Philly and dropped us along a non-descript street. Around us were old houses, a few were boarded up and it looked like the last place you would want to be, before dawn in a shady district of a American city known for its crime rate. The taxi was gone, and we were left to walk up to this large door, already feeling we’d been duped. But the door opened as I gave it a push and in front of us was a long corridor. As we headed along this unlit passage, a murmur of noise grew and eventually we came to its source, behind another large wooden door.

Very easy in Laos!

On pushing this door it was as if we had been transported to another world. England flags and Union Jacks covered the large room, a giant TV hung on the wall showing the players warming up on the pitch and the room was filled with around 50 people, mostly young men wearing England shirts. Where had they all come from? The beers flowed, the bacon butties were dished out, and England went on to draw 1-1 against Sweden. It was, all in all, one of the most surreal football experiences I’ve enjoyed.

A few days later I was in New York and this time did manage to pick up a channel to watch the mighty Poland lose to the hosts South Korea. Maybe I should have stayed in Philly? On the way to the airport, the cab driver had the news on the radio, and as the USA had just won a big game I was sure this would be a big story. I should have expected it, but the football success that their countrymen were enjoying got a one line mention after the college basketball results. “It’s a women’s game” the cab driver explained. What could I say?

Most readers will probably remember the old classic whose title I borrowed for this post. For those who don’t, and for those who do, here it is – enjoy while reading. Take it away, Credence Clearwater Revival:

If the eskimos have 200 words for snow, then perhaps the British should have the same number of variants for the wet stuff. Our weather has a terrible reputation around the world, and it would be easy for someone who has never been here to imagine that the sun is a mythical object to most inhabitants of these dark and dreary isles.

Of course we do get our fair share of rain. There are also the dark days, when the sun is obscured by a thick blanket of grey, and we are treated to several days of cold drizzle. But we do get plenty of sunshine, and we rarely get the spectacular rainfall that other, more illustrious locations, enjoy. British rain is rarely a dramatic event, and as a travelling Brit my most vivid weather related memories come from other continents.

Incessant rain

Without doubt I would list an afternoon in Florida as one of my most terrifying rain-related moments. We were visiting the Everglades and I was driving back towards Miami on a typical hot and stick June day. We’d been cycling after lunch and had been increasingly aware that the sky was blackening to the west.

Once the rain started to fall the intensity increased at such an alarming rate I was completely taken by surprise. One moment I was driving at around 50 mph along a two lane highway, and the next moment I could barely see the road in front of me. The noise was deafening, as if the car was made of corrugated metal. The windscreen wipers meanwhile were rendered next to useless against the torrent that was being thrown at us.

By now I could only just see one white line ahead of us; the central dividing line that separated us from the oncoming traffic. I was caught in two minds. I wanted to pull over, but there was nowhere to do so (that I could see). My fear was that if I stopped the next car would plough into us, being unable to see us until it was too late to stop. But if I went on, I might just hit that driver that had chosen to stop. In the end I continued at a snail’s pace, heart pounding and fully expecting a shunt from the rear or the sudden sight of a stationary car a yard or two in front of us at any time.

We got through the rain in around 10 minutes, and sure enough by the time we reached Miami the roads had almost dried out. I was a happy man, parking up at our hotel and returning to life on foot. So when our American friends tease us about living in a land of rain, I always remember that afternoon in Florida and think to myself that if you really want to see the rain, stay in the US and go south.

When we overindulge in something, a natural consequence is to give it up altogether. So it was for me, having eaten burgers 2 or 3 times a week in a job that involved endless hours driving around the UK and almost daily lunches in motorway service stations. I stopped eating fast food in 2002 and have barely touched a burger since (let’s not include pizzas as fast food here). I have long been prepared however to make one exception to this abstinence.

American friends we’ve met over the years have been near unanimous in their views on where to get the best fresh hamburgers. I first heard the name In-N-Out back in 2000 on a stay with friends in California, although we never had the chance to visit at that time. Freshly ground, the best beef, quality ingredients; the reputation of this west coast chain was very impressive. It even got a glowing mention in Eric Schlosser’s Fast Food Nation, a book that slammed the entire industry of fast food. By contrast, he described In-N-Out’s industry leading wages and employee management practices, its obsession with quality and its refusal to follow the mass production methods of its bigger rivals.

On a trip out west in 2004 we made it one of our aims to find a fabled In-N-Out joint. We flew in and out of Phoenix, and as we left the city heading north on the highway we spied a sign for In-N-Out on the southbound side. After a week of touring the best of Arizona and Utah it was time to return, and by the time we were approaching Phoenix we were ready to eat. Sam caught sight of the sign as I sped past, so it was off at the next exit and back on the highway to try to make the exit second time around.

Sod’s law dictates that any U-turns will occur at the most inopportune moments, and it must have added 10 miles at a time when the tank was already running on empty as we were close to the airport and the rental return station. Heading south again I was so annoyed to find I’d missed it a second time, the complex web of exit signs defeating this confused alien yet again. Low on fuel and now tight on time to make our flight, we had to admit defeat and head for the airport.

So on a work trip to Palm Springs in 2008 I was pleased to learn that there was an In-N-Out on the I-10 near to the city. Fate was to strike again however, as the only day we had a chance to visit this mythical place, we couldn’t find it and eventually ended up at a Jack in the Box instead. My first burger for over 6 years, I almost wretched when walking into the place, the smell of grease hit me so hard. Like a ex-smoker who becomes the most passionate anti-smoking campaigner, I had lost all tolerance for the stench of the fast food restaurant. The whole experience was unpleasant and rather depressing, and probably put me off trying another fast food place for the next 6 years.

Needless to say, on our way out of Palm Springs we joined the highway and there it was, in bright letters enticing us to come in and taste the legend. Too late, yet again. By then we were on our way to stay with our friends in California, and their home-cooked dinner was a little over an hour away.

So In-N-Out remains an elusive destination. Maybe they will open one in London one day? In the meantime, perhaps those who have made it into this establishment can explain to me why it has such a cult following. Will I really find it worth the effort when I finally get to try one of their acclaimed burgers?

Worst flight ever?

Despite the statistics that show how safe flying really is, those who fly often enough will have some stories to tell. The vast majority of us will never experience the trauma of an actual air crash, but we will eventually travel on a flight where we are glad to get out in one piece.

I have experienced aborted take-offs, missed approaches and even a bizarre episode in Detroit where the pilot of a 747 had to turn the plane to face the right way to allow the fierce wind to help start the engines (I don’t get it either; I’d rather he hadn’t told us). One flight however stands out for me, even though it’s now ten years since it took place.

We had spent a week at the Grand Canyon and were flying on to Las Vegas on our way to Salt Lake City. The plane was a little 30 seater, and we had seats in row 1. In the front seats on the other side of the aisle were a middle-aged Japanese couple, who fell asleep within moments of boarding the flight.

We were in trouble soon after we became airborne. We hit our first air pocket early in our ascent. There’s a horrible sensation you get when the plane suddenly rises on a thermal. It’s quite distinct from the normal ascent, and as you know that what comes up must come down, there’s a sharp fall to come. Sure enough, moments after the lift came the drop. Very much like a rollercoaster, we fell for a couple of seconds and then we were heading up again, stomachs in mouths.

And so it continued. Sudden lift, inevitably followed by free falling. An unpleasant cycle that that repeated relentlessly for the hour and a quarter of the flight. Occasionally the flight attendant would smile at us. I grimaced back, all the while thinking “yeah, I know, I’m an wimp. It’s ok for you to smirk. You do this every day”. What made us feel even more inadequate was that in contrast to us feeling sick and hanging on grimly to the seat for the duration of the flight, the adjacent Japanese couple did not stir once. They must have been drugged up to the eyeballs. It’s their only excuse, I thought.

So much for trying to get a glimpse of the Grand Canyon from the air. Landing at Las Vegas I couldn’t wait to get off and smell the fresh air, thankful to have emerged unscathed.

Before collecting our bags we did learn one thing that made us feel a whole lot better. We hadn’t looked round at our fellow passengers throughout the entire flight. If we had, I would have felt far less of a wimp as a result. The flight attendant confided to us once in the baggage hall that the four of us in the front row had been the only ones on the plane not have made use of our air sickness bags (I’m assuming she didn’t include herself and the flight crew). I’m not the best flyer, and will think twice before heading over the Grand Canyon at the time of day where the thermals work wonders for hot air balloons and gliders, but not so much for light aircraft.

Memorial by St James Park, London

Walking through London yesterday, I was struck by the very high concentration of war memorials scattered across the city. We are all familiar with the imposing monolithic stones across the city that serve as a focal point on Remembrance Day. Less well known are the hundreds of statues, plaques and sculptures that mark the achievements of a particular soldier or serve as a monument to one of the many nations that fought alongside the British in a campaign. They can be found in every public park, on street corners and even on traffic islands.

So why this emphasis on commemorating our war dead, and how does it reflect on our society? What are the motives for spending money and using a valuable city space to erect a statue that relates, on the face of it, to another era?

Korean War Memorial, Washington DC

At a superficial level, a monument becomes a piece of public art and a tourist attraction. Wandering along the Mall in Washington DC it is impossible not be fascinated by the many sculptures, statues and buildings that mark America’s conflicts throughout the 20th century. Stopping to comtemplate the tragedies that affected those on all sides of those wars is where these visually striking objects become so much more than mere art.

Young troops pause at the Menin Gate, Ypres

Memorials of all types also serve as a public focus for ceremonies that remember the sacrifices that troops have made in fighting their nation’s battles. None is more poignant than the Menin Gate in Ypres, where every night come rain or shine the Last Post is played and wreaths are laid at the monument for the hundreds of thousands of men who died in the first world war. We visited on a bitterly cold autumn night and there were hundreds in attendance. It was hugely moving to see the old veterans of other wars make their way to this Belgian town to show respect to those who had not survived their war.

New Zealand Memorial, Hyde Park, London

And the small monuments, often reflecting a particular nationality’s contribution or an individual soldier, must carry great meaning to those who identify with them, whether by shared citizenship or by family links. In many of Britain’s wars the British troops fought alongside many from other parts of the commonwealth and those conscripted from its colonies. It is fitting that these are prominently remembered in many of the memorials in the UK.

I have no doubt that for many councils the question of public relations with their constituents plays a major part in commissioning a memorial. Wacky modern scultpures will elicit complaints of ‘wasting our money’ but there is rarely an outcry over a war memorial. Indeed the failure to commemorate a particular link to a group of fallen citizens can provoke a lot of anger. This was witnessed recently in Bethnal Green, where an ongoing campaign to have a memorial for those who died in the wartime tragedy on the stairs of the tube station continues.

The new Memorial Gates, London

While our cities rush headlong into mass regeneration and modernisation, it is more important than ever to remember our past. It’s reassuring that the monuments to those who fought and lost their lives for our nations are still considered sacrosanct.

The vast majority of those of us alive today have not fought in a war. We have been blessed with decades of relative peace in western Europe, and north America. Most of our young people will hope to leave their legacy through the many bold and striking symbols of the 21st century that surround us; it is more important than ever that we remember those of past generations who lived in altogether harder times and who left their legacy with the ultimate sacrifice.