Thursday 5th Jan- day -1

So it's time to begin.

This is a blog about travelling, about living in west coast America for a while, about finding meaning, and about straight lines.

It's about the leaving of Liverpool (nearly), and the finding of Nirvana (maybe).

It's about steel and aeroplanes, huskies and seahawks, coffee and computers.

The first few entries will be me catching up with what has happened so far. They will be long and at times boring, because I have only had myself for company, and so have had lots of thinking time. Hopefully I will soon get to the point where my scintillating adventures are updated daily for your pleasure, dear readers. *

My journey starts in Chester and will end in Seattle, Washington, US of A. Like the eternal teenager, my Mum and Dad bundle me into the car for an 8 am departure to Manchester airport. I am suffering from the ill effects of a heavy cold (nice timing) and also feeling slightly anxious in case there is a repeat of Wednesday morning's projectile vomiting- due, I think, to a farewell vegetable jalfrezi (thanks for helping to clear up, Rosy!!!) It would probably not be ideal on a long flight, and I am not accurate enough to get my spew over the heads of dozens of passengers and into the cubicle from where I sit.

So we trundle off down the M56 shoulder to shoulder with commuters. I try to get my head around being away for 2 months. I am doing some research at the University in Seattle. So I won't be on holiday exactly; nor will I be setting any down roots there. It will be something else.

I think back to how it must have been for my parents, some 32 years ago, to pack up their lives, and those of three young kids, and set off for the States (St. Louis) for a 2 year stint while my Dad worked over there. We took the QE2 across the Atlantic- Southampton to New York. Apparently I was sick then too- not surprising really, as I was just getting the hang of standing on two feet when I was confronted with a 2 week ocean voyage. Dad took James (8) and Tim (6) on deck during a typhoon, when even the hardy crew were sheltering indoors, and had to be ordered in over the tannoy. I suspect my travelling will be rather more mundane than that.

After goodbyes at the airport, and check-ins (getting past my irrational fears that somehow I will have been earmarked as a terrorist, or should have written in triplicate to confirm my arrival, or have cases which are several times too heavy), I am footloose and duty free. In preparation for blogging, and to be able to capture some of what is going on, I buy a digital camera, after much faffing, at the airport. If dithering was an Olympic sport, I would have won several medals by now. And having a head full of snot doesn't help matters. Eventually I depart with a Casio doodad, ready to snap the world. Being me, I will be haunted by the possibility that I should have gone for something different, faster, slimmer, more expensive, slower, fatter, cheaper, you name it. But what's done is done.

The flight is long and tedious. I am sat next to a young British bloke but we don't have much to say to one another. I watch two movies- Cronenberg's "A History of Violence" and "The March of the Penguins". I liked "Violence"- it seemed less concerned with technology and the body than his usual films, and more to do with secrets and how violence leaves a trace which can and will return. And how it spreads to others. I was a bit disappointed with "Penguins". I couldn't argue with the brilliance of the photography, following the amazing journeys taken by penguins to mate, find food, and return to feed their young. But from the moment Morgan Freeman intoned, with considerable gravitas, "This is not just a story about survival, it is a story about LOVE", I was having a hard time taking it seriously. Thankfully, they stopped short of actually naming and shaming a particular couple of penguins, but there was some dubious stuff about them grieving for lost chicky-chicks as they looked ("mournfully", so we were told) at frozen eggs. Perhaps my cuddly tanks were just running a bit low. I did at least have reason to reflect on various of my good friends who have just had little bundles of their own- big up to Helen & Nori (Dylan), Sarah & Simon (Alice), Mike & Chrissy (Benjamin), Nick & Andrea (Reuben), and Debs & Fishy (James).

After that, I read a book about ley lines- the straight lines which allegedly connect ancient spiritual sites across England. Only they don't. Well, probably not anyway. It seems that if you draw any straight lines across a map of England, you will hit 4 or 5 ancient sites. The statistics don't seem to support the existence of these lines, which is a shame because there is something intriguing about the idea. And there used to be a group which met to look for them- "The Straight Line Club"! The ley lines have been suggested as lines of energy flow, lines for guiding travellers, even lines for UFOs to travel along. But we will come back to straight lines later on...

We land in Philadelphia for my changeover. As I walk off the plane, the stewardess bellows cheerily to the lady in front of me "CUTE TOP!" The lady is English and is thus not sure exactly how one should respond to such a compliment. Neither am I, to be honest.

Next it's time to play truth or dare with Customs officials. I have travelled a fair bit over the last few years, and I always enjoy watching Customs do their work. I wonder what it must be like to work in a job where you have to be totally impassive and without emotion, whilst being inquisitive and alert to danger. I like the cold stare they give you, the feeling that they are trying to look into your soul... I choose a line, and when my turn comes, my particular official is an older black guy with greying beard. He looks sympathetic enough.

"Hello!"
He stares back. I hand over my passport. He looks at the visa page. He does whatever they do on the screen.
"You have a twenty nineteen?"
I start looking through my file. I don't seem to have a form by that name.
"Err... I think they took that off me at the Embassy in London... didn't they?..."
He looks over my shoulder, about five years into the future when he can retire and play with his grandhildren on Thursday afternoons instead of talking to pasty-looking lanky English fools.
"You don't HAVE a twenty nineteen, you not coming IN!"
Heart bumping now, scrabbling through the paperwork. Visions of being put on the next flight home, or of spending an indeterminate amount of time washing dishes at Guantanamo Bay...
Eventually locate the form, and hand it over.
He looks at it, and does some more stuff.
"Blah blah finger blah blah". I put my shaking left index on a pad, and my fingerprint is scanned. I try the same with my right, nearly missing the pad in my shakiness. My friend stamps my form and hands it back with my passport. He doesn't seem to want a long goodbye, so I respect his wishes and shuffle off. Welcome to America, land of the free!

I collect my bags, check them in again and cough my way towards the connecting flight. It's pretty chaotic and I am surrounded by (gasp) real Americans! As I near the x-ray, it becomes clear that everyone is taking their shoes off. I do likewise. The security guy is big and not very cheerful. He mumbles something about my feet- he wants to look at the undersides of them. I gladly show him. I walk through and of course set off the alarm. He motions me back. "Mumble mumble bilt, mumble packets?" I take off my belt and put my cough sweets on the conveyor belt. I am through.

The next 4 hours I spend waiting for my plane to Seattle and basically dying in the airport.

On to the Seattle flight. It's a much smaller plane. I am sat next to a youngish woman. She has a Kurt Cobain biography with her. After 10 minutes of the flight it dawns on me that she is itching rather a lot. In fact, she is itching like an Orang Utan carrying a flea circus watching the "Itchy and Scratchy" Show on repeat. At one point I even time her. Every 10 seconds or so, she will jump up and start raking her fingers across her thighs, over her back, across her sholder. This continues for 5 solid hours. She doesn't seem to be distressed. She just gets on with itching. I consider various options-

1. cut her hands off
2. move seats
3. try and out-scratch her
4. gouge my eyes out with a drinks stirrer
5. pray

Instead, I put up with it (because I am English and we do that sort of thing) and failing that, try and sleep to distract myself, but I can't nod off. I can't bear to watch the movie which is about a little girl and a horse which breaks its leg. At least it didn't have to sit next to the Amazing Itching Woman for 5 hours... I listen to some music and read a bit of the book I am meant to have read for my research on Argumentation.

Somehow, I arrive in Seattle, get my bags, find a taxi, talk to the driver ("busy night?"), get to my abode, knock on the door, meet my landlady Ann, go up to my room and fall asleep. It is 11 pm- 23 hours after I left home.

* I should also say a thankyou to my friend Jo who has shown me how to blog- here's a link to her excellent site OPEN SECRETS!