After a symmetrical 777 miles of driving through Appalachian splendour, I finally waved goodbye to my trusty Kia. We'd been through a lot together, not least the final panicky drive from Wise, Virginia, to the small, but perfectly-formed Tri-Cities Regional Airport in Tennessee. The last drive had started well, although I'd had to scrape the frost off my windscreen with my fingernails. The shadows were long, the sun summoning just enough energy to lift the early morning mist, swirling smoke-like from the increasingly skeletal trees. I thought I had left enough time, but the usual unexpected detours and u-turns added extra time, as did a 15-minute stop for petrol - embarrassingly the till-lady had to help the idiot Englishman . It turned out her husband was Scottish. Small world!
I arrived at the check-in desk, panicking, just 30 minutes before my plane's departure and the surly, unco-operative check-in lady only delayed me further, charging me a small fortune for daring to check-in baggage. I dashed through security with an anxious sweat building and ran to the departure gate like a heavily-laded Usain Bolt. The plane had been delayed by 30 minutes!
In the air, en route for Florida, my last-minute ipod-Spanish cramming was interrupted my the most godawful farmyard noises emanating from behind me. I turned around to be confronted with a cavernous mouth exhaling chainsaw breaths. I tried to ignore it and increased the volume on my ipod. Five minutes later, my immediate seat neighbour - another big bloke - also started snoring! Gave up concentrating on the Spanish and turned to watching the unfolding landscapes below. I half-watched the stewardess handing out drinks from her trolly. As she came to the snoring section she stalled, shocked, and disbelieving. What was she going to do? Surely not wake up a passenger just for snoring? No, she calmly rolled up a piece of paper serviette and launched it at the snorer's mouth in the style of a darts player. It missed and didn't have any effect on the human chainsaw, but afterwards we all felt like we'd shared a dirty secret!
Descending into Fort Lauderdale, I was amazed how much water was weaving its way between estates and houses. On leaving the airport, the humid heat hit. My Haitian taxi driver drove me through a flat land of palm trees, closely cropped lawns, manicured shrubs and concrete. This place felt very different to where I had just come from.
That evening I ate, alone, in a pseudo-Irish sports bar. I was surprised to find Newcastle Brown Ale on tap - a staple from my youth - only to find it tasted, disappointingly, like a slightly darker version of every other lager you have ever tasted. The menu included Tilapia - which we are told is the Irish word for fish(!) - and, gob-smackingly, dolphin. I nearly walked out, but I didn't, as I still had my Newky Brown to finish. I later discovered that dolphin around here is also a type of fish. Now I felt stupid!
I arrived at the check-in desk, panicking, just 30 minutes before my plane's departure and the surly, unco-operative check-in lady only delayed me further, charging me a small fortune for daring to check-in baggage. I dashed through security with an anxious sweat building and ran to the departure gate like a heavily-laded Usain Bolt. The plane had been delayed by 30 minutes!
In the air, en route for Florida, my last-minute ipod-Spanish cramming was interrupted my the most godawful farmyard noises emanating from behind me. I turned around to be confronted with a cavernous mouth exhaling chainsaw breaths. I tried to ignore it and increased the volume on my ipod. Five minutes later, my immediate seat neighbour - another big bloke - also started snoring! Gave up concentrating on the Spanish and turned to watching the unfolding landscapes below. I half-watched the stewardess handing out drinks from her trolly. As she came to the snoring section she stalled, shocked, and disbelieving. What was she going to do? Surely not wake up a passenger just for snoring? No, she calmly rolled up a piece of paper serviette and launched it at the snorer's mouth in the style of a darts player. It missed and didn't have any effect on the human chainsaw, but afterwards we all felt like we'd shared a dirty secret!
Descending into Fort Lauderdale, I was amazed how much water was weaving its way between estates and houses. On leaving the airport, the humid heat hit. My Haitian taxi driver drove me through a flat land of palm trees, closely cropped lawns, manicured shrubs and concrete. This place felt very different to where I had just come from.That evening I ate, alone, in a pseudo-Irish sports bar. I was surprised to find Newcastle Brown Ale on tap - a staple from my youth - only to find it tasted, disappointingly, like a slightly darker version of every other lager you have ever tasted. The menu included Tilapia - which we are told is the Irish word for fish(!) - and, gob-smackingly, dolphin. I nearly walked out, but I didn't, as I still had my Newky Brown to finish. I later discovered that dolphin around here is also a type of fish. Now I felt stupid!
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