Four wheels on my wagon

You don't have to know me well to realise my life is a daily struggle between maintaining my status as a counter-cultural icon while relentlessly pursuing the American Dream.  In Northern California this was easy as everyone's doing that, but out East my principles are being sorely tested.

One of the longest-running ways in which I've fought the powers that be is by not owning a car.  Everyone has a car, which is good as whenever we've needed one a kind friend has loaned one to us.  With an extra bit of car-renting, so far we've cheated our way through seven years of mostly using public transport and Shanks's Pony to get around.

Well, after all that time we've finally taken a step away from socialist utopia and towards the kind of capitalist property ownership this great country was built on.  We now own a car.  Mainly because the USA is just so spread out!  The other factor is a 2-yr-old who no longer finds the nearby library and/or park every single afternoon to be a fulfilling pastime.  And there's something about nearing 40 and doing your weekly shop with a backpack that is damaging to both body and self-esteem.

We bought the cheapest and smallest car we could find, of course - my true American aspiration to own a truck was cruelly vetoed - so we're now in possession of a Ford Fiesta.  A manual, no less.  "You shift real good," the salesman told me on the test drive, which I believe was a compliment about how I change gears.  Americans don't like to use more than one leg while driving or, indeed, either of the indicators.

So now we no longer have to answer embarrassing questions about why Hannah works in oil while we fail to contribute to the consumption of fossil fuels.  And it is a very nice car.  It looks a bit like an Aston Martin, if you squint, turn your head on its side, and close one eye.  Which is appropriate as I've often been compared to the young Sean Connery (if you squint, etc.)

My car.

Bond's car.

Me.  Or Sean.  It's quite hard to tell.

Coastal retreat

I haven't quite recalibrated myself to American standards.  "We've rented a house just down the coast," said Christine.  "Would you like to come?"  Of course!

It turned out that "just down the coast" was a four-hour drive into the wilds of Virginia.  If you drive four hours from where I grew up you've crossed three countries and you're in Barcelona.

Christine, being smart, didn't tell the crazy, small-scale Europeans how long the drive was, for which I'm eternally grateful as when we (finally) arrived it was fabulous.  We were in Virginia Beach.  Literally in it: the sand started ten yards in front of the house.  Dolphins were simming past, the sun was out, and the waters of Cheasapeake Bay were warm and inviting.

I didn't take up that invitation of course.  A British gentleman should never remove his socks in public, but my wife and son (and everybody else) utterly ignored this rule and spent many hours in the sea.  I put up a large sunshade under which I read "Elvis and Me" by Priscilla Presley while peering disapprovingly at all the fun going on in the sun.

Despite my best efforts we had a ridiculously enjoyable weekend mostly within a 100-yard square of the house, drinking cocktails on the beach, enjoying Vince's barbecued shrimp, and chilling in the company of very good friends.  We drove the four hours back in daylight, where it became clear that every little town we passed through has its own "come see where we beat the British during the revolutionary war" battlefield museum.  But after such a relaxing time even that couldn't make me turn off the road to give the tour guides a piece of my mind.  To everyone's relief.

So, explain to me again the American concept of "white trash"...

How many men does it take to put up a sunshade?  More than you'd think.

Pete digs for oil, at his mother's request.

Oooooh yes.

JJ, in training for his first triathlon.

Honey, remember when we had two kids?

There has always been some tension in our (18-years-today) marriage between those of us that love the beach and those that don't.  With Pete's arrival I find myself in the small minority.

But then it is daddy's holiday too.

Claire and JJ construct a coastal defense.  We were near a very large naval base, and watched a giant aircraft carrier saunter by on Sunday.

Water baby!

Hannah makes shortbread cookies with the kids.

Vince makes margaritas for the adults.

Christine's dad teaches Pete how to play poker dice (thanks Jim).

Man and grill.

Sunday morning, when it was cold, grey and blustery.  So of course Hannah and Pete headed straight for the waves.  You can take the family out of England but...

Less is Baltimore

T'was a sad moment, but we had to say goodbye to Mat.  "Why does Mat have to go home?" a distressed toddler asked.  I tried to explain things about work and responsibilities but I'm a little under-qualified in that department, so I told him to ask his mother.

The flight was out of Baltimore which is actually our most accessible airport, so we took the opportunity to look around that city.  Mat is a big fan of The Wire, a TV crime drama that doesn't paint the place in the best light.  "Yep, someone was murdered there," he told me repeatedly as I drove around.  It didn't do much for my blood pressure.

Thankfully we weren't murdered and enjoyed a lovely afternoon around Baltimore Inner Harbour, a place that Pete has been obsessing over ever since Hannah bought him a kid's book about Maryland when she first visited.  The reason is a simple one: the dragon boats.  You can hire boats that look like dragons!  Well, pedalos with plastic dragon heads and tails stuck on, but in the eyes of a two-year-old that's Disneyland.  Also, the original star spangled banner was stitched here, flown at Fort McHenry, and the anthem about it composed - amazingly the Brits didn't burn it down.

We finished up with ice cream and then dinner at The Cheesecake Factory for good measure.  We don't want Mat to return to the UK without some serious extra poundage, otherwise what's the point of holidaying in the USA?

Dragon boats!

Safety first (especially around dragons).

Hello sailor.

While Mat and I provided the pedal power, the passengers sat in the back.

Baltimore from the water.

Final snack before the plane, because there's no luggage allowance on your waistline.

Long overdue

Mat's an academic, which means he likes books.  Sometimes he even reads one (he got through "Elvis and Me" by Priscilla Presley pretty quickly this holiday) so today I humoured his wish to visit the Library of Congress.  It's the second biggest library in the world, after the British Library, naturally.

I've got so used to West Coast history, which started around 1968, that walking into a 19th Century American building comes as quite a shock.  The library is even more stunning in that every inch is carved, painted, etched or inlaid in a manner that gives the Sistine Chapel a run for its money - all the more surprising given it was built by the army.  Does the army still do stuff like that?

Like most things around here, the British burned the library down in an unfortunate misunderstanding in 1814.  Only one book survived, because it was half-inched by a British Rear Admiral as a trophy.  It was given back in 1940 so no harm done.

To replace the toasted book collection, Thomas Jefferson donated all of his.  Like Mat, he enjoyed owning lots of books too, and given they're in nine different languages he probably had the same reading-to-owning ratio.  Another fire wiped out a good portion of that collection (why are the Americans so careless with their books?) but it's been restored into a fabulous circular display open to browse.  They're still looking for 297 missing volumes, and will pay generously for anyone who has a copy, so check your attic.

The highlight for me was seeing a copy of the Gutenberg Bible, one of only three perfect copies on vellum from the first run.  The gift shop was another good part, where they were selling busts of George Washington, Barrack Obama, and Ronald Reagan for $30 each.  I'm sure I don't need to tell you which one I purchased.

After so much time in the refined and silent(-ish) halls of learning we met up with Hannah, Pete and the Murnanes for dinner at a fabulous Greek restaurant that Mat had been recommended by a colleague.  Three toddlers stood bashing on the inside of the windows until each was placated with a parental smartphone.  Books - so last century.

The three cornerstones of democracy next to each other: the Supreme Court...

...the Capitol building...

...and the library.  The British only burned down two out of the three.

Inside.  See what I mean?  Fancy.

The one book that was...er...rescued.

Mathew compares his tastes to Thomas Jefferson's, but there are sadly no James Herberts or Jilly Coopers on display.

Good to see Jefferson owned one of my early works.

The main reading room, dedicated to social science.  But you need a library card to get in, and my Frome one didn't grant me access.



This is a gallery dedicated to the academic pursuits.  I don't see many here...



Ah, there we go.

The original Bible.

Quiet in the library please.  Oh, we're not there anymore.  Then go ahead.

By George!

Washington DC is not named after the town in Tyne & Wear but after someone called George Washington who was quite a big cheese around here in the 18th Century.  He had a farm in Virginia that's now a museum so we drove down to take a look.

The place is huge.  There's a lot of complaining these days about presidential candidates having to be super-rich to even consider running, but GW himself was worth a cool $525 million back in the day - only Kennedy, worth around $1b, is more flush in the presidential stakes.  His house reflected this, with six farms, 58,000(!!) acres, a deer park, forests, rivers, and the small matter of 300+ slaves to run it.  But he set them free when he died.

Little did I know before the trip, but George Washington worked for the British Army long before all that unfortunate Revolutionary War stuff.  He helped marshal troops when our own General Braddock was shot in a sneaky French ambush, but we weren't grateful enough to give him a commission.  So he and his upstart colonist friends decided to kick the Brits out.

A few years later he became president, remaining the only non-party-affiliated one in history (Donald Trump will be the second), and the only one to be elected unanimously.  He sorted out a lot of things - closely following the British model, for irony's sake - and after two terms declined the chance to keep going, thus curtailing the ambitions of any lifelong dictators in these parts.  You have to get your kids, brother, or wife elected to pull that particular trick.

Washington returned to the Mt Vernon estate, which isn't too shabby a retirement home with its 22-bed mansion and views down to the Potomac.  He farmed and received visitors there until he died in 1799.  In 1858 the Mount Vernon Ladies' Association saved the place from ruin and have been running it ever since.  Today you can wander around Washington's restored study, visit either of the two outdoor privies, and listen to costumed volunteers tell you about 18th Century life, which sounds nice, if you weren't a slave.

I'm sure there are some historical liberties taken - we were guests in his house, after all - but Washington does seem like a thoroughly decent chap.  He voluntarily gave up all his military might as Commander in Chief after surprisingly beating the Brits, despite many calling for him to be crowned first king of America.  He seems to have been an excellent farmer, and even built a distillery that's still producing whisky today.  Can't be much wrong with the man.  I wonder what he'd make of the 43 that followed him...

Just a modest home.

Washington didn't get to sign the so-called Declaration of Independence, but it was delivered to him up the coast where he was garrisoned and it was read to his cheering troops.

I could retire here.



The houses are made of wood carved to look like stone!  Clever, and cheaper.

Gardening can be quite a pleasure if you have slaves to do it for you.

Of course.  A later Treaty of Paris didn't work out quite so well for us.

So you're not allowed to let the US flag touch the floor, but you can smash the British flag into pieces in a museum.  I'm writing to the Queen about this.

"The most famous dentures in history".

On the muddy banks of the Potomac.

Politicians like sheep.

Child of the corn.

A 16-sided barn that Washington invented.

Genuine 18th Century cow.  Well, maybe not, but they did have some authentic hogs.

Once and future president.