You Did Say Have Another Sausage

by John Meadows

  Miami Twice

  Richard and I were getting a little travel-jaded by now, and were in danger of becoming blasé and not fully appreciating the many fabulous and exciting places throughout America. As we travelled through Florida to Miami, we felt as though we were going on holiday. We were looking forward to spending more than one night at a hotel and the luxury of sleeping horizontally, in an actual bed, without the hum of the Greyhound engine. However, we found that, when we would lay down, the room seemed to spin around. I have experienced that feeling before, but it is especially weird when you have not had a single beer. What’s more, neither of us could sleep without the hum of the bus; it had become our womb (with a view). We managed to catch up with much-needed sleep on the beach, the soothing sound of the sea acting as a surrogate engine.

  The signature architectural style of Miami and Miami Beach is Art Deco, a style of design, decoration and architecture which was popular in the 1920s and 1930s. It incorporates geometric shapes distinct from the flowing organic motifs of its predecessor Art Nouveau. That is, Art Deco is rectilinear rather than curvilinear. In its heyday, Art Deco was associated with luxury, glamour and ocean liners. Think of the television series ‘Poirot’, which won many awards for its authentic re-creation of the era, particularly the opening sequence.

  However, Richard and I were a little disappointed by the slightly shabby, somewhat down-at-heel condition of the infrastructure of Miami. Apart from the weather, it was not dissimilar to a British seaside resort well past its glory days. Many historic buildings (historic by American standards) could have been lost to dereliction or demolition, but, fortunately, during the 1970s a conservation campaign led by a lady named Barbara Capitman saved them for posterity. Like the ‘Cavern Club’ in Liverpool, they could have been knocked down before anyone realized the cultural significance. I returned to Miami twenty years later (not a school trip this time) to see that the city has not only embraced its cultural heritage but proudly flaunts its style. Ocean Drive has many beautiful, pastel examples of Miami’s unique interpretation of Art deco. It is often called Tropical Deco Style due to the use of motifs like flamingos, sunbursts, tropical fish and shells, which reflect South Beach’s seaside location. Notable examples are the Beacon, Adrian and Cardozo Hotels, which were built in the 1930s.

  There is a lively bar culture centred on the famous ‘Tobacco Road’, the title of a big hit, albeit one-hit wonder, in the 1960s by a group called the Nashville Teens. Don’t be fooled by the name. They were from England. I wonder if they chose their name the same way as our old friends The Bay City Rollers, by sticking a pin in a map of America. Again, it could have been worse... but we won’t go there again.

  When we were in Los Angeles, Richard and I decided not to go to Disneyland because we preferred to visit the brand new Disneyworld in Orlando, which had been opened for less than a year. As a kid I had been regularly to Blackpool’s famous funfair, but this was on another level. The ingenuity, technical wizardry, Fairy Tale Castle and Main Street parade took us back to our childhood days. Southport would never be the same again.

  We took a day-trip excursion to the NASA Space Centre at Cape Kennedy, and we were lucky enough to see Apollo 17 standing on the launching pad. It was (and still is) the last mission to land a man on the moon, and when it launched in December 1972 I had great fun back in Leeds commenting nonchalantly (bragging) that I had seen it in Florida. The space museum was very interesting and the rockets standing on display like a row of columns reminded me almost of ancient Greek or Roman ruined temples. Perhaps post-apocalyptic archaeologists will discover them and come up with some explanation about alien landings similar to Erich Von Daniken’s ‘Chariots of the Gods’ theory about the Nazca Lines in Peru.

  Sadly, Richard and I had to split up in Miami. We hadn’t fallen out over my leaving him several times and flying off in a De Lorean into the future. No, we had different flights booked from New York. After a poignant goodbye at the bus station, I walked back to the hotel with the sadness, loneliness and demeanour of someone who had just been dumped by his girlfriend.

  The Mexican Martial Art of Torro Defecaccion

  Travelling alone for almost the entire length of the east coast, from Miami to Niagara Falls, took some getting used to. The downside was that it was lonelier, not as much fun, and less convenient for such practicalities as looking after each other’s bags while the other went to the restroom or ticket office. The upside was that I found myself chatting more to local people in restaurants or on the bus. Many of the bus stations had special seats which incorporated an in-built television. It was pay-per-view with a coin slot, and I wiled away many hours waiting for a Greyhound bus connection. The Munich Olympics were taking place, so I was able to keep up to date.

  You remember when I told you about a conversation I had had with Juan Corona, the Mexican karate instructor at Maplehurst, and I said that it was a conversation which would prove useful to me? This is what happened:

  I was waiting for a connection at some long-forgotten bus station somewhere in North Carolina. I was sitting, watching Olympic boxing on the small television, when I became aware of some men standing behind me, their faces reflected on the screen. My first thought was that they were watching my T.V. over my shoulder, free of charge. I was just about to turn around and give a disapproving frown when one of them sidled up and slid into the seat to my right. I continued to watch the Olympics, but he made no effort to put a ‘quarter’ into his own television set. I found this a little strange as these seats were specifically for passengers who wanted to watch the telly, and, besides, there were plenty of much more comfortable seats available in the waiting area. Then to my left, another man slid into the seat, again with no intention of watching the T.V. I continued watching the boxing only to see Britain’s Alan Minter robbed. The ‘home-town’ points-decision was unfairly given to a German. I was only half-watching because I was more concerned about these two characters either side of me, and the third one who was still standing behind me. I needed to make sure that I wasn’t going to be the next Brit to be robbed. I serendipitously pulled my bag closer to me with my foot.

  “Hi, how are you?” said the man to my right as he held out his hand with the slickness of a salesman.

  “I’m fine,” I answered as confidently as I could while accepting his handshake.

  Then followed the inevitable question: “You’re from England?”

  “That’s right,” I replied wearily while musing that if I had a dollar for every time I had been asked that question I would be staying at top-class hotels instead of hanging around for hours in downtown bus stations. However, this time there was something different. It didn’t seem to have that rising inflection, an Americanism I had become used to. It seemed more of a statement, as if he already knew the answer. Although this seems almost trivial, it nevertheless increased my already suspicious tendency about these three characters, and also the fact that they were surrounding me. My first instinct was to stay calm, act confidently and portray a friendly manner. I took the initiative.

  “Hello, how are you?” I said to the guy to my left while offering my hand with American-style bonhomie. “I presume you are together?”

  He seemed taken aback, obviously not the kind of reaction they were used to getting from potential targets.

  “Oh, fine thanks,” he replied hesitantly. I repeated the same tactic with the large character standing behind me. He seemed dumbfounded, but his wild-eyed expression was probably a permanent feature. The first man gave me a thin smile and took up the conversation. It soon became apparent that he wasn’t quite as subtle or smart as he probably thought he was. He asked clumsy questions to find out if I was travelling alone (which of course they will have already known) such as: ‘Was anyone expecting me?’ and ‘Where was I headed?’

  I told them that I had been working at a summer camp in Michigan and their spokesman kept up his faux-fr
iendly banter and couldn’t resist asking me if I had been paid a salary. I kept up my friendly façade chatting congenially while maintaining confident eye-contact. I vaguely remembered reading somewhere that if you ever find yourself face-to-face with a grizzly bear, Do Not run away. Face it down and stand your ground. Oh yeah? I’m not too sure about taking that advice, but I thought I would try it with these three characters; after all, the one standing behind me displayed bear-like traits.

  “So tell me, what were you teaching at summer camp?”

  “I was a fencing instructor,” I replied nonchalantly, and then, without planning or forethought, I instinctively added, “and karate.”

  The guy to my left seemed to flinch, and I caught a reflection of shoulders dropping behind me. However, the smooth leader maintained his composure.

  “How interesting,” he said through a faint smile. “What grade are you?”

  “Black belt of course,” I answered. “I wouldn’t be allowed to be an instructor otherwise.”

  But, still, he didn’t give up as he started asking me questions about karate. Incredibly, and fortunately, his questions were almost identical to those I had asked Juan at Maplehurst. So I gave him exactly the same replies. It was uncanny. He even asked me about the difference between a brown belt and black belt. It was as if I had a guardian angel giving him the questions to ask. I like to think it was the one from ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’, Clarence Oddbody, Angel 2nd class, or should that be 2nd Dan? I must have been convincing, because I started to sense that they were about to let this potential catch off the hook. I detected a faint shake of a head to my left, and after a slight pause he looked at his watch and told me how much he had enjoyed our conversation. I pretended to be disappointed as they got up to leave, and I made sure that I shook hands firmly with all three of them. As I watched them walk away, I permitted myself a slight self-satisfied smirk. For the next half-hour I kept an eye on them as they continued to loiter, and when I was on my way to board my bus I had a little word with an armed security guard. It was one of those ‘don’t-look-round-straight-away’ whispered conversations. They were sitting with an unsuspecting traveller. As the bus was pulling away, I looked over to see that it was now their turn to be questioned, but this time by two security guards. If Richard and I had still been travelling together I doubt that we would have been targeted and approached. Travelling alone does help to focus the mind.

  Washington DNA

  The year before I arrived in Washington I was in Rome, and the year before that I was in Athens. If ancient Romans and Athenians borrowed my time-machine and travelled two thousand years into the future they would feel at home amongst the buildings of Washington DC. Apart, that is, from the lack of shops selling togas. Cars have replaced chariots, and they will notice that the world is much bigger than they had previously thought. Architecturally, Washington is the grandson of Rome and Athens. They share the same DNA, which of course stands for Doric, Neo-Classical Architecture (I am joking of course. DNA is actually the abbreviation of the National Association of Dyslexics). Australia’s capital city, Canberra, belongs to the same family. All over Washington are these identi-kit buildings which feature the classical elements such as columns, friezes, entablatures and pediments. Many of the buildings are world-famous through television and movies.

  The White House, with its classical facade and scrolled Ionic columns, features almost nightly as a backdrop for TV news correspondents. In the first decade of the 20th Century, Theodore Roosevelt was the first president to call his official residence ‘The White House’ rather than the ‘Executive Mansion’. He ordered the construction of the now-famous ‘West Wing’ as offices, and the disgruntled members of the Presidential staff were unceremoniously turfed out of the main building to make way for Roosevelt’s six children.

  Other examples of familiar landmarks are: the Lincoln Memorial, where Martin Luther King gave his famous ‘I have a dream’ speech in 1963, the Jefferson Memorial, the National Gallery of Art, and the Capitol Building, the ‘signature’ of the city.

  I have been to over one hundred countries in every part of the world, and I am struggling to think of a place which doesn’t have examples of this most ubiquitous style of architecture. It must be one of the most influential, far-reaching and enduring of any art-form. This classical architectural style seems to have mutated and cloned itself to spread virally across the world. A smaller replica of Washington’s Capitol Building overlooks Havana in Cuba, and throughout the world there are public buildings replicating the classic style. Even Elvis Presley, not a man renowned for his subtle aesthetic taste, bought a house in Memphis called ‘Graceland’ with its now famous classical façade. Britain has numerous imposing examples with art galleries, museums, stock exchanges, theatres, and Victorian town halls.

  The person who is most responsible for the popularity and longevity of this style is a 16th Century Italian architect with the glorious name of Andrea di Pietro della Gondola (You cannot have a more Italian name than that). He is better known by his nickname of Palladio. He studied the ancient ruins of Rome and revived the style, which became known as Palladian architecture.

  In the pre-television days, every town in England had about a dozen cinemas, often with classic-sounding names. In St Helens, where I grew up, there was the Palladium, Hippodrome, Capitol and Rivoli. Invariably, they were built in the Palladian-style, and many still exist today all over the country. Those away from the town centre are now carpet or double-glazing warehouses, while those on the High Streets can still be seen above the shops, often with weeds growing around the classical columns. These days they are usually occupied by charity shops or discount stores. But the classical style of architecture still endures... from Graceland to Poundland.

  Just before I leave Washington, here is an interesting little tit-bit of trivia I came across. On10th Street is The Ford Theatre, where President Lincoln was assassinated on April 14th, 1865. He was watching a play called ‘Our American Cousin’ when he was shot by an actor called John Wilkes Booth, who then jumped from the balcony onto the stage. Many in the audience thought it was part of the production until the full horror of what had happened became apparent. Booth had fractured his leg while landing but he was still able to get away amidst the confusion and panic. He rode with an accomplice, David Herold, to the home of Dr Samuel Mudd, an associate of his. The doctor set Booth’s leg, unaware of the assassination but, nevertheless, he was subsequently convicted of conspiracy and imprisoned. The doctor became a hate-figure, castigated by the public, but he was released and pardoned by Lincoln’s successor President Andrew Johnson in 1869. However, his conviction was never over-turned and Dr Mudd never cleared his name. That is the origin of the term ‘My name/your name will be mud’ when someone doesn’t do the right thing. It has nothing at all to do with wet soil.

  Thundering Waters

  I caught an overnight Greyhound bus north, through the Appalachian Mountains, to my penultimate destination of Niagara Falls. Amazingly, there are approximately 500 waterfalls throughout the world that are higher than Niagara Falls but, like the Grand Canyon, nature has bestowed a combination of dimensions to create an awesomely sensational natural form. It has the greatest flow-rate of any falls on Earth. Indeed, the only waterfall in the world to rank alongside Niagara in terms of physical and emotional power is probably the Victoria Falls in Africa, which were created by tectonic plate movements of the Earth’s crust. Niagara has a very different geological history, having been created by glacial activity along the Niagara River which flows from Lake Erie to Lake Ontario.

  The Iroquois Nation has a different explanation as to the origin of the falls. Niagara takes its name from the Iroquois language, ‘Nee-ah-gah-rah’, which looks like the title of a Roy Lichtenstein comic-book painting. It means ‘Thundering Waters’, the sound made by the spirit of the waters, which was appeased by offering annual sacrifices. The Iroquois believe that the
horseshoe of the falls was formed when the basin was scooped out by the frantic, thrashing death-throes of a giant serpent killed by a thunderbolt sent by a good spirit from Lake Ontario.

  The name of one man is synonymous with Niagara Falls, Frenchman Charles Blondin. In 1859, a crowd of 100,000 gathered to watch in awe as he became the first man to cross Niagara Falls on a tightrope 1,100 feet long and 160 feet above the torrent. A tightrope walker is known as a funambulist, but it doesn’t sound like my idea of fun and, what’s more, the name looks suspiciously like an anagram of full ambulance. Blondin repeated this incredible feat with ever more dangerous stunts: he crossed blindfolded, he crossed on stilts, he carried his (very trusting) manager on his back, and he even stopped to cook a meal on a portable cooker half way across. The crowds gasped in horror thinking that Blondin must be crazy. Crazy? I would say unbalanced!

  Arriving at Niagara completed the full circle of my Greyhound bus odyssey, having started out from Lake Michigan. Incidentally, the names of the Great Lakes have always been permanently embedded in the depths somewhere in my brain ever since our geography teacher at school taught us the mnemonic ‘Some men have excellent opportunities’: Superior, Michigan, Huron, Erie, Ontario.

  Niagara Falls comprises the American Falls, The Horseshoe Falls, and the lesser known Bridal Veil Falls, a white water cascade aptly described by its name. The best view is from the Canadian side, and, as I walked across the bridge, I remembered the last time I had crossed into Canada after the baseball game in Detroit. This time I was punctilious in ensuring that my passport and visas were in order. Niagara is the fastest moving waterfall in the world. I don’t mean vertically, but horizontally. The thunderous flow has eroded the top of the falls to such an extent that it has moved back seven miles in 12,500 years. It is estimated that it will be gone in another 5000 years. Let me get my flux capacitor and time-travel to check that theory. Yes, that’s correct, but I didn’t notice any human beings. The planet seemed full of apes riding horses brandishing rifles. It’s nice to be back, and now it is time to catch the bus to New York City.