Oh, I’m just terrible at travel blogs. I keep them up for a couple of posts and then forget. Anyway. Since the last post, I’ve:

1. Been to Western Massuchusetts, very nice, very quiet.

2. Driven to Indianapolis and back to attend GenCon.

Earlier today, I picked up my car at JFK and started driving south. Down the New Jersey Turnpike, across the Delaware Bridge: that bridge was the first thing on the journey that made me say “Holy shit!”. It’s extraordinary. It gradually rises until you’re looking over a huge industrial area. It’s like a dystopian sci-fi scene. At about this moment, I had the feeling I’d driven into a different country.

A quick break in Delaware to eat biscuits and gravy. The diner was astonishingly friendly: the guy at the table next to me talked to me. As an Englishman, I’m an object of fascination down here. They liked it when I said “Cheers” instead of “Goodbye”.

I decided to press on, which was a mistake, and led to a frustrating drive around Columbia trying to find a hotel. The Hilton people were lovely to me, even letting me sleep on the couch in the reception area (”You’re welcome to sleep, but we don’t have a room”). There were no hotel rooms within a twenty-mile radius: the Red Sox were playing in Baltimore.

Thirty minutes down the road, at half past midnight, I found a hotel with rooms. The rate was a bit too high. “Are you AAA?” asked the receptionist. No, I said. “Military? Rewards programme?”. No. After a few similar question-and-answers, she decided to give me the discount anyway.

So here I am in Maryland, half an hour north of Washington. There’s so many beautiful things to see here but, honestly, I’m going to get up tomorrow and drive further south. Well, south-west. Tomorrow is the Blue Ridge Parkway.

I’m writing this overlooking Queens, which isn’t beautiful, but pleasant in the early morning sun. OK, it’s 9am, so perhaps mid-morning sun, but then it’s Sunday, so 9am counts as early morning.

Yesterday was a day of being shuttled from person to person. Halley took me to Tarrytown station, after a visit from her heartbroken friend. Buying the ticket to New York allowed me to use up the useless dollar coins I’d been given as change when I bought a ticket the day before. And then an hour’s journey to Grand Central.

I met with Internet friends, with the usual results:

•  A period of fascination at the difference between the way I’d perceived them and the way they are.
• A gradual relief from anxiety that they have social skills.
• A pleasant evening.

We went to an Italian restaurant, comfortable and old-looking (the restaurant, not us). Sausages, pasta, wonderful little truffles with the bill. The waitress was tolerant of my specifications for wine (”nice and cheap“) and brought me three glasses to sample.

 Some more shuttling between people and I’m now at John and Terri’s apartment in Queens. They are such perfect hosts, and the apartment is so nice, that I’m paranoid about doing anything to upset them. Should I use this soap? Will I wake them if I use the shower? On reflection, I’m unsure I should be using this laptop, so I’ll stop now. 

Halley leaves me in Times Square at 10am and I walk south. Manhattan’s smelly, noisy and rather beautiful.

Through the Theatre District, after which I leave the tourists and flyer-pushers behind, for which I am grateful. A quick stop in Chase Bank, to see if I can cash travellers cheques (no, you need ID), and the greeter girl blindsides me by actually being helpful. I get cash out of the ATM instead. This is a relief: all my cards work and I won’t be sleeping in the gutter.

The streets count down as I walk down 7th Avenue. I decide I like 7th Avenue. 5th is the big one with the big shops. 6th is an offshoot, full of dull franchises. 7th is grimier, with interesting diners and clothes shops. I stop in a deli, where the food is sold by the pound, and spoon small portions of everything into a plastic tray: calamari, overcooked oxtail, a sort of tofu sandwich.

Having walked from 42nd Street to 10th in no time at all, I’ve decided I’m heading for Battery Park. But I’ve forgotten how the streets work in Manhattan: in my head, I’ll hit Battery Park when the streets count down to zero. But, as the countdown gets low, the streets change to names instead of numbers, and it’s 30 minutes more walk than I expected it to be.

In the park, I sit on a bench and watch the sea. I’m exhausted. I read my book (it’s Neil Strauss’ “The Game”, a book about pick-up artists, which I keep feeling the need to apologise for: “Hey, passing stranger. Although you might think I’m reading this because I’m a desperate nerd, I’m actually a fascinating person who’s not afraid to read books like this in public.”).

I meander back up the city, past Wall Street. I buy a hotdog, which is disappointing, but interesting in that it has sauerkraut on it. I didn’t know they did that. Then the subway to Grand Central: it’s packed by New York standards and pleasingly empty by those of London.

Then back to Halley’s and an evening with two of her friends, who are both beautiful and entirely uninterested in me.

The flight was comfortable, although my attempts to get into business class failed. I asked nicely and was wearing a nice jacket, but no. Still, aisle seat, got some sleep.

It’s now 4.30pm, although my body thinks it is 9.30pm, having got up at 3am. My body is very confused, in fact, although it’s a happy confusion that I feel will lead to better-than-awful jetlag. You never know whether the time difference will screw you up for three weeks or three days.

Halley picked me up at the airport. I’d expected the drive to be exciting - the first time I’d been to New York, I’d been excited by every roadsign and advertisement - but it wasn’t until we got to the suburbs. Then we drove down a very American road, lined with stores with their advertisements outside, and that was exciting.

And then we went to a strip mall and had a burger, and that was exciting too. The only way to get a decent burger in England is to get a “gourmet” burger. Here, you can get one from any diner, and they actually cook it how you ask for it.

After the strip mall, a real mall. It was about the size of Wales. Halley let me choose clothes, assuring me that the most important thing was that I felt comfortable in what I wore. She then decided everything that felt comfortable looked awful and chose other things.

Anyway! I’m back at Halleys and trying to stay awake. I am barely coherent. If I have a beer, I’ll be out for the count. I’m hoping Halley has entertaining things for me to do tonight. Halley’s nephew thinks I either am David Beckham or know David Beckham, but we’re not sure which.

I feel a curious mixture of tired and rested.

I hope the flight isn’t a nightmare.

I am making tea, although I’d prefer coffee.

I am looking forward to breakfast, in about 15 hours time. My morning is going to last 15 hours.

I’m suspicious. It took me about an hour to pack and my suitcase is only half-full. Surely I must have forgotten something?

I fly at 8am tomorrow, which means getting to Heathrow at 5am, which means there won’t be much traffic, which is the only plus of getting up at that time. An eight-hour flight and then I’ll be in New York for lunch.

Then four days in New York with my friend Halley, mainly spent eating food and drinking, I’d imagine. And then up to Western Massachussets.

I’m nervous about it, now.

I must have forgotten something. I’ll check again.

http://darkplaces.wordpress.com

I’m travelling round the States for five weeks, starting this Thursday.

I’ll try to keep this blog updated with reports on where I am. The current itinerary is:

Thursday 7th August: Arrive in New York. Stay with my friend Halley.

Saturday 9th: Have dinner with some people in New York.

Monday 11th: Go to stay with Julia…

Tuesday 12th: …before travelling up to GenCon.

Wednesday 13th: Arrive at GenCon.

Monday 18th: Travel back from GenCon to New York.

Tuesday 19th: Start driving around the South, heading from New York in the general direction of New Orleans.

Wednesday 11th September: Fly back to the UK.

Do let me know if you’d like to meet up or anything.

I’m planning to release the follow-up to Play Unsafe in December of this year.

A cautionary tale about the Savoy Hotel, Blackpool.

We’d booked at the Savoy Hotel for my father’s 65th birthday. The Savoy is a pretty, old-fashioned hotel, on the Blackpool promenade.

My father phoned the day before to check the booking. He was told that we’d been moved to the Norbreck Castle.

Now, if you read reviews for the Norbreck Castle, they’re appalling. And, indeed, when my brother arrived there, it was an unpleasant hotel: it’s a bad, dingy imitation of a castle. Our rooms smelled of smoke.

So I went to the Savoy and spoke to the manager, Frances. He was businesslike and respectful. He explained that a coach party had booked, so we’d been moved.

From his point of view, he’d provided equivalent accommodation. From our point of view, of course, we’d been moved from non-smoking rooms, in a nice hotel, to smoking rooms, in an unpleasant hotel, further from the town centre.

After 90 minutes, we reached no solution, and left.

(An interesting tangent. When I left, my father asked whether they’d “looked sorry”. They hadn’t: the manager had been stony-faced throughout. It’s one of those situations where a touch of empathy might have resolved the whole thing.)

Now, in fact, there’s a happy ending. We dropped by the Metropole, a third Blackpool hotel in the Britannia chain, and asked if they had three non-smoking doubles. They did.

We asked to transfer our booking there and, to do them credit, they did so, quickly and pleasantly. We liked the Metropole and enjoyed our stay there.

Nevertheless, I’d be wary of booking at the Savoy Hotel again, or indeed any Britannia Hotel in Blackpool. How would I know I’d stay in the hotel I’d booked? If a coach party turned up, would my booking be transferred to a nastier hotel?

I am off on holiday for the next three weeks, armed with only a Michael Chabon novel and my Moleskine notebook. No phone, no laptop, no internets.

When I get back I know there are good things waiting for me. Burning Wheel HQ will have announced their summer surprise (and it will be too late for me to preorder, let's hope hope it's something fantasy/magic I don't want anyway), Hot War should be very close to publication, and Gregor Hutton has finally announced his LONG awaited 3:16.

Look at that cover.

Today I’m reading Authentic Happiness, by Martin Seligman. I recommend it, if just for the wonderful psychology studies.

Ellen Langer, a Harvard professor and the leading academic in the field of mindlessness, had people try to butt into a line of office workers waiting to copy material. When the would-be queue-jumpers asked “Would you mind if I cut in front of you?”, they were refused. When they asked “Would you mind if I cut in front of you, because I have to copy something?” they were allowed to cut in.

We played 4th edition D&D tonight, at Simon’s house.

Now, I’m not sure why it was so boring. Perhaps I don’t like D&D as much as I thought. Perhaps I didn’t understand the rules well enough. Either way, I was bored out of my mind.

In the first half-hour, I had to stop letting my head rest on the table apathetically. To do this, I used two batteries to support my head, so it didn’t quite hit the table. I had to put the negative terminals on my forehead, because the positive terminals would have left too much of a mark.

Working out how to do this was more fun than playing the game. However, Steve noticed me and asked me what I was doing, so I had to stop.

Then I rolled a die, but missed whatever I was trying to hit, and had to wait 20 minutes before my turn came round again.

During this 20 minutes, I learnt to roll dice with my nose. This is a specialised skill. Hit the die wrongly and the die merely slides instead of rolling. The correct action is a golf-style swing with your nose, hitting the die slightly above its centre.

Working out how to do this was also more fun than playing the game.

By now, all the monsters were dead. We did a bit of roleplay and found a map to another dungeon. (Note: the only treasure we found in the first dungeon was a map to another dungeon. Adventurers must hate that. “Oh, it’s only another fucking map.”)

Around this time, I left.

I will go back when they stop playing D&D.