I landed in Florida in the dead of night amidst a wild spring storm. The plane sailed onto the runway in a cloud of spray and mist and I found myself in Tampa awaiting a taxi.
The journey in via Houston had been fun. West Texas is absolutely _absolutely_ vast. Heading East from Santa Ana over the mountains, the landscape swiftly transformed into a pale, yellow smear of featureless and barren plains, interrupted occasionally by a lonely road cutting straight through the empty space. These vast horizons persisted for hours as we hopped across Arizona and New Mexico to the Texas border.
A dusty city materialised below. I asked the friendly flight attendant whereabouts we were. El Paso. I smiled and enjoyed the view of this desert city beneath, glad to see the welcoming signs of life amidst the emptiness. The attendant and I shared a moment as a granddaughter tenderly helped her centenarian grandfather through the plane.
"Man, what a sweet kid."
"Yeah..."
I smiled and sipped my complimentary Coke. US soft drinks have the dubious pleasure of being flavoured by the controversial high-fructose corn syrup. This sticky goop is a main ingredient in many American sweets and is well known for causing and contributing to health problems such as diabetes and obesity. Combined with bucket sized portions and the health issues that plague the world's wealthiest nation are suddenly less puzzling. And the free refills policy across the nation can't help much either.
Houston airport was a stampede of multi-chinned entities, bumbling about between gates and terminals. A charismatic crew of surly people carrier drivers whisked about the corridors, yelling at anyone in their paths.
"Beep beep!" barked a portentous gentleman as he encouraged me out of the way.
Many hours later, I awoke in my hotel in Channelside, Tampa. The rough weather of the previous night had swept away and the air was a warm caress of sunlight and humidity.
I explored the surrounding area in the inquisitive fashion that befits me. The weekend's highlight was definitely the Florida Aquarium. An awesome array of fish, birds, mammals and reptiles devoured my morning, follow by an afternoon whizzing around Tampa Bay watching dolphins.
Streamlined shapes slipped and sluiced and raced, splashed and spluttered into foamy depths. With over 400 Atlantic bottle-nosed dolphins in Tampa Bay alone, spotting these beautiful creatures held no difficulty.
I smiled and realised I had no idea what I'd done the previous weekend. Whatever it was, it certainly didn't involve dolphins. Refreshed, invigorated and happy, I returned to my hotel and investigated the possibility of refreshments.
Eeeeek! A mouse!
This cute little fella scrurried out in front of me in the hallway. Took some patience and quick reactions to catch him but here he is safe and sound in a temporary glass playground. He's currently washing his face a bit - I think he figures that if he's about to meet his maker then he'd better smarten himself up a bit!
Just kidding, I'm not going to hurt the little guy - just find him a new home! This town mouse is about to become a country mouse. Or at least a park mouse, anyway. To the Brynmillmobile!
Now, in theory, my California trip had a purpose. I was doing some research for alarm panel integration plus showing the dudes at our partnering company the new 2008 version of the software. Truth is, I doubt I could bore everyone with the details since I was uber jetlagged and, as such, mentally handicapped. In a sentence - I arrived; drank some Mountain Dew; broke everything and left Arion to fix it while I ended up in a baffling accountancy meeting; took lots of notes because my brain wasn't retaining anything; and gave a ropey software demo.
And then to relax after the hard day, we headed off to Downtown Disney and got drunk. Gotta love America! Downtown Disney, by the way, is a street owned and maintained by the Disney Corporation but is open to the general public free of charge. They have bars, gift shops, restaurants and the like. Some of it is heavily Disneyfied, some of it is not. All of it is themed in some way. And it is, for the most part, awesome!
We started the evening well by going to the ESPN arcade. For the unenlightened, ESPN is the American sports TV network, and the ESPN centre is like a control room for all the current US sport. There are banks of monitors showing every possible popular sport with rankings, live scores and the like for baseball, football, hockey, basketball etc. Plus a huge arcade with a mixture of video and mechanical sports-based games. We all grabbed a beer and headed into the frey. We played air hockey, shot hoops, raced Harleys, beach buggies and went skiing. Good ol' fashioned American fun.
Then on to a restaurant for my first taste of authentic Mexican food! I had some spicey chicken, black beans, rice and plantains. Not really keen for black beans but plantains are delicious! Matt and Arion discussed the vast array of Tequila in the cabinet and I sat drowsily watching American families shuffle about outside in the cool, California night air.
The following day at work was a similarly confused affair but we got all we needed to do finished. Matt headed out early to attend another business meeting and left Arion and I to our own devices. I knew above all that, while I was in the OC, I had to go to the beach and stand in the Pacific for a bit. There's nothing quite like getting your feet wet in a new ocean, since each one is subtley different. The texture and colour of the sand, the temperature and hue of the water, the smell of the air, and the shape of the surf. That day there were huge rollers making their way in during the afternoon's high tide. Groups of surfer dudes were treading water as the waves pushed on through, catching the most collossal, and riding them into shore.
I removed my shoes and socks, rolled up my trousers, and allowed the cool water to flood the spaces between my toes. Boy, that felt good. I gave Arion my camera to play around with while I phoned my parents. Well, I had to, didn't I? "Guess where I'm standing...?" Had to be done, I'm sorry. The surreality was so delightful that I had to share the moment. And, in true Trigger-Happy styling, my situation was well conveyed through shouting into a mobile phone amid the deafening roar of the approaching ocean.
Huntington is a stunning beach lined with giant palms, beach huts, trendy restaurants and the like. There are plenty of volleyball courts, frequented by brazen dudes with torsos the size and shape of armchairs, and admiring beach chicks in tow. And there is a long and attractive pier heading out into the depths.
I wandered up the pier with Arion as he leant out to snap pictures. Dizzy with excitement and happy in the sun, I ambled along absently through a crowd of hispanic kids. Arion pulled me aside shortly afterwards and gave me a few hushed words of advice. Looking back, the kids all had shaved heads. Shaved heads and matching white vests, pants and trainers. Quite feasibly, Arion warned, members of a gang. "Walk around the group next time, Sean. You have to show some respect."
And fair enough. American gang culture is legendary and terrifying to contemplate. California alone has over fifty recognised gangs, each acting as a separate entity. Feeling glad that my ass remained uncapped, I promised myself to be more forward-thinking in future. You can never be too careful in a place where any kid in a shell-suit could be packing a 9mm...
Arion and I returned to the car and arranged to meet Dana further south at a rooftop bar called El Casa del Caminos. Cruising down the Pacific Coastal Highway, we could hardly believe the size and positioning of the properties in view. Huge terraces and French windows, overlooking perfect beach views as the sun set vividly in the West. Amazing properties. Many of which were probably available at a similar price to your average terraced property in London! What a stunning location.
Up we went to the rooftops to find Dana waiting for us. The rooftop bar was very Mediterranean-looking and commanded an amazing view of the bay below. A few beers and cocktails later, our conversation was interrupted by a Jay Leno lookalike who took a keen interest in Dana. I knew she was in trouble when he started complaining about his wife and talking about why he was such a big shot. We played along politely for a while, giving the shameless charlatan enough rope to hang himself with. I couldn't resist asking him if he knew how to get to the Playboy mansion and I'm still unsure if he even realised I was taking the piss... Anyway - it was evidently time to vacate!
After a quick dinner, Dana took us up the street to what the Americans refer to as a dive bar called The Sandpiper (which I believe is a type of bird living on the Pacific). It was packed out with a colourful array of Californians - the trendy kids, the stoner dudes, the surfers, the lone businessmen, the undying hippies, forever-young crones, fake-ID teens, gold diggers, tequila swiggers, and plenty of unclassifieds. I was delighted to see the bar stocked Newcastle Brown, a welcome relief from the light beer favoured in the States. We grabbed a couple of bottles and eased on down to the front for some easy skanking. The Sandpiper just got busier and busier until it was shoulder-to-shoulder crammed. I was taken aback to see girls peeing in the men's room to avoid the line for the ladies'. I think it was their "don't mind us!" attitude that surprised me most, but then, why should it be such a surprise? This was California, after all, home of the laidback open books. I laughed and smiled at the girls and they returned the sentiment as I rolled back out to the dancefloor and eased back into the happy pulsing movement of contented Reggae rhythm.
"Get up." "...wuh?" "Yeah, you. That's right - you heard me. Get up." "..." CLICK! "Ow!"
My eyes burned as they adjusted to the bright desk lamp adourning the bedside table. As the painful blur gave way to hard clear edges, I gazed in disbelief at the red digits of the hotel alarm clock and let free a sigh of tired frustration.
"3.16 AM"
But, of course, it wasn't 3.16 AM. In California, maybe, but in Swansea it was 10.16AM and my brain knew it. But wait. That clock says 3.16 AM... That clock agrees. My phone? Watch? Yup - a solid consensus. So that means? Yep. You're in California, genius. (I confess, I giggled like an excited schoolgirl when I recalled this.) And, since my brain was stubbornly conscious, I decided I may as well enjoy being here.
Looking out across my halflit room at the Double Tree, Santa Ana, I noticed with some amusement that my room had two double beds in it. Was it standard arrangement in the US for single rooms to be given two giant beds? What kind of leviathanic being would need to ever push the two together? I shuddered to imagine, and decided to fire up the coffee-maker. Nobody in the US bothers with instant, it seems, and everywhere I went there was a big, shiny coffee pot perched beneath a brown dribble of caffeinated wake-up juice.
I spent the hours leading up to sunrise preparing my new work laptop for the day ahead. It was a snazzy little beast with a finger-print scanning system. To log in, simply drag your lazy digit across the sensor and you're in. I amused myself with this novel mechanism as the coffee slurped and slobbered through the filter.
Dawn broke over California with a rose-orange glow. I looked out of my window onto the palm-tree-lined boulevard and absorbed the world around me. I noted with a grin (as usually decorates my face on reception of something vastly ironic) that the establishments lined up across the road seemed to sum up the culture that I had been told was typical of California. A solarium sat comfortably alongside a nail salon and beside this happy couple beamed the shop front of a dental surgery. I wondered idly if anyone had ever been to each in turn as they passed through on some unseen conveyor belt of beauty.
A group of Mexicans appeared in overalls and began repainting the buildings. It turned out I would see many such groups during my stay. Being a painter or gardener in Orange County must be two of the steadiest professions possible. Wherever I went, it seemed, buildings and gardens were bright and freshly painted with perfectly tended gardens and shrubberies surrounding. Each street, road, boulevard and avenue was lined with palms equal in height and shape. Not a single piece of litter rode the warm morning breeze drifting in from the Pacific. There was no graffiti. No grime. No stray leaves. Not a single feature out of place or, indeed, out of style.
I doubted whether anyone could actually be living in this place - it looked so perfect. Rather like a kitchen showroom or model village. Everything was in its right place. But yet, as the light grew and the world awoke, I saw this toy town come to life. Barbie and Ken and all their little friends arrived in the trademarked Blondemobiles and began another day of perfection in Southern California.
I joined Matt in the breakfast area downstairs and he beckoned me towards the buffet. Americans enjoy breakfast in a very similar way to the British. They fry and scramble eggs, sear sausage, sizzle bacon and toast toast. But a surprise lurks up their sleeves. Into this arena of cholestorol comes hurtling a stack of fluffy pancakes and a drizzle of maple sytup. On the same plate. Together. Wondering if the day's meals had anywhere left to go but downhill from here, I filled my plate and tucked in. Not bad, actually. Not bad at all...
Matt smiled and broke into a bright and warm story. Still a little dazed, I smiled and nodded as I guzzled down my breakfast. Fortunately, Matt really had the gift of the gab and shouldered the burden of conversation. He seemed a stereotypical picture of America. Broad features, white teeth, and the unmistakable energy and confidence that has come to typify the US in the world's eyes. I confess it's a gift I envy - Matt could strike up a conversation with virtually anybody about anything like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Despite sneering scoffery of this brash US trait which I had heard across so many conversations in the UK, I genuinely enjoyed this aspect of culture and wished more Brits would embrace open, honest and warm acceptance of new company. Sure, America as a nation has a terrible reputation for bigotry and xenophobia but, on the ground, in the coffee shops and shoe stores, the restaurants and malls, the coridoors and restrooms, people were smiling to each other with no need for justifcation. I don't see why anyone in their right mind would find this to be a bad thing.
Arion soon joined us at the breakfast table and the conversation turned to details of the day and the plan of action for when we arrived at our partnering company's office. Again, I managed to embarass myself in the parking lot by approaching the drivers door. (It wasn't to be the last time this happened either.)
Sunglasses on and windows rolled down, we hit the road and cruised to Anaheim...
I've had loads of feedback on my America post...#2 is on the way, folks - fear not! In the meantime, I've put a selection of my travel photos on Facebook* (http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=112958&id=564740511). There's a lot of aerial shots to give you an idea of what I was describing.
*Yes, I could upload them somewhere public but I haven't. Am I rubbish? Probably, yes...
So, then. America.
Aboard a spacious and comfortable jet plane, I flicked idly through the selection of movies and settled on No Country For Old Men, an action film set in Texas. A slow, yet gripping piece, which succeeded in throwing out more or less every American cultural cliché in the book. Guns. Drugs. Violence. Paranoia. Etc. As the shots rang out and the body count grew, I sat mesmerised and wondered exactly how America would fit the wild mental pictures instilled by years of cinema. As I pondered, the world turned inexorably several thousand feet below.
Vast open water became vast open ice sheets and arctic tundra of East Canada and Newfoundland. A beautiful wilderness of ice and stillness stretching out. Gradually, the wilderness became splattered with the telltale signs of civilisation. Roads, houses, resevoirs. Snow covered towns and cities below. Then another expanse of water as we crossed the mighty Lake Michigan, with patchy ice sheets clinging to its shores, and down, at last, into O'Hare Airport, Chicago.
Groggy and befuddled in the immigration queue, I clutched my green card which confirmed I had no intention of doing nasty things whilst in the country, nor had I ever engaged in any activity upon which the U.S. may frown, such as (genuinely) being a member of the Nazi Government of wartime Germany. A serious-looking military official scrutinised my documents and asked me a barrage of questions. How long was I in America? Had I been before? What was the purpose of this visit? Were my legs made of semtex? And so on.
Finally, with my belt and shoes in hand, I cleared customs and walked the long hallways and terminals to the gate. My connecting flight to Orange County was a much smaller craft, in many ways a glorified bus with wings. I took the aisle seat alongside a middle-aged woman and a younger woman in her twenties. Kathy and Dana introduced themselves to a scruffy and confused Brit and rapidly engaged him in warm and well-received conversation. Mother and daughter, they were travelling from Pittsburg back to their home in the OC. I can honestly confirm without doubt that I couldn't have found better ambassadors. They were genuine, interesting, interested and immediately put me at ease, as nervous as being so very far away from home was likely to make me feel.
Although I didn't feel that way. I was on an adrenaline high from the anticipation of California and the inertia of travel. We chatted for hours as the landscapes shifted. Snow and mountains homed into view as we crossed Colarado. The Rockies. Dana insisted we switch seats so I could enjoy the impressive vista. Peaks glistened white atop ash grey rock, creased like a crumpled sheet. This white and dazzling terrain soon gave way to the red and rocky forms of Arizona. Would we see the Grand Canyon? Yes, confirmed Kathy. The route brought us right across it. I gazed down at this enormous crack in the Earth and wondered if I'd ever laid eyes on a country so varied, dynamic, and indisputably beautiful.
My new Californian friends set about eagerly putting together a list of sites and attractions that would please a wandering tourist in the free time he had. Beaches, bays, drives, malls, cities, restaurants - a free and varied guide, kindly and thoughtfully drawn up.
In John Wayne Airport, Orange County, California, I bid the good ambassadors goodbye at the luggage belt and arrived at the hands of Matt and Arion, my two colleagues and companions for the California section of my trip. After having been awake for about 24 hours, I was feeling rather wired and cocky. Sleep? Pah! No time when there's so much to take in!
We drove to the hotel, dumped our bags and arrived on a consensus to go out for dinner. The Rusty Pelican at Newport Beach served the most delicious salmon I have ever sampled. Exquisite! And delivered with the classic American approach to service. Our waiting staff introduced themselves, enquired how we were, often informed us of how they were etc and generally maintained banter and smiles. In spite of any preconceptions I may have had of over-zealous, insincere fawning ("Yes, sir! Certainly, sir! Here is your meal! Have a nice day! May I suck your dick?" - Ben Elton), I actually found the whole thing very pleasant. There was no great rush to get the order down and bugger off, people actually seemed to fancy a chat and really find out how you were doing. Maybe it was the jetlag, I'm not sure, but I found myself charmed.
Shortly after finishing dinner, my brain found itself hurtling earthwards in a fit of exhaustion and Hollandaise sauce. Bed. Now. Go. Eyes drooping and head rocking, Matt and Arion sensed a lack of enthusiasm in me and declined the offer of dessert. Zombie-like, I staggered to the car and attempted to enter the drivers door. Matt looked at me with a mixture of puzzlement and pity. Oh, yeah. America. Other side. Got it.
Back at the hotel, I flopped out and marched around the back of the car to the boot. A sense of dread filled me as I opened it. Where were my suitcases? They weren't here? Where were they? I'm in the country a matter of hours and they're gone - I can't believe it! Again, a look of puzzlement and pity from Matt which quickly bubbled into laughter. They're in your room, you dope. You put them there not two hours ago. Oh. Yeah. Hmm. Bed!
TO BE CONTINUED...
...and back again. Sean is coming home to Swansea. After a massive change of heart (on various levels), I jumped on a train with a mission in mind: to find a job and a home in this lovely, ugly town.
Living with my parents was never going to work. This house, this town, even this county feels stifling, almost claustrophobic. Frankly, the time I've spent here has been terrible. There's been a serious hollow feeling inside me. Anxiety and desperation, to the point where I couldn't eat or sleep. A real sense of despair as to what to do with myself.
I attended a couple of job interviews but nothing really grabbed me. And so I woke up one morning and came back to what I never realised was my true home. The lovely folks on Glanbrydan Avenue gave me a warm bed and some good company while I set about sorting things out.
After a little searching, I hit on a cracking role at SureView Systems, a Technium company producing control software for CCTV and security systems. After a lengthy, technical interview I was given an extended coding exercise in C#. I submitted my solution and the next day I was offered the job. Score!
The next bit of luck came when I found a spare room at a lovely house in Sketty. I'm set to move in this weekend and I'm really excited about the fresh start.
I'm sure a day will come when I leave Swansea but for now I'm here to stay. And damn it feels good to be coming home!
Goodbye Bagsy. We'll miss you...
I was alarmed to read in Bill Thompson's BBC column today that new changes to UK law will affect the Computer Misuse Act of 1990 with new definitions of "hacking" and more severe sentencing for "hackers".
Since virtually none of the politicians in the UK would be able to outline what a port scan is, how a DDoS attack works or what a port is in the first place, it seems prudent to point out that they're probably not in a sensible position to legislate. What gives them the right to pass laws on an issue of which they have no real understanding?
Will this take the UK's computer laws from bad to worse? I suppose we'll be the ones that find out.
