Friday 30 May - Los Angeles, California! And a trip to Pasadena “Old Town”

We expect to arrive in Los Angeles train station at 5.30 am. I've set the alarm for 4.45 am, to give us a chance to gather our belongings – but when it goes off, we realise the train has stopped and is already at the station! There's no hurry though, as this is the end of the line.

We make for the taxi rank, but the driver tells us that our hotel is only 5 minutes walk away – you can see it from the station. He obviously doesn't want to take us for such a small fare. So we trundle along the few “blocks” to the Metro Plaza Hotel – but I don't feel happy walking along here at night; it doesn't feel that safe.  However, we are soon at our hotel, having walked passed several homeless people, asleep on the pavements.

Reg has booked us a room for last night, so that we can get straight back to bed when we arrive – otherwise we wouldn't have been able to check in until later in the day. The room is on the 4^th floor, and is comfortable, and spacious, with a large bathroom. The kingsized bed is clean, but the carpets are grubby, and the washbasin cracked. We can cope with this for the 3 nights we are here. It's hot, and we can't get the air-conditioning to work (the hotel receptionist tells us in the morning that there's a switch behind the curtain!). However, we gratefully sink into bed, getting up in time for breakfast, which finishes at 9.30 am.

I've never really thought about the name Los Angeles, but of course it's Spanish, and there is huge Spanish influence in this area – history, street and place names, eating places, and, most importantly,  people.  The overall term used for people of Spanish, Portugese, or Mexican origin is "Hispanic".  Many of the signs here, and notices on the Metro, are in English and Spanish.  There's a note stuck on the laundry room door of this hotel – and it's in Spanish.

We decide to visit Pasadena “old town”, just a Metro ride away, where the main street, the Colorado Boulevard, is a modern “High Street” with shops, restaurants and cafés. However, the front facades of many of these buildings date back to the 1920's. Reg spots a Clarks shoe shop, which also has Doc Martin boots in the window; there are no prices on any of the shoes, so we think they must be very expensive. A small, elderly, Spanish man, wearing a white jacket and hat and with 5 pens clipped to his top pocket, is smiling at me. I say hello, and smile back.

“You good people. I love you,” says the man.

“Thank you,” I reply, smilingly, and we walk on.

We stop for a latté and green tea, and like the restaurant so much, we decide we will eat there later. First we want to visit the Norton Simon Museum. This was originally established as the Pasadena Art Museum in 1969, and exhibited modern paintings. However, it began to get into financial difficulties in the 1970's. At this time, an extremely wealthy industrialist, Norton Simon, who was also one of the most prolific art collectors in the world, was looking for somewhere to house his growing collection. In the mid 1970's he came to an agreement with the Pasadena Art Museum, that he would take over it's debts, infuse money into the museum and modernise the building, if he could have 70% of the space for his collection, and rename the gallery the Norton Simon Museum. According to Wikipedia, there was initially a lot of local opposition to his plans. One of the curators in the museum told us a little about Norton Simon himself.

“His father wanted him to be a lawyer,” she told us. “However, after a short time studying law, Norton Simon decided it wasn't for him. He started to take over failing business projects and make them prosperous. That's how he made his money.”

Reg and I find this Museum/gallery to be a fascinating treasure trove, with beautiful gardens. We spend 3 hours there and don't manage to even touch on the Asian Collection. What we do see though are numerous sculptures (and paintings) by Edgar Degas, sculptures by Rodin, and wonderful original paintings by famous artists – including Raphael, Rubens, Rembrandt, Manet, Monet, Renoir, Van Gough, Cezanne, Picasso and Matisse. All these works are from the Norton Simon private collection. How did one private collector manage to amass such a volume of famous paintings? (How did he afford it?!!)

After a lovely meal at the restaurant we had found earlier, we return on the Metro to our hotel, feeling that we have had a really good day. We're so tired that we're in bed by 9.00 pm! Tomorrow it's Hollywood!

Thursday 29 May – Beautiful Bisbee

We still have the little Toyota Yaris until mid-afternoon, when we will return it to Enterprise Car Rentals. Their driver will take us back to our hotel in Benson, from where we will catch the 5.20 pm train to Los Angeles.

After breakfast, we pack up, and check out of the lovely Days Inn Hotel in Benson; the brilliant receptionist ,Eva, is able to look after our luggage for us, and what's more, has arranged a lift to the train station for us this afternoon.

We are visiting Bisbee today, an historic copper-mining town built into a gorge in the mountainside, 5,500 feet above sea level. It's cooler today in Benson, and as we make our way through the desert scrub countryside, with beautiful mountains either side of us, the air becomes cooler still. As we arrive in Bisbee, we are immediately struck by how quaintly European it looks; it has shops on either side of the main street, just like any High Street in the UK.

Unlike Tombstone, which prospered on silver mining for just a few years,and now survives on “tacky tourism”, the town of Bisbee was made rich through a century of mining copper. 3 factors increased its prosperity - the end of confrontation with the Apache indians, in 1886; the rise in copper prices as more and more was needed for electricity, which developed in the 1870's; and the railways (“railroads”) being extended to the West. At one time, Bisbee's population of 20,000 outstripped that of both Phoenix and Tuscon, making it the largest city between New Orleans and San Francisco. The copper mines were finally closed in 1975, after $8 billion dollars worth of copper had been extracted; there are 2,000 miles of tunnels built for mining purposes, in the Bisbee area. Mining was done by open-cast and underground mining, and the mine, though closed, is still owned by the largest mining company in the world. Dominating one end of the main street of Bisbee is a huge, solid red brick building; now a museum, showing the history of copper mining in the area, it was once the headquarters of the mining industry in the town.

What of Bisbee now? Not only does the town have a European feel to it, it also has a great European heritage - skilled miners from all over Europe, including Cornwall, were encouraged to emigrate to Bisbee at the height of the industry. I can confirm that I have my best American latte yet, in the local High Street coffee house.

Reg and I love this little town; it's not tacky, like Tombstone, but has an upbeat feel to it. We wander up and down the High Street, and discover that most of the shops are either art galleries, shops selling high-quality original crafts and jewellery, or book or antique shops. In one shop, the retailer says to Reg (we aren't sure whether he was joking or not):

“You speak good English for a foreigner!”

He is a weather-beaten, craggy-featured, Mexican looking individual in a cowboy hat, who tells us he was a rancher for many years. He says that he came to live in Bisbee by accident; he was transporting some horses through the town when his horse trailers broke down. He liked Bisbee so much that once he had re-arranged to transport the horses, he stayed here. He shows us photos of the horses he was transporting. I ask him if he would be willing to have his photo taken with me, as he is the first genuine cowboy I've spoken to. He agrees, and won't take any money for posing for the photo. He says that would be “against his principles”, says “God bless you,” and smiles as we leave the shop.

Another art dealer is a lady who has lived in Bisbee for many years. She tells us,

“I worked in this shop when it was a drugstore; I never thought the drugstore would go, but it did”.

She explains that while there are 7,600 people living in the whole of Bisbee, (many of those living on the flatter outskirts, as it's a popular town to retire to), there are only 300 people, mainly artisans, living in “downtown Bisbee”. There is no room for any further development in this “inner area”, as the original Victorian town, with it's buildings, is still standing.

We manage a fleeting visit to the Bisbee Mining Museum, but all too soon we need to leave to return our hire car, and catch our overnight train to Los Angeles, where it will arrive at the unsociable time of 5.30 am.

As the train arrives at Benson, where 3 of us are waiting to embark, the train guard steps off and says, “Parker?” I'm so impressed by the Amtrak system, that they know who is getting on the train, and where. Not only that, on our last train, the guard came to our sleeper car to remind us that in a few minutes our train would be arriving at Benson.

Once on the train, we ensconce ourselves in our “sleeper”, and enjoy looking again at the little video clips of our grandson Arlie, sent to us regularly by our lovely daughter-in-law, Marianne, to keep us in touch with him. How amazing technology is - as soon as Arlie has learnt to grip toys and roll over, we are looking at videos on our mobile phone of him doing just that, (and Skyping occasionally), and we are thousands of miles away in America! We are also enjoying texting and speaking regularly to our lovely daughter Elaine, and being able to keep in touch with family and friends through the blog!

Our “car assistant” is on the ball, because he's reserved us a place at the 6.30 pm dinner sitting. In the dining car, we share a table with another “older” couple, who turn out to be English too - from Cheshire. They enjoy telling us about their many visits to the USA, especially California.

We are really tired after dinner, but Reg gets out the trusty red notebook computer, so that I can write up the blog in Open Office, ready to transfer to the blogspot website, once we arrive in Los Angeles. While I write the blog, Reg dozes off, lulled to sleep by the gentle movement of the train.

Wednesday 28 May - A visit to the Wild West

We're staying in Benson, as it's the nearest “railroad” town to Tombstone, probably the most famous town of the American “wild west”. Reg has received a confirmation email from “Hertz” that a car is available to hire, but when he phones the local agency in Benson, at 8 am, they have had no communication from Hertz, and there is no car. So Reg contacts Enterprise, a car hire firm we've used previously; they have a car available, but they are 33 miles away, so it will cost us quite a bit extra. They will send a driver to pick us up and take us to Sierra Vista, where they are based, so that we can fill out the paperwork.(It isn't possible to fill out the paperwork in our hotel, apparently). We'll hire the car for 2 days, take it back to Sierra Vista, and they'll drive us back to our hotel.

The driver who picks us up tells us he is 80, but he says don't worry, he's a competent driver, and he is. He tells us he used to work for the US government, and has travelled all over the world, including to the UK. It's a straight road to Sierra Vista, and it actually only takes half an hour to reach the Enterprise office. We're soon off to Tombstone in a little red Toyota Yaris.

Tombstone originally only had about 100 inhabitants, but a man called Ed Scheiffelin discovered silver there in 1879, and it became a silver mining boom town, the largest silver-producing town in Arizona. It's population grew to 14,000 in seven years; but by the end of the 1880's the town was all but deserted again, as the silver mining came to an end. During the boom years, the town boasted, according to Wikipedia, “a bowling alley, four churches, an ice house, a school, two banks, three newspapers, and an ice cream parlor, alongside 110 saloons, 14 gambling halls, and numerous dancing halls and brothels.”

The town is most famous for the legendary “Gunfight at the OK Corral” which took place at 2pm on 26 October 1881. This involved a shoot out between “goodies and baddies”, where local sheriffs confronted a band of suspected cattle rustlers, and shot dead 3 of the suspects. Hollywood has made several films using the Tombstone location.

Tombstone has been called “The town which refused to die”, and today makes it's money mostly from tourism. It is little changed from how it looked in the 1880's, with it's dusty streets, wooden sidewalks, old saloon bars, and with many of the original buildings, including the courthouse, with gallows next to it, still intact. In fact it's a kind of “wild west town” tourist theme park. Two of its features are the Boothill Graveyard, where most of the towns “goodies and baddies” are buried, and the “Bird Cage Theater”. At this theatre there are “birdcages” (rather like theatre boxes) – these hang from either side of the main hall and are said to have been used by prostitutes.

Our impression of Tombstone? It definitely has an historic feel, but its a dusty, rather run-down place trying to eke out a living from tourism. The “Gunfight at the OK Corral” is re-enacted several times daily (you have to pay $10 to go and see this) but it's a very amateurish affair – I guess most people have seen too many good Westerns in the past to be impressed! Like Western films, which probably no longer appeal to most people, but have a “cult” following, the town is dated and doesn't have much to offer. We are told that some people come to live here solely to be able to “act out” living in an old town of the Wild West – ie to sit around in the saloon bars in cowboy hats.

We enjoy our little tour of the small town in a tiny open-sided bus, with the driver giving us a running commentary on who lived where, and what they did, and pointing out the various landmarks.

We have lunch of chilli bean soup in a little wooden cafe, but have to send it back as it's not hot enough; our waitress is nice, but the woman behind the bar has a face like thunder. Before we go there for lunch, I had earlier in the day asked to use the toilets, as there are no public toilets around; “Face-like-thunder” told me,

“Our toilets are for customers only” ,

but the man behind the bar overruled her, and says I can use them. I can see their point of view, but it's not exactly encouraging to tourists needing the loo. And think what business they could generate by being friendly.

We see another gunfight, as we purchased tickets for this earlier in the day, before we realised we wanted to see the “Gunfight at the OK Corral”- there are about 15 people watching this second gunfight, and it's a poor attempt at comedy. Pardon the pun, but just a load of cowboys. You feel sorry for the actors when people don't laugh at them.

By this time we are hot and sticky and tired; the temperature is over 30º C and the sun is beating down. As we drive back to our hotel, we are stopped at a road block, with the sign “Border Control” displayed above a kiosk. We're not at the border with Mexico, but are close to it; this area has problems with illegal immigrants crossing the border. The Border Control Officer is extremely friendly to us,

“You're from England. That's cool. What part?”

We stop at a local supermarket to buy a bottle of wine; we can eat at a diner next to our hotel, and spend the evening chilling out in our lovely air-conditioned room. Tomorrow evening we're on the train again; we should arrive in Los Angeles at 5.30 am Friday morning, so it'll be just a short overnight trip this time.

Tuesday 27 May – A change of scenery

We're on the train from New Orleans, Louisiana, to Benson, Arizona.  We both sleep “off and on” during the night, although the beds are really quite comfortable. Reg is worse off on the top bunk, as there isn't much room between the bed and the ceiling. However he gallantly offers to take the upper level as he is more adept at hoisting himself up there than I am.

In the morning we open the curtains and the scenery has completely changed from lush grassland to arid desert. We're now passing through Texas, and will shortly pass through New Mexico; both these states border with Mexico, which at times can be seen through our train window, as for a while, the railway runs close to the border. There are tufts of grass here and there, and craggy rock formations; mostly though the landscape is really flat. Now and again we pass through a dusty town or settlement.

I go downstairs in the train to take a shower, get undressed in the miniscule area, then can't get the shower to work. It's obvious that someone has recently had a shower, so I struggle with the shower control for a few minutes; then, disgruntled, I put my clothes on again, and move to a nearby “restroom” (toilet and washbasin), undress again in a tiny space in a jostling train, and have a wash down. As I return to my seat, I see the car attendant.

“I can't get the shower to work,” I say, a little crossly. “Perhaps it's run out of water.”

“Oh, we have plenny of wader,” replies the car attendant. “You must be doing something wrong. Would you like me to come back to the shower with you and help you to turn it on?”

“No, it's alright, thank you,” I say, really annoyed with myself that I couldn't get the shower to work, but not willing to go through the whole process again, now that I'm washed and dressed.

I return to our sleeper, in a bit of a huff.

“Right, I'm off to have a shower,” says Reg with a grin.

“Well, I'm coming to see how it works,” I retort, crossly. I go with him, and although the shower control is a bit stiff, it does move with a little effort. I return to our sleeper, and

in a short while Reg returns bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

“Oh, that shower was lovely,” he croons. “What's that smell, though? Someone hasn't had a shower this morning.” He continues to sniff the air at intervals, while I either studiously ignore him or, occasionally, give his leg a slap.

We choose the continental breakfast – it's yoghurt, plus cereal or porridge, fresh fruit (strawberries and grapefruit), and croissant, or “wheat biscuit” which Reg chooses – this looks rather like an English scone. I can feel my waistline expanding with all this good Amtrak food – we feel we should take full advantage of it, though, since it's included in the price of the ticket if you book a sleeping car.

Reg accidentally catches the lead of the red notebook computer in his foot while I'm using it – this causes it to freeze, and turning it off and on again doesn't fix it. Eventually, Reg manages to make it work again. He shows some diligence in doing this, as he knows that if and when the trusty little red notebook conks out completely, I will have to share the tablet to write the blog.

At lunchtime in the restaurant car, we are told that several of the menu choices are unavailable, because the train has been travelling for 5 days. So it's either burger in a bun, or salad. I choose burger, but won't be sorry not to eat another of those for a while. We get talking to an older lady and her daughter, and spend some time comparing the American health care system, and what “Obamacare” means, and our own National Health Service, which is steathily being privatised in parts. We know how lucky we are to have a National Health Service, and hope people will fight to preserve it. Even with health insurance in America, it can still cost $350 for a simple visit to the doctor.

We're very confused about what time it is on the train. Our watches say 3.10 pm, though we know that in Benson the time will be 2 hours behind this. A kindly fellow passenger explains; at the station we've just visited, the time changed to 2.10 pm – we went back an hour – because of a change in time zone. That explains putting our watches back one hour. However, when we arrive in Benson, that will be in the same time zone, but we'll be in “Mountain Standard Time”, not in “daylight saving time” (rather like British Summer Time) – which all the other states are in - so we go back yet another hour. However, when we leave Arizona, and enter California, we'll be in “daylight saving time” again, and our watches would go forward an hour – except that it's a new time zone (which means we should put our watches back an hour) – so the time stays the same. Confused? You and me both!

We have time to go to the early dinner sitting on the train before disembarking. Benson appears to be a sleepy little outback town; not big enough to have taxis waiting at the station which is just a platform near the road. The temperature is 31 degrees c. Reg leaves me with the luggage in the shade of an icecream parlour, while he goes into the petrol station opposite to enquire about taxis. There are no taxis available, but the man in the petrol station offers to take us to our hotel (no hostels in Benson) when he finishes his shift in half an hour, as he says it's on his way home. Reg offers to pay the man, but he won't take any money.

The hotel is really nice – it even has a swimming pool, though unheated. Reg organises a hire car for tomorrow. We've come to Benson so that we can visit Tombstone – an historic “cowboy” town.

Monday 26 May – The shark in the dryer

We're up at 6.00 am to get ready and to pack our last minute items– our train will probably start boarding well before 9.00 am, and Reg wants to make sure we get to the train station in plenty of time. Also, if we're lucky we'll be able to get something to eat at or near the New Orleans Amtrak Train Station.

Our taxi driver is Palestinian. He's lived in the USA for about 35 years, and in New Orleans for 4 years. He's originally from the Gaza Strip. He tells us it's easy for a Palestinian to get a visa to come to the USA; I'm not sure why that is. He has the meter on and the cost to the station is about $8. This makes us realise we were well caught out with our taxi from the station to the hostel – that driver didn't have his meter on and charged us $18. Number one lesson when travelling – just expect to be ripped off by taxi drivers now and again, wherever you are in the world.

We find a place to sit with all our luggage in the station, & Reg goes off in search of something for breakfast – he's been told you can buy “breakfast to go” at a nearby supermarket. He doesn't fancy the burgers and baguettes on offer in the station “Subway”, besides which, it's expensive. After some time, Reg returns with polystyrene boxes containing scrambled egg, fried/roasted potatoes, and something which looks like a small chicken breast, but tastes like sausage. It's quite nice, though not that hot. We didn't fill our flasks in the hostel (should have done), as we knew we'd be able to get hot water on the train. We'd love a cuppa. The helpful young woman serving in “Subway” says they only serve coffee, and don't have tea or hot water.

“You might be able to get hot water in the coffee machine around the back,” she offers.

Sure enough, when I finally work out how the machine works, I can get a cup of hot water for $1.50. Needs must, and I take it back to our seats, divide it into our 2 trusty plastic mugs which travel with us at all times, and pop in our tea bags (which we also always carry).

Our train will take us from New Orleans, Louisiana, to Benson, Arizona. It's a 2 day journey – we will arrive tomorrow evening, so it's another overnight trip, and when we arrive, UK time will be 8 hours ahead of us. Because we have a sleeper, we're allowed to wait in the VIP lounge, with a number to key in on the door, and comfortable seats.

Finally we're boarding the train; this time our large luggage (my gli-dy, errant purple one and Reg's soft bag on wheels) can go in a luggage rack downstairs in the train - our sleeping compartment is upstairs. It's slightly worrying letting our suitcases out of our site, but it's all part of travelling; and so much better that Reg hasn't got to hoist them up to an 8ft high ceiling rack like last time. Our “sleeper” (compartment) is about the same size as before, but we don't have our own foldaway washbasin and toilet. This isn't a bad thing, actually, because it gives us more room – and there's a handy, clean toilet (“restroom”) just down the corridor. There's also a shower downstairs, with towels provided. I will have to try this out in the morning, if only to know what it's like to take a shower on a train that's hurtling from side to side.

There was so much we really liked about our hostel in New Orleans – the socializing aspect (chatting to so many young people), the fast Wifi, the hot shower, the cooked breakfast (which we only manage to have once) and the fact that it is friendly, welcoming and very cheap. In every hostel we book a room to ourselves; sometimes, as is the case in India House, we have an en-suite shower and toilet. India House isn't the cleanest hostel we've come across, but facilities are cheap- it's only $1.25 to use the washing machine – with free powder - and only $1 to use the dryer. However, nobody tells us that one of the dryers has sharp teeth, and bites holes in clothes. The dryer seems to prefer socks and underwear, as all of the new socks I bought for our trip, plus some of the new underwear, and a new t-shirt, end up with several small jagged holes in them, and tell-tale grease marks near the holes. Luckily, my trousers and Reg's t-shirts must be too large a prey for the predatory machine, and they escape injury.

Before we leave the hostel, I tell the receptionist about the shark in the dryer, and show him our damaged items of clothing.

“What, like this you mean?” he asks, showing me a pillowcase with a few grease streaks over it, where the machine has caught it. “We were wondering how that happened.”

“It's the top dryer,” I say. “Please could you make a note of it. I wouldn't like all those young people's clothes to be ruined.”

The receptionist writes “TOP DRYER” on a post-it note. I won't take the matter any further, mainly because we are moving on today, and I only realised this morning that we had holes in so many items of clothing. I might mention it on Trip Advisor though, in a jokey way …..ie “I hope the dryer no longer bites holes in clothes”.

My first few hours on the train are spent mending pants and socks. Good job I brought my sewing kit. Probably the lady in the opposite compartment feels sorry for me, should she happen to glance through our window and see me busily darning clothes …..

“ Poor woman, can't she afford to buy new ones?”

Little does she know, these are new....they were just unfortunate enough to get bitten by the shark in the dryer.

Sunday 25 May – Swamps and Alligators

Our last day in New Orleans, Louisiana, and we've booked to go on a tour of the Honey Island swamp, where we're told we'll see alligators, and much more besides. It's another early start, as we're being picked up by coach from our hostel at 7.45 am, so once again, no breakfast! We've been asked not to keep food in our room so as not to encourage pests (mainly cockroaches, I think – they are active in the dark in warm climates and are attracted by food). We do have crisps and nuts and a couple of other snacks well wrapped up in a backpack, plus of course our supply of tea bags.

Our coach is on time, and it's blissfully air-conditioned with tinted glass windows, and very comfortable. There are quite a few other passengers to be picked up, from various locations in New Orleans, so it's another 45 minutes or so before we're heading for the Honey Island Swamp, about ¾ hour drive away. As we drive through the outskirts of New Orleans, our driver tells us how various districts of this city were affected by Hurricane Katrina. Many homes and businesses were destroyed, and although it's 9 years since the storm and flooding, rebuilding is still taking place. Some industrial sites remain desolate, never to be rebuilt. But, our driver tells us, there is a positive aspect to the after effects of Katrina. There has been a surge of new investment in the city, not only in businesses, but in education, housing, and particularly in the film industry. New Orleans is second only to Hollywood in the number of films being made.

The swamp trip is well-organised. When we arrive at the swamp “outpost”, we pay our money, get given a wrist band, wait a few minutes, and then all those with that colour of wristband are collected by the “captain” of our boat. I'm glad I smothered myself in factor 30 suncream and brought a hat – the weather is hotter by the hour, and there is no relief from the sun in the uncovered vessel. We're given a run through of safety procedures, including where to find the lifejackets under our seats; the thought of having to enter alligator-infested waters in an emergency doesn't appeal though! I think part of the thrill of the trip is being a little afraid; it isn't until much later that our captain tells us that there are 1.5 million alligators in Louisiana and there have only ever been 3 attacks on people – none of them fatal. (He tells us that crocodiles, which aren't native to America apart from one small area right down in the south, are a different ball game altogether – much more aggressive and more likely to attack humans).

The swamps have their own beauty, with elephant plants emerging from the water and cypress trees, with sheaths of moss hanging from them, overhanging the water's edge. Our captain stops the boat and hoots; a troop of baby wild pigs (four months old) jostle up to the riverbank. The captain throws marshmallows to the pigs (they are obviously used to this – are marshmallows good for pigs?). These sweet treats encourage the animals to come close to the boat for us to take photos. The boatman explains that wild pigs are a problem in the swamplands because they erode the soil; they have no real enemies (unless caught by an alligator), and they are multiplying at a terrific rate.

We see a couple of snakes and swamp canaries, and finally we see the nose of a young alligator – the boatman tells us it's about 4 months old – in the water. Again the marshmallows come out, plus a sausage on a long stick, and these encourage the animal to draw alongside the boat and jump up out of the water to retrieve the food. We have a good view of the reptiles sharp teeth as it reaches up! We later come across a couple of fully-grown alligators, who are again enticed by tit-bits towards our boat for photo-shots. We joke that marshmallows can't be good for alligators teeth either, but a fellow tourist quips that since they spend most of the time underwater, their teeth are continually being cleaned!

Further into the swamp we find a couple of fully grown wild pigs, or boars, and one of these is encouraged to the boat by marshmallow treats. It suddenly hauls its hoof over the edge of the boat, showering me a brown spray, and, muddy snout upwards, it opens its mouth for the titbits. The tourists love it, and cameras are clicking away. Reg laughs that I happen to be the one who receives the muddy shower!

We enjoy the trip, and learn a little about alligators and about people whose weekend homes at the edge of the swamp were destroyed by Hurricane Katrina.

We're soon back on the bus and, back in New Orleans town, opt to disembark in the French Quarter. We have a quick look at the inside St Louis Cathedral (it's Sunday, and there's a Mass taking place, so we don't stop long), and wander into the French Market, before sitting under umbrellas outside Louisiana's Pizza Kitchen and having our lunch.

We buy sandwiches for our tea in the CVS pharmacy, and return to the hostel, as Reg needs to print out our e-tickets for the Queen Mary, which have just arrived, plus a new hostel booking for San Francisco. We've changed our plans a little, and at the beginning of June will spend less time in Los Angeles, and more time in Yosemite National Park.

Back at the hostel, the sandwiches taste awful and we can't eat them. Our tea now consists of crisps and a melted Snicker bar each, which I've been carrying around for a few days. We are not eating very heathily today!

Tonight we pack up again – we catch a train early tomorrow morning for a 2 day journey to Benson, Arizona. Once there we will hire a car and visit Tombstone - a historic Western city.

As we are travelling and are unlikely to have wifi, there probably won't be another blog posting for a couple of days.

Saturday 24 May – A cycle tour around the French Quarter (and beyond)

We don't have time for breakfast today – breakfast in the hostel doesn't start until 9 am, and we need to be at the cycle tour place, in the French Quarter, by 9.30 am. We take the street car (trolley bus), and with fast walking, we arrive at our destination on time.

These bikes are alien to me – the brakes work by back-pedalling, and I don't feel confident with this. The rest of the group, who are Americans, seem fine with it, so it must be a common type of bike brakes in this country. Reg thinks he'll be ok with it, but he knows me well, and asks the tour guide if there's a bike without back-pedal brakes that I can use. The tour guide produces a slightly smaller bike, but the saddle can be raised, and it's perfect for me.

I'm surprised that bikes seem to have as much right to be ridden in the centre of the (right hand side) of the road as cars. On odd occasions our guide tells us to cycle in single file, but not often! Cars creep behind us at a snail's pace, but there don't seem to be any impatient drivers. Our young guide has lived in New Orleans, near the French quarter, all his life, and not only does he have an excellent knowledge of the history of New Orleans, he has a lovely sunny personality, and is happy to answer our questions along the way.

For those interested, here is a resumé of some of the things we learnt about New Orleans French Quarter and the surrounding area:

• New Orlean's French Quarter borders on to the Mississippi river. Many people have drowned in the river's strong currents.
• New Orleans has the longest dock in the USA – 2 miles long. Even the biggest container ships can dock there.
• 2 fires ripped through the French quarter in times gone by (most buildings were of wood in those days) which meant that a lot of this area has been reconstructed. Originally under French influence, New Orleans was later ruled by the Spanish for about 40 years, when much of the French Quarter was rebuilt. Thus the balconies full of flowers are of Spanish origin, not French.
• At the centre of the French Quarter is Jackson Square, named after Andrew Jackson, who defeated the British during the battle of New Orleans in 1815. In years gone by it was used for public executions. It's the most visited square in the USA. Dominating the square is St Louis cathedral, which was completely rebuilt by the Spanish in the 1850's. It gained the title “basillica” after Pope John Paul visited it in 1987.
• The most famous cafe on the square is the Cafe du Monde. We see people queuing up to be seated in this cafe, famous for beignées, a donut type pastry covered in icing sugar, a delicacy in this area (Reg and I tried some, not from the Cafe du Monde, but they were nice!)
• The Ursuline Convent is the oldest French colonial building in Louisiana. The nuns who lived there established the first hospital and first school in the region, and came to be very respected by the local population.
• New Orleans, and especially the French Quarter, is famous for it's jazz. Louis Armstrong first started to play here.
• At weddings and funerals, it's a tradition that the “second line” following the family should be a jazz band.
• New Orleans is often called the “gumbo” city – because of the melée of different peoples who live here- called “creoles”.
• America bought Louisiana in 1803 for $15 million – cheap at the price. It was called “The Louisiana Purchase.”
• In the French Quarter, there's a bar called “The John” - where each bar stool has its own toilet; and one called “The Barber”, where you can have a shot and a haircut at the same time
• The French Quarter suffered from the winds of Hurricane Katrina (roofs blown off, etc,) but not from the flooding which affected so many other areas, and led to the drowning of so many people
• The French Quarter of Louisiana is a flood plain, but the water has been diverted elsewhere. However, the ground remains extremely soft, which has led to cracking of pavements and roads and subsidence in buildings – but the local residents tend to accept the cracks in their houses as a fact of life
• Charles Laveau came to New Orleans from Haiti. He and his daughter, Marie Laveau (1801(?) - 1881), were “free people of colour”. His daughter was a “voo-doo” priestess; bringing the voo-doo religion to New Orleans caused fear among the Roman Catholics who lived here – which led the voo-doo practices to be demonised and thought of as evil – which is how they are perceived today. Marie Laveau is buried in a local cemetery, and many of her “followers” visit the grave which is thought to be hers. There are many voo-doo type shops in the French Quarter, and people offering to tell your fortune using voo-doo practices.
• We are shown the building in the French Quarter where a woman called Madame Lalaurie (1775 - 1842) tortured slaves in her attic – and reputedly threw someone out of a top floor window to her death
• Lafitttes Blacksmith Shop in Bourbon Street is the longest continuous-running bar in the USA. It's still lit by candles inside.
• Tremé, near the French Quarter, is the oldest African American neighbourhood in the USA.
• Congo Square, in Louis Armstrong Park, in the Tremé district of New Orleans, is the is a place where slaves used to gather in their free time on Sunday afternoons, to sing, dance and play music. As time went on, people came from all over America to watch them.

I'm sure that there's a lot more that our excellent guide told us; we certainly learn a lot about New Orleans during our 3 hour cycle tour. At the end of it though, we are hot and tired. We eat lunch of “po-boys” (fried meat or seafood in a french baguette) – Reg has pork, I have shrimps – and “beignées” for dessert. We intended to return to the centre of the French Quarter to view the inside of St Louis Cathedral, but exhaustion takes over, and we are soon on the street car headed back to our hostel.

After a nap, we take a bottle of red wine and two bags of dirty washing to the main hostel area, where about 30 young people are chatting, drinking and keeping cool in the hostel pool. After loading up two washing machines (although I have the colour catcher sheets, it's the first time I've washed my 2 pairs of dyed purple trousers, so I'm only putting dark items with them), we cover ourselves liberally with protective mosquito spray and get chatting to the young people who are sitting near us. Later in the evening, the young people venture off to the French Quarter to sample the night life, and after transferring the washing to the dryer, I'm able to write up the blog, while Reg gets exasperated trying to upload the latest “Cycling Plus” onto his (I mean our) replacement tablet.

Friday 23 May - New Orleans French Quarter - like nowhere else in the world!

This is going to be a relaxed day, just nosing around the French Quarter of New Orleans, which at night metamorphosizes into the neon-lit jazz centre of the world ( or so it seems!)

It's really hot – probably about 30º – though we are told that it's usually much hotter than this in New Orleans at this time of year. We get up late and have full English breakfast (2 fried eggs, bacon, fried potato and tomato) - at this hostel it's available  from 9 am to 1 pm.  It's delicious.  We sit outside in the shade and get talking to various young people from different parts of the world.  They are interested in our trip and we love to hear their experiences too.  

We catch the "street car" - a red trolley bus/tram which will take us to the French Quarter.  The architecture here is very French, with lots of wooden slatted blinds and verandas spilling over with geraniums and flocks.  There is a jaded air about this area - vibrant, but slightly run down, as if it has seen better times.  We pop into an art gallery and have a long chat with the man there - some of the paintings on display are his. He is black, and most of the paintings are tell of life from a black perspective - a family gathering, hip hop, famous black musicians, a schoolroom of black children - which I particularly like.  There's a black Jesus ascending into Heaven, surrounded by black cherubs.

The centre of the French Quarter is Jackson Square.  Here there are more (mainly black) artists, people waiting to draw your portrait, and to read your future by tarot cards, or through voo-doo magic.  There are a few street musicians, but most of these will emerge as dusk settles.

We pop into a cool air-conditioned cafe/bar for lunch – bliss! - then into a CVS, the big name in pharmacies in USA. We're surprised to find it sells much more than pharmaceutical goods – for example, pecan nuts, and ice- cream, and, not so surprisingly, beauty and household products -a bit like “Boots” in the UK. We buy mosquito protection spray, as tomorrow we're going by boat on a trip to the “Louisiana swamps”, where we expect to see alligators. There are numerous alligator toys, t-shirts etc in the shops in New Orleans.

We wander through the French Market in late afternoon – it's a myriad of colours, selling local seafood made into “crabcakes” , jewellery, clothing, toy alligator head-masks. As we reach Frenchman Street, we hear jazz music emanating from a dimly-lit restaurant, the “Maison”. We only intend to stop for a drink, but end up having an early-evening meal, as we are enjoying the music so much. When the band take a break, Reg has a chat with the lead singer, who sports a trilby hat and earrings in both ears, and plays guitar. There's also a trombone player, someone on the trumpet, and on a “washboard”.

As we walk through the streets of the French quarter to catch the street-car back to our hostel, dusk settles and this area of New Orleans suddenly seems to burst into life. Pedestrians throng the neon-lit streets, and there is jazz music everywhere, flowing from inside restaurants and bars, and from street players. There are even cars trying to get through really slowly, but the police are starting to redirect traffic to make these inner streets pedestrianised. There's a group of black young men playing the drums in the street; several gold and silver painted “living statues”, including a young woman with nothing on at all above the waist except irridescent blue paint. A man with a dog dressed in a hat, bootees and sunglasses holds up a sign saying,

“Money for weed needed please”.

“At least he's being honest,” I quip to Reg.

New Orleans French Quarter at night – neon-lit, noisy, good-humoured, with the aromas of food being cooked mixing with the slight whiff of stale sweat. I say to Reg,

“Is there anything else I should say about New Orleans French Quarter at night?”

“Just that anything goes,” says Reg. “Hedonistic. Did you mention the nearly-naked ladies?”

“What does hedonistic mean?” I say. Reg looks it up.

“It's the belief that pleasure and self-gratification is the most important goal in life.”

New Orleans French Quarter at night is an experience I will never forget.

Thursday 22 May - Hello, New Orleans - and the India House hostel

Reg and I sleep fitfully on the train, but at least the loo is close at hand for night time visits!  The actual space to stand in our cabin is about 2ft x 1ft when the bottom bunk is down, and only marginally more when it's converted back into 2 day-seats.  But it's sufficient, and cosy!

I wake early and decide to have a wash-down before Reg stirs, as "this floor space ain't big enough for the both of us!"  I need to be out of the way before he can use the toilet.  I pull down the washbasin and run some hot water - this does beat the little red plastic bowl I used on our long trip from Bristol to Singapore, 2 years ago!  There's no plughole, but holes in the back of the washbasin.  As you fold it back up, the water disappears through these holes into a black hole somewhere!  Very clever actually.

All hot drinks. soft drinks and meals are included in the price of our travel.   The car assistant, as she is called, has told me that there is coffee available at all times along at a refreshment dock just along the carriage (Americans prefer coffee to tea!). I trundle along the narrow corridor, being rocked from side to side as I go.  There is coffee, but no hot water.  Reg is able however to get two cups of hot water from the dining car, a couple of carriages down, for our early morning cuppa.

The dining car is really nicely laid out;  There are cloth serviettes, and metal cutlery, but the plates and cups are plastic.  Do they only use them  once?  Fried eggs aren't on offer, only scrambled, but there's bacon, and a choice of roast potatoes or "grits"  (a sort of porridge made from a corn which is native to America), with raisin bread or croissant, but no toast.  I choose roast potatoes - they really are like heated-up roasters,  and not actually very appetising.  Still, there's fruit juice and tea, and it's a filling breakfast.  You do have a choice of continental style breakfast, with "Kellogg's cereal",  yoghurt and croissant, if you prefer - I think I might go for that next time we travel overnight.

Lunch for Reg is chicken and mixed salad - I choose the chicken and vegetable soup, with a roll and side salad, and New York cheesecake  with fruit topping for dessert!  Delicious!  We also have dinner on the train - though it's the express menu, as the train is due to reach New Orleans by 7.30 pm.  We choose Angus beefburger, with side salad and  "kettle chips"  (crisps to the uninitiated).  I also indulge in a chocoate brownie for dessert.

We learn that the train will be 1½ hours late arriving in New Orleans - so about 9 pm by the time we arrive.  The UK is now 6 hours ahead of us.

There's been no wifi on the train, but occasionally a phone signal.  We've spent our time reading our books, enjoying our meals in the restaurant car (!) and looking out of the window!  The scenery has varied from trees and more trees, lakes, houses (often without boundary fences, in large areas of grassland), rusty industrial sites, roads and small towns, to a vast expanse of water as we approach New Orleans.  It  looks like sea, with a small boat in view and the sun setting in an orange glow on the horizon - but it's actually Lake Pontchartrain.

Finally, the heat hits us at we clamber down from the train at New Orleans station, from where a taxi takes us to the India House hostel.  We've been told by a fellow traveller whom we met in Charlottesville that this hostel is not a good one - but we're about to judge for ourselves!  

We receive a warm welcome at reception, sign in and are shown around - the hostel is buzzing with atmosphere and young people!  (We are told that the hostel can accommodate up to 200 people!)  The young receptionist, Andrew, tells us that the hostel is run not just from this main building, with lounge, TV room, computer and printer, kitchen, outside eating area, outside socialising area, swimming pool, and laundry room, but from several buildings down the street - and we are in one of them, with our own front door!  There's a choice of breakfast till late morning, and a set evening meal all at additional cost, plus tours you can sign up for.  

Our private double room with ensuite bathroom is basic but adequate.  There are 2 small tables (no chairs), a double bed with very creaky springs but a comfortable mattress,with a bunk bed on top, a very old blanket but clean-smelling sheets, and a good sized shower room/toilet.  Most importantly for us, there are electric sockets, and there is good, fast wifi.  There's noisy air-conditioning (which I turn off) and a ceiling fan which works well.  We've yet to meet the cockroaches which we were warned  about by the fellow traveller, but there's time as we are here for 4 nights!  And we haven't tried out the shower yet.

This hostel is very cheap to stay in, and from first impressions, it's a typical, basic, slightly-chaotic but well run hostel, with everything we need for our 4 night, 3 day stay.

Wednesday, 21 May - Goodbye, Virginia!

Our hostess Ubon has rustled up a Thai breakfast for us – she tells us it's free - “I figured you two were quite adventurous.” The breakfast is orange juice, plus an omelette with a filling of cheese, ham and broccoli, accompanied by noodles with a special sauce – delicious! Ubon has also prepared “sticky rice and mango” for afters – we can't eat it all, but it's very nice indeed. We've been well looked after at the Ubon Thai Restaurant and Inn. Not only did Dan, Ubon's American husband, take Reg to collect our hire car, he has offered to go with Reg to return the car. Ubon tells us that Dan will take us to the station at lunchtime, and that we can have the use of our room until then, as they don't have any new guests coming in.

We've enjoyed our time in Virginia, but are ready to move on. At 1.30pm we have a 1 hour train journey from Staunton back to Charlottesville, where this evening we will catch the train to New Orleans. Dan drives us to through “sleepy Staunton” to the ancient station which thankfully, though in the open air, has a covered station platform with plenty of seats, as it's really hot today. This part of the platform is separated from the railway line by metal fencing and a gate; we've found that unlike in England, but similar to China, you can't just get on the train when it arrives; a guard has to let you through.

We get talking to a weathered-skin man who is sitting next to us in the station. He's smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, has the name “Elmo” written in marker pen on his cap, and is wearing a t-shirt with the words “Freedom is not free – 2008” on the front. When I later ask him he says in a rich Virginian drawl that he's in his 50's, though he looks at least 10 years older. Next to him is an old black rucksack, bulging at the seams, with various (full) plastic bags tied to it. He shows us all the cans and various other food items he is carrying, which, he says, have been given to him by the local church foodbanks.

Almo tells us something of his story. He says he left home at 14, as his stepfather didn't want him there, and has lived on the streets for most of his life since then, apart from 2 years when he was in the army, serving in Kuwait, and now; he now has a rented room. He received a broken collarbone in Kuwait, which still looks slightly askew.

He tells us that he goes to church on Sundays, where everyone knows and cares about him. He says he gets his food from the local churches (“there's many, many churches around here”) and from “dumpster diving” - taking the waste food which is past it's sell-by date from the trash bins behind the supermarkets. A familiar story in the UK.

“Did you hear about the quarry accident years ago? They were mining in the quarry, when it filled with water. 239 men were drowned. There's catfish in the quarry now – they've got mouths like whales. They's as big as that there car, they'd swallow you whole, like that man in the bible with the whale. I know my bible.”

“How did the catfish get in the quarry?” I ask.

“Dropped by birds, most likely. I could take you there and show you them, but you got a train to catch.”

Elmo goes on to tell us that he was married once, “but I ain't seen my wife since 2004.” He has a Mum, who lives a long way away, and a sister, but his sister doesn't want anything to do with him, and he can't get to see his Mum.

“Everyone in Staunton knows me,” he says, “but I only know about 5 people who I would call real friends.”

Elmo tells us he suffers from ill-health and on prompting, explains some of his ailments. We get the impression nevertheless that he is a survivor, and fairly at peace with the world.

“How much are cigarettes in England?” he asks. “They're $5 a packet here. I buy this tobacco for $7 and it lasts me 2 months.”

Finally he says he has to be on his way, as he has a bus to catch; interestingly, he doesn't ask us for money, but I give him a couple of dollars in loose change. Later, I say to Reg,

“ He says he spends a lot of time here in the station. Does he just enjoy chatting to people, or does he do it in the hope of people offering him money?”

Either way, Elmo has lived what some people would regard as a wasted life, underpinned by difficult relationships, and quite possibly blighted by addictions; but he's definitely not caught in the rat-race, nor is he part of the “always wanting more” culture. And he's certainly not the rich man, who led Jesus to say to his disciples, “It's easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than it is for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God”.  (Matthew 19:24).

Passenger trains only pass through Staunton 3 times a week. Another passenger informs us that, according to the Amtrak website, our train will be at least 2 hours late. This prompts me to pop to the sandwich bar across the road to get us some lunch; in there the staff tell me philosophically that the trains from Staunton are almost always late.

When we finally reach Charlottesville, we still have time to leave our luggage at the station and pop into the “downtown mall” for a drink, where Reg has a long discussion with the young waiter, Lucas, about English beer.

Our sleeper train to New Orleans is on time; a train guard takes us and our luggage in a “golf buggy” along the length of the platform, and in through a gate, to where the sleeping cabins in the train are situated.

Our cabin, a “Viewliner economy room” is miniscule, compared to those we've encountered on east European and Asian trains. It's about 5ft wide by 6ft long by 10ft high, and there really isn't room to swing a cat. Everything doubles up as something else, and folds away; there is though a toilet and washbasin (with hot running water). The toilet seat doubles as the first step to the top bunk, which is elevated out of the way during the day; the bottom bunk turns into 2 seats. There's a lovely big window, and curtains for privacy. My purple suitcase and Reg's large soft wheelie bag have to fit into a rack just below the ceiling. They have to be hoisted up onto the top bunk, to enable Reg to manoeuvre them onto the high shelf. It's a tight squeeze – thank goodness we kept to the Amtrak recommended luggage measurements, because there's definitely no room at all for large luggage down below.

The train guard fetches us 2 cups of boiling water so that we can make ourselves some tea. She returns at 10.30 pm and deftly transforms the day seats into a lower bunk.

Reg climbs onto the toilet seat, then onto the shelf below the fold-away washbasin (all a bit like a James Bond film) and settles himself into the top bunk.  The gentle rocking of the train soon sends us to sleep.

Tuesday 20 May -Sleepy Staunton... and the amazing Frontier Cultural Museum

Staunton, Virginia is a small old-fashioned country town, where to the visitor at least, it seems like a lazy Sunday in years gone by .... hardly anyone about on the main street, and very little traffic. There are no grocery shops, but several antique shops, and some shops which seem very specialist; a music store with a polished silver cello in the window, an art gallery, and a shop selling beautiful oriental rugs, to name a few.

We still have our hire car, so we decide to visit the Frontier Cultural Museum, not far from Staunton.  The write up in the Rough Guide to the USA says it "brings to light how the various immigrants who settled here melded their traditions to develop a joint American culture."   The guide continues, "Most of the exhibits are about farming techniques and other somewhat mundane activities, but it's all engagingly presented and well worth a look."

Dan, our host at our Thai inn, tells us to ask for a discount at the ticket office.

"Is there any discount for Seniors?"  I venture, giving what I hope is a winning smile.

"Sure, that's $19 for both of you," the ticket-booth lady replies.

There are advantages in being “older”. We were also able to buy all our Amtrak (American rail network) tickets at the “Seniors” price, as we are both over 62.

We love the Frontiers Cultural Museum, and spend 3½ hours there. It's all in the open-air countryside; it consists of early (1700's and 1800's) English, German, Irish (from Ulster, orginally), African (Nigerian), and Native American (Indian) homesteads and farms, faithfully and authentically reconstructed, many of them being farmsteads from those “home” countries, brought to America and reconstructed brick by brick, timber by timber, to show what the early settlers left behind in their home countries when they came in search for the “American dream”.

There's an 8 minute video to start with, to explain what the museum is about; then you are free to wander in your own time, from farmstead to farmstead, to see for yourself what these farms and country dwellings would have been like. The reconstructed farms are working farms, with crops being tilled and animals kept, being looked after by employees and volunteers of the Frontier Museum, who are dressed in period clothes. At each farm there is someone, again dressed in the clothes of the time, to explain what life was like in those days. In the English farmstead, the farmer's wife is making spinach pie; she is actually rolling the pastry out as we enter dabbing in spots of butter to make puff pastry, and tells us she will shortly be cooking it on the open fire. She tells us that the housewife did the “3 second test” to judge whether the fire was hot enough to cook the pie – when she could only leave her hand above the fire for 3 seconds, the fire was hot enough for cooking.

All the rooms of the homesteads are furnished authentically (or, in the case of the African “Igbo” farmstead, and in the case of the Native American (Indian) farmstead – there is little or no furniture at all. The Africans were of course brought as slaves, mostly from west Africa, or what is now Nigeria. As the years progressed, and trading routes opened up, the settlers acquired more and more furniture and possessions, and more labour-saving farm implements and devices.

A tour around this museum is like going back in time, and we learn so much about the life of the early settlers, why they came to America, and what their difficult journey was like crossing the Atlantic. It was a long time before African-Americans gained their freedom and  had the same rights as the white settlers; who over time inter-married. These peoples, together with the African-Americans, who also of course sometimes intermarry, meld together to produce the American population of today. Even the Germans, the largest group of non-English speaking white settlers to come from Europe, who originally kept themselves to themselves and maintained their own language, eventually lost their language, except for small pockets of people, mainly the Amish, who now, we understand, have a dialect of their own. The Amish peoples also maintain a simple way of life and dress in a modest fashion to this day.

As stated by the USA rough guide, this outdoor museum is indeed “engaging”. We love it. The only drawbacks: the museum “store” sells cold drinks and icecreams (we enjoy our choc ices at the end of our tour) – but a cafe selling tea and coffee would have been a real bonus, and to my mind, a moneyspinner.

Also, I forgot to take my suncream and hat and have caught the sun today. Reg is lucky because he just goes brown.

Tomorrow we are starting our long, overnight journey from Staunton, via Charlottesville again, to New Orleans; we won't arrive there until Thursday evening, so there may not be a blog for a couple of days!