I think I may have diabetes. I was supposed to update this every day, so everything was fresh in my mind, but each time it would get to around 7 o'clock and I would literally die of tiredness. Well, not literally, that would be insane, but I was finding it hard to stay awake. Why diabetes? Well, I pee a lot, probably an abnormal amount, and now I'm dropping off every few hours or so - symptoms of diabetes. I shall keep you updated.
Anyhow, I'll attempt to keep this fairly brief because I'm hungry. Dad has disappeared off downstairs to read the paper, so I'm all alone and can finally concentrate. The first day of the road trip was pretty intense. We had to drop Max off with Emily and Mum in New York and then take them to JFK so they could get their flight. The good part of this meant that I could have a quick look around New York, the bad was that I was tempted by the national Native American museum, which turned out to be shit. Unfortunately, by the time I realised this, we had missed the ferry back to Staten Island so we had to wait for a later one. This was cancelled. So, as the flight departure time drew closer, we were stuck in a ferry terminal with a bunch of New Yorkers. Perhaps I'm making a general assumption here, but while the people I have met in every other American state have been welcoming, friendly people, I have found New Yorker's to be loud, rude and rather obnoxious. They also seem to think that popcorn is an appropriate food to eat when forced to wait an hour in a crowded space. It really isn't. I didn't understand this man, who stood there with his wife next to me, star tattoo glaring evident on the side of his neck, munching on a bag of medium popcorn. I eat popcorn at the cinema, or when I'm watching a film at home; it's entertainment food, it doesn't have a particularly strong or interesting taste, you just (as Michael Mcintyre said) graze on it. Queuing is not entertainment, nor was this man grazing, rather, shovelling it into his mouth like it was the last thing he'd ever eat. There's not really much point to this rant, it just annoyed me. Popcorn is for cinema's, not for ferry stations.
So finally, after driving for hours in rainy New Jersey, we hit Pennsylvania, which was beautiful, in a forest-y kinda way. When you're driving over 300 miles a day, you have to be pretty picky as to what you stop for, but it was pretty much certain that the Amish 'habitats' (that's almost definitely the wrong word. It makes them sound like Pokemon, but I'm keeping it because I like it) would be one of the stops. Dad and I headed for 'Bird in Hand' and 'Intercourse', two villages on exactly the same road. I like to think of them as rival gangs fighting over sections of corn, but I doubt that's the case as I'm fairly sure that passivity is a must for the Amish. Then again, I came to realise that the Amish were incredibly hypocritical people. Firstly, if you're a deeply religious person, adhering to God's every rule, why the hell would you name your village after sex? Perhaps it was to get it out of their system, as in, now that their entire town was named after a forbidden practise, they could forget it and continue growing corn or whatever. Apart from the obvious hypocrisy in the town name, I also saw someone getting into a car. I just don't understand how a person who goes ape-shit over having their photo taken can happily get into a vehicle that isn't pulled by a horse. And where will this lone Amish go in the car? A porn super-store? A strip club? Perhaps even that place in Hostel where rich people pay to kill people? When, for the love of God, will this lunacy end?
Pulling out of a petrol station, we ended up behind two Amish girls on their horse and cart. Not only was this frustrating due to the fact that they couldn't go faster than a few miles per hour, it also prompted Dad to say, 'They all look very plain, don't they?' I defended them with, 'Well yes, but they don't have any make-up on, do they?', immediately realising that I was condemning all girls to looking like the Amish when they go to bed. '...You just want to shag an Amish girl, don't you?', he responded. Where did that come from?! I quickly asserted that no, I do not want to shag an Amish girl. I think that might be a lie. In fact, I find the idea of helping an Amish girl come to terms with modern society quite endearing. Like, I'd show her how to use a hair dryer, or use the internet. It would be exactly like E.T or Stig of the Dump, except I'd be able to have sex with her.
I'll skip ahead to later in the day. At a McDonald's in which we stopped at later on to get a drink, I went off to the 'restroom' to pee. God I hate having to ask American's where the restroom is. I'm sure if I asked where the 'loo' was, they'd still be able to direct me, but then they would initiate the annoying, 'Oh my Gosh! You're from England, say it again!', which, while making me feel slightly like a celebrity, can be mighty time consuming, especially with my bladder problem. So there I was, my penis hanging out over the urinal, when I saw two words scrawled on the wall in front of me: 'Das Penis', with an arrow pointing down...towards my penis. A quick google translate confirmed my suspicious; 'das', means 'the' in another language. So, the graffiti said 'the penis', pointing down to my penis. Surely the artist couldn't be so obvious? He (or she I suppose) must have meant something else. I came to the conclusion that 'the penis' meant 'THE penis', as in, my penis is the 'King of all penis'. He is the boss, the kingpin, the leader, a penis that puts all other penis' to shame. THE penis. I walked out of the toilet feeling both refreshed and complimented.
Skip ahead to the next day. This was a long driving day, along both Skyline Drive and the Blue Ridge Parkway, two very high, and very scenic mountain roads. Because it was so beautiful, Dad and I took a walk through the forest towards some falls. Being a Sunday, plenty of America families had also decided to make the trip and so I was able to make a few observations. American's are friendly, there's no denying that. But did you know, that American animals are equally friendly? We spotted a very photogenic deer (perhaps a celebrity) which enjoyed eating leaves while crowds of people gathered round to snap photos of it, myself included. Looking back, I'm slightly surprised that I was so interested in this deer, considering I've seen more than my share of the animal in Dunham Massey, a mere 20 minutes from my house. Butterflies are also more friendly; I was able to essentially pet a number of them. In England, butterflies treat us like psychopathic murderers, flying away at the sight of a human. Has anyone actually intended to hurt a butterfly? I think not. American butterflies realise this. I also met a large moth on my travels, but he didn't want to stick around for a photo. Despite having a broken wing, he decided to suicidally jump from my hand to the floor far below.
Dad had his mind set on visiting Monticello, Thomas Jefferson's house. In case you're like me, and confused Jefferson with Benjamin Franklin for half of the tour, Jefferson was the third President of the USA. He came up with the Declaration of Independence, hated slavery (yet kept over 600 slaves) and slept with one of his slaves enough times to produce six offspring. Like most American 'heroes', the facts surround Jefferson pointed out one glaring contradiction between history and popular opinion: he was actually a bit of a nob. But, before I took the tour of the house (in my, 'I'm visiting Benjamin Franklin's house' stage) I met the love of my life. It should be pointed out at this stage that so far, my quest for a sexy American girl to share my bed with hasn't gone especially well, yet, lacking in Squid-Hat, I managed to both fall in love and lose my soul mate in a matter of minutes. I'm going to call her Kate. Yeh, I didn't know her name, but I don't think that changes anything. She was the woman who sold us our tickets to the house; Dad had previously encountered Kate when I was off pissing and so they seemed to be getting on fairly well. Despite him having a wife, I found myself slightly jealous. Kate was a red-head, a hair colour which I have always found attractive, yet have never met one that wasn't a total weirdo. She was freckly and cheerful and while not really thin, she had a body that was still attractive. She sold us the tickets, her southern drawl turning me on slightly, my gaze unwavering from her beautiful face. And then we had to leave and there was nothing I could do. Perhaps if I were not with the Father, if I were with friends, I would have tried some chat-up lines on her. Although I have being single for about a quarter of a year, I still haven't mastered the art of chatting up girls; however, I do believe that I've managed to conjure one or two that would have wooed her into marrying me. Or at least moistened her knickers enough for her to jump into my bed.
'I'd like to stick my Thomas into your Jefferson'
'Maybe we could cause controversy like Jefferson and create six illegitimate children'
Both these would be followed by a cheeky wink and and sexy lick of the lips.
But alas, it was not to be. So, weeping and heart-broken, I was dragged onto a bus down to the house. Here, we were slightly early for the tour, so started a conversation with one of the guides. A child ran up looking rather flustered, and as soon as she reached us, she burst into tears, 'I'VE LOST MY MOMMY AND DADDY!'
'Shut the fuck up, kid, I'm trying to talk to this woman about a building'.
That didn't happen. Instead, I had to stifle a slight smirk as I pondered how over the top Americans can be as I watched our tour guide lead this child to go and find 'Mommy'. After going to look at Jefferson's grave and finding a spider, we returned for our tour. Our tour guide was fantastic; a young, slightly attractive man from Georgia, who was very possibly a failed actor. He gesticulated wildly and managed to pause without reason in the middle of sentences, like this: '...their reason for this? That 'he was not that type of guy'. My response to this........(pause for dramatic effect)........what does that even mean?!' He also managed to do the most annoying thing possible when on a tour around a stately home, or a tour of any kind for that matter: ask the audience questions. For instance, he asked us, 'And what was the name of the slave family most closely associated with Jefferson?' I haven't a fucking clue Mr. Tour-guide. I thought Jefferson was Franklin until about five minutes ago, I wasn't even aware he had any sort of relationship with his slaves. Seriously, why ask the audience questions?! They paid money for YOU to talk to them about the place they decided to visit. It's not fucking high school. I was put in a slightly bad mood after this, but this mood was lifted after he said this: 'Thomas Jefferson loved the octagon'. Seriously? The President of the United States had a favourite shape? And he loved this shape so much that he created two rooms in his house in the shape of this shape? And this shape wasn't a normal shape, like a square or a circle, it was an octagon? Fucking hell. I found this hysterical. Dad didn't. I don't know why.
Eurgh, I still have one more day today but I'm knackered and Dad's asleep. I'll have to do it tomorrow - goodnight! Apologies for the many grammatical/spelling errors, I'm knackered.
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