Wolf Point

Tricky little fuckers

Chugging up through the mountains, a pack of hunters sit across the aisle from me, looking out for grizzly bears down in the canyon below.

The deer in these parts, they say, pointing out a pair of doe in the trees that I'd never have seen. Tricky little fuckers, every single one.

Yeah! I say, wiping the beer from my chin. Tricky little fuckers, all of 'em!

I feel vaguely guilty about calling an animal a 'little fucker'. You love animals! says my conscience. I ignore it though; put it down to my constant need to fit in.

You guys should come to Wales, I say, throwing out my arms. The deer in Wales? They're the trickiest little fuckers you've ever seen!

Does the fridge light really go off when you close the door?

Sitting on my backpack outside Seattle's train station, a woman asks me for a cigarette. Take two, I say, like my brother always says when someone asks him for a smoke. They're only small.

Why, thank you, she says. Are you taking the Chicago train? She's in her sixties, I think, dressed from head to toe in white, with a pair of oversized sunglasses hiding most of her face.

Yes, I tell her. But I'm going to spend some time in Montana along the way.

Not a whole lot in Montana, she says, just like everybody always says when you tell them you're going to Montana. What do you do for a living?

What do I do for a living? Nothing at the moment, I suppose. Nothing at the moment, I say. What about you?

Me, I'm an inventor, she says, shaking out her match.

Goddamnit. An inventor? Why did I tell her I do 'nothing'? I could've been a zoo-keeper or an astronaut. I could've been halfway to the moon by now! In America, if you want to say you're an inventor then you can say you're an inventor; nobody is going to mind. You could also be a zoo-keeper or an astronaut. If you're the skinny black son of a Kansas woman, you can be the next president of the United States, if you like.

What a great job, I say, full of pride and encouragement for my fellow man. What do you invent?

I invented the pocket-book light, she says, opening up her purse. You see?

I look into her handbag, lit up by a tiny light-bulb. I can clearly see all her old tissues; her box of matches; a tiny bottle of champagne. Wonderful! I exclaim.

It goes off again when you close it, just like your refrigerator at home, she says, snapping it shut again. So, why Montana?

Why Montana? I can't really remember, except that there was a point last summer when I decided I really needed to spend 36 hours by myself, crawling through an empty landscape on a train.

It's okay, she says, and I realise I've hesitated. You don't have to explain.

North Cascades Highway

Washington suicide tourism

Now that my mum has finally let me go to Seattle I've realised I never really wanted to be a heroin addict after all. But I do want to visit Kurt and Courtney's old house, just for a look. I'm too embarrassed to admit this to anybody though, except for my host, Claire, who's taking me there and swears she won't judge me for it. Her three-year-old daughter doesn't judge me for it, either. Where are we going, mommy? she asks from her booster seat in the back of the car. We're taking this lady to see Kurt Cobain's old house, says Claire. Oh, okay then, she says, looking back out of the window again.

Washington is nothing like I expected it to be. One day we drove for hours north of the city through an amazing landscape of snow-capped mountains and bright red forests, stopping off at one-horse towns along the way for a look at their one church; their one pub; their one antique shop. Seattle itself is beautiful too; I've never seen a city with so many trees, surrounded by so much water. What was I expecting? I don't know, I can't remember, and this is only the second state I've visited since I arrived.

Kurt and Courtney's house belongs to someone else now, obviously. I wonder if they mind groups of suicide-tourists turning up at their doorstep trying to get pictures of the gazebo, the same gazebo I had pictures of when I was kid; Kurt's poor dead foot sticking out of the doorway and onto my bedroom wall. Oh, there won't be anybody else there, says Claire. Maybe ten years ago, but not now. She pulls up opposite the house and I get out and wander over to a big tree with RIP sprayed over its trunk. There's a bench underneath it, covered with Nirvana lyrics. I read some of them and feel vaguely embarrassed by their crappiness. I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black. Oh dear. It all seemed so impertinent at the time.

Kurt Cobain's suicide was the worst thing that happened to me as a teenager; which might give you some insight into the incredibly fortunate and largely uneventful adolescence that I had. I'm glad I'm not fourteen anymore, I think, looking up at poor dead Kurt's gazebo and feeling not a whole lot more than nothing at all.

Seattle

I spent my entire adolescence wishing I was a heroin-addict in Seattle, rather than a cider-drinker in rural north Wales. I liked Nirvana, Hole, dressing up like a little soldier, and shaving bits of hair off my head. That's just the kind of crazy, rebellious teenager that I was.

And I would've gone to Seattle back then, really, I would have. Only my mum wouldn't let me.

Goodbye Wies, goodbye California

American Boys

Wies doesn't fancy any of the boys in San Francisco. What, none of them? But we must have met four hundred boys last night, all of them obviously gay. That's the problem; Wies only fancies boys who seem straight.

Cocktails are bigger in America, I think, and stronger. I danced drunkenly to American Boy with American boys in every bar. Take me to New York, I'd love to see LA... It's like the song was written especially for me, I thought, giddily. It's like I'm the only person in the world who's ever visited America. I love it here! I kept telling anyone who'd listen, working my booty up and down. I just love it!

We're staying with a couple, Annie and Eric, down by the beach. More strangers off the internet who've given us a key to their apartment and told us to make ourselves at home. They're artists with a studio, and Annie has a motorbike that she takes me for a ride on right across town. I want to be an artist called Annie in San Francisco with a studio and a motorbike! I thought, clinging on tight on the back so I wouldn't fall off, and saying a thankful prayer to the Cool Gods for having dressed me in my leather jacket and knee-high boots that day. Take me to Chicago, San Francisco Bay...

Wies is right about the boys. In a bar called Truck (which we need a password to get into, which Annie knows because that's how she rolls) we're told by the hot, muscular, obviously gay topless barman that we just 'missed the train'. Eh? I wasn't planning on getting a train right away. Not that kind of train, he laughs. I mean the gay train. Oh. The gay train. Er, what's a gay train? Oh! Oh my god! Must try not to look Welsh and shocked. Did he get pictures?

No, the hot topless barman didn't get any pictures of the gay train; he's working, right? But he's got pictures of his penis, if we want to see that? Yes, yes we do. He hands us his iPhone. Here, he says. I have to fix some cocktails. Just scroll through.

Everybody in America is just so amazingly friendly, I say, happily, to Annie and Wies as we climb into a taxi in the early morning.

Sam's place in daylight

Sam and her family, with their new adopted son from Belgium, Wies.

Pistol-twiddling and drinking gin

The last thing Wies said before we left Los Angeles was fuck Los Angeles. That's just the kind of city it is. And now that we're 400 miles north, we're being invited back down that way again by Sam, who says if we make it to Ventura she'll teach us how to pistol-twiddle and drink gin.

A woman on the internet is inviting us down to Ventura, I tell Wies. I don't tell him how close we'll be to LA again. She says she'll teach us how to pistol-twiddle and drink gin.

Okay, says Wies, who is of a temperate nature and really likes drinking gin. Let the pistol-twiddling begin.

Turns out America is a big country. It takes us two days to get to Ventura in the Hopemobile, along the Big Sur coast, and by the time we arrive it's long past sunset; the moon lighting up the night sky behind Sam's big house on the hill.

Are you sure we have the right place? asks Wies, shining the flashlight on the mail-box at the bottom of the drive. Yes, it's the right place. But the house is dark and silent, everything closed up and nobody home. We sneak around the back, shine the flashlight through a window into an empty room. I scream and jump back as a black-widow spider drops down from its web and creeps off across the yard.

I met a man from Texas last night who supposed that staying with people off the internet must surely be the most dangerous way to travel. Do I think it's dangerous? No, people are just people. Maybe you're going to meet some of your best new friends. He'd looked dubious. Okay, or maybe you're going to find yourself creeping around someone's yard with a flashlight and a black-widow spider late at night. But maybe that's exactly what you always wanted out of a trip to America, hey.

Annie? says Wies. I don't think this is their house. I think this is just the garden shed.

The Hopemobile

In Redwood City we pick up a camper-van and cover it with campaign stickers: it's the Hopemobile. Then we head south along the rocky coast, Wies at the wheel while I hang out of the window, one arm trailing in the wind. At Ojai Fair I try to buy a life-size Obama cardboard cut-out but the ladies on the Democrats' stall won't sell him to me — not even for a hundred bucks. They say they just love him too much.

It's safe to say that this is a blue state: everybody we pass on the road beeps and waves, smiles lighting up their happy Californian faces. Look out! Here comes the Hopemobile!

Route 33

More pics on Flickr.

Leaving Los Angeles

There's a man in the corner of Los Angeles Greyhound bus station whose entire face is bleeding. I don't know which is scarier: that a man's entire face is bleeding, or that he's playing a slot machine, trying to pick up some kind of stuffed animal with a metal claw. You know, the one that you never, ever win on, no matter how many coins you put in. It's like Shaun of the Dead in here tonight; just us and a handful of zombies shuffling around in the flourescent light.

Which do you prefer, I ask Wies. Downtown LA's Greyhound station or the luxury penthouse suite we had in Santa Monica last night?

Wies just gives me a look. How long until our bus leaves?

Another three hours. Turns out LA isn't all palm trees and cocktails, after all. Not like last night at the Georgian Hotel, where we were shown wide-eyed like a pair of ragamuffins into the suite on the 8th floor, overlooking the beach and Malibu's golden sunset. The room was donated to us by another blogger, Suzanne, whose husband owns hotels across southern California. Bloggers take note! Spilling your guts all over the internet could be worth it, after all.

We tried to be cool in the hotel, really, we tried to be posh, but I think we gave it away when we asked for directions to the Greyhound. Don't you fall asleep on that night-bus! warned the bellman. Great. Which do I prefer? Spending eight hours awake on a night-bus or falling asleep and getting my head sawn off?

Don't worry about that, says Wies. That man is in jail now. And anyway, you can sit beside the window. I'll protect you.

Which do I prefer? Getting my head sawn off on a Greyhound bus or waking up and seeing one of my best friends getting his head sawn off on a Greyhound bus? Eventually I decide on the latter and let Wies sit next to the aisle. When I wake up, some hours later, I see he's moved to the empty seat across the way, stretched out and sleeping. But I don't care. We're arriving into San Francisco, crossing the bay just as the sun is coming up behind the skyscrapers. The man with the bleeding face is two seats behind me, snoring gently, his wound stitched up and a pink stuffed animal tucked underneath his arm.

Welcome to Los Angeles

So much for being a cowboy: it's more like being a princess. Red and The Major live in an apartment block with a pool and a roof-garden, just like movie stars, right underneath the Hollywood sign. They picked me up from the airport, showed me to their hot-tub, and got me on the guest-list for an exclusive Hollywood club. Are they for real? Getting on the guest-list for an exclusive Hollywood club is one of the things I really, really wanted out of LA. It's right up there with hearing a waitress claiming that she's actually an actress, okay?

But that evening in the Mexican restaurant my jet-lag got the better of me and I fell fast asleep in my fajitas. So Red had to get me by the ankles and The Major got me by the wrists and together they managed to carry me all the way across the city and back to their apartment block, where they dragged me onto the fold-out couch. Who says walking in LA isn't possible?

The world's changing, right?

The Nigerian cabbie taking me to the airport wants to know why I'm going to America. I wonder what to tell him. The bit about being a cowboy or the bit about being a super-hero? I check my watch: how much time have we got? No, I decide on neither: no more telling everybody everything there is to know about myself. I've exhausted the subject. I talk too much.

So I tell him the other side of things, that I just want to be in the States for the run-up to the election — maybe even to Chicago for judgement day, too. He looks at me in the rearview mirror: he's going to America for the results too, he says, him and his wife and two friends.

The world's changing, right? he grins.

I look out of the window and the past year flashes into my head — my degree, my break-up, my job, my parents — and then it flashes right back out of my head again. I've got my camera in my backpack and my boots on my feet and I'm in a cab on the way to America just as the world is changing.

Right, I say, grinning back. The world's changing, right?

Right, he nods. The world's changing.

Words cannot describe how much I love Michelle Obama

Five exciting things that happened last month

1. I was famous for five minutes
After the article in the Times, at least two people at work said: 'Oh my god, I saw you in the paper!' and I squealed back 'I know! I'm famous!'. Then I wandered on to the set to see who else might recognise me, where one of the assistant directors said 'You can't come in right now, we're having a private rehearsal'. Somehow, I misheard this as 'Can I have your autograph?' and stood there for a moment patting my pockets for a pen before I was firmly ejected out of the stage door.

2. I discovered that I'm Irish
Jenna told me about a new 12-month American visa scheme available to Irish graduates, so I quickly looked into what it would take to get an Irish passport. "If one of your parents is an Irish citizen," said an official website. "Then you are automatically an Irish citizen, too." Eh? I'm an Irish citizen, just like that? After feeling like a foreigner everywhere I've lived this comes as a welcome surprise. I truly belong here! I thought, happily, before filling out a form to get me a visa for America.

3. Joss Stone beat me in the pub quiz
At work I had to make an oil painting of Joss Stone posing as Anne of Cleves, and later that night she came along to The Tudors pub quiz. I couldn't decide what was more exciting: getting to make an oil painting prop for the telly or getting beaten by Joss Stone in the pub quiz? While I was trying to figure it out I went to the bathroom where my head exploded into the sink.

4. One of my best friends is having a baby
Truculent Horse is going to be having a foal! This is the second time that I have cried with happiness this summer. And guess who's going to be godmother? Yes, me! Although, Mr Horse is a tad worried that I live too far away from Cork to be any use for babysitting duties.

5. I planned my World Tour
I'm calling my trip around America 'Annie's World Tour', just like the Baseball 'World Series' that only includes American teams. The best thing about planning this trip so far is all the invitations of places to stay from kind people on the internet. It all kicks off with Red and The Major on Saturday, who are not only putting me up for the night in Los Angeles but are meeting me at the airport too. Does life get any better than this?

Icelandic economic doom

I got a call from a Welsh journalist this morning asking if I'd talk to him about the terrible state of the Icelandic economy. Uh, I'm not great at speaking Welsh at the best of times, never mind when the subject is finance and I'm dying with tonsilitis. And I know I make myself out to be an expert* on Iceland, seems I lived there for about five minutes, but I'm really not. So I said no, sorry, and took some more codeine and went back to sleep again.

I dreamt of Reykjavik then, back to a couple of years ago when we ate snails in restaurants on Thursdays; drank cocktails all night on Fridays; and spent our Saturdays cruising around downtown in jeeps: because that's how we rolled. There's an old Icelandic saying, 'thetta reddast', which loosely translates as: Hey, let's not stress out about things, because everything always works out okay in the end.

Thetta reddast, right? I say to my friend Birna tonight, scanning through the news on CNN. Everything's gonna work out okay in the end?

No Annie, she says, worryingly. The time for 'thetta reddast' has come to an end.

*For a genuine expert on Iceland, check out Alda's place, where she is reliably blogging events in English as they unfold.

LeisureLand

In preparation for California, I've taken to calling everybody 'man'. This could spell trouble. The last time I called someone 'man' I got my friend Mary Teresa fired from her job. We were seventeen, sitting on a wall like zombies in the early morning sun, after a long, hard night of dancing and chewing gum.

I have to get ready for work soon, said Mary Teresa, eventually, looking at me wide-eyed. She was spending the summer working at the swimming pool out in LeisureLand.

You'll have to call in sick, I said, eyes equally wide. I'll do it for you, if you like.

Mary Teresa peered in through the phone-box glass while I made the call to her boss. She's really sick, man, I explained, earnestly. He sighed and hung up the phone.

Um, why did you call him 'man'? asked Mary Teresa.

Eh, I dunno man, I said, panicking. He just hung up on me, man!

Stop saying that! Stop saying 'man'!

I can't, man, I don't know what's wrong with me, man!

And then we sat back up on the wall again, me with 'man' banging around my head like a drum, and Mary Teresa with her head in her hands, knowing she'd never work at LeisureLand again.

Tis a poor fool who worries about their holiday

You must be really looking forward to your trip, people keep saying to me, encouragingly.

Um, yeah. Kind of. Except... I think I booked it in a bit of a hurry or something: I'm leaving the day after we finish shooting, a week on Saturday. Er, when exactly was I planning to pack up my stuff and move out of my house? Am I really going to be landing in Los Angeles in the middle of economic turmoil the day after I finish my job? At what point did I decide that it wouldn't be nicer, in fact, to first spend a week in bed, ordering pizza and drinking orange squash?

My good friend Wies tells me not to stress: this is California we're talking about. He's flying in from Arizona and we're going to travel up the coast together for a couple of weeks. I am very happy about this. Who cares if I have no accommodation booked, haven't saved up enough money, and never learnt to drive? I'm about to spend two weeks in the sun with one of my nearest and dearest friends.

After that we're going to part company in Seattle and I'm going to get on with traipsing around like a cowboy / superhero / soldier, or whatever the fuck it is that I'm supposed to be doing.

Crap sandwiches

Republican house minority leader John Boehner, from today's Guardian:

An unhappy Boehner said before the vote that the bail-out was a 'crap sandwich' that he and colleagues were obliged to eat.

A 'crap sandwich'? I can't wait to be in America. It's going to be just like the movies.