The sore-loser competition

Whenever I arrive in a new city by myself I like to stride slowly up to the first bar I come to, swinging the door wide open and pausing for a moment as everyone looks around in dread. Here I am, silhouetted in the doorway like the messenger of hell.

This is mostly because whenever I arrive in a new city by myself I get this nervous, fluttery feeling in my tummy and I need that moment in the doorway just to tell myself to go right ahead and order a glass of wine like any other normal, confident person would do.

On my first night in New Orleans I go to a dirty pub near my hostel and play pool against a silent, meat-headed man while his silent, meat-headed friends watch on. My pool skills came back after all that practice in Nashville and tonight my shots are clear and fast and hard. When it's not my turn I sit and nonchalantly roll cigarettes one-handed; driving yet more fear and anxiety into the heart of my opponent.

This guy is a sore loser, I can tell by that sour look on his face every time I sink another ball. Well guess what, cowboy? I'm a sore loser too. And if you and I were to have some kind of sore-loser competition then I would probably win.

On the black, he leaves me with the white up against the cushion and I have to squeeze between the table and his sour-faced friend to even have a hope of getting it in. His sour-faced friend looks up at me all sour-faced, like: You want me to move seats, you really expect me to make this easy for you? There is nothing worse than being beaten by a girl, I understand that, and no, I don't expect him to make this easy for me. No easier than it's already been.

In the movie that clicks and whirrs in my mind, I lean down to him real close, right into his face, and scowl: I came here to play, punk, not to ram the end of my cue between your sorry eyes. He'll scowl right back, take a moment to think, then slowly move as little as necessary to one side.

But this isn't a movie, punks; no, this is real life. And so instead I mumble excuse me, please, then fluff on the black, scratch the white, and leave the bar the winner of the sore-loser competition; all prickly, like.

Happy Thanksgiving, Mum

Down through Mississippi

People like to talk on these trains and today that happens to suit me just fine. We can chat here in the dining-car while I stuff my mouth full of pumpkin pie.

Where you from, what's your name, where you going, why?

My name is Little Pinch, baby, I'll lie.

Outside the window the land keeps sliding past: the cotton fields, the mud flats; the swamps and the river and two imaginary crocodiles. Faster, faster, past Jackson, Greenwood, and Yazoo City. Here I am, alone, heading down through Mississippi, and there's nothing — nothing! — that anybody can do to stop me.

Long bus ride

It takes me thirteen days, a ten-hour bus ride, and one long, soft goodbye to finally make it out of Nashville alive.

Is this seat free? a strange man's voice asks me as the bus pulls off. No, it's definitely not, I say, without looking up.

Where is Macy when I need her? Sit down next to me, Macy, let's have a drink. I feel kind of empty, somehow. I know I should have stayed. But the movie isn't over and I need to reach Louisiana before my character dies. You understand me, right?

Right.

Is it harder to leave somebody, Macy, or is it harder to be the one left behind?

But when I look round she's gone again. I think she gets irritated when I ask her really stupid questions like that.

So long, Nashville

Still here

I'm not leaving Nashville until I can play Jackson all the way through on the guitar. Yesterday I got a telepath from my father: When are you coming home? I don't know, Pabbi, these chords are difficult and my fingertips are bleeding. He likes it when I call him Pabbi.

Sometimes I think about sneaking off to the freight trains that I hear in the dead of night. Jump up on the last wagon and cling on tight; just me and my backpack all the way to Jackson, Mississippi.

You could also just get on a bus, the voice of reason in my head keeps telling me.

Stop it, I tell it. You're ruining the movie.

The life of a Tennessee locksmith's cat

I've stopped counting how long I've been here. I've fallen in love with a locksmith and now we drive across Tennessee letting people back into their houses together. While he drills through their doors I watch other women fall in love him too; taken by his smile and his soft Israeli hair and glad they don't have to spend one more goddamn second out on the porch.

I like it here in his cabin. I don't have to be a cowboy or an Indian or a man with no feelings; I can just curl up like a cat in the last rays of this Nashville sun and enjoy the affection. I'm a cat, I tell him. That's good, he says, plucking his Hebrew music on his guitar. Because I'm making you fish for dinner.

But then he gets another call; somebody else shut out. The life of a Tennessee locksmith's cat, I say out loud, just to see how it sounds.

What? What was that you said?

Nothing, I say, shedding hair all over the couch.

Nashville, Tennessee

A difficult town to leave

I decided to stay a third day in Nashville, but because I wanted to this time. This town seems different again after a good night's sleep; music spilling out of every bar. Pull on my boots, put on some make-up. The importance of warpaint. I found some more boot-polish under the sink, but decided against it this time. Don't push it, hey.

I like the sound these boots make when I swing down the street. Sometimes I step a little louder on the tarmac than strictly necessary, just to let everyone know there's a stranger on her way. You can call me Little Pinch, cowgirls. Because that's my Indian name.

Cold light of day

I stayed an extra day in Nashville; not because I wanted to, particularly, but just because I was too fucked up to find a way out again. I have to stop drinking soon; it's been thirty-two days now on the road. The guys I got a ride here with flew back home this morning. You wanna see Ohio, Annie Oakley? No, not today. I want to get back to a State with a railway line. I'm in a railway state of mind.

Nashville looks different in the cold light of day. Emptier, probably. This afternoon I sat by myself in a bar watching a girl with a guitar sing about heartbreak and pain. I wanna do right, but not right now. I know. And I'll stop drinking tomorrow. On my first night here the town was hosting the Country Music Awards, so every bar had been packed with cowboys. Did I ever really expect to see so many stetsons in one place? They make men walk differently, y'know. I saw Shania Twain get out of a limo. She don't impress me much, I'd said to the boys.

I have to tell ya, I never had so much fun in my whole life than I did in Nashville with you, Austin had said, sombrely, before they left. We tore up the town, dint we Annie, we tore it right up. Yes, we did, we tore it right up. See how much fun I am, Austin? It's getting kind of old.

Nashville Honkytonk

I like the way Austin throws his arm around my shoulder when we swing through the bars. Honkytonks, they call them, and there's a band going crazy in every one. Alright Nashville, me and Annie Oakley gonna tear this town up.

I like the way he watches me, too: dirty brown eyes following me as I dance on top of the bar. America, you know I just want you to love me. Do the things to me now that you did in the movies. I can see Austin Texas from here, Austin. Get up here in your cowboy boots, help me tear this town up.

Later, I'll take him out to the parking lot and let him press me against a pick-up truck.

Nashville doesn't necessarily exist

I sat for an hour outside my hotel before I realised that Floyd and Austin weren't coming for me. What was I thinking? A drunken pact between three strangers late at night, and it turns out Nashville is like Narnia: it doesn't necessarily exist. I skipped a train to New Orleans for this.

But just as I was about to give up, a car pulled up. Annie get your guns you're over an hour late c'mon.

Pfft. Crazy raggedy-ass Ohio guys.

If I die in Raleigh at least I will die free

I don't know what was wrong with Elvis but it's impossible to have the blues in Memphis. There is music and dancing and chicken-fried-chicken in every bar. On Beale Street I met two guys who just couldn't believe the places I've been so far. Has it really only been a month since I've been here in America? Oh, this is nothing, I told them, shaking my head and leading them into Louie's bar. Wait til you hear about the buffalo I caught in Montana...

Here are two fine guys from Ohio who think it's a shame my trip has me confined to the railroad tracks. Oh, I've been confined to the railroad tracks alright. I got tied to the railroad tracks in North Dakota! Damn shame, that. Would I like to ride with them to Nashville tomorrow? No other way to get to Nashville than by car.

Gentlemen. There is nothing I would rather do than ride to Nashville with you in your car. Everybody loves all music except country music. Everybody except Floyd and Austin and me.

From my head down to my shoes

My plan to sleep on the sleeper-train didn't quite work out. I found myself recruiting other passengers to spend the entire night drinking with me in the lounge-car instead. Why oh why? I think I just felt a bit lonesome all of a sudden when I realised there wouldn't be anybody down south expecting me. No more gifts of Obama souvenirs, no more mugs with my face printed on them, no more theatre tickets, handmade jewellery, chocolate-covered malt-balls, or lavish breakfast spreads.

I know, I know: boo fuckin' hoo.

So instead I made friends with two very polite young men who kept calling me 'miss' and a very large lady with no hair and gold teeth who told me she was a crack addict. Really? I'd exclaimed, genuinely interested because I don't think I've ever made friends with a crack addict before. No, no! she'd said. I ain't got enough to go around. I was relieved to hear it, because funnily enough just the word 'crack' scares me; never mind getting addicted to it on a night-train through Kentucky with Benjy and Chuck and Bellinda-Sue. Right then, I'd said. Let's open another bottle of cab sav instead.

Hey, it's okay. I hear they don't even let you in to Memphis unless you've got the blues.

My own private Chicago

In my room I strip down to my underwear and look in the mirror. Hair's getting long, I think. Needs some work, I think. I cut some curls off my head with a pair of nail scissors. Better.

I love hotels. I love all the free stuff. Well, free enough. I find a small pot of boot-polish and paint two stripes across my face. D'ya feel lucky, punk? War-paint is important. I'd met an American-Indian in Montana who'd taught me all about native make-up. He was sipping water, refused to let me buy him a drink. Indians don't take well to alcohol, he'd told me. It's killing us all, slowly but surely. Oh. Well, maybe I have a little bit of Indian in me, then. Well do ya, punk? I walked into a bar; I drank a whiskey; I walked back out and puked it all over the sidewalk like a girl. I like this boot-polish, though. You talkin' to me?

I pull on my boots. Knee-high cowboy boots, for ridin' in. I like how they look with the stripes on my cheeks and the scar on my chin. Room service! Oh, I love hotels. Your martini, ma'am, and the cutlery you asked for. Thanks, help yourself to a twenty dollar tip. I'll look much tougher once I've tied these forks to my ankles with string. Well do ya, do ya punk? They're just like real spurs — if you squint.

It's late. It's late and tomorrow I'll take a sleeper train to Tennessee. Headin' down south, y'all! Down to Memphis where nobody knows my name. Fuck New York. Climb up off the floor, up onto this king-size bed. It's late, cowgirl, I think. Time to pull your boots off, get yourself some rest. You talkin' to me?

I don't see anyone else here, kid.

Bad Timing

"How was Michigan?" asks Macy. It's good to be back in Chicago: population fifty trillion and all the bar staff know your name. "How did it go with seducing that guy?"

Oh yeah, seducing that guy. I don't know what was more humiliating: having my feelings thrown back in my face over a Subway sandwich or having him beat me at pool five times in a row afterwards. The pool, probably. I hate losing at pool. I've barely won a game since I've been here, which I don't really understand seems the pockets are bigger. Everything in America is bigger: winning should be easier, by a mile.

It's not me though, it's him, right? Right. I understand. Bad timing, he said. Maybe we can hook up again in five years' time. Five years, I laughed. Five years?! Are you out of your mind?! I mean, I'm gonna be famous in five years time!

But then all of a sudden I couldn't quite swallow, my mouth full of bread and jalepeno. Don't cry, cowgirl, don't cry: whatever you do next, do not cry.

"It went pretty well to be honest, Macy," I lie.

Michigan

Peace and Love

Seducing a man should be easier than normal in this new American climate, don't you think? Hope and courage; peace and love. There are people predicting the next Sixties and I want to take my clothes off. But this is northern Michigan in November, don't forget.

"Aren't you just so proud to be American right now?" I ask him. I want to reach out and pull him down on top of me. Peace and love; let's sink into this couch.

"Sure," he says, answering my question for the tenth time. I've been trying to get to him through patriotism, but the only sinking feeling I'm getting is that the man I'm trying to seduce does not want to be seduced. Hope and courage. I wonder if he even realises how attractive he is? All forearm and shoulder; bright teeth and pale eyes.

"I wish I had a little bit of American in me," I sigh.

Congratulations

When we heard Obama had won Florida, the three-mile line into Grant Park roared into some kind of crazy, disjointed Mexican wave. I said Al-right! and offered Brian a high-five. He laughed, slapped my awkward palm. You never high-fived anyone before, have ya? I grinned and shook my head.

We waited two hours in that line, but we talked and chatted and laughed the whole time. Brian and his friends are easy to get along with; and so are seventy-thousand other people when you're all on the same side.

It was strange to be in such a large, peaceful crowd. I expected security guards and cops, telling us to get back, to keep in line, but there were none. Or were there? Every tenth person is a secret agent, someone said. Up above, police snipers sat on every skyscraper; helicopters thundered overhead.

When the night was over, when Obama had spoken and the crowd had chanted yes we can and I had thought, wow, yes they did, I hugged Brian very tight and said congratulations. I'm not sure what else to say to anyone. I spent the whole day yesterday in downtown Chicago, just wandering around. I wanted to buy a beer? Congratulations, I said. A box of matches? Congratulations. A fancy lunch with a complete stranger? Congratulations. Nobody seemed to mind. Where you from? Well, welcome to America. It's a new country alright. High-five.

Lunch

There's a feeling in Chicago today that you can't really hear and you can't really smell but you know it's there every time a stranger catches your eye and smiles.

I was lost on La Salle Street, fumbling with my glasses and a map, when a man asked if I needed any help. I'd never met such a figure of a man in my life: tall and broad with neat grey hair and a neat grey moustache, dressed in the finest suit and tie. Oh, I don't even know what I'm looking for, I say. Probably just some lunch, I think.

I'm heading for some lunch myself, he says. Like to join me for a drink?

Patrick is an attorney on the five-thousandth floor of a skyscraper, right across the street from Obama's office block. Will he be getting a new office now? I ask, and Patrick laughs; takes me to his gentlemen's club where we dine on turkey pie; up a spiral staricase and under chandeliers. I feel a little scruffier than usual here, in my tracksuit and vest and my hair all blown all over the place in a mess. But Patrick is a Chicagoan and so he doesn't seem to mind.

Were you at the rally last night? I ask.

I wish! he winks. But I was right here where we are now. My husband and I were the only Democrats in here, I think.

So I tell him everything I can possibly remember about the crowd last night; the way we roared when Obama's Presidency was announced; how we clapped the TV screens for change when McCain pledged his support; and how, when Palin reared her ugly head, most of us just looked away instead. Let's forget about her now, we'd said. And when the pastor stood up and spoke of the closing of the divide, well, I think everybody cried — although I knew that I would never truly understand and that I shouldn't pretend that I can. But it was when Obama took to the stage, right up there in front of us all, that we really quietened down. It just seemed that the cheering and roaring weren't quite so important as listening to and understanding this great, progressive man.

Why, says Patrick, flushing with pride. Should we order some wine?

Oh, yes please, I say, so he knows I'm a lady, deep down. And I'll have an olive in mine.

Sweeping through the Windy City

I want to tell you right now that it just feels like Obama is going to win; but let's not get ahead of ourselves. I'm in his home state, after all, so nearly everyone here is rooting for him.

Anything can happen, I keep telling myself. Anything! This was proved some years ago, at the local elections in North Wales, when we all thought you had to put the cross in the box by the person you DIDN’T want to win. As you can imagine, there was much anger and frustration in the local pub that night, when we had to come to terms with Agnes 'Nosey' Parker being the boss of us for the next four years.

Even so, it's hard not to get caught up in the optimism that's sweeping through Chicago right now, as thousands upon thousands of people get in line at the polling booths. This city ain't never seen anythin like this! Hand-shakes and high-fives; hugs and smiles and grins.

Dear Diary, August 2007

I think I might be an Americanophile, although this word isn't even in the dictionary because almost nobody is one except me. Which isn't fair really, is it, when you consider that almost nobody is 'genuphobic' either and yet they made a word for that. But when Barack Obama gets elected next year, all of a sudden America will be highly fashionable again. English popstars will write affectionate songs about it like they did in the eighties, and an extra word will be added to dictionaries across the globe.

Americanophile

This morning I had to explain my Americanophilia to a class of ten-year-olds, when I was the 'Guest Speaker' at the school that my new friend Brian teaches in.

"There were only four other kids in my whole year at school," I told them, their jaws dropping. "I lived in a forest! Friends were limited; I read a lot of books."

Most of the books I read were American, of course, and so was the music I heard, and all the movies I saw were. Well, except for when my parents let me stay up with them to watch some kind of arty French film about eating and sex. I don't mention that though; all that French sex. I also don't mention that I met their teacher on the internet.

"Some of the characters in those books were my best friends: Sheila the Great; Sally J Freedman; Anastasia Krupnik..." The kids nod, these people are some of their best friends, too, I bet.

"But why would Annie want to be here for our election?" asks Brian. "Why does it matter to people from other countries what choice we make here today?" Brian is possibly the coolest teacher I have ever seen: the kids high-fived him as they jumped off their yellow school bus. A sea of hands shoot up:

"Because she wants to see for herself who's going to be in charge of the United States?"

"Because we're always getting involved with other countries too... like Russia."

"Because it's historical... we're either getting the first black president or the first female vice president."

"Because of the war?"

"Because she likes Barack Obama!"

Chicago kids are talkative and confident; way more sassy than I was when I was ten years old. In the question and answer session they ask me all about where I'm from. "What kind of clothes do they wear in Ireland?" one kid wants to know.

"Oh, y'know, just jeans and sweaters like you guys, not like kilts or anything," I explain.

"Right," she says. "I mean, what kind of labels? Do you guys have Abercrombie & Fitch?"

Chicago

It's like summer in Chicago today. I'm taking this to be a good omen: The sun shines down in Barack's hometown! But I'm taking all kinds of things to be good omens. The Obama yard-signs I didn't expect to see in Montana; the conservative Republican in Washington who told me, without lowering her voice, that she'd be voting Democrat for the first time in her life. We just really need a president who can lift this country up right now, she'd explained.

I spent all morning sitting in Grant Park, watching the preparations for Obama's return to the city tomorrow night. It's buzzing with security and news crews turning up; every road blocked off. Brian got me a ticket: we're going to be two of the thousands of people here, watching the results come in and waiting to hear his speech, whichever way it goes.

I've been reading Obama's first book on my way here, "Dreams From My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance", which he wrote back in 1995. In it he recalls his absent father's return from Kenya to visit him in Hawaii when he was a kid:

"Whenever he spoke -- his one leg draped over the other, his large hands outstretched to direct or deflect attention, his voice deep and sure, cajoling and laughing -- I would see a sudden change take place in the family. Gramps became more vigorous and thoughtful; my mother more bashful; even Toot would start sparring with him about politics or finance, stabbing the air with her blue-veined hands to make a point. It was as if his presence had summoned the spirit of earlier times and allowed each of them to reprise his or her old role; as if Dr King had never been shot, and the Kennedys continued to beckon the nation, and war and riot and famine were nothing more than temporary setbacks, and there was nothing to fear but fear itself."

It all sounds kind of familiar, somehow.

The Roadhouse

We drove all night to get to the roadhouse, Professor Batty at the wheel as I rode shotgun, peering out at the dark Minnesotan fields. We'd heard there was a band playing somewhere out on Highway 25; people were travelling from miles around. By the time we made it, the dancefloor was jumping. Kind of place you could sit all night at the bar and nobody would ever know your name.

And then the band stop playing, and they're saying they hear that Annie from Wales is around tonight, and someone pushes a whiskey in your hand and sticks a hat on your head, and before you know it they're playing the only Welsh song they know and you're twisting around the dancefloor with the best of them.

And that's when you know that Minnesota is never going to feel the same again.

Somebody left a gate open

I drove Sam's old Cadillac right up the highway, right up until he got a call on his cell phone. We'll have to head back the way, ma'am, he'd said. Some cattle escaped out of my brother's ranch. Oh my goodness, I'd thought. It's like life imitating art: a herd of buffalo caught in the current at White Rapid Falls! No ma'am, said Sam. Just some cows escaped from their field. Somebody left a gate open, I suspect.

At the ranch, Sam saddled up a pair of horses and I'd had to come right out and admit I wasn't a real cowboy. I just like the footwear, I'd said, sheepishly. Sam didn't seem overly surprised. Just squeeze with your heels, ma'am, that'll make her go.

There were three other ranchers out there, about to drive the cows back along the side of the road. Keep them off the highway! Hae, hae, hae, let's go! I clung to my horse, stayed near the back, wishing to God I'd asked for some kind of protective riding hat.

When we were done, Jenny showed up in the truck with a crate full of beer. And there we sat, up on top of our horses, swigging from the bottles, old Blue the dog panting in the late-season sun.

More pics here.

Alone in Wolf Point

It's dusk by the time the train reaches Wolf Point. I'm the only passenger getting off and nobody else is getting on.

“Good luck now,” says the conductor, as I jump down onto the gravel. I look back up at him and he smiles apologetically, like, sorry we have to be leaving you here, ma'am.

The station is deserted. Across the road, in the fading light, I can make out a tyre shop, a saddlery, and a bar. Further up, the pink neon light of the Wolf Point Motel. I turn and watch the carriages as they begin to shunt off without me, off on the long, slow journey through North Dakota.

This is what you wanted, I remind myself. You're the one who said you wanted to be alone.


* * * * * *


But being alone in Wolf Point is harder than you'd think. At eight-thirty the next morning, the phone rings.

“Mornin' ma'am,” says a man's voice. “You about ready to go?”

Ready to go? I only vaguely remember the night before. I remember walking into the bar and finding it full of Mexican people. I remember the barman laughing when I realised, ignorant and confused, that I was in an Indian reservation.

“You thought we were Mexicans, lady? Guys, the lady thinks we're Mexican!”

I remember the men at the bar laughing, trying to remember the last time they'd met a tourist. I remember staring at one man's long, black plaited hair in awe. I remember the white guy in the trench coat, his arm replaced by a metal claw. I'd telepathed my mother back in Ireland: Mama, you'll never believe the things I saw!

I remember Sam, too, this cowboy on the phone this morning, who'd been so taken aback at the thought of a stranger in town he'd said he'd take me on a tour. I look at the clock and groan and hold my head. “You drink like an Indian, lady,” an Indian lady had said.

Sam is a solemn man: a wheat farmer in a baseball cap with land near the Canadian border. As we drive over the plains my hangover kicks in and paranoia convinces me that this is where I'll meet my maker: murdered and abandoned on a railway line. I chatter on inanely. If I show enough interest in my surroundings perhaps he'll let me live.

“Not many birds in Montana,” I say.

“No ma'am.”

“You've got a lot of wheat in Montana.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You know I never learnt to drive, Sam?”

“I find that mighty hard to believe, ma'am”.

We drive all day, past wheat field after wheat field. Sometimes the road is so straight and the sky is so big and the wheat is so still that I wonder if we're even going anywhere at all. I stare straight ahead and think about my family back home. I can see my father's face caving in when he answers the phone. “She was found face down in the corn...”

On a particularly long stretch of empty road, my stomach lurches as Sam pulls over. It's been thirty miles or more since we passed another car, I'm sure.

“Why are we stopping here, Sam?”

He unbuckles his seatbelt and looks at me. Then he opens the door.

“I think it's about high time you learned to drive a car, ma'am...”