I’m back in the USA. It’s a great feeling – in theory, I shall never have to pass through American or British immigration by myself ever again. In fact, when I passed through immigration in Dallas, I was informed that it would be easier for me to have passed through with Heather – which was interesting, considering that, in Dallas, I wasn’t asked any probing questions at all, making it easily one of the easiest entries I have ever made. It was also the first time I had received a happy immigration officer – he noticed that I had never entered America through the same Port of Entry twice and asked if I was trying to collect the set!

So, now I am in America, and I have a funny feeling. Technically, it’s 7:04pm – but in my head it feels more like 3am. There is nothing positive about jet-lag. I have yet to meet someone who thrives on jet-lag; nobody goes on holiday to experience jet-lag. It’s horrible. Quite horrible.

As well as the premature tiredness, it is also very successful at disorientating me, confusing me, and zapping any ounce of proactivity I may have had. While I am passing the time in this state writing on the computer, poor Heather is at an orchestra rehearsal practising for two 4th July concerts. It felt a little strange for Heather to go to work at 3am – but I guess if we want to live in this country, we have to abide by its time-zone.

To help with the ’shift’ I take a herbal supplement: Melatonin. These small, unmarked, white pills (that always seems to get through airport security unchecked) are designed to naturally alter the chemicals in the brain so that we get tired and wake up at an acceptable time. On the whole, they work. However, they are quite reliant on the person actually remembering to take them. When you are very tired, this is not always possible.

At least it only lasts a few days, eh?!

One of the places Heather and I visited on honeymoon was Salt Lake City – a fairly vast city built solely for the purposes of the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints (or LDS for those in the know, or those who want to express their faith through their license plate). Salt Lake City is a beautiful place, their architectural style is very striking, and (on the whole) the people there are very friendly. Almost too friendly.

Since SLC is a place of pilgrimage, it is not surprising that there are tours available. There are also a number of “tour guides” who wander freely amongst the tourists to offer any ‘help’. For some reason, this made me feel very edgy. I felt that they had an alterior motive – that they were using this opportunity to convert as many people to LDS as they possibly could – starting with me. When I mentioned to one girl that I was on honeymoon I was immediately presented with a sheet of paper explaining the church’s beliefs in marriage. When I asked about the LDS’ view on woman in the church, the reply that came was very informative, but somehow a little too rehearsed. At the time I felt a little like they wanted me to cast-away my Anglican beliefs and immediately embrace their way of thinking. However, in hindsight, I think I was a little too paranoid.

It occurred to me that what I was presented with at SLC was not all that different from what I was presented with when Heather and I went on cave tours in Nevada and Montana. The Tour Guides on the cave tours were very eager to express how important the caves were, why we should treat them with respect, and what we can do to help maintain the caves. The Guides told us about how the different formations were formed, unbelievable as it sounded (”Really? It’s just dripping water!?”), and when I asked a question, the reply that came was very informative, but a little too rehearsed. I’m sure that if I had asked something in the visitor center, I would have been promptly presented with a handy pamphlet telling me all I wanted to know and more.

I don’t really know how to draw a conclusion from this post. It was just a thought I had, that I have now shared with you. Do with it as you want.

If you are travel-savvy, then you will know, from the subject, what this post is about. If you are not travel-savvy, then this image should help:

Vancouver International Airport is an airport I got to know very well yesterday. Very well. Too well. I like airports, I find them interesting places to people-watch. Vancouver Airport is very nice as well – and by that, I mean that it is very clean. It’s an airport that is both very modern in design, yet remembers its history. For example, this is what greets you as you enter immigration.

Two, terrifyingly massive statues that replaces the need for a sign that says ‘Don’t mess with us’. Incidentally, the picture implies that between those statues at the immigration kiosks is just a beautiful blue expanse of carpet for people to mill around, possibly eat a picnic, and maybe play a game of football. In reality, it is entirely made up of tape barriers, arranged in a zig-zag that would rival Disneyland – but that wouldn’t have looked nice in the tourism brochures.

All in all, Vancouver Airport is a very pretty airport, and I was looking forward to my trans-atlantic flight from there (I flew from Reno to Seattle, and then from Seattle to Vancouver, for anyone playing airport bingo). However, my stay was not as straightforward as maybe I would have liked.

My previous flights had all been fairly uneventful, so I was in a bit of a daze when I got off the plane from Seattle (which, is one of the shortest flights I have ever taken – about 15 minutes). Coming from America, meant that we were an international flight, so it was necessary for us all to go through immigration. The high-powered businesswoman who had sat next to me on the plane and I unintentionally raced to be the first one to get cleared – but after 15 minutes of walking, and no sign of the immigration kiosks, we both got gradually slower and more tired. In total, it took twenty minutes worth of walking to get to Immigration. I cleared it without a problem (for once!) and found out that my luggage would be appearing on Baggage Carousel No. 32.

Naturally, the Carousel closest to the immigration kiosks was No. 1 – so yet more walking was required. While I was waiting for my bag, a number of slightly bizarre things happened. 1) The high powered businesswoman I sat next to on the plane stood next to me at the baggage carousel. Not particularly bizarre, but instead of wearing the suit that she had on in the plane, she had got changed into a Marilyn Monroe-style scarlet dress with unrealistically-high stillettos. 2) Above the Carousel was a TV screen showing the news with the sound turned off and no subtitles. On the screen, one news item showed two caterpillars, then a man smearing grease on a pole, followed by images of people stood on the roof of their campervan hosing down a tree. 3) That same screen regularly showed still images of some salami, a budgie, a bonsai tree, and some eggs with the caption ‘Be Aware’. 4) My baggage appeared on Carousel No. 21 – a flight from Salt Lake City.

That wasn’t the end of the strange incidents, however. After much walking through customs, and much wandering around the Domestic Departures terminal. I eventually found the way to the international departures area. Which, not surprisingly, was quite a long walk away. By the time I got to international departures, I was quite tired. I had two suitcases and my carry-on was digging a trench in my shoulder. So, I was well-pleased to find that the check-in desk for my flight was located in Domestic Departures. So, I walked all the way back again.

Now, I could continue to talk about how my orange juice was confiscated by security for potentially being a dangerous liquid (while I was drinking from it!), how my gate was at the other end of the terminal, and how every shop in the airport closed at 4:30, while my flight departed at 8:15. But that would just be too negative. So, instead I will just mention that my flight over was very uneventful, I landed safely, and my bags were some of the first to appear on the Baggage Carousel.

Bon Voyage

H and I are now married. Thank you to everybody who turned up, ate cake, or gave us some sort of ‘Good Luck’ or ‘Congratulations’ message.

Now H and I are on honeymoon. This is likely to be the only blog about the honeymoon that will be written during our honeymoon. This is because it is incredibly rude of me to be writing a blog while my wife is around, and also because I think this will be the only time I have access to a computer in the next two weeks.

H and I are currently staying in a trailer. In Britain and American Trailer would be considered a static caravan – and, on the whole, they are looked down on by society. However, this one has a little bit of a difference. For starters, it is advertised as a Bed and Fix-Your-Own-Breakfast – but the pancakes that were in the freezer turned out to be quite delicious. The other reason why this trailer is so special is because of this:

Notcie anything? No? Precisely. This B&B is in the middle of abolutely bloomin’ nowhere – so much so that it is advertised as the End Of The Trail…er! We have un-hindered views of the Great Basin National Park all around us, and, quite frankly, I’m quite chuffed I found it. The inside of the trailer is exactly as you would expect a B&B to be like – there’s all the amenities one could want, and a lot of really good, local, art on the walls to keep us entertained.

Today, H and I went on a tour of Lehman caves – one of the most spectacular caves in the world, and I have no reason to doubt that. Our 90 minute tour was interesting, enjoyable, and cold (it is quite hot outside, so I consider the temperature in the caves to be a bonus). Naturally, we weren’t the only people on the tour. One particular couple could only be described as stereotypical American tourists. For example, and to link it back to our accomodation, they were explaining to the guide that they used to live in a trailer in his home state of Kentucky. ‘Were you there for a long time?’ the guide asked. ‘Oh yes’, said she, ‘about 6 months’.