Days 5-8

Day 5

Hot again. HOT. Although this fails to prevent me from still taking my umbrella out thanks to prevailing paranoia and pessimism.

Although I am informed of this later, the day begins with Mike both baring and slapping his arse in the face of both a sleeping Chico and a wide-awake Serbian guy, who, presumably, was paralysed with fear and mentally scarred from that moment onward, unable to sleep for the fear of hideous recurring nightmares about a planet-sized hairy arse descending from the skies to engulf him.

The landmark we hunt from the off is the elusive CBGB's, made all the more elusive by the fact that it doesn't actually exist anymore. We were aware that it'd closed obviously but, little did we know that it's literally no more than a shell now, with the famous canopy gone and just a shutter and assorted graffiti in its place. The anti-climactic pilgrimage actually takes all day (well, until around 5) and we finally canter on back to Central Park soon after. Ross and Bowering trek off to find the site of John Lennon's shooting and me and Mike stay round the tree, watching the surprisingly un-meek squirrels eat the grapes left over from Ross' earlier grape shower. Infuriated at the snooty attitude of the uptown, New York squirrel in declining my offer of a grape, I throw one at it in a bitter swipe of revenge and hit it square on, the furry little shit.

Got the Greyhound tickets earlier on also. That was a pain in the tits which I do not wish to recall anytime soon.

Back in Central Park, Ross and Bowering arrive back after what seemed like an age and, tag team style, Mike and I head out in search of the Alice in Wonderland statue. Soon after, due to realisation of our shared desperate need for a toilet stop – simultaneously cursing New York's patented unhelpfulness in providing neither maps nor toilets – we wander aimlessly into a worryingly named 'The Ramble' and begin to eye the thick woodland with suspicion. As usual, Mike saunters up to any old tree and unleashes his load care-free and without any thought as to the possible consequences, whilst I obsessively scout out the most inconspicuous patch of undergrowth and begin my turn, over-alert to the point of paranoia and instructing Mike to warn me of any passers-by in case of me being brutally beaten, raped and fined by the NYPD for, essentially, pissing freestyle on one of their national treasures. Anyhow, I look over and notice Mike mouthing something at me, gesturing and looking worried, so hurriedly I re-sheath mid-stream and wince mentally at the resultant steadily growing wet patch. Apparently however, this is actually Mike's 'all-clear' signal and he just can't control his own body language, so I re-enforce the need of clarity in his job as piss-spotter. Grimly I return to the task at hand, hoping that the second time will actually be the charm. However, by chance I happen to look over and notice some guy practically about to tread on my toes and I panic, again resuming a respectable position at further cost to both my boxers' integrity and my own dignity. A furious glance over at Mike reveals him sprawled out on a bench, texting on his phone. To top it off, we find some public toilets on the return trip. It didn't matter though. I'd still technically pissed my pants.

On the night we actually stayed up in the social area for once with a few beers. Like a dehydrated man at an oasis, Mike gulps back countless bottles in the blink of an eye. An impulse purchase at approximately 3.15 a.m. leads to a much-quoted gem:

Bowering- What the hell's that? (poking the item)

Mike- Don't! It's soft, it's nice, it's Marble Cake!

Day 6

We finally check out of the illustrious Broadway. A cursory check upon waking shows an absence of Chico 2 (previously known as Serbian actor guy), last seen complaining about the air con and looking moody in the common room. Despite what I can only assume was some sort of wake up call/reminder from the well meaning but less than comprehensible cleaning lady, we lie in anyway until precisely 11 a.m. We exit the room and I curse the fact that we forgot to shit in Chico's pillowcase as payback for not answering the door as well as being an all-round swarthy, Norwegian arsehole.

We enquire about booking one more night for the Friday we get back from Niagara, and are met with a curt 'no' from the wiry looking girl who is in place of the hulking, maternal form of the mucho-grande mama sita we'd been used to so far. Somewhat dejected, we leave our bags in the common room. One thing we've learned is that stacking them like some kind of miniature luggage Stonehenge seems to be an effective security precaution (then again, that's going purely on the logic that they haven't yet been ransacked by crack-addict gangstas and hobos, which probably isn't the best line of reasoning in the world) and head grimly in search of another hostel. Unsurprisingly the shit-brained Missy Elliot lookalike at the counter is as useful as a lump of coal, so we head on to the Central Park hostel and, thank god, get beds. We then proceed back to the old Motherland of the Broadway to store our bags and head back to Central Park – the king of destinations for the time-rich and money-free. Entertainment within consists mainly of Ross attempting to climb 'Mount Mike', taunting him with a big stick and then initiating a two on one with me and Mike, ending in us sat on him giving him a taste of his own proverbial medicine. Eventually we rouse ourselves for the arduous big bag bustle into Times Square. I swear I must be allergic to grass since my legs itch to fuck. On the way back we spot some fireflies in a little glade type spot and Ross spends an age trying in vain to capture a flash of theirs on camera.

We muse on what restaurant would actually allow us and our MEGA BAGS into their establishment, and after gingerly entering a Chinese and eventually brokering a deal regarding the bags (pile them all up against the wall, unsurprisingly) we finally sit down and tuck into the likes of 'chicken stick' and other such oriental delights. With a charmingly American obsession with tips combined with a Chinese lack of politeness or awareness of social etiquette, the waitress (or whatever the hell the paunch-faced crone is) decides upon the angle of simply not leaving until we'd paid a tip for the martyr-like trip the waitress took once to the soda machine (the rest was self service) kindly reminding us with a banshee wail of 'TEEEEEP!' whilst jabbing the bill with her leathery sausage finger. Timeless.

Onto the Greyhound station and we arrive well in time, sitting suitably rogueishly against the wall on our bags. Eventually, however, it does occur that, although looking rather cool, I'm not sure whether we're actually in the queue or not. Some bus-dude official eventually splits out the queues and we hastily charge to the front, pushing past the gaggle of slack-jawed negresses which earns us a veritable lifetime of mucky looks and girl-from-the-street aphorisms. Example:

(me to Ross) – So ours is definitely at 10.45?

(Ross) – Yep.

(clearly arsey Oprah lookalike) – Uh huh. Is that so? (adopts raised eyebrow, hand on hip, I'm-an-interfering-skank-bitch posture)

(me) – Well… yeah.

(bitch) – Oh rilly? Uh huh. I guess so. We'll see.

Well I'd fucking hope so you idiotic, rubber-faced skank, considering you've just made a complete idiot of yourself by unsuccessfully trying to force your queue position agenda into the incompatible topic of when the frigging bus departs. Word.

Day 7

The Greyhound may well have been our hotel for the night, but it was by no means as good as. We all stagger off the bus, bleary eyed and smelling faintly of vintage tramp, and soak in the fact that we've been dropped off in what, to all extents and purposes, is essentially Nowheresville, USA. The shop next to us is one of those that's the equivalent of a toothless fat bird laying it all out on desperate display – tottering round in kitten heels and a handbag full of condoms. Anyhow, it appears to be all at once a shop, deli, atm, clothing store and, (wait for it) a daredevil museum. Oh yes.

We get our bearings and head out in the slowly intensifying heat towards Niagara Falls itself making our way to some kind of Scarborough-esque coastline studded with 25 cent viewing binoculars overlooking what we later learn are the American falls. Ross manages to tear the already badly trailing strip on my trousers even more to the extent that I now appear to be walking some kind of small, invisible dog everywhere I go. I spend the next 20 minutes or so attempting to cut the strip off my cargo trousers using a pair of nail clippers I got in a Christmas cracker whilst simultaneously being jostled and stared at by droves of stereotypical yank wank tourists and their vile offspring. I reflect on the ridiculousness of my situation. Only I could actually be doing this at 7.45 a.m. in Niagara Falls.

We make it up to the as yet unopened ticket booth as a plump woman pops in, promising to 'see you shnortly!' which, for the record, is probably the closest I've come to vomiting from the sheer level of cheesy, American, faux-jollity so far. This really should be a federal offence – despite being practically a national requirement along with its polar opposite of also being rude and fucking incompetent – allowable only if said with the actual intent of being punched in the face , and, if not, punishable by a punch in the face. Anyway, I notice she directs this only to the camera-wielding, capped and sandalled congregation of retirees and the white, middle-class nuclear family to the right of us. However, since we actually have the money, they technically have to let such deviants as ourselves in and we trudge in, shuffle into the lift for the awkward situation of looking at the park employee but listening to the smarmy narrative of some Z-list American actor being pumped through the speakers. Once we're at the level of where the dock is, our luggage once again adopts the Stonehenge defence position against the wall. As usual, I spend far too long pissing about locking my bag and when I look up everyone has gone (something that seems to be becoming an all too familiar phenomenon) so I'm left to don my poncho and leave my dignity at the gate along with all the others.

Basically, we sail out and hover near the two waterfalls, though I suspect the sadist Captain deliberately chooses the spots in which i'll get the most wet. I'm one step ahead of him however, and foil his sick scheme through deft adaptation and manipulation of the poncho around my glasses in a somewhat ninja-esque manner. We get back and, as usual, Ross insists on climbing the extra bit to the highest, wettest, and most awkward spot for what I suspect is purely to capture another vagabond-across-America/strong, silent, wanderer moment of himself on camera. We then ditch the ponchos and head out into the park bit, again cursing the bodybag-like weight of our luggage. Congregating around a tree, we once more lapse into the by now familiar regime of bumming around, reading and sleeping. One by one we drop like the victims of some kind of sleep sniper, and, I have to admit, compared to the agony of attempting to sleep in a Greyhound seat, having a huge, gnarled tree stuck in my back is fucking beautiful.

After about an hour and a half of tree-dozing I flicker awake slightly and realise how bloody stupid it was for us to all drop stone-cold asleep with all our worldly belongings in a public park in a foreign country. I pat my pockets quickly and find nothing. Shit. It seemed fate had only been biding its time, lulling me into a false sense of security before truly whipping it out and full on pissing all over me. The growing feeling that my ever-present paranoia is actually justified this time sends me into a panicked frenzy, tearing into my luggage as I struggle to comprehend the sheer stupidity of me leaving my wallet in my pocket and the ramifications of what having no money in a foreign country means (answer: you're fucked) when I find it in a side pocket I don't remember putting it in. I almost pass out from the relief.

After we rouse ourselves once more (my life or death panic having caused only a half-opened eye and a sleepy chuckle in Ross) we doss about a little more, striding to the café for pleasingly rip off prices as Bowering realises the power of branding as he purchases his M and M brownie. We then go to sit on the benches by the American falls to kill time as I attempt to find a comfortable reading spot on the dirty grassy dirt and Mike inducts me into the mythos of Daniel Cardy. After the doing nothing wears a little thin we head on to throw pennies into the falls and laugh at the static effect it has on everyone's hair, in particular the stern-faced old hags who don't realise they look like they're wearing an electrified pubic wig alongside those who do, and attempt in vain to put it back into place. We then exit the park complex – something easier said than done, especially with obscenely heavy bags and maze-like exit route – stumbling into what turns out to be the most chilling slice of Americana we've seen so far. In particular, I found that the cardboard 'Haunted House' on the corner just about says it all. After turning down the all-you-can-eat curry house (something I was quite grateful for given the gastronomic implications coupled with the 8 hour ride back) we head towards the happy prospect of 'Che'z Carole' (sic) in the little touristy street filled with plastic chairs and cringingly outdated music. We amble in and make our orders one at a time and the woman is bizarre to say the least: think dinnerlady mixed with Leatherface's mother after a lobotomy. She chews the cud with what seems to be the local oaf about his mama without so much as even a hint of humour, sarcasm, inflection, or anything in their voices. Terrifying. I'm guessing it was them who let Bush back in then. Mike mocks the enormous, charm-free yokel a little too obviously, guffawing a parrot-like piss take of his accent ridiculously loudly although thankfully, due to mine and Ross' intervention, we manage to escape without being lynched or having our skin eaten.

On the ride back we speak to Anya, who is English, does law at Oxford and is on her way to Rochester, NY. She is hot. There is also a metal guy with an unfeasibly large head on his way to see Rage Against The Machine in NY. He plays Pantera ridiculously loudly on headphones he doesn't wear. He is an idiot.

Day 8

Actually arrive a little earlier than we expected, and we trudge out of the almost entirely dark bus terminal into the unforgiving 7am sunlight. What has become by now a familiar inconvenience of dragging our bags through the hot and teeming streets of New York is now rendered doubly so since we all feel, and look, more or less like shit. After not only brushing my teeth but getting changed and sawing off part of my trousers on a bench yesterday, I feel the trampsformation almost completed. The fact that we initially go the wrong way and one of the wheels on my bag has entirely seized up doesn't help. We eventually make it to the hostel and, yes hispanic receptionist woman, we know we can't check in yet. The merciful black dude on duty – presumably out of sheer pity at our dishevelledness – lets us use the showers. Thank god.

However, this is easier said than done. Ross and Bowering zoom to their respective floors to hunt down a bathroom and me and Mike decide upon the 2^nd floor stakeout option, holding the fort in the waiting area and keeping an ear open for any opening doors. This is by no means as easy as it sounds however, and although the rare sound of an opening door reaches us like a bell to Pavlov's dogs, we can't compete with what seems like almost supernatural speed and precognition as the shower-using residents swap over like half-naked bullet trains. Mike is creased over in colonic agony until, by some kind of mistake surely, a bathroom is left open for more than 10 seconds. My sage-like patience is then tested even more, and the knowledge that Mike is helping himself to a comfortable and extended shit does little to console me.

After what feels like an eternity of hot, stinky torture, I drag my two cattle-sized bags along the narrow corridor past a haughty looking girl (no response to a cheery 'sorry!' and no surprise either, ha!) just to humour myself. Yet, at the heavenly light at the end of the tunnel I see an open door and dive in, unable to believe I'm finally there. I'm sure there's some kind of Confucius-like proverb for the fact that, at that moment, the soaked and slightly grubby box sized bathroom was an absolute oasis in the desert, but I was so relieved I really didn't care. Similarly, after a shower and extensive purification, changing into clothes only marginally less worn and disgusting made me feel like the cleanest and sharpest hombre on the block. I finally emerge and greet Mike by the windowsill, just absorbing the fact that, yes, we are actually clean. Ish.

After dumping our bags in the hold (the surly, clearly displeased looks of the security ape cause me to abandon my last ditch search for my umbrella, something I bemoan for hours until realising it hasn't rained) we head to Penn station – Jersey bound.

We goggle initially at the $40 charge from the tyrannical Amtrak (only 10x what we initially thought!) but then find the NJ transit machines who charge a more agreeable $24.

So we board the train and head for Asbury Park; me and Ross unknowingly listen to 'downbound train' simultaneously, and prime ourselves for a juicy slice of Springsteen land.

Ok, so I was wrong. New Jersey is, not to put too fine a point on it, a complete shithole. I believe my mental note at the time was something along the lines of 'garden state my arse'. Getting off at Asbury Park, what we imagined to be a sprawling wonderland is basically a complete ghost town. We head towards the sea, boardwalk bound, and the sun wears us down with every step like the sweaty, smothering headlock of a fat man. Once we reach the boardwalk, things look marginally better. And I mean only marginally, it seems Asbury Park's pretty limited resources have been lavished only upon the little seaside strip, bringing it up to about Brid levels, albeit with the white-hot sun unremittingly kicking your arse. We grab an ice cream each and potter down to the limited sights (as I attempt to dart between the small spots of cool shade like some albino Ninja) and Ross and I gravitate towards the Stone Pony and Madam Marie's for photo opportunities aplenty. Well, two.

Head back to the station in the still unforgiving sun and thank god for the plucky black girl who keeps the resident hobo sponger con artist distracted with tales of how you can actually get the train without paying no it's true you just say you lost your ticket or fall asleep when they ask you or hide and whatever I've done it before it's ok. Despite her good intent she doesn't appear to realise that he has absolutely no intention of any such thing; any money he gets is either going straight down his neck or jammed straight into whatever working veins he still has left.

On the train back a woman frantically flaps for my attention. Confused, I step out of the way not realising what she wants but instead she turns her demented rambling on Bowering. Turns out she was actually commenting on our clothing and how it had all changed in the last 2 months since she'd been to NY. She paid particular compliments to our white shirts though, at last count, we're wearing brown, black, green and blue. Her drunken stumbling off the train somewhat clears that one up. Back at the illustrious CPH we suit up and head out like our primordial ancestors in search of FOOD. We agree to head out to the Madison Square Gardens area on the argument that it seemed suitably restaurant-heavy. However tonight the subway seems to be under the impression it is in fact the channel tunnel express attempting the land speed record and can just do whatever the hell it fancies at the time. It stops almost at random, throwing us out mistakenly countless blocks from where we wanted to be. After exiting however, we realise that, thanks to some happy accident of fate, actually better for food.

We finally decide upon 'la famiglia pizza' as our eaterie of choice and get on to ordering. The guy who serves me looks like some kind of old-school, 40's Italian mobster who, after my request for a 10" pizza, embarks on an epic oratory of why I shouldn't buy a 10" pizza, citing size, cost, time taken for preparation and overall inconvenience as convincing examples of why the ten inch is not the choice of the wise pizza consumer. I eventually relent and opt for his recommendation of a variety of individual slices. Mike steps up next, and cheerily requests one 10" pizza please.

I look at the guy.

His eyes roll.

Once inside and sat down, we're lambasted with more sob stories and transparent begging tales by hassling sign-bearers than I ever have in a restaurant before. I'd say this is largely because I've never actually been harassed for money whilst eating a fucking meal. The first contestant emerges from the shadows with a grubby but clearly legible sign. Apparently he's deaf and just trying to earn money for his family, although I think he's being a bit generous using the word 'earn'. Me and Mike fob him off with a dollar and receive a business card sized guide to the signing alphabet. What a well kept secret it must be, those suckers taking sign language courses at college obviously missing out on this fast track to bilingualism. Admittedly, my mockery of his methods rings a little hollow since I actually gave him money, but such is the benefit of hindsight. It occurs to me that he goes to particular trouble not to speak, as if being deaf automatically renders you dumb. And since when did deaf mean you couldn't get a job at all?

Next up is 'I have kids but don't have a job anymore so give me money' woman. I find her somewhat disappointing since she doesn't even feign a disability, except clearly being so stupid she can't actually communicate a simple state of circumstances except via a shitty little card. Nor does she dance, offer to do my washing, or tempt us with hidden knowledge like the last guy. This time it's Ross and Bowering's turn to be the philanthropists. I decide not to share with her my kill-two-birds-with-one-stone brainwave that perhaps if she kept her legs and her cheque book closed she could solve both problems in one go. I presume she didn't see the Bono-like generosity exhibited by me and Mike earlier since, according to Ross, she puts a gypsy curse on us when we're not looking.