New York vs Toronto

I had the chance to pop up to Toronto while I was in New York. In hindsight, it probably wasn't the brightest idea. Officially, I was still in the US for agricultural purposes. It dawned on me as I was lining up to reenter the US that explaining the type of agricultural work that I would be undertaking in New York City might be a little tricky...thankfully my customs guy was a good bloke...very quick with the rubber stamp!

I popped up to Toronto to organise some paperwork for my work in Canada and also to visit a friend who's living there at the moment.

I took the red-eye special. I found this amazing bus service called Megabus. Basically they run shuttles between major US cities at prices lower than Greyhound. Because it's a new service, all of the buses are brand new and very comfortable...double-deckers too, so you can sit up top and look out the front window (arriving in Toronto pictured above). Amazingly they have mobile wireless internet available on the buses i.e. you can log on while traveling 75 on the interstate. I felt like a fraud as I flipped the laptop open, given my preaching about the rough-and-ready Greyhound, but it was a nice luxury to have.

I really like Toronto. It was interesting to compare it to New York. I have this running analogy/theory about closely related cities that likens them to close friends. I've written about this before, describing the Sydney-Melbourne vibe. If I cut and paste from that post, I think the same can be applied to Toronto and New York: Toronto is like the friend that you enjoy spending the night with because they are interesting and charismatic, yet concerned about you and whether you're having a good time. New York is interesting and charismatic but it knows that it's good, it flaunts it, and it couldn't give a shit if you have a good night or not - come the end of the evening, it starts to piss you off.

I wouldn't say that New York has ever pissed me off, but there are times that I have felt intimidated by its presence i.e. not cool enough. I think a lot has to do with the physical appearance of both cities. New York, like Sydney draws a lot of its personality from its geographical/architectural credentials. Toronto and Melbourne on the other hand aren't particularly 'beautiful' yet they have a lot of personality (which, in both cases, is right up there with their counterparts) created purly by the people that live in the city.

I found that Toronto like Melbourne celebrates individualism more so than what is in vogue (very important to New Yorkers and Sydney-siders). The upshot of this ethos is that you feel more comfortable amoungst trendiness. The big test is walking into the 'cool' shops and guaging the reception from the sales assistant. Cowboy boots were welcomed with open arms in the suave boutiques of Queen Street West Toronto.

Massive generalistation-alert, but this is my blog!

Testing my theory in an aptly named boutique on Queen Street West, Toronto.

wandering

One of the things I enjoyed most about my last visit to NYC was my liberation from tourist attractions. Tourist attractions hold a strange power; if you fail to complete the mandatory must-visit-list you often have a twinge of guilt as you're leaving town.

Obviously many tourist attractions are well worth the visit (and there are a lot that are worth while in NYC) but, in a lot of cases, anticipation has a habit of letting you down.

I didn't have one tourist attraction on the list when I arrived in town. I had three objectives: 1. Speak to strangers 2. Try random things 3. Get a feel for 'the real' New York (whatever that is). Further to my objectives, 'wandering' became the theme of my visit to NYC. I'd generally sleep in, set off with my daypack and a coffee late morning and just see where my stroll took me. If I saw something interesting I'd check it out. If I could try something different (like a Yoga class!) I would.

As I wrote a few weeks ago, I loved observing the diversity of people on the streets. There is such a good vibe on the sidewalks of the city. Words that come to mind are 'unity' and 'equality'. It's not that everyone is lovey-dovey toward each other (if anything people are quite terse), but whether you are a street sweeper or a stock broker, you are proud to be a New Yorker and this attitude shines.

The following are pics that I took during my wandering. I tried to capture those things that caught my eye: the people, the buzz, the grittiness.

1. A grocery store near my hostel


















2. The ever-packed Times Square


















3. Fire Escapes























4. New Yorkers in Central Park























5. Ice Rink in Central Park


















6. Taxis in Times Square


















7. Cowboy Garbage Man (the only other cowboy boots I saw during my visit! I felt a connection)


















8. John Lennon's memorial in Strawberry Fields (a section of Central Park). Further to my idea about New York oozing history, I just happened to walk past on the anniversary of his shooting.


















9. The Empire State at dusk























10. Carrots at a growers market I found near Union Square


















11. Stacked cars at a city parking lot























12. Secret Garden behind a church























13. 'Mars Bar': an awesome little bar I found on the Lower Eastside. Look for the old guy in the window


















14. Sloshy Streets in Greenwich Village


















15. The Statue of Liberty and some random guy from the (free!) Staten Island Ferry


















16. Students chilling on the steps of the Columbia University library























17. Taxis through the stairs of a pedestrian overpass

Cycling in New York

I think one of the best ways to see a city is by push bike. You're able to cover more ground than you would on foot but, just like walking, you remain connected with your surrounds as you travel. You lose this if you're in a car.

This time around, I waited for a nice day, rented a bike and set out to visit Manhattan's quietly spoken sibling Brooklyn.

Weather-wise, I picked one of my best days in town...it would have been 10 degrees C and perfectly clear. My hostel was in the Upper Westside and I needed to get to the East River which funnily enough runs down the east side of the island, so I plotted a route through Central Park.

Central Park is big enough that when you're in the middle of it you can forget that you're in one of the world's biggest metropolises. I read that the land it occupies is worth about $528 billion! Wherever you are in the park you can find a spot that is either bustling with activity or eerily secluded.

After weaving my way through the throngs of joggers and little dogs with coats and shoes I emerged on the Upper Eastside (home to much of the city's (especially) high-end Real Estate)... not of huge interest to me so I pressed on toward the banks of the East River.

The river isn't particularly pretty. Lots of barges. From Manhattan, one looks across at a very industrial looking Queens, where most of the factories on the river's edge are still in operation.

I was frustrated when the bike track I was following along the river suddenly ended around East Midtown. I followed my nose through some back streets and ended up on First Avenue. I nearly fell off my bike when I realised that I was casually peddling past the United Nations.

I love the fact that New York very casually oozes history and prestige. Wherever you are in the city you will be a stone's throw from something significant, whether it's the location of a famous movie or somewhere more profound and sombre like Ground Zero. It is the volume of such note-worthy places that gives the city such a unique pulse.
I got off my bike and stared at the UN wondering what might be being discussed inside. The reverence in the air kind of dissipated when I realised that it was a Sunday. I found my bike path again which led me under Manhattan Bridge and onto an overpass which fed on to the Brooklyn Bridge.

In the words of my guide book, "Manhattan will most likely overshadow Brooklyn for all of eternity", but I found that it had a quite confidence about it. Apparently it is where the 'edgy' people live i.e. cool but not as pretentious as Manhattanites.

It is big - I stuck to the West side of the city. I will not claim to have conducted a broad and comprehensive analysis of the place, but I caught a good vibe. I was struck by the diversity between various neighbourhoods; a full socio-economic and ethnic spread.

I stumbled upon another bike path, which looked back at Manhattan from the other side of the East River. I was just in time for an awesome sunset behind the Verrazano Narrows Bridge.

Pics:
1. Central Park (look for the squirrel in the foreground)
2. East River
3. My bike under the Manhattan Bridge
4. Verrazano Narrows Bridge at sunset

The highlight of my day today was participating in an insurance fraud sting. I noticed a guy riding the lift all day who seemed to be continually rolling his video camera. At the end of the day he sidled up to me, flashed an ID and asked if he could sit in my little hut to video some 'injured' conman riding the chairlift. Apparently, a team of insurance guys were assigned the case early in the morning and waited outside the conman's place to see what he'd get up to. They were caught a bit off guard (but were pretty stoked!) when the guy took off up the mountain with a friend. The insurance guy I met was the most capable skier, so the team threw together some gear and sent him up the mountain for the day. Needless to say he got some golden material. It was amusing to see the conman disapeering over the crest of a black diamond run. Apparently this guy was going to be up for over $200,000 if they successfully busted him...craziness! Who said being a lifty is boring?

up to speed

I'm obsessive about posting stuff in chronological order. It's getting a bit ridiculous because I left New York over two months ago now yet I'm still writing about my first day in town.

My map is up to date. I'm hanging out in Vancouver at the moment. My plans changed somewhat once I arrived. Originally I was going to spend Christmas with my family in here before joining the rest of Australia at one of the bigger ski resorts in the Rockies. I'd work the winter, hit the slopes, and kill time before meeting some friends for a trip through Europe. However, speaking to a mate who went to Banff after harvest, it dawned on me that this would not facilitate the $$ saving that I needed to do before I landing in Europe.

By all accounts, if I'd joined Dan 'Sniffa' Phelan in Banff I would have had the time of my life but, by now, I would have run out of the money I'd earned holding up merchandise at a Persian rug auction, called my folks for a loan, bought a ticket for a much more economical holiday in Mexico, only to be robbed by a couple of cops on arrival (I miss the crazy adventures that arise simply from being in close proximity to an Australian farm boy).

No, I am living like a miser now so that I can live it up in Europe in a couple of months time. Greatly due to a lot of help from my aunt and uncle here, I've found some work and a little basement to live in for the next couple of months. I'm living in an amazing location at the foot of the mountains that look down on Vancouver from the North.

By day, one of these mountains is my office - I man the lifts at Cypress Bowl. By night, I sell popcorn at the candy bar of a local cinema (or the 'concession bar' as they call it here). My supervisor is 17. He's not sure what to make of me, but I do what I'm told without complaint in return for $8 an hour.

Those who have followed my blog will have picked up that I can get quite fixated on something when I set my mind to it (the post about my coffee quests throughout New York is a timely example). As such, when I went into saving mode, I'd look for every opertunity to save a dime here and few pennies there. I completely lost focus of why I was here, and with that, all of the enjoyment of what it is that I am doing. In many ways, accepting the cinema job was a reminder to me that I am not here to earn the big bucks or advance my standing on the corporate ladder; I'm here to get a feel for a place by living in a community and meeting some of the locals (moody 15 year olds included).

I guess the more 'normal' of my two jobs is up the mountain. Working as a lifty is potentially mind-numbingly boring. I turn up at 8 in the morning (an hour before the public hit the slopes), I get a assigned a lift with another operator, one of us goes to the top station, the other to the bottom, we do some checks, open the lift, and stand there for eight hours helping people on and off, stopping and slowing it every now and then for the odd rookie passenger. Ironically, the inactivity and repetativeness makes the job strenuous.

Each day when I start to contemplate bludgeoning myself to death with a snow shovel, I have to remind myself of where I am. My favourite lift is called 'Raven's'. It's an old high speed quad that you need to arm wrestle in order to load people. This means you're kept quite active down the bottom, making time pass a bit quicker. It's the opposite at the top. Most people riding the lift know what they're doing - i.e. they don't fall over when getting off - so there's rarely any action for the operator at the top. However, the top of Ravens is also one of the highest points on the mountain and provides what has to be one of the best vistas in Vancouver - an amazing aerial of the city and harbour.

One of the other ways I pass time is by taking stupid photos of myself around the lift - I'm perfectinng the art of the 'selfie'. The best is when you set the shot up, hit the 10 second timer, strike a pose, only to have a customer some swishing out of nowhere. The second photo unfortunately turned out like a cheesy professional portrait, but the idea was to capture the view of the city from the top of Raven's (over my left shoulder).

The other adavantage of working Raven's is that it is quite isolated. To get in and out we get a lift on a snow mobile. Awesome fun! I took a video of my ride down the mountain this afternoon (the ride in and out are the highlights of my day). The lift we pass under is Raven's.



So there you go, I broke the chronology (and I survided!); an up-to-the-day update! Plenty of back dated stories still to come, but I'm sure y'all survive if they're a bit out of order.

Joe

The coffee was pretty awful. But that was OK. I walked one block West and I was on Broadway. I had another (much better one) in my hand within a couple of minutes.

I became obsessive in my search for New York's best espresso. This is what deprivation will do to you: I bought a special guide book that listed all the best spots by neighbourhood. Wherever I was in Manhattan, I could find a spot to try within a couple of blocks. After a shot, I'd make margin notes in my guide book so that I'd know where to come back.

#1: a little cafe called Zibetto in Midtown (Sixth Ave and 56th). The note in the margin says "best esp yet!". The shop front was simply a glass door. It led into a long skinny room with a bar (standing room only). The vibe was pretentious - lots of suits, most of whom were clearly regulars. I got brushed several times by the Italian guy behind the counter, but I'm pleased I persevered because, as the locals would say, it was a bloody good 'cup-a-Joe'.

I pretty much crashed as soon as I got to the hostel. I’ve stayed in hostels before but I’ve always opted for a private room. On this trip I’m going for the dorm option wherever I can. Speaking to other travellers there are some pretty gnarly stories that come out of bunkrooms. The best I’ve heard was from an Irish guy I met in Portland. He roomed with a schizophrenic Nigerian guy in Toronto who slept with a machete. One night the Irish guy woke to find the Nigerian at the foot of his bed. The Irish guy asked what was going on. After a long pause the Nigerian started to cry and asked, “is it wrong to love someone”.

I’m glad I heard that story after my dorm-room debut, however it was a weird experience checking in at five in the morning. I couldn’t see anything as I entered the room. All I could hear was the sound of more than one person breathing. As I felt for my bunk in the pitch black, the lucky dip nature of the scenario dawned on me.

I woke to the soft giggles and chatter of female voices. German female voices. Hearing that in a state of half sleep it may as well have been a choir of angels in serenade above my top bunk. Well, that’s a scenario that my best mate Tom and I would have dreamt up (I miss those sessions man!). I was a little excited but I just smiled to myself and drifted off to sleep again.

When I did wake again it was lunch time and I was alone in the room. Including my own, only three of the six beds were occupied. (Turns out my roomies were German. Really nice girls. One was taking a week off from her job as an au pair in Delaware. Her friend had come from Germany to spend the week with her.)

I walked over to a huge window (pictured) looked out and got that arrival buzz again only this time I could express it a bit more freely. I spotted the first port of call for my big walk, “Café Pizza” (you can see it next to the deli in the pic). They advertised espresso. I was sold.

Cross-Sections

One of the things that I’ve discovered in my travels is that I like cross-sections. I don’t like to limit myself to social categories (hence the whole truck driving arts student thing). I highly value diversity and I reckon, if you’re open to it, observing (or even better participating in) the different ways that people lead their lives can be one of the best things that you can do. By nature, it’s not always going to be comfortable, but I think that’s part of learning. For the most part I’ve found my experience to be incredibly liberating.

What I described above is figurative. I’ve also cut some more literal slices throughout my journey: the 2000 mile path we followed on harvest from Northern Texas to central Saskatchewan, and the 3000 mile road trip from Ohio in the East to Vancouver on the West coast. The change in geography, the people, politics, (everything!) is fascinating. The thing I love about the US is that you could shift your route 100 miles to the East, West, North or South (or perhaps do it diagonally!) and you’d have a completely different experience.

I got thinking bout the whole cross-section thing at the end of my first full day in New York. I walked from my hostel which was on the Upper West side of Manhattan down to the southern tip of the island in the Financial District. As the crow flies it’s about twelve kms but it took me a good twelve hours. At the end of the day I took the Subway back to the hostel and flicked through my photos as I rode. As I did, I realised how distinctive each of the districts were that I’d passed through. It also dawned on me that I had journeyed another cross-section.

Pictures from my walk will provide some content for my next post!

hustlers

Last time I stepped off a Greyhound in New York City a guy came out of nowhere and grabbed my bags just as I was about to pick them up off the side walk. “Where you headed sir?”. As soon as it happened I knew that I was going to be fleeced. Before I could say ‘Boston’, the guy had taken off into the terminal with my backpack. As I followed him, I desperately scanned for a Greyhound insignia on his clothing. Nothing. He was just some Average Joe hustling for cash. Sure enough, he didn’t put my bag down at the connecting gate until I’d slipped some Greenbacks into his free hand.

I’d just stepped off the bus with the wet seat and the purple perm lady. My friend Joel and I were changing buses in New York for Boston where we’d spend a few days before return for a week in NYC. It was four in the morning, I was unwell and I was groggy from a crappy sleep. Basically I didn’t have any fight in me.

This time around, I arrived in very similar circumstances, on a packed bus in the early hours of the morning, however this time I came from Philadelphia and, thankfully, my seat was dry. Sure enough, the hustlers were waiting for me when I stepped off the bus, a pack of them this time. No one had time to pick up my bag. I dummied, giving no indication of ownership until the last second, which made the protective lunge at my backpack look a bit over the top.

As I walked away I saw the not-so-lucky-ones being escorted away and held ransom. I walked through the terminal and onto an escalator which spat me straight on to 34th St which is in the heart of tourist New York, near the Empire State Building and Times Square.

As I hit the street I had the same feeling that I always have when I arrive in New York City. It’s like I’m inwardly beaming, almost to the point of not being able to contain it. There’s an urge to stop, look up and stare at the skyscrapers, yet I’m always aware of not being too obvious.

The hangover from the red-eye Greyhound always disappears immediately. Interestingly, on each of the three occasions that I have arrived in New York by bus, it has been on a red-eye. Each time, I have been asleep when the bus arrives which has created the surreal scenario by which most of my initial encounters with the city have been in an underground concrete parking lot. The upside of this scenario is the big entrance that you make when you get to the top of the escalator; you’re suddenly in the heart of the place but you have no recollection of actually arriving there.

Anyway, slightly pumped up by my evasion of the hustlers, I felt like I was on a roll and I wasn’t going to let some dodgy cabbie drive me around town a few times before dropping me at my hostel (completely irrational). I saddled up and walked up 6th Ave to Times Square and into the Subway.

More Awkward Moments on Public Transport

On the train from New York City back to Cleveland Ohio. This guy literally slept (in various encroaching positions) for twelve hours straight, from when he got on - somewhere in New York State - until when I clambered over him to get off in Cleveland.

update

Pics: 1. Leaving Kiowa bound for Ohio (Pauly's hat on the dash).

2. Chuck out the front of the World's largest truck stop (the I80 in Walcott Iowa)

I've had a bit of a break from the blog. I was craving a bit of anonymity after harvest. Toward the end it kept hitting me that I was in someone's company pretty much every waking minute (or at least within ear's shot). We'd get up, pile in a truck, stop at the servo for a coffee and something unhealthy, head to the field and then sit in our respective machines talking to each other all day on the two-way before heading back to the camper in the evening.

It's been a busy and eventful few weeks. We got back to Kiowa on the 28th of November. I was on a real high but very much knew that harvest had run its course. Despite the fact that the homeward journey had stirred up some nostalgia, I had also, for a long time, been looking forward to the next phase of my trip, New York City.

I'd looked into flights, the train and the Greyhound but it dawned on me that I could hitch a ride with Pauly to his hometown in Ohio, which would get me three quarters of way there.

I also mentioned to Pauly that I might be in the market for a small four wheel drive to take to Vancouver and the snow once finished on the East coast. His reply was, "Yeah, no problem. We'll find you a little truck". By 'truck' he meant pick-up truck and, as soon as he uttered those words, a little boy's pipe dream was born. I didn't care how impractical it was, I wanted to own a pick-up and I wanted to drive it trans-America. Little did I know that a week down the track I'd meet Chuck. More on that later.

Pauly, outnumbered nine to one for seven months, was keen to interact with Americans again, and most of all his family, so we left for Ohio the morning after we got back to Kiowa. Turns out that Pauly was pretty bloody keen to get home...we drove a mammoth 1,100 miles (1,800km); 18 hours across Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, Indiana and then finally into Ohio. I stayed at Pauly's place for five days. Most of the time was spent looking for Chuck and also visiting several of Paul's relatives who were all really pleased to see him after such a long absence.

Chuck. He's named after a certain cult martial arts expert of Walker Texas Ranger fame. The reason being he's a '93 Ford Ranger...Ideally I'd have him carrying Texas plates, but it wasn't to be. Anyway, just like the guy he's named after, he kicks arse. Dan was hitting me up to hang the chrome balls of his bumper. I told my Mum about the idea and her reply was something along the lines of "James you won't be turning up to a family Christmas (in Vancouver) with testicles hanging off your car". I got some key ring sized chrome balls instead.

Anyway, the Chuck purchase was a risk. Everything looked good on paper but with a vehicle that old you never know what's going to happen a few miles down the road. I have to say, the risk felt good. I've been super cautious in the past which has its advantages but it can be stifling as well. One thing that I've learned from the past 18 months is that every major (and sometimes very painful) hurdle that life has thrown my way, has ultimately resulted in a strengthening, often exciting, and ultimately good outcome. Wow, I've gone from Martial Arts cars to life lessons in the space of a paragraph.

I left Chuck with Pauly and his mate Justin to sort out rego etc and I finally made it to New York. I would return two weeks later to start my 3000 mile-5000km Westbound journey and it certainly provided some adventures.

The Road to New York

I’ve always got my money’s worth from Greyhound. It’s generally the cheapest way to get around the states and, for this reason, you’re inevitably going to come across some characters.

Last time I was in the US, in 2004, I boarded a bus in Las Vegas for a 16 hour journey to Denver, Colorado. I sat across the aisle from a guy who had lost everything he owned in the course of a week long bender on the strip. He left Vegas with his bus ticket and a few spare dollars in his pocket. I was expecting him to ask me for money after telling me his story. He didn’t.

This time around, I boarded the first of four buses in Wooster Ohio, bound for New York via Pittsburgh Pennsylvania and Baltimore Maryland. On my bus were about half a dozen Amish people. They got dropped at the bus station in several horse-drawn buggies (for real!). They all dressed in black. The guys wore slacks with braces, white shirts and thick woollen capes. A few of the men were smoking pipes before we boarded. The women were dressed in ankle-length dresses, similar capes, and bonnets. They spoke in what sounded to be like a German dialect.

I’m not sure how their Greyhound trip fit in with their beliefs about technology. I was hoping to strike up a conversation with one of them, but it didn’t happen. Apparently communities are strongly concentrated in north-eastern Ohio (whish is where Wooster is)…perhaps they were going to visit another community?

I left the Amish in Akron Ohio and boarded a bus for Pittsburgh Pennsylvania. We arrived in Pittsburgh early in the afternoon in time to get a nice view of the city. It looked pretty cool. Very industrial and kind of gritty looking, but not ugly. It appeared to be fairly densely populated, with many terrace style houses crammed onto steep embankments that ran up from the banks of the Allegheny and Monogahela Rivers which converge in Pittsburgh to form the Ohio River river. We had a 20 minute driver change, enough time to get a coffee from a nearby office building.

As well as the characters, the no-frills ethos of the Greyhound usually provides an air of adventure…often along the lines of “it was a rough ride but I made it in the end”. In 2004 I boarded a bus bound for New York at a particularly rough terminal in Washington DC. It was about midnight and I remember that I was feeling pretty under the weather. I was the last one through the metal detector set up at the boarding gate. The bus was full, there were two seats left down the back of the bus when I got on. One was soaking wet and the other was occupied by a huge suitcase belonging to an equally huge Latino lady. When I saw the suitcase and the lady I was almost resigned to the fact that I’d be travelling in the wet seat. With a clumsy half-hearted argument and a look of desperation, I plead my case. She responded with a few gruff words in Spanish and a flick of the hand. I remember being very angry at the world.

This year’s Greyhound adventure sprung out of the Pittsburgh-Baltimore leg. Basically the bus got lost. The driver missed his exit on the Baltimore beltroad, taking us on an hour long circumnavigation of the city. I missed my connection and the last bus to New York out of Baltimore and was redirected to Philadelphia. By this stage it was about one in the morning.

During winter, bus stations are a popular refuge for the homeless as well as the odd larrikin on his way home from the bar. The Philadelphia bus terminal had employed a security guard to move such characters along. The guy would do the rounds every fifteen minutes asking to see people’s tickets. Apparently he wasn’t all that good with faces because he’d hit me up every time. It started to piss me off. On his third time around I told him that, yep, my plan was still to get on the bus to New York.

The liveliest customer at the station that night was an elderly black guy who must have been in his 80s. He looked like a retired R&B artist, sporting a lot of bling and some big sunglasses. Each time the security guard asked him for his ticket, he’d say he was still looking for it. In between time he’d shuffle around with his cane asking people for money and swearing at them when they refused. Eventually he picked a fight with a cleaner and started following around, wielding his cane. The cleaner was fairly calm initially but got more and more aggravated. Eventually he confronted the old man, “stop hiding behind your cane fool”. The old guy responded by throwing his cane on the ground and raising his fists, “Come on man. I don’t need no cane. I’m gunna whip your ass”. This was enough to have him removed by the police. As the cleaner walked away he shook his head and muttered, “This is the shit I gotta put up with every night”.

The bus for New York finally arrived. There was a heart stopping moment when the station manager told us that the inbound bus was quite full and there was a chance we all would not get on. We just fit. I boarded and was inspired to write a post about The Greyhound. Tapping away under dim light, ipod in to dampen the sound of snoring, the lady sitting behind me tapped me on the shoulder. I took an ear out. “Are you a suicide bomber?”, she asked, deadly serious. “Ahhh, no”. “OK, it’s just I thought you were writing a suicide note before you blew us all up”.

I rolled into New York at four thirty in the morning, 17 hours after I left Wooster, two and a half hours behind schedule but with another US city under my belt and a few more stories to tell.

Last 2 miles...definitely not on speed

Last Day

Balls Of Steel

near the end

Of the 75,000 acres of crop we had to cut at the start of the season, we've got 80 acres left (an area about twice the size of Hyde Park). If we get some good weather, it should take us about half a day to finish up. This last little stretch has been a scramble. The equipment is tired, the crew is tired, the corn hasn't dried out properly, we're running out of storage and the snow is wanting to settle in.

We were on track to finish yesterday night but at three o'clock the fuel pump on the combine blew up and it started to snow. We've fixed the combine, but the weather has put us out of action for a couple of days.

The quality of the crop this year has put a lot of strain on the elevators. The yield is the best that it has been in a few years, so the sheer volume of corn to be processed is causing a backlog of trucks. I've heard of some trucks being in line for up to four hours. The boys in Dobbins' crew have been taking their trucks to the elevator at night and sleeping in line in order to get dumped first thing in the morning.

We've been lucky in that most of our grain is being stored in the farmer's bins, but we're running out of space, so we've been taking the odd load to the elevator. Yesterday, my longest wait was just over two hours. I was a bit frustrated when I finally got over the pits. The guy who dumped me was pretty philosophical about it, "you've just got to focus on one truck load at a time". He's right, and we're certainly in a much better position than most, and very close to the end.

Nerves are starting to fray amongst the guys. There's a good vibe between all of us, but we're all keen to finish. Ronny's keen to have a few days off visiting friends in Montana before heading home for Christmas, Pauly is keen to see his family and friends back home, Prydey's looking forward to getting back into his shorts and thongs and Dan's keen for more snow (he's heading up to work at the snow in Canada).

I'm really looking forward to New York. Pauly's giving me a lift via his hometown in Ohio. He and his mate Justin are going to hang out with me for a day or two in the city and then I'm on my own. I can't wait for the space as well as well as a routine that isn't dictated by plants.

Pauly's truck post bog

Trucking in Colorado

I flicked my camera on while we were moving to Eads Colorado in July. By coincidence The Eagles came up on my ipod and I had a road-tripping moment. The Colorado landscape caught me off guard. I guess I was expecting the rockies. The state slogan "Colorful Colorado" left a little bit to the imagination.

Combine Working at Sunset

This is in Onida South Dakota, cutting wheat back in July. The serenity is a little bit spoilt by the sound of a tractor.

I've been going through the videos I've taken throughout the season. There are some random ones that I think are worth putting up. I took this clip in Isabel Kansas back in June. Paul, Lars and I met four of our combines on the road while they were moving fields.

snow

Politics by Wheat & Chaff

It's the eve of the presidential election here. I've kept politics away from the blog but following the election coverage over the last few weeks has stirred me up. The boys would say I'm bit 'moshy' (emotional). Good. It's time to unplug the W&C again.

Whoever takes office, it's going to be an historical election; this country is going to end up with either a black president or a female vice president. A lot of commentators are saying that the election is not about race. They're naive. They may not like it to be about race, but it is.

Where I am at the moment I've come across a lot of animosity toward Barrack Obama. Certainly, South Dakota is traditionally a Republican state, but sadly some opposition is racially charged. It is for this reason that I am pleased that this election is about race. As far as I'm concerned, Obama could be the second worst president in US history; his election would achieve something that is so much bigger than the political responsibility of the President of the United States. For a start it would represent some exposure therapy for those so scared about the prospect of a black guy in office.

Many who are racist base their anger and fear on some valid concerns, even if these concerns surround a small proportion of a particular community. There are some major problems within the African American community in the US and a lot of these problems, especially crime, do adversely effect others. Yet those who put these problems down to the colour of a person's skin fail to acknowledge the source of the problem, that is, the anger and self-depreciation felt by a community that has been downtrodden for centuries. You can claim equality all you like - sure, slavery may have been abolished centuries ago, but prejudice exists. Whether it is culturally induced or just a nasty facet of human nature, it exists; I have felt it and participated in it.

The way I see it, racism in this country is a self perpetuating cycle: the more problems within any minority group, the more prejudice, the more anger, the more problems. Barrack Obama can be the stick in the spokes. If he is elected he will not only be a very public example of an African American who has broken that cycle, but he will have obtained the highest office in the world's most powerful nation.

It's easy for me to take cheap shots a George W here. Truth is, I think he's the kind of guy that I'd love to hang out with on the ranch (there's a great Harold and Kumar scene that explores this scenario - click here to see the clip); he's the kind of crazy cowboy that I've come here to meet. But he's not the kind of guy that you want running this country, simply because he does not understand and represent a large enough proportion of his constituency. Many of his biggest stuff-ups I think stem from this. The fact that Barrack Obama is black does not mean that he is going to serve only black Americans, but he will certainly be much better equipped to represent those (not only African Americans) that I think have been misrepresented for such a long time. In doing this, I think the US will take some huge steps forward (bigger than killing all of the 'terrorisers'!).

Crew Pic

Left to Right: Brian (foreman), Greg Thurman, Ali Thurman (Greg's daughter), Ann-Mari (Brian's fiancee/cook/crew Mum #2), Christian (Denmark), Me, 'Prydey' (Andrew - Aus), 'Sniffa' (Dan - Aus), 'Scuba' (Steve - UK), 'Turkey' (Steve - Aus), Pauly (Ohio), Ron (NZ), Lars (Sweden), Timmy (Aus), Cheryl Thurman (behind the camera - cook/crew Mum #1)

Ron and I did some proper trucking the other day, driving 1,200km from Faulkton South Dakota up to Hallock Minnesota and back again. Ron took us up there, traveling east out of Faulkton, following the Minnesotan state-line north through North Dakota before crossing into Minnesota 20 miles short of the Canadian border and into the town of Hallock. I brought us home with nothing in tow.

Our cargo looked a bit pathetic. We needed to deliver a grain cart trailer belonging to another harvest crew but we were also hauling a four-wheel buggy that Greg had sold to a guy up north. The upshot was that we used a huge trailer to move a tiny vehicle and it looked a bit dicky. We got a few sideways looks.

Load aside, it was great for me to get away from the back-roads and onto the bigger highways and interstates. In one respect, the novelty of driving a truck has worn off; it is how I have earned a living for the last six months. However, every now and then, as I’m easing the 18-wheeler out onto the blacktop, snapping through gears or cruising at 65mph, I have a flashback to this time last year when all I was driving was a mouse and a keyboard.

These moments often occur when another truck driver waves at me. Part of me feels underqualified to wave back. For a start, it took me a while to personalise my truckie’s wave. The formula involves a little bit of wave and a little bit of point (toward the direction you're traveling). My wave is a sideways hand flick that starts with five fingers but ends with a pistol point. It's good because it doesn't require too much distance from the steering wheel and, given that it's a small gesture, I don't feel too bad if the other party doesn't reciprocate. Some drivers will slowly raise their whole arm, kind of like they're dismissing a batsman in a game of cricket.

Anyway, technique aside, the wave acknowledges that we have something in common - we drive trucks - and there exists a mutual respect. However I do sometimes feel that my cab misrepresents me, most of all the fact that I am very much a rookie driver.

Yet herein lies something that I love about truck driving: each cab tells a different story. Coming over here, to me truck drivers were dudes that you’d flinch at a little bit when crossing paths at the fuel bowser; hard men in little shorts and blue singlets with tats on their forearms. In the US, they could not be a more diverse bunch of people. For a start, I can correct my gender specific sentences; you come across a lot of women driving trucks. Trev from Dobbins’ crew told me of a woman he saw leaning against her rig who, he thought, would have been in her 80s. I’ve seen huge drivers, tiny drivers, tough guys, geeky looking drivers, mullets, clean-cut drivers, black, white, Latino drivers, drivers with poodles; the spectrum is broad. For many, their truck is all that they own; they live in it, often with a partner and an animal or two, and travel wherever their cargo takes them.

Every now and then I like to have a bit of fun the little detour in my career path. Passing through Aberdeen on our way back to Faulkton I wanted to express that feeling of two-worlds-colliding, so I took the truck to do some shopping at the mall. I insisted on parking amongst the cars, as close as I could get to shops, and stopped for a photo out the front of WalMart on the way out.

My Durangos

Pauly

Physically, Pauly is a pretty big dude…he’s the first to admit this. He’s also an unashamed redneck. He gets around with a fishing hook clipped to his hat – it’s some kind of redneck accessory. I haven’t quite worked it out and Pauly didn’t give me a very good explanation…I’m told that many rednecks share a love for the outdoors and so I guess if you're a redneck you’re the kind of guy who might like to throw a line in at any given moment and, if you do, you don’t want to be caught without a hook (!?!?) Clutching at straws here…it’s a weird accessory!

Further to the outdoorsman persona, Pauly owns a lot of camouflage gear, including a set of camo bed sheets. It was also Pauly’s .22 rifle that scared the shit out of me when I saw it pointing out from under his bed sheets just after I’d settled into the camper (strange to think that I wouldn’t look twice if I saw the same thing today).

All of this said, I think there’s a lot more to Pauly than the redneck. Going on my description above, you’d think he was some kind of hard-edged urban militant. If you hang around him a bit – we’ve had five months to do so - you actually find that he’s very sharp and, I think, a bit of a softy at heart.

Hailing from Ohio, Pauly is the only American on the crew (apart from Greg). The fact that, in this regard, he is a foreigner in his own country is bizarre and I think frustrating for him at times. By default he is the target whenever one of the boys wants to sound off about America and, for this, he gets his fair share of shit. The fact that he takes this all in good humour and turns the other cheek when he needs to indicates to me that he is incredibly strong willed.

This is Pauly’s second year in a row working for Greg. I’ve realised that it takes a certain type of person to make a career out of custom harvesting (even if it is a short one). Most of the boys, including myself, have indicated that they would not back up for a second year in a row, simply because of the full-on nature of the lifestyle. Similarly, the fact that Pauly is back again this year, also indicates strength of character. The same can be said for Lars who is serving his seventh year!

back to the big smoke Pt II

The last time I returned to the Big Smoke I had a bit of an identity crisis. We visited Denver back in July and I found myself freaked out by the spectrum of life that is so rawly displayed in a city i.e. the good stuff about life but also the ugly stuff. By the end of the trip, I was surprised and a little bit disconcerted to be craving the simplicity (and inherent safety) of the country life that I've been introduced to on harvest. A couple of weekends ago I had the opportunity to return to the Big Smoke, this time to Minnesota's Twin Cities, Minneapolis-St Paul, and my experience was quite different.

Generally I'm a pretty categorical thinker; I like things to be black and white; I like to be able to rule something as good or bad; and I like to be able to clearly define my position in the world (as I write this I can't help but feel rebuked by the fact that I uprooted a career in film production and the city life to come and try farming...anyway, just run with me for a second).

My first few weeks on harvest I would frequently step back in awe observing the people that I was meeting and the experiences that I was having. I think the thing I liked most - and still do - is the craziness of people; the happy-go-lucky attitude by which so many live life and yet the ever present safety net of routine and uniformity that exists in the country. In many ways I wanted to be like the boys in this respect and going back to the city gave me a small crisis of choice I guess.

However, as the season has rolled on I have realised that there are things about the city and things about the person I am in that context that I do not want to change. There are also things about the country life and the boys that I do not want to adopt - not necessarily things that are bad, but things that are different - and this is OK. What I have learned is that I don't need to be hard and fast a city boy or hard and fast a country boy, I can be a collage of both, and this is the philosophy that I put into practice during my most recent visit to the city.

On the one hand I was walking around with my ipod in and an espresso in my hand, yet I was also pounding the pavement with my cowboy boots (which, incidentally, are one of the best things about the country life). Sensible James made sure I bought a ticket every time I rode the light rail around town, yet that same guy hitched a ride with some friendly firefighters to a night club later in the evening (Timmy was proud).

It helped that I found Minneapolis to be a fantastic city. It's a US place name that is familiar but not one that you'd consider one of the big tourist destinations. Discovering such places is one of the things that I've enjoyed most about harvest. Such pleasant surprises are also one of the things that I enjoy most about travel and, I'm finding, that they will most often occur when you're off the tourist trail.

The Twin Cities are separated by the Mississippi River, Minneapolis on the west bank and St Paul on the east. The diversity that freaked me out in Denver was even more prevalent in Minneapolis, yet this time I embraced it. At one stage it was the world's flour milling capital and also had a large lumber industry. Like so many industrial capitals, a lot if the industry has been shifted to other locations, however many of the buildings remain, giving parts of the city a gritty feel - the 'Warehouse District' is especially cool.

I'm not sure why, but the city has an incredibly vibrant arts scene, apparently second only to New York in terms of live theatre per capita. Walking around the CBD you'd see huge RVs with blacked-out windows parked out the front of clubs and music venues, belonging to various artists on the tour circuit. Bars and clubs were also full of creative types. It was fantastic to come across the odd filmy.

Another interesting little fact is that Minnesota excludes clothing from its sale tax. To cater for a huge throng of out of state shoppers, it is home to the largest mall in the US, The Mall of America. America doesn't do such attractions in halves and, needless to say it is a pretty amazing, slightly scary, place: its a $650 million complex, contributing $1.8 billion to Minnesota's economy, there are about 520 stores spread across four levels and 23 hectares of retail space (for those back home that's nearly twice the size of Hyde Park).

Steeple Bar, Orient SD

If I ever open a bar it will be modeled on The Steeple in Orient South Dakota. Set in a deconsecrated church, its founders would turn in their grave if they saw its current condition, yet this tiny town (with a population of no more than 200) is home to a bar that would rival any establishment that I've come across in Sydney in terms of its character.

My first night there I was attacked by a crazy looking Golden Retriever at the door. Turns out that this was Junior, one of the proprietors. He was a lot more friendly once I got inside and bumped into him sitting at the bar enjoying a beer out of his bowl. Junior belongs to Kevin, the guy who runs the bar. Kevin is a bit creepy looking, but I think you need to be a little bit different if you run a bar like The Steeple.

My run in with Junior set a precedent for each of my visits to The Steeple where by a potentially shit night has been salvaged by the unique vibe of this place.

It still looks like a church from the outside. It's most distinguishing feature is graffiti; every square-foot of the interior, except the bar top, is covered with "was heres", poems, love messages, phone numbers, caricatures, photos, all contributed by patrons. Inscriptions extend to the rafters and the ceiling (the only space left available), accessed by a couple creaky-under-foot loft's.

The other aspect I love about Steeple is the fact that there is no basin in the men's toilet - incredibly unhygienic, probably illegal but kind of exhilarating in its statement of rebellion.

Never has the bar been packed when I've been there. All you need for a great night is good company, some money for the Jukebox and a couple of felt tip pens.