When The Human Touch Is What I Need

The Independent SF

Five days later I'm just about back on the ground, peeled off the ceiling from what was, as expected, another James triumph. Every James gig stands out for different reasons, this had many to sear it onto my mind. The intimate venue, the soundcheck, the Q&A, an 85% close to perfection setlist and most of all enjoying the music in a new country with new friends. Oh, and I finally gave in, couldn't resist anymore and bought a James daisy t-shirt. 

Chat during the soundcheck

While the lead-up to the gig was exciting, I held a few minor anxieties in the back of my consciousness, all successfully drowned out by cranking up the James back catalogue, as J-Day approached. 

An irritating voice couldn't stop itself from whispering, will they play the tracks you wanted or will you leave disappointed? Will they deviate a little too far from the originals and leave you feeling cheated but too proud to admit it? Do they really want to open up the soundcheck to obsessives and take questions from them? Is it a good idea to be meeting strange men off the internet to go to a gig? I needn't have worried. James delivered on the night. Charmed in the VIP access moments and the strange man,  wasn't strange at all. Embrace the twenty-first century and meet people off of [sic] the internet. 

As is the English way, gigs and drink go hand in hand so after meeting in bar, I headed with my new fan friend to the soundcheck, arrival timed, as is the London way, just before everything kicked off. Walking into a gig space in the middle of the day is much like leaving the cinema in the afternoon only in reverse. You still move into the new environment blinking, trying to orientate yourself and adjust to the changed reality. Thinking about it, it's a close as we'll get to Star Trek type beaming, moving instantly from one world to another. If that new world entered offers a chance to chat with a band you've enjoyed for many years, the surrealism is only increased to an acid free acid trip.

I enjoyed the VIP experience, was impressed by the band's candidness and their willing to offer full answers. The "strangemanofftheinternet" (not strange at all really) asked how Tim Booth's walkabouts came to pass. Tim explained, from a festival where their crowd were there to see Korn. In the run up, they'd been accused of being "gay" and so decided to up-the-ante and appear in glittering costumes. A reasoned and humourous response. Apparently Saul preferred to simply challenge the more vocal of the crowd to simply, "suck his ****!" Booth didn't enlighten us if anyone took up the offer.  

The walkabout was Booth's idea, responding to a particularly vociferous member of crowd, he got down and sang "Sit Down" straight to the man. I like James a lot but even I'd be a bit uncomfortable having someone sing into my face. Regardless, it worked and the man asked Tim to give him a hug afterwards. 

My favourite moment however, came from Saul who, when discussion turned to the band's anticipation of their Coachella set, compared festivals to life. You spend the first part wandering around, trying to get your bearings before deciding if you're having a good time then getting into the swing of it. Or at least, words to that effect. How apt. 

For the record, songs heard in the soundcheck were "Sound", "Johnny Yen", half of "Out To Get You" and "English Beefcake". "Out To Get You", a particular favourite of mine, was not played in its entirety because of the special ending planned. This prompted discussion over the band not wanting to repeat themselves and how they don't like to play the track too often to preserve the freshness of emotion. Some bright spark in the audience piped up that they'd played it in the last SF jaunt. It was duly struck off the setlist. Whoever you are, I shall hunt you down.

                            "Look at what you could've won" - "Out To Get You" @ Coachella 

After the soundcheck  The "strangemanofftheinternet" (not strange at all really) and I headed to a local bar, were joined by The Missus and The "strangemanofftheinternet" (not strange at all really) took over the internet enabled jukebox with James' Woolwich Arsenal back catalogue. This was not as much of a hit with the crowd as it was with us. A fellow drinker pleaded, when I returned to select more tracks, to "not put on any more James please, I haven't heard them since college." His request was, in the most part, ignored. 

Planned setlist thanks to @larryontour

James, always wanting to stay fresh, delivered an in part spontaneous setlist. Thanks to those at www.wearejames.com for exactly what was performed for I was too busy "flailing about". Brilliantly "Waterfall" stayed and I got to hear "Come Home" for the first time live (cue significant "flailing about"). Though "Out To Get You" was lost, the enthusiastic crowd prompted another encore and were rewarded with an acoustic, almost waltz version of "Laid". "Sound" remained, which has to be one of the best songs performed live by any band. Much to this Englishman's delight, "Waltzing Along"..."...may your eyes be opened by the wonderful" made an outing. "Ring The Bells" came in earlier in the list, was as uplifting as ever and appears to be rightfully a James mainstay.  The only real lacking was "Tomorrow" but, as I watched this live on the Coachella webcast, I couldn't help but think the band had done themselves proud and served me well.  

That megaphone can mean only one thing....."Sound"

Until the next time, "Sometimes, when I look deep in your eyes, I can see your soul." 

May Your Eyes Be Opened By The Wonderful

My first memories of James, like many, are of sitting down and jumping up and sitting back down again in near enough rhythm to their 1991 hit, "Sit Down." This track remains their most well known song though their Woolwich Arsenal of a back catalogue  has more well known tracks than they're often given credit for. James are, Tim Booth, Jim Glennie, Larry Gott, Saul Davies, Mark Hunter, David Baynton-Power and Andy Diagram.."on trumpet". 

Whenever the Madchester scene is remembered, The Stone Roses and Happy Mondays leap to the front of the queue of peoples' minds, while James modestly, politely stand patiently behind. As with all those that offer some restraint, James offer so much more than their louder, brasher counterparts. Despite a quiet period for most of the 00's where Tim Booth (lead singer) explored other ventures, James returned, firing on all cylinders with their back catalogue, creating new music as good as the emotionally charged, frantic and Proustian classics that they are loved for. "Waterfall" and "Of Monsters And Heros And Men" being as good as any of their earlier work. They still got it.

          The band perhaps best known for "Laid" in the US thanks to the American Pie soundtrack

I didn't get the chance to see James live pre-hiatus but have made up for it by being immersed in their emotional farewell gig at the Manchester G-Mex, recorded live in 2001. Luckily for me and many others, the James return meant I could make up for the many lost live chances, seeing than perform at festivals and venues across in the UK, The Royal Albert Hall, Shepherd's Bush Empire and the legendary Brixton Academy to name a few.

Singing along to "Ring The Bells" V Festival, 2007

I have so many wonderful memories of live music, being at one with the crowd, hundreds or thousands of voices singing with you, yet it still feels as though the band are playing just for you, straight to you. This for me is what live music is all about. It takes great skill, humility and boldness to win the crowd and James make up so many of these memories. 

When Oasis finally split halfway through the V Festival of 2009, James got bumped up the bill. Tim Booth, in an impromptu tongue in cheek nod to the temper tantrum toddlers of chart rock, inhaled from one of the onstage helium balloons and chipmunked out a few bars of "Wonderwall." Considering Oasis had let their fans down, this was a fitting nod to their childishness.

A Boothian walkabout

Great though this moment was, the standout memory for me was when Tim headed down to the crowd for one of his signature walkabouts. At one point he handed over the microphone to me for a few short seconds during "Born Of Frustration." It was no matter that a combination of shock, exuberance and that festival feeling meant that I could hardly remember the words. I may also have been distracted by my frantic hat waving which for some reason became my dance of that summer. Yet again James had broken through the proscenium arch and enjoyed the moment with their fans and I had made my debut on the V-stage with my favourite band. Well, sort of.

                         From 4.20 onwards is where the action really is or not really but I loved it 

This week, James embark on an American tour structured around their Coachella dates (details at www.wearejames.com). My heart sank when I heard that they were playing the festival, having had such a great time there last year and missing out on tickets this time. It leapt  though when news of an SF gig came out. Oh to experience their performance at that beautiful desert festival.

So I'd lucked out on Coachella and having missed The Morning After The Night Before Tour in 2010, being in London when the band played SF and vice versa when they played London, there was no chance of missing out again. In two days time James will play the Independent in San Francisco, I'll even get to experience the sound check. I cannot wait to enjoy the band nail it live once again. 

I'll be committing another fantastic James experience to memory for they have been a soundtrack to my growing up and to my adulthood. Sitting on the floor at a school disco - "Sit Down". Leaving uni and driving to London with my best mate, car full of swag and an ironing board constantly threatening to decapitate us on the M6 - "Come Home". Playing Goldeneye endlessly on the Nintendo 64 (and I don't do gaming) - "Tomorrow". Sitting on a beach in Mexico stunned as the waves emulated and lulled with the music - "Of Monsters And Heros And Men". Singing as loud as I can with my best friend at Brixton Academy - "Out To Get You".  Loving another friend enjoy a song so much - "Sound". Jumping up and down like an idiot every time, everywhere  - "Ring The Bells". 


Every band should have a bit of brass, in their delivery and an instrument. James also mix in violin. They're not afraid to experiment onstage and rumour has it, according to the internet pixies, they've rehearsed over 60 songs for the current tour. Who knows what Wednesday's setlist will be. James prove that the best live music is not about lights, staging and fancy presentation but musicians who connect with their audience, enjoy their music, enjoy their time onstage together and make each night special.


So whatever songs James choose to bring to San Francisco, I can guarantee you they're going to be great and there will be a raving review here soon afterwards. As soon that is, as I am peeled back down from the roof. It's not English to be so openly and publicly enthusiastic perhaps the US is getting to me.

Cuisine du Sud - Southern Style Cooking with a European Flourish

There are so many restaurants to choose from in SF that when you're in the mood for a splurge it's hard to go back to one you've already enjoyed if, like me, you don't splurge as often as you'd like. Sure you can go back to your favourite burger bar repeatedly but when there are plenty of top end offerings to send your taste buds on a reverie, the risk of going back somewhere that you hold in high regard and finding that it's not as good as you remember or time has embellished your experience, is risky. I'm so glad we went back to 1300 Fillmore.

My French 75

I first took The Missus here for her birthday in 2011 and had one of the best meals I've ever eaten in the city. I still dream of the hickory smoked spare ribs that were on special and the cornbread that's lighter on your tongue than Wayne Sleep is lighter on his feet. Looking for a special place to take my folks who were in town from the UK, The Missus and I took the gamble to go back to 1300 Filmore. It offers something you don't get in the UK, Southern style cooking, but it has a lighter, more sophisticated edge.

The ambiance is just as I remembered, if not better. Relaxing, classy but also with a buzz. Jazz legends adorned the walls as we sipped on our cocktails, reclining in leather armchairs but the night was given even more of an oomph when we could hear house music playing subtlety but noticeably in the background. The "European accent" that enhances the food has tripped on into the sound system. 

Not a wall of sound but a wall of jazz

The cornbread is still light, fresh and cakey like fresh brioche. I ordered the Maple Syrup Slow Braised Beef Short Ribs. Beef that again dissolved on my tongue. The velvety mash was delicious (though still not as good as the mash served at Maze in London but that was something else entirely). The mac and cheese with truffle was rich and creamy.

For our appetizers we shared the Shrimp Hushpuppies which were, for me, the lowest point of the meal either slightly over done or the oil was a little old but I was in the minority. The rest of the party lapped them up. We were persuaded by the waiter to try the Barbecue Shrimp N Creamy Grits. I really don't like grits but good Lord they were delicious. Light, creamy and not that sloppy grainy texture I'm used to. In true Southern style I couldn't stop myself from mopping the plate with the remnants of the cornbread.

Braised short rib

By the time we got to dessert we were all pleasantly full but just for kicks shared the homemade cookies and ice-cream. The texture of the cookies was another melt in the mouth taste sensation though the cinnamon was a little overdone  but, seeing as Americans can't get enough of the spice, I doubt this is a bad thing for most diners.

Dinner was fantastically rounded off with a visit from the chef and owner, a fellow Brit who, like so many I've met, came to SF for a short trip and never went home. I'm so glad he didn't. I'd have no qualms in recommending 1300 Fillmore to anyone or indeed to going back again and again.

Mardi Gras - America proves it can hold its booze

With another entry on the bucket list successfully checked and yet more American myths dispelled, Mardi Gras in New Orleans proved to surpass all expectations. Visit The Big Easy any day of any week and you will find live music, people dancing on balconies and bead tossing but the frenzy really starts two weeks before Mardi Gras itself. As the weekend before Fat Tuesday arrives  the city gives up on normal day to day living and people take to the streets in their hundreds of thousands.

Just landed at the fantastically named Louis Armstrong Airport

Arriving in town on the Saturday, after an unbelievably early 3am start, The Missus, Blondie and I landed amid a torrential downpour and tornado warnings. Had it not have been for our extreme tiredness, the jolting dissent and drenching skies would have terrified us all in equal measure. Mother Nature's threats had nothing on the levels of pleasurable punishment that the next four days would bring and no amount of bad weather could have ruined the experience. 

Yet again, the USA proved itself to be an unimaginably huge country for my tiny little British mind. Despite getting up before the Gregorian calendar had even been adopted the sheer distance and unforgiving timezone changes meant that by the time check-in to the hotel was completed, it was already cocktail hour, though in N'awlins, cocktail hour is pretty much morning to when the cocktails or the money run out.  I'd visited the city once before, over Thanksgiving in 2000, and flippantly dismissed the Hand Grenades sold by street vendors out of the taps you normally see dispensing flat cola in bars. More fool me. Sometimes it is not wise to assume that just because a drink is served in a novelty souvenir glass it is not potent.

Settling in

Staying at the Festiva Frenchman the troupe couldn't  have been more perfectly placed for The French Quarter and hitting all the bars that locals hang out in. In fact, Frenchman Street is the place to be. The Missus done good again. Mojitos Rum Bar & Grill was instantly designated our local and while the ladies settled down to order I nipped back to the hotel to grab my umbrella as the rain decided really go for it. This was foolish move for Blondie was left to order me "a beer". On returning I found, much to my disgust, a bottle of Miller Lite. Let me tell you the three things that are wrong with this. 1 - Miller 2 - Lite 3 - Bottle. After a swift lesson in beer drinking, Blondie corrected her innocent error and, much to her credit, has not made the same mistake since. 

Is it actually possible to "take it easy" on the first night of a holiday? Experience has taught me that any attempt to gently ease into a holiday actually leads to monumentally large nights and Mojito's set the tone for the rest of  a trip, focused on four days of unevenly balancing alcohol, food intake and parade watching.

Crab turned up to eleven

New Orleans not only sells the most potent cocktails I've ever tried, all deceivingly  made to taste of harmless fruit juice, but has the some of the best food in the country. In fact Sunday night's meal in the pleasantly smart but not too stuffy Muriel's was, and I am sticking my neck out here, the best I've eaten since moving to the country. As the foolish ban of foie gras in SF creeps ever closer, I leapt at the chance to have the special for my starter. What food doesn't taste better with the threat of gout? It was melt in the mouth, fat heaven loaded onto sweet toasted brioche. Always willing to try a new fish, my main was  Puppy Drum, worth ordering for the name itself. While Andrew Jackson peered loftily down from his oil painted heights, I tucked into a light velvet fish, crusted in pecans served with a tower of crab meat and crab meat garnish. You can never have enough crab, so long as it doesn't give you food poisoning.

Upstairs room at Muriel's

After dinner the waitress invited us to explore the restaurant building. This was the second restaurant tour we'd been offered and I wondered if it's a local thing. The first was in Antonie's , a pleasant but gastronomically disappointing New Orleans institution. There we sat by a signed picture of J Edgar Hoover who I confidently but incorrectly introduced as Former President Hoover to passing, bemused Americans.  In Muriel's we were left to explore the strangely opulent boudoir-like upper rooms.

Decorated building in The French Quarter

One of the strangest sensations of living in the US is getting used to being surrounded by relatively new buildings. Perhaps the age, in comparison, of the French Quarter, is one of the reasons why New Orleans is so appealing to Europeans. It has a sense of history and an attitude to life that is easily recognised. The Sun came out, fittingly on Sunday, with the thermometer rising steadily for the rest of our stay, making beads sparkle as they hung, Mr T like, around revelers necks. The wrought iron balconies, decorated with banners, drapes and Mardi Gras casualties danced in the sunlight and swayed drunkenly as each day progressed into night, more cocktails were consumed and the parades rolled on, becoming ever more lavish.

We're gonna need a bigger float

No trip to New Orleans is complete without at least one Hurricane from Pat O'Briens. I couldn't tell how many the three of as drank from there and other bars as we stumbled around the city but nowhere took the opportunity to water down their drinks and despite all of the partying, all of the booze drunk, not once was there a cross word, a casualty in the street or any sense of ill feeling. The mood throughout the town was of goodwill and friendliness. 

                                                             Meeting two new friends

Even though Americans are significantly more comfortable striking up conversations with strangers than us reticent Brits, New Orleans make San Franciscans seem as friendly as Parisian waiters. Some were more friendly than others, particularly the sixty-five year old amorous Canadian woman who's advances I had to strenuously avoid, much to the embarrassment of daughter.  This perhaps was the night where things went a little too far, but then when it seems a good idea to buy a 32oz hang around the neck cocktail to tide you over when leaving a restaurant, sensibleness is not a top priority. 

The assault on senses and livers continued and even bordered on spring break style shenanigans on a few occasions. I was twice asked to show my penis, firstly by two girls who were, naturally, charmed by my accent but thought the natural progression from that conversation was, "Show us your ****!" I politely declined. Secondly while striking up conversation with a gay guy, Blondie also tried to strike up a deal for me, "get it out" (his words not hers) in exchange for giving Blondie some beads. I declined again.

Beads hang from a tree in The Garden District

While this may all seem debauched, the good humour that swept through the city meant that there was no offense taken and no aggravation, unlike in the UK. The only event at home that comes close to Mardi Gras would be the Notting Hill Carnival, where the police take to the streets in huge numbers, crowds jostle for position and tempers flare. In New Orleans space is shared, the trinkets and beads thrown from floats are often passed to others in the crowd so that everyone gets in on the action and everyone has a great time.  The police are present but they join in, passing beads from their cars and at midnight as Ash Wednesday begins, they clear the streets.

The ceremonious start of Lent

As the clock strikes twelve, police cars drive up Bourbon Street followed by mounted policemen, ceremonially clearing the streets and marking the start of Lent. People pour out of the bars or back onto balconies to watch the procession, cheering, clapping and thanking the police department for their work during the festival and no doubt throughout the year. A fitting, respectful and friendly end to four days without incident. Of course the crowd then file back into the bars because the night's not done yet and there's always time for one more drink and to make a new friend. 

Hawai'i, Part II Maui. Paradise's Own Paradise

En route to Maui, extinct volcano on Oahu

Quite frankly, The Sheraton, Maui deserves its own post. After five days on Oahu The Missus and I set off on a short island hop to Maui, flying from Honolulu to the tiny airstrip of Kapalua. Luckily it really was a quick hop. I was still suffering the after effects of some rather nasty food poisoning and cursing the fish cakes. I mustn't complain though, the design of the room in Waikiki meant that you could be in the bathroom and still look out to the ocean, so I was able to intersperse my views of the toilet bowl with more appealing vistas of the Pacific. 

Brave face arriving in Kapalua. Does this airstrip have a restroom?

After a tense, clenched flight, wait for a taxi and brief drive to the hotel, we arrived at the Sheraton in Lahaina. One of the first things that struck me about the hotel is that it doesn't really go in for walls. Like many of the tourist spots in Hawai'i, the hotel takes advantage of the almost constant fantastic weather. In a place where the average temperature ranges from 78f in the "humid season" and 72f in the "dry season", who need walls? Oh and for the English, in real money,  that's 25c and 22c. Our December trip, classed as the "humid season" saw an average temperature of 80f. For any Englishman that's the kind of weather where you wonder if you can fry an egg on the bonnet of your car. 

Sunset from room 1, night 1, in Maui

On arrival we again shamelessly championed The Missus' Platinum status with Starwood Hotels and were assured we had been allocated an upgraded room. On inspection the room was a fair size but sat in a block of the hotel the furthest away from pool, on the other side of what is rather ominously called Black Rock. It offered fantastic views of Lanai, the neighbouring island, and in truth we saw a stunning sunset on our first night. On the downside, the room was by the lift, far from all amenities, right by the maids' gossip station and most importantly of all, not a suite.  While I moaned on a sun lounger and wondered about whether I should write my will now (I'm nothing if not dramatic when ill) The Missus headed off to reception to negotiate another upgrade.

"Coo, what a lovely sunset," said the local mynah birds

Her efforts were not in vain for the next day, after a brief mishap where we temporarily ended up in a room five times smaller than the last, wondering if it was classed a suite because it had two small balconies, we ended up in the biggest hotel room I have ever been in. 

Having gotten used to the idea of going on holiday to a resort, letting go of my middle-class desire to see the "true" Hawai'i, this upgrade fitted the bill nicely. Entrance to our suite was off an anti-chamber (with no walls naturally) overlooking the resort and Lahania. 

View from the wall-less anti-chamber

Once passed our private entrance way, we were confronted with a long hallway, with a guest toilet to the right. We weren't expecting any guests, no one pops in when you're 7249 miles from Blighty, but this addition quickly became designated my emergency room. Fortunately, this was not needed. 

Hallway with emergency room at the far end

Well I don't like to brag but I'm going to. The hallway opened up to a large sitting room with dining table, kitchenette, sofa, TV naturally, access to the enormous sun lounger balcony and breakfast bar with a view over to the bedroom. 

Lounge/dining area

The bedroom was as large as our well proportioned lounge in San Francisco. Off this a bathroom with huge walk-in shower, spa bath, another toilet and best of all, his and hers sinks. If I ever strike it rich, the first thing I'll go for will be a sink for each of us. To spit toothpaste out to your heart's content must be the height of all decadent pleasures. 

Bedroom and bathroom

Much as I'd have liked to have spent as much time in the room as possible, the hotel did warrant some visiting. It's built around Black Rock where, allegedly, old Hawaiian tribes would dive off the rock into the pristine water below. People spend their days doing the same and the hotel puts on a nightly torch lighting ceremony that runs along the beach and the top of the rock, before the torch bearer jumps into the sea below. It's all a little cheesy and underwhelming for my taste but what lies beneath the waves makes up for it. 

Torch lighting ceremony, Black Rock

The Sheraton near enough has its own coral reef right below Black Rock. Too bad we had to share it with everyone else but it really didn't make a difference. After grabbing a snorkel and flippers and not ten feet away from shore, we were awestruck but the number and beauty of so many tropical fish. They're curious little so and so's too and not shy in coming up for a game of chicken with passing snorklers either. I'd read that they can have a habit of biting so I was a little anxious but The Missus is a far more confident swimmer than I and she steamed off to explore more of the reef. 

Suddenly The Missus was grunting through her snorkel and pointing as what looked like a dining table with oars loomed into view. Convinced that I'd never see sea turtles, even though they're renowned to swim around the rock, I was dumbstruck to see one glide by. Graceful and calm underwater, the turtle swam right by us, checked us out, dismissed us as yet more tourists ungainly flapping about and went on its way. We saw many more and I don't think I've ever seen anything in the natural world that left such a great impression. While Pearl Harbour is my lasting memory of Oahu, the turtles living right by our hotel, are easily the best experience on Maui. 

More pools and more cocktails

Most of the rest of Maui was spent sitting by the pool, reading and having the odd dip when it became too hot. We did venture out of the resort for meals and the opportunity to take photos of the sunsets from slightly different angles but relaxing by the pool was significantly enhanced by the sparse use of Hawaiian Christmas music compared to Waikiki. Even so, we weren't spared the Hawaii-meets-Victorian-Christmas delights here either.

Santa ditches reindeer for dolphins in Hawai'i

The Tropics and Christmas; an incongruous mix

Our final trip before returning to SF, not including a painfully slow minibus ride to the airport where the driver seemed insistent on making everyone miss their flights, was the unmissable excursion to watch sunrise from the top of Haleakala. The summit of this extinct volcano stands at 10,023 above sea level. We were repeatedly warned that the road up is a hard drive with a steep gradient sharp turns, and the volcano sides disappearing beside you. We were also warned that it is very, very cold at the top.

The crater

With indomitable London spirit this advice was largely dismissed. The drive up was easy despite driving a sofa of car. Did anyone design the Mercury Grand Marquis or was it just vomited up by a drunken DFS salesman for a bet? The summit however was pretty cold. Fortunately having left the hotel at 4am we did at least don jeans and jumpers. The Missus even took her coat. Some genius tourists took their duvets and stood wrapped in as much of their bed as they could take with them. I pitied the children of some clearly outdoorsy family who were dressed for the beach.

Just before sunrise

In this cold The Sun deliberately took it's time rising but as the shards of bright yellow light finally shot across alien like volcanic rock the wait was almost worth it. What made it completely unmissable and topped off the experience was the Hawaiian chanting to welcome The Sun. It appealed to my deeply buried inner hippie. It was magical. "This is your sunrise."

Hawai'i, America's own paradise. Part I

As flying first class on BA ruins normal plane travel, so a trip to Thailand stops you from ever seeing a new beach again without thinking, "well it's not as beautiful as Haad Salad" (or whichever Thai beach you first saw and fell in love with).  Everything else is just, "same same." That was my feeling at least until a recent trip to Hawai'i. 

Sunset in paradise

Seeing as the Hawai'i Islands, or archipelago as I could rather pompously call them, are a mere five and a half hours from San Francisco, the lure of the tropics was too much to resist, so The Missus and I booked ten days in December for some winter sun. There was much deliberation over flights because unlike Thailand, where there's an abundance of reasonably priced beach accommodation, the well known beaches in Hawai'i are peppered with resorts, with rates cheaper when booked in advance. After much toing and froing, not arguing, just healthy discussion, we settled on The Sheraton Waikiki on Oahu and the The Sheraton Maui, in Lahaina. So, flight into Honolulu and out of Kahului, Maui, with a short island hop in between. Smashing. 

What's still hard to grasp about Hawai'i is that it's the tropics but it's America. It's America but it's the tropics. This is no bad thing but the juxtaposition is striking, if only for it being yet another example of just how big this country is.  Even if, in this bit,  I did find myself 2398 miles off the coast of mainland USA, in the middle of the Pacific, sunbathing on, well near, active volcanoes. For an outpost it's impossible to argue the US hasn't chosen a good spot. The Falkland Islands, this is not. Nice work America or, to use local parlance, "Good jaaaaaarb." 

Surf's up in Waikiki

In fact the most striking thing about Waikiki is just how American it is, high-end, capitalist, luxurious. Our hotel, in the middle of Waikiki Beach, was surrounded by shops you would expect to find on New Bond Street or Fifth Avenue, though it reminded me more of Hong Kong's sprawling new shop-until-you-drop (literally of the heat) shopping cathedrals. 

Prada, Chanel, Versace, shimmer in the afternoon heat and burst out bright light after dark. Lighthouses of capitalism and extravagance.  I have no objection to these establishments except for the one fact that, as with all shops here, in the searing heat, these beacons have their doors wide open, blasting out constant, freezing Arctic air into the tropical atmosphere. Air-conditioning is one of the most power guzzling additions to any building, so the fact that all this energy is blasted back into the open, genuinely shocked me. Not least because in shorts and t-shirt, walking passed each doorway felt like jumping into a plunge pool. 

So Waikiki is not setup to cater for an authentic experience. It may be a typical middle-class British habit to feel the need to explore the "real" destination so if that's what you're looking for in Waikiki, you'll be disappointed. However, if you're looking to stay in a luxurious hotel that may resemble a shopping centre, this is your place. In fact, The Sheraton Waikiki is just that. A hotel-come-shoppers paradise. It was hard to grasp the mix of souvenir shops, boutiques and expensive surfwear retailers that sat side by side with the hotel lobby. I got used to it, but the adjacent food court was a step too far. I still, with every piece of my being, hate food courts. 

To lounge by the pool, to lounge in the pool

Step passed this, passed the rather excellent Father Christmas sand sculpture and all is forgiven. Whoever invented infinity pools is God. Whoever put floating bean bags to laze on in the pool is Jesus and whoever came up with the idea of serving cocktails to those lazing, is the Holy Ghost. Suddenly indulgence is to be savoured not scorned. Mind you, if the Holy Trinity created the the perfect pool, The Devil came along in December and made it compulsory to blast out Hawaiian Christmas song covers. The Devil must have also had a hand in making sure that Israel  Kamakawiwoʻole's cover of, "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" is played constantly in every, literally, every lift, lobby or waiting area. When Dr Green died to that song on ER, I cried. When, after three days I got into a lift and heard that song I cried again, but for a completely different reason.

An ever present rainbow

The need to see something with a bit more depth than a shiny broach was satiated with a visit to Pearl Harbour. The Missus and I had unwittingly timed our trip to arrive in the week of the 70th anniversary of the Japanese attacks. Entry to the visitors' centre in Pearl Harbour is free and with a little bit of cajoling The Missus was persuaded it would be a worthy stop on our drive around the coast. 

Pearl Harbour and USS Arizona Memorial

The base was preparing itself for the anniversary, which meant that those survivors who could still make the trip were walking the base, reminiscing on camera and what was most touching, being recognised, honoured and thanked, by passers-by. All the surviving service personnel of Pearl Harbour are now at the very least, in their 90s, so 2011 was the final year for the Survivors' Association before being disbanded. As one survivor said to the New York Times, "We had no choice. Wives and family members have been trying to keep it operating, but they just can’t do it. People are winding up in nursing homes and intensive care places.” 

Gun turret, mooring, wreck beneath

With this poignancy we approached the wreck of the USS Arizona lying eerily just below the surface. Standing over the grave of so many men lost is moving. A corroded gun turret still peers above the surface of the gentle waters. As I looked up from the memorial I could see the hills, covered in rain forest with an ever present Hawaiian rainbow glancing across the vista. It was hard to imagine such a paradise being turned so quickly into a battlefield, seventy years earlier. Such was the impact on mens' lives that some veterans, to this day,  choose to be buried in the wreck. 

The names of those that gave the greatest sacrifice

In the UK we are used to seeing the effects of both World Wars, whether that be on the battlefields of Northern France, the cemeteries, the preserved trenches at Verdun, the shrapnel scars on St Paul's or even, as I still remember, the areas of the Docklands not yet rebuilt in the 1980s. And of course there's always Coventry. But to the Americans this, until 11th September 2011, was the only attack on US soil and it holds a particular poignancy. It is easy to sneer from the UK, but I respect the Americans, not least because I am moved by how they treat and respect those that serve, or who have served, in their armed forces.  

Despite the flippant marvellousness of cocktails in the pool, Pearl Harbour will be the lasting memory of my trip to Oahu. 

The Stars and Stripes on the memorial, attached to the main mast of the wreck

 

It's life gym, but not as we know it

Having been in California for a year now I'm in a position to be able to take stock, perhaps not criticise my hosts but certainly flag some odd behavioural traits. As Englishman in America, where to start?

A combination of the obsessive part of my personality, the incessant Californian zest for healthiness (yes I have tried wheatgrass and will never again) and the fact that we're constantly warned of slowing metabolisms and the dangers of inactivity have meant that I have become an increasingly regular gym user. I did work out in the UK and cycled to the office, as any self-respecting liberal leaning, Guardian reading always-eat-my-veg person would do, but "The Gym" has become an almost daily part of my life in the States and actually, I enjoy it. More accurately, I enjoy listening to my music and the feeling after The Gym but that's almost the same thing.

A wise friend, when discussing at length annoying things people do on The Tube once nodded sagely, "It's the old problem of people treating it like it's their home." The rule is the same for the gym as it is for The Tube. Incidentally, unacceptable public transport behaviour in my book includes feet on seats, eating smelly food, women doing their make-up or clipping nails and, worst of all, playing music through the tinny speakers on a mobile phone.

Observed behaviour in The Gym has gone from illiciting a "please don't do that in front of me" response to, "You belong in a zoo, you weirdo!" I read recently, "there are good people and then there are people who don't wipe the machines after them" but what I have seen goes far beyond general courtesy, it circles craziness, has a pit stop in Freaktown before ending up in Sick Puppy World. So in no particular order, I thought I'd share some of the more eye-opening experiences I've witnessed in the last year.

The fully clothed steamroom sweatout

Outside please

After a good workout, a relaxing ten minutes in the steamroom or sauna is a perfect way to unblock pores and let muscles relax, but people listen. Well actually, Californians listen, because I have seen this behaviour in San Diego too. You don't go into a sauna fully clothed. You don't go in wearing the rank sweaty clothes you've just been working out in. You certainly don't go in wearing bloody shoes. It's unhygienic and you stink. If you're wearing your workout clothes (I've even seen people in there in jeans, jumper and trainers) I can guarantee you've had a shower before going in. Filthy. What makes you people think that the sign "swimming costumes only" doesn't apply to you?

Whenever I see these clothed wet area frequenters, I wonder what the Icelanders would think because they are meticulous about showering before going into such areas and rightly so.

The gym is for working out

Let's face it,  no one really likes being there. So you've made the effort along with a hundred others and now there's a queue to get on a machine because don't forget, it's the cardio that's important. Guaranteed to make my blood boil is queuing when half the people on the machines aren't even breaking a sweat. In fact, they're so unsweaty that they're able to read a good novel, chat on the phone, even make notes on an assignment.

My favourite violation has to be the man on a cross-trainer, wearing a coat, scarf, ski hat and playing chess on his iPad. San Francisco's such a lovely city, I'm still baffled as to why he just didn't go for a nice walk or may be ski-cross-train-ipad-chess is the new fad the kids are into.

Don't get your sweat on me

Inevitably, if you're not on your iPad, you're in the zone, you're going to work up a sweat. Rule of thumb, if there's a machine free that's not right next to the one I'm using, go on that one. Let's keep our distance. For most blokes, this is easy. Instinctively we want distance. It's urinal politics. For the most part this rule is observed and sweat crossover on the gym floor is kept at a minimum.

However, let's get back into our increasingly infuriating, not relaxing, wet area and in San Francisco we find large contingents of Chinese combining the hot air with a mixture of what can be described as vigorous tai chi and Catholic style, self, or even mutual, flagellation. I don't think I need go into why the mutual bit is wrong in a public space. I know that this is liberal San Francisco but at the very least rapid movements in a sweaty environment  (includes arm swinging, leg jostling and leaping) cause Bellagio type fountains of contaminated sweat to ricochet around the room. When that touches me, there's violence. Well alright, there's English grumbling and the odd harsh tut.

Hold it in or leave the room

Not a pleasant gripe to read or write about so you may want to skip this one, but it's an affliction that's more prevalent with the early morning gym types. For all our sakes, use the goddamn toilet before you start working out or, if the need to go manifests itself halfway through your workout hold it in, or use the facilities. Personally, I'm a strong believer in better out than in but that doesn't mean out into everyone's faces. I have to give kudos to my gym in SF who keep the toilets clean, even though they're open twenty four hours a day and, as you may be guessing by now, have a large amount of weirdos passing through continuously. There may be a guy in the next cubicle on a conference call as he sits and, well you know, but that is not your problem. That is the problem of all the other poor sods on the other end of the line.

No weird noises

If lifting weights means you're groaning, grunting, pulling some weird sex face or risking an anal prolapse, drop down a size or two. Please. You see the English, unless drunk, will do everything  possible to minimise the amount of attention drawn to oneself. In America, less so.  If you're ever in doubt, if it'd be frowned upon in Wimbledon, it's going to irritate your fellow gym members.

Don't leak in the shower

So far, apart from sweat contamination, everything else is actually personal preference. Who am I to tell people how they should conduct themselves in the gym? After all, they have the right to be there as much as I do, but if I ever see someone as I did two weeks ago stand over a drain in the shower and take a leak I'll be turning into a supergrass and getting the management down, because really if you want to do that in your own shower that's your business. Though I think it's pretty grim, the toilet is in the same room after all, to have no shame at all to do it in public, you need your head examined.

Well I feel better now I've got that off my chest do please let me know your own peeves when working out, it would be interesting to know if this is San Francisco's relaxed morals going too far or if freakish gym behaviour is more of a widespread problem.