We made it to San Francisco by plane and train. It seemed only natural then to complete the final part of our journey by automobile.
When my friend, Meghan, picked us up from Union Square we hit speeds of zero to weird in under 15 minutes, stopping at her old workplace for an office party.
Imagine the scene: the UK Office meets its US counterpart by way of Louis Theroux's Weird Weekends and Larry David's Curb Your Enthusiasm.
Awkward humour, tongue in cheek and social faux pas.
I was under the supposition that by leaving England I was leaving behind its vagaries and virtues. And though I'll miss the Beeb, logical road systems and PG Tips, I'd imagined a fond farewell to the many fouls of English customer service.
We'd not even left the runway however before being reminded that for the next 10 or so hours we were at the service of British Airways.
A Geordie voice crackled over the tanoy.
"This is Dean, your flight service manager," it said. "Can I just say, it's very difficult to do our job when yous lot stand in the isles.
"And another thing," he continued. "There are 208 passengers and 208 meals. It doesn't take a genius to work out that some of you might not get the right kind. Can I just apologise now?"
And with the pre-emptive apologies of the British Airways cabin crew we were ready, more than ever, to take off.
The abuse of the English accent happened long before landing on American soil. Having been denied a seat next to Pete on the plane I thought I'd approach customer services with a smouldering look that in my head resembles James Bond, in the external world, a man in need of a bathroom.
Overhearing her name in conversation, I say, with perhaps too much surprise, as if seeing an old friend, "Sarah!"
Within five minutes, a few smouldering looks and the most charming English accent I could manage, I had young Sarah printing me a new boarding pass.
Let's hope my skills of persuasion work just as well at immigration, where I'm paranoid to the point of feeling like I'm only pretending to be a "regular tourist."
Though it seems a shame to leave the bitter cold of a lingering winter, the oodles of work piling on my desk, the threat of bird flu even, I've decided to blow my holiday entitlement on a month long trip to California.
Accompanying me this time is my not-so-glamourous assistant, Pete, my trusty Moleskine (notebook to Hemingway and Chatwin) and a number of Biro pens.
Expect witty field reports, acute observations and, ultimately, bitchy comments about my travel buddy, Pete, as we venture on a journey across the state, through the Nevada desert and into the longest period of time I've spent with a single person.
How will we get on for a month? Who will flip first? Where is my red shirt? Just a question for myself there. But stay tuned for answers to the other two. And more besides.
Ah, first dates. The nerves, the sweaty palms, the possibility that they’ll actually show up. Today was mine with an online match, or so it should have been. Instead I was left nervous, sweaty and alone.
And a little bit confused. It was as whirlwind as an online romance could be. On Wednesday she ‘winked’, by Thursday we had exchanged e-mails, on Friday we were making plans to meet. It was like a Craig David song.
In fact, I thought she was very keen, having suggested that we meet up today. She even suggested that we do so at a time and a place convenient to me. Instead, I arranged to have coffee in a trendy, Birmingham bar, about an hour from home. It might have not been convenient but it was at least in her home town.
Sitting at the bar I wondered when ‘fashionably late’ became ‘you’ve been stood up, mate.’ But considering she hadn’t far to travel, and that she was so keen to meet in the first place, I figured circumstance had prevented her from coming. Perhaps a family crisis, an accident, last minute nerves even. Maybe she died.
It took a real friend however to suggest that perhaps she had seen me and decided to leave. I still think that she’s dead.
Have you ever been somewhere embarrassing, like a sex shop, and worried that you might see somebody you know? Well, the chances are that if you do, they'd be just as embarrassed. There's some comfort then in knowing that should they ask, "what are you doing here?" you could just as easily reply, "what are you doing here?"
The Internet being one big sex shop, in which the goods are on display but the customers are not, gives surfers a feeling of anonymity and the confidence, however misguided, that they can peruse, pick up and play in privacy.
But put that dildo down.
Our privacy is this century's Civil Rights but its protection is not yet assured. And, should the ne'er-do-wells in the Bush administration get their way, even our search results will be monitored (I’ll save you the worry, it's annsummers.com).
Whatever it's long term plans (and don't believe everything you read at google-watch.org), Google last week emerged as a sort of Rosa Parks, refusing to give up its seat, or rather its records, to the Bush administration.
So, and I digress, while my IP address, cookies and crumbs can give me away online, last night my web whereabouts were revealed by nothing more scientific than actually bumping into somebody I know somewhere I shouldn’t have been.
Well, I was on match.com, not that there's anything wrong with that, but decided to check out my competition. To do so however I had to search for men, roughly my age in and around my area.
As the results loaded I recognised an old school friend and, in my haste, clicked on his profile. Though mine, and the exercise as a whole, has been mostly tongue in cheek (so far only my tongue in my own cheek), his was very sincere.
And I say in haste, because clicking his profile was with more so than sense. The match.com service being what it is (that is quite impressive) members can see who has viewed their profile.
Not only will I be revealed for using the service – something I'm obviously not too shy about – but seen as searching for men, roughly my age in and around my area.
It's like I’m in the sex shop and I've been caught picking up a dildo.
