‘In a State.’

Christopher Columbus is known for discovering America. He didn’t mean to. He was, in fact, doing the very blokey thing of looking for a short cut to get somewhere else. In his case, India.

“I can’t be doing with all this ‘going East’ business to pick up a pot of Cayenne pepper. I’m going West instead”

“Are you sure Chris? Everybody else is going East.”

“Nah, trust me. It’s miles quicker!”

Five weeks later, he stumbled upon the Bahamas. He then did the equally blokey thing of trying to convince everybody present that this was his intention all along.

“This isn’t India Chris?”

“Nah I know, I didn’t fancy India in the end. This place is better, trust me!”

“What’s it called?”

“Not sure, ask that indigenous fella over there.”

“He said it’s called ‘Guanahani’.”

“Rubbish name, we’ll change that…”

So began a long and barbaric colonisation of the land and its people. To top it off, Columbus didn’t actually ‘discover’ America. Some Vikings had sailed over and stumbled upon it around 500 years earlier. Deciding not to bother with colonisation, they simply had a little look around, enjoyed the nice weather, then jumped back on their ship and headed home.

A bit like British pensioners on a Saga cruise.

My reason for regaling you with this condensed period in history is because I too once went on an extended trip to the U.S of A. If we are comparing trips, mine was probably more like the Viking’s rather than ‘ChrisCo’s. No intention of forcing my thoughts and beliefs on the natives, (Even in the ‘Land of the Free’ this will very likely lead to receiving a clump on the nose.) Just a relaxed six month meander, taking in the sights and smells of arguably the most powerful nation in the world.

The idea to go was put to me by a friend who had dreamed of travelling around the States for ages. After a short period of deliberation, I decided to accompany him. The impetus being youthful impetuousness, combined with an unexpected recently received tax rebate.

Many a young person forgoes the opportunity to invest any accumulated wealth in something potentially useful, to travel the world instead. They do so with the rationalization that they are going to ‘find themselves’. Discover new cultures. Exposure to different ways of life. Possibly get involved with charity work.

Codswallop!

 It’s just an opportunity for a jolly up, and I wasn’t going to paint it as anything else.

So, visas were acquired and flights were booked.

Our first port of call was Florida. During the planning stages, my companion booked a collection of accommodations that, due to the bulk booking, made it economically advantageous. Over a three-week period, we had two hotel room reservations and, in a loosely attempted re-enactment of Columbus’ voyage, a three-day cruise to the Bahamas. Think more all-inclusive margaritas and less scurvy.

Flying into Miami, we began our trip proper in the nearby city of Fort Lauderdale.

Fort Lauderdale is the city version of a retirement village. People from up and down the east coast of America choose to wind down the clock in warmer, cheaper climbs. Shuffling along in shell suits and plastic sun visors, they play golf and enjoy easy to chew lunches.

‘In a loosely attempted re-enactment of Columbus’ voyage, we booked a three day cruise to the Bahamas. Think more all inclusive margaritas and less scurvy.’

Not to say we didn’t have fun. We went to the local bars, played pool and drank some beers. I viewed it as an easing into what would be 6 months of no work and all play.

Our cruise to the Bahamas was our accommodation for three nights before we moved on to Orlando. My friend enquired of the German hotel concierge where the ship would be casting off and what would be the best means to get there.

He assured us in an exceedingly efficient manner, that it would take no longer than 20 minutes, and a taxi would be a more than sufficient means of transportation.

The morning of departure arrived, and we made our way down with our suitcases (No back packs. You may have already gathered that it wasn’t that kind of trip.) We checked out and requested a taxi to Port Canaveral.

This request was met with a raised eyebrow.

“Port Canaveral is 200 miles away,” stated the owner of said eyebrow, in this case an older male receptionist, “a taxi is probably a bad idea.”

Glances were exchanged between my friend and I. We recounted what the now absent concierge, had advised the day before.

“Klaus said that?” The receptionist queried in his southern drawl, “Aw, he must’ve got confused with Port Lauderdale. That’s just down the street.”

He then went on to offer a reason for the confusion.

“He probably didn’t understand y’all accent. Where you boys from anyhow? Australia?”

The ever-increasing sense of panic curbed our desire to correct his guess. Wherever we were from, it was where we were going and how we were getting there that was of paramount importance.

Solutions were requested and it seemed that everybody in that hotel lobby chimed in with suggestions.

“You could fly. Any flights heading up there anytime soon?”

There was not.

“Maybe hire a helicopter, get y’all there in no time!”

Calculation of logistics and expense lead to this idea literally not getting off the ground. I was annoyed that we wasted time even considering it!

Eventually it was concluded that the only chance we had of getting to the cruise ship in time, was to hire a car and drive.

Calculating distance and time, we worked out that it would take us just short of three hours to get to Port Canaveral by car. Our ship was leaving in three hours and twenty minutes. The receptionist found a nearby hire firm, and we headed there by taxi.

As we scurried out of the hotel, all those who had gathered in the lobby to offer their assistance, including guests, porters, a Mexican housekeeper and an off-duty buffet chef, wished us well. These positive messages were countered by the shout of an older gentleman wearing a Hawaiian shirt and wrap around fit-over sunglasses, who up to that point had been silently observing the melee.

“You’ll never make it!!”

Cheers mate!

Arriving at the car hire company, we explained our predicament. The girl behind the desk smiled and simply said, “Follow me.”

Taking us into the yard which contained every type of vehicle you can imagine; we were led to our suggested means of transportation – A metallic flame red Dodge coupe.

“This baby will get you to Canaveral faster than the rockets they blast off up there!”

She was referring to the fact that Cape Canaveral is the location of the Kennedy Space Centre, a detail that we had overlooked. At this point, we were more concerned with ships of the cruising kind, rather than rockets.

All the necessary arrangements got sorted and we packed our cases wherever they would fit. Coupes are not built for excess luggage. We sped our way through the best part of Florida as quickly as the local laws would allow (and sometimes more so.)

It was probably one of the most intense journeys I have ever experienced. I could almost hear the banjo chase music playing as we raced up the highway. Rather than enjoy the unique Florida swamplands, the alligator filled marshes passed by in a blur.

There is nothing like a success story of individuals defying the odds and overcoming adversity to a last-minute triumph. We skidded into the port and abandoned the car. Running down the boardwalk, the ship was pulling away. Throwing our cases up to the beckoning ship staff we then leaped to grab the still retracting anchor chain. As we climbed the chain and clambered on to the deck, we were welcomed by the entire population of the ship cheering and handed congratulatory glasses of champagne.

I would love to say that’s how it ended, I really would.

We didn’t make it. As we turned the corner into the port, we saw our ship sailing off toward the horizon. You could still see the bubble trail in the water. Goodbye Bahamas. Goodbye all inclusive food and drink. Most importantly, at this moment, goodbye accommodation.

We didn’t have time to languish in our failure, the sun was setting, and we had nowhere to sleep. Making our way out of the port area, we headed toward a town named Merritt Island. It had been a long day and we were exhausted. Contrary to our breakneck journey up to this point, we slowly drove around looking for anywhere that we could lay our heads.

Florida is arguably one of the most frequently visited holiday destinations in the world, but could we find a hotel, motel, bed and breakfast or caravan park? Could we diddly!!

We pulled into the carpark of a Taco Bell and weighed up sleeping in the car. As we were discussing it, an argument erupted between a gang over a bite being taken out of a beef burrito. It started to get heated, so we moved on.

As we continued our search, I spotted a policeman on the forecourt of a service station, sat on his oversized motorcycle. I decided to ask him if he knew of any accommodation options nearby.

I briskly made my way toward him. As he saw me approach, he laid his hand on the gun strapped to his side. It occurred to me that quickly approaching an armed American police officer could be a risky choice of maneuver, so I slowed my pace and, overdramatically, held up my hands.

He was the quintessential image of what you would picture a U.S. Cop to look like. Broad and brooding, wearing a brimmed hat with a shining badge labeled ‘FLORIDA HIGHWAY PATROL’, firmly positioned on the front. All his clothes looked extra-large in size, yet they were still a tight fit. His square face and brick like features were accentuated by a perfectly trimmed, handlebar moustache.

To round off this profile of intimidation, he wore large, mirrored aviator sunglasses, preventing his eyes disclosing any type of emotion. They sat on his face with an impression of permanence. To him, the fact that it was now 9 o’clock in the evening and the sun was long gone, was irrelevant. Whether he was riding on the Florida highways, giving a ticket in a tornado, wrestling an alligator or getting ready for bed, you suspected that those things NEVER came off.

As is often the way when asking a question of a stranger, I am overly polite in my Britishness.

“Pardon me?”

His face didn’t move.

 “Hello, good evening.” Two greetings in one sentence, another exceedingly British trait.

Motionless.

“I’m dreadfully sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if I could trouble you for the location of a motel in the local vicinity?” Starting with an apology and waffling unnecessarily, that’s the hattrick.

Considering his statue-like silence up to this point, the immediacy of his response made me jump.

“What’s your destination?” He growled.

Now this question flummoxed me. I had asked him where I could find a motel, surely he understood that that was where I wanted to go?

“A motel?” I replied.

I felt I’d better clarify the reason for our search.

“We missed our cruise,” I said with a shake of the head and a ‘aren’t we daft?’ roll of the eyes “and we need somewhere to stay.”

“What’s your destination?” he repeated.

 I was obviously not being clear. It would appear the curse of our ‘funny’ accent was striking again. Either way, the fact that I had made this terrifying figure of authority repeat himself did not ease any anxiety. ‘Jittery’ wasn’t the half of it.

I decided to rely on the age-old technique of speaking slower and louder. I didn’t shout of course, that would have been suicide.

“We. Need. A. Motel.”

The officer angled his head, creating an audible click from his neck.

“What. Is your. Destination?”

His slow, broken reply made it clear he was losing his patience, whilst the reflection contained in his mirrored glasses showing the colour drain out of my face, made it clear that I was losing my nerve.

 If I didn’t understand what he was asking, I feared he would arrest me and take me into custody, due to someone this stupid potentially being a danger to the public. Either that or he would shoot me and throw my body into a local bayou for wasting police time.

What was he asking me? Destination? Think man, think!

It suddenly hit me. People who stay in motels are always carrying on to somewhere else. Where were we going?

“ORLANDO!” I shouted it out like a contestant on a game show! In this case the grand prize was avoiding being pistol whipped for being an imbecile.

The officer raised his hand. My eyes widened. He pointed toward the road.

“You go North. Carry on two miles. Hit the I95. On the left is ‘O’Connor Lodge’”

I nodded overenthusiastically, thanked him, and made my way toward the car.

As I got in, my friend looked at me with anticipation.

“What did he say?”

I stared forward and recollected the directions. They had baffled me. How were we supposed to know which way is ‘North’? What is an ‘I95’ and why are we hitting it? Who or what is ‘O’Connor Lodge’?

I repeated what had been said. My travel companion frowned.

“North?”

I shook my head and motioned for him to drive. Neither of us understood the instructions and there was zero chance of me approaching Robocop again. We decided to keep going till we found somewhere. Taking one positive from the encounter, we had the idea to follow signs for Orlando. No matter how long it took us to find a bed for the night, we would be closer to our ‘destination’.

Eventually, a bright billboard came into view. It identified an establishment as ‘Buget nn, ocoa’ As we approached, broken neon lights were the culprit of the unintelligibility of the sign. Closer inspection revealed it to be the ‘Budget Inn, Cocoa’.

Pulling in, we surveyed the motel. The building was two stories and shaped into an ‘L’. All the rooms faced toward the parking lot.

“Did you ever see ‘Psycho’? My friend asked, doubtless making the troubling comparison of our chosen lodgings with Bates’ Motel.

Aside from lacking an unusually broad old lady shuffling around with a knife in her hand, I had to concur that the similarities were uncanny.

We hesitantly exited the car and proceeded to remove our cases from the boot. The night air was still and humid.

“Nice car.”

We looked up to the source of the compliment. Two men in trucker caps, illuminated solely by the neon sign, were looking down from the balcony above. One was chewing gum while the other was smoking a cigarette.

The one chewing gave a wink.

Looking at each other, we both silently decided to ignore the compliment and hurried toward what we guessed was the reception office.

Pushing open the door, we entered a small, wood paneled room and were instantly hit with the smell of stale cigarette smoke. Adorning the wall was a print of an eagle, soaring above the American flag. Next to it was a calendar that was displaying the month of July, though we were currently well into December.

A large, chipped desk was situated to the left, positioned upon which was a rotating fan and a small bell. Behind the desk, two men sat on matching white patio chairs.

 They both had bright red faces and were, to put it politely, obesely overweight.

Ceasing their loud conversation, they turned to look at us.

“Evenin’ fellas,” said one, “what can we do for ya?”

The other looked on, leaning back on the already straining chair. He wore a dirty grey vest which had a small tear in the stomach area, out of which sprouted a clump of body hair.

“Do you have any rooms available?” my friend enquired, with a less than enthusiastic tone. I think we both almost hoped they didn’t.

“We surely do,” he exuberantly replied. Standing up, his chair was still attached to his backside. He pushed himself free and lifted a large book on to the desk.

 “How many nights you wantin’?”

“Just one!” we replied in unison.

He asked us for our details and scribbled down our replies. His associate had, up to this point, been silent.

“We were just comparing guts,” He stated loudly, vigorously scratching himself with his pinky finger right where the tear in his vest was located.

“I got mine from steak,” He then pointed his none scratching finger toward his fellow heavyweight, “He got his from beer!”

The man checking us in looked up and gave a modest nod, as if dismissing any recognition of his accomplishment.

I felt they were expecting input from us.

“Well,” I declared, “you know what they say about success. It’s all about the journey!”

They both burst out laughing.

“What a journey!” wheezed the scratcher, smacking his enormous belly. Both of their faces increased in redness as they chortled away, spluttering and coughing to the point that we feared they would have a synchronised coronary.  

They eventually regained their composure.

Check in guy wiped a tear from his eye and placed a key on the desk. It was connected to 12-inch piece of timber with a ‘4’ that had been scribbled on to it with biro.

“Going to need a dollar deposit from you boys”

“A dollar?” my friend asked.

Misunderstanding that we were questioning the miniscule amount, we were provided with a lesson on the concept of deposits.

“Yup,” piped up Scratchy, “ya give the key back, you get ya dollar back.”

We handed over the dollar and picked up the timber shackled key. It weighed a ton!

“So ya don’t lose it,” informed ‘Check In’, pre-determining a question he’d no doubt been asked hundreds of times before.

As we were leaving the office, I decided to ask if they could decipher what the police officer had said to me earlier that evening.

Scratchy was happy to interpret.

“North is up.” Condescending start, but I decided to let it go.

He went on to explain that I95 is a local Interstate – a large highway that ‘gets ya places quick.’  

It appears I misheard ‘O’ Connor Lodge’. The officer in fact meant ‘Econolodge’, a chain of budget motels.

“They’re total dumps,” Scratchy added, with no sense of irony, “you boys had a lucky escape!”

He then proceeded to roll up a magazine and smash a cockroach that was meandering across the desk.

“Sleep well fellas!”

With this friendly dismissal, we made our way passed the parked cars to our room. We looked up, thankfully the men in caps were now gone.

 In the middle of the parking lot was a swimming pool located behind a small fence. As I pondered over this unusual positioning, my eyes were drawn to the gate through which you would usually enter to take a dip. It was locked with a chain and covered with ‘POLICE – DO NOT CROSS’ tape.

Approaching room 4, my friend lifted the key to the lock. Due to the weight of the ‘anti-theft/loss’ device, this required the use of both of his hands. As the door was opened, yet another cockroach scurried out of the room and passed our feet. We stepped in.

Inside was the familiar sights and smells of wood panel and smoke. In fact, the room was almost identical to the reception office apart from the fact that instead of two bloated, wheezing men, there were two double beds.

Opposite the beds there was a low-level pine cabinet, upon which was perched a small television set. It had a broken aerial sticking out of the top that someone had attempted to repair with sticky tape. Next to the tv was a ‘no smoking’ sign covered in cigarette burns. The beds themselves were well made; all be it with a garish orange duvet cover.

You sensed that the cockroach had actually left in disgust.

I sat on one of the beds and turned on the tv. Static. I switched to numerous channels. All static. I eventually found a channel that worked. It was a shopping network featuring Chuck Norris. He was demonstrating how a metal bar with a spring attached can work all the muscle groups. He implored the viewers to be quick, as he only had five left.

I turned it off.

My friend had the idea of buying some beers from a local service station. He returned with a 24 pack of Budweiser and a pack of cards. Unfortunately, the beer wasn’t chilled and we had no fridge in the room. In addition to this, we realised that our knowledge of card games, and their rules, was somewhat limited.

I reflected on the fact that if things had gone to plan, we would currently be steaming our way to the Caribbean, possibly watching a cabaret involving kettle drums and limbo dancers. As it was, we were sipping warm beer while playing ‘Snap’, and about to spend the night next to a crime scene with our mattresses jammed against the door incase those truckers came back.

Tiredness eventually overcame fear, and we went to sleep.

The next morning, we were awoken by a tapping.

Looking toward the window of the room, we saw through an enormous rip in the flower-patterned curtain, an older lady with olive skin waving a duster and smiling.

“Housekeeping!” she sang.

This cordial wake-up call, combined with the apparent lack of privacy, motivated us to get up and check out.

 Everything often looks better in the daylight, and the motel was no exception. It was a bright morning and this, combined with the fact that we had survived the night, put us in good spirits. We carried out the two-man job of returning the key, and with our dollar returned, we decided breakfast was a good idea.

Across the street was an ‘IHOP’, a more than satisfactory option for our breakfasting needs. The acronym stands for ‘International House of Pancakes’, which is somewhat misleading as they can only be found in America. Can’t argue with the ‘pancake’ bit though, they have them stacked to the ceiling.

Our mood continued to improve through a combination of bottomless coffee and maple syrup. We even laughed as we recollected the events of the last 24 hours. While the waitress took our plates away, we proceeded to discuss our ongoing journey.

The poet Robert Burns once said that ‘the best laid plans of mice and men often go skew-whiff’, (or something like that.) So, we missed out on the Bahamas and had to go to Orlando a little earlier than planned. Not to worry. From here on in, we wouldn’t book anything, we’d just go with the flow.

Christopher Columbus may have been a bit of a ratbag when it came to colonisation, but as far as discovery and adventure were concerned, he was an inspiration.

He confessed that “… for the execution of the voyage to the Indies, I did not make use of intelligence, mathematics or maps.”

No brains or maps!?

Now that’s the way to plan a trip!