Arrival into Haines Alaska

My last post was typed up in the air, probably somewhere over the Midwest. What a great clear day to fly from sea to shining sea. The view got even better as we crossed over Montana, and better still as the plane reached Western Washington State to begin its descent into Sea-Tac Airport. I noticed a couple of downtown areas from the air of the Seattle area, but a closer inspection and I saw the Space Needle, and I immediately got my bearings. As we got down a little lower, Mount Rainier backdropped the cityscape of Seattle perfectly on a clear day, so far from the stereotypical rain of Seattle.

Unfortunately, my time in the Seattle was too short between the connecting flight to Juneau, so I couldn't leave the airport. However, Sea-Tac has changed loads from what I remembered in 1994, and the central food court gave me a wealth of options. I had not eaten since the bagel in JFK. I chose Fish and Chips, and they were not too bad. I think I like the North American idea of Fish and Chips, being large chicken nugget type bites and 4 or 5 of them. And plenty of tartare sauce to dip into. Closer to Scandinavian F&C, than British.

After eating I made my way to gate N1 for my 2:10pm flight to Juneau. My ears pricked up when the announcing ground staff sounded exactly like Sarah Palin. I also noticed many of my co-passengers were guys looking like they were off on an adventure holiday into Alaska, and they would have excellent weather for it.

My assigned seat, 7B, caused the split of two friends. One of the ladies asked if I minded switching. Of course not, I was on my own anyway and I'm never too fussy where I sit. As it turned out she took my middle seat and gave me a window seat next to the emergency door, which had huge legroom. I sat in comfort as the plane took off providing me a view of the majestical Puget Sound Islands. More beautiful than Ha Long Bay in Vietnam I will say. The islands dotted more or less all the way up the North Pacific coast, as we flew into Canadian Airspace and back into US Airspace again.

I formed a conversation with my seat neighbours. Stuart and (sugar I forgot hers). They were off on a fishing vacation, but live in Vegas and both work in tree genetics. A lovely outdoorsy pair. He opened the conversation saying he liked my shoes, a pair of cheap Karrimor walking shoes. He probably thought I was more outdoorsy that I am. Of course they asked my story, and I said I now live in Haines. "How do you like it?" "Don't know, I'm about to see it for the first time". So I described the situation. I shortened the amount of time the wife and I had been apart to last seeing her in February. I didn't want to discuss the separation. In any case they said "that's a long time". I remember Stuart saying "well she must be some girl to some all this way". Of course she is, I thought.

The descent into Juneau was exciting. My father told me about the time he flew into the old Hong Kong Airport and the plane flew between skyscrapers before landing. This was the mountain version of that. You don't expect to be on a Jumbo but seeing the wing so close to the mountains, as you glide into this titchy little airport. An airport you would not believe serves a state capital.

My final flight was scheduled for 7pm from Juneau into Haines, on Wings of Alaska. I managed to talk my way onto the 4:45pm flight, and told Sarah I would arrive about 2 hours earlier than arranged. I knew I was going to exceed my baggage allowance of 70lbs, but not sure by how much. These small planes weigh everything including hand baggage and me. I was charged 50c for every pound over, which came to about $11. Pretty good as I paid $60 for the baggage from JFK to Juneau.

Another thing I noticed and gave me some minor stress, my cheap Sports Direct bag was even more ripped up than when I left in in JFK. I prayed to atheist god for it to just last one more frickin journey. Gladly it did make the last flight without spilling all my clothes and stuff everywhere.

The flight on this small plane was a great experience. The pilot turns round in his 'driving' chair and gives you the safety instructions. He starts the plane up like it is a Mini Cooper, then to the runway and you are off. Once flying, the plane doesn't seem to move fast. It's like you bob in the air. But the views as follow The Favorite Chanel into the Chilkat Inlet (not to be confused with the Chilkoot Inlet - which is right next to it) before bobbing into tiny Haines airport. As the plane was landing I saw Sarah's Suburu Forester pulling into the car park.

As I got out and reached for my bags which are stowed underneath like a National Express coach. I made my way to Sarah who had her dog Horton. We hugged and kissed. Horton was more obsessed with barking at another dog.

The thing I was concerned about was meeting the dog. Dogs are territorial and protective of lady owners. Its one reason I love them. He barked at me a bit in the beginning. I got down as low as I could, and trusted that he wouldn't bite my face off. Maybe making myself vulnerable to him, to show I'm no threat. When dogs play, one dog is dominant and the other submissive, hence the play bow. I thought I'd do the play bow, and it may have worked. By the end of the evening, Horton and I were fine together. He's an amazing dog.

Our house here in Haines is situated on a the Inlet. Out the window are year round snow capped mountains. To the rear of the house is a trail where we took Horton for a walk. Or rather he takes us for a walk as he finds the trail better than even Sarah knows. But I had jet lag and it hit me a bit. Plus I became acquainted with the infamous Alaskan Mosquitoes. They are vicious. I think I passed out on the sofa back at the house. Then came to bed and slept in a patchy way the entire night.

The next day, 15th July, Sarah took me for a drive around my new area. We started for a walk to Battery Point, through a woodland trail. I'm going to refrain from describing the landscape too much and just start by saying it is dramatic and serene all at once. Every now and then I kept asking what the postman from Liskeard, Cornwall is doing here.

We stopped for lunch and a fish and chip van. That's two meals in the USA and both fish and chips. I love the way Salmon is more on the menu than in the UK. Then Sarah showed me how we get the post, which is a PO Box, as the mailman doesn't come to our door. Sarah also showed me her Radio Station and introduced me to her co-workers. They all seem so nice and friendly and welcoming. That goes for some others I met. It seems Sarah has made quite a few acquaintances, and done a good job of stamping her life within the community. Something else I like about Haines, which I will join in on. Cycling seems quite big. Possibly as the roads seldom rise very high, and seem like a cyclists dream. I'm going to get me a bike a.s.a.p. I also noted some bikes with really thick tractor type tires, this must be for year round cycling.

After lunch we took a quick drive to Chilkat Lake (maybe Chilkoot). Again mesmerized by the turquoise waters, the snow peaked mountains, and crystal waterfalls running down the mountains from the melting ice. Captivating!

That evening Sarah took me out to dinner at the local hotel. It's my birthday today, but she has to work, so she gave me a great day the day prior. I tried the local beer Haines Amber, a refreshing red ale. Authentic, but not too bitter and cloudy. I think I will be ok with the local brew.

Today is the first day of a few where I am home alone. I am without transport so I am a bit stuck in the house. I took the dog up the trail and I may do that a few more times today. I am concerned that he runs near the road when returning. I am drinking my Yorkshire Tea with milk, and I feel a bit like Alexander McKeig in Centennial who soothes his solitary state in the Colorado wilderness during the late 18th Century with cups of Lapsang Suchon.

The milk looks like something I have to give up. A small bottle (less than a pint) costs $1.39. Potatoes cost a fair bit, as does much fresh produce. The price we pay for this scenery is covering the cost of transporting food all this way to us.

Also alongside no door to door mail service, neither is our trash picked up. We have to take it somewhere and there is a charge for it. Its inconvenient but I like it. It makes us think about what we throw away and therefore what we consume.

More than anything else, I have to pinch myself that this isn't a holiday and I have to find a job. It looks like I may not be in an office again, which I think suits me fine.

Right now I am typing this occasionally looking out the window at the mountains on the Inlet. Sarah kindly asked her radio show to wish me a happy birthday which I heard just now. That was nice.

I'm sure there are many things I have found out in the last few days which I have forgotten, and there is so much for me to find out. Anyway I am here and all is good.

New World

The days were really leading up to this for a long time, the final piece to the jigsaw. Entering America as a permanent resident. People can be snide about America, but there are many people around the developed world, let alone poverty who would love a green card. So as casual as I can pretend to be, the stamp in my battered passport in my left pocket is something quite valuable. I must never forget this. 

My final week was one of saying goodbyes. Being asked to stay in touch and offers to visit at anytime. I know a very small minority of those offered will actually consider it properly. Therefore, there are a great many people I have come to love, I will never see again. But that is a negative thought as I was overwhelmed by the sincere congratulations and hugs I received. I want to describe a few as its my policy to try and not name people (bar my wife) on here. If they read this, this is a shout out to them. My long-term buddy from Wigan, my comedy writing partner, apart from the fact we never actually wrote it. A tall handsome Yorkshire fellow, who cuts his hair at Tony and Guys, wears tweed but wants us to know he isn't posh at all. To that gentleman; go the blades (or something). To a "nasty beyotch" who I spent 3 years sitting across from me and making my blood boil constantly, bringing me to tears...mostly tears of laughter. She will be missed. How can I forget the Americanophile from the Mersey. There is no one who can tell a story like her. To her and her husband, the most made for each other couple I have ever met. There are many more, and just because I haven't hinted at them here, doesn't mean anything less.

I will certainly miss my sister and her wonderful children. My four neicphews, loud, disobedient, embarrassing in Ikea but I don't think I would want them any different. The windup one, the fairy one, the boastful one, the OCD one. Let me describe them in a different way. The loving one, the funny articulate one, the tech-savvy one, and the one with eye for detail. And my sister who does a wonderful job with all of them, while others sit in squalor criticizing, disrupting, never working, lying. To that person... I tried hard to know you, and wished I hadn't as you are the most hopeless person in this world. My only problem is your wonderful kids miss you, one of them believes in you and may always do that while most the world has rightfully given up on you. Someone who surprises me the amount of times a person can fuck up yet never learn. It's the only gift you have. 

To my other sister and brother. I'm sorry we left without saying goodbye properly. But I'm glad we built bridges a little at the end. I'm grateful to my sister for the text, and I'm excited that my brother was asking me the price of airfares to Alaska. 

My last few hours in the UK were spent with my sister and two neicphews. The weather in the week prior my departure was perfect. The UK was being like an ex-wife dolling herself up, just to show you what you will miss. My last meal was a Gregg's before I hugged my sister goodbye, thanked her for a fabulous 9 months, and off they went. As I stood on the escalators, I took one last look back and my sister walking off with two of her amazing kids and wished I'd said more before I left. But that's not the family we are. My only moment of adult affection was Dad seeing me off to America in 94, and wanting to hug, but patting my arm instead. But saying "I'm proud of you". That's the most important bit of validation a child can hear from a parent. So important I've clung to this one and only time almost 20 years later. 

The flight on over was without too much incident. I was one of only 3 white people of a full flight on Pakistan Airlines. I felt slightly awkward eating in the month of Ramadan, but looking around their were enough Pakistanis doing the same. In any case - why go in holiday on the one month you can't eat. And also the time of peak fares to the US. The curry on board was pretty good. They weren't serving beer, that was a bridge too far.

On arrival at New York, JFK I was faced with a confusing choice of lanes. One lane said visitors and the other Citizens and Permanent Residents. I was unsure as to my present status. A helpful customs officer told me "if its your first time, you use the visitors line". So for the last time I took the queue with visitors. 

When I finally got to the desk. I received a polite "hello sir". I kicked off by saying "I have a Permament Resident visa which I'm using for the first time". I'm not sure if that was the right terminology but it was ok. "So you have a package for me?". I handed him the package I was told to leave completely sealed, and he ripped it open. "Who's Sarah xxxx?" "My wife" I replied as fast and confidently as I could. He scribbled on my passport a bit. Then he tucked the file, my immigration file, into my passport  and asked me to step to one side so he could serve one more visitor. When he was done "follow me sir" I walked obediently beside him, in awe of his crisp uniform and shiny gun on his side. We came to a room which I think is called secondary immigration, the place if you are a tourist you don't want to be taken. If the border control at the front desk can be deemed rude and abrupt then they look like pussies compared to the secondary area. Firstly it seemed most my co-passengers on PIA were also in there. The room is blank and three 5 desks are seeing people who they need to check twice. I was forewarned that all first time Perm Res's will go here first. It was intimidating and I was wondering when I would see the cameras for Border Control USA. 

My file and passport got placed to the bottom of the pile, and I guess I just had to wait until they got to me. When they did I heard a shout "Christopher Novell". I jumped up. He gave me a form to sign. Then I had to make use of the ink pad to place my finger print on file. Then they handed me a tissue for my inky index finger, handed me my stamped passport and said "ok you're all set". That was it, the real culmination of all this. I'm now a permanent resident, and as long as I commit no crimes and always file my taxes, it's mine for always. 

Then out the door into America. I picked up my bags, one of which is a cheap Sports Direct bag which I doubt will make the journey all the way to Haines, the bottom is badly ripped. To the extent I no longer wheel it, which is the main function of a wheelie suitcase. 

Out the door to the airtrain, direction Howard Beach and to alight at Federal Circle. From there I dialed a toll free number and requested a free shuttle from the hotel. Up until now I always had great things to say about hotels in the USA. This was an exception. Not the room, the room was perfect, the staff. Firstly the receptionist took her time to deal with me, which not acknowledging my presence. When she did she picked up the phone constantly and forgot what she was doing. This could have benefitted me as she tried to pass me back my credit card before registering it, but I was too honest and reminded her. I asked her where there is to eat and she said "walking distance there is a Burger King, and a KFC, but I can give you some menus to order food". Later on in the evening I wanted to make use of this, but her colleague said "just dial from the room, we aren't waitresses". Ok then! I looked at the menus. Originally I wanted to toast my arrival into the USA with Philly Cheese Steak or something of the like. But this woman put me off and I didn't feel so hungry. 

I spent my evening in NYC  with a water watching the result of the George Zimmerman trial on the TV. It was amazing. Britain doesn't allow cameras into courtrooms, so a similar thing in the UK would be hard to do with all the lawyer drama, and witness statements etc etc. Those drawn sketches we see on the news of a major trial in the UK wouldn't cut it for the drama at all. That said we were waiting for the Zimmerman verdict, and while it is probably the most exciting part of the trial, it is arguably the most stagnant. The jury are away to deliberate and they come back and you think you have a verdict, but no they have a question regarding the definition of manslaughter. Counsel approaches the bench and some excited debate happens, but what have the TV got to show? Well to fill TV time, they had 6 lawyers trying to double guess what the manslaughter verdict would mean, how the jury would vote. The only agreement was basically, "no one knows". Which I guess is the idea about a closed jury session. But the excitement over nothing happening was so incredibly American TV. 

I tried to read the Zimmerman trial and understand what it was about. Well it became a race issue. America finds race issues in every case (Rodney King, OJ), Britain finds class issues in every case (Maddy Mcgann). On the Zimmerman side, we had an over zealous neighbourhoods watch who questioned a black youth for acting suspiciously in a gated community, a fight resulting in the black kid getting shot. The other side says he had a reason to be in the area, he was visiting relatives and on his way to a shop, some vigilante sudo-racist tries to thwart his freedom of movement, and ends up shooting him. This was no American Stephen Lawrence. Trayvon Martin (the victim) wasn't just a promising black student. He had races of marijuana on him, he had a past for handling stolen goods. Zimmerman also had a past for domestic violence, so we have two less than perfect people. Aren't we all less than perfect, who would look bad if our past was reborn in a murder trial? 

The final verdict was Not Guilty for Zimmerman. My verdict is; not guilty either but a few comments. If Zimmerman had not got out his car, none of this would have happened. And had he not been carrying a concealed weapon he would have just walked away with a few bruises, and Trayvon would be alive, and possibly facing court for aggravated assault on Zimmerman. This has been going on for over a year for Zimmerman. He may now face vigilantes from team Trayvon, so maybe he's suffered enough from a scuffle that went too far. I guess the legality of concealed weapons is what should be on trial here.  I think you can tell by my last three paragraphs, I was spell-bound by this trial. 

I tried to stay awake late to set my body clock on US time, but I failed come 9pm (2am according to my British body clock). So asleep I went in the crisp sheets, to wake up at 4:30am, and be fully awake by 5am. So coffee and TV, and I was making the right start for my journey to Alaska.

The shuttle arrived at 6:30am and myself and about 18 others, including some US soldiers, were on the ride to JFK. The driver hinted at tips at every stop, but I only had $20s on me. Can I ask him to break a $20? Is asking for change from a $20 to tip ok? I'm as unclear on American tipping etiquette as Americans are using a knife and fork. My wife will kill me for what I did next. Once he dropped my two heavy bags on the sidewalk (pavement), I took advantage of the other passengers looking for $1s and $5s and I made a dart for it. Fuck it, I will never see them again, and if that unlikely scenario happens, I will say "tip? But you aren't waitresses!". I believe the term for that would be "you have been served".

Bags checked in, through security and even though I had spent one night in NYC, I still hadn't had any American food at all. I envisaged some pancakes, bacon or steak and eggs with gravy at the airport. In the end my first American food was a bacon, egg and cheese bagel with a large French Roast coffee. Probably the American opposite of the Gregg's I had as my last meal in Britain.

I'm typing this somewhere over the USA, some miles up in the air en route to Seattle. I'm sat by the wing, but it's a clear day and I can see down at the country side divided in squares by the neat grids of roads. I can see the big sky, I can see the country which has graciously taken me in.

However, most importantly I have a wife waiting for me all the way over there in Alaska. I can't wait to see her and the dog and my new life. I have missed her, and at times wondered when I would see her again. I just know she has done a fantastic job of creating a life over there.

I'm glad we chose Alaska, or at least she did. It's the last frontier. For years reading American historical novels and reading of settlers, I realized that coming to Alaska is the nearest I will ever get to that. A frontier of my own, only with wifi. It presents challenges, but if I didn't want challenges I'd still be a postman in Liskeard, Cornwall. But from the postman, who went to the city to get he-self an education, to London to Manchester to travelling the world on every windfall that arrived to settling in the USA. I believe I may have a life that is worthy of a blog - oh here it is.

The last three weeks

 

It's funny but the simple fact that I am leaving the UK, again this time for the foreseeable future, and it isn't really sinking in. I am just doing one thing at a time. Greatly organised, but kind of oblivious of the big picture. This makes sense, my attitude to the enormity of this all since October at least was to try as best I can to ignore the emotion and stress. This culminated on the day of the interview, but apart from that day, and maybe the medical test a week earlier, I have just plodded along. Just doing what I should do, but making it part of my life. Important but just part of my existence at that point in time.

 

Its looking back and analysing it, that it seemed so easy. Lets not go into the money of it all which was terrible, but the time was very much on our side. "It can take years", they all cry. Well on one hand the first part of the application, the I-130 petition was filed on 15th April 2012, and a year and two months later I fly out to the USA. That aside, its worth remembering that we were travelling for the first 6 months of the application and, the time taken between then and the second filing was largely our postponement. The slowest part of this process was our gathering of documents and proofs.

 

To analyse how much the US Visa Service delayed us and it is a total of 114 days or 3.75 months. This breaks down as follows:

 

15.04.12:   I-130 Filed

30.04.12:  I-130 Approved

 

05.04.13: Final documents filed

24.04.13: Embassy Confirms receipt of documents

02.05.13: Notification of interview date

03.06.13: Medical Examination

11:06.13: Interview at Embassy

17.06.13: Visa arrives in the post

13.07.13: Fly to the USA

 

If we weren't travelling the gap between I-130 and the final filing of documents would have considerable shortened the time of the process. In fact it took Sarah less than a month to have a place and a job, so the total application time is about 5 months. The process is quite painless, when you come out the other side ok.

 

Now fresh worries; work! I have very little experience at finding work outside of a city. My usual method of hitting some agencies hard, getting into a temp role and dazzling them enough to give me a permanent position is not going to work this time. This time it is cold calling and self promotion. I know I am able, and I know I have the attitude to make it happen, but who can fail to have some self doubt? Perfect employment records can always be an extended run of luck that may now run out.

 

I have just booked a hotel near JFK for the 13th July. I wondered whether to get one in town, and enjoy New York for an evening. However, for some reason the lugging of two checked in bags and one carry on all the way to Penn Station and back again the next morning, staying in a cheap place, then lugging them back for the 9:30am flight the next day seemed less attractive than a free shuttle two miles from the airport. If I feel fit, I will get the train into Manhattan on the Saturday. If I feel jet lagged and want to crash, then I will feel no guilt about a nice hotel in Queens. The cost was in fact only £20 more than a room in a hostel in Manhattan. I think I have made the right decision. 

 

Maybe the highlight of the trip will be the final flight from Juneau to Haines across on the small twin engine plane as shown below. What a way to enter into the place I will be calling home for a long long time.

 

One thing that's in the back of my mind, and people occasionally ask, "how long will I be in America". I'm married and I'm a permanent resident, and if I don't think about this being a life choice forever, it was not worth bothering with. Flights from America are expensive in the lower 48, but even more costly in Alaska which has little links internationally. So I guess it will be a long time before I travel again. But that's what I've taken on. Then again, I haven't lost the world, I have gained a whole new continent. Of the whole of the America's I've only visited two countries, the USA and Peru. There is so much yet to see and do. Unlike John Lennon, my life began at 40.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grosvenor Square

Tuesday 11th June was a day that was in the back of my mind for a year at least, maybe more. It was the day of the spouse visa interview to join my wife in the USA. As the day came nearer, my stress levels needed more constant maintenance. I want to write down the experience because before the interview, I trawled the net for peoples experiences of the dreaded US Visa interview, and most were scary. I want to put someones mind at rest a little. When I say put your mind at rest, the fears of a denial are real, and a visa denial on your record is a permanent stain on any travel to the US, so it is never something to be taken lightly. Especially if the outcome is like mine, effectively putting your wife in a position where she has to choose between her country and you. Anyway here was my two days in London.

I travelled down to London from Manchester, arriving at noon and checked into a hotel by Hyde Park. I recommend this. There is nothing better to get you in the right mood for an interview than a leisurely 40 minute stroll through Hyde Park, than dealing with London transport on one of the most stressful days of your life. I met with my immigration lawyer the day prior, she gave me interview tips, and an interview pack. Then back to the hotel. I knew sleep would be hard that night, but an alcoholic night-cap was out of the question. I made myself a promise, drink tomorrow in victory or defeat, but tonight relax. From there until approval, the thought, what do I do if 'I'm denied' kept nagging in my head. But I pushed that thought out. My obstinance that no negative thought or adverse 'what if' would be entertained until the event of a denial was upon me.

On the interview day, I awoke at 5:30am, showered at 6am, then sat and relaxed with tea (not coffee it would just add to the jitters), and watched the morning news. I was prepared. All my documents were checked 100 times, I was not going to add to the stress and check them again. When 7am came, I hid my iPhone in my sock and put it in my luggage at the hotel. The rule about 'no electronics in the embassy' is strictly enforced. Then I walked from Porchester Gate in Hyde Park towards Park Lane, passed by morning runners and horse riders. Stopping in the newsagents to pick up a paper on the way, I arrived in Grosvenor Square about 7:35am, 25 minutes before I was about to join the queue. In the far end of Grosvenor Square there is a monument to the British who died in 9/11, a peaceful garden where I sat and talked down any stresses I was feeling. I joined the queue at 7:55am.

Once in the queue helpers (British ones) walk down and ask if you have any electricals. They check you have your invitation letter, and passport. This is great because you find out before you've queued for too long, if something needs to be sorted out. If you've brought something you can't bring in, there is a helpful pharmacy around the corner, which will look after it for about £10. When I got to the front another friendly guy, looks at your passport and compares it to you. Then through a security room with x-ray, and round following the signs marked visa. Two gentlemen at the desk, one American and one British, give you a number. Mine was I905. This number stays with you throughout the process. I believe numbers with 'I' mean immigrant and tourist visa applications start with 'N' as that was a more common number. You are then sent to the waiting area, where you sit and wait for your number to be called and appear on the big screen. I was told by my lawyer that 4-5 hours inside the Embassy is the most common. In that case I was lucky. I would be in and out in 1.5 hours.

I tried to read my paper but noise is constant, so its hard to. In any case, your mind is making enough noise on its own. After a while I heard "I905, window 14". So there I went and met a friendly African-American lady. "How are you today Christopher?" "Lets start with your invitation letter and passport". I handed those to her under the hatch. "So you're moving somewhere pretty". "I think so", I replied. I smiled at that, the very rare positive comment I've ever heard about living in Alaska. I have been so tired of people reminding me it's cold there. She handed me back my chest xray from the medical a week prior, then said you will need this in the US. Then she checked over the documents. Turning to the form, she then announced, "so your visa will expire on 10th December". "Expire?" I panicked. "This is for an immigrant visa?". "Oh sure Christopher, but you have to fly out there before the 10th December, when were you planning on going?". "Mid-July". "That's fine then". She handed me a pink form, and asked me to complete my address. "This is for the courier, to send you your passport with visa". She was talking as if the visa was mine already. "Just complete this, and wait for your number to be called, that will be the real interview". Yes the actual interview, the decision maker was next.

I sat down and looked at my watch. My interview was scheduled as 8:30am, it was now about 9:15am. Everywhere I read, and confirmed by my lawyer, I should be prepared to be in the Embassy for 4-5 hours. I settled in the severe seats and braced myself for a long wait. However, I looked at the screens and I-903 was being served, then I-904. Shit I was next. Before I knew it the tannoy announced "I-905 to window 16". I told myself to get up calmly, breathe and be confident. That went all out the window as I arrived before another friendly African-American lady.

She pushed the document I filled in some time ago under my nose. "Please raise your right hand sir!". I did. "Do you affirm that the answers you give will be the whole truth, and nothing but the truth". "I do", I replied. The interview started. "So tell me about your wedding day". I was happy to and it was a joy to tell it. I told her it was small, about 20 people, and my sister being the only family. She replied, "but a great day, right?". "Of course" I replied. She had a cheerful smile. Next question, "so tell me how your relationship developed", again I did so and she commented at the end "thats lovely". I was relaxed, but immediately thought, don't be disarmed, by friendliness. A few more questions, but this time she was typing away staring at the monitor and less friendly as I answered. When I was done, she turned to me "Mr Novell, thank you for being forthcoming and thank you for your time, I am happy to tell you YOUR VISA HAS BEEN APPROVED". The smile broke on my face, and the same on hers. She had a job to do, a serious job. Some days she would take no pleasure in denying a married couple from living together. Today, she put a smile on a tubby chaps face. This was no doubt a perk of her job, the times when she makes a dream come true for a deserving couple.

She directed me to courier where I happily paid an extortionate £26 for my visa stamped passport to come back to me. Once in the queue, I felt the weight of a years anticipation and nail-biting come down on me. Like many men, I don't cry easily, but when I do its always in the most awkward place, and it nearly happened in the queue of the American Embassy.

The experience of the US Embassy is by no means a comfortable one. However, I come out a little more strong in my love of the good characteristics of Americans. An Embassy is a bit of American soil in the heart of our capital, but it is almost culturally a microcosm of America. The security is rightly tight (success has many enemies), the level of detail and participation required from the visa applicant is high. That said, while they do their job efficiently and seriously. They treat you with dignity and care as a person who is at their mercy.

My lawyer put me at ease a little, by telling me beforehand. "They are not trying to trip you up, they do not have an agenda to keep you away from your wife". It's different for non-immigrant visas applicants. They know that a good majority of those seeking tourist, student or work visas, would love the chance to stay in America. Someone seeking a marriage visa, is known to have that long-term agenda and is open about it. They just have to ensure that their marriage is genuine.

I wanted to tell the world as soon as I left the Embassy, but my phone was all the way back at the hotel. So I walked across Hyde Park with this amazing cheesy, pathetic, nauseating, and 'scary-to-children' smile. More poignant to me was walking past the Peter Pan Fountains by Lancaster Gate. This time I was smiling and at peace. 6 years ago I regularly sat in that area reading after work until darkness came, scared to go home.

As soon as I arrived back at the hotel and my iPhone reconnected me to the outside world, I saw a text from a friend, wishing me luck. I had to tell my wife first, before I could reply to the friend's text. Even though it was 1:20am in Alaska I woke her and told her. The line was bad, and I understood not a single word she said. But I knew she heard my news.

I have just finished booking my flights, and on 14th July, two days before my 42nd birthday I arrive in Juneau. I have so much to do.

I think a new chapter begins from then. Enough to restart this blog in earnest. Funny really, this blog named 'Bus142' is clearly a reference to the wanderlust of Chris McCandless who died in said bus in the Alaskan wilderness. When I started it over two years ago, I never thought the reference would be a little more relevant. In 4 weeks and 2 days, I leave the UK to set up home in the largest US state with one of the smallest populations. A state that borders all three of the worlds largest countries by area. Has it's head in the Artic Circle and it's feet paddling in the Pacific Ocean. It blows my mind.

Gdansk - 15.02 to 18.02

The day started at 3am. My lawyer for immigration emailed me some documents. I had to print and sign and post back, or get my sister to. I duly got up, and printed the documents but the the printer was out of ink. I collapsed on the sofa. Another precious hour in bed was lost needlessly. I drank my coffee, smoked two cigarettes and my bottom betrayed my calm exterior by sending me to the bathroom many times.

The 5am taxi arrived 5 minutes early and off we were hurtling through the empty motorways to Manchester airport. I checked in, found Gregg's and sat with a tea and a Skype IM chat to Sarah in America. I will say nothing about Ryanair, beyond it got me there and that's all I wanted it to do. The fear of being charged £50 for going a milligram over my baggage meant I chucked things out mercilessly. My weight total was 9kg and I was allowed 15kg. Still it was a joy to carry, when I think I lugged about 17kg for 6 months.

Arrival at Gdansk airport was straight forward. The only ATM that looked available went out of service just before giving me my PLZ 500. This led to a mini panic, strange country, no money, now what? I found another after some searching and I was pleased to check online later that the ATM didn't take the money out on the first unsuccessful try.

The way to get to the centre is easy. If you are unsure when you arrive there, there is a very helpful and friendly English speaking tourist desk. It costs PLZ 3 for a single on the 210 bus. Just turn left out the airport and the bus stops are in front of a black building. Now the 210 bus does not terminate at the airport so ensure you get on the bus with the destination Oruna. The other will take you god knows where. You want to get off at Gdansk Glowny (main rail station). It's clear enough to see.

The journey takes you through some slummy places on the way to Gdansk centre and with the snow on the ground it looks truly depressing. It's Poland in your face.

I chose the Hotel Zappio to stay. Not far from the water and an old merchants house, so the decor is quirky and inspiring. I have definitely arrived out of season as I have a 4 bed dorm all to myself. The mattress is the thinnest but, I had a great sleep. I feared that in cold countries they whack up the heat too much. But not here. I slept with both my legs snugly under the duvet.

On arrival at the hostel, my 3am get up came back to haunt me and I crashed on the bed, and woke some hours later disoriented, and very groggy. I went to explore after waking with an amazing hunger. Without any plan I headed straight to the waters edge, occasionally looking at my map and made my way to Dluga Targ, which is translated as Long Market. On one hand it's an East European central square which you can imagine was once filled with jugglers, dancing bears and fat men swinging mugs of frothy ale. On the other hand it's a little too big to be charming. In fact Dluga Targ, is a microcosm of Gdansk. Gdanks looks like it can't make up its mind whether to be a Munich or a Salzburg, big or charming. Actually a quick look at history and a picture on a wall in Gdansk shows that the street planning was quite out of Polish hands. The tall thin buildings used to be everywhere, neatly compacted. Of course the war (don't mention the war) bombed the shit out of this much needed port on the Baltic, and the wide ugly spaces are more or less bomb craters. Other space made by the Germans during the early 40s, was quickly filled by communist architecture. In one respect, the fact that Dluga Targ is still with us is a wonderful thing.

The Old Town as it is called is sort of ok to wander. However, while Gdansk is walkable your wandering will take you into less attractive areas, then back into a charming one. See paragraph above why.

It being cold, and not wanting to squander money on drink and food just to have somewhere warm to sit, I made my way back to the very comfy hostel. I was in bed at 8:30 and I slept a full 12 hours. With the dorm to myself, the space was amazing and I had time to think clearly.

Saturday I had a few practical tasks. As mentioned at the beginning of this post, I was unable to print out some documents for the lawyer back at home. So the first mission after a wonderful free breakfast and breath-takingly gorgeous hot shower, was to find an Internet cafe. The one I found on google up by the trains station seemed to no longer exist. No matter I was up by the station anyway and purchased my onward ticket to Olsztyn (more about that later). A three hour journey for £9. I will be leaving Gdansk on the 19th. Anyway it was no good, I couldn't find the Internet place so back to the hostel where I was given perfect directions to one much nearer. Also as I needed to post two letters back to the UK, I was kindly shown that Weilka Brytania is Great Britain. This leads me to my first post office experience.

The Polish post office or Poczwa (I think) of Gdansk looked an impressive building inside. However, it's perfectly understandably only designed for Polish speakers. You go inside and a ticket machine gives you three options, in Polish. I chose the one which said "Stamps". This was wrong as the lady at counter C, shouted and wildly gesticulated at me, telling me to sod off to counter B. Of course closer examination would have shown me that counter B which had letters and parcels all around it would have been the good choice. Anyway the lady at counter B spoke at me, and mimed an airplane which was what I needed. She handed me the stamps and stickers then slammed the window in my face and walked away. I coyly tapped on the glass and shrugged in order to mime that I didn't know where to post my letters. She pointed at a wooden box, which looked very inconspicuous. In went my letters. I look forward with interest as to whether they arrive anytime soon.

For lunch I wanted to try a Milk Bar. These, my guide books advise me, are a positive remnant of communism. They are a cheap way to eat a meal. I found a veggie one called Greens. For PLZ 18 I had a huge Enchilada with salad and a coffee. You are served with the same love we received from dinner ladies at school, and the place has school canteen all over it. You sit at benches and clear your plates afterwards. It's a great experience, and a great way to get full on a good meal with a limited budget.

After lunch I walked a further 15 minutes or so to see The Freedom Roads exhibition. The entry of PLZ 6 is good value for what it is. The overall theme is the Solidarity movement as led by Lech Walesa in the 80s. However, what you come away with is a pretty good understanding of Poland from 1945 to present. It starts with Polish lamenting how badly they came out the war. Well I was a bit unsympathetic to that, as nobody came out that good. Their beef I suppose was they didn't come out the other end or recover as quickly as Germany (even East Germany) did. The shops of Poland were empty, and a display shows a typical shop in pre-fall of communism Poland. About as empty as a hermits diary. It showed the treatments of political dissidents, including the prisons they stayed in. Not nice, but I don't think British prisons were very nice in the 50s either. So far, so uninspiring.

The story of Solidarity and the rise of reluctant king, Lech Walesa is almost fairy tale. The electrician and his Shipworker Union who put strikes to good use. Not just for better wages and softer toilet paper, but as leverage to free political prisoners. It was such an ironic smack in the face for Soviet controlled Poland. The Soviet Union, who spoke of the beauty of power in the hands of the workers, had this ethos rammed back down their throat. Polish workers wanted freedom from communism. Now in our travels last year we visited a few ex-commie capitals. It seems that most of them, especially Berlin, Budapest and Bucharest like to think that the fall of communism started there, it's like a latter 20th century badge. I think it happened so quickly and there was so much dissent at the time it's hard to say which straw broke the iron donkey's back. However, this museum puts a good solid case for it being Poland. In which case Lech the sparky from Gdansk, became the man who freed half of Europe. Later Lech was sworn in as the first non-commie President of Poland. Unfortunately, he was better at organizing strikes than running a country and as Poland moved towards wanting to be a major economic player in Europe, Lech seemed inadequate for the role and was replaced. That said from Gdansk airport taking his name to being a national hero, his weakness in government has not hindered his hero status. I quite like the story of Lech.

Lech and Gdansk are the same in another way. Both are unassuming but both have played such an important role in European History. Once called Danzig, under the Germans, there was no way this strategic port town sandwiched between the Prussias, then later Germany and the USSR, was going to be left alone. You'd think the influences would be visible, but I only see Poland in Gdansk. I can't say it looks at all Germanic. It looks like a Baltic port. Their proudest monument being The Crane. The ship crane which is claimed to be the first, sits as a big wooden ugly bastard between golden snug eateries.

My second full day in Gdansk was spent initially making a tactical substitution. While I was set to go to Olsztyn on the 19th, my first choice volunteer hosts got back to me and offered me a bed and food in return for some English teaching. The place is way down in Kluczbork, south west of Poland. I got to the station to check on ticket availability and prices. I had some idea of when I wanted to go, so I wrote it down on a piece of paper and handed it to the nice lady at the ticket office. A ticket was available for £19.15. It leaves at 10:13am and arrives into Kluczbork at 6:43pm that evening, with a 57 minute transfer time in Poznan. I tried to get my Olsztyn ticket refunded but no joy. That is an £8 loss. However, this is being made up elsewhere, as I am now nearer to Krakow if I choose to visit there.

The problem was when I tried to phone my host/employer the phone said something in Polish, and beeped. I didn't know whether it was a voicemail or saying the number is incorrect. I took a chance booking this ticket. Later I googled the school where I would be teaching, made a call to the landline and got through. The lady will kindly be picking me up from the station when I arrive in Kluczbork.

The annoying thing about important stuff to do when traveling. It makes you rush around and fluster, but when it gets done you feel a bit hollow as there is now a day to fill. I filled a few hours reading and lazing, thinking I will go to beach tomorrow. The beach would be the first time I would have seen the Baltic Sea. I sat back, played a bit more tennis on the iPad. Then I saw the tattoo on my right arm. It screamed at me in Korean - "TODAY"! I dragged myself up, swung the camera around my neck and headed out.

It's easy to get to the beach. The area is Stogi Plaza. The number 3 or 8 tram runs south past Gdansk Glowny. The cost is PLN 3 for a single and their are many ticket machines with an English option. As the tram leaves central Gdansk, you see some very run down areas. Big blocks of apartments, many in need of a lick of paint. For some reason the apartments have the blocks name and numbers in huge letters down the side. A god send for a postman, but incredibly ugly. The countryside outside of Gdansk is brown and grey. It seems the severe winter has taken all the colour from the vegetation.

I got off the tram too early and the doors closed before I could get back on. So there I was with at least 2 miles to walk, and dropped in amongst the ugly apartments. I walked briskly, hood up, following my gut instinct as to where the beach would be. It seemed the road was straight and there was little chance I could go wrong again. To the right was this lake which caused me to take a short detour. Completely frozen, it was. The only things poking their heads through the ice, were blackened grass and a few empty bottles of lucozade. My peace by the lake was shattered by a gang of loud kids and a fierce looking dog of no pedigree I know. Mindful of the murderous children in the film Hostel, and noticing my slight isolation, I made my way back to the road.

Several minutes passed. A few trams of which I could have been comfortably sat, had I stayed put, hurtled by. Then the sea was in view. The dunes dabbed in snow, I expected something very isolated. However, when I approached the beach it seemed there is whole seaside industry. Big green bars with the Carlzberg sign. Reasonably maintained playgrounds for the children. This place is still in use. The sands were the finest I've seen since Koh Samui. There is surely a pocket of good season when the families will sit here and swim in this sea, with the dockyard cranes and ships as a backdrop. Yet today there were no swimmers. It was Sunday and I can imagine that as with Britain, the brisk walk to follow church and a big roast dinner, led families to the sea. All of them sheltering behind furry hoods, and 'No Fear' beanie hats.

I dipped my toe in the Baltic then made my way back towards the rusty tram shelter. I caught it back to the town, getting off a little earlier to walk through some more outskirts. That evening I ate at the hostel for the first time. And I had a Polish beer for the first time (in Poland). Finding a beer with just 5% ABV, wasn't incredibly easy, but with the help of the bar man, I found myself a crisp fresh lager. I can't remember the name of it. That evening I had Perogies Ruskie. Lovely dumpling pasta thingies stuffed full of spinach and cheese, and sprinkled with fried onions. Very Polish and very good.

Tomorrow I head south.

Why I came off Facebook - and I am much better for it!

Straight away I have noticed that my subject heading to this post is quite preachy, yet I'm still going to run with it. I am very much like a recovered smoker, alcoholic or drug addict. Once they become free of the addiction they feel they have to enforce their life choice on everyone else. I see so many flaws in likening substance addiction to Facebook use, but I still think there is an incredible denial of addiction in those who keep using the worlds most popular social network.

Anyway I deactivated my account a few weeks ago, and prior to doing so I had many arguments with myself as to why I use Facebook. In doing this, I reconciled on how I actually use it and the ideal usage for me. Realization brought to me the fact that how I use it is a long way from the reasons I gave myself for staying.

Like all my ways of thinking, and maybe human thinking, I wanted to define FB and the reason we use it into a single sound bite. And I think I have done. It's simply the quest for attention. That sounds negative but seeking attention is a human desire and we all have it to a greater or lesser degree. It's how we seek that attention or validation which is the subject for judgement. FB brings out the worse vehicle for attention seeking.

FB's Mark Zuckerberg devised the site under the mantra "bringing people together". He is a clever entrepreneur and he meant that with a sub-text - bringing people together with advertising agencies. So what? It's a massive tool, it costs money to run, who is supposed to fund it? I will go on to admit that during my 6 years of active FB usage, the adverts went by quite unnoticed by me. Occasionally they targeted my book history to recommend me new releases, and the same goes for music. But again, it did not divert my attention to an minute annoyance. So my rejection of FB is not based on it being a massive consumer study for nasty corporations.

Privacy is something that bothers many, and only me to a small extent. Everyday before and since FB we happily gave our credit card, address and phone details to a variety of companies over the Internet. I've given less of these identity theft vulnerable details to FB. So privacy isn't a determinant either.

So what is my problem?

Well for many the attraction is that we keep up with our "friends" lives easily. Well we do and we don't. In fact people only show a very filtered happy version of their lives. Sure occasionally a pet will die, or a relative and we offer our condolences, but those are major headlines not everyday life. If we are to believe life is like FB - most of us celebrate the weekend with a glass of vino, start the Saturday with a lovely breakfast, mourn the loss of the weekend and hate Mondays. All the fatter people have photos leaning from the shoulders up with their head leant forward. All the beautiful (and some who just think they are beautiful) people pout at trendy night clubs raising a bottle of WKD. According to FB we are all such great chefs. We all have great families and days out and are always on amazing holidays. It isn't life and it isn't the genuine window into our far flung "friends" lives we like to think.

But that is other people's usage and I'm a firm believer in free expression not matter how important or trivial. My deactivation was about me and my usage.

As a FB user I was the worse kind. If FB was a drug I wouldn't be the occasional line of cocaine on the weekend, I was the £300 a day heroin addict. I could not go a few minutes without refreshing my iPhone. iPhones and FB are a bastard combination. If something funny or interesting came into my head, it had to go on FB straight away. The dopamine reward was a plethora of ´likes', telling me I was a funny and clever guy. No responses meant I'd failed myself. Like a gambler losing, I just told myself I had to do better next time. Every event had to be photographed, and all my feed needed to know how great my life was. When it was going bad, I hid that. I sneered at the ones who aired their relationship and friendship problems with everyone. Yet now I think they were the most honest.

Then there was the politics. I'm a politically opinionated person. I don't expect to be agreed with, but I reach my conclusions (I feel) after reading up on the subject and exploring all the arguments and data before my opinion is formed. In that respect I expect my challenger (usually to the right of me) to have done the same. The main issue I think is worth a damn for me is the issue with Israel/Palestine. I posted my stance many times, yet the only response I got was from those who I felt had to understand more of the issues. I compare this to a debate I had on Twitter recently over Palestine (sometimes heated) with a Jewish person living in Israel. He took me around the block. All my arguments formed with 3 books, a drama series called The Promise and many trips to Wikipedia had an equal. The bombing of the King David Hotel, the mandate of Palestine and land for peace initiatives, he knew it also and better than I. And I was in my element. This is something I couldn't get from FB. Occasionally on FB I would have conversations over trickle down economics with an old friend now living abroad. He was a very knowledgable conservative, a greater believer in individualism. The bank bailouts would cause the most lively discussion. Then someone else would come in with a well intentioned but simple comment - someone who is worthy of opinion but I will wager has not read much JM Keynes. It was like a drunk has wandered into debating society by accident.

But this is the point, FB is pluralistic in the extreme. Pluralism is a good thing usually, but when you seek a haven from everything puerile in society or things you find unimportant, FB shoves the crap back into your face. But then again, I shove my puerile crap back into everyone else's faces, it's a lose-lose situation.

FB is a lifestyle for many of us. It has replaced email, text, phone and even face-to-face communication for many of us. Myself very much included. Therefore, there are ramifications in just coming off FB. How do you just deactivate? These are the arguments I had with myself. Do I announce it to all, or just deactivate and see who notices. I chose the latter for reasons I will explain in a minute. If you announce you can lay down your reasons in message to your "friends". For me that looked too diva. I was maybe more focused on those, who would shrug their shoulders and say "so what" than those who would miss FB as a point of contact for me. You will get a back-lash (if you are lucky) whichever route you choose. I chose just to come off as a real determinant of what FB is and how shallow it is. If people want to make contact with me, they have my number or my email. I am still on passive Twitter and easily searched on google. If they want to see pictures of me and any adventures, then I can happily forward them on request, rather than be like old people who thrust photos of importance only to them into your lap, while you look at each one and forcing interest. In other words, in this day and age it takes very few clicks on the WWW to see I am very much alive and well and not faking my death for insurance reasons. I will talk more about photos in a moment.

The back-lash I had was about 7 people on my previous friend list taking the effort to find me, and asking if I was off FB, or defriending them. All asked why I came off. Going forward I could possibly send them this post. But I had to answer in a few sentences which isn't easy. It's a bit like when you go teetotal for a spell. You are offered a drink and you chose a soft one. They ask why and you feel like either a self-righteous principled arsehole, or a recovering alcoholic when you explain. When really you want it to be; I just don't want to take alcohol into my body at this present time, it is no big deal and I am happy for you to continue. But this is the point when you make a lifestyle decision, explaining it can always be received as criticism when you strive hard for it not to be that way. Your ex-friends can see your decision to quit FB as saying "my life is rewarding and my real-friends provide me with such a hectic life I have no need for FB - but you do need it". This is not the case with me. I constantly questioned why I had at least 100 "friends" at any one time, I spent most Saturdays at home, or most the guests at my wedding came out of church-charity rather than life long friendship. FB actually intensified any loneliness I had rather than gave relief.

Photographs are a large reason many stay. FB is very generous in offering unlimited storage, whereas google and Flickr charge after a point is reached. Then again, FB has defined our picture taking more than electronic cameras which were in popular use five or more years before FB. Cameras on phones were widespread a good four years before FB. The sharing aspect of FB seems to have increased usage. The idea that you can take a picture and publish it widely with a click has been a blessing but greater curser. It makes us fear a camera like celebs fear the paps. In fact maybe that's a problem with FB in general we think it has turned us all into celebs. That just because our thoughts can be published to a 100 people at once, makes them interesting or worthy. A quick look on your newsfeed brings back the grim reality that they are really not. They are caught in a big crowd of everyone shouting at once. Facebookers often criticize Twitter as you get much less feedback than FB. The reality is your thoughts are as important on FB as they are to the strangers on Twitter. I love the quote I picked up once "Facebook is 'look at me' while Twitter is 'look at that'. This is an uncomfortable thought if you deny that your FB feed is for attention seeking.

I like my photographs and traveling recently I took heaps and posted them. However, every time I wanted to relive my travels I would go back on and see the same photos. It compressed my travel experience of 6 months into a few stills. Now these aren't readily available, I relive my travel memories through this blog. Or even better through the best recorder of memories there is; my mind. Sometimes just lying in bed at night and going over my travels in my mind, brings new things out which I didn't think to snap or blog. In that respect my FB travel photos have narrowed my memory of travel not aided.

There are many many positive effects of the aftermath of quitting FB. Firstly, if you are an iPad or iPhone user, you will realize what a great gadget you have as you look round all the other apps, than that horrible blue 'F'. You find yourself searching news apps like Pulse, or Google Currents. You find news the good old way, not through a "friends" update.

It helps you redefine your friendships. Now I'm not so purist that cyber friends cannot be healthy. They can. Without FB you see the people who you may not have seen personally in years in a different life. You can encourage an email. If they have gone on holiday recently, maybe ask them to email their photos to you. If this is too inconvenient for them, question how badly they want you to see them. In any case pictures are overrated in describing an experience. People who contact me through text, email, Skype, twitter (loads of options) are obviously the ones who valued my friendship. Those who saw me as merely a FB "friend" also become clear by not making a very simple effort.

For most FB is an enjoyable, healthy and harmless experience. I may say that as an institution it has done more good than harm, just not in my case. There is also the trendy aspect as more people love the tag "I don't do Facebook", and I love that tag also. I admit it has become an elitist comment, which may become more widespread.

Quitting FB comes with some soul searching, and honest self analysis is almost always a bitter pill to swallow. But the toughest pill to digest is that your life doesn't become richer just because you broadcast it. The other pill is how unimportant you really are. And if you are important to people, you will remain important with or without FB. Another acid test for me for me was how few people on my friend list read my travel blog with infinitely more detail on my travels than my photos. It's not my friend list, they are all lovely people, but I am still one of many on their friend list, and my travels were a million times more important to me than to them.

I want to finish with another quote I read in the Guardian "don't look for happiness in your feeds, switch off and feed your happiness". Now that is surely worth a 'like'!!

Edinburgh - 7th to 9th December

There were two reasons for my popping off to Edinburgh in the second weekend of December. Well actually maybe more than two, but the main reasons were I had a heavy heart. I was very down and desperately in need of thinking space. In fact so much was needed I very much doubt Edinburgh could deliver. Well it could. The second reason is I wanted to take my new Canon for a proper spin around the block, and Edinburgh delivered that as well.

I left work early to catch the 4:15pm to Edinburgh Waverly, but Chris always gives himself too much time, you know this. I killed time with a refreshing Amstel in Piccadilly station. While the beer hit me and gave a warm buzz all problems were there, but for some reason you have a little clarity that it is going to be alright. The buzz went when the train arrived delayed, and I needed the loo too many times.

The train was stupidly crowded all the way from Manchester to Preston. But when the crowds thinned to where all had seats the jollity of the passengers came out. I realized I was heading in the right direction. I took out my GPS as soon as we left Carlisle so I could see when we crossed the border (me and borders, I don't know). I didn't need the GPS, the Scottish passengers would let me know when we crossed. The beers were cracked open and a gentleman was inviting all around him to play 'name that tune' from the music on his tablet. The prize for a correct answer was a Rowntrees wine gum. I won two.

I picked a hostel which I knew wouldn't be far from the rail station and I chose Smarts Hostels off The Royal Mile. A great place with a neat studenty bar. Only £10 a night. But this isn't important at all. Although the Scottish breakfast in the morning for £4 was one of the things you come north of the border for. And yes haggis was there to be enjoyed. The truth was the following Saturday it filled me until evening.

That evening I left and walked towards the castle in the intermittent rain. The Christmas lights were up, and I don't think there are many cities which can wear Christmas as well as Edinburgh can. The American tourists, were shuffling to the good eateries, after a day spent doing everything they could. The streets were clearing and it was just me, my camera and a million thoughts.

I walked past the vibrant bars on The Royal Mile. A mash-up of tourists looking for and finding the welcoming Scots. Edinburgh professionals winding down their week at work, and I wanted to be there with them. But I couldn't go in. I had drunk in Manchester and on the train, and I wasn't in a safe mood to be drunk. I finished my walk and returned to the Hostel Bar. I sat there with a pint of Guinness, uploaded my photos and read some before taking to the crisp white sheets of my allotted top bunk. In the limited space of a hostel dorm, there is something cosy and safe about your little allocated piece of space. I'm not going to pretend that my co-dormers were ideally considerate, but I slept ok. The only complaint was a mistake of my own making. Keeping my bag as a pillow, I slept awkwardly and carried a painful neck for the remainder of my weekend and a little into the following week.

I woke up before 8am and was one of the few to take early advantage of the Scottish breakfast. Hash browns, sausages, bacon eggs, haggis, everything. My mind flitted like a remote control surfing the TV, as it couldn't decide whether I was basking in contentment of the moment, slurping sweet tea as the sun rose without hurry. Or the magnitude of the future weighing me down. I am pretty sure that the contentment and peace won overall. I set out and walked the streets of Edinburgh before most others had. I crossed the bridge taking me to Princes Street, while other hostellers slept off their hangovers, and the American tourists were complaining about their breakfast at The Caledonian. It's the park I wanted, near the Scottish National Gallery. I walked through it not knowing what I wanted. It started to rain and I sought shelter with the fickle comfort of a Marlboro Light. I can't wander these streets all day. I needed out the city. I looked at google maps and then the train timetable on the old iPhone and there was a 9:38am train to Perth, and the fare was only £16. I had time and made my way to Waverly Station and took the 1 hour journey north of the city. Why Perth? What's so special about Perth? Nothing. I went because I could.

As the train leaves Edinburgh it also leaves the charming touristy bit and you see the houses famed by the film Trainspotting. We all know council houses exist, but these were miles and miles of gritty 1980s style damp-stained morbidity. I grew up in a council house, but this was something else. A child growing up there would see little else, especially in my era when cares were scarce amongst the poor. But still I saw the soul, I think. And this seemed as part of Scotland's fabric as the scotch-soaked lamp-lit bars pulsing the Royal Mile.

Then the countryside. The snow had fallen a little. The train made several stops and on and off jumped rosy cheaked families with technicolored hats. The kids excited about a journey they knew well. Wrinkled chain-smoking Catholic women, impatiently waiting for the train to arrive to light up another Lambert & Butler. And the big men, all very big men.

When I got the Perth I didn't know why I bothered. I recognized nothing much from my stop here in 1996 on the way to Pitlochry. I wandered a bit, taking in the churches and forcing interest in the history. Book shops always make me happy, so why wouldn't the local one? I was forcing it far too much. Trying to be cultural, when I only wanted to be in bed and warm. The snow fell a little and I found a Costa Coffee. I found a table in the corner and sat nursing a Gingerbread Latte, and nibbling at a chocolate and caramel shortbread, which I bought only as I thought I should. I looked at the families opposite. The matriarch calming the child with a hot chocolate and the father wiping his misted glasses, just like me. Happy bastards. I picked up my phone. Found my sister in the contacts and texted "Dan, how's you.... I'm in Costas and so fucking lonely!" There would be no breakdown beyond that. I took the train back to Edinburgh as the sun set. Tonight would be Saturday night and the pubs would not intimidate me. I was going out. And if it had to be on my own, then that's the way it had to be.

Back at the hostel I showered. There is something about Lynx Africa that makes everything right. Then out I went. My first stop was a backpackers bar called The Backpackers Bar. I sat there with Guinness after Guinness, pretending to be interested in the soccer. I lubricated my confidence enough to get into the next door establishment, Whistle Blinkies. A swinging place hyped as the place for live music in Scotlands capital. It was nothing like The Dublin Castle in Camden. No one here was making any attempt at taking themselves seriously. Good basic guitar sounds. A pubby voice for the lead singer, and Heh Jude to finish a set. I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The cheeks were pink and cracked above the beard, the eyes were subdued. When did I get so old? But bugger me if that wasn't a smile. I came here to seek contentment and found a crumb of happiness lying on the timber floor. "Same again please!"

The next morning there was no hangover. Even if there had been that breakfast would have banished it immediately. I had a noon train to catch on Sunday back to Manchester. This time the journey was in daylight. The train less lively, but offset by the track winding through the towns serving The Lake District. The smooth green hills and little blue and red dots of North Face and Berghaus coats bobbing along the peaks. Sometimes all you can say is "Britain, you beautiful little Island".