NEW YORK AND SOUTH DAKOTA IN THE FALL – A VISIT TO THE USA, OCTOBER 2012
PART ONE – GLOVERSVILLE AND LAKE GEORGE
The Journey
After the previous days drama and activity (packing, taking dogs to Best Buddies, packing, taking Chas to hospital for antibiotics for her chest, packing and late to bed) the taxi to take us to the airport arrived promptly at 5.45am, we were ready, and we arrived at Birmingham airport with plenty of time to spare.
We checked our bags in straight away. We were flying with American “United Airlines” (one of the airlines that had a plane hijacked on “9/11”) and the additional security was immediately apparent – we were screened before being allowed to join the queue for the airline check in desk. A burley surly security chap scanned our passports and asked the same “what is in your luggage?” questions that we would be asked a few minutes later as we checked our bags in. I didn’t notice this at other check in queues, and interestingly this didn’t happen on our return trip from the USA. I wonder what security database he was checking our passports against, that clearly isn’t made available to British airport check in staff? Or maybe that true defender of individual freedom for all, the U.S. Government, has stricter screening criteria than the namby-pamby lefty pinky liberal UK Government who, quite unreasonably, will let their citizens travel wherever they like? (Did you know that US citizens are still not allowed to travel directly from their homeland to Cuba?).
The flight was uneventful, with the option of between five and six hours of American drama, comedy (in the very loosest sense of the word) and documentaries. Oh how I was missing the BBC already, or even Channel 5, but fortunately I had invested in a Kindle, and had downloaded the entire works of Charles Dickens and Conan-Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes (just because I could) and so I spent most of the time reading. Until this flight I didn’t realise how long is takes from the cabin door closing (all electrical devices must be off) until I was allowed to read again after take-off.
At Newark International Airport in New York we joined the long queue of visitors to the U.S. who were waiting to see whether the U.S. Department of Home Security knew something about them that they themselves didn’t know, or whether they would be permitted to enter The Land of the Free. We were reasonably confident – we had applied for an “ESTA”, an electronic Visa, before we left, and thankfully the computer had said “Yes”. There were signs everywhere pledging that Security Officials would be welcoming, friendly, and helpful. Unfortunately the official looking lady in the charge of marshalling the queue had her back to these signs, and barked orders and commands at everyone as she directed them to Immigration desks. Since most of the queue consisted of Brits, we did as we were told, and were all polite to her, as least as long as she was within earshot. After all, one discourteous word may result in a seat being made available on the next United Airlines flight back to Birmingham. It wasn’t until later that we realised that she wasn’t really an “official”, merely an usher; otherwise she may have experienced the humourous sarcasm that is unique to the British, although it would probably have been lost on her.
In fact the desk-bound Official, when we reached her, complied with the pledge to be welcoming, friendly, and helpful (well, within reason) as she took our fingerprints, and asked us where we were to spend our first night in the U.S. Fortunately Chas and I were not separated – I couldn’t remember where her Dad lived. I was able to turn to the clearly nervous elderly couple behind us and reassure them that the Immigration Officer was harmless and quite friendly, before we were kindly permitted to enter the United States of America to start our holiday.
Arrival
It was good to see Les, Chantal’s Dad, in arrivals – we hadn’t seen him for a while. After the customary hugs and handshakes, we started the first stage of our journey to Upstate New York – finding Les’s car. Les had parked at the wrong terminal, and so we caught the “Air Train” to the car park, where Les was initially unable to find his car. Indeed he was initially unable to find the car park, and had to ask airport staff for directions, once he had found someone with adequate English. Many staff appeared to be Latin Americans.
Having located the car and navigated out of Newark, we headed north along Interstate 87, stopping for a coffee after an hour or so. We had instructions from Ruthie not to eat, as she had prepared a spread of cold meats for us. I recognised the services where we stopped as being the same one where we had stopped on a previous visit, although Les pointed out that they are all identical. My first cup of American coffee was a somewhat average one, served in a cardboard cup, but it served its purpose of keeping me awake.
We reached Gloversville well within the predicted four hours journey time. On our last visit the speed limit for Interstate highways was 55mph, along with most other non-urban roads, but now it is 65mph, with some stretches allowing 75mph. Signs remind drivers that two speeding tickets will mean a lost licence (I’m not sure if there is a time period involved), plus, presumably, a fine, since penalties are tripled for speeding through road works. The “two penalties” rule is within each state. Technically, with 50 States, there is the possibility of 50 consecutive speeding tickets without losing your licence.
Les, like most Americans, is used to driving long distances and was not fazed by the eight hour return trip. His confidence was obvious as he cruised along at 85mph, with his cell phone glued to his ear. He hit the brakes a few times as he realised that he was overtaking, or passing, a Police car. Unlike in the UK, Police cars in the States are not high visibility, and are not obvious until you are overtaking, apart from those parked up in the wide central reservation (which had no crash barriers).
After leaving the Interstate highway, we passed by Rotterdam and through Amsterdam (a slight clue to the origin of the original settlers in this area) before reaching Les and Ruthie’s house in Gloversville, where Ruthie and their Pomeranian dog Kiki came out to meet us. Chantal’s 17 year old niece, Ippany, who lives with Les and Ruthie, was also there, together with a couple of her friends.
Having stayed there before, it felt like home straight away. The Stars and Stripes flying outside (as is customary outside most U.S. homes) was accompanied by a Union Jack. This was not just for our benefit – we bought the flag for Les before our last trip, and Les, a British Citizen, flies it as a permanent fixture.
We had an excellent dinner, after which I was beginning to feel weary, either because of jet lag, or maybe because of the box of wine that accompanied the meal. Chantal didn’t help, as she kept announcing that it was the early hours of the morning in the UK. I had changed my watch, but she hadn’t, her excuse being that this was the only way that she could take her antibiotics at the right time. We both gave into jet lag, and we both went to bed at the same time – me at 9.00pm, and Chantal at 2.00am.
Day 1 – A Trip To The City
Our first full day in the States was definitely a “chilling out” day. Still not quite adapted to local time, we were both up at 6.30am (or 11.30am in Chantal’s case, although today she joined the rest of us in Eastern Standard Time), and, once it got light, we were greeted by a grey misty day. We saw Ippany briefly before her Dad, Duncan, Chantal’s brother, who lives a few minutes away from Les and Ruthie, collected her to take her to school.
Chantal and I decided to walk into Gloversville – if it hadn’t been for frequent stops to take photographs it would have been a 20 minute walk, and surprisingly I remembered the route from our last visit to this house. Gloversville is a City. With a population of just over 15000, only 5% of the population of Leicester, it is still a City. The United States has a tendency to elevate the status of all sorts of things. A baseball series limited to teams from the U.S. is a WORLD baseball series. Later in the holiday we chatted to the owner of a particularly large German Shepherd dog, about the same size as Josh (for those who remember Josh). Apparently he wasn’t just a German Shepherd dog – he was a KING German Shepherd dog. We met a GREAT Pyrenean Mountain Dog, which in the UK would simply have been a Pyrenean Mountain Dog – after all they are all pretty big. And so the small town of Gloversville is, in fact, a City.
Les doesn’t actually live in Gloversville – he lives in the town of Johnstown, the mostly residential area that surrounds the two cities of Gloversville and Johnstown, but is administratively separate from either of them. Les and Ruthie’s home is a few hundred yards outside of the city boundary, and the city boundary is where the pavement begins (sorry, sidewalk – “pavement” seems to refer to the road surface). There are no sidewalks outside of the city boundary, nor waste collections, nor sewage removal (Les has a septic tank), although apparently there is no big reduction in the local tax. The “Town”, however, is somewhat nicer than the “City”. We didn’t visit the City of Johnstown on this occasion, but Gloversville is definitely a bit tired and run-down, and we passed occasional derelict houses on our walk. The place was clean though, and people are friendly enough – those few that we met (there were not many pedestrians) gave a cheerful “good morning”.
Most houses were decorated for Halloween, which is taken very seriously in the States. Displays ranged from a few hollowed out pumpkins, to windows (and in some cases trees) filled with flying ghosts and witches. Nearly all houses had some sort of autumnal decoration, maybe orange and red flowers, or an autumn wreath on the door. Autumn is celebrated in many parts of the States, certainly the more northerly States, possibly because once the snow and cold of winter sets in everyone battens down the hatches, only venturing outdoors for work, shopping, snow shovelling, or, in this area at least, skidooing – roads in rural areas have “beware of Skidoos” signs. Roadside parking is banned between 11.00pm and 6.00am between November 30th and March 31st. This is when the snowploughs trundle along all roads, leaving a huge pile of snow at the end of every driveway. And if you are graced with a roadside sidewalk, it is your responsibility to keep it snow free, or the Council will do it for you and charge for the privilege.
I noticed an “infill house” built on land between numbers 60 and 62. In the UK this would have been 60A. Here it was 601/2. I also noticed that post poxes (to receive post, instead of a letter box) were all on the same side of the road. The postman drives along the road in a small “Postman Pat” style van (but white and blue instead of red) leaning out to put post into the boxes as he goes. Les has to cross the road each day to collect his post. Must be a bugger after the snowplough has gone through.
We took Kiki with us for a walk. Bless her – she was very excited to go out on a walk. She wouldn’t have been so keen if she had realised that our definition of a dog walk is based on a benchmark set by somewhat larger dogs. By the time that we turned around to return home, she had clearly had quiet enough, and I had to carry her rest of the way. This would not be an option with our dogs.
That evening we settled in front of the TV, to watch adverts, quiz shows, adverts, politics shows (lots, with the looming presidential election) and adverts. There are adverts between the theme tune and the start of a show. There are adverts between the quiz show host giving a fond farewell, and the show credits. It is difficult to discern when a programme has ended and adverts begin. I timed six minutes of adverts between 5.45 and 6.00pm, which is presumably 24 minutes per hour. In the UK an average of 12 minutes per hour is allowed, although since this excludes sponsorship commercials, we may not be as far from the U.S pattern of extensive advertising as we like to think that we are.
Two daily quiz shows are popular in the Les-and-Ruthie household – the U.S. version of “Countdown”, and “Jeopardy”, a general knowledge quiz. We quite enjoyed Jeopardy, and it became part of our evening routine when staying with Les and Ruthie.
Day 2 – Lake George
The plan – wake to a clear sunny morning, head north into the Adirondack Mountains, to enjoy the spectacle of the many vibrant tree colours luminescing in the bright Fall sunshine, and then enjoy a two mile stroll along a track up to the 3760 foot summit of Blue Mountain to see a panoramic view of spectacular colours.
Reality – a late dawn revealed a gloomy grey morning with veils of heavy drizzle drifting across the garden. The tops of the low undulating hills around Gloversville were hidden in low cloud – we would be lucky to see the base of Blue Mountain, let alone the summit.
After Les had returned from an early morning business visit, the rain had stopped, although the weather was still grey and Misty. We decided to head up to Lake George, a town that is effectively a gateway into the Adirondacks, and sits on the shore of, as you might guess, Lake George. It about 90 scenic minutes north of Gloversville, via a route that would take us past lakes, forest and small towns.
We passed through the small town of Northville. Northville had been in the local news recently – they have problems with coyotes in the same way that urban areas in the UK have problems with foxes. The main difference is the menu. The dustbins of Northville, if they have any, are safe from scavenging, but the good folk of Northville do not let their moggies out at night.
We passed either a smallish lake (in North American terms) or a “tributary” of a large lake, where the trees cascading down to the water’s edge really were quite beautiful in a misty moisty foggy drippy reflective sort of way. Les kindly executed an emergency stop for photographic purposes.
The weather had brightened a little by the time we reached Lake George. I like Lake George – it is where I had my first American beer on a warm sunny day in an upstairs bar with a panoramic view across a blue and shimmering lake. I remember this first experience of American beer. I was a little taken aback when not only was the beer severely refrigerated, but the glass into which it was poured was taken from a freezer, and then ice was suggested. I later realised that this was to ensure that the taste buds have been properly anaesthetized before exposing them to the beverage known as beer in the USA. I should point out that I always take plenty of fluids while on holiday, but you should not assume that this only involves beer. It often involves significant quantities of water as well. In this case it was a view across Lake George, and on a previous trip my first taste of Canadian beer was while sitting in hot sunshine admiring the Toronto skyline from an island on Lake Ontario. For the record, Canadian beer is superior to that from the USA.
The bar was still there today, but closed for the season. We had extensively researched the areas that we would be visiting (as we do), and discovered that for many seasonal attractions and businesses the end of the season is Labor Day, when they shut up shop for the winter. The guidebooks did not actually state the date of Labor Day, but a quick Google search revealed that it was three weeks before we arrived.
We found a delicatessen/grocery store/cafe open and enjoyed a sandwich and soft drink before going out for a lakeside stroll. It was still misty, but a brighter shade of grey, and remarkably mild. It was pleasant walk, admiring the views, looking at the boats used for trips across the lake (moored up since Labor Day), and, in Chantal’s case window shopping at the carious gift and craft shops (fortunately closed since Labor Day).
We headed home via main highways, a shorter but quicker route, passing through Saratoga Springs. This very affluent town is famous for its racecourse, and is apparently a very pleasant place day just to stroll around on a nice summer’s day. Houses are very expensive, but thanks to Local Government income associated with the racing, local taxes are very low. Since this was not, in any way, a nice summer’s day, we did not stop and explore, but headed home.
Technically we live in Oaktree House, but sadly the tree had to go.
We now have a thriving Oakstump at the front of the house.
