1 August 2000 - 13h55 EST (Eastern Time), Atlantic Ocean.
The flight from Brussels to London
was OK. Any flight from Brussels to any destination is OK, especially when you
leave on a rainy day.
Usually, boarding passes are given at the counter where you check in your luggage
full of presents for those friends still friends enough to have accepted to
meet you with an option to un-friend you when they tear the giftwrap. But today
it's different. Today the droidette at the check-in counter tells me that there
are not many places left to assign for the intercontinental flight and that
I'll have to get my London-Detroit boarding pass at the gate. That's told in
the tone of "where have you been all these 30 years?".
I'm quite surprised as I expected
to receive all boarding passes from her. Airport counterbabes have a legal right
to be obnoxious: imagine working all day serving people who leave a place that
you wish to leave. Imagine working with the fear that one day you might be checking
in the last one leaving the country. Imagine the fear of being the last person
in Brussels. Who will check you in the last flight and verify your passport?
Because of this very stressful aspect of the job, counter droidettes have the
right to change airport procedures and regulations if they wish to. So now the
counter droidette tells me to go take my boarding pass somewhere far, and that
there are only a few unassigned seats. She said that because she decided I'd
be her pawn in a game played by all check-in counter droids like her. Counter
droidettes have hidden cameras showing them when a massive queue forms before
the metal detectors. This triggers the "Boarding pass at Gate" warning,
and travellers are forced to rush through the herd of metal detector fans. Depending
on their assessment of the current passenger they're checking in, each droidette
can bet from her counter on the passenger and a central supercomputer calculates
the time you take to get at the gate. At the end of the day the same computer
makes a list of who has put the bets on the fastest passengers, considering
the relative distance-to-gate/time-to-get-there ratio. Experience will tell
the droidette if the passenger will spend a lot of time buying stuff or if it
will dash to the gate. Anyway, I must have given a good ratio to the droidette
who bet on me.
After having strategically avoided the herd of cows and sheep discovering that their keys, telephones and coins are made of metal, I arrive to the gate counter to ask for my London-Detroit boarding pass which I need in order to avoid queuing a second time in London for it, given that there's only one hour between my arrival and the departure to Detroit. I'm told that "indeed nearly all the seats are taken, I can only give you one in the last row... " . That sounded dreadful. The last row is always near the toilets. I expected the worst catwalk review of king-sized american bottoms either rushing towards their urgent defecatory relief or, worse, queuing near my side during 6 long hours. I wonder how much I will get extra-older by just worrying like that. I finished Woodcock's book on anarchy on the Bxl-London plane. I still think that book should be among the obligatory readings at schools. It explains very clearly the history of Anarchy movements and why they all failed. Many young people could learn from that and skip a few steps in political extremes.
Of course the plane was late arriving
in London. Now I understand why my counterbabe droidette had put those "fast
transfer" stickers on my luggage, dammit! I had forgotten that Heathrow
is as large as a small city pumping heavy traffic 24/7, and that I had to cross
the whole place to go to my terminal. Of course there was another massive herd
of bovine travellers heading to places they don't care for unless they have
the comfort they get at home. So, after 35 minutes of queuing between the herd-channeling
poles, 10 minutes of another lesson on metal recognition, I arrive at the bus
stop at 11h40. My flight is supposed to be leaving at 11h40! 10 minutes of bus
transfer later, I arrive at the gate on time for the final call. I had forgotten
the typical Murphy's Law: if you rush to catch a plane, the plane will be delayed;
but you will not be aware of that until you arrive at the gate. I happily show
my boarding pass to the droidette-in-chief and head for my near-the-toilet seat,
number 52B. There, I realise that the droidette in Brussels apparently had made
a mistake and gave me a good seat !!! 52B isn't near the toilets but a bit before
them, and it's a window seat. Moreover, it's not a seat in a row of three but
in a row of two and there's a space between me and the window where I can put
my stuff.
To my left is a french acne-massacred adolescent. He's either extremely timid
or mute. That's good. I just hope one of his acne volcanos doesn't erupt on
my face. While I take out my book from my bag, I think to myself that everything
is fine in the end, but I forgot the aforementioned law of frustration which
has a corollary saying: "if it's the first time in the history of London
that the weather is extremely warm, your plane shall be grounded with an airconditioning
failure". That's precisely the moment at which the pilot says that the
airco is broken and that we'll have to wait for a new spare part which will
arrive in 30 minutes. After one hour of cooking in our own juice, we taxi towards
the runway.
We're now above Canada and Newfoundland which is pronounced nufunlund, I wonder why they don't bloody write it that way then. It's all green with a few brown lines which I suppose are roads. There are a lot of movies to choose from, not one is interesting. I choose ID4, tells you about the rest of the choice. Food and service is impeccable, even here in bovine class, where I get a preview of senior-class american citizens. They're more interesting than the movies. We arrive in a couple of hours.
I've remembered all the long-distance traveller strategies I learned from my father when before embarking this Boeing 747 I saw a redneck filming the big flying machine and the hostesses' behinds at the bottom of the stairs. He had a sleeveless shining training jacket showing two armpits which looked like wet Gizmos ready to mutate into olfactive Gremlins threating the poor neighbouring passengers with biochemical warfare gases. This is when you realise everyone else present is white with panic wondering where Mr. Armpit 2000 will sit. Apparently there are more explanations to the fear of flying.
It would be cool to start writing bad things about my neighbour who tries to read what I type from time to time, even though he's reading a book by Mr. Paul-Loup "jet-set sex" Sulitzer. You can't hide a side glance when the book's in front of you. I imagine what he'd think if he could read while I'm typing my opinion of his strategy similar to the one he uses to masturbate while carefully listening to all movements behind his bedrooom door to intercept the possible approach of his mom. I wonder how he'd react to my typing about his wankerhood and his ridiculous attempt at hiding his bad-literature-triggered erection with a magazine opened on his lap when he could put it on the seat pocket in front of him.
I now have to fill in the form where I declare being a post-communist nazi aids-infected prison-escaped mafioso drug addict looking to sexually harrass hot chicks at a stable and well paid easy job in the US. I was told that the custom guys are cool. Let's be positive.
8/2/2000 - 6h30 AM - Ann Arbor, MI
There. I'm in the USof A. Only a few hours here and already a lot has happened. The plane landed without a problem. We were one hour late and it took a half hour to dock. I was wondering about my host, waiting. I go to Customs. The guy asks me: "who are you visiting in Ann Arbor?", "A friend", I say, "and how did you get to know this friend?", "through the Internet" I say. ***BUZZZ*** ERROR! Wrong Answer!!! One eybrow raised. Damn! "Ah, so you have never met this woman?", "No I have never met her". I see here that you are heading to Los Angeles after, that's quite a lot away from Ann Arbor, isn't it?", "That's correct, I'm stopping at different places to meet other people" ***BUZZZ*** ERROR! Wrong Answer!!! Second Eybrow raised!! Serial Killer Alert!!! "And all those people are women you 'met' on the Internet" says the guy already looking for the nearest police officer, "No sir" I respond, "they're all families, if that's a concern to you, the woman I'll meet in Ann Arbor is married with a kid." And here comes the question that reveals the guy's paranoia: "and does her husband know about that?"-Yes."-"and you're sure he's not waiting for you with a shotgun??". I get out of that with a bit of bar humour. Seems that Mr. Paranoia likes to read investigative journalism, the kind you find in supermarkets with big red titles that go well with purple hair.
I know I'm late, and I know that
my host came with her sister and her son. I run to the luggage retrieval, and
after only one minute my suitcase arrives. Great. Now my bag. It should be there
fast. C'moooooonnnnnn. Usually luggage pieces arrive together. 20 minutes go
by, nothing. I see a guy asking people around the conveyer belt about their
luggage. He's a British Airways guy and says there were problems in London.
My bag is not here in the US. It didn't make it across Heathrow in time. ARGH!
I go to a counter where I have to fill in a form and give my host's address;
they'll bring the bag there as soon as it lands. Half my clothes are in the
bag. Of course it's mostly the underwear, the socks and the pants. I hope the
bag will be there soon or someone will have to endure the sight of me in a skirt.
I finally meet R., my host, her sister Sam and R's son, M.
Sam is younger than R. (21) and M. is a very cool 6 years-old kid. After many
apologies we enter the external world. I expect the culture shock to start on
the road. After all, we're in Mo'town, Detroit, the motor city, MC5 erupted
here.
The weather is warm and humid. It rained recently. We're at a northern latitude than Brussels and it feels like at the equator in Africa. Puzzling. The car's door open and the seat belt crosses my path. The belt stays attached to the door. Sounds like I have no choice. As I sit down and close the door I'm forced into an obligatory bondage session. I don't mind wearing a seat belt. But I'd rather buckle it up myself, thank you. The road is huge. Four large straight lanes. The street I live in is as large as the average SUV here. The landscape is hardly hilly but very green. Farmlands shouldn't be very far.
R. recently bought a nice little house with B., M.'s father, in a nice part of town that people here must call "suburb". There's about 200 square meters, the exterior is a mix of metal and prefabricated covering the walls. The way the houses are built around here shows a wide variety, from the all-wood to the all-bricks style. From a distance the house looks like it's made of wood painted over. It gives a nice cosy look. Most small urban houses in urban northern Europe look sad in comparison. B. and R. are going to refresh the house, most probably starting from the external colour, which indeed doesn't fit a lot with the surrounding houses.
B. is a cool cat. He's a programmer
and a nice guy to talk to. At least he didn't show up with a riot gun. I barely
have the time to put on a clean t-shirt and it's "presents distribution"
time. M. is happy. I gave him all the coins I gathered during my travels in
a special coin-collector book.
It took me a bleedin' hard time to find a suitable book for them so he better
not whine about it or I'll eat them all. I also bought him a kite. I guess there
must be enough wind to use it around here. I brought belgian chocolates to everyone
so they're all tasting the real thing for once in their life. Stomach aches
will abound soon. I'm rapidly shown around the house. The fridge is as big as
the entrance of my building. When you open an american fridge you understand
why: everything you buy here is huge. If you want to buy what we call a family-size
bottle of orange juice, here they'll give you the equivalent of a bucket. You
want some butter darling? Pass me the shovel...
We're off to a mexican restaurant in town. I feel that this is going to be a great place. People in the streets are young, there's a large variety of face types and morphologies. Ann Arbor has an important university. The buildings aren't tall and spaces are wide. This town looks like it's made for humans. The architecture doesn't give that oppressive feeling you find in business districts.
We meet Joanne in the restaurant, a good friend of R.'s. She looks very strong, she's got beautiful coloured tattoos over very strong arms. I wouldn't want to be fighting that woman. Joanne, R. and her sister are apparently to be considered of average weight around here. People here are all massive. Feels like being in Scandinavia. M. is very big for his young age, but then, I'm far from being a reliable scale. B. is 1m80 with oval glasses. he looks like a young student with his goatee. On a personality level, the difference between R. and her sister is impressive. Sam is very "american" while R. could easily be european, from Paris. It's probably a matter of cultural interests or education. The fact that both Joanne and R. are mothers makes the difference even more striking. Considering that, they all nicely fit together around two tables and make fun of the waiter who takes it lightly. Apparently he knows them well. The food is excellent. I am completely lost with the calculations about the tips you must give to waiters in the US. I'm so bad at calculating I just might get spat at for not tipping enough some day soon.
Joanne spoke about her job and her search for the good man. Her ex-husband and daughter live in Tucson, Arizona. Now that's far away. We haven't cruised around too much. I'll probably see more later. I expect the jet lag to soon hit my head like a falling Buick. Back at the house, I meet Persimon, the only carpet-cat who likes to sleep on its back. Never seen this before. There's also Oscar, a Columbo-style dog that looks like it's constantly melting and Zilla a great black dane. The dogs obey R. like soldiers. I spend some time with M. and B. explaining the presents I gave them. I brought B. a stargazer map. It's in French, and luckily, he's trying to learn french.
Then it's time to go to the local video store. R. thought that I'd be a bit tired and planned a movie evening, that suits me fine. I have to stay awake as long as possible to fight my jet lag, but apparently there's no sign of it yet. Speaking to R., she tells me I constantly say "sorry" intead of "pardon" when I ask her to repeat something I didn't understand. It makes them laugh because it looks like I'm apologising for having done something horrible. We chose "Todo sobre mi madre" by Almodovar. The videoclub is immense. Apparently space isn't a luxury around here. It's big as the average supermarket in Brussels. I'm still impressed by the apparent weight of the people around here. I'll have to be careful, so I'll categorise people in three classes: skinny, normal and super-extra-large. I'm obviously in the first category and R. in the second while she would be considered as "roundish" in Europe. What they call fat people here are the third category. However, the whole matter seems to be highly sensitive in the US about this and I'll have to prove my diplomatic skills when talking to women about shape and fitness.
Back to the house, R. gave me a futon for my room, which is usually her office. My bag won't be here until at least tomorrow evening. I cram my suitcase in a corner, clean myself a bit and we watch the movie. Very good one, by the way. I'm really impressed by M.. He's extremely intelligent and creative. His parents painted his bedroom door with a chalkboard paint so that he can use his coloured chalks to express whatever he wants. It's a daily expo.
I slept very well. I could hear the distant hum of the highway, like in my childhood home. I woke up at about 6AM. I think the jet lag issue won't be a matter of days. I wait for everyone to wake up. Yesterday I tried an electric plug and it worked. Looks like my computer won't burn when I charge its battery.
2/8/2000 - 22h30 - Ann Arbor, MI
M. woke up at about 8 AM this morning, a couple of hours after me. He started telling me about the dreams he had and we spoke about "The Holy Grail" movie by the Monty Python. This kid is really brilliant. For my breakfast B. had bought croissants. These people know how to be great. We went for a walk in the university district during the afternoon, and took M. to the Planetarium of the Natural Sciences museum. M. gave me a guided tour of the Dinosaur section. Back home around 3PM I meet R.'s mother and aunt. According to the above categorisation, R.'s mother is N and her aunt SXL. They had just returned from the Detroit Casino. The belgian chocolates were very successful. They left and took M. so that he could spend some time with his granny. R., B. and me went for dinner then to the local multiplex cinema to see "X-Men". What a treat. I've been a fan of comics when I was a kid and X-men were a favourite. The movie is a good "technobuster". The popcorns are provided in a bucket. They pour salted butter on the stuff. I make them believe that we drown the stuff in mayonnaise back in Belgium. After the movie, we go to R.'s mother to bring M. back. She lives in the countryside, so the ride is really beautiful, and takes place around sunset.
Everything looks exactly like what is shown in "the Straight Story" by Davind Lynch. We drive mostly on dirt roads. R. was raised around here. What a great place. There are fireflies everywhere giving it all a sense of magic. Every garden is kept in an impeccable state. It's like if the gardeners mowed their loans with electric razors. We saw a fawn and many black cows. I asked R. if we could come back around here with my camera. On our way back we were caught by a storm like I've never seen, except maybe in equatorial Africa, and we're way up North. The weather is really weird here. There was a typical tall white church and it really looked like in a horror movie with the pouring rain and the lightning. We safely arrived at home where, with an impeccable timing, the guy from British Airways arrived with my lost bag a few minutes later. I wonder what would have happened if he had arrived one hour earlier and left the bag against the front door. I would have probably modified my stay into a diving expedition. Tomorrow morning we take M. and B. to the airport. They're leaving to Las Vegas to visit B.'s family. Me and R. will leave for a journey to Lake Michigan. I wonder what the guy at the customs would imagine if I told him about this trip to the lake with a married woman.
4/8/2000 - 15h30 - Ludington, MI
After dropping M. and B. at the airport we head for the highway direction Muskegon on the shores of Lake Michigan. We stop half-way in Lansing to eat in a mexican restaurant called El Azteco. I fear the tourist trap but R. worked there and assured me it's genuine home cooking. I also expected kitch mexican decoration. Instead, its very normal. Only the menu is mexican in there, but the food is excellent and cheap. I don't know much about mexican cuisine, but I'm not yet sick and that's a positive sign. The waiter must be the fastest on the planet. I've never seen work so fast and with enthusiasm. I respect that a lot, expecially when I think of some weak sub-humans I had to work with in the past, constantly whining about having to sit on their ass all day doing nothing difficult or challenging. I ordered chicken enchilladas and a half portion of salad. I'm happy I asked for half. I couldn't finish the 10 cm tall vegetable Everest mountain that was brought to me. Back on the road I realise what was puzzling me about the city roads around here: I'm not used to the telephone poles and the wires hanging across the streets and crossroads. Nearly all cables back in Belgium are underground so the only poles are for street lighting. Here it's a forest of poles and wires ruling the road landscape.
 Poles everywhere |
Back on the highway the view is open again. The surrounding landscape is vaguely hilly and very green. Michigan has water everywhere. Agriculture is hardly visible from the road except the occasional potato field. We arrive in Muskegon at about 3h30 PM, we leave our belongings in a Motel and head for the beach. We drive through a State Park and arrive on a well organised parking lot. A small wooden path through the trees takes you to a terrace overlooking a huge beach. Looking left and right there's no sight of its end. The lake is so large that it feels like the sea, except the smell is different. There are dunes all along the shore and the wind blows the sand in every open space available. Butts must be very tight around here. Some nuts are taking a dive in the cold water anyway; probably they do so to wash away the unwanted sand that got through during a moment of butt-tightness distraction.
Back at the hotel, I had to wash my short hair 4 times to remove all the sand. I could have sold it to an arabian cheikh and kept some more.
We had dinner in a local restaurant
and the waitress had a very high-pitched voice. Finally! I heard that typical
voice that we European think all air-heads females from US will have whenever
speaking. The poor girl, it's not her fault, but she'll be this evening's walking
stereotype. This morning R. took me for breakfast in a typical local diner,
full of old people. Absolutely fascinating. Just like in the movies. I felt
like entering a diner from a 4th dimension version of the "Cocoon"
movie. Coffee was something similar to warm water brought by a boat which would
have navigated relatively close to the shores of Costa Rica. That was expected,
not like the classical US breakfast, consisting of morally outrageous sausages,
bacon and huge eggs from chicken that apparently played in zoophile porn movies.
The toasts were 3cm thick! I could have sat on them to be taller. All this was
absolutely delicious. All my questions make me look like I've never seen a fork
in my life. R. deserves a patience medal.
We drive to a place called Hart, for the MacWood's Dunes Tour. It's a great
experience: in the vicinity of Silver lake and Ludington, a large stretch of
land is covered by grandiose sand dunes mixed with northern-type forest. For
12$ you get on a bus with no roof sporting large smooth tyres which speeds through
the dune slopes and hills. The witty driver stops at great viewpoints and explains
the evolution of this place and how the sand is slowly taking over the land,
much like in saharian Africa. Right in the middle of this miniature desert you
can see a forest of trees that you'd rather expect to see in Switzerland. Looking
at it surrounded by sand makes the sight surreal. The guide says that deer,
coyotes, turtles and foxes are among the local wildlife. Not exactly the regular
mix of forest animals. The kids on the bus cheer at the relative speed of the
bus down the sandy slopes and onto the beach.
 Desert tree |
 Another desert tree |
 The Dune Bus at base station |
 The Dune Bus on the beach |
 The bus from closer |
 Dunescape |
 More dunes |
 Errr...dunes... |
 Dunes, anyone? |
 The return of the son of the dunes |
|
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After the tour, R. insists that I eat a sundae with fudge, peanuts and warm chocolate. It's looks like molten plastic and tastes very good. Americans on a diet must live a full-time temptation hell. The inventor of this ice-cream ersatz have many overweight buttocks on their conscience. We proceed to Ludington, at the Ludington Inn, an old victorian house, perfectly maintained, which is part of the historical legacy of this lakeshore community. R.'s room is pink, with roses on the wallpapers, in the frames drawings on the walls, there are roses drawn everywhere, this is hardcore kitsch with pink knots holding the pink curtains apart, the bedsheet are pink, the toilet is pink, the carpet is pink and guess what the colour of the toilet paper is? White. With roses on it. Even the dustbin is pink. I wonder if people shit pink after they leave. This room is a trip. Barbara Cartland's decoration overdose.
 The Ludington Inn - Front |
 The Ludington Inn - Side |
 The pink room |
 The pink room again |
We visit the nice town and dine in a local "sports" bar where I sense that R. is getting fed up of my weird stranger ways. Nice sunset over Lake Michigan. We observe the local young people's favourite sport: cruising. Contributing to the atmospheric pollution in convertible cars resembling boats with wheels.
5/8/2000 - 21h30 - Ann Arbor, MI
The breakfast at the Inn was excellent, with pastry freeshly prepared by the lady owner. We ate together with the other guests and talked about being having weird strangers from far away at the breakfast table. We left for Ann Arbor at 9AM with a stop at Lansing to eat at "El Azteco" again. We arrived in Ann Arbor at 3PM. Nothing special about the trip except that the landscape was as flat as when we travelled the other way round. R. asked me if I had anything to be washed but forgot that white socks washed with a red pillowcase will turn pink. Definitely the colour of the week. She was incredibly embarassed and rushed to a local store to buy some whitening product even though I insisted that it didn't matter at all, it's just four socks. She's got a strong and proud sense of hospitality. Went to dinner in a microbrewery with a friend of R. who's an artisan. Carol designs clothes and creates work of art with fabric. Her boyfriend worked with famous american bands for a while. Her two sons are roadies. It's rock'nroll nation after all. I drank a beer that tasted like coffee and even one which tasted like grapefruit. Carol showed us her workshop and amazing works of art.
7/8/2000 - 10h00- Ann Arbor, MI
Yesterday we went into town to see some record shops and ate in a very good vegetarian restaurant called "Seva". We then saw a spanish movie (La lengua de las mariposas) in an old-style cinema, like the ones in the fifties, with a guy playing famous movie themes on the organ before the screening. We went back home by foot, through the city, cross the university district. An old victorian building has an inside patio, very calm, like an abbey. Buildings here are large. The town's library is enormous. Unfortunately, the Museum of Modern Arts is closed. Normally, museums are open everyday, but I'm told that the republican governor of Michigan makes all possible to limit the budget available to progressive culture and art. The temperature is high and the air is thick. Feels like Africa.
7/8/2000 - 23h00- Ann Arbor, MI
R. had a great idea of taking us to a lake where the air is fresh. She went the long way through the countryside so that I could take some pictures. We passed by her mother's so that I could say goodbye and take pictures of some old fifties cars rusting in the middle of a neighbouring field. The landscape shows a certain uniformity in the colour and shape of the houses, the fields and streets are very similar and one could get easily lost driving in circles. Fields of wheat and peas in a sequence interrupted only by the red barns and silos as reference points. The streets aren't paved around here, adding to the feeling of visiting the lands of the far west movies. This agricultural image is very different from the one we have in europe: here the lawns around the farm houses are cut with an extreme precision, you could easily think they're golf courses. The lawnmowers are as important as the cars. The houses are also very similar, the ones made of bricks are the exception. The churches, however, are all different, also for the religious tendency of their flocks. I don't remember seeing two churches of the same cult. I took a picture of a white church that could fit in a typical horror movie. The other day, when we came here to pick up M. with R. and B., we saw this same church in the thunderstorm and it was a chilling sight.
 Countryside |
 Countryside with car |
 Perfect lawns |
 Church from Hell |
 More perfect lawns |
 The peace of a raveyard |
 Rotting cars |
 Car and barn |
We drove East to a place called
Irish Hills. There are Jurassic Park-style attraction along the road and you
can really see the cheap plastic from a distance. Some attractions bravely announce
the scam: "admire the water that defies gravity". It's just a high-pressure
water jet.
R. grew up around here after her father died. One can imagine the dismal boredom
that the local youth must endure. Like in Sardinia, scores of kids are killed
by alcohol, drugs and boredom. Culture is a foreign word to the local potential
genius. Household violence and rape is sadly common in these places, like in
similar places around the planet. Rednecks and their rituals can be spotted.
A nearby town is known to have a Ku Klux Klan base. Now that I think of it I
haven't seen many black people around here.
The lake is in the middle of a State Park. everything is organised for the best
family pleasure: whether it's a hotdog or a rowing boat, you've got all you
need to fulfil all the typical family needs. The contrast, after crossing the
state park's natural beauty is not shocking. It's all well hidden. R. bought
a very strange loaf of bread: it looks like it's a mix of bread and chocolate
but i's actually two types of bread rolled together.
 Bread or chocolate? |
On the way home we pass by a haunted house which fed the local kids nightmares, including R.'s. I had my last dinner in Michigan in an Italian Restaurant. i imagined the small typical family restaurant. The place is bigger than a church. But the food is great. True italian cuisine, even the mineral water is italian. Goodbye R., B., M.. I'm off to Oklahoma.
