I arrived at the Greyhound Bus depot in the late afternoon, having gone without sleep for near eighteen hours. I felt hungover even though I drank only two miniature bottles of whisky on the ten-hour flight from London. This was not a hangover. The lack of sleep, in combination with the stress of transatlantic travelling, had given me a painful headache. My movements were slow and I was struggling to concentrate. It was a long journey, and I still had a bus to catch.
I had taken a taxi from the airport. I was dropped off, my bags thrown to the pavement, and my driver sped off without looking back. I was left standing alone. I picked up my bags, glanced around, and figured out why he was so keen to leave. The exterior of the depot was a sorry place littered with sad people. I saw hopelessness in abundance. A meagre number of benches outside with a handful of people on them, for who could bear to sit outdoors in the humid heat of Florida. Not a single head was pointed straight or upwards, they all faced down in unified disappointment at the grey sun-bleached pavement. These were not travellers like I was. To these people, the Greyhound Bus represented only that which it was; transportation for those without any other option. This was not so different from what it was for me of course.
The inside had the same dead end feel as the exterior, but at least the air was cool. Every room in America has air conditioning. On the left of the entrance was a small fast-food outlet serving the usual assortment of fried chicken, burgers, hot dogs and fries with unlimited drink refills that my gut would not forgive me for indulging. On the right was the secured entryway to the busses, guarded by no one with an open barrier. I made my way through the gate, praying that an underqualified, underpaid, and overworked security guard would not want to stop me and check my ticket. I had nothing to hide, and to my knowledge committed no crime, but such is the fear you have of authority in America. No one came to stop me, so I carried on to the seating section.
There were around six separate waiting areas all leading to an individual set of double doors where a bus would arrive. Again, at the other end of the depot, sits a fast-food joint just the same as the initial one. The waiting areas were organised by number so I found the one that matched my ticket and sat down. I was weary of drawing attention to myself, so I sat in the middle of the bench without taking up too much space. I sat for what must have been upwards of three hours. People walked by yet no one seemed to notice me. The caricatures started to emerge towards what must have been the peak hours. Skinny, untanned, white people in jean shorts with short sleeved far too open shirts, baseball caps pointed forwards and some pointed back, and unkempt beards. Spanish speaking families comprised of all determinable ages, grouped together and rushing almost as if they were being followed, anxiously scanning the room for a pursuer. Black Americans, the quietist of the guests at the depot, perhaps similar to myself they feared unwarranted aggression. A host of nationalities was to be found in this egalitarian place. In this room, we were all passengers waiting for a bus and no one was better than anyone else. I waited as the riders came and went, and I was so fatigued from travel and lack of sleep that I neglected to take pause and further consider the stories of the people passing by me.
There was a commotion to my left, in the direction of the doors. I peek over to see a few eager passengers setting up their spots. It only takes one person to encourage the herd to get moving. They plant their bags to secure their place in line. I let a few more stake their claim before I too joined the line. I was now standing in a line waiting for a bus, something I have done countless times before back home, yet there was no familiarity to this situation. I had a digital ticket, but my anxiety forced me to bring a printed copy too. I removed it from my pocket to confirm the time when a passenger realised this to be an opportunity to strike up a conversation, something the Americans seem fond of doing. “You don’t trust the phones neither?” he asked. I sensed he was seeking confirmation. “I always feel better with a hard copy” I obliged, having also accepted my fate for revealing my non-American accent. “Damn right, big brother watching us! I don’t even have a phone to tell you the truth. Where you from anyway – New York?” he asked me with a gentle naivety.
I’ve taken against saying I’m from England, Britain, or the United Kingdom. They’ll always ask if I am from London so it becomes my default. He knew I was from a city but he couldn’t quite make out my painfully unsubtle accent. I am reminded of a time in Miami where a young server asked me earnestly if I was French. Upon learning where I was from, the man appeared surprised but happy. I had clearly answered him correctly.
“Of course he’s from England, just listen to him!”, a vaguely feminine Spanish accent exclaimed from behind me. I turned around and saw a short tanned man with a tight sleeved pink shirt and tighter black jeans, with skin tone sandals to complete his look. There was something vaguely European about him, but there was no mistaking him being from the Americas.
With around twenty-two hours of no sleep nor proper rest, I found the conversation difficult to keep up with. The older man talked about how the government is tracking us through our phones, why we do not need taxes, and why America was going to collapse. The younger man laughed at him each time offering silly retorts. Each looked to me to join their side and I simply nodded along joining in where I could. The three of us did not argue though, we were simply talking. When they quietened down I asked what to expect from the Greyhound bus and both of them told me about some of their experiences travelling through the country. We shook hands as the bus pulled in and found our way to our seats.
I sat near the front as my stop was first on the list. Next to me was a young Black American man who moved his bag for me, and slept the whole time, obviously having come from the previous stop a state over. It was a two-hour journey, and I could not close my eyes out of both fear and excitement despite my condition. It was pitch black, now nearing the middle of the night, and the view outside was ethereal. Cars passed us and their lights flew by, infinite rows of houses lined the roads we drove past, large busy shopping areas and then absolute nothingness through miles upon miles of empty swampland. This repeated for the next couple of hours.
We arrived in Gainesville, and all passengers disembarked to stretch their legs and gather themselves. I bid farewell to my two friends as they carried on to New Orleans, the next destination. I made my way towards the University of Florida, arriving at the campus around 1am, and having gone over twenty-four hours without sleep, I was finally ready to start my month-long trip.
*
I was meeting an old friend of mine, Anna. We had known each other for about a decade after a chance encounter in Israel, and she was going to share her room with me for the duration of my time in Florida. She was waiting near one of the many libraries on campus, and it did not take me long to find it. I spotted her at the entrance and shuffled towards her, fighting my body at every step so that I might remain awake and attempt to pull off the façade of a care free attitude towards the journey I had just undertaken. There was an immediate recognition, the kind two old friends have during their lives no matter how far apart they have been. After some time spent catching up, we left campus to walk to her place.
As we walked down the winding streets, the paved roads of the city morphed into grassy swampland with the sound of cars being replaced with an assortment of chirping insects calling to each other in the night. I noticed the humidity quickly as my clothes began to stick to my skin.
Upon reaching her home, we walked through the front door and proceeded to the kitchen. The homes are larger in America as the land is more plentiful. Many are made of wood, particularly in this part of the country. It is a damp and decaying wood, raised on stilts a few feet above the ground. We sat down in the kitchen and were soon joined by her housemate Lori. There were two other girls living at the house, one I met later at a party and the other I never saw. All I could think of was sleeping, as it was well over a day and a half since I had last closed my eyes longer than a few seconds. I excused myself from the table, and Anna showed me the room I would be spending the next thirty-one days in.
Her room was large enough for the two of us to not feel cramped, and she had a cat. I checked out some of the literature on her bookshelf and we talked a little. We had prepared gifts for each other. I was given a large box filled with an assortment of American sweets and candy, as well as University of Florida merchandise including a rubber alligator stress ball. I found a sofa that had been turned into a bed, and fell asleep when my head hit the pillow, not waking until late next morning.
*
The first real day was a struggle. Not only did I have to recover from my journey, but I also had to acclimatise and familiarise myself with this alien place. Anna was studying, and of course I did not expect her to break that for me, so I was left on my own. I navigated my way to the campus and began my walking tour of the University of Florida.
American students appear indistinguishable from the British. Dressed in a plain single colour t-shirt with blue jeans and unbranded trainers with a washed-out maroon zip-up hoodie to bring the ensemble together. Backpacks, briefcases, laptop gripped tightly in one hand and books nestled under the arm. However, there is a certain Hollywood feel to the American students I saw. Their hair was a little too perfect, and their clothes copied the wardrobe of a teen movie.
I wandered through the grounds picking up fragments of American university life. The beautiful faux-historic red brick buildings. Grand structures all presumably named after wealthy donors. Endless mazes of different studies in humanities and sciences and arts, muddled together around sprawling courtyards and greenery. I started in the main entrance and followed the paths in such a way that I would see as much of the campus as possible. I found the size to be overwhelming at times, particularly so when compared to my campus back in York. The stereotypes were soon found, and they calmed me. Jocks in letterman jackets playing frisbee and throwing footballs around, beach blonde women laying on the grass with their MacBook and Starbucks. Then you had the occasional table setup promoting a business, organisation, fraternity, even an anti-communist group which had drawn quite a crowd. I had heard stories about corruption within the student leadership and how they leaned right-wing, but I knew to keep myself out of these situations. I came upon an obscenely enormous building that appeared to be the core of campus. It contained the student union headquarters, a few theatre and hall spaces, and the food court. It was truly a sight to behold. Further through the building was an outside area with a lake, equipped with Floridian alligators, also the mascot of the University, and a stone amphitheatre. I sat there for a while to take it all in when I received a text from Anna about lunch.
We were going to a Mexican place, a chain, which I had come across in the past but never thought to try. I found my way back to her and we set off. I was glad to see Anna and I knew the opportunities would not be too common during the daytime. The queue was long, and I let her take the lead when ordering. Over lunch we discussed America, compared it to her home back in Israel and mine in the UK. Anna is fiercely intelligent, and talking through typically contentious topics with her was refreshing. We finished, and I accompanied her to the library. She worked while I went searching for books. I picked up a few that interested me and read for the next few hours.
At the end of the day, we walked back home together taking a detour through the local supermarket. I knew what to expect but it does not make it any less surprising to walk into something that is larger than any comparable supermarket in the UK. Aisles of products, the grand illusion of choice, with prices so cheap it was irresistible to spend money. I travelled with two credit cards and cash which was my main source of income.
*
The next day, Lori, who I met on my arrival, was going to take me on a more detailed tour of the campus. She had heard I went exploring and wanted to show me things I would not have been able to see without her. She came from small-town America, somewhere in the Midwest. She was raised by strict conservative parents; they were religious too and were appalled at her brightly coloured hair and fluid sexuality. Having rebelled completely against her childhood, she was now free to be herself. We strolled across campus discussing politics and what her experience in Florida was like. She explained how many girls like her at university cannot afford the high fees so they take loans and work multiple jobs. However, with the advent of dating apps, some girls had turned to alternative sources of income. She was fairly open about it with me, telling stories of older men who pay to talk dirty to her or see risqué pictures. There were also physical encounters where money crossed hands. I learned that this was a very common occurrence and it made me sad. I suppose it speaks for the state of America that this is what young women resort to in order to just get by.
Lori told me that the most important place to visit was the football stadium, but first we had to check out the interior of all the buildings I had only walked past the other day. I thought these buildings were large on the outside, but walking through them shows you how giant this campus really is. Row after row of desks, computers, bookshelves. A Starbucks coffee around every bend, students taking up every inch of free space. We worked our way to the top of the main building, the one with the amphitheatre at the rear. She took me round the back and then I saw it, the stadium. It was larger than any single structure of this kind that I had ever seen before, akin to Wembley Stadium. We found our way up the ramps through the concession stands and walked out onto the field. Standing there in a near empty stadium of that size forced me to pause. I noticed the sea of blue chairs, wrapped in a cloak of orange – the colours of the University. FLORIDA was spelled out in the paint across some of the rows. The giant scoreboard that dominated the sky. WELCOME TO THE SWAMP, it says, hardly inviting to an opposing team.
The University had spent tens of millions of dollars on this stadium. Lori explained the money that goes into getting the best young players; how they can study for free and not even turn in a paper as all they are here for is the game. It makes sense when you consider the return on investment for these young athletes but I could not fully understand how a place of supposed higher education can put so much importance on an entirely non-academic experience, often at the expense of academic investments. It was an almost intoxicating experience to be standing in the middle of such a large structure, and we closed with Lori promising to take me to a big game that was coming up.
*
By this point of the trip, I was getting a real feel for the place. I had ventured out on my own to explore the local scene but now I was in the room doing some writing. Anna had become friendly with a family who lived not too far away, and she was going to spend the weekend with them. I was looking for excuses to spend more time with her and the prospect of meeting some true Floridians at their farmyard property was an opportunity I could not miss.
Their pickup truck pulled into the driveway in the middle of the afternoon. It was a hot, humid, swampy day, like most of the days. We left the house and walked to the truck, I walked around the back. I noticed the cacophony of bumper stickers, and two of them caught my eye. The first read; I DON’T BELIEVE THE LIBERAL MEDIA, and the second was an NRA emblem. I climbed into the back of the truck and we set off for the farm. This lady was very friendly with a beaming smile and lots of questions. I told her how I was enjoying my trip and that I was keen to see their farm. We passed a gun shop not far from the house, and I made a note of it.
The drive was a familiar one to many Americans. Sprawling highways amidst endless fields, farmland, and swamp. The town got less dense and the cars less frequent until we were a world away from the civilisation I had become familiar with. Farmhouses dotted the horizon joined by the occasional derelict building paired with forgotten pastures. Eventually we came to a smaller road with a few houses closer together, it resembled a street. We pulled into a beautiful property. It was a large red barn like single floor house with a forest surrounding the rear, an actual barn to the right, and a small paddock on the left. The barn had two vintage motorbikes leaning against the side wall, with stacks of wood and sheets of metal behind them. We took our bags and entered. I was given a short tour through the kitchen, dining room, living room, office, and bedrooms. We stopped at the office so that I could look at the books in their collection. Unsurprisingly, it was a mix of right-wing literature and conservative doctrine with a sprinkling of biblical and bible related materials. I suddenly felt out of place, and a little threatened for I was not the usual character this family has staying at their home. I knew how important the home was to Americans, and I did not want to be accused of trespassing on the property of a man with more guns and less training than a small militia.
I had some time to prepare for dinner. No chance of checking my phone as they had an unstable internet connection with no wireless adaptability, and the signal was non-existent. I supposed that if something were to go awry, I would have no means of escape and certainly no way to call for help. Before my mind could race to any other insane conclusions, it was dinner time. A lovely feast of rice, spinach, and chicken was prepared and served alongside a challah roll. This family were Messianic Jews. From my understanding, this is a largely Christian movement that follows some elements of Judaism. We said a small prayer before eating, not in Hebrew it replicated a traditional grace before meals. Whilst the conversation remained wholly peaceful, soon Britain leaving the EU was brought up. Not wanting to cause a stir, I simply remarked that it was a ‘crazy time’ and that I was happy to be away for a bit. Then I was told that the couple have been reading how awful it is in London at the moment, with the immigrants and terrorist attacks. I could not help myself, and asked for clarification. I explained that it really was not like that, and went into a brief lecture on the role America has played in the state of the world today. The meal ended, Christian rock TV was turned on, and we wound down for the night. I was extremely grateful for their hospitality, and the food was delicious. To sit opposite Anna for the evening and learn more about my friend was going to be the highlight of my weekend.
Anna told me they were going to a temple service early the next morning, and I try to be open to new experiences so I said I would join them. We woke at the crack of dawn, got ready, and drove back through town to a non-descript grey rectangular building, designed as a multipurpose community centre and college of sorts. I sat with Anna outside waiting for people to arrive and we spoke for a while. Soon a friend of hers sat with us, and she left me with him briefly. We had little to talk about but I made an effort to find connections. I told him about the UK for he had never left his state, and he told me about himself a little. I was pleased when Anna returned to take me into the main hall.
The room had been transformed into a make-believe temple. A small group had congregated near the middle and front, so I took my place at the back. Anna sat with me and a few members joined us. I have been to many services of many different religions before but this was different. The people here looked like every day average Americans yet I felt something slightly off about them. They were all very kind, and everyone smiled as though it was painted on them. Out of nowhere, and elderly but lively gentleman came out from behind a curtain and settled everyone down. His hour-long sermon began.
Towards the end of the preaching, the speaker seemed to go off script. He stepped out from the podium, microphone in hand, and began his diatribe against the modern world. His jokes about women went down well, and he had a lot of specific in-jokes that I assumed were highly accurate. I zoned out in order to maintain my composure, and at the closing statement I asked Anna if I could go and visit Lori who had texted me at the beginning of the service asking if I was free. Anna would continue on with her group doing worksheets and discussing scripture.
I took a taxi back to the house we were staying at and met up with Lori. She wanted to take me to a small commune that had organic vegan food and clothes as well as an antique shop and coffee bar. This did not sound like the Gainesville I had experienced so far, so I was excited to see it. We walked to it from the house. On approach, I saw a big open green space with colourful little buildings, miniature garden plots, and a brightly coloured old school bus. We were going to a food truck behind the bus. Lori suggested a jackfruit tortilla with mac and cheese –vegan cheese. A tasty treat uncharacteristically quaint considering where we were situated. I was intrigued by Lori, and we enjoyed talking about our pasts and current lives. Our time was soon over though, and I was to return to Anna and head back to the farm for a few more hours.
I took a short taxi to the bar they were now at. There was a minor football game on and Anna never turned down a chance to drink beer. I had nothing but water and sat with them for a while. They wanted to take me to the local swamps, a popular attraction. I did not deny the trip, but I wanted to give them space. Before we got there, we pulled into a petrol station to buy some water. An Black American man about my age walked out, and our host said we will have to find somewhere else. I told her not to worry about it, and I went in to buy them some water. This place was not necessarily friendly nor was it in a good part of town, but I was polite and inoffensive, and everything was fine. We continued driving until we reached the site.
This place was a veritable paradise in an otherwise hostile environment. Luscious verdant shrubbery, tall and drooping trees, all bathed in deep dark boiling swamp waters. Snakes and alligators and all sorts of creatures writhed in the water beneath us as we walked on planks overhead. We saw birds of all varieties and spotted huge groups of alligators sitting on far away river banks. The mood between me and my hosts had lessened, but we had a good time wandering around. Later that day we were dropped back home and we continued with our lives as we had been so far.
*
I had arrived in Florida in late October, and it was now Halloween. There was going to be a party in the house I was staying in, thrown by the third member of the house who I had not had much contact with. Anna had been working a lot recently so she decided to stay in her room and study or sleep, it was not her party anyway. I was of course invited but it was a costumed affair and I had no costume. I had white jeans and a white t-shirt with sandals so I thought that would work. I helped the girls set up and prepared for my first American house party.
I waited for it to get lively before stepping out in my bright white attire looking like a mix between Jesus and Lennon. I found my way to the bar in the middle of the dining room, grabbed a drink, and walked about. This continued for a while, I occasionally spoke to people but with no serious conversation. About thirty minutes in I had had far too much to drink so I walked out the front door to hang around the porch and get some fresh air. I sat on a rocking chair with my very large glass of whiskey and sipped it while the party happened inside. Shortly after this people began to come out and talk to me. They asked how I was doing, whether I knew whose party it was, questions like that. Each time they were stunned to hear me reply in my British accent. Occasionally people would come rushing out panicked asking where the ‘British guy’ was. The party opened out into the front porch and garden, elevating the overall mood of the event as people drove by and the party took over the entire area. Soon I would have groups around me in my rocking chair talking to me, asking questions, debating politics. People came and went, and I kept my place in the chair. Two guys around my age joined me, one with long curly hair who was dressed like a wizard and the other with a buzzcut dressed like an army recruit. We chatted for a while and drew a crowd when we debated President Trump. They stank of weed and when they had become sufficiently high they said goodbye to me with hugs and kisses before running off into the night to the next party.
A loud group of interesting characters stumbled out not long after my two friends left and landed in my circle. They all had different strange costumes on and I was captivated with one member of their clique, and she with me. She sat next to me on the floor, the table, wherever she could go to remain close. Her name was Kasia, and she wore a costume I did not understand. She had to explain it, which endeared her to me. Her skull makeup hid her face well but I was able to see her through it. She told me I had wonderful teeth and that she was ashamed of hers which I could not understand. I regaled them all with grand stories of London and my time in America including my most honest of opinions about the country. However, like anything good in life, this party had to end. The group said goodbye, but Kasia had my details and promised to take me out the next day. I retreated back to my room and hit the bed hard.
*
I paid for my sins at the party the morning after when I woke up at midday with a crippling headache. This time, I really was hungover. Anna had gone and I had a message on my phone from the girl I met the night before. She said they would be over in a few hours to pick me up, and that was a couple of hours ago. I scrambled to get dressed and waited for another message. I walked outside to find a small jeep and three people in it. I was sure this car was unfit for driving, crammed full of random items, but I nonetheless got in and we set off for the lake. The two guys were really friendly and one of them lived with the girl. She came from a Polish background, born in America to Polish parents. Americans cling onto whatever heritage they can as their country has no past, compared with Europe at least. I have always attributed this to the reason for the popularity of non-American-American cultures such as the Irish or Italians in New York for example. Regardless, she saw herself as Polish American and I could listen to her talking about the country for hours. I liked her a lot and she was intimidatingly intelligent, studying physics with plans to do a PhD in Germany. She had large eyes that I would often get lost staring in.
The drive was fun. I was sitting in a car with three strangers I had met the night before, and they were taking me out on the lake with them to spend the day together. Sometimes, American generosity is unparalleled. We were renting paddle boats and much to my delight I was paired with Kasia. We went out into the lake where alligators were swimming around. I was previously told to expect at least one alligator in any body of water in the state of Florida and so far, this was proving to be true.
The two of us paddled out into the lake and talked for hours with ease. I found myself learning all about this person who started as a somewhat stranger but started to become a friend. Our time together on the lake was fun and we all met back on the shore at closing time. They then took me to a sushi place. This promised to be as un-American as possible with dainty portions of delicate fish wrapped in rice and seaweed. I loved eating their way, truly I am a big fan of pancakes with bacon and syrup, but I hungered for something different.
Ostensibly this restaurant looked Japanese and it was filled with a young crowd. We assembled inside and joined a queue. I scanned the menu and recognised few of the dishes; their names were alien but the ingredients familiar. I asked the group to suggest things for me and went in blind, trusting them with my dinner. Taking our seats, the four of us chatted about things. Talking about what was wrong with the University was a favourite pastime of many students it seemed. When the food arrived, it was delivered on a large tray with different sections for the items much like the tray used at a prison. There was a pile of lettuce and julienned carrots, a stack of crab and avocado maki, a portion of noodles, a handful of cream cheese and salmon maki, a mound of crab and lobster salad, and soy sauce with wasabi. The items were large and I was keen to eat them but it was not the delicacy I anticipated. I told the group how grateful I was to be with them and how thankful I was that they had taken me out.
Having finished our meal, the group wanted to take me to Target. Another supermarket and American brand that I had not been to. It was a particularly bright building inside, much like a casino or hotel you never quite knew what time it was nor how long you had been there. They had all kinds of items, absolutely anything you could possibly want. They took great delight in guiding me through the shop pointing out all the cool things on sale. In order for the night to not end so soon I ended up back at their house which was but a short distance from where I was staying.
They lived in typical student housing, a step up from where I was staying as this was part of a more modern apartment complex. It was spacious with just the two of them though. I was shown around, spending some time in Kasia’s room talking about all things Polish and scientific for these were her passions. Back downstairs drinks were being prepared and a box of wine was brought out. I had never actually had wine from a box and it was in fact rather easy to drink. Games were played and the night went on. We talked for hours with loud Polish music in the background and at some point I decided to head home. Before I went, Kasia told me about the ‘pub sub’ which was a sandwich from the supermarket Publix. They had a special chicken sandwich only on certain days. There was even a website that updated users on whether it was in stock or not. She told me I must have one before I go.
It was very late when I reached the house but Anna was awake, she asked if I wanted to go to McDonald’s so I of course said yes. The streets felt less safe at night and the air was different. When we arrived there was a crowd inside made up of addicts and homeless people, the sort who you would expect at that ungodly hour. The food made me feel ill especially after the evening I had already had but I was happy to be with Anna.
*
I relied a lot on the people around me although I did frequently branch out on my own to explore the area. One such trip was to an army surplus shop I had passed earlier in my travels. The building was a fair walk from the house but I was determined to find it. I worked my way to the main road and walked up it until I recognised where I was. I knew that it was hiding down one of the side streets so I simply went down each one. The building I sought was a white box with a red line running around it and the name was in big bold blue writing. I suppose the most obvious feature was the giant American flag that flew above, almost larger than the building itself. I noticed the flag on the fourth sideroad.
On approach you would not assume this shop contained what it did despite the ARMY SURPLUS signs. Possibly this was my naiveite for in the UK army surplus meant a few pairs of worn boots and an old jumper. The windows were few and blacked out. When I opened the door, there was one customer inside who turned around to face me and a man at the counter who stared at me intensely. He wore a black polo shirt with combat trousers, and he looked like an ex-soldier. Behind him was a wall, at least the height of two grown men and as wide as half the shop, absolutely filled with weapons. Large rifles at the top, smaller calibres lower down, machine guns to the right and shotguns on the left. The counter itself contained dozens of handguns and revolvers, some pocket sized and some as large as the rifles. To avoid arousing suspicion I went to the other side of the shop and feigned interest in the military attire and camping equipment. As I worked my way round to the counter, I began to get nervous. I had experienced guns before. In school I shot a couple of rifles at the range for target practice as well as the same rifle the British Army uses. I was really no stranger to this sort of thing, but to be within an arm’s length of these weapons had an effect on me. I looked at the guns on the rack and in the counter. I recognised; Bushmaster semi-automatic rifle as seen in Sandy Hook, Glock semi-automatic pistol as seen in Colorado, Walther semi-automatic pistol as seen in Virginia, and the shotguns reminiscent of those in Columbine. It felt wrong to be gawking at these weapons and the experience left me with a bad taste in my mouth. I walked out the shop deflated, devoid of any of the fascination I had prior to this.
Not all my solo adventures were as troubling. One of the days I felt like checking out the local shopping mall. It was a small one yet still far larger than its equivalent in the UK. I bought gifts to bring back home. Many of them were American brands that were half price. The best part of the mall was finding the food court. In typical American style it housed all the usual brands as well as a mix of Mexican and Asian options. I felt like a wrap would satisfy me and it came with curly fries and an unlimited soft drink. I sat alone in the food court watching the people around me. This trip taught me many things and one of them was that I was particularly fond of my own company. When I was ready to leave, I called for a taxi to take me home. The driver was on the phone to the Veterans Association trying to negotiate their cooperation for a series of health examinations and some medication he needed. The call ended not in his favour and he apologised for the disturbance. I said it was not a problem and asked him if he was okay. He said that he’s been suffering from pains his whole life from his time in the Vietnam War. I have studied the war extensively, read countless books on it, and I have always wanted to speak to a veteran, so this opportunity was very exciting. I asked if he was comfortable with telling me about his time there and he obliged me for the remainder of our drive.
He was seventeen when he joined. He managed to enlist despite being too young because he wanted to fight for his country so desperately that he talked himself past the checks. He told me about his minimal training, and that he landed in Vietnam as a ‘spare part’ to do whatever needed doing whether a patrol, repair, or pilot a helicopter. Wherever he was needed he was supposed to go. Within the first few weeks he became friendly with the dog handlers and they saw that the animals were fond of him so he ultimately ended up joining their unit. He told me that his time in Vietnam was great for those initial weeks, and then he saw action. He did not tell me what happened, and I did not press him for details but it felt as though something unpleasant occurred. He did three or four tours as each time he was sent home they called him back almost straight away. Towards the end of the war he worked with the helicopter pilots on repairs. He told me the things he saw still followed him in his dreams, and the pains from various injuries followed too. He received no help from the Veterans Association, and now he spent his time driving a taxi. I told him quite openly, by this point we had become friendly, that I thought their treatment of him was awful. I knew it was hard for such a patriotic man to admit his country had failed him. I was sad to say goodbye to him, but his brother lived in Wales and he gave me his card to contact him.
*
The day had finally arrived when Lori was going to take me to a football game. I knew this would be unlike any sporting event I had ever seen before, especially at university level. The Gators were to play Vanderbilt. They were great rivals and it was meant to be a sure thing for the home team. A few days earlier I had purchased a Gators shirt; I made sure to buy a white one with the logo printed on and not a bright orange or blue one so as to make me less immediately identifiable in case of a riot – multiple people warned me of this.
I got to campus a little early to learn about another All-American pastime, tailgating. Tailgating is a pre-event ritual where the tailgate of a vehicle is opened and people drink and eat around it. I was told that it is a crucial part of the sporting experience in America. People were friendly and I was given drinks and food. I set my sights on the stadium that dominated the surrounding skyline. I reached it and settled by a spot near the entrance where I could wait for Lori whilst watching the crowds. It was a dense ocean of over 100,000 people. Planes flew overhead, and a marching band led a procession through the crowd into the stadium. Giant police bikes draped in flags, behind them the band with flag twirlers and cheerleaders stirring up the people. Onlookers screamed as police cars followed the group and trailed off. I found them scary. The large cars painted black, sirens flashing letting out the occasional cry, police officers standing with rifles and handguns. I waited whilst people flocked in. Lori spotted me, grabbed my hand, and we ran to our seats.
Before the game could start, we had to get through the national anthem. Then we stood for the soldiers. Then they stood for us. Members of each branch of the services were called upon to stand up so that we could cheer for them from Marines to Coastguard. Just when I thought it was over, they even called for families of actively serving members of the armed forces to stand so that we might clap for them too. An almighty show occurred before the game and the planes that had been making the rounds performed a flyover that rattled the foundations of the stadium, they dropped blue and orange smoke behind them. I was in a slight drunken haze but I was snapped out of it when the teams ran out onto the pitch. Roars louder than the jets shook the ground beneath me, and boos for the foreign team whose supporters were relegated to a tiny fraction at a faraway corner of the stadium – I feared for their safety whether Florida won or not.
Large men in uniforms ran about, the ball was thrown and kicked, they hit each other with force. Great displays of speed met with unstoppable strength. Defensive manoeuvres and offensive plays as each team danced across the field for possession and touchdowns. In a flash it was half-time. The marching band and a plethora of cheerleaders emerged to perform a captivating sequence of dancing and playing. Acrobatics from the cheerleaders like a circus thrilled the audience, and the sound of the band with their synchronised movements hypnotised us all. I broke away to find food. A concession stand was near me, they had a $10 hotdog with all the trimmings. I returned to my seat and Lori informed me she was going to leave. I said I would like to stay, so I sat alone and enjoyed the rest of the game. Florida of course won and the celebrations were wild. Around the stadium I could hardly see individual people through the wall of orange and blue. The mood was like a carnival.
*
I was completely worn out the day following the big game. Luckily Anna was going to be at work for the rest of the day until early next morning, and none of my new acquaintances were about during the day. No one that I could spend my time with at least. I was in need of food but tired of going to the same old places. A few people had mentioned the name of a local café that served great food, not the usual chain stuff either. It was an hour walk from the campus, most students would drive, but I thought a walk would do me good. This place was in a part of Gainesville I had not yet ventured to. I had the route memorised roughly in my head and set off just before midday.
The sun was shining bright, and the air was particularly humid. The roads seemed to have been bleached a dirty white, and they were worn through years of neglect. The cheap asphalt cracked in the heat to such an extent that gaping potholes like polka dots patterned the road causing drivers to swerve madly between them. Thick, uncut grass grew through the holes in the roads and the pavements. This grass was spiky and painful to walk on barefoot, it was grass far removed from the gentle fields I was used to. I passed houses surrounded with chain-link fences, some with cars on cinder blocks in the drive. Signs warning about trespassing, the occasional guard dog too tired to bark at me. Much like the ineffective hounds I too was growing tired, I need to cool down and find some water. The main road was ahead of me so I continued on.
I happened upon a small retail area. No more than four different small sites, one of which was empty and boarded up. There was a beauty salon with blacked out windows and neon signs, a bail bond company, and a grocery store. This was certainly not an area for tourists, and I even felt that students would probably not be passing through either. The characters looked satirical but there was no humour. An older lady wearing a purple leotard and leopard print boots, an obese man lying on the floor outside the bail bond waiting for them to open, a small group of young men in white vests with bandanas and sunglasses, sitting on the hood of a car smoking. I blended in with the local crowd so I was unafraid of being a target, at least no more so than the rest of the students there. I walked in to the shop, grabbed my bottled water, paid, and left. Whenever I paid for anything, I would say ‘thank you’ and without fail I would get a surprised look and often a smile as they realised I was not American. This time I got the follow up of ‘Hey where’s that accent from?’ and I replied with ‘Um, England. I’m from the UK’. I do enjoy the beaming smile of someone hearing this information, I suppose there are not too many English tourists in these parts of town.
Cooled down and hydrated, I got back on the path to the restaurant. It had to be no more than fifteen minutes from the retail area. On the way, I passed a derelict church and an ammunition wholesaler. The restaurant was in a pretty nondescript building, and were it not for the people sitting outside eating I would have not noticed it immediately. The inside felt just the same as a hipster café in Camden. Vinyl records stacked on shelves on the taupe walls, bottles of wine acting like bookends. Small shrubs and mini plants littered the area. A white tiled backdrop to the kitchen area, faux wooden surfaces on all the tables, cheap metal chairs. They had a system of ordering, you had to get in a queue before ordering and paying, then you would get your table. I suppose you have to hope that there is a free table once you have paid for your food. Regardless, I had the crispy potatoes that came with beautiful roasted garlic cloves, a tangy sour cream and onion dressing, wedges of thinly cut lime and a topping of fresh mint and parsley. It also came with bacon and sausage. I found a seat at the window and waited for my food to be brought out to me – I had to take a large stand with my number on it. When I had time to myself like this, it would allow me observe. I would imagine the lives of the people I saw; this is something I have always liked. Each one of them had a story just like I did, with their own trials and tribulations. I wondered what was important to them, what drove them, what problems were they facing. I wish we could go up to strangers and ask these questions.