Just a Wee Blether…

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About who’s your grand-daddy?

Stories involving American presidents are often hard to believe, especially in recent times. But a few years ago, I stumbled across a little-known fact about a little-known president that truly defies belief.

Many Americans are unaware of the existence of a president called John Tyler. He was the nation’s 10th holder of the office and the first vice-president to make it to the White House because of the death of the sitting president, in this case the equally obscure William Henry Harrison.

Tyler was born in 1790 and that date is crucial to the story. He became president in April 1841, after Harrison succumbed to pneumonia 32 days into the job, making him the USA’s shortest-serving president. Politicians and the public alike never took to Tyler and referred to him ‘His Accidency’ or ‘The Accidental President’.

He is widely regarded as one of the worst presidents ever to hold office, with little or no legacy to speak of. He was a southern gentleman, a plantation owner, slave owner, and a man who joined the Confederates during the Civil War.

But a few years ago, while on a trip to Virginia, Tyler’s home state, I discovered that he had most definitely left a legacy that no other president could match. A legacy that is alive and well after all those years.

Tyler, who was born more than 226 years ago, still has two grandsons alive today. Think about that for a moment. My two grandfathers were born in 1889 and 1890, a full century after Tyler. In fact, the father of the two men still alive was born in 1853, before either of my grandfathers.

I remember being told about this in Virginia and refusing to believe it. Arithmetic isn’t my strong point but even after adding up the years I still couldn’t get my head around it.

But I soon discovered that, in the case of John Tyler and his offspring, anything was possible. He fathered more children – 15 – than any other President in American history. And that isn’t counting those he is alleged to have fathered by his slaves.

If Ronald Reagan was the Great Communicator, then John Tyler was the Great Procreator.

The people of Virginia are only too happy to boast about the 10th president’s incredible prowess. One of the grandsons, Harrison Ruffin Tyler, is apparently a ‘spry’ 87-year-old who still plays tennis. The other, Lyon Gardiner Tyler jr, is 91 and living in Tennessee.

So how did this happen? President Tyler had two wives. He had eight children with his first wife, Letitia, who died of a stroke while the couple were in the White House. Then he had a further seven with his second wife Julia. He fathered his last child in 1860, when he was aged 70.

One of his sons, Lyon, who was born in 1853, also married twice but managed a mere six children, making him not even half the man his father was. Lyon was the father of the two men still alive. Incredibly he fathered Lyon jr in 1924 when he was 71, and Harrison in 1928 when he was 75, so at least he ‘beat’ his father in that regard.

In the area near Williamsburg, Virginia, the people are very happy to talk about the Tyler grandsons. It’s a source of local pride. It’s also a story that won’t last forever so I thought I’d share it sooner rather than later.

And if you had never heard of President John Tyler – or thought he was bit of a useless nonentity – well now you know better. Even more incredibly, Tyler managed this feat despite having not a drop of Scottish blood in his body. Whisper it – his family originated from Shropshire in England.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About the joys of Thanksgiving Day

Last Thursday I sat down to a meal that started with shrimp cocktail, potato crisps with anchovy dip, and cocktail hot dogs.

This was followed by deep fried turkey, smoked turkey, baked ham, traditional stuffing, sausage and cheese stuffing, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, fresh cranberry relish, and homemade dinner rolls. For dessert, there was a choice of pumpkin pie, apple pie, or pumpkin and cream cheese roll, and ice cream.

Everything, except for the ice cream, was homemade. It was, as they say, a feast fit for a king. There were 15 people there. Two were friends who had driven across from San Diego, the rest were extended family members, ranging in age from one to 80.

This was Thanksgiving Day, to my mind the most enjoyable and uplifting day in the American calendar. What makes it special, in my opinion, is the lack of commercialism and the fact there is never any need to pick out the perfect gifts for people – or any gifts for that matter. Thanksgiving is simply a happy get-together of family and friends.

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It’s also the time of year when much-maligned America puts its best foot forward. Coming home from work on Wednesday I saw a car stopping at a road junction, the driver opened his window and handed what looked like a few dollar bills to a homeless person. The recipient, an elderly man with a long white beard and shabby clothes, is always there, holding a piece of cardboard with the word ‘homeless’. It’s the first time I’ve seen him being given anything.

Two days later I was at a Starbucks. Another homeless guy was standing outside asking politely for money. I gave him the ‘shrapnel’ money I had in my pocket, which didn’t amount to much. Then a customer came out of the restaurant, handed him a hot coffee and a bag with three muffins inside. The man was ecstatic at the show of kindness.

Perhaps people should be just as generous all year round but it doesn’t take away from the fact that the period around Thanksgiving brings out the best in everyone. It is a genuinely enjoyable and relatively stress-free holiday, certainly compared with Christmas.

Traditionally – at least going back to the 20th century – the day involves the three Fs. Food, family, and football. American football, that is. Detroit Lions and Dallas Cowboys have for years hosted a game on Thanksgiving Day and, in recent years, a third match has been added in the evening.

The food can take days of preparation, and everyone who comes along brings some homemade food. Well most people – my contribution amounted to scrutinising the cooking of the turkey while knocking back a couple of beers.

Even the roads department got in on the act. The illuminated information signs on the freeway carried slightly gruesome but effective messages. One said, “Mash your Potatoes, not your Head. Buckle Up’. Then there was the questionable ‘Gobble, Gobble. Go Easy on the Throttle’.

Thanksgiving Day is Turkey Day over here. Unlike the UK, Christmas dinner is usually something other than turkey. In the years I’ve been here for Christmas, I’ve eaten beef stroganoff, ham, lamb, and steak at dinner time.

The general rule on Thanksgiving is that, if anyone is spending the day on their own, then neighbours or friends will make sure they are not alone, they will be invited round or, at the very least, paid a visit. We don’t have a UK equivalent which is a shame. Most UK holidays seem to involve commercialism or religion – or both.

It’s a bit of a pity that the day after Thanksgiving is the awful Black Friday, a mass stampede to the stores to pick up bargains. Sadly, that madness is catching on in Britain too. However, there is one way to avoid it – just don’t go to the shops.

So, Thanksgiving has passed again for another year. It wasn’t without incident of course. The three-year-old and his great grandmother went missing just before the food was served. A search party was organised around the neighbourhood but there was no sign of them. People were getting just a little frantic.

Eventually they were found. In the bedroom closet telling each other ghost stories, Happy Thanksgiving.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About the ‘state’ of America’s car plates

A car registration plate in America can tell you a lot about the person driving the vehicle. If you remember the movie Thelma and Louise, you might recall that the two ladies drove across the country in a 1966 Ford Thunderbird with an Arkansas license plate.

Every state in the US – as well as the provinces in Canada and Mexico – issue their own distinctive plates. They tend to reflect the culture and the history of the place. Wyoming has an image of a cowboy; Oklahoma, formerly known as Indian Territory, depicts an Apache warrior; and North Carolina has the words ‘First in Flight’ in recognition of the historic airplane flight by the Wright Brothers at Kitty Hawk.

There are also a curious variety of what they call vanity plates. I mean, who in his right mind would do something like this?

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Ok moving swiftly on. I’ve always had a slight fascination with these plates, and I often wished there was something similar in the UK. Scotland could easily have its own distinctive plate but so could all the counties – Aberdeenshire, Argyll, Dumfriesshire, and the rest could easily come up with their own designs.

In England, there is plenty scope for places like Cornwall, Norfolk and Cumbria.

In Arizona, there are a few different plate designs but the one shown is by far the most common. It depicts a lot of blue sky, a large sun, a range of mountains called the Superstitions, and Saguaro cactus plants. In the bottom, right hand corner are the words Grand Canyon State.

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That’s a fairly typical layout – the state name, the nickname or slogan, and some geographical or historical features. You can imagine Aberdeenshire with Balmoral or Fyvie Castle, Lanarkshire with Ravenscraig Steelworks, and Inverness-shire with the Caledonian Canal.

Throughout the year, we see plenty of the neighbouring state licenses, places like Utah, California, New Mexico and Nevada. But in the winter, the Arizona population increases thanks to an influx of ‘snowbirds’, people who escape the snow and ice of the far north for a second home in the sunny south-west.

That brings with it a rash of different plates from places such as Minnesota, Wisconsin, North Dakota and the Canadian provinces. So just for some light-hearted fun, here’s a look at some of the designs.

This Minnesota plate is partly obscured but it bears the slogan ‘10,000 Lakes’ and you can see what is supposed to be a blue lake in the centre. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of Minnesota-registered vehicles in Arizona during the winter. So, I guess there must be some wealthy people up there.

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Wisconsin is known as America’s Dairyland. Again, this plate is obscured by a dealership logo but at the top right hand side you can make out a farmland scene.

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California, for all it is such an exciting and happening state, has one of the dullest plate designs. White background, blue lettering, and a red state name graphic. Patriotic perhaps…boring definitely.

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Legendary North Dakota, as it is called, is known as the Peace Garden State, and the license plate shows the sun rising over the prairies, and a buffalo or bison in the bottom right. Plenty North Dakotans make their way down here during the winter too. It’s one of the more common plates here.

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The Florida plate is the most distinctive in the country. The Sunshine State license plate is a riot of colour compared with most of the others. Green and white, with a state map, and a citrus orange plant in the centre.

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Washington, the Evergreen State, has a graphic of Mount Rainier, which overlooks the city of Seattle, on the plate. And Illinois is referred to as Land of Lincoln, and bears an image of Abraham Lincoln in the centre. The ex-President practiced law there for many years before he was a politician.

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Saskatchewan is one of the Canadian provinces that show up here. It’s largely a farming area so the wheat graphic speaks for itself.

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There are a ton of license plate variations over here – some for war veterans for example – and I’m a big fan of the whole idea. Back in the UK someone should suggest it to the DVLA.

 

Just a Wee Blether…

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About where do we go from here?

So. The sky over here has well and truly fallen. The weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth can still be heard around the world. We have enjoyed two or three days of the calm after the storm, but the inevitable hurricane that was always bound to follow is already gathering pace. One week on and the reality – and enormity – is beginning to sink in.

America as a nation seems right now to be suffering the same conflicting emotions as the UK did post-Brexit. I’ve chatted with a good many people since the election, some are distraught, some are delighted to see Trump as the victor, others are equally delighted to see the demise of Clinton. But, even among the most ardent Trump fans, there is a sense of ‘what the hell have we done?’

I didn’t have a vote, I’m not a US citizen. So, my view doesn’t matter. But for the record I find Trump an abhorrent individual. We have had bitter experience of him in Scotland. I think he is genuinely unhinged, and possesses a range of deficiencies that a team of psychiatrists and psychologists would have a field day with.

However, let’s strip away the obnoxious nature of the man, and look at what has happened here. If this was anyone else, America and the world would be hailing last week’s result as one of the greatest political achievements of all time, a triumph for democracy – and rightly so.

Trump, pretty much single-handedly, took on the might of the corrupt and crooked US establishment and won. In doing so he turned American society on its head and demolished both the Republican and Democrat parties – two of the largest, wealthiest and most powerful institutions in the world.

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The establishment hasn’t been toppled of course, but it has had a serious and long overdue kick in the butt. It’s difficult to accept that the man has, in any way, been a force for good but he does deserve credit where it’s due. He won, against all odds.

It’s quite strange, in a way, being here but not having the chance to be part of it. That means that, despite my anti-Trump feelings, I can take a detached view of events, almost as an outsider looking in. So, let me take the chance to put right a few general misconceptions, some put about by the media, others just wrongly accepted as true.

First, that Trump supporters are all ‘uneducated whites’. You know, like big Bubba the farm boy with a rifle in one hand and a bottle of Coors in the other. A guy with few brain cells to rub together and who, as one media commentator put it recently, enjoys shooting his neighbours’ cats.

Wrong. That portrayal may be easy, but it is very far off the mark. I know a good many people who voted Trump and they are well educated and intelligent people; they are middle-class and living the happy American family dream in comfortably-off suburbia; they are successful, dynamic business people. These are folk who take their politics and elections seriously and think before they vote.

Some I have spoken to voted Trump because he was standing on the Republican ticket – that simple. Others said they could not stomach voting for Clinton. Others that they felt a change was necessary.

The second misconception is that Trump is a Republican. He’s not and many party members are aghast that he stood in their name. He often sounds more like a Democrat. However, he saw a weakness in the Republican Party, took his chance, and won.

Thirdly, Trump is not a Washington insider and therefore not part of the problem. Of course, he is. He’s been a high-ranking schmoozer for decades now and how many Congressmen do you think have had their palms greased with Trump cash?

Fourth, that Hillary Clinton was unlucky and deserved to win. She deserved everything she got; she ran a dreadful campaign and lost touch with her voting base along the way. While Trump was roiling the populus, Clinton was like a cardboard cut-out. It sometimes felt like watching a bad Roger Moore film.

The most revealing story about Clinton is that she never once visited the state of Wisconsin  during her campaign. And, why should she? Wisconsin, after all, had voted solidly Democrat since the 1920s except for the Nixon landslide of 1972. So, while she sat back and waited for it to drop into her lap, Trump campaigned there vigorously – and Wisconsin went Republican.

The Democrats have lost an election, albeit painfully. It happens. They will now go away, lick their wounds, put the Clintons and their ilk out to pasture, regroup and come back strongly in 2020. The Republicans may have won but the party has been divided like never before, and where it goes from here could be the next fascinating political story.

I believe that Trump’s greatest danger is from within, from the thousands of Republicans, many of them high ranking, who cannot stand him. If he steps out of line, they would be happy to pull the trigger on his Presidency. Don’t be surprised if two parties emerge, a traditional conservative Republican party, and a more extreme right wing ‘Trump party’.

Many people have said to me that Trump has been telling Americans ‘what they want to hear’. The same people will say that Trump is not a racist. What he has told Americans is well documented, I don’t need to repeat it, but if that’s what they want to hear, what does it say about 21st century American society?

There’s no point in beating about the bush. Racism is a cancer in America, it always has been, ever since the country was colonised. I started visiting regularly in the early 2000s, and quickly became aware that the issue was bubbling on or around the surface. Since Trump took to the campaign trail, it has erupted like Mount Vesuvius.

White supremacist groups have become emboldened and have emerged from their underground shadows into the mainstream. I listened to a radio show the other day when the leader of one such group, a chap called Richard Spencer, said his goal was the creation of a ‘white ethno-state’ and that Trump had ‘slingshotted us to respectability’.

Another avowed white nationalist, Jared Taylor, was quoted in a newspaper as saying that Trump had made it ‘socially acceptable’ to talk about previously off-limits topics such as ‘the Globalist Jewish agenda’.

A few weeks ago, in a public place, I heard someone referred to as a ‘thick-skulled darkie’. That is language straight from the Civil War era.

That may not make Trump a racist in the eyes of some – although to my mind he is an out-and-out racist – but it certainly makes him guilty of enabling an unsettling new chapter of racial disharmony in America. In a court of law, he would be an accessory, a bit like Al Capone’s driver.

But, as the saying goes, you dance with the partner you are given, and very soon we will all be foxtrotting and waltzing with Donald J Trump. His defeated foe Hillary Clinton said last week that America now ‘owes it’ to Trump to chart the way ahead, whether we like the guy or not. She is right.

I fervently hope, for the sake of my adopted country that I have grown to love – warts and all – that I am wrong and that the dark side of the Trump campaign fades away. Love the guy or hate him, he has achieved something truly seismic. But if I’m honest, I’m not holding my breath.

 

Just a Wee Blether…

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About my love affair with San Fran

I didn’t wear flowers in my hair, or leave my heart there…but I did recently rekindle something of a love affair with what is so far my favourite American city.

My first visit to San Francisco was in 2009 and I was immediately struck by its vibrancy, its multi-culturalism, its stunning location, and its downright coolness. The ‘City by the Bay’ is an exciting and fun place to visit.

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To be fair, I’ve only been to a handful of big cities over here. New York was equally cool, a must see US city; Los Angeles was a massive, busy, dirty sprawl and I wouldn’t go back; Las Vegas was a bit of fun; Pittsburgh is like Glasgow, an old industrial city newly reinvented; Tucson has a part Wild West, part Mexican feel; Phoenix is the desert city I now call home.

But when my son Kenneth arrived for a two-week holiday last month, I immediately booked a two-day, one-night side trip to San Fran for the two of us – a boys’ getaway if you like.

We flew into nearby Oakland Airport and took a boat across the bay, underneath the Oakland bridge, watched the city skyline unfold before us, and disembarked at one of the famous piers that line the waterfront. One of the first things that strikes you about San Francisco is how compact it is. Unlike many other American cities, everything is reasonably close to everything else.

Our first port of call was a trip to Alcatraz Island and the now disused prison they called ‘The Rock’. It’s a truly grim reminder of what life was like for the criminals who were the ‘worst of the worst. Al Capone was here, so was George ‘Machine Gun’ Kelly – two of the most notorious gangsters of the Prohibition era.

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But the man the prison guards feared most was a killer called Robert Stroud, aka the Birdman of Alcatraz. People who knew Stroud describe Burt Lancaster’s ‘lovable rogue’ portrayal of him as a comedy. Stroud, they say, was an animal. And to confuse matters, he was never allowed to keep birds in his cell at Alcatraz, that part of his life story was confined to Leavenworth Prison in Kansas.

A walk through the cell blocks, and a view of the conditions these men were kept in, can send a shiver down the spine. The regime was brutal but, to make matters 1000 times worse, these guys exercised every day in the prison yard – which commanded a panoramic view of the beautiful San Francisco skyline. Just in case they weren’t missing the outside world, there it was right in front of them.

Getting around San Francisco means a pass for the city’s cable cars. Of course, we hung off the side like a couple of daft tourists. The system is uniquely San Fran and was devised by Andrew Hallidie, the son of a Scotsman from Kirkpatrick-Fleming in Dumfriesshire.

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Another reminder of Scotland is the old sailing ship Balclutha, now a US National Historic Landmark. She was built in 1886 at the former Charles Connell shipyard at Scotstoun on the Clyde and, after decades transporting cargo around the world, she is now an impressive addition to San Francisco’s Maritime National Historical Park.

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The cable cars will drop passengers at the crooked Lombard Street, possibly the weirdest section of city street in the world. The story goes that the 27% gradient was too steep for cars to navigate so this was a way of slowing them down. It’s bizarre and quirky but, again, it fits in a city that is full of surprises.

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On day two we sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge, ate and shopped on Pier 39, visited the Cable Car Museum, and discovered an excellent Irish bar for lunch and a couple of pints – one of which was free because of our Scottish accents.

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It was a wonderful break and I would recommend San Francisco to anyone visiting America. There are many other places here I would love to visit – Nashville, New Orleans, and Boston are top of my ‘bucket list’ – but I’ll never tire of visiting San Fran.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About the people you meet over coffee

I suppose when big political events are looming – elections for example – people in all countries behave a little out of the ordinary. In the USA, right now, there’s a sense of almost hysteria setting in. People here take their politics very seriously.

So, I thought I would share with you a chance meeting and conversation I had this week. It left me partly bewildered, partly smiling, and partly shaking my head in despair.

The encounter happened on Thursday morning over a cup of coffee in a busy little café. I sat down across from a woman who I took to be in her 70s and who was reading a book. I had a newspaper and was hoping to have my drink, catch up on the news, and leave.

Above us, there was a television broadcasting a summary of the previous night’s Presidential debate between Trump and Clinton. After a few minutes my coffee drinking companion leaned across the table and asked if I had seen the debate. I replied that I’d seen most of the second half. Then came the six-million-dollar question.

“So what did you think of it,” she asked. In other words, who did I think had won? This kind of question is incendiary in 2016 USA. Obviously, I had no idea of this woman’s political leanings. So, I decided to tell her exactly what I thought of it.

The debate, I said, had been an embarrassment to America, and I thought Trump had looked like a beaten man at the end. I had to repeat this for her twice. And she looked away and fell silent. I knew immediately this was not what she wanted to hear. Sometimes I’m up for a good political joust with Americans but this morning I couldn’t be bothered.

Then she looked up and eyeballed me. Her comment, as close to verbatim as I can remember, was, “In that case we will have to rely on the good judgment of the Lord above because the only person who knows how to help us in our time of need is the heavenly father.”

Not the right time to bring up Donald Trump’s ‘pussygate’ comments then.

I was still trying to work out why god would be interested in the victor of a political debate in glitzy Las Vegas when the lady changed tack and hit me with another bombshell. She smiled and asked me, “So are you from England?”

When I said Scotland, she asked what I thought of Brexit. She liked to ask questions, this lady. I told her I thought it was a massive mistake and that the UK could be suffering for decades because of it. She then gave me the response beloved of at least 50% of Americans – “but surely you have your freedom?”

The next part of the conversation went something like this.

Lady: “It doesn’t help that Britain is run by a Muslim.”

Me: “A Muslim. Who is that then?”

Lady: “Johnson. Isn’t that his name?”

Me: “You mean Boris Johnson. No, he’s certainly not a Muslim.”

I told her the only Muslim I could think of in a position of power in the UK was the Mayor of London, Sadiq Khan but explained gently that the Mayor of London did not “run Britain”.

She was in full anti-Muslim rant mode by now. They (Muslims) were all “conditioned to think differently from the rest of us”. I asked what Muslims she meant, Shia Muslims, Sunni Muslims or what, but that met with a blank look. They were all terrorists, she said, and she didn’t want terrorists in the US.

I asked her if the Irish terrorists – white and self-proclaimed Christians – who had been active for three decades last century, should have been banned from the US, or was keeping out terrorists conditional upon their skin colour and religion? She very skillfully ignored the question completely, I was beginning to think she should have been a politician herself.

Then she hit me with the following: “In the UK they (Muslims) have taken over churches and chapels and turned them into mosques…and they have imposed Sharia Law throughout the country.”

I was trying hard but it wasn’t easy. Just as Jews had synagogues in the UK, I said, so Muslims had mosques. They didn’t need to take over chapels. And when I left the UK 18 months ago, Muslims were subject to the law of the land like everyone else.

Thankfully my coffee cup was empty. My new friend had a final rant about Hillary Clinton and how evil she was…emails…Benghazi, etc. US politics is tribal in nature, the opposition party is the enemy, simple as that. The phrase ‘point well taken’ does not exist in the American political vocabulary.

The lady who had regaled me for slightly less than 20 minutes was perfectly pleasant. She believed fervently in everything she said. She repeated many of the American prejudices we are familiar with. But beyond her sincerely held beliefs, she really had little clue what she was talking about – and I don’t want to sound too snotty when I say that.

Still, she brightened up an otherwise dull Thursday morning.

 

Just a Wee Blether…

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About ‘good evening, I’m your server’

‘Hi there, my name is Susan and I’m your waitress for the evening.’ That was the extremely pleasant greeting awaiting us last night when we went out for a meal with another couple.

Susan was friendly and attentive, she chatted with us, laughed at our lame jokes, and was every inch the typical American waitress. She checked that we were enjoying our meal and were generally having a good experience in her restaurant. And she was never ‘in our face’ – which some of her colleagues tend to be.

This type of what you might call super-attentive service has been an American tradition for decades. If you haven’t experienced it in real life, you’ve seen it in movies and TV sitcoms. Some people find it annoying, too over the top. I like it, just as long as the waiter or waitress comes across as genuine. For me it beats lack of attention any day.

Put it this way, it’s a world removed from some of the awful service we had to tolerate for many years in Scotland. Things have improved immensely in recent years thanks, I suspect, to tremendous competition and the emergence of social media review sites such as Yelp.com.

I sometimes cringe at the thought of some of the ‘welcomes’ we used to receive in hotels and restaurants back in Scotland. Instead of ‘hi my name is Susan’ clients were often greeted with no more than a grunt. And dishes thrust in front of customers by an uncommunicative and often surly waiter or waitress used to drive me crazy.

It seemed to be worse the further north you went. The ‘Highland hospitality’ boast most definitely applied to the welcome you received in people’s homes where you were always guaranteed a couple of drams and, if you were lucky, a plate of mince and tatties. It very often didn’t extend to the local pub or hotel – where you were actually paying for the privilege.

I well remember going for an early evening meal to a restaurant in Oban which had been recommended to us. I have never had the misfortune to encounter such dreadful service. The waiter never once acknowledged us, cracked a smile, or engaged in conversation in any way. He was clearly unhappy to be there, dumped our food in front of us and presented us with the bill.

Perhaps licensed premises in remote places thought they didn’t have to try, that they had a monopoly on the locals? Or perhaps Scots in general are traditionally a little reticent – but that should never have excused poor service.

Thankfully the Scottish dining out experience is now far better – certainly in the city. There are still areas in the more remote parts of the country where the welcome and the service leave a lot to be desired. I don’t know about you but I like having a waiter who engages, makes polite conversation, and is genuinely interested in me as a diner and a person. We are, after all, paying a fair price for restaurant food nowadays.

In America the uber-friendly service tradition has been part of the eating out experience for many decades – and, even if the wait staff don’t fancy being friendly and polite, they have a very good incentive for being that way.

Because waiters and waitresses in America use their charm and personalities to earn tips, their employers do not pay them the minimum wage. It is assumed that they will always make up the difference by pocketing the gratuities they earn. So the whole ‘I’m your waitress for the evening’ thing was born out of financial necessity and has become partly a tradition and partly an excuse for restaurant bosses to pay their workers peanuts.

The payment varies by state. In Arizona waiters get just over six dollars an hour. In other places, including Arkansas, it is a shade more than two dollars – which qualifies as slave labour. In some cases, if an employee can prove they didn’t make up the difference between their wage and the minimum wage in tips, their boss will make up that difference. Other establishments are paying the full wage and have put a ban on tipping.

Over here, most of the waiters and waitresses are extremely pleasant and deserve to be tipped. In Scotland they are getting there but still have a long way to go. At least Scots pay a half-decent wage. All that’s required now is to persuade a few more of them to ‘keep the customers satisfied’.

 

Just a Wee Blether…

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About the rise and fall of the sun

Social media has been positively aglow this summer with incredible photographs of spectacular Scottish sunsets. There is something quite special about watching the clouds turn bright red as the sun dips down beyond the Western Isles or the Highland mountains.

It seems that every day I open Twitter or Facebook or Instagram, one of my social media buddies has posted a glorious photo of the sun setting over Mull or Skye or the Forth of Clyde. Sunrises are equally stunning, especially on the east coast – Aberdeen, Edinburgh or the Moray Firth.

It’s enough to make an expat like me homesick. I used to love watching the sun slowly sinking over the horizon and the clouds changing shape and colour for what seemed an age. The Glasgow flat I stayed in before Leaving for America was on the second floor and was an incredible sunset vantage point.

And if I started work at 6am, which I frequently did, there was always the chance of a bright orange sunrise from the east. Scotland is lucky in that respect, the further north you are, the longer you have to witness these phenomena.

Scotland is also blessed with the Northern Lights. I only saw them once, when I was out at night helping produce a radio show with two guys who were monitoring the nocturnal activities of seabirds. We were sitting on grassy cliff slopes at Collieston, north of Aberdeen, when the Aurora Borealis appeared in the sky. Pretty amazing.

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In Arizona this week I was lucky enough to catch the most incredible sunrise. I’ve already posted it on social media but make no excuses for doing it again. It was taken at 6am from my office window, on the 17th floor of a high-rise office building in central Phoenix. The window looks east towards a range of mountains called the Supersititons and I reckon there are few buildings in the city that can boast a better view.

There is, however, one key difference between Scotland and Arizona when it comes to sunrise and sunset watching. Over here it’s all over and done with in a short space of time. This week’s photo-op from my office had a ‘window’ of less than 10 minutes.

I’m no scientist, but I think this might have something to do with the tilting of the earth’s axis. For a similar reason, flights from London to Phoenix travel past Greenland and through northern Canada instead of what seems like a straight line. Please don’t ask me to explain this stuff.

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Sunsets in the Arizona desert are one of the state’s biggest attractions. Real estate agents include details of sunrise and sunset times along with images of mountains and cactus plants with bright red or orange skies in the background for potential homeowners to peruse. The natural world is big business out here and why not?

It’s tempting to think of Arizona as nothing but a barren desert. That is true in some parts of the state but there is some incredible scenery – red rocks, rivers and lakes, waterfalls, lush valleys, and of course the Grand Canyon.

As you can see from these pictures, the sun can rise in spectacular fashion in the desert. But given the choice, I’d rather watch the skies at sundown over the west coast of Scotland.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About doing breakfast…American style

A few days before I left Scotland, I ‘did breakfast’ with one of my former colleagues from the Evening Times. We dined in Hyndland, in Glasgow’s cosmopolitan west end and it was an extremely pleasant, if slightly un-Scottish, occasion.

‘Let’s do breakfast’ is a very common foodie refrain over here in the States. Hollywood movies and American television shows have for decades been showing us images of people meeting in restaurants for morning coffee – never tea – and doing business deals over breakfast long before the start of the traditional British working day.

It’s only in recent years that Scotland has remotely caught up and even then, it’s only to an extent. In certain parts of certain cities in Scotland it is possible to meet a friend or business acquaintance for breakfast. Going out for a meal still tends to be an evening adventure.

There is, of course, nothing quite like a full Scottish breakfast. Eggs, sausages (links and square), bacon, black pudding, baked beans, potato scones, tomatoes, mushrooms, toast, all washed down with several cups of tea. It’s not called a widow-maker for nothing.

For me anyway, these tended to be special occasion breakfasts – a B&B in the Highlands or something similar. At home most of us in Scotland start the day with either cereal, tea and toast, sausage and eggs, a bacon roll, or granola with yogurt and fruit.

Here in the US ‘doing breakfast’ is big business – yoooge business in fact. And the portions are massive. I’ve been out at 7am for breakfast and not been hungry again until close on 6pm. Every breakfast restaurant has a combination of sweet and savoury menu choices which are way off the scale of what’s on offer – so far – in the UK.

The breakfast menu of the Henhouse Café, not far from my house, is a typical example. One item, Mom’s Homemade Pancakes, is followed by the warning ‘may cause drowsiness, they are huge’. In fact, these pancakes are so big they are hanging over the edge of the plate. And the plates are pretty big.

The description of the Strawberry Cheesecake French Toast goes like this. Hawaiian bread dipped in batter, crusted with Graham Crackers, stuffed with strawberry cheesecake filling, topped with whipped cream, strawberries and strawberry syrup. All for $8.29 (£6.32p).

There are umpteen savoury choices including the Grandpa Skillet, which consists of eggs cooked whichever way you choose, sausage, potatoes, mushrooms, red onions, red and green bell peppers, cheese, covered with gravy, and with a portion of toast. It costs $8.99 and, again, the portion you receive is ginormous.

To put it into perspective, the Henhouse Café is one of hundreds of breakfast places to choose from in the Greater Phoenix area. They are on every street corner and they do steady trade every day of the week, but on the weekends be prepared to wait 30 or 60 minutes – and many people do.

I find the whole ‘doing breakfast’ experience a great way to start the day. It doesn’t beat getting up at the crack of dawn and heading for the Scottish hills, but it does make you get out of bed earlier than you otherwise would, and mix with people at a time when you would normally be snoozing.

Breakfasting out has been something of an American tradition for decades – think of old-fashioned diners in movies starring the likes of Joan Crawford and Ray Milland. And nowadays there are entire TV networks devoted to food, with many episodes focused on the bounty of available breakfast fare.

Glasgow and the rest of Scotland has a long way to go to catch up – although I’m not sure it really wants to. I’m not convinced that Scots are ready to embrace the breakfast culture in the same way Americans have. Perhaps there is too much emphasis on the 9-5 working day, maybe it’s just not a Scottish thing.

But judging by my Hyndland experience with my jolly ex-colleague, it’s something I would recommend as a fun and refreshing way to start the day. Just keep the portions down to UK size.

 

 

 

 

Just a Wee Blether…

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About rock on Kelvingrove bandstand

The picture below was taken by me in April 2012. I often used to walk along the River Kelvin pathway in Glasgow and pass the old Kelvingrove bandstand which, as you can see, was in a serious state of disrepair. People used to reminisce about the days when it staged open-air concerts.

There was talk of a restoration project but it all seemed like a lot of hot air. Far easier to demolish it or wait till it became the ‘victim’ of fire?

7 April bandstand

But hats off to everyone. The bandstand has been beautifully renovated and has staged concerts by Tom Jones, Primal Scream, Echo and the Bunnymen, Steve Earle, and a host of others. Van Morrison is due there soon; there was even an outdoor screening of the movie Local Hero. It has become a major – if not-so-new – musical venue.

It really gladdens my heart to see structures like the bandstand restored and put to use. Old buildings that fall derelict are very often knocked down or, in the case of the wonderful old Scotway House (below) at the mouth of the River Kelvin, destroyed by fire. It would have been a wonderful building for an upscale restaurant but, never mind, the distress of the owners should be relieved by a large insurance cheque.

The problem I have with the wrecking ball being taken to buildings whose best days may be over is that, in most cases they are structurally sound and architecturally stunning. A disused factory, for example, could be transformed into housing. But once demolished they can never be resurrected and they are inevitably replaced by something modern and far less attractive.

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Imagine if some of our clan chiefs decided to knock down their ancient castles because they were no longer habitable?

Meanwhile new estates spring up on what used to be precious countryside. Mass-produced houses in suburban developments are affordable but they lack any character. Given the choice between suburbia and a restored old city tenement, I would always pick the latter.

The town I grew up in once boasted a magnificent hotel, the Marine and Curlinghall. It had a sprung dance floor and a historic connection with the development of the sport of curling. Nowadays it would be a listed building but in the early 1980s it was sold to a development company and demolished. I used to work in the hotel and thought it was a crime.

Here in Phoenix, the spread of large housing estates seems relentless. This is an ever-expanding city thanks largely to the year-round sunshine. What is depressing is that many of the pockets of waste land that break up the endless housing and commercial developments are being steadily built on.

The desert landscape doesn’t have the same beauty as the Scottish countryside but it is still a relief to get in the car and leave the city behind once in a while. There are plenty buildings in and around Phoenix that are lying empty and could easily be used for housing with a bit of imagination.

On a slightly similar theme, I always wonder why old ships or boats must end up in the scrapyard. They could be put to good use in ports and harbours around the world as museums or for educational purposes, perhaps even for short excursions.

Maybe it’s just a dream and commercial considerations will always win the day. But it seems absurd that while perfectly good buildings stand empty in the centre of a city, cookie-cutter homes are being built in the suburbs.

And equally absurd that old boats that have been built with the sweat and toil of shipyard workers are rushed to the scrapyard at the first opportunity.