As I lay awake in my yurt in the foothills of Turkmenistan's Kopet Dag mountains, dangerously close to the Iranian border and, therefore, within range of Trump’s and Netanyahu's missiles which might at any moment rain down accidentally upon me if the ceasefire doesn't hold, I can hear the gentle sound of bells tinkling quietly and likely coming from a herd of goats either passing through or simply milling around a few yards away. It's early evening, the sun has yet to go down and the noise, if you can call it that, has the desired soporific effect. At some stage I fall asleep and when I find myself awake an hour or two later, the bells are still there but now they are becoming irksome and I wish they would stop. I am lying on my back staring up at the conical roof of my albeit temporary home, but when I turn my head to the right and notice police siren blue lights I remember that I am only yards away from PNC Park, the Pittsburgh Pirates' stadium in, yes, you guessed it, the Residence Inn by Marriott in Pittsburgh PA.
All week I have enjoyed the delicious sleepiness brought
about by jet lag which has seen me in bed by nine o'clock every night, waking
briefly, perhaps, in the early hours, but then eventually drifting off and
regaining consciousness at a decent hour; but not tonight. The bells are
non-existent and so are the goats and while Pittsburgh isn't London and the
sound of traffic is not the issue as the streets of this city are empty, I know
for a fact that as the flight-induced sleepiness of the past few days has
gently lessened, the reason I am restless and awake has plenty to do with
sugary drinks, greasy fries and oversized portions which I have been subjected
to, a far cry from a delicate mushroom risotto or a dainty plate of Indian dahl
and rice, my usual midweek cuisine.
Where the bells are coming from, I didn't know until I
started an investigation which led me to the hotel room's bathroom; it might be
dripping water or it might be something to do with the pipes, that I don't know
and if I'm honest I have gotten rather used to it: there's nothing better than
a subtle distraction to send me off to the Land of Nod.
All week I have succumbed to everything the doctor tells us
is bad: the fries, the fatty burgers, the sugary drinks, the oversized
portions, and today was arguably the breaking point. As always, it starts with
breakfast (on disposable plates, not exactly showing off the Marriott brand in
a good light). Pork patties, scrambled egg, custardy pastries and a nod towards
healthy eating, a banana.
At lunchtime in Pizzaiolo Primo on Market Square, a place
where I thought I would be safe, the portion sizes were ridiculous. My lunch
companion ordered the calamari as a starter and I'm kidding you not, he was
presented with a plate piled at least 10 inches high and looked at the waitress
flabbergasted as if she must be mad. My polpette arrived next and there were
easily 10 meatballs when five would have sufficed, it was a starter for
heaven's sake! I made matters worse by ordering a sugary soda (as they call
fizzy drinks in the USA) and then another when, to be honest, the bottle of
Pellegrino would have been enough, but I enjoyed the former a few nights ago
and decided to relive the experience. When the main courses arrived, both were
extra-large portions and once again, my friend came off worse. I can't remember
exactly what we ordered, but both dishes were chicken-based and mine had an
unpleasant vinegary after taste. We left roughly half of what was on our
plates.
I have visited Pittsburgh half a dozen times over the past
10 years and what I can say is that, on a good day, it's a great place if you
like walking. This week, I have notched up a daily tally of between 15,000 and
20,000 steps and I'm sure that, combined with the jet lag, those steps have
been a contributory factor to my aforementioned delicious sleepiness.
The strain was beginning to show yesterday when I ordered,
foolishly, a burger and chips from an upmarket Pittsburgh restaurant, Eleven. I
should have known better having spent most lunchtimes in Bill's, a lairy sports
bar inside the Westin Hotel, but then I did order from Eleven's Tavern menu, no
doubt reserved exclusively for the proletariat. I can't even mention or think
about Bill's without grimacing as every day I've had a burger and fries of some
description. Every day! And bear in mind that back home I NEVER eat burgers and
I avoid fries like the plague and as my week here has progressed I added insult
to injury by consuming something else that I NEVER touch back in the UK: fizzy
drinks! So now, as my week in Pittsburgh draws to a close (and don't get me
wrong, I love Pittsburgh) I find myself in bed wishing I was in a yurt
listening to the goats in the foothills of the Kopet Dag mountains as they
gently induce much-needed sleep, but I'm brought down to earth with a bang when
I realise there are no goats, I'm not in Turkmenistan and the reason I'm wired
is the cappuccino, the two large English breakfast teas from Starbucks in the
Strip region of the city and, dare I even mention it, a fried chicken sandwich
and a sickly bottle of root beer made with cane sugar.
It's 1240hrs and I should be in bed, but, feeling wide
awake, I decided to get up and pen this article in the hope that, by now, the
effects of my food intake today might have subsided and that I could now head
back to the Kopet Dag mountains and get some sleep.
