In Nashville... Day One

It started badly.

Driving along the A23 towards the M23 and then, supposedly, the M25 and Heathrow's Terminal Five – or T5 as I pretentiously call it. I'm in a taxi, or rather a 'minicab', a strange phrase as the car is roughly the same size as any other.

"Just so you know, it's Heathrow I'm heading for, not Gatwick," says I with a smile.

The driver acknowledges me so I relax, but then he takes me to Gatwick anyway. I mean, why not? I want to go to Heathrow and I make it quite clear that I want to go to Heathrow, but I end up in Gatwick. I look at my watch. There is still time, I think, and the traffic is thin, it being a Saturday morning when most people are chilling out, watching a bit of Saturday Morning Kitchen, munching a slice of buttered toast and sipping tea. Not me. I'm up with the lark. In fact, I didn't sleep that well. I never do when a long flight stands between me and a decent night's kip.

Unnecessarily grand and too many pillows

There's a long, long stretch of M23 between the M25 turn-off and Gatwick Airport, but all I can do is look at the long road ahead and wonder whether or not I will get to the right airport – on time. The driver, of course, apologises for his complete and utter ignorance (what else could he do?) and I do my best not to show I'm annoyed, but I am. It's just the start of Hasslesville.

There are big queues so I decide to use the machines to check-in – always a faff at the best of times. Glasses on, documents out, I key in my flight reference number and eventually two boarding passes appear, one for London to Chicago, the other for Chicago to Nashville, and then I head for security and the hassles it entails.

Once through, with relative ease, I find my colleague, we have a snack at Giraffe (granola and fresh fruit plus a mug of tea; my colleague has a soft drink) and then we head for the gate and a relatively smooth flight in a BA jumbo jet – BA 0295. I had the best seat in the house for an economy seat, 28a, plenty of legroom, but I can't settle, I'm not relaxed, I'm agitated so I spend the flight looking out the window or standing in the galley area chatting. I spend a lot of time looking at my watch and sectionalising time. In my head I'm always saying stuff like, "In an hour from now there's only five hours to go," that sort of thing.

Even lunch isn't as enjoyable as it should have been, although the food is fine: roasted chicken with mashed potato and peas in one of those foil containers, a decent chocolate mousse and, of course, a couple of those small bottles of red wine. The wine is non-descript and does little to relax me, but one of the cabin crew excels herself. I enquire about Island Bakery Lemon Melts, a biscuit's biscuit in my opinion. I'm worried that BA's move towards M&S food on short haul flights (that customers must pay for) will mean the end of this classic biscuit. She investigates. Normally when cabin crew say they'll investigate they forget and I never hear from them again, but not this time. She returns, not with a pack of Lemon Melts, but with another variety from the same company. I was impressed.

The man next to me in seat 28b says nothing. He's reading a management book, something like Seven Ways of Improving Efficiency, I can't remember, but it's keeping him occupied. I read the Sun, the Telegraph and the Times plus a chapter of Hotels of North America by Rick Moody.

More hassles in Chicago. The hassle of immigration, the hassle of baggage reclaim and the hassle finding Terminal Three, but then I'm in my favourite restaurant opposite gate H3, Romano's Macaroni Grill. Pollo Caprese, a green salad and a bread roll, plus a Stella Artois. Much needed. We meet a white-haired man in a checkered shirt traveling to China, he tells us he's in healthcare and that he's written a novel about time travel but hasn't bothered getting it published. I tell him to publish on-line but he doesn't seem interested, he's moved on. He tells us about his wife. They're now divorced. Met on-line. It lasted for 10 years and now he's living in Wisconsin and she's somewhere else. He said where but I can't remember.

We head for Gate 17 and the short hop to Nashville. A pleasant, albeit cramped flight and then more waiting around for baggage reclaim. I draw some dollars, my colleague goes his own way. "See you tomorrow," I say and eventually take a cab to the Best Western. It's around 0130hrs in the UK but only 1930hrs in Nashville.

At the front desk I am given a goodie bag: two small chocolates with a nut in the middle, a small bag of Cheetos and some gluten-free Sweet 'n Salty Mix. I eat the chocolates but leave the rest and decide to take a walk around town. I find a street full of bars and being as I'm Nashville, the music city, there's a live band so I stop for a beer, listen to a couple songs then head back to the Best Western.

The hotel room is fine. Unnecessarily grand furniture, a large wooden desk, huge bedside lamps, obligatory flatscreen television, an average-sized bathroom, an empty fridge, but at least I can open it. A huge red couch and a coffee table. Wifi is free. There are heavily patterned curtains and a below average view out of the hotel window. A skip full of rubbish and some new houses are being built across the street.

I write the blog and then hit the sack, waking twice. It's now 0516 and I'm back on the blog. Outside the birds tweet and somebody is running around in the corridor outside, probably kids, it seems that way. I'm feeling fine and can't wait for breakfast. I could make myself coffee but it's another hassle. How the hell to use the machine first – a device made by Hamilton Beach Commercial. I consider the Sweet 'n Salty Mix and the Cheetos but I'm not that desperate. Perhaps I'll shower, get dressed and mosey around.

I'm in the Midtown district and it's a one-mile walk to the downtown where my colleague is based.

Those birds have upped the ante on the tweeting front as I reach for the literature stored in a wooden container on top of a big wooden sideboard with two doors. Inside is the aforementioned empty fridge.

"Respected Guest". That's me. "For your convenience, Best Western Plus Music Row serves a sumptuous Hot Breakfast featuring our ever popular 'Make Your Own' Belgian Waffle, each morning in the Breakfast Lounge. Breakfast includes Country Biscuits and Sausage Gravy."

I write a lot of hotel and restaurant reviews on Trip Advisor, which can be read by clicking here.

In Chicago...

This is the first time I've been to Chicago without being 'in transit' somewhere else. Normally I arrive here at some ungodly hour and then, after eating a meal at Romano's Macaroni Grill, I catch a connecting flight to Cleveland, Pittsburgh or Indianapolis. Today, I went no further than Chicago. In fact there was one time recently – or possibly not that recently – when my flight to London was cancelled due to a faulty aircraft, and I was forced to make an overnight stop in the Windy City. It's documented on the blog. I stayed in a Marriott close to the Cumberland CTA station, so the following morning, prior to flying home later in the day, I took a trip to Clark and Lake, wandered around for a bit, had lunch in the Corner Bakery and then took a taxi back to the hotel where I enjoyed a glass of Cabernet before taking a shuttle bus back to the airport and then onwards to London. I remember feeling that Chicago was a boring place, but this was because it was a Sunday morning, I found myself in some kind of business district where everything was closed and that was the end of it.

Soup IN a roll! I ate the lot.

On Friday I took flight BA297 out of Heathrow's Terminal Five at 1605hrs and got there with enough time to have lunch at the airport – at a place called Huxley's. I had breakfast there once and it was pretty good. I remember because I uploaded a software update to my iphone and it took ages to sort out. Anyway, Huxley's wasn't as good as I expected it to be; I ordered butternut squash soup followed by a chicken burger with chips and a couple of glasses of Merlot – much needed. The soup didn't come in a dish but in a hollowed out bread roll with a lid, like some kind of pastry pot. I wasn't sure of the protocol but I ate the pot. And then, feeling a little down (alcohol can do that, it accentuates how you're feeling and I wasn't feeling good), I wandered aimlessly for a while wondering why women like shopping so much as I passed by Louis Vuitton and saw a few of them admiring the handbags. I considered a cup of tea and a cake at EAT, but couldn't be bothered and eventually took the escalator down to where the driver-less trains take people to various gates. In my case Gate B47.

The flight was uneventful. I swapped seats with somebody's 'mom' so they could sit together. I still had an aisle seat, which was what I wanted, but I would have much preferred seat 37A, an exit seat with plenty of legroom. The annoying thing was that I could have taken it when the seats became available on line 24 hours prior to flying – but at a cost of £58! Even the woman on the BA desk at Heathrow said they should have been free. Had I been sitting in that seat I would have enjoyed the flight much more. As it was, I stood most of the way. Once I'd eaten my dinner – chicken curry with rice followed by a chocolate mousse and a small piece of cheese with two crackers – I walked to the back of the plane and basically stood around for most of the flight. I chatted to a computer consultant from Cleveland who plays the stockmarket and buys property. A nice guy, Lebanese, on his way back from a trip to Beirut via London, without his wife who, for some reason, didn't fancy the trip. Apparently there used to be a direct flight from Cleveland to London operated by Continental, but not anymore. I wish I'd known that, although, if I had I would never have known how wonderful it was to sit and enjoy Pollo Caprese and a glass of Cabernet in Romano's Macaroni Grill (opposite Gate H3).

View from the rear of the plane – an arduous, boring flight

Sometimes, to ease the boredom, I used the toilet, but only to stand there for a few seconds of solitude, not even to take a piss. Then I flushed the toilet, purely for effect, and re-emerged feeling just as weary and cheesed off as before I went in. With about one hour to go, the trolley dollies brought out a chicken sandwich and a mini Kit Kat, so I returned to my seat where I'd spent no more than two hours during the entire flight. I'd listened to Saint Caen's Symphony Number Three (fourth movement) plus Stylo by Gorillaz, Park Life by Blur, Boy in the Bubble by Paul Simon, Jive Talking by the Bee Gees (I like the bass line) and The Wizard by Black Sabbath, not forgetting Joy Division's She's Lost Control and Love Will Tear Us Apart. I couldn't be bothered to watch any movies.

The flight was smooth – no turbulence – and daylight all the way. We glided into O'Hare and even the usually arduous task of immigration was smooth and fast, thanks to machines rather than humans. My suitcase was there on the reclaim – now that's an anxious part of flying – and soon I found myself in a taxi heading downtown to my hotel on North Michigan Avenue. My cab driver was from Namibia – where he says there are lots of Germans – and used to work for the cosmetics company Avon here in the Windy City, but was made redundant and took up cabbing. He moved to Chicago because he knew people in the city and hadn't been impressed with LA or New York. He found the latter dirty and wasn't keen on LA's downtown. It wasn't a long journey and soon I found myself in my room preparing to get some sleep. I haven't slept well (who does after a transaltantic flight?) and I know that over the next day or two I'll feel tired and weary at odd hours of the day until my body clock kicks in to US time. And then, of course, it'll be time to go home.

Even the view out of the window was boring

I've slept for about four hours. It's now 0608hrs and I've been up for around an hour.

The hotel room is fine: the TV works, the room temperature is just right, there's a minibar full of 'stuff' and a 'snacks draw', not that I'll be indulging in any of it. The room is sort of L-shaped. You come through the door and turn first right for the bathroom and second right for the bed. The desk, however, is too close to the cabinet that houses the minibar and 'snacks draw' and it took me an age to get the laptop's cumbersome charger plugged in – the desk is too heavy to move and so is the cabinet. Other than that, no hassles. I've entered the breakfast time zone so I think I'll head on downstairs to check things out. I could do with a decent cup of tea and some cereal.

Thoughts from 38,000 feet ...

Travelling over the North Atlantic on a BA flight to Chicago. Just cleared the West Coast of Northern Ireland and have under seven hours to go, so I'm enjoying a glass of Merlot Cabernet Sauvignon while awaiting the in-flight meal.

Blindingly white cloud over Northern Ireland

I'm beginning to wish I hadn't booked a window seat as I'd much rather have the legroom and the freedom to get up when I please without annoying anybody.

All is not what it seems...
What a world we live in when suddenly all is not what it seems: children's entertainers and DJs being accused of child abuse and sexual assault, judges jailed for abusing the law and Max Clifford jailed last week for a variety of dubious crimes involving women. And what the hell is going on in Ukraine? The root of all evil at the moment (and probably forever) is nationalism and there's a lot of it about in Scotland, Russia and, of course, the UK generally in terms of UKIP's preachings. Why can't people be content with what they've got? Alright, there are situations that might justify conflict (Syria, Afghanistan and the like) but why bother in Scotland? It's not as if they don't already have different banknotes is it? And some of the men wear skirts!

I'm getting hungry and there's no sign of lunch. I can smell cooked food, but that's about it. In the UK as I write this it's 1340hrs on Saturday afternoon and I had my breakfast back in Terminal Five (granola, fresh fruit, tea and orange juice) around 1000hrs. Call me a pleb, but I love airline food, always have, and while I know it's likely to be chicken or beef (and I'll opt for the former) that's great so bring it on.

I need to stretch my legs so I'm now standing up at the rear of the plane having answered the call of nature. I won't go back to my seat just yet as I'd rather give my fellow passengers (an Eastern European or Russian who can't speak English and a British girl who, for some reason, likes to cover herself in a blanket) a break from me disturbing their peace by asking them to let me through – back to that reason why, on a long-haul flight, I'm not going to opt for a window seat in future.

"Are you waiting for the toilet?"
Looking around it appears to be a full flight and what never fails to piss me off is the way everybody else, except for me, that is, seems to be content to sit in their seats and entertain themselves. I need more than a movie or some boring 'establishment' rock to keep me quiet – where are the Inspiral Carpets when you need them? – but I'm not the only one: as I speak, the Russian (as I'll now call him) is also standing up. The problem with standing up just to get away from sitting down is that you will find yourself constantly being asked if you're waiting for toilet. "No, be my guest..." I always reply, chirpily.

A full flight. Shot taken from rear of plane.

 I wish my family were here with me and that we were going on holiday, but they're not, more's the pity.

I'm back at my seat now and I've just heard the air hostess ask somebody if they want chicken or beef. Lunch is upon us! Outside now there is a blinding sheet of white cloud just below the plane but, as the food arrives, the cloud thins. The meal consists of roasted breast of chicken, potatoes, peas, green beans, carrots and gravy – perfect! And followed by Lily O'Brien's milk chocolate mousse with caramel sauce (it's tiny so I'm not too worried about my diet and besides, I've managed to lose 28lbs).

And now I can hear the hostess asking, "Tea? Tea? Tea?" a bit prematurely if you ask me as we've only just been given our lunch. I lift up my shallow, white, plastic cup and she fills it with tea.

The choice of music is terrible, I discover as I check out what's on offer in terms of in-flight entertainment, although I did watch Tom Hanks in Captain Phillips, a very good movie that kept me occupied for a couple of hours before I needed to disturb my fellow passengers again and go for a walk to the back of the plane, a Jumbo, incidentally, and I'm in seat 41K. I think I have the same seat on the way back, but I might change it for an aisle seat.

John Simpson to the rescue – again!
We pass over the southern tip of Greenland with around five hours to go of this seven and a half hour flight and once again I find myself thankful for John Simpson and his column in High Life, the BA in-flight magazine. They should let John either write the lot of it or make him the editor as the rest of the content is pretty darn boring if you ask me.

Somewhere over North Eastern Canada...

John Simpson is definitely somebody I would invite to my 'dream dinner party' – not that I do dinner parties these days. Him and Will Self, although it's getting to sound like it might be quite heavy going if Mr Self is thrown into the mix. Perhaps not. It's all academic anyway. John Simpson is like a character from a Graham Green novel and I would love to spend some time with him chatting about world affairs and travelling. In fact I'd like to read his books, assuming he's written some.

"I'd leave it for five minutes if I were you..."
I'm back at the rear of the plane again, telling other passengers that I'm not waiting for the toilet. Mention must be made of going to the toilet on a plane. It's horrible. First, there's no space to swing a cat, let alone the old chap, and I can't stand the folding door or the oddly perfumed smell or the sound that the flush makes – it's really noisy. It's also pretty horrible when you emerge back into the plane again, especially if there's somebody there waiting to go in immediately after you: do you say, "I would leave it five minutes if I were you" or let them find out for themselves? Most people, I've noticed, opt for the latter and, on one occasion, a woman emerged sheepishly to discover one of her friends waiting. She wore an embarassed smile as if to say, "I've made a right pong in there and now you're going to remember that about me for the rest of my life."

Lake Michigan on descent to Chicago...

There's a single seat at the back near the toilets, which I'm guessing is reserved for the crew and it is here that I am sitting now, saying, "No, be my guest..." and pointing invitingly towards the toilet door. One person in the queue remarked to me that the plane must be pretty old because there was an ashtray fitted to the outside of the toilet door. Thanks, mate, I don't like to be reminded about the age of the plane when I'm 38,000 feet off the ground and in the middle of the North Atlantic Ocean.

Icy terrain and I'd rather be mowing the lawn!
We're flying over Canada now and it's icy terrain. Back in the UK it's about 1700hrs and I'm wishing I was there now enjoying a normal Saturday with the family. But I'm not. I'm here, on a plane, high in the sky with a load of strangers telling them to 'be my guest' as they are about to use the facilities as if I'm some kind of toilet host. Life doesn't get much better than this! That's sarcasm, by the way. Life clearly does get better than this and for me, my quality of life would be much improved right now if I could simply be at home, mowing the lawn, going shopping, eating, perhaps, a petit filous or making a cottage pie for dinner. But I'm not, I'm alone on a crowded plane to Chicago.

There's one hour and 57 minutes before we land, according to the journey map, and you can bet it's going to drag and drag. We're over Quebec and it's nearly a quarter past six UK time, according to my watch, which I always keep on UK time as a reminder of what's happening back at home.

My in-flight meal. I never ate the starter but that dessert was nice.

Romano's Macaroni Grill
Time flies when you're flying (actually, it doesn't, but that sounded good). Having said that the plane has now landed in Chicago. We flew in over Lake Michigan and now I'm sitting in Romano's Macaroni Grill, an excellent Italian restaurant in O'Hare's Terminal Three. This is the second time I've been here, the last time was when I flew to Cleveland in 2013. Now I'm waiting for the 1750 flight to Indianapolis. I've ordered Pollo Caprese, a glass of Cabernet, a bottle of Pellegrino, and I'm not planning on eating any more until breakfast tomorrow morning.

The flight to Indianapolis with American Airlines was a bit shaky to start as the wind has picked up. The take-off was a bit rough as the plane seemingly caught some cross wind as it accelerated along the strip and appeared to be knocked off course, albeit momentarily, but it was enough to give me a jolt. Eventually, when we'd broken through the cloud and were cruising at 29,000 feet, all was well and remained so for the rest of what was a very short flight: no more than 50 minutes by my reckoning.

Romano's Macaroni Grill, Chicago O'Hare Terminal 3

In Indianapolis...
Indianapolis airport was a lovely place. It was very peaceful and when I saw a family meeting up with another family member – a homecoming of some kind or other – I felt homesick again (and tired). But I had to get a move-on and get a cab to my hotel, which I did. It took around 25 minutes or so and cost me $60, including a tip and I can't say I'm that impressed with the hotel – yet. It's, basically, a trucker's hotel and there are a few rigs parked up in the lot. I'm staying here because I booked late and there's not much left in downtown. Also I'm saving the points in the hope that one day soon I'll be able to take the family away somewhere for a much-needed break. My problem with the place is whether or not it's close to downtown (like they say it is). I've got to be downtown at the Indiana Convention Centre for the rest of the week, although there are other problems with the hotel: no restaurant and no international calls, plus an empty fridge in the room that hums noisily throughout the night (and day) and an unispiring view of a parking lot outside my hotel window, not forgetting the trailer park on the other side of it. I'm beginning to wonder how safe it is out there and I keep thinking that I might be in that movie, No Country for Old Men. I just hope the lock don't come flying off my door.

Catching a cold, but feeling fine...
Add to my misery a streaming cold that I probably picked up on the plane. It's constant, like a tap, and it's made for a broken night, although I don't feel unwell. Now, at 0620hrs I'm sitting here because I can't sleep. I've had something like two stints of a couple hours sleep since I hit the sack around 2200hrs US time, although it might have been 2100hrs as the clock on my iphone is wrong for some reason. I think it's got a lot to do with me installing new OS software while having breakfast at Heathrow yesterday. Note to self: don't upgrade the phone's software again.

So I need to get my bearings, work out where I am in relation to downtown and, most importantly take a shower and get some breakfast as I'm starving. Then, at noon, I'm heading downtown to the convention centre to check things out for tomorrow. I also need to check out the program for the conference and then get to work. Yes, while those in the UK enjoy their Bank Holiday Monday, I've got to work because in the USA, they don't have Bank Holiday Mondays.

Caution has been advised...
I've been advised not to walk around as there's a real risk of being mugged (or worse). I was thinking about a walk into downtown, but apparently it's about five miles and there's a dodgy neighbourhood. The guy on reception has told me to take the bus (which goes through the dodgy area) or take a taxi (approximately $20 to $22. So it's going to cost me a minimum of $40 per day to get to and from the convention centre and I've got to wear a suit, making me stand out from the crowd. It looks as if taking a cab is the best way to get about, although I fancy a bus ride.

Apparently the area surrounding the hotel is fine, but I'm about a mile and a half from Dodgeville by foot and the dodgy part of town starts near a Gold's Gym where the hotel has some kind of deal in place.

Yesterday while transferring to Terminal 3 at O'Hare I overheard two people discussing gun crime and how, invariably, if somebody's driving a pick-up truck there's a likelihood they're packing a piece. Well, there's a few pick-up trucks outside. I might go and take a look around, suss out the bus and stuff, but I won't be wandering anywhere dangerous.