THE PRACTICE

Today’s post brought to you by: Brocolli, beetroot and BBQ tofu. Boy, am I glad to have y’all slither down my throat again.

Grateful for: Brocolli, beetroot and BBQ tofu.

Trying hard to accept: This meal is about to end.

One of the few benefits of riding the bus over the train is the stops along the way.

Anything from a sprawling truck stop (half a cow, mashed potato ‘n gravy and copy of ‘Shoot ‘Em Before They Shoot You’ magazine for $14.99) to an Arby’s (jackpot – warm buttery biscuit $1.29) to a middle of nowhere service station.

Aside from the inevitable queue for the inevitable blocked toilet, the service station experience is one not to be missed. But only if you (a) drink coffee and (b) can make quick decisions.

With 11 minutes till the bus leaves again you have to choose one of 6 filter coffee roasts, one of 6 hot-chocolate-mocha-sugar-filled-keep-walking machine coffees, one of 8 milk and cream options (including Reese’s peanut butter cup flavoured milk which you scull 2 of) and one of 7 flavoured syrups.

And guess how much this whole mind-boggling, diabetes-inducing experience sets you back. 99 cents.

Start here

Then go here

Shove as many of these into your pocket as you can fit

Scull a few of these then run back to bus (burns 2.69 calories of the 658 you’ve just drunk)

Back on the bus you’re entertained by Rochelle, the coolest bus driver in the world (you tell her this in passing) sharing how she spent Thanksgiving driving bus loads of military personnel, who couldn’t travel home, to share a meal with local families.

Then how she found a young man sleeping in back of her bus one night, 2 hours late for his stop. Poor kid had no way of getting home so she drove him in her own car. She finally got home at 1am. Of course Amtrak told her off.

I did deduct points though for her forcing me to endure “Frosty the Snowman.” I am not 6 years old, Rochelle. And, passenger in seat 3A, I am not a man.

But I forgave Rochelle when she played my all-time favourite “O Holy Night.” Peace on earth and goodwill to all bus drivers. But not woman in 3A.

Four hours later we cruise into … dah dah dah … Wilson, North Carolina. Juinita, who’s been sitting next to me but not wanting to chat, spies me doing a selfie at the station and next thing we’re chillin’ (literally – it was like mid-summer Wellington, cold and wet) on the station bench swapping stories about Washington DC where she’s worked as a school administrator for 40 years.

Wilson squared

She was also eyeing up the Jamaican beef patty and jerk sauce I was lovingly devouring.

Having craved Jamaican food since I met that Jamaican woman in the thrift store in Florida, I was over at SaYum Jamaican Food faster than the jerk chicken could cross the road. Even went back to tell Lydia how delicious it was and score the recipe.

Poor little lonesome beef patty. Don’t cry for me, Jamaica though, as it was down my throat within minutes of this shot.

Nothing like stating the bleeding obvious but there are some complex people in the world.

On that 4 hour ride to Wilson I sat behind a 30-something mom and 6 yr old son. He was adorable and super smart but she was a poster child for parents who need to give their kid a break.

Was all going swimmingly at first. The bus hadn’t reached 30mph before she was whipping out storybooks and card games. 10 points, mom, I thought.

But as the bus got faster she got meaner and meaner. Every time the poor kid squirmed or squawked she laid into him with a prolonged lecture in that super slow, super clear, do you understand me? patient-parent voice.

Low point was just out of Jacksonville, North Carolina, where she lovingly told him he’s a “F-ing little nuisance” who’d “better not moan about any little thing ever again otherwise I will not engage with you for the rest of the trip.”

Icing on the Dunkin’ Donut: “Don’t you ever talk to me in that nasty voice again. You do NOT talk to people that way.”

Hey mom, 6-letter word starting with I, ending with IC, with RON in between.

In lieu of reaching over and strangling her I shot her filthy looks the whole time we were in the service station trying to decide between 243 coffee/milk combinations.

As we reached Wilson I heard her say she’d just spent 13 months travelling to 19 countries with junior in tow. Train was late arriving in Wilson, and I’d eaten SaYum out of beef patties, so I went and had a chat with her.

Julia’s a sole mom, made a killing on her house in Richmond, Virginia, so sold everything, grabbed Ben and took him round the world. US, Canada, South America, Europe, UK, Morocco, African safari, Bali, home.

Must’ve made one hell of a killing on the house, or more likely comes from cash, because not only did she rent an apartment in Southbank London for a month (equivalent to my salary for last 3 years) but her mom flew to Paris to meet them, then flew to Nairobi to meet them, and probably paid for the London pad.

Julia’s now back in the real world doing consultancy work in Richmond and fluent-in-Spanish Ben’s in kindergarten.

I couldn’t figure her out. On one coffee-filled hand she was the most intelligent, smart, brave, engaging woman you could meet who treated her son like an adult.

On the other sandwich-filled hand, she spoke to him like he’s a bit of roadkill she’d just stepped in (Snap! See that picture below? Unidentified squished animal I passed when out walking this morning. Kevin reckons it’s a rat but it ain’t nothing like the rodents living in my compost bin).

Wilson and the surrounding towns of Goldsboro, Rocky Mount etc are interesting places. Well-suited to today’s grey wet gloomy weather. They look like towns that, if it wasn’t for Amtrak passing through, would be wiped off Google maps before the year’s out.

Block after block of boarded-up homes and abandoned shops. Rusty window-less pickup trucks littering yards and an air of once-thriving towns that have long been forgotten.

I was one of two white faces on 16-seater bus from Richmond to Charlottesville, Virginia. I thought the bus was an ambulance when I first saw it.

And it may well have needed to be because everyone’s bags were hiffed into big pile right behind my head. If the driver had slammed on the brakes I’d have been back in hospital with concussion.

Drip in one arm and iPad in the other emailing my now very good friends at travel insurance co.

Tip # 46: if you’re doing any transferring buses/trains get to know every member of staff and hassle them gently at transfer point. If I hadn’t done anything my bag’d still be sitting on platform all by itself wondering what it’d done wrong.

Made it to Charlottesville at 7pm Saturday. You can’t go wrong in a university town like this. More cheap eating places than there are debt-free students, and safe to walk round at night.

Hauled all my bags a few blocks from Amtrak to Roots Natural Kitchen – one of the Google-review recommended places I found before I left NZ.

Somehow my words “Half the normal quantity of rice, please” got interpreted as “I want to build my own bowl” which led to them asking where I was from which led to me telling them I’d come all the way to their joint from NZ which led to the dreadlocked owner treating me like the Rastafarian queen I am. He’s just stopped by to have a chat. Nice.

After much menu-studying this is what I’m scoffing right now. With extra brocolli and extra beetroot. Now I’m allowed to eat southern fried chicken ‘n biscuits for lunch tomorrow.

I don’t believe it. They’re playing “O Holy Night”. Will the spooky coincidences ever end?

Right time to Uber myself to my bed. Passed a few southern Baptist churches on the way here so might be singing, clapping and hallelujahing my heart out in 16 hours time.

Night y’all.

Today’s post brought to you by: seized moments

Grateful for: being here on a Sunday

Trying hard to accept: Charlottesville’s shitty plumbing

It’s 3pm on a freezing cold, grey, drizzly Sunday afternoon in Charlottesville.

Picture this. I’m sitting in Starbucks on the campus of the University of Virginia (founded by Thomas Jefferson, 1819; alma mater of one Edgar Allan Poe).

It’s another mini-Harvard. I feel like Ali MacGaw waiting to meet my Ryan O’Neal. Remember everyone, love means never having to say you’re sorry. (Google it.)

I’m in a big leather armchair in front of a fireplace bigger than my bathroom. There’s a Christmas tree, “Little Drummer Boy” is playing and I’m surrounded by students tapping away next to wood-panelled walls and leaded windows.

For a Starbucks experience it’s quite magical.

The campus goes on forever. I think it’s probably bigger than the rest of Charlottesville put together.

Which isn’t saying much because Charlottesville is so small it makes Lafayette look like a thriving metropolis.

It took me 43 seconds to walk from breakfast at Bluegrass Grill to downtown.

There are about 17 shops in total. 16 sell completely useless stuff. One sells $3.79 plastic ponchos, of which I am now a proud owner. As I said to the cashier in CVS, lucky nobody knows me in this town.

Bluegrass Grill was on the pre-departure list of eateries. Bit of an effort getting there in the ceaseless rain as Google maps led me on a wild goose chase round in circles.

Got there early to be in front of queues which go round the block. Just as well everyone who works there smokes because I had a constant supply of staff to chat to while I lingered in the cold.

Despite a few shades of skin tone difference, and the fag in his lips, the chef looked and spoke exactly like you, Charles. My cousin’s African-American cousin in Charlottesville.

Cup of oatmeal, poached eggs, sausage patties, 5-grain toast (had forgotten how good apple butter is), biscuit and 3 cups of coffee later I could barely move.

My only gripe was the toilet that didn’t flush. Didn’t even have a chance to get blocked because the handle was as useless as a low-carb diet plan in the south.

To kill time and warm up again I took refuge in Chaps diner and soda fountain c. 1932, with “Golden Girls” on endless loop on TV and 99c coffee served in styrofoam cups by a waitress who looked eerily like Blanche.

Everything up to that point paled by comparison to my once-in-a-lifetime visit to the Mt Zion First African Baptist Church.

Thank goodness they had tissues at the door. Nobody in that church belted out O Come All Ye Faithful louder than Miss Gail from Sweden (“Oh you’re from Noozeeland? I have friends nearby in Sweden”).

With tears streaming down my face, I sang at the top of my lungs with the all-black-except-moi congregation and the angelic purple-robed choir.

Nobody sings better than them Baptists. Not even me.

It was exactly like you see on TV. Pastor’s voice getting louder and louder, “amen!” and “yes, sir!” from the congregation every time he paused.

An hour after his sermon about the importance of your perspective on life (made a lot of sense did Dr Alvin Edwards – I know that’s his name because it’s on the pen they gave me) he finished it off with “I stopped by to tell you today that nobody is lost unless they want to be. Can I have a witness?”

“Amen!!!” they all roared.

They invited visitors to introduce themselves.

There was absolutely no way I was going to miss a chance to address a southern Baptist congregation.

So microphone in hand I stood and told them my life story in 23 seconds and what a beautiful service it was. “Amen!!!” they all roared.

At the meet-and-greet bit people queued up to shake the hand and hug the little white girl from Sweden. They were the most gracious, welcoming people.

Even the grey-haired old woman sitting at the altar in her white and gold robes trotted down to meet me.

A couple of women invited me to lunch downtown but I was too tired and emotional to hold much of a conversation.

As I was leaving a man pulled over and thanked me for coming, asked me to come back and blessed the rest of my trip.

The singing was absolutely beautiful. A choir woman did a solo – think Mavis Staples – so incredibly soulful, then the rest of the choir joined in, then we were all on our feet singing. Well everyone except me. I was too busy crying.

All the ushers wore immaculate black suits and white gloves. Communion isn’t done by going up to the altar, rather the ushers pass silver trays of bread and wine capsules along the pews.

It was a 2-hour service but it felt like 2 minutes. For the first time in my life I listened to every word of the sermon and sang every song I could.

I’m incredibly lucky to have had that chance. Will never again.

By that stage I was an emotional wreck in much need of the most comforting comfort food I could find so hiked off to Ace’s BBQ and Biscuits and ate 9,386 calories worth of southern fried chicken, buttery buttery biscuits and southern baked beans.

In hindsight I should have said a prayer for the plumbing of Charlottesville.

I’ve been incredibly lucky in this trip so far.

No lost bags, snow storms (yet), muggings (yet, hello Baltimore tomorrow), and the loveliest, friendliest Airbnb hosts.

But I think my luck on the last one is about to change.

I. AM. NEVER. STAYING. IN. A. HOUSE. MORE. THAN. 2. YEARS. OLD. AGAIN.

Recall my Charleston blocked toilet experience. Repeat in its sister city, Charlottesville, early this morning.

I can just see the hosts’ reviews of me going from sterling 5-star-best-guest-ever to 0.1-star-do-not-host-this-woman-unless-you’re-a-plumber-who-likes-unblocking-150-year-old-drains-at-7-on-a-Sunday-morning.

Despite my host probably hating me, you need to marry her, Peter.

She’s your perfect match: vegetarian, pooch-owner with your deadpan ironic humour.

First thing I saw when I stumbled in late last night was an Elvis shrine. Second thing: an autographed photo of the Dukes of Hazard cast.

She’s a nurse (handy but shame she doesn’t do plumbing on the side). And if you married her (a) she’d stop hating me and (b) I’d get residency on your coat tails.

There is too much of a good thing though. She’s got this bottle of Pure Earth Organic Fragrance Free shampoo.

It’s thick as concrete and dark brown and plops out of the bottle and before you know it you’re standing in the shower with dog turd all around you wondering if the Pure Earth Organic Fragrance Free shampoo bottle now contains something entirely different.

Today’s post brought to you by: diesel and electric engines

Grateful for: Dorothy letting me dump my 35lb bag at her apartment early

Trying hard to accept: I never watched ‘The Wire’. Laura and Kevin told me it was set in Baltimore. Although I did see an episode of ‘House Hunters’ filmed here. Same thing.

Beautiful, beautiful Baltimore.

Have lost track of which husband/divorce I’m up to – actually think I might still be married to Boudin Sausage – but Reno here I come (again) because am now madly in love with Baltimore.

Am writing this in the window of the incredibly hip Ceremony Coffee Roasters in the historic Mt Vernon neighbourhood.

Yes, the slab of walnut and oat loaf really is that big. No, I did not eat it all. As if.

That’s the sheriff’s car in the background. She stepped out wearing skin tight brown polyester pants c. 1978. You don’t eat at Ceremony Coffee Roasters when you’re forced to wear that outfit all day.

My Airbnb (look down) is just round the corner.

My host, Dorothy, is a professional voila-ist and violinist. Also a fan of wide-angle lenses because what looked like a living room that’d hold a symphony orchestra is barely big enough to fit a string quartet. Of three year-olds.

Despite all the dire warnings from the Trump crowd in Florida, I actually feel safer here than I did in the narrow, poorly lit, empty streets of Charlottesville.

The would-be muggers are also particularly stupid/blind there.

Striding along the main street in the dark last night this guy yells at me from across the road, “Hey sir, I gotta question for ya. Can ya come over here?”

Gee, I wonder what his question was: How much cash ya got? Can I have your phone? Have you considered growing your hair long and wearing make-up?

Further along I saw a pile of abandoned rolled-up newspapers outside an office building so grabbed one to read over dinner at Japanese poke bowl student place.

Ha! That’ll teach you for stealing, my inner voice chided as I unrolled The Most Boring Newspaper in the World, the ‘Wall St Journal’.

However, dear readers, do not judge a newspaper by its masthead because it turns out the weekend edition of the WSJ can keep you entertained longer than it takes to very slowly savour a bowl of brown rice, raw salmon, edamame, seaweed salad, roasted nuts, nori, and lotsa zit-fighting green things.

I’m sure I well and truly pissed off my Charlottesville host by getting up at 5.30 this morning to catch the train. Despite trying to tip-toe around/skate in socks, every time I stood on a floorboard it creaked. Loudly.

You’d think if you’re gonna Airbnb your spare room you’d fix your 150-year old floorboards first. Or maybe that’s putting cart before horse.

Had the whole Amtrak station to myself at 6am this morning. That place is so clean you could eat your grits off the floor.

Lucky for my boredom threshold, and your general knowledge, there was an informative pictorial history of Charlottesville on the wall.

Some fascinating facts for next time you watch ‘The Chase’:

• It was named after Queen Charlotte of Mecklenberg-Strelitz (imagine her email address), wife of George III.
• Founded in 1762. That explains the plumbing.
• First street names covered all bases of daily life:
  • Water St (ooooh, look, I worked out how to do indented bullets!!!)
  • Market St
  • Court St
  • Union St
  • Church St
  • School St
  • Green St
  • Hill St

Aside from the lovely but geographically-challenged congregation at Mt Zion church, and the stunning university campus, there’s not a lot in Charlottesville.

Although my Uber driver did tell me that madly-in-love brides and grooms-to-be have to wait 2 years to marry at Thomas Jefferson’s pad, Monticello (wonder what the cold-feet rate is). And there are more restaurants per capita than anywhere else. 97% of them must’ve hiding down unlit alleys because I never saw them. And if there’s one thing that never passes me by, it’s a food joint.

It was a grey old day as the train rolled through rural Virginia this morning. Brown fields, autumn leaves, red barns and two-storey white wooden farm houses everywhere my neck could turn. As homely as it was, it must be bleak there mid-winter.

In the boring bits I read about Johns Hopkins University where I’m visiting on Wednesday.

Old Johns Hopkins (Quaker, abolitionist, lifelong bachelor and philanthropist) must’ve gotten very sick of saying “It’s Johns, not John.” No wonder he set up a hospital.

His thoughtless parents named him after his grandmother’s last name. Luckily mine didn’t copy the idea in 1969 and call me Pluck Wilson.

Johns Hopkins is spread across several campuses. This is the one near my Airbnb. It’s a music conservatory and as I walked past the opera singers were practising. Stroke of luck.

Same can’t be said about His Master’s Voice. It was so bad I almost climbed up and shoved dog’s head down the funnel.

We had to sit out a long delay in Washington DC as the train engine switched from diesel to electric.

This is an electric engine. That is a train carriage. That is an Amtrak engineer. That is a yellow line. That’s how bored I was.

They kicked us all out of the lounge car so the cleaners could whirl through like tornadoes.

Not wanting to return to the stifling stinky carriages I asked the first class steward if I could hang out there. “Good try, gorgeous”, she laughed.

Forced back into my assigned seat I watched with disbelief as people who said they were taking the train because they were too large to fly struggled down the aisle with 3 enormous bags and 2 slightly smaller bags apiece.

Rule # 1 of travel: do not take more bags than you can manage by yourself.

One woman told everyone who would listen that she was taking the train to Denver (a mere 2-day trip) for “climate reasons”.

Flippin’ ‘eck woman, the plane’s going there anyway. You not flying is not going to reduce any emissions.

My first view of Baltimore – the beautiful Amtrak station. Knew I was onto a good thing when I saw that.

Right, time to go explore more of Mt Vernon before it snows later. Yes!!!

Money is slipping through my fingers faster than snowflakes so went to one of Baltimore’s first grocery stores (opened in 1944 and still has that super friendly mom and pop-ness) and bought food for breakfast, lunch and dinner for next 3 days. Tonight is steak with country chicken gravy mix. YUM.

Today’s post brought to you by: the restorative powers of an hour in Panera Bread

Grateful for: choosing the best Airbnb in town

Trying hard to accept: my body’s evil streak.

Ironically one of the scariest places in downtown Baltimore is the police station.

It’s surrounded by sex shops, homeless mentally ill people lying on the ground hurling abuse at passers by and boarded-up shops.

Cop shop. Takes up 3 blocks.

I use the words ‘downtown Baltimore’ loosely because I don’t think it exists. Unless it’s that one block of office high rises and banks I walked through.

I walked and walked expecting to suddenly find a row of familiar shops and cafes but the only thing I’ve seen all morning is Marshall’s department store and I can’t go near that place because my crippled body cannot carry any more stuff.

Have now taken refuge in Panera Bread in the dodgy downtown area to (a) get off the scary streets (b) sit down (c) use wifi (d) charge phone (e) drink free decaf refills.

Baltimore is tiny. I covered the inner harbour in 3 minutes and what I assume to be downtown in 15.

The inner harbour is pretty pretty. That’s Barnes and Noble to the left – super cool inside – and that big white thing is US Coastguard Taney which is the last surviving vessel still afloat that saw action in Pearl Harbour.

On the grounds that there is not much (read as: nothing) here aside from my Mt Vernon neighbourhood, and everything outside Mt Vernon seems to be very old, very rundown and pretty damn scary in parts, I’m now looking for a city hall to file an annulment.

On the recommendation of some sadistic City of Baltimore tourist guide I hiked for miles to Fell’s Point, south of downtown.

In summary, it’s like Chicago. Don’t go south of downtown if you want to stay alive.

The promised historic and eclectic shops and cafes of Fell’s Point were not the trendy arty establishments I was expecting.

Not sure how the city considers boarded up restaurants, tattoo parlours, men loitering in groups on corners, auto body shops, tiny family-owned Italian trattoria and Latino grocery stores to be tourist magnets.

At least I found my much-needed medical marijuana clinic. Two of them in fact. At one a police officer was escorting a client off the premises.

Frankly I was just glad to see a police officer.

I was out of Fell’s Point PDQ and back in search of the elusive downtown.

My body told me very clearly at mass (when in Rome) early this morning that there is no way on this earth I am allowed to become a Catholic.

Although it might be a good idea to start praying for its forgiveness because clearly it’s out for revenge.

To add insult to injury I’ve somehow (hmmm, backpack + 45lb + steep train steps + overhead luggage rack + walk + walk some more) managed to pull the sciatic nerve.

I cannot bend, reach, kneel, pray or sit for too long. Needless to say I sat out the endless up, down, up, down, kneel, up, down, kneel, walk, kneel that is a half-hour mass.

Google quickly answered my question about whether medical marijuana was legal in the state of Maryland. Wonder what the travel insurance co’s view on that’ll be. I’m guessing the answer starts with n. Or g. As in get real.

Despite my inability to fully partake in mass (at least I was able to join in on the Lord’s Prayer), the chapel at the National Shrine of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary was the most incredible place I’ve ever prayed in.

Thankfully a fellow mass-ee saw me wandering the grounds trying to find the front door. Without him I never would have known to go deep underground to a 200 year-old crypt.

It was the first Catholic cathedral built in the US. To honour that fact I cleverly got the US flag in the background. Move over Ansel Adams.

I snuck a photo when they were all faffing around after communion. But it doesn’t show the extent of the passageways and arches and the candlelit eeriness.

As if the crypt experience wasn’t enough I had the most amazing experience straight afterwards.

Walked up to the Lexington Markets which have been here since cowboys were riding into town. Had expected something akin to the Queen Victoria markets in Melbourne – you know, rows and rows of fish, meat, fruit, veg, deli stalls. How wrong I was.

Baltimore is 63% African American people and 98.99% of them were outside the Lexington Markets this morning.

I was there at morning rush hour and hundreds of people were pouring out of train and bus stations or hanging round outside the markets.

I was the only white face within a 5km radius. It was incredible. Inside the markets I found fewer fruit and veg than I eat in a week and endless ethnic food stalls.

Realising I hadn’t eaten eggs for ages I found the bargain of the year – 2 thick slabs of toast holding scrambled eggs, sausage and cheese for $2.12.

As I was waiting, a homeless man clung to me like a limpet. Wasn’t sure what to do so grabbed my sandwich and slunk away to eat it.

As I ate I watched another woman with same sandwich give half hers to another homeless man so I went back to find my man and gave him half mine. The look in his eyes almost made me cry.

I’m so tired now and am running out of things to do (Johns Hopkins tomorrow) I’m going to go home for a sleep or to the magnificently stunning library.

Outside the library

Inside the library. That’s about one-twentieth of it.

So back to yesterday (when love was such an easy game to play).

Peter, I’ve put our names on the waiting list for Monticello – Thomas Jefferson’s wee shack in Charlottesville.

No, not to marry each other! This ain’t Alabama.

We’re having a double wedding (saves money). You can have Melissa from Charlottesville and I’m having Dorothy, my Airbnb host here.

For the simple reason that she’s got a set of Cuisinart copper pans.

Oh and a nice apartment. Plus, she and her string quartet buddies can play at our weddings for free.

While Dorothy was out at rehearsal last night I cooked up a storm of steak with mushroom country-style gravy, roasted Chinese eggplant, roasted broccoli, and stir-fried mushrooms and Brussel sprouts. Plus I figured out how to use the basement laundry app. Most impressed with self.

My body went into shock. More veg went down my digestive tract in that one meal than in the last 23 days.

Before whipping up my culinary masterpiece I wandered round Mt Vernon in the bitter cold.

Everywhere I turned there were old brick row houses, more wrought iron detailing than you could throw an anvil at, and old metal-framed windows lit up with golden lights.

After being wowed by my Mt Vernon neighbourhood and then underwhelmed and a bit freaked out by everything south of it, I’m crossing my fingers (the only part of my body that still works) that Charles Village and Johns Hopkins campus will restore my faith in this city tomorrow. Because I’m afraid that all the mass services in the world won’t be enough.

The south remains the winner of my affection.

Best food ever invented. In the grocery store/café/deli down the road from my Airbnb you can get macaroni, spaghetti or fettuccine made out of tofu. Guilt-free carb comfort for $1.99. Bet nobody’s ever served it with mushroom country-style gravy though like I will be tonight.

Second best food ever invented. Another $1.99 miracle. I love Old Bay. I love salmon. I love crab cakes made with salmon. I love anything that costs $1.99.

Breakfast in the best seat in the house. Watching all the poor buggers trudge off to work at 6.30am this morning as the rising sun cast a golden glow over the brick buildings.

Today’s post brought to you by: medicine

Grateful for: art

Trying hard to accept: American Airlines stuck me in middle seat for 2 hour flight to Chicago tomorrow. That’s what you get when you refuse to pay extra for a seat.

Johns Hopkins is H.U.G.E. Never mind a village, it’s a city in itself. It goes on and on for blocks.

There’s more here than in downtown Baltimore. And what’s more it’s stunningly gorgeous with the old buildings set among the big trees and carpets of autumn leaves.

Only complaint is the cramped Starbucks. But I’ve managed to squish into a big shared table of 18 year-old medical students.

Lucky I look 12. The child genius medical student.

Am about to recreate a scene from that Peter Greenaway movie ‘The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover’, swipe everyone’s laptops aside and lie down the middle of the table, like a human table runner.

“So kids. Starter for 10. What do you call the nerve that runs down the back of your thigh – the one that causes crippling pain if you mysteriously damage it? Bonus question: Want a free pumpkin spice grande latte? RIGHT. DO SOMETHING ABOUT MY PAIN. NOW.”

(Actually they’re all shooting me filthy looks right now as I sing along to Band Aid’s ‘Do they know it’s Christmas?’ You can do that in a city where nobody knows your name. Just like you can go to your local Starbucks at 9pm in your pyjamas.

Oh and on that – in this county of 329.45 million I finally found the one other person from NZ. Well actually only one-quarter NZ but I’ll take anything. ‘Twas a slow night in Starbucks last night as I ordered my Earl Grey tea and met Erin the server who was born in Auckland to NZ/US/Australian parents. Talk about born with a silver residency spoon in your gob.)

It’s funny. Well not funny exactly but trying (and failing) to see the humour in everything.

When I arrived in the US I was in constant pain from unfortunate falling off ladder incident.

A week later the wailing tailbone was but a memory as two bruised ribs screamed for my attention.

I thought that was bad enough. But hey presto! The ribs are barely making a squeak now the sciatic nerve has bullied its way to the top of the attention-seeking list.

It really is fascinating how pain in one area can so suddenly disappear once something new comes along. It’s a bit like drug addiction (I hear) – you need stronger and stronger doses to make the pain go away.

I got to Johns Hopkins via two art museums. Both free (naturally) but couldn’t have had more contrasting experiences.

The staff at the first one, Walters Museum, a stone’s throw from home/morning coffee shop were so friendly I thought they were going to ask me out for dinner.

Then hiked all the way up here to the Baltimore Museum of Art and got told off 4 times before I’d even left the bag check.

This post is going to be full of museum pictures so you can pretend you were standing beside me sharing the blame for everything.

Walking here through Charles Village – another misguided recommendation by Tourism Baltimore – I felt so uneasy I ducked into a CVS with a police car parked outside.

Being the opportunist I am I ‘bounced’ (in my mind; hobbled in reality) up to the very good looking pharmacist, asked him for his number and recommendation for painkillers.

In summary, forget it. Return to hospital and get something on prescription.

Hell. Freeze. Over.

I started out this morning in my usual way. Up before dawn (took 8 minutes to work up courage to actually move leg), then oatmeal (tick), flax seed (tick), Greek yoghurt (tick), banana (tick) and Starbucks coffee made in the big brother to your machine Kevin, eaten on the apartment window seat.

Then 2 hours in Ceremony Coffee Roasters with all the beautiful peeps of Mt Vernon.

To get there I passed groups of teenage girls lingering on the corner with their knee-length shaggy boots on.

Turns out they’re students at the Baltimore Leadership School for Young Women.

It’s a prep school modelled on one set up in Harlem to take girls out of the poverty cycle and into careers in maths, technology and science. Subjects, which as you know, girls tend to run a mile from.

Even though my nightmare stints at Ministry of Education quashed any interest I had in schooling, I wish I could be here for the school’s open day next week. Would love to see inside.

I particularly like these school pledges. They sum up how I want to live my life:

• I respect myself and others.
• I am kind and courteous.
• I am responsible for my behaviour and its consequences.
• I evaluate my choices, learn from my mistakes and persevere through challenges.

Right now I’d probably get a C minus for # 3 (food consumption on this trip). But an A+ for # 4.

Ok it’s getting dark and need to find Mom’s Organic Market and then walk home. Not going back the same way I got here that’s for sure. Might call an Uber friend.

Speaking of which, have done much research and worked out how to get to airport at 5.30am (!!) tomorrow on light rail for $1.90. Compared to $25 for My Friend Uber. And probably $125 for My Friend Taxi.

Don’t judge a mushroom sauce by its sloppiness. No this is not cat food, it’s actually a super delicious, super cheap, 86% healthy dinner I made last night out of the ‘But wait! They’re actually tofu!’ macaroni noodles. With mushroom gravy, real mushrooms, baked broccoli and baked eggplant. I was super impressed.

Super lucky to stumble across a Charles Rennie Mackintosh exhibition at Walters Museum. Didn’t know he painted as well. Quite the clever chap, and very dashing to boot.

There was an exhibition of 12 graders’ work. For obvs reasons this was my fave.

18th C diamond rings. They were the size of giant cockroaches. Handy for punch-ups in the parlour of a Sunday afternoon.

St Joseph waiting to see a doctor at The Villages Hospital ER department in Florida

Mary Magdalene waiting for the Amtrak service from Boston to arrive

Tiffany glass, 1897. I particularly love the art nouveau strip at the bottom. I had to lean on a table holding an 18th C urn to take this shot, freaking out I was about to set off an alarm.

Detail of stained glass, c. 1520. 1520!!!

Gate house of William Wyman estate, 1897. He gave all his land to Johns Hopkins University. Nice bloke.

Took this one in Mt Vernon for you Penny. You might have to zoom in to see what it says.