Here we come, you great big Apple

Correctional Facility. Do Not Stop.

We don’t.

This is not the first time we’ve seen this message on Interstate highways - along which the traffic rushes at 110kph. It is hardly likely to be stopping for a hitchhiker. And no one hitches on the Interstates, those multilane monster roads which thunder with long-distance trucks and rushing vans and cars.

Why do they post this message?

We ponder it again as we drive towards New York City. Breakouts are so common?

Here’s Old Lyme. We don’t stop here, either. It is the place where Lyme disease, that serious illness conveyed by ticks, was first reported. Ugh.

We hum over a huge bridge across the Connecticut River and power forth between the endless stands of trees. These are softer than the towering monsters of New Hampshire. These are more of a cuddle of trees. Their form is rounder and they reach out softly from the roadsides.

Oh, look. An exit to Clinton.

We know the famous Bill and Hillary Clinton but who knew that there are zillions of American towns called Clinton? They are all over the place.

Now we see Guilford. Hmm. Someone left the “d” out of the name?

And we’re in East Haven where the traffic becomes positively manic. Foolish, impatient, aggressive drivers suddenly abound. It is scary.

We’re passing huge strips of commerce. There is so much commerce in this country, the scale sometimes boggles the comprehension.

New Haven hoves into view with its handsome old buildings, its glamorous cable-stayed bridge. Bruce spent his college time here. It is home to Yale University. He points out buildings where he studied. There’s the Kline Biology Tower on Science Hill.

And there’s the ocean, sparkling out to the left. Long Island Sound.

And here’s a traffic jam. Roadworks. Bruce swears.

I break out the Chex Mix, the snack food which sustains us on our long drives.

It’s a tough old multi-lane highway now. Worn.

The traffic is fast-moving again. Determined drivers.

A road-weathered white truck with "Puta" hand-scrawled in the dirt on the back passes us. We pass it. It passes us. We tuck in behind it. We grow oddly fond of it.

Billboards clamour for attention.

Pay less, buy local; Your Road to Success - education; Delivering Happiness - mattress trucks; Never Give Up Until They Buckle Up - kids: Paying More is Ridunkulous…

We pass on old truck with its own message: Real Trucks Rattle.

Big industrial complexes. Giant fretwork frames of power poles. Railway lines.

Factory buildings in disrepair, ruin. That was Bridgeport.

Now it is Westport.

Norwalk? Is that where that horrid virus came from?

It is hard going for Bruce, this relentlessly furious traffic. He calls for a sugar hit. I break out the lolly stash.

Solid old Stamford is ahead of us. We are fond of this sensible old town.

Its clever motto is: The City That Works.

We exit from the motor madness and drive in for lunch. The car parking is terribly clever and modern. We have to learn how to use it. We find we are at a numbered spot.

We have to put that number into a parking machine along with money for the time we want to stay and also pin in our phone number. Thereafter, somehow a computer knows how long we are parked and it will ring us up if we have overstayed and it wants more money.

We step into Stamford Mall which is gob-smackingly tall and modern. Seven or more floors around a gigantic atrium. It might be sleek and classy but It is very confusing. We have trouble finding our way. We

have to ask security guards. The food court is on the 7th level? OK. We find it and eat some pretty average Panda Chinese. We find Starbucks for macchiatos, find the nice clean conveniences and then get back on interstate 95 where we find ourselves back in a traffic jam. Goddammit.

Welcome to New York says a huge sign.

The road is shocking. Very rough, bumpy, rutted and worn,

Mamoroneck. An odd name. Massive expanses of depressing-looking identical apartment buildings.

Co-Op City. More of the same. They are huge. Apartments for thousands.

Throgs Neck. NO. We got lost there once upon a time. Took a wrong exit and could not find the way back. We finally asked a policewoman and she told us “you can’t get there from here”.

We had images of never getting out of Throgs Neck. Of just giving up, buying a house and staying.

We can’t get past fast enough.

More monolithic buildings. More roadworks.

Now we’re in the Bronx. Huge red brick apartment buildings with little air conditioner bums poking out the windows.

The road condition is dire.

But there it is, the New York skyline, all soft and blue.

Bruce zeroes in on 2nd Avenue, Manhattan, and we drive towards the canyon of buildings.

Fire escapes lattice down red brick the buildings. We’re in Harlem.

Greengrocer stands sprawl across the sidewalks.

Traffic lights are co-ordinated. The road is one-way.

It’s a busy world.

Schoolchildren in a crocodile on the pavement. A trio of Orthodox Jews. A doctor in a white coat. Cops on corners. 56 blocks to go, says Bruce.

Discount shops. Kosher shops. Pizza, smoke, Indian, crepe, Japanese…

Balconies stand out on the sides of high-rise apartment buildings like teeth. Fire escapes hang like lace.

Bikes are chained in clusters to pavement poles.

There’s a Chinese woman in a huge coolie’s hat. An Indian in sari.

40 blocks to go, says Bruce.

White buildings made of bathroom tiles. Flower shops create a riot of beauty on street corners.

A loose-limbed postman lopes along with his post cart.

Ladies waddle with shopping bags. There’s a street cart selling handbags. A jaunty black man in a pink jacket and hat. Nuns dressed in white. A scrawny blonde with junkie written all over her chews gum and pushes a trolly of empty bottles. Men in suits wait at traffic lights.

Rap music blasts from the car beside us.

37 blocks, says Bruce.

The traffic is creeping along. Tall buildings. Yellow cabs. A man walking poodles. Policemen cross in front of us unbelievably overloaded with guns and and belts and two-way radios.

Cafe sidewalk tables laid out with linen napkins. The Euphoria nail parlor.

More balconies serrating the sides of tall buildings.

13 blocks to go, says Bruce.

It’s getting classier. Planter boxes. Pin lights on the trees. Taxis tooting each other.

Suddenly we’re at Park Avenue and 29th - our New York City destination, the Gansevoort on Park Avenue.

Oh sweet relief.

Tranny pride, gay pride, this is rainbow city

Portland has always appealed as one of the most liveable of cities in the USA.

Worryingly, the traffic is starting to become an issue. There have been massive backlogs on the major arterial roads. As in so many places now, the populations and the car numbers are starting to choke things up at peak hours.

Ah, but it is the city of peaks. There on its horizon are snow-capped Mt Hood and Mt St Helen. They're a pretty spectacular backdrop when they are visible.

Yep, Portland is the most fabulous American city.

It is the city of Powell’s Bookstore - the greatest bookshop in the world.

It is a city with dope stores on every corner. There are people with waving billboards on corners directing the public to this or that specialist marijuana store - the new Green industry of this green state.

Cannabis is the major agricultural crop here now.

Who knew this legal marijuana business could have grown so immense and be such a thing of carefully-regulated efficiency? It is a sophisticated science.

It reaps the government hearty taxes and has opened up myriad new collateral industries, among them the design and manufacture of dope pipes. Glass blowers seem to have cornered the market but there is everything imaginable being made, as well as myriad souvenirs for visitors like us, magazines and recipe books...even ashtrays.

It is a signpost for the world.

This is not to say that wine is out of favour. The local wines are elegant and lovely.

We have had a splendid sojourn here with my cherished chums, Rachel and Bob.

It is hard to leave.

As it is with old friends, there is a sense that the conversation has just resumed and we could talk on for aeons.

But we have cooked together and laughed together.

Bob has been making stunning cashew cheeses, a vegan specialty. He makes them in red curry flavour and he makes them smoked and double-smoked.

It is hard to stop eating them, especially warm from the smoker.

I've helped him in bottling his beer. Yep, if he was the chief cook, I was chief bottle washer. We've been to a cider festival where we all wore "Designated Driver" wristbands because we were not there to drink but to listen to some fabulous music. And, by chance, to see some of the most sublime gemstone jewellery I have ever encountered.

We have been out eating kosher food at Kenny and Zukes.

I had my fix of matzo ball soup - Jewish penicillin and the ultimate comfort food all in one.

We have rambled through the wonders and wonders and wonders of Powell’s.

It is so big one has to use a map.

it swarms with bookish people, who are the best people, of course.

It is full of temptations which, for reasons of weight and bulk, the traveller must resist.

It reassures one that books are alive and well, that sensibilities are extant, that civilization is whole and hearty, that curiosity and self-expression are thriving...

All of this is underscored in Portland by the fabulous weekend market.

Cleverly, it is divided into two sections - one for imported market goodies such as Asian rag trade merchandise, the other just for the Oregon craftspeople. This latter is quite thrilling and refreshing in all its originality and ingenuity. Marvellous clothes and jewellery, domestic artwork, chocolates and fudges, massage stones and aromatic oils…

En route to the market, we ran into a massive street march.

Gay Pride is waving its rainbow flags ferociously in Portland.

There is deep ire at the discrimination towards transgender people denied access to women’s rooms in the Carolinas and, of course, absolute grief and outrage at the Orlando massacre.

The LGBT community has been marching the streets singing and chanting, flourishing placards and banners.

They have dressed up. They have brought their dogs and their kids.

They come young and old, flamboyant and conservative. Straights march with them.

They are a force and they will be reckoned with.

The Gay Pride sentiment does not stop there in Portland.

Rainbow flags festoon buildings.

They adorn restaurant walls. They are ubiquitous in a loving stand of societal support.

Three lovely days…

We have walked the suburb where we are staying. It is located on the flank of a cinder cone, a steep old volcanic hill in this volcanic region. Mt Hood and Mt St Helens were visible through the stands of suburban trees last night - spectacular with their snowy caps.

We have driven the city loop by day and by night admiring the bridges and the architecture.

We’ve admired the city’s public art and even the utilities markers on the footpaths.

We have gone to the Vietnamese part of town and feasted on salt and pepper squid.

We’ve sat with books and sunned on our little deck.

And now it is time to move on.

Such is life on the road.