As I see it - a Deep South high on Trump

They say it’s easier to come out as cross-dresser than to admit to being a Democrat in America these days. That’s a joke by a trans-gender comic.

But it is a scary truth.

Dems have been driven into the ground by the bellowing toxic fumes of the Trump steamroller. These blowhards are the new definition of bigotry, intolerance and stubborn ignorance. They are a seething hate fest directed against Hillary and all who would defend her. They also hate Obama with conspiracy-theory vigour and, of late, hate the entire Bush family who have fallen out of favour.

They are God-fearing church-going, gun-owning Christians. They are feeling empowered.

Wherever I go here in the American South, there are the Trump/Pence signs. On cars and in yards.

Trump is on media 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Hillary is nowhere to be seen.

Media discusses how “presidential” Trump has become.

Indeed, one can see the coaching as he delivers carefully prepared speeches in his new sanctimonious style - stentorian and smug.

He has been a good student. Now that Roger Ailes, he of the Fox News sexual harassment scandal fame, has come in to be the expert advisor, Trump’s style is newly tailored. Ailes is the man behind Fox News’ rabid rightism, which long has been revving this country into the state we now see.

Trump is a winner. He gets what he wants by any means available. He is prepared for work for it, since he really wants it.

I recently finished reading Trump Revealed by Michael Kranish and Marc Fisher, a pretty definitive and deeply-researched bio by Washington Post political journos, and it describes a lifetime of this pattern of winning at all costs. It tells of people and businesses lain waste, so to speak, by Trump’s business ambitions. It is a chilling read. Never has there been a phenomenon quite like this man. He is the ultimate ruthless narcissist and he is unfazed by details such as truth. Good liars, of course, not only create untruth, they believe it.

Trump is out on the hustings every day. He is saving America from everything. He is getting jobs back from Asia. He told Pittsburgh that he would revive steel industry employment. He perhaps had not noticed that post the steel industry, Pittsburgh has clean air and is now a city driven by education, technology, and the arts. I am not sure they want steel factories back. But it sounded good.

If he softens one attack on Hillary, he lashes forth with a new one.

Today she is somehow behind police brutality.

Of course, Hillary has done herself and the Dems no favours.

She has been in barricade mentality throughout and this alienates her from both media and the public.

She does not defend herself and her attacks on Trump are feeble.

They say her invisibility is all about preparing for the debate - but she is the professional politician and debate is second nature. She knows her stuff. It makes her sound afraid of Trump, that she needs to hole up and prepare to debate him. Another wrong stance.

Perchance she is resting to ward off the evil cough from the pneumonia. Many say she is really sick. I don’t believe that. We all get sick when exhausted and under stress. I’ve had that shocking cough, We all have. It is just bloody bad timing for Hillary.

She is beset by two scandals - the email server and the Clinton Foundation. The are attacked repeatedly by the Trump camp.

Hillary stays silent. Ostrich, head in the ground.

It is the old tough-it-out technique.

But I think she is ill advised. . She needs to be open and emphatic with the American people. Just as she should have admitted to catching a seasonal bug like the rest of the world instead of trying to cover up and ending up collapsing.

The Clinton camp paranoia is legend - and it is doing her such a disservice. I want to scream.

I really admire Hillary Clinton and I would like to see her doing better.

I am afraid.

I am staying with Bruce’s aunt Libby, a wise emeritus professor of history.

She, too, is shuddering.

“This country has been through some terrible times. It has survived an awful four-year civil war. It has survived the Depression. Many things. But, I am not so sure about this. It has never encountered anybody like Donald Trump running for president let alone with a chance of getting in.”

The Democrats I’ve met have been slack-jawed, aghast at the status quo.

They thought Trump was a joke. It could never happen that he could win. What the…?

But in these parts, there are not many Dems to meet.

Just this evening in this little valley of the Appalachians, the sound of shotguns rang out.

“Target practice. They don’t shoot that many times when they’re hunting,” said aunt Libby.

A bloke in a huge ute stopped on a backroad to say hello while we were out walking during a recent twilight. They are right friendly here in the South.

He was in full camouflage gear and a great big shotgun, also camouflage pattern, lay on the passenger seat beside him.

“Out to shoot the wild boar which are getting in to my fields,” he said.

A couple of nights later, while sitting on the porch of a neighour’s house, a fellow appeared from the mountainside carrying a massive bow contraption. He, too, was out hunting something or other. It was unclear. The weapon made me nervous. But he, too was right friendly.

These are the people afraid that Hillary wants to take away their guns. Of course, their fear is driven by a calculated propaganda push. Hillary has said she would like some gun control but she is too savvy to try to push the gun lobby too hard. The gun lobby just wants everyone to think she will de-power them because Trump has said he loves them.

Media runs Trump's every snipe and every fatuous claim. All day long.

The talk radio is exclusively right wing and so no question as to their endless anti-Dem vehemence.

I heard the Laura Ingraham show saying that they expected Obama to bring out the National Guard to impede the election. Huh? They make up this madness as they go along. They still think he is a Muslim. Their hated is inflamed.

The proprietor of a local bookshop asked me what Australians think about Trump and this election.

I said we were incredulous that such a megalomaniac could ever be taken seriously.

I asked what she thought. She said she was a Trump supporter.

Why, I asked.

“Because we want to have a businessman running our country,” she declared.

I suggested that she read the Trump Revealed bio. She won’t. She pooh-poohed the book immediately. Journalists lie, she said.

There is no comeback to this view.

Trump’s voters are not readers. All those wonderful articles in serious print media go unread by those who really need to know. They don’t watch political satire, either.

They are not interested in hearing anything negative about Trump. These people believe in him. He is their great white hope, their orange saviour.

Note: Trump images taken from the cover of the book.

An arty interlude in Roanoke

The historic Hotel Roanoke is an old hotel, albeit not as old as its Tudor facades would like to suggest. It is also huge. It used to dominate the Roanoke town centre but an even larger, brutalistic new structure seems to have been built right in front of it since last I was here. It’s an art gallery.

We check in to the hotel. I requested

a mountain view room. I seem to be looking at the new gallery, the railway lines, and other buildings but there are mountains beyond. Actually, since the town is ringed by mountains, one can’t not have a mountain view. It is the tiniest room we have yet experienced. Minimal facilities but a lovely bathroom. It is very olde worlde really and, we presume, these proportions ring of old-style hotel accommodation. We squeeze our mountain of luggage in and go exploring.

So odd. We have to cross the hotel forecourt into a modern and not very

nice glass structure and take the noisiest and bumpiest escalator in history up to a covered overpass which crosses the railway lines. At the other side, we take another escalator down to street level - and we are in the town, but scratching our heads at the logistics at

what must be the most elaborate rail crossing in the world.

We are badly in need of a walk so we scope out the town the long way, walking through what must be business districts. The place is pretty quiet.

We saw not a single Virginia tobacco farm on the road here but the heady fragrance of pipe tobacco wafts out of a shop doorway. That rich, sweet aroma draws me inside to look upon the rows of undisguised cigarette packets, the giant jars of fresh, loose tobacco and a couple of affable Southerners contentedly puffing on cigars at the counter. It is a convivial tobacconist world, a remnant of a soon-to-be bygone era. I breathe in both the perfume and the cultural moment.

Returning towards the market-place centre of things, I spot some striking-looking garments in a quaint corner boutique and slip in to check them out. Oh, deary me. Aren’t I the odd one out. A small gaggle of young women turn and give me a dismissive glance as an assistant approaches and suggests I may find the discount clearance clothes up those stairs. I am not badly dressed but clearly I am downmarket by their standards. I had fallen into a niche of Southern Belles. Indeed, the shop is absurdly overpriced. I make a hasty retreat.

A big stationer’s shop looks more appealing. I am in the market for postcards. I pop in. How very odd. The biggest collection of cat themed brick-a-brack I have ever seen. And gag gifts. Every corny gag gift you ever saw. Yes, they have all sorts of cards. Hundreds. Not post cards, of course. Just cards. And Mennonite women in their long pale frocks and neat little head coverings in there looking at them. Heavens.

We repair to the hotel, checking out

the restaurants around the little market square. There are lots and lots. But tonight we are going to dine in the famous Hotel Roanoke dining room. It is very formal. We frock up accordingly. Our liveried waiter greets us in a big, theatrical voice. You must be an actor, say I. How does she know?, he asks my husband. Oh, she’s been a theatre critic for 50 years, says Bruce. Any good shows on in town?

The waiter does his best to impress and to advise. Theatre seems to have died a death in Roanoke. Venues closed. Companies gone. He does some script reading work with a university script development group.

All very interesting. I don’t want to seem disinterested, but I could kill for the glass of wine I ordered. The restaurant is not very busy. Our fellow diners, however, are very old and old school. Beautifully dressed.

The meal of shrimp and grits with deep-fried okra is classic Southern Cuisine - a must-have. It is pleasant. The dessert, which purports to be a pavlova of sorts, does not know what it is and is classic dire cuisine. It can’t be forgotten fast enough. Maybe it explains why the place is not so busy. It has seen better days.

Breakfast is another story. The same dining room is bouncing with action. There’s a big group which seems to be staying for a wedding. There are families. There are classy seniors. And lots of waiters. The buffet is spectacular. It is a whole room lined with choices - egg dishes, sausages, bacon, porridge, cereals, fruits, cakes, pastries, french toast, waffles - plus a chef cooking omelettes to order. I am fascinated by the big salver of spoon bread. It’s a southern speciality. You’ll like it, says the omelette chef. But I like it best with honey. Tentatively, I spoon myself a small serving of spoon bread. He brings me some honey. I try it. I swoon. It is corny, custardy, cakey divine.

I gush to the table waiter that I am in love with the spoon bread. He tells me that it is the ancient specialty of the Roanoke, a recipe unchanged through the hotel’s history. Every chef who comes to the hotel must master this recipe or he/she will not be working here. There ya go.

We go to sleep in our tiny room to the lullaby of freight trains squealing into the night.

We waken to the coolest day for a long time. Late morning we go out and walk some more, finding the market place beginning to fill up with wonderful food stalls. Ah, that’s where the Mennonites come into the Roanoke picture. They trade their produce here. Very nice it looks, too. Indeed, the whole market is lovely. Massive patty pan marrows. Lots of okra. A chap is selling his home-made cakes. He gives me a sample. Oh, me. It is a slice of bliss. Bruce says no. So I buy a cake of hand-made soap from a long-haired, soft-bearded old mountain fellow in a big leather hat. And some maple pecans from another stand.

We eat salads at a covered sidewalk table in a very unhurried market square restaurant, listening to the lilt of southern accents, and then head for the imposing modern gallery which now dominates the town.

It is the Taubman Museum of Art. On entrance, it seems a quite peculiar. From a vast, airy wasteland of a foyer, we are instructed to climb a mountain of stairs and then take

an elevator. The exhibits are on some middle level and there is a good balcony for looking over the town on the top, we are told.

We end up spending many absorbing hours in this gallery. It has the most fascinating, eclectic collection of mainly American art but some intriguing and even lush European works, also.

Many of the paintings are accompanied by comprehensive little artist bios complete with photos. It adds another dimension of intimacy and interest.

I wish more galleries did this.

There is 19th Century art and there are wild

contemporary installation artworks. All of it with something just that bit different to offer.

Even some sweet little creations by Yoko Ono.

There is no cost to visit the gallery. Toyota is paying, apparently. And the collection has been gifted. It is not like any gallery I’ve seen.

The roof balcony is fantastic, too.

The city view with the busy roads and railways is alive. The mountains are a blue glory. And there are iconic advertisements on the roofs of adjoining buildings.

And what’s this? A picture frame in which we are meant to pose for photos. Just try and stop me!

There’s the Virginia Museum of Transportation in an

old railway station on the other side of the railway line. Once again we take the noisy escalator and cross the lines. The exhibition of train photography in the museum has what we think is a high ticket price and Bruce does not care much for trains. We visit the free displays dedicated to the designer of the railway station instead. This is a good move. This is a wonderful show in which we learn about a whole era of American design. This man was the country’s king of logos. He was the master of style and his work has

been around us all the time. He was industrial designer and French American Raymond Loewy. From the late 30s through the 50s, he designed sleek locomotives, cars, and even Lucky Strike cigarette packs. So many of his logos have never been changed. Shell, Exxon and Coke, for heaven’s sake. Another Roanoke revelation.

We take dinner at a local Lebanese restaurant. It is light and healthy. Again we sleep to the tunes of trains grating and grunting on their rails. I eat more spoon

bread drizzled with honey for a morning swoon. And, since the sun is shining, spend the last few hours in Roanoke swimming and lolling by the pool with lots of friendly Southerners who are gathered for a wedding. They tell us all about how awful Donald Trump has ruffled their traditional Republican values and how they can’t stand crooked Hillary Clinton - and how everyone wants to move to Canada, hahaha.

If only it was funny.

The long and winding road - again

And so to Roanoke.

The sadness of leaving Richmond is exacerbated as we pass through the sadder section of the city across the James River. The road out of town is lined with vacant and derelict properties, with businesses and houses boarded up and rubbish scattered about. “Corner boys”, like those we have seen in shows like The Wire, loiter at intersections. The few businesses still functioning have great iron grilles on the windows. Only the tattoo parlours seems to thrive. The few ministries offering God as a solution look bleak out here. God for the Godforsaken. It is frighteningly sad and ugly. For a long way.

We stop at traffic lights and a handsome African American guy leaps from the median strip to knock on the car window. He is snappily dressed in a blue suit with a bright orange tie and pocket handkerchief. He is smiling broadly. He seems to be handing out religious texts in exchange for cash. I don’t find out. Bruce won’t open the window. Not here, he says. No way.

The sign that the world is picking up appears in the form of second hand car dealerships and laundromats. We progress past Dollar Stores and drab little shopping strips, cash-loans offices, more lacklustre little mini malls. A blooming crepe myrtle defies the depression of it all, beaming bright pink from the sidelines.

Finally, finally, the road seems to open up. We are entering the outer burbs and things become more salubrious. Oh, look, there is a shiny, beflagged old Model T Ford on the road. Good grief. The driver is talking on his cellphone. What a killer anachronism. We laugh.

Now the advertising signs spruik Edible Arrangements, Heritage Antiques, Sun Tanning, All Age Learning. There are gateways to posh housing developments and lakefront communities. Here are the big name stores and the flash new car yards. An immense US flag waves over the Honda franchise. Be patriotic, buy Japanese. We laugh.

Humming through the countryside we pass old settlements with wonderful names: Winterpuck, Skinquarter, Winterham, Truxillo, Cotton Town.

Laura Ingraham is on the radio. She’s a right-wing jock and she is revving up the hatred for Hillary and oozing praise for Trump. It spins the brain listening to the vehement venom she ekes out of the true patriots who ring in to express their Christian rage at Hillary’s sins. Oh, what a weird political situation surrounds us.

We turn her off and gaze at roadside pine forests. These are taller and thinner pines than ones we have seen before. And, look, corn fields. My beloved American corn fields. But these are at the other end of their life. They are turning brown. The accompanying soy fields are green, however, vividly so in contrast.

We pass Amelia where Robert E. Lee found his precious Confederate supplies trashed by the Union.

There’s Tobaccoville with no tobacco - supplies trashed by a dramatic cultural revolution. Fields which once grew lush-leaved Virginia tobacco now grow stringy weeds. In some, the forest is beginning to revegetate.

We hum over open road. It looks like a lovely striped ribbon ahead of us, undulating over a softly rolling vista. Bruce talks of Lee’s retreat across this land, with Grant in hot pursuit during the Civil War in the 1860s. We try to imagine those ragged, weary foot soldiers, the thousands and thousands of them covering the landscape en masse.

Ah, and there are hints of autumn on the landscape. Crepe myrtles at the end of the bloom. Yellowing leaves on elms and oaks.

We take the road to Farmville.

Rough pastures. Mini storage out in the fields. Why is so much mini storage out in the middle of the nowhere? Why is there so much mini storage? We pass the turnoff to Saylor’s Creek, another site of a terrible Civil War battle. We are not going there today. We are, however, heading for Appomattox which visit already I have described.

Our immediate view is Trump signs. Huge ones. Trump Pence.

And, over the bridge Lee failed to burn to slow Grant’s hot pursuit, past the sign for Noah’s Last Stop Petting Zoo, and we are in darling Farmville, a civilized town famous for the marvellous Longwood University which began in 1834 as Farmville Female Institute for Women and which only became co-ed in the 1970s.

Bruce’s Aunt Libby lives here and is Emeritus Professor of History at Longwood. Ironically, for the 26 years she taught at this former place of women’s learning, she was the only female history professor. We pause and visit Aunt Libby’s beautiful house, checking it out so we can report on it when we see her soon on the farm in north Georgia. This classic old Victorian house was built in 1904 but its grand old oak tree is much older. It was here when the Civil War troops went by. Right now Longwood is revving up for the vice presidential candidates’ debate as part of the 2016 US election. This is very big deal indeed for Longwood and Farmville.

Farmville also is famous for the breathtakingly immense Green Front furniture and carpet empire which fills the town’s old tobacco warehouses and ships all across the USA. I’d love to go for a meander but it spans six vast buildings and we are not here to shop. We are just stopping for lunch. The town is quiet but the lovely main-street cafe is bustling with life. We devour lovely salads and excellent, proper espresso coffee. The cafe is full of character, particularly a rest room which opens right into the centre of the dining room. Makes one a bit self-conscious but we travellers, when the bladder calls, are grateful for a clean rest room wherever - and in the USA, they are plentiful. Unlike Australia. The miserly and inhospitable loo situation in Australia is a black mark against our culture.

Not long out of Farmville, we’re on Route 64 amid the usual walls of trees when we drive over a rise to behold a great rolling vista topped by a backdrop of blue mountains. We’ve reached the Blue Ridge Mountains. Glorious.

And onwards we hum, over Beaver Creek. This must be the hundredth Beaver Creek we’ve crossed. And the millionth Beaver something. Country people are really fond of naming things after the beaver. Really fond.

Clouds are gathering as we drive past Lynchburg and yet more Trump/Pence signs. Those glorious mountains peek out from between the trees here and there, softly blue on the horizon, topped with fluffy backlit clouds.

More cornfields, dry and ragged. More bright green soy crops. And now a really huge mountain materialises, pointy like a volcano with shrugs of cottonwool clouds around its shoulders. We’re in western Virginia.

Trump/Pence, Trump/Pence.

A roadside hoarding reads: Got mice? Adopt a barn cat.

Now the mountains are looming all around us. Salubrious houses sit smugly back from the road beyond vast expanses of neatly-mown lawns. This is the country of obsessive lawn-mowing. It’s a national OCD, keeping the grass cut.

More traffic now. Trucks. Oh and a goods train over there. Long. It goes on for ever. There is so much to be transported in this busy country.

And, circled by these mighty Blue Ridge mountains, we find our way into Roanoke.

The strange state of American politics

Don’t ask.

America’s traditional Republicans don’t want to talk about it.

They just can’t process it.

Donald Trump.

The Trump phenomenon is a jaw-dropping political steamroller.

The American media seems to have become a Trump marketing machine. Some radio stations and TV networks talk of nothing else, 24 hours a day. Truly. If they run out of spokespeople, they interview each other about him.

When newscasts and current affairs shows trumpet “breaking news”, one might expect it to be some story about, well, news. Almost without fail right now, it will be some piece of Trump trivia. A tweet, perhaps.

If he hasn’t done anything today, they will be analysing what he did yesterday. The Trump machine is pumping it out non stop. It is as astounding as it is terrifying. Trump believes in repetition. He is quoted as saying that if you repeat it long enough, it will become true.

This is an old right-wing strategy, of course and it has been working against Hillary Clinton for years. So Americans now are trained to repeat the same phrases about her. Untrustworthy. Email server. Benghazi. Clinton Foundation.

But, while the Republicans have lots of snipes against the Democratic presidential nominee, words seem to catch in their throats when they are asked about Donald Trump.

Nervous laughter is a common response.

Oh, what you must be thinking about our country, they say.

I never thought I could feel sorry for Republicans, but these people are in pain. Their political ground has been ripped from under them. They are conservatives but they are not ratbags or extremists. They are educated, hard-working people. That Trump has turned out to be their main man has taken them rather by surprise. Embarrassment, even.

While he thunders and dominates the media, he seems to have thrust a huge portion of the American population into uncharacteristic reticence.

They don’t want to talk about him. They don’t know how they will vote.

They will start by referring to Hillary Clinton’s shortcomings. They definitely don’t want to vote for that woman. But…

They can’t dredge up any reasons they may vote for Trump.

They are in denial.

An elegant African American gentlemen with whom I was engaged in conversation in Richmond did a spectacular sidestep when I tried to gauge his feelings about Trump and the election. The most I could squeeze out of him was “he is an interesting man”.

Driving through New Jersey, Maryland, Virginia, and Tennessee, it has been Trump signs on the roadsides. Not a single Hillary sign. The last one I saw was in Williamsport, Pennsylvania.

Commenting on this to a hospitality worker in Roanoke, a charming arty town in western Virginia, I was assured that it was not really as one sided as it looks. But the man, a “resting” actor, spoke in conspiratorial whispers. He actually looked over his shoulder as he spoke.

I’ve really tried to bring up the election issue with people I meet.

If they are solid Republicans, and they all have been in our travels through these states, they still can’t find praise for Trump. One woman responded to my curiosity with an attack on Obama.

The most common line which has been created and endlessly marketed by the media, is that America is suffering the “two most disliked candidates of all time”.

There has been so much attack on Hillary Clinton that I think people now are afraid to be seen supporting her.

But no matter how hard the media thrusts him down their throats, they can’t come around to Trump.The don’t like him. Yet, he is the man their party has given them.

These articulate and outspoken people have been muted.

America is profoundly uncomfortable.

At play in Cape May

New York was swarming with Aussies. Here, I’ve seen not a one. No internationals at all to speak of. Just Americans.

This is the secret underbelly of Americans at play. This is their place. It is their idiom. Their culture. Their history.

It is a traditional East Coast family seaside holiday destination, glorious strands of long, sandy New Jersey beaches, low

dunes, marshland…lapped by the Atlantic Ocean.

Most of the people around us are from nearby Philadelphia.

I suppose that is why there are not too many choices of postcards sold here.

We’re staying in the Grand Hotel which is a funny old thing. It used to be very grand, I think. It was

probably once at the cutting edge of seaside resorts with its vast stretches of covered balconies surrounding a big central outdoor pool complete with bar and food service.

Our friends, Jim and Irene, are in the next room thanks to the friendly consideration of the hotel Reception as we were booking in. Hotels win or lose on the attitude of Reception staff. In some hotels, they are mean

with the power they wield and have mysterious little agendas. In others, they are the soul of hospitality which set one’s stay off on a really positive footing. Here, I’d been warned on booking that the best sea view rooms were already booked and I’d requested they list me if there was a cancellation. On arrival, I am greeted with the sweet news that they not only have an ocean view room for us but would I like our friends to be beside us?

Checking in a the Grand Hotel is complicated, though. One is fitted with a blue rubber bracelet which is official entry to the pools. And one is briefed about the trolley bus which comes past the hotel to take guests into and out of the little township down the beach. Oh, and breakfast which is a vast buffet but, for the same price, any added a la carte breakfast one might desire.

The grand of the Grand sort of ends there. No pushy valets. They supply wonderful luggage carts and free parking. Bruce loves a luggage cart. He arranges our mountain of road trip world upon it, ever more artfully. There are cases and bags, pillows, grocery bags and, of course, the all-important cooler basket which carries our chilled wine, Bloody Mary makings, and perishables.

Our room is on the first floor which the Americans call the second floor. It is very beachy and practical with a smooth pseudo wooden floor and a little bay window looking seawards. The utter joy is that there also are back windows which look out onto Cape May suburbia - huge, handsome three-storey wooden homes with flags and lawns and big, shady verandahs. Two views! Two worlds! I am silly with happiness.

Bruce, too. But it’s not the view that has him excited. It’s the wee kitchen. Spag bol, he exclaims. He starts making a shopping list immediately. In two seconds flat, he has Googled up the address of the supermarket.

Nah, we don’t need the free trolley. We need the walk. We can enjoy our surroundings. We do. Except that it is about a million degrees Centigrade and the humidity is a few million more. The heat wave goes on.

So, yes, it is an interesting walk. The architecture at Cape May is almost fairy book.There are spectacular, lavish Captain’s Houses and mad turreted mansions with widow’s walks and ornate layered balconies, all made of clapboard, of course. There are age-old guest houses and

seaside hotels. And they are painted in lovely bright colours, cheerful and pretty. It is a joy of architectural diversity.

And they are alive with holidaymakers.

The Americans work as hard at leisure as they do at jobs. They come for a seaside vacation heavily

loaded with necessities: beach umbrellas, huge cooler boxes, rugs, chairs, balls. The cooler boxes have wheels and handles and can be towed. The chairs and carry bags hitch over the shoulders, backpack style, so there are all these very chair-broad people waddling to and from the beach.

They are, of course, all around us at the hotel. The cars roll up and disgorge all this amazing beach gear. Lots of chairs. Lots. No one

wants to sit on the sand, it seems. Not even the kids. And no one minds paying to go onto the beach. It is $6 a day. What? I can't come at that. I just can't do it. It is great that they have lifeguards perched up on those sturdy high chairs. But we Aussies believe the beach belongs to us all. They stop charging at 4pm so we make it our rule to only go on the sands late in the day.

And I’m a pool-lover, anyway. The pool is gorgeous. And there is a second pool, a huge and very glamorous indoor pool. It has murals on the walls and sumptuous

armchairs and chaise lounges. It makes me feel as if I am stepping into a Scott Fitzgerald novel.

The hotel has a terrific dining room which is handy since the extreme heat has us enervated. We find a lovely big balcony at the end of the hotel where we can look at the sea and loll on rocking chairs. That’s where we take our evening drinks. We’re on dirty martinis now. With vodka at $11 a half gallon, they cost 22 cents a piece.

So, Bruce makes his famous spaghetti Bolognese for a dinner party, this time with high protein, high fibre pasta. We have pineapple for dessert. We talk and laugh and reminisce.

Irene and I have no issue in catching the $1

trolley in the drenching heat. Who knew it came with a travel commentary from Barry, the driver. We go shopping in the darling little Cape May mall, just so quaint and sweet and be-dangled with pots of petunias. The fudge shop is a downfall. We buy too much and get a free box of salt water taffy for our excess.

Over our days in Cape May, we

discover the famous Lobster House which is a complex of huge restaurants along with a restaurant on a boat, an extensive take-away shop, a great big raw bar, and a mass of tables stretching down the length of a dock. Fishing boats are moored at the dock and, also on the dock, is the big fish processing shed providing all the seafood being consumed all around us - and then some. It is a prodigious operation. Our waitress is a very fit mature blonde in a cutie-pie sailorgirl costume. She bounds to the table announcing in one of those voices which could cut glass that “My name is Cathy and I will be your server”. Then, in a dramatic move, she thrusts out her chest to display an extremely ample bust. We don’t quite know which way to look.

The food is fabulous. Oh, the freshness. Oh, oh,

oh. Clams, scallops, oh the flounder!

There are assorted things to do in Cape May. We check out the lighthouse and look at the birdwatchers’ boardwalks over the swamps. But, frankly, it is too hot and humid for anything except lolling about in pools. A huge electrical storm moves through, strobing the night sky and whip-cracking over the sea. It dumps a bucket of nocturnal rain and the humidity multiplies. Argh. Annoyingly, the Grand Hotel has the world’s worst Internet service and, after a few days of frustration, we just give up and read books and watch the Olympics on television.

Of course we return to the supermarket a few times for fruit and those wonderful sugare-free

Polar drinks. On one occasion in the little mall we hear someone playing the street piano. It is no ordinary tinkles. This man is a serious pianist. Wow. We are stopped in our tracks. We seize the moment. We sit on a shady bench. We marvel and revel. The man is playing a Chopin Prelude. It is superb. We clap. Then he plays a Nocturne. Aaaah. When he finishes, we call for more. Sorry, he responds. My lunch is ready. And he disappears into restaurant.

I am studying the people around me, the Americans at play. I watch some

wholesome families with kids with names such as Madison and Tyler. I watch just how much poolside food some Latino families seem able to consume. I watch dads at play with their kids and the unadulterated ecstasy kids have at that rare thing called the undivided attention of dad. There are families with five or six very well behaved children. They seem mostly to be very religious. Home schoolers, I wonder? People seem to be very conservative. One woman regales us with tales of evil Obama closing coal mines. She loves Donald Trump, of course. I become alarmed at how strong is that sentiment.

This is naked Americana - a cross section of the middle class. These are the voters.

I can’t say I’m not worried.