Pour Whyte Trash at Dinosaur Bar-B-Que, Syracuse. Photo by Dave Lloyd. Upstate New York in the bright Fall and maple leaves redden to a hue normally associated with ripe berries.
White corn on the cob, syrup and freshly-picked blueberries.....'the fatta the land' I recall from George and Lennie's dream in 'Of Mice & Men'.
But I am initially obsessed with my mobile.
(They have become extensions of our bodies; our thumbs will no doubt grow great lengths as we evolve and adapt.
Even our closest and dearest tweet and facebook as we try to speak to them.)
So, without a signal and worrying, I spent a wasted hour in a Kindle-impossible dialogue with some 'Guru Frank' ( probably in India) who asked me all kinds of questions I had completely forgotten the answers to.
In the end, I resigned myself and never once regretted its absence.
My day at Le Moyne College in Syracuse was interesting. Once a predominantly Jesuit-run university, the campus has a light feel to it, full of green thinking space.
Despite being fairly relaxed about my reception, I couldn't help having flashbacks of Columbine whenever I walked those long corridors armed only with books and poetry.
In the morning I talked with two groups of First Years (Freshmen) who must've been stunned into silence by the Merthyr dialect, one Welsh language poem each (with translations) and my explanations of a country which existed somewhere east of Jupiter.
They seemed the antithesis of typical American youth : reserved to the point of reticence.
Two stayed behind from the first group : one who wanted to know everything about the Premiership (he was a Chelsea fan) and a girl who longed to find out about England ( I had somehow failed there, I think).
The two afternoon groups were older, Creative Writing students and were much more confident and forthcoming.
One black student - who hailed from New York City - wore a t-shirt declaring 'Fight For A Living Wage' and I felt instantly at home.
I asked them what difference Obama had made to their lives and they shrugged and replied - ' Not much, far as we can see.'
Just like over here, times are very hard for students and I didn't expect to shift many books ( Dave Lloyd had warned me).
I performed later alongside him to an audience predominantly of staff and students and he read from his new novel 'Over The Line' ,from the viewpoint of a youngster growing up in troubled times in an area just like the one they lived in.
I read mostly from 'Barkin!' and 'Moor Music', as I did the next evening at the Downtown Writers' Center in Syracuse.
This was organised by writer Phil Memmer and his colleague Georgia, who have done a marvellous job building up the place with many workshops and events down the years.
This was a truly inspirational venue to perform in and I loved every minute of it.
I asked the audience if they had 'goolies' in the States and it was soon translated into 'balls'!
The dialect poems were received very enthusiastically and I met most of the audience afterwards (some with strong Welsh connections).
At last I realised that the street language of my home town could travel far and that people related to the characters and their stories, identified with the humour and tragedies.
The longer I stayed the more I began to adopt their version of English, even absurd words like 'Rest Rooms' for 'Toilets'. ( As the comedian Micky Flanagan quipped on 'Room 101' , who actually sits on the bogs having a crap and thinks of it as 'resting'?).
Syracuse slowly sank into me, as Dave told me tales of the notorious Southside and its gangs, though I only glimpsed its edges. I admired the series of white sculptures of waiting passengers on the old station and was bewildered by the ubiquitous horse sculptures (why not deer, whose country surrounds the city?).
Those sculptures were as white as the salt which was once the main product of the place.
Beer was a priority and we soon visited the Middle Ages microbrewery (complete with silly ale names) to sample the free brews ; a haven for wandering alkies. The IPAs were the best and so hoppy I was turning into an inebriated rabbit!
We went to Al's Wine & Whiskey Lounge one night (the wine has all but disappeared) to see Los Blancos (no connections with Real Madrid) one of the city's all-time best bands, who used to play a fusion of Latin and the Blues.
They seemed jammingly laid-back to the point of stonedom and I wasn't surprised when they announced their impending retirement half way through the set.
A ceiling-high wall of bottled shelves behind the bar was stocked with multitudinous whiskeys, spirits and even Belgian beers.
When Dave asked the barmaid (who was bursting out of her dress) if she stocked 'Penderyn' , she knew the exact spot it should be, but was no longer there.
In nearby Cazenovia we watched the sun go down over Green Lake, which appears that colour because it doesn't 'turn over' due to the different densities of water-layers.
Then off to the unique Seven Stone Steps Tavern, a cavern of wood with every inch etched by signatures, initials , messages and graffiti.
I wanted to ask the glum, taciturn barman Frank for a knife so I could add to them, but decided against it.
Here we met Hank (originally from the Big Apple) an Irish-American who had been to Ireland three times , but refused to set foot in the North because it was 'British'.
Explaining the current situations in Wales and Scotland found a ready ear and he knew nothing about any struggles for independence in these two nations.
Hank was later warned and threatened with expulsion for swearing by Frank , who the former described as 'a real hardline Irishman'.
One of the many highlights of my time there was undoubtedly at the Dinosaur Bar-B-Que, where we went to see the band Pour Whyte Trash.
Bars in the States have to serve food and we ordered a plate of sides to whet our appetites for what we anticipated as country music.
We were wrong.
Despite singer Terry Kohut's black stetson and their readiness to entreat 'Yeeee-hawwws!' from the crowd , they were more rock than country-rock, producing excellent covers of K.T. Tunstall and Janice Joplin, as well as thrilling originals.
They were at their height, wandering among us, playing and singing, but never straying from the melodies.
So struck with them - especially the presence and voice of Terry - I asked her after if they had any cds for sale.
Surprisingly, they had none and had no ambitions to make it BIG. I was shocked.
Here was a group who deserved to be heard by thousands - not just those in the bars of a few States - yet who seemed content just to gig.
Maybe they had a bigger plan?.......Or maybe they knew how impossible it would be to make that breakthrough?
'Have you seen the News?' Dave said.
When I did - the evening before I was due to leave for Portland, Oregon - I was astounded.
The USA was heading for shutdown! A small minority of Tea Party Republicans were attempting to thwart Obamacare even as it was about to be introduced whatever.
I saw first that Air Traffic Controllers would be out, only to find out online that this was false.
That night I had my first and only dream about flying.
The inside of the plane was like a farmyard, scatterings of muck and straw, as the passengers stumbled about like drunks in a bar.
I was sitting next to my friend the writer Chris Meredith (whose books include 'The Meaning of Flight', 'Air Histories' and 'The Book of Idiots' with its sequences describing flying).
He was calmly beatific as the plane proceeded to land on an uphill road flanked by trees and then veered dangerously straight towards a craggy cliffline!
I was in a state of utter panic till the next scene, where we walked towards the Baggage Claim and the contents of my case came out, sock after sock, onto the carousel.
Luckily this was not a portent.
THE DINO
for Dave Lloyd
At the Dinosaur in downtown Syracuse
at the corner of Reach-out Avenue
and Used-to-be Boulevard,
three blocks away from despair.
We were there with a plate of sides
for the songs and the IPAs,
one band no breaks into the late
and the future of rock, again.
POUR WHYTE TRASH, one black stetson
but no country twang,
just tight as couples necking
or wrapped up in a smooch.
Two men sat munching away
while it all hung loose :
singer and lead into the crowd
wooing them like serenades.
Terry the singer swaying, laughing,
mouthing and teasing, her voice
a range from fall to pine,
wide thru-way to wooded mountain.
And even when she performed
The Star-Spangled Banner
hat held low, making her vital point,
we could forgive her.
Line-dancers stepping out
and air-guitarist Hendrix impersonators,
at the Dino in downtown Syracuse,
music and singer our one-night Muse.
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