Dallas – USA

I take a certain pride in doing little to no research before travelling to a country. Through the act of generally enjoying reading, I have a vague idea of most countries, that is where they are and how that region of the world may influence a country, but beyond that I am happy to rock up with as few preconceived ideas as possible. For the USA this is a difficult task yet ironically, I felt the need to do some extra research despite their culture having bombarded me for the past 39 years and their politics dominating international news at all hours. For years people have been telling me to watch Yellowstone and so with its introduction to Netflix and a forthcoming farm tour of the US I decided now was the time to give it a go. After one episode I felt culturally prepared and content that I was going nowhere near Montana.

As mentioned, the USA is a country that dominates our lives through their culture, politics, and economics; I am the first to admit that America in that regard can be a little annoying. Yet within hours of arriving to Dallas none of that mattered and I was immediately immersed into all that is good about America. It’s the same with any country in the world, when you view their culture in the context of their own country a cloud of ignorance is lifted. It doesn’t mean I agree with their culture all of a sudden, but it does mean that in reality people don’t walk around Texas armed to the teeth and shooting people at will on a routine basis, just like the police in Saudi Arabia don’t carry out public executions willy-nilly, or British food is crap, or France is a country full of arseholes. Don’t get me started on people’s general view of Africa. Stereotypes of course are born from factual observation; no left-wing nutcase can simplify stereotyping as another word for racism. However, anyone who steps out from their bubble and dares to open up to the idea that life can be lived a little differently will realise that the vast majority of Americans don’t want to shoot you or each other, that the Saudis are extremely hospitable and family orientated, that Britain is full of quality and varied cuisine, and the French really are arseholes – I’m joking, anyone who read my blogs about my visits to France will know my love for the country and her people. 

My trip to the US was primarily work based, taking me to Nevada, Arizona, Colorado, and Michigan across eight days, attending a management conference and visiting large dairy farms. However, as my flight from Doha connected in Dallas I decided to hop off and visit one of those rare people in my life, a travel friend who has established themselves as an actual lifelong friend, such is my charm. Despite what they say about the English, I hate queuing, but when I finally reached the border control officer, he took my passport looked at my visa and let me pass with nothing more than a nod of welcome. No computer checks, fingerprints, photos, nothing. To be fair, a trip to Yemen excluded me from an ESTA and necessitated a trip to the US consulate in Doha to get a B1B2 visa where I was fingerprinted and snapped, but I was still surprised at how easy I strolled into the US. After a 16hr flight I had been fully prepared for further delay getting to my hotel with lube and rubber gloves at the ready for customs. And so followed three great days – excluding lube and rubber gloves – in and around Dallas and Grapevine, mostly drinking and eating with some great people. It’s a cliché I want to avoid yet is impossible which is that visiting America is like jumping into a movie. We ate great Mexican food; downed plenty of Guinness in a dark gloomy Irish bar; drank a whisky in a country bar; downed an IPA in a sunny yard full of young pretty people, with trailers serving food, and a wee stage for a band; sipped gin and tonics at a rooftop bar with the Dallas skyline on display; and tasted wine in a wonderful little wine bar. The houses were huge, the cars were huge, the portions of food were huge, the weather was sunny, the Uber driver was young smelling of weed, full of life, full of advice for the aging, single white man in the back, everyone was nice and chatty. The only thing of concern was tipping. It has always been a concern and always will be: who, what, when? Thankfully, the whole process has become much easier since I was last in the States, to a point. When I buy a drink, I can just pay on card, the barman will take my card, tap it or whatever, and return it to me along with a pen and a piece of paper. The paper is a receipt, and at the bottom I have to write my tip, after which I can walk away, the barman will collect the paper and then I assume the tip is added to my final payment as they already have my card details. Seems to require a level of trust but hey, this is America, and for me beats having to carry a wad of cash around just for the purpose of tipping. Anyway, the problem is working out the tip as they don’t do that for you. Ten percent is easy but too little, twenty percent is probably a little too much but is the easiest compromise. Either way, trying to do this mental arithmetic after your tenth alcoholic beverage of the evening becomes challenging to say the least, if not a little unfair. 

America is vast. I always hark back to when I first travelled to Australia and the flight from Perth to Sydney was three and a half hours on a 747 jumbo jet. Yet my first of several internal flights in the US taking me from Dallas, Texas to Reno, Nevada was over three hours long, across a two-hour time difference, and only took me across half the country. With this, the weather switched from a warm, sunny 27^oC to a snowy, 4^oC. Reno brought several interesting moments. The first was getting off the plane to be immediately confronted by row upon row of slot machines as though I had just walked into the Bellagio; apparently there is no time to waste in Nevada when it comes to gambling. Upon arrival to the hotel – with its own colossal casino – I approached a young lady at the reception who warmly welcomed me and then immediately froze upon hearing my accent. I have never knowingly melted a lady so quickly, if ever, if I’m honest. As the receptionist began to regather herself, I thought back to the days when I was young working in Canada and the US and remembered that the British accent does indeed have a certain appeal to the ladies in these countries, yet it was a superpower I never really managed to harness to its maximum potential. Besides, it’s not like I hadn’t spoken to any other women in America during the days previous and I can safely say they appeared to handle all social interactions in the standard way. Still, I checked in, ran to my luxurious hotel room, and dead-locked the door as I am completely incapable of dealing with compliments, especially from attractive strangers. 

I spent three days in Reno, not once leaving the vast hotel complex partly because there was no need, partly because I was attending a conference 10 hours per day, and partly because the wet snowy weather outside was rather off-putting. On the day of leaving, I went to one of the cafes and got myself a burrito and Pepsi. My Pepsi was running low when a waitress turned up and asked if I would like a refill, I didn’t, but because it was offered, and because my brain quickly reminded me that free refills were a thing in this country, I happily obliged. Service in America is just great. The reason for this is perhaps more sinister but for the ease of this discussion, I just love experiencing good service and when you go back to my original observations on culture you can begin to understand why Americans come across as a tad annoying when out and about in England or France. European hospitality service isn’t quite as up there. If you have ever been fortunate enough to visit Paris or God forbid, Rome, you will be lucky if your food isn’t thrown at you from a distance relative to the standard of service in the US. Bringing this to a close, I hate country and western music, loathe it, makes me want to be sick in my mouth, but…. Driving through the cacti littered desert of Arizona, the plains of Colorado with the snow-capped Rocky Mountains in the distance, and through the mid-western towns of Michigan, listening to country and western just feels right. This is where the genre was born, and where it should bloody well stay, but it’s where it belongs and suddenly it all makes sense.

Alas, let us not forget the highlight of my trip to the US for I will be crucified for not mentioning it, and I have no doubt everyone is concerned I may have missed out on that great American delicacy, biscuits and gravy. Unfortunately, not a euphemism, biscuits and gravy aren’t quite what you might be thinking. For the English, maybe think scones and gravy. In the American context a biscuit is in fact fluffy, far fluffier than a scone actually. It’s plain but that’s where the gravy comes in, a rich sauce of stuff I can’t remember other than bits of sausage, that bathes the biscuit and creates a taste sensation, along with wonderfully crispy bacon, sausage, and eggs. If ever there was a reason to go to America, a night out with the locals with homemade biscuits and gravy the following morning is as good as any. 

26^th April 2025