06-30-2015, 12:58 PM
Day 1—Brisbane to Atlanta
24 May
[url=https://www.google.com/maps/d/edit?mid=z5L5SB6CRw2M.kb_qDXpYoY7I&usp=sharing]
I walked down the air bridge, tired but pleased to be getting onto the next leg of the journey. Officials were searching passengers’ luggage, but I thought little of it. Until it was my turn. Due to a conversation or two with Elipten on the CB1100 Forum, I was carrying a bottle of Bundaberg Overproof Rum. I hasten to add there was nothing secretive about the way I was carrying: it was in a sealed plastic bag swinging gently from one hand. I was directed to a table.
“What is that?”
“Bundaberg’s finest rum.”
“Where did you buy it?”
“Brisbane, Australia.”
“You can’t take it on the plane.”
“Why not? I was told in Brisbane there would be no problem.”
“The US Government does not allow you to carry more than 100 mls of liquid in your hand luggage.”
“But it’s all sealed up and in a duty-free package.”
“Sorry. It is not our requirement. The US Government will not allow you to take it on the plane. We have no choice but to take it away.”
Bye-bye Bundy.
The trip from my home 130 kilometres north of Brisbane had ended with a pleasant surprise.I’d spent the last part of the afternoon with my three sons, the partner of one; my stepdaughter, her partner and their baby; and another friend (Erika, occasionally mentioned in Seat Time reports) and her brother. One son lives in Brisbane, another was in town for a conference and the third had flown to Brisbane to surprise me. He did.
They took me barefoot bowling (an Australian trick to lure fee paying youngsters into lawn bowling), out to dinner and then delivered me to the airport. All in honour of the birthday that would occur three days later. It was a much more agreeable afternoon and evening than I’d expected.
At 0050 on 24 May, my flight to Atlanta via Hong Kong and Los Angeles took off. Due to one of those curious events that involve the International Date Line I arrived in Atlanta at 1735 on the same day. The curious bit was that I’d travelled for more than 30 hours, watched a few movies and not slept much. It was no surprise I had a slight feeling of dislocation when I arrived. Still, I had enough of my wits about me to find a shop selling beer and take note of the bar across the road.
I’d nearly succumbed to sleep when there was a knock on the door. Wearily I dragged myself out of the chair and opened it. There, wheeling an enormous suitcase, stood Pterodactyl.
“G’day,” I said, “Beer?”
“Bloody oath,” he said.
I showed him to his room and went to fetch us a beer.
There is a certain inevitably about the way one beer with Pterodactyl leads to another. This evening was no exception. It then led to a trip across the street to the Publik Draft House, a pleasing craft beer establishment. Sadly, the kitchen there was not working to expectations and we had to make do with beer, snacks and an acceptable Californian Zinfandel. Sleep came easily and lasted rather longer than usual.
Day 2—Atlanta
25 May
The once grand Georgian Terrace Hotel, opposite the Fox Theatre in Atlanta, was showing its age a little, although signs apologised for ay inconvenience caused by renovations. The grand two-bedroom suite in which we found ourselves, though, was well appointed and comfortable. It had been found for us on the Internet by Mrs Pterodactyl whose accommodation search capacities came highly recommended. Deservedly so. Even better than the grandness, for a pair of mildly stingy Aussies, was the price tag. So Mrs Pterodactyl has been promoted to the status of ‘legend’ as an accommodation finder.
It was to be our base for a day or two while we sorted out some jet lag and prepared ourselves for our next adventure: riding to the inaugural CB1100Forum.com gathering near Robbinsville, North Carolina. I felt a certain satisfaction in having made it. In early 2014, I had a tentative plan to spend my 60th birthday in New York City, a place I’d never been. Actually, I still haven’t. When the rally was first mooted, the timing was such that I’d wondered if I could attend. I mentioned it casually to Pterodactyl one day and the next thing I knew we were booking bikes and accommodation at the Iron Horse Motorcycle Lodge. The NYC trip had gone pear shaped for other reasons, but here we were in Atlanta.
As I stumbled round in the morning, I made my first local discovery of differences between Australia and America: there are no facilities for a bloke easily to make a cup of tea. There was a nifty gizmo for making coffee, but nothing in which to boil water. I was too tired to figure it.
By the time we got downstairs breakfast was done and dusted in the hotel dining room and croissants in the attached coffee shop didn’t seem substantial enough. We went in search of a café. It was Memorial Day so that turned out to be mildly tricky, but we found the Broadway Diner over the road. This 24-hour establishment had a sign in small print apologising for no longer being open 24 hours. I was not surprised: there was one other person in the place.
Later we walked the deserted streets of downtown Atlanta, hoping to find some activity. Other than a feminist rally in Woodruff Park, and the odd beggar, there was not a great deal happening. A man walking past said, “Y’all looking for something to do? Won’t find anything much on Memorial Day.” It didn’t matter; we’d had a walk which is one of the prescriptions for jet lag and a desultory afternoon in the hotel further helped to repair our depleted beings.
The Publik Draft House being closed, we took beer and dinner on the terrace at the hotel overlooking the historic Fox Theatre. Sadly, perhaps, there was nothing on there, but the future offered a veritable explosion of blasts from the past—the B52s, Culture Club, Anthony Bourdain and the legendary Brian Wilson. While Sesame Street Live mightn’t rank as a must see, some of the other acts made it a pity not to be staying longer. As we ate it rained and thundered, a good omen for a motorcycle ride.
Day 3—Atlanta
26 May
It was my 60th birthday and home seemed a long way. When I woke, I tormented myself wondering when my birthday had actually started given the time at home was 14 hours ahead. I was in no fit state to figure it; and I still couldn't figure out how to make a cup of tea. To give you an idea of the extent of my discombobulation, the suite had a kitchen. The kitchen had a stove and, tucked away in a cupboard was a saucepan. See? Not hard: remove saucepan from cupboard, fill with water, switch on stove element, bring water to boil, add to cup and tea bag. Allow to steep. Drink. I’m pleased to report I figured it out the next morning.
Pterodactyl and I made our way again to the Broadway Diner. If possible it was even quieter and they’d run out of cappuccino. I still don’t know how you can do that. I think there was no-one there who knew how to work the machine.
For the rest of the day we occupied ourselves with trying to make our telephones work in the US. We’d be told to go Verizon, but a long walk to the Verizon shop yielded only the information that our GSM-based phones wouldn’t work with Verizon’s CDMA-based network. So we walked the mile or so back to the hotel, had a bit of a rest and set out to walk to the couple of miles to the AT&T shop which we’d been told could help. And it did, except that Pterodactyl discovered his phone was locked to the network in Australia. He then had to make a phone call or two and we had to find an Apple Shop in order to unlock the thing. Before we got back to the hotel I’d had my first two experiences of Uber, both good.
A quick march down the road to the Baraonda Café Italiano for what I recall was an excellent meal, a beer or two, more red wine, and it was the end of day 3.
24 May
[url=https://www.google.com/maps/d/edit?mid=z5L5SB6CRw2M.kb_qDXpYoY7I&usp=sharing]
I walked down the air bridge, tired but pleased to be getting onto the next leg of the journey. Officials were searching passengers’ luggage, but I thought little of it. Until it was my turn. Due to a conversation or two with Elipten on the CB1100 Forum, I was carrying a bottle of Bundaberg Overproof Rum. I hasten to add there was nothing secretive about the way I was carrying: it was in a sealed plastic bag swinging gently from one hand. I was directed to a table.
“What is that?”
“Bundaberg’s finest rum.”
“Where did you buy it?”
“Brisbane, Australia.”
“You can’t take it on the plane.”
“Why not? I was told in Brisbane there would be no problem.”
“The US Government does not allow you to carry more than 100 mls of liquid in your hand luggage.”
“But it’s all sealed up and in a duty-free package.”
“Sorry. It is not our requirement. The US Government will not allow you to take it on the plane. We have no choice but to take it away.”
Bye-bye Bundy.
The trip from my home 130 kilometres north of Brisbane had ended with a pleasant surprise.I’d spent the last part of the afternoon with my three sons, the partner of one; my stepdaughter, her partner and their baby; and another friend (Erika, occasionally mentioned in Seat Time reports) and her brother. One son lives in Brisbane, another was in town for a conference and the third had flown to Brisbane to surprise me. He did.
They took me barefoot bowling (an Australian trick to lure fee paying youngsters into lawn bowling), out to dinner and then delivered me to the airport. All in honour of the birthday that would occur three days later. It was a much more agreeable afternoon and evening than I’d expected.
At 0050 on 24 May, my flight to Atlanta via Hong Kong and Los Angeles took off. Due to one of those curious events that involve the International Date Line I arrived in Atlanta at 1735 on the same day. The curious bit was that I’d travelled for more than 30 hours, watched a few movies and not slept much. It was no surprise I had a slight feeling of dislocation when I arrived. Still, I had enough of my wits about me to find a shop selling beer and take note of the bar across the road.
I’d nearly succumbed to sleep when there was a knock on the door. Wearily I dragged myself out of the chair and opened it. There, wheeling an enormous suitcase, stood Pterodactyl.
“G’day,” I said, “Beer?”
“Bloody oath,” he said.
I showed him to his room and went to fetch us a beer.
There is a certain inevitably about the way one beer with Pterodactyl leads to another. This evening was no exception. It then led to a trip across the street to the Publik Draft House, a pleasing craft beer establishment. Sadly, the kitchen there was not working to expectations and we had to make do with beer, snacks and an acceptable Californian Zinfandel. Sleep came easily and lasted rather longer than usual.
Day 2—Atlanta
25 May
The once grand Georgian Terrace Hotel, opposite the Fox Theatre in Atlanta, was showing its age a little, although signs apologised for ay inconvenience caused by renovations. The grand two-bedroom suite in which we found ourselves, though, was well appointed and comfortable. It had been found for us on the Internet by Mrs Pterodactyl whose accommodation search capacities came highly recommended. Deservedly so. Even better than the grandness, for a pair of mildly stingy Aussies, was the price tag. So Mrs Pterodactyl has been promoted to the status of ‘legend’ as an accommodation finder.
It was to be our base for a day or two while we sorted out some jet lag and prepared ourselves for our next adventure: riding to the inaugural CB1100Forum.com gathering near Robbinsville, North Carolina. I felt a certain satisfaction in having made it. In early 2014, I had a tentative plan to spend my 60th birthday in New York City, a place I’d never been. Actually, I still haven’t. When the rally was first mooted, the timing was such that I’d wondered if I could attend. I mentioned it casually to Pterodactyl one day and the next thing I knew we were booking bikes and accommodation at the Iron Horse Motorcycle Lodge. The NYC trip had gone pear shaped for other reasons, but here we were in Atlanta.
As I stumbled round in the morning, I made my first local discovery of differences between Australia and America: there are no facilities for a bloke easily to make a cup of tea. There was a nifty gizmo for making coffee, but nothing in which to boil water. I was too tired to figure it.
By the time we got downstairs breakfast was done and dusted in the hotel dining room and croissants in the attached coffee shop didn’t seem substantial enough. We went in search of a café. It was Memorial Day so that turned out to be mildly tricky, but we found the Broadway Diner over the road. This 24-hour establishment had a sign in small print apologising for no longer being open 24 hours. I was not surprised: there was one other person in the place.
Later we walked the deserted streets of downtown Atlanta, hoping to find some activity. Other than a feminist rally in Woodruff Park, and the odd beggar, there was not a great deal happening. A man walking past said, “Y’all looking for something to do? Won’t find anything much on Memorial Day.” It didn’t matter; we’d had a walk which is one of the prescriptions for jet lag and a desultory afternoon in the hotel further helped to repair our depleted beings.
The Publik Draft House being closed, we took beer and dinner on the terrace at the hotel overlooking the historic Fox Theatre. Sadly, perhaps, there was nothing on there, but the future offered a veritable explosion of blasts from the past—the B52s, Culture Club, Anthony Bourdain and the legendary Brian Wilson. While Sesame Street Live mightn’t rank as a must see, some of the other acts made it a pity not to be staying longer. As we ate it rained and thundered, a good omen for a motorcycle ride.
Day 3—Atlanta
26 May
It was my 60th birthday and home seemed a long way. When I woke, I tormented myself wondering when my birthday had actually started given the time at home was 14 hours ahead. I was in no fit state to figure it; and I still couldn't figure out how to make a cup of tea. To give you an idea of the extent of my discombobulation, the suite had a kitchen. The kitchen had a stove and, tucked away in a cupboard was a saucepan. See? Not hard: remove saucepan from cupboard, fill with water, switch on stove element, bring water to boil, add to cup and tea bag. Allow to steep. Drink. I’m pleased to report I figured it out the next morning.
Pterodactyl and I made our way again to the Broadway Diner. If possible it was even quieter and they’d run out of cappuccino. I still don’t know how you can do that. I think there was no-one there who knew how to work the machine.
For the rest of the day we occupied ourselves with trying to make our telephones work in the US. We’d be told to go Verizon, but a long walk to the Verizon shop yielded only the information that our GSM-based phones wouldn’t work with Verizon’s CDMA-based network. So we walked the mile or so back to the hotel, had a bit of a rest and set out to walk to the couple of miles to the AT&T shop which we’d been told could help. And it did, except that Pterodactyl discovered his phone was locked to the network in Australia. He then had to make a phone call or two and we had to find an Apple Shop in order to unlock the thing. Before we got back to the hotel I’d had my first two experiences of Uber, both good.
A quick march down the road to the Baraonda Café Italiano for what I recall was an excellent meal, a beer or two, more red wine, and it was the end of day 3.
