1.11pm. Saturday 7th January 2012. Heathrow Airport, London, England.
Three weeks – mixed between work and pleasure – seems to have on one hand flown by, but it also seems like an age since I was in LA. An odd time distortion that seems to be based in familiarity, with both LA and Essex/London regarded as 'home'. During my time back in the UK, I managed to catch up with family and friends, work from the UK office, meet with business contacts, eat as many UK-centric foods as possible and develop a throat infection that was my first illness in a long time – to be attributed in part to the cold weather, but mainly on the repeated use of London's tube. Everyone at the Witham office also seemed to be suffering from some degree of winter sickness, while every trip on the underground was accompanied by muliple passengers' coughs and sneezes – making me even more thankful for the perpetual sunshine of Southern California.

I also fell out with London. The hotel I stayed in was of a supposed high quality, with a good location and had been recently refurbished to a high standard, but after being kept awake all night by an insane reverberation, the customer service was distinctly lacking – refusing to even comp the minimal bar bill of £11.50 despite having paid over £100 for the night's stay. Of course, when Expedia asked me to review the hotel, I did exactly that...

Unfortunaltey, the next morning was made all the more frustrating by expensive coffee that tasted of water, rude service at breakfast with an incorrect order, and an underground travel card that's doubled in price in recent memory – leaving London and me barely on speaking terms. However, she redeemed herself with the London Eye and its panoramic city views, so engaging that I'd happily queue in the cold for another 90 minutes for a repeat showing. I'd 'flown' before – about a decade ago – and in that time, the Eye has lost none of its appeal, with Christmas queues snaking around the visitor centre with many hundreds of enthusiastic passengers. It was impressive to see, I just wish the Italian family behind us had any idea of personal space and wouldn't use me as their only means of stopping as the queue wandered in fits and starts towards the gantry. It seems simple enough – you see the person in front of you come to a halt, so you stop walking before colliding with them, or maybe I'm just a perfectionist?
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3.22pm. Thursday 29th December 2011. The London Eye, London, England.
Ok London, maybe we can be friends, but that's it.
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10.01am. Thursday 29th December 2011. Tower Hill, London, England.
Fuck you London, I'm breaking up with you – I'm tired of your ways, you're a drain and I'm better off without you. It's nothing new, we've both seen it coming, but now we just have to face facts: we don't like each other any more.
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11.30pm. Wednesday 28th December 2011. Mercure London Bloomsbury Hotel, London, England.
I've noticed London is cold in so many ways aside from temperature, ways that maybe before I didn't see but are now forcefully apparent.
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1.23pm. Sunday 18th December 2011. Basildon, Essex, England.
Ignorance is aplenty, as a Christmas shopper attempts to ridicule a Big Issue seller by repeatedly calling for "...a smawl issu, d'ya 'ave a smawl issu, I don' wan' a big wun, jus' a smawl wun..." and chuckling loudly to himself. The only person that's looking stupid is the knuckle-dragging shopper, and I'm left to question whether this fuckwit could read any issue, big or small.

Maybe I'm just irritable today, jetlagged or in a slight cold-shock with the British weather, but for a second I fantasise about being a more violent person and crushing the knuckle-dragger's head into the unforgiving, wet, concrete slabs that make up the floor of Basildon's town centre. Instead, I opt to buy the Big Issue and pass it on to my buddies in the pub, hoping they'll return on their own to buy more editions over the coming weeks. Not exactly a problem-solving action, but certainly better than the other options.
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3.35pm. Friday 16th December 2011. LAX, Los Angeles, California, USA.
Sitting and waiting to board, the gate attendent repeatedly calls for various passengers to make themselves known... and each name sounds fake, glorious in their aural bouquet, like characters from a Dickens novel, names that are as much a description as they are a title to be referenced by.
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3.33pm. Sunday 4th December 2011. Culver City, Los Angeles, California, USA.
Note to self: when your new landlord phones to approve access to your apartment to fix a leaky bath tap, the ideal reply isn't "Sure, you can go in – I've hidden all the dead hookers".
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12.48pm. Friday 2nd December 2011. Manhattan Beach, Los Angeles, California, USA.
So, Karen Jennings, a union representative from Unison (see footage) likens Jeremy Clarkson to Muammer Gaddafi, claiming public sector protesters may be frightened because of his comments... really? They actually thought they may get shot? If they're that dumb, maybe they should be. To compare Clarkson – a TV presenter – to Gaddafi, a well documented, murderous, tyrannical crackpot, is insane – and insulting – to the highest degree. Maybe she should be first in the firing line, she's obviously a waste of carbon.
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5.52pm. Saturday 26th November 2011. Hotel Bijou, San Francisco, California, USA.
Yesterday, the streets of San Francisco were filled with Black Friday shoppers and Occupy protesters, with the shoppers lapping up the post-Thanksgiving bargains and ignoring the Occupy anti-corporate greed sentiment. With a decent message – how the banks and mega-corporations have caused global meltdown – the draw of 50% reductions still proved to be too enticing for the majority, and the protest might have been better organised rather than irritating the very people the protesters were trying to appeal to.

Unfortunately for the protesters, they seemed to have only recruited the standard crusties, found in Camden, Venice Beach, Haight Ashbury and a string of similar boho neighbourhoods across the West, somewhat diluting the message and limiting their mass-appeal. None of the reported violence seen in other cities was evident in San Francisco and the day passed somewhat peacefully, which certainly wasn't the case as other Police departments were reportedly heavy-handed...
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5.33pm. Thursday 24th November 2011. Lake Elsinore, California, USA.
My third Thanksgiving, and each one has been as warm and welcoming as the last, each one showing the kindest side of people and pure, human hospitality. This year, a wonderful Hawaiian lady called Mamma P cooked a huge feast for her massive extended family and a cluster of friends, some of which – myself included – were complete strangers. But with such open arms, no one was a stranger for long.
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6.43am. Saturday 19th November 2011. Hato International Airport, Curaçao, Netherlands Antilles.
I arrived this morning to the quietest airport I'd ever seen – there were eleven people including staff in Curaçao's small, functional, single terminal. Open sided, neatly painted but with the air of a shopping precint, various cheeping crickets and calling birds provided a soundtrack to the early morning checking-in process.

Yesterday I ventured North with my hosts, past the large national park, with its lush, green, steep hillside and to an area less infected by the scattered building styles seen further South, nearer Willemstad. Seeing a more peaceful, natural side to the island temporarily put away any thought of the tensions I'd been witnessing and allowed us to see beauty in the landscape, the powerful ocean and the waves that crashed into Boka Tabla – a section of the national park that allowed us to walk across a lunar landscape of ancient volcanic rock, to the waterfront and the caves that had been cut into the cliff face. Refreshing, beautiful and powerful as the boom of the ocean echoed around the slippery caves, we could then settle in a quiet bay for dinner as the sun set – to also provide a mixed gourmet meal for the mosquitos that have been as much a part of this trip as the blazing sun has.
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11.49am. Friday 18th November 2011. Willemstad (Punda), Curaçao, Netherlands Antilles.
The skies are about to open and unleash a powerful rain storm, the kind that also filled my first full day on the island. The weather passes quickly though, and the clouds soon dissipate to the point where you can actually see them wring themselves dry. The temperature doesn't drop though, so any soaking you may receive is short lived and not particularly uncomfortable – I actually spent the first of these downpours in the pool, it just didn't seem worth getting out to watch from the sidelines!

The people can be as mixed as the stormy days, as multiple colonial influences show themselves across Curaçao's tiny population. There are some obvious racial tensions, with the Dutch provoking the anger with certain attitudes and policies. I've seem multiple Stop Dutch Apartied stickers, aimed at a new resort on the island that has made it policy to ban locals, and even worse, while chatting with a white Dutch barman a few nights ago, he happily dropped racial commentary into the conversation, even going as far as to use nigger as a descriptive. Somewhat taken aback at the young man's attitude – he's a Dutch national who's been on Curaçao for just two years – I let him continue in a documentary fashion, listening as he wavered between criticising various other nationalities (namely Morroccans) and standard bar talk. Not that I've experienced anything but friendliness and hospitality, but my Dutch friend has witnessed and been exposed to some rudeness from various quarters, with many locals being wary of anyone with a Dutch accent until they've proved themselves to be of a cosmopolitan nature.

Negativity aside, my particular hosts have been very welcoming, showing me around and enjoying some fine dining at a particularly idyllic beach front restaurant. I've also taken the time to ramble around solo, crossing between the capital Willemstad's two sides – Punda and Otrobanda, which are joined by the floating Queen Emma pontoon bridge, a local landmark that never seems to be in place to cross when I visit. The bridge opens to allow cruise ship and tanker traffic through, which is an odd sight in itself as these giant floating fortresses dwarf the local buildings and provide a daily, changeable, skyline. However, when the bridge is open, a shuttle boat runs between the two banks, making the crossing a simple and enjoyable one as locals and tourists alike make use of its walk-on service.
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11.30am. Wednesday 16th November 2011. Willemstad (Otrobanda), Curaçao, Netherlands Antilles.
To the soundtrack of a calypso cover of Michael Jackson's Iberian girl, I sit in a cafe with a latte, on my second day in this awkwardly vibrant place. The rich and poor separation is apparent everywhere, as shiny, new – some corporate, American owned – businesses sit next to tin shack domiciles. Willemstad – divided into two halves by its huge, twinkling bay – has an eclectic mix of brightly painted, distinctive Dutch architecture and run down concrete and steel boxes, which in most cases seem to house the locally owned businesses and markets. However, I'm currently in a 19th century fort, converted to a sun filled plaza, lined with restaurants and expensive shops aimed at the daily influx of cruise ship tourists. This particular spot may not be off the beaten track, but it has provided my first injection of coffee since my flight out of LA.
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4.24pm. Monday 14th November 2011. American Airline flight 939, the skies above Miami International Airport, Florida, USA.
Called in the last group to board my flight, I arrived at my seat to find an elderly Latino gentleman comfortably preparing for his journey. After mentioning that he was probably in my seat, he showed me the stub of his boarding pass, and he was quite correctly sat in 16F. The problem was, my boarding pass also proudly stated 16F, and therefore we had a problem... I fought my way like a salmon against the stream of passengers still boarding, stowing luggage and taking their time to sit, and found a flight attendant. After some discussion back near the old man, he was escorted off the plane amongst some hubbub between the crew and oncoming airport staff. He was meant to be on a flight to Santa Domingo in the Dominican Republic. However, this flight was bound for Curaçao in the Netherlands Antilles.

It leaves you somewhat speechless doesn't it?
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3.24pm. Monday 14th November 2011. Miami International Airport, Florida, USA.
Flying into Miami took me across a vast alien landscape, a sodden collage of green and brown that filled the aeroplane window and stretched as far as the eye could see. Florida's Everglades were somewhat mesmerising, cut up by occasional Roman-straight 'canals' of clear waterway transporting the odd boat, but essentially untouched and untamed. Finally, they gave way to an incospicuous international airport with a clockwork efficient skytrain system that whisked me to my connecting flight – which is where I sit now, at gate 42D with a diverse mix of people bound for the Caribbean.
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12.36pm. Sunday 13th November 2011. Culver City, Los Angeles, California, USA.
Los Angeles has been my home for over two years now – I celebrated in ghoulish fashion over the Halloween weekend. Covered in fake blood, toy chainsaw in hand, I partied with friends in Long Beach as we saw Zombie Walk 2011 – supposedly the largest gathering of zombies in the world. Somewhat less terrifying than it could have been, but fun nonetheless, the weekend was capped by attending EEK! At The Greek, a wonderful, hypnotic night of horror-themed music played by the Symphony In The Glen at LA's second outdoor amphitheatre. Less troublesome and smaller than the Hollywood Bowl, the Greek Theatre provided a great setting for some absorbing music, topped by a reading of Edgar Allen Poe's The Tell-tale Heart that had the entire audience hanging on every word, breath and gesture of a majestic performance.

October was also the month that I moved to new accomodation, slightly North to Culver City, a relaxed oasis of sorts in LA's sprawling, paved jungle. Within walking distance of my new apartment is downtown Culver, with a host of bars, restaurants, coffee shops and the historic Culver Hotel, which hosted the cast of The Wizard Of Oz during filming. Of course, plenty has changed locally since 1939, but Sony Studios is plainly visible from my window and this really highlights the way LA treats the film industry – exactly that, an industry. Detroit makes cars, LA makes films, it's as simple as that. I have friends that work within the film business, and they all treat it in a very un-pretentious way – which is why I recently attended a pre-release movie screening with the director and cast at Paramount Studios, and exactly why no one was bothered by seeing Hilary Swank in the resturant last night.

As for last night's entertainment? The awesome Brandt Bauer Frick (seen here with their ensemble), three Germans who've created a genre of classical-inspired techno music, which they played to a very appreciative – and eclectic – audience at Cal State University's deserted campus. Looking as though they'd just stepped out of the library, the so-uncool-they're-cool trio played for exactly an hour, with two members seamlessly playing the same equipment, to the point where you'd almost say it was one person with four arms. Truly inspritational.
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2.14pm. Saturday 24th September 2011. American Airlines flight 2523, somewhere outside of Chicago, Illinois, USA.
The world's second tallest building was directly opposite my hotel, and finally – on my third trip to Chicago – I had time to make my way to the 103rd floor and its Skydeck. Surprisingly quiet, the visit didn't include the hours of waiting that I encountered on my time at New York's Empire State Building, and even if the view is from behind fully enclosing glass at all times, it's breathtaking. The obvious highlights are the booths that protrude from the West face of the building, allowing visitors to gaze down at the busy streets below. Hanging out by a mere 4 feet, the view radically changes as you step onto the glass floor, giving a real sense of perspective as cars move like ants, hundreds of stories directly below your feet and causing a degree of concern to those less comfortable with heights.
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1.21pm. Friday 23rd September 2011. Chicago, Illinois, USA.
After another hectic press pass scedule involving late flights, nightime drives across Illinois, little sleep and an early start on press – made earlier by the timezone change – I've made time for myself in Downtown Chicago. Leaving the budget upstate motel after last night's minimal 5 hour stay, I've booked a decent hotel in The Loop, directly opposite Willis Tower (formerly Sears Tower), and I'm about to Skype with my folks back in the UK before heading out for some much needed lunch.
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3.45pm. Saturday 17th September 2011. Long Beach, California, USA.
I'm actively seeking creation and inspiration, and I'm feeling the need to bring more to the table than I have over recent months. As part of this, I've been digging deeper into the huge resource that is LA, and in particular I've been spending more time in areas that breed the kind of atmosphere I pick up on. The Arts District in Downtown LA, Abbot Kinney in Venice and large sections Long Beach have all been a larger part of my life recently and I'm feeling my creativity grow. I've always produced work of some description – from design, art, graffiti, music, ideas of global domination or sketchy doodles, I have a catalogue of work that has documented my life from a child to a man but has strangley slipped.

I know the reasons; I've been fully occupied with creating a new life in America, building new friendships, seeing new sights and focussing on a job that holds the key to my visa and financial stability. I've put a lot of time into work since I arrived, in particular I've averaged 11+ hours a day since taking my current role a year ago, and while I've achieved a lot and enjoyed the time in and out of the office, I now need to set some different goals for more balance.
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12.44pm. Sunday 11th September 2011. Hawthorne, Los Angeles, California, USA.
Ten years have passed since that fateful day that not only changed America, but the world as a whole, provoking foreign invasions, mass killings, paranoia, tightened global security, love, hatred and racism on a grand scale. Like most events of such magnitude, people remember where they were as they heard the news of the attacks and I can clearly recall the day as it unfolded, working in a design office in Basildon, Essex. Initially, as a colleague entered the studio and told us about the first plane, it sounded like someone had made a tragic mistake, but as time went on and news channels picked up on the story, it was apparent something huge was happening, unfolding on-screen like a disaster movie played in front of a global audience.

Everyone is now familiar with the events, the conspiracy theories, the lies, the truths and the way the world reacted, but my overriding memory of the day was the feeling that everything was an unknown. Airspace across the planet was closed down, there were seemingly new developments – both real and exaggerated – being broadcast almost hourly, and the UK went into lockdown. It truly felt as though we were all under attack – maybe due to media hype, maybe purely because of the scale of the stikes. Of course, America and New York in particular suffered huge losses of life which can only be described as horrific, all of which is better documented by people on the scene – and my memories have no place in their sphere. But, from distance the effect was still daunting, and it was certainly a day that will stick in the memory of anyone old enough to remember.

From a personal perspective, it'd been a turbulent year. My grandfather – and last living grandparent – had died a few months earlier, I'd broken up with my first love and was taking the initial real strides into a career, but trying desperately to build something bigger with three friends in the shape of the politicised musical project, Bad Side Effect. We had rehearsal on the night of the attacks, but I don't recall playing a single note. I'm sure we did, but I simply remember sitting in our Canvey Island studio discussing the day's events and how we'd all be affected from that point on. By the time we reached the studio in the late evening, the world had settled into a calmed state, news of fresh attacks had long since stopped but everything seemed sombre, reflective and I remember a similar feeling to that of hearing about the death of a relative. I'd never been to America at the time, but since moving here I've heard many recollections of how the country felt, how the nation was in mourning, and that the streets were distinctively quiet on the days after, the familiar American bustle, race and spirit was notably gone – albeit temporarily.
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2.53pm. Saturday 10th September 2011. Hawthorne, Los Angeles, California, USA.
A late summer heatwave has been the background setting to a formative few weeks. I've found a new apartment which will be my home base for the next year as I begin to put deeper roots into American soil, whilst going through the long process of applying for my Green Card. I've set the ball rolling, but it'll take time, effort, money and some luck to get to where I want to be – but it's not like that'll be much different to anything in life.

I'm also feeling a new desire for creativity, something I've neglected recently as life somehow got in the way. With this desire to add to my creative output, came the deluge of ideas that have always been part of my daily thought process, but because of a hectic work schedule and the time taken to fully relocate, this side of my persona had been strangely quiet. This blog had been one outlet and it will continue to serve as my own diarised account of life, but I will be picking up projects I'd left alone for far too long.

My new apartment will serve as a better creative space, with views across Sony Studios and with plenty of local stimulation, I'm understandably looking forward to picking up the keys on 1st October. Situated close to downtown Culver City, near a host of bars, restaurants and sights, it'll be a much more comfortable living space than Hawthorne, which is essentially the 'hood. I'm currently in a deprived area, with a soundtrack of sirens, crazies, cars and the occasional hum of the ghetto bird – LAPD's infamous helicopter. Aside from that, my new apartment will offer some genuine space and is somewhere I can really call home – my Hawthorne studio is really just a sweatbox that I've used to live in, there being a massive difference.

I'll sign off by leaving a link to something I've been particularly inspired by recently: Introdiction.
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11.20am. Saturday 20th August 2011. Hawthorne, Los Angeles, California, USA.
If what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, then the last month will have given me some degree of iron man-style brawn. With my personal and work life suffering from a large degree of turbulence, it's taken a toll but is all part of life's mixed journey. I'm actually very aware of how lucky I am, but everyone feels the hits when they come no matter how good their overall situation is. But the bigger picture is a good one...
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1.31pm. Thursday 4th August 2011. O'Hare International Airport, Chicago, Illinois, USA.
Hot, humid, vibrant and beautiful. I love Chicago, and even if this was a hectic trip I still managed to steal a few hours downtown last night. I might have to come back next month, if I'm lucky I'll be able to tag some time of my own onto the work schedule and see more, I may even finally get to a Cubs game. I'm sorry LA, you're beautiful, but I have a crush on Chicago.
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4.40pm. Wednesday 3rd August 2011. Metra Rail, Deerfield to Chicago, Illinois, USA.
Today went better than expected, especially considering my limited sleep. It's roasting hot in the greater Chicago area, and last night the plane circled around a huge lightning storm for about 40 minutes before being cleared to land. Seeing lightning at 'peer level' was an awesome sight, and I'm told today is fresher than yesterday because of it – if you call the low-thirties (plus humidity) fresh.
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5.52pm. Tuesday 2nd August 2011. Sky Harbor International Airport, Phoenix, Arizona, USA.
Temperature, 44ºC. Schedule, hectic. I arrive in Chicago at midnight, to drive an hour North to my hotel. In the morning, I drive a further hour West to the print facility for a 7.30am press check destined to be frustrating. My visit is more about fact-finding and chastising than colour standards, so tomorrow could be an even longer day than today.
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11.32pm. Thursday 28th July 2011. Hawthorne, Los Angeles, California, USA.
Theorizing that one could time travel within his own lifetime, Doctor Sam Beckett led an elite group of scientists into the desert to develop a top secret project, known as QUANTUM LEAP. Pressured to prove his theories or lose funding, Doctor Beckett, prematurely stepped into the Project Accelerator and vanished. He awoke to find himself in the past, suffering from partial amnesia and facing a mirror image that was not his own. Fortunately, contact with his own time was made through brainwave transmissions, with Al, the Project Observer, who appeared in the form of a hologram that only Doctor Beckett could see and hear. Trapped in the past, Doctor Beckett finds himself leaping from life to life, putting things right, that once went wrong and hoping each time, that his next leap will be the leap home.
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7.55pm. Sunday 24th July 2011. Hawthorne, Los Angeles, California, USA.
Today, I hurt someone who didn't deserve to be hurt. I have no doubt that Karen will be just fine, and as bad I feel about hurting her, I know that she's an amazing person that only deserves better.
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12.09am. Monday 6th June 2011. Hawthorne, Los Angeles, California, USA.
Earthquake!
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6.22pm. Wednesday 1st June 2011. Hawthorne, Los Angeles, California, USA.
Earlier today – at my second attempt – I passed my Californian driving test. Initially, in late April I failed by driving a little too normally, as opposed to approaching the test like an absolute beginner. I still maintain that the examiner was more concerned with procedure over driving ability, after all, I've been behind the wheel for ten years now and driving safely in the US for 13 months, and throughout that time I've seen and experienced some generally low standards on the roads of LA and beyond.

The amusing aspect of failing was the odd scenario of being able to legally drive away from the test centre with my UK licence intact, and a temporary Californian licence allowing me to go about my business as usual. I don't think the irony was picked up by the grumpy examiner, but I certainly managed to laugh about it all.

But today, the whole experience played out differently. My examiner was a cheery, bouyant New Yorker who immediatley understood the dynamic and difference between sitting with me for 20 minutes and testing a 16 year old who hasn't had any road experience. Admittedly, I ensured I drove in a more test-friendly manner, but the actual drive was relaxed as we chatted about my retro car, recent vacations and this ex-Military man only being willing to go into Mexico if he had a gun! He kept flipping out (to coin a phrase) over the touchscreen of my 1989 Buick and memorably snorted "That's some Matthew Broderick, Wargames-style shit, badass!" while going on to claim he was a retro-techno-geek. There is of course a chance that I was appointed the best possible examiner, but I think I'd have passed with flying colours without the help of my crazy car.
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4.28pm. Saturday 28th May 2011. Ajijic, Jalisco, Mexico.
Slightly on a whim – and once Karen finished work in Guadalajara – we decided to head South to the sleepy town of Ajijic, nestled next to Lake Chapala, part of what's known as the Chapala Riviera. A town with a population made from all of Mexico's mixed heritage, this area is also well stocked with American retirees, comparable to the British exodus to Spain's Costa Del Sol – but much sleepier. Narrow cobbled streets, brightly painted yet quaintly dishevelled buildings lead to a sun drenched plaza, a small pier that pokes into the lake and a host of small bars, restaurants and handicraft stores.

The town is home to many ragged dogs, running quietly around in their search for food, domesticated to integrate with people and take what leftovers are on offer, but free of leashes or a home to go to. However, since brunch, Karen has been carrying around a chunk of buttery toast and the last bite of a taco filled with shredded beef – if only the town dogs would trust her enough to come and eat it.
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5.03pm. Friday 27th May 2011. Bargüero (Fiesta Americana Grand), Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico.
Freshly showered, with a margarita, National Geographic, Oasis on VH2 and a hairdryer-warm breeze blowing into the bar. Result: ultimate relaxation.
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12.25pm. Friday 27th May 2011. Zapopan, Jalisco, Mexico.
My mission today was to take my usual Global Militant photo, simply a photo of me wearing a Militant tshirt in an interesting place. Zapopan seemed ideal, with a street named after Mexican militant Emiliano Zapata and a mural in the town hall depicting famous revolutionaries, what more could I ask? Well, the mural – amazing as it is – was in a darkened stairwell and the Zapata street signs are mounted too high to clearly include in the photo. I opted for a shot outside a building proclaiming the town's name in a Militant-esque font – which luckily a helpful local took for me after she'd seen my many attempts with the self-timer and 'long arms' method.

Incidentally, today is so hot that the metal benches are barely touchable.
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1.00pm. Thursday 26th May 2011. Tlaquepaque, Jalisco, Mexico.
The handicraft laden Tlaquepaque is friendlier and more relaxed than downtown Guadalajara. Yesterday, sketchiness seemed to surround the central plazas and the streets were interesting but edgy – today, a casual air is predominant, maybe because the entire town centre is geared for tourists, or maybe this is more typical?

But, in both Guadalajara and Tlaquepaque I've heard background calls of "Heeey, white boy" from groups of young machismo fuelled men as I've passed – although yesterday's surroundings made any heckling a touch more threatening.

Given that, the police presence here is noteworthy. Steeped in crime and corruption, Mexico is viewed by the majority as dangerous, if not only for the drug cartels that make the northern border with the US so inhospitable. Guadalajara is much further South, but the police are ever present, usually seen in pick-up trucks that have the flat-bed back fitted with rear facing seats, normally occupied by patrolmen brandishing surprisingly heavy artillery. But, in the centre of Tlaquepaque, the police ride mountain bikes, a noticeable difference from the militaristic approach everywhere else, again pointing to the different atmosphere and relative safety of the town.

After taking in many of the sights, today's lunch was the local delicacy birria – goat soup – washed down with a Corona, while watching a repeat of a recent testimonial match between Manchester Utd and Juventus. A good way to enjoy vacation time before more sightseeing in the blistering heat and another frantic taxi ride back to the hotel.
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1.03pm. Wednesday 25th May 2011. Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico.
Wandering some of the streets in downtown Guadalajara, I've ensured I've kept to myself and travelled responsibly. While not overtly threatening, as soon as you leave the boiling plazas, the backstreets close in and could become uncomfortable if the wrong people take note in the obvious stranger. Having said that, I opted to lunch in a bustling marketplace, filled with locals, cheap food, jostling, bargaining and a waiter seemingly surprised to see a solo traveller.
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11.39am. Wednesday 25th May 2011. Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico.
My Spanish isn't what it was – my Mexican Spanish is even worse – but I'm hoping my ear will adjust soon enough.

So far, Guadalajara fits my expectations; it has a mix of cultures and influences, a ragged, distressed beauty and it doesn't feel like anywhere I've been before. The weather is hot, but a decent breeze is winding it's way through the streets, creating a deceiving coolness in the sun's strongest hour – unless you stand in the middle of one of the many plazas, where it's hot enough to melt rubber.
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9.00am. Thursday 19th May 2011. Stockton, California, USA.
I've just been shown around the print site by possibly the quirkiest CEO I've ever met. Covering multiple buildings across three blocks of an edgier part of Stockton, my host was good company after yesterday's long drive and solo motel living.

An engaging lady in her early 60s, Mrs Gassner admittedly gave me the sales pitch but bought me coffee and donuts, chatted about labels, printing, baseball and family before waxing lyrical about how happy she was that her new office has a restroom! I seemed to miss something that might have been mildly 'old person racist' because of the machinery noise, but maybe I misheard?
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5.00am. Thursday 19th May 2011. Rodeway Inn, Stockton, California, USA.
I could have really done without the train horns blasting every thirty seconds, but I'm in the sketchier part of town, next to a railway crossing and in a somewhat budget motel so there had to be something.
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12.00pm. Monday 2nd May 2011. El Segundo, Los Angeles, California, USA.
Last night the news broke globally that Osama Bin Laden had been killed by US forces inside Pakistan, ending a near decade-long search for the world's poster boy for terrorism. I agree that justice needs to be served, but a better situation would be similar to Saddam Hussein's trial by his own courts – admittedly, something that would be impossible to implement in Bin Laden's case. Whether or not he has been captured, killed or set up in Nebraska with a clean shaven new look and fake ID, this issue now asks more questions than it answers.

As widely reported, the death of such a high profile extremist now fans the flames of his followers and makes revenge attacks all the more likely – these are now very dangerous times for the military, embassies, travellers and anyone with a respect for global safety. This is not to say that seeking him out was wrong, but as always, huge media coverage has dirtied the waters and will provide more ammunition for violent extremists to use against the world's sane, peaceful community.

The scenes outside the White House on Sunday night were no different to global footage where allied troops from many countries have been captured and killed in hostile territory. Only instead of bare-chested, dark-skinned kids with guns, it was white kids in college sweaters celebrating as though their team had won the Superbowl. It was ugly, stupid, dangerous and offensive, doing little to change the world's view of America – and I'm sure it did little to quell the emotions of survivors and families of victims of Bin Laden's atrocities.

A more solemn approach would have been more suitable, death should never be something to celebrate even if a certain justice is. Let's not forget that Bin Laden was trained and armed by America in the same way that the UK and US supplied 'machine tools' to Saddam Hussein for many years, a process that has bitten us all very hard. But will it prevent global powers trying to influence situations outside of their borders? No, because throughout Bin Laden's time fighting against the USSR, the US blindly aligned with him and his followers in an attempt to harm a supposed common foe. It wasn't really worth it was it?
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9.00am. Saturday 23rd April 2011. Los Angeles, California, USA.
I'd like to mention that today is officially St. George's Day.

As I'm sure you'll know, St. George is the English Patron Saint. He made a name for himself by generally scooting 'round England on horseback and killing dragons – who were a major problem in the English West Country at the time.

As you'll see in the actual photo of George (above left), he was a pretty fearsome warrior, his motto was "Saint George don't care, Saint George don't give a shit" which was recently parodied in a YouTube video featuring a honey badger. In fact, George kicked so much dragon-butt, they even invented Lego to honour him.

There were also rumours that George may have been Turkish and never even visited Swindon, but to combat the old raggamuffin Patrick who was adopted by the Irish, people of Irish decent or anyone who's ever met an Irish person, the English like to stand by George and claim him as one of our own. He stands for the greatest things in English society; chips, steam pudding, rainy Saturdays and putting up with terrible service. In his honour, we meekly accept sodas with only one ice cube – because George could put up with fire breathing dragons.

And for that good sir, we celebrate thy name.
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5.35pm. Saturday 16th April 2011. Nashville International Airport, Nashville, Tennessee, USA.
And there's no record of my connecting flight?
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3.56pm. Saturday 16th April 2011. Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, Atlanta, Georgia, USA.
The view from above shows Atlanta to be a lot more lush and green than I'd have expected. With what seemed to be a relatively small high-rise downtown area, thick green trees covered the rest of the landscape and surrounded small pockets of suburban homes. Who knew?

A quick rush across the airport leads to a small but insanely busy gate, barely giving me time to find where I need to be before boarding begins. Everyone has a strong Southern accent, and there's large gentleman who's somewhat loud and brash – I'm hoping we're not seated together. Sure, that's unfair – but who wouldn't think the same?
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11.05am. Saturday 16th April 2011. Greater Rochester International Airport, Rochester, New York, USA.
With a coffee and some Faithless, I'm a little less grouchy. Especially as the car rental people didn't question the damaged driver's door – made when a very apologetic young lady lost control of a full shopping cart and it slammed into my Nissan. Still, she was lucky, if the car hadn't been a rental, it'd have been expensive!
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10.33am. Saturday 16th April 2011. Greater Rochester International Airport, Rochester, New York, USA.
Today's going to be a long day of waiting. It'll take longer to get to LA from here than it normally does to fly between Heathrow and LAX. Twinned with a frustrating trip and an irritating hotel, I'm about ready to get back to normality.
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11.45am. Thursday 14th April 2011. Highway 104, Webster, New York, USA.
The New York State speed limit is 55mph. How do I know this? Because an officer just gave me a ticket for going, ummm, a little over. After seeing my UK licence, he recommended I use the ticket for wallpaper...
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12.24pm. Wednesday 13th April 2011. Berry Plastics, Macedon, New York, USA.
Earlier than expected but later than planned, these jobs are now about to start printing. I'll be sat in a conference room for the bulk of the day, checking emails and doing whatever I can to keep busy in the down time, ready for the approval process as and when samples are brought through to me.

Luckily, I was able to meet up with a friend last night who'd spent some time in California, working with Karen for a chunk of 2009. Gianna had visited LA since my arrival, so it was fortunate that she's based in Rochester and was able to meet up for dinner. With the trip being extended and my outbound flights now on Saturday rather than today, it was good to take the work-face off and relax, especially as the next two days will be long, with plenty of time on site at all kinds of odd hours.
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4.14pm. Monday 11th April 2011. Super 8 Motel, Webster, New York, USA.
This job is turning into a clusterfuck. After receiving a call last night telling me not to leave California as there'd been delays at the printer, it turns out that I may be here all week. It's good to be on site to see the image issues rectified, but it'll be a long, slow process and I need to start moving flights and extending my hotel stay. I've already had to go and buy more shirts, as I'd only packed for one day at the printer's premises and I doubt that a Militant tshirt gives the right impression.
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1.15pm. Sunday 10th April 2011. Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada.
With modern technology being what it is, I've just been able to Skype from my phone back to the UK, sharing the experience with family and friends thousands of miles away.

I felt like I was living inside an Apple commercial.
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1.02pm. Sunday 10th April 2011. Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada.
I see why people flock here. It's amazing. Despite the patches of heavy mist, the views are awesome and the noise if the water's gush is supremely powerful.
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10.38pm. Saturday 9th April 2011. Super 8 Motel, Webster, New York, USA.
Arriving at Rochester airport gave me my first view of Nigara Falls; as the plane came in to land the open landscape was spread out in front of me as far as the eye could see, with the Great Lakes looking like oceans even from this height.

After picking up my hire car, it felt like I was driving through England, the landscape, colours and foliage were all very familiar and even the driving style was more English than Californian.

The accommodation is functional, but the one staff member I've seen at the front desk could do with a crash course in customer service and there's also an odd garlic smell filling some of the hallways, but in general it's tidy and efficient enough for this trip.
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2.00pm. Saturday 9th April 2011. Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport, Minnesota, USA.
I left LA in the early morning sunshine, but came in to Minneapolis to see frozen lakes and trees stripped of their greenery. A not-so-subtle reminder that other parts of the world have 'real' winters, even if I live in the perpetual sunshine of SoCal.