In 1993, after I had started going out with my wife Kay, I went to the US for three weeks - to visit my sister Sarah and in Palo Alto, and to attend the 1993 World Science Fiction Convention, ConFrancisco, conveniently located just up the road in San Francisco. I took some time whilst in the U.S. to jot down a few random observations on life in California as I experienced it. Although not science fiction in the literal sense, I hope these notes will show that life in the US has, at least, a strong component of magic realism.

• Palo Alto has no corner stores. A man could die of dehydration between places he can get something to drink. This man nearly did.

• Bizarre bathware: plugs don't exist as separate entities. My sister's bath works like this: there is a shower above the bath. There are three fittings in a line. Those on the outside are the hot and cold taps—no problem there. In the middle is a selector, which can be turned to make the water flow either out of the taps, for a bath, or up to the showerhead. In fact, I suspect, you could have both if you wished. As for the plug, there isn't one; instead, there's another wee fitting which closes or opens the outlet pipe. The last time I ran a bath, I duly turned the middle fitting to 'bath', then watched as the water ran in—thinking that it wasn't going in very quickly. Eventually, I decided enough was enough, and turned the taps off, only to find that I'd left the outlet pipe open, and water had been pouring out almost—but not quite—as fast as it ran in.

• It isn't that difficult to get used to being driven in a vehicle that's on the RHS of the road; the difficult thing is remembering which way to look when crossing the roads.

• Rapid accumulation of 1c bits: it takes so long to amass these into a useful quantity that you're probably better off just throwing them away. If a country is going to retain such small change, then I say, let's have 2¢ bits as well. Also, although nickels (5¢) do exist, nobody seems to use them, and they're bigger than the dimes (10¢ bits). Very confusing. The sooner they introduce $1 and $2 coins here, the better. I have no patience with those nattering nabobs of negativism who'd rather stick with notes. [Note: New Zealand has since introduced $1 and $2 coins]

• Many prices are high here in California. I had an icecream today (admittedly, a fancy one), and it cost US $1.75—that's about $3.15 in NZD. Nice, though!

• TV channels: the most interesting is the Spanish-language one, because it shows soccer (World U-17 Championship in Japan), has an announcer who screams 'Goooooooooaaaaallllllll'! at appropriate moments, and shows Mexican ska bands. Plus you get to learn Spanish e.g. 'pelota' = 'ball'.

• Why are Americans so obsessed with late-night talk show hosts? The current US edition of TIME features David Letterman, who's about to take over some famous show—the former Johnny Carson show, or something—and every night at least ten minutes of the 10pm news shows on the various network-affiliated channels (usually the last ten minutes) is devoted to Chevy Chase, or Jay Leno, or Ramblin' Sid Rumpo, or whichever other male is the latest pretender to the late-night crown. My question: who gives a toss? Not I!

• Talking of late-night TV, after watching what appears to be the only intelligent current affirs show on US TV, the MacNeil-Lehrer News Hour, I concluded the evening's entertainment with a quick sweep of the dozen or so channels still operating at that time of the night (1.30am—you have to be determined to catch up with MacNeil-Lehrer). Push the button: terrible late '70s film. Push: give-us-money-or-our-channel-will-vanish. Push: hey, isn't that Crowded House? It is Crowded House! Heart goes pitter-patter, pitter-patter. A surge of national pride/is welling up inside/of me (Blam Blam Blam). They're performing 'Chocolate Cake' off the Woodface album, and there's Tim Finn! 'Thoughts fly one after another', as the Russians say; wild thoughts of Crowded House reverting to a foursome. Things have been going on, And nobody's told me! Anyway, they finish playing 'Chocolate Cake' (on which the regular foursome is joined by various dubious session-muso types), and the camera turns to David Letterman, who says 'Crowded House. Nice boys. From down under?,' he asks his musical director. The musical director, who looks a lot like Ray Cooper, who used to be Elton John's percussionist, not that I'm an Elton John fan of course, puts his thumb up. David Letterman looks pleased at his own erudition, and for want of something better to do says 'Nice boys' again.

And I think of poor Tim Finn, a musician for more than twenty years, survivor of relationships with Phil Judd on the one hand and Greta Scacchi on the other, in his forties, and yet to David Letterman he's just a nice boy from Down Under. Ah, fame, you fleeting thing. Where are the snows of autumn?

• Mind you, my personal experience of Americans, here in the leafy, rich, and comparatively quiet streets of Palo Alto (you catch my subtext here?-nearly everyone's white), is that they know where New Zealand is and are interested in finding out about it. Two easy ways to let Americans know you're not an American:

By either means, you may strike up a conversation with shop assistants, fellow passengers on buses, etc. No-one has said 'isn't that part of Australia?' or 'isn't that somewhere in Holland?'; however, one woman greeted the news of my state of origin with the comment 'escaping from the snow, huh?' It transpired that some relatives of hers (and here a methodological interlude: I'm not actually sure which relatives — they might have been her daughter and son-in-law, might have been her brother and sister-in-law. I'm going to assume it was her daughter and son-in-law, but I just want you to know that, beneath the placid surface of the narrative, small uncertainties bubble, rather like a modern physicists's view of the nature of space, in which seemingly empty space is in reality a seething froth of short-lived virtual particles. Besides, you may meet these people someday. It could be important. Now read on.) — some relatives of hers were planning a holiday in New Zealand, but, because they were teachers, they could only travel in the US summer, and hence in the New Zealand winter, and they feared that the country would be covered in snow. You know, it's kind of the same fear that Aucklanders have about visiting Dunedin.

I reassured her that, even in the dreadful winters we had in 1991 and 1992, snow only reached sea level a couple of times in Dunedin each winter, and by the time she left the bus she seemed convinced that her dears could visit the country without the white wolves waiting to rip them in two the moment they stepped into the airport lounge. So, more tourist dollars for NZ! Maybe I'll get an award from the Tourism Minister—the John Banks Official In-flight Cellphone, that sort of thing.

• In William Gibson's latest novel, Virtual Light, set in 2005, New Zealand has been occupied by Japanese peacekeeping forces, due to the actions of the South Island Revolutionary Movement. Makes you think, dunnit?

• Did you know that the US and Canada have recently played their first-ever rugby league test match? First they play rugby, now rugby league. Is nothing sacred? (Incidentally, the US won easily.)

• What is this love-of-country stuff, anyhow? The longest I've been overseas is five weeks (to the UK in 1989), but even in that time, when I was discovering my roots (I was born in Grimsby, Lincolnshire, and moved to New Zealand when I was two), I felt more positive about New Zealand than I usually do when I'm back there. I mean, I loathe John Banks, but mentioning his name back there brought a mini-glow of mini-nostalgia to my heart—and as for Jim a.k.a. Ray Bolger, well, I could just kiss him. Is it simply a matter of preferring the devils one knows?

For me (warning: clouds of mysticism ahead), actually, it's the land. I don't get the same sense of nourishment from walking on the soil and the grass of other countries that I do from walking on the soil and grass of my own, and that goes double for the forests and the mountains. Even in the UK, where I was born, I didn't feel that sense of connection. And I miss the greenness of New Zealand; the literal greenness. My five weeks in the UK were in September and October, and I vividly remember the contrast between the lustreless haze that covered England and the brilliant green, so brilliant it hurt the unprepared eye, of springtime in Dunedin. "My country"— for all your faults — " ’tis of thee…"

• I took a break from writing these note and went into the living room to read the Sunday papers (some weighing more than small countries) and play some music. I made a point of playing Songs for Swinging Yuppies, a tape by a band, The Moomins, whose members included James Dignan and Evan McCarthy. I was very proud of myself for introducing The Moomins to a fellow member of a workshop I once attended, an introduction so successful that he bought a copy. Now I’ve introduced The Moomins to America. Sure, nobody but myself actually heard them play—my sister is out at some social function for members of her department—but the American air has been disturbed by the vibrations of their music, which is rather good guitar pop/rock, if I do say so myself. And one of the songs I played is about another friend of mine, and so information about her is also pulsing out through the late-afternoon air, here in Palo Alto. By such means, by talking loud in a Kiwi accent (Front Lawn), I attempt to inscribe myself on this alien landscape.

• Not that I am the first to do so. I knew that the Russians had colonised Alaska, but I didn't realise until I came here that they had left their marks on the landscape as far south as Northern California. San Francisco has its Russian Hill, and further north flows Russian River, which runs into the sea south of Mendocino. The Spanish influence is everywhere, in the names of the towns ('Palo Alto'=redwood) and in the Missions dotted about the place. Apart from occasional cultural centres, the native American influence isn't apparent to the casual visitor.

• Well, there isn't much sign of the Russians anymore, unless you count the first day covers of Mikhail Gorbachev's visit to Stanford in 1990 which the local post offices are still trying to flog off at $7 a pot; but the Spanish (or rather, their distant descendants) are everywhere; on the TV, in the streets — one frequently hears the language spoken — and, increasingly, in politics.

As for the Native Americans, I haven't been here long enough to offer any useful opinion. All I can proffer is the book I read on my way over, one which unashamedly broke two of my 'house rules': I don't read books set in shared universes, and (heaven forfend!) I don't read books set in role-playing-game universes. Well, this book was Never Deal with a Dragon, by Robert N. Charrette, Vol. 1 in the Secrets of Power series, and set in the Shadowrun universe. Shadowrun is a roleplaying game which friends of mine in Dunedin play; the premise is that, after 5000 years, magic returns to the earth in the early 21st century, restoring the ancient races—Elves, Orks, Trolls, and so forth. They emerge into a universe which, in all other significant respects, resembles that of William Gibson's Neuromancer: cyberspace, virtual reality, and all-powerful Japanese corporations: sort of Rising Sun for Japanophiles. the slogan for the game is 'Where Man Meets Magic and Machine', which, apart from exposing the lamentable sexism inherent in most role-playing games, or at least their designers, pretty much sums things up.

• Why am I telling you this? Because, in the Shadowrun universe, the Native Americans were among the first to take advantage of the magic's returning, and their Great Ghost Dance sweeps the later usurpers from large parts of the US. Meanwhile, I hear that an Indian band in Nevada are considering whether to allow the US to store nuclear waste on their territory, under a treaty they themselves will write. The Native Americans are there, on the margins, not easily seen. The United States, it seems to me, gets along on pretty much the principle President Clinton espoused to avoid the question, and the questioning, of gays in the military: don't say, don't ask, and don't pursue the matter. Sometimes, issues emerge far enough from this principle of denial that they start to have some serious attention paid to them: the deficit, for example, or violent crime, or AIDS. But then something is done, or at least appears to have been done, and the issue falls out of sight again. Native Americans never seem to rise above the surface here.

• Of course, I can't criticise the US for this without pointing out that our own society operates pretty much the same way.

• Shop assistants here generally leave you pretty much alone until you show some definite signs of wanting to make a purchase. One of my pet hates of shopping in New Zealand is shop assistants who won't let you browse for more than thirty seconds before they come up to you with 'Can I help you, madam/sir?' or the like. It wouldn't be so bad if they could be fobbed off with a simple 'Just looking, thanks', but no, as long as you're in the shop, they (presumably acting under orders) keep harrassing you. This isn't quite as bad as one shop I walked past in Melbourne in 1985, which had a loudspeaker facing out into the street, enticing hesitant shoppers with the immortal lines (delivered at top volume) 'No pressure! We won't hassle you!'

• It's possible, of course, that shop assistants in NZ are trained to be so pushy partially to limit the customer's opportunities for shoplifting. US stores tend to go for security cameras, which are under the operators' control; there's a case over here at present in which a former JC Penney store manager is suing the company because she alleges (and has the videotapes to prove it) that the security guards were more interested in using their camera's zoom facility to peer down her cleavage than in catching shoplifters. Security guards were also caught peering through peepholes into female changing rooms. I hope this is a case of 'Only in America'.

• People told me that San Francisco is like Wellington. On the evidence of one days' study, I don't really see the resemblance. Sausalito is like Oriental Bay, at least it looks that way from the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge, but when you get there it doesn't look that much like Wellington, either. I think I must be missing Kay.

Email me at timjones@actrix.co.nz

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