To…

To Lisa, for the care, the car, and the kindness. To our entire trip belonging to her.

To Ethan, who taught us how to score.

To Kazulio, an early bird and a night owl.

To Aaron and Isaac, atheist Judaism, World Cup updates, late nights and the biggest tour of the biggest city. To staying with us on the trip, and being there at the end. To the perfect bookends.

To Tofu Todd and the Mixed Nuts, the shots and long life advice.

To Ryan and his family, for the kindness, the breakfast and showing us the way.

To Sam and Steve, the whirlwind cameo of incompetence. To happy, crappy camping and ex-alcoholics who buy you beer.

To Jack for so patiently explaining what a ‘permat’ is.

To Leslie and Sam, for their big hearts and their even bigger meals. To the first taste of lobster, the world’s greatest steak, and a pile of pancakes so vast and intimidating that Gods would tremble at the thought of eating them.

To the cook-out, all its guests, and the cheap American ‘beer’ they saved us from. To the man from Lindt, and his big bag of chocolate.

To the acid-tripping nutcase on the subway in Boston. I hope the million yous never kill you with their face.

To Sam and Steve – again – just for surviving without us.

To Shaun for hosting two more couch surfers than he had cups.

To Heidi for undiscovered waterfalls, first dates, stuff in boxes, Cuban cigars and being just uncompromisingly kick-arse.

To Matt and cycling across countries.

To Joel, the bringing Brits-to-the-party tradition, and everything meeting him led to.

To D.C., the three times world champion party host, for everything, everything and everything again. Mainly for letting there be riff-raff all over the gaff.

To Mama Lita, for making it so hard to leave. To Mama Lita again, for making it so easy to come back.

To Yeti, for apple, blueberry frost, peaches and cream, and I think there were some more…

To Theatre Crisp. This is my tree.

((To Charles, for the kiss. – Alex.))

To Canada Day, and everyone that made it for us.

To Border Control, and all their questions.

To Ubuntu, the people who live there and everyone in between. To a group of people so interesting, unique and wonderful you could write a page on each of them. To roofs and dance parties, to food not bombs, to Independence Day and celebrating it the way it should be fucking celebrated.

To Heather for introducing us to Angela.

To Angela for introducing Alex to Mr Noodles.

To Dominic and whatever the hell is in Minneapolis, to hosting and showing us nothing, to veering suddenly across lanes of traffic. To whiskey and still making it home. To the next time we see him, the rainbow T-shirt he’ll be wearing, and his future right decision to get in the car.

To Wisconsin and their cash machine cop car ****s.

To Texan trucker Ed who picked up our tab and our spirits in a misty morning dinner. To cowboys that eat with their hats on.

To Linda and Lora Hawkins, our other mothers. For the food in our bellies, the roof over our heads, and the clothes on our backs. To calling in sick (it’s only the FBI, after all) and showing us they weren’t the only thing great in South Dakota.

To Eric, and the four people dressed like him driving around on the other side of the planet.

To Lisa, again, for letting us drive outside of the car. The right decision.

To all the bison in Yellowstone Park who didn’t charge. Thanks.

To cowboy hats and swapping price tags.

To Steph, still as legendary and Canadrunk as ever. To illuminous Mac’n'Cheese, to rocking the bus, and to going hard or going home.

To Ian, the interview we passed, and to Sicamous, one hundred times more on the map than before. To lakes and Lucas and back flips. To England.

To Jocelyn, the butter and the good times.

To Ben Jammin’ – THE gorilla – his mushroom philosophy, his former tent, monkey-holes and possibly the world’s greatest festival plan.

To Georgia and Adam, for ideas and amazing cake – we fucked up.

To Feival and Avelina, the world’s greatest dogs.

To the Orphanage, sandwich smashing and punching hippies in the throat.

To Janice and her lawn. To all-you-can-eat sushi. To Science Museums and learning nothing. To adapting to the pace of the Hammock Four. To checking up on us now and then. To her housemate, Mark, for clarifying exactly how to be a bellend.

To Luis and everything he led to; to his future Hat Shop tour. To Seattle, and the unbelievable Mexican hospitality that’s washed up on its beaches. To how cold the sea is, and Lucy’s epic face-plant on the run towards it.

To Miguel, the unexpected couch host. To his DUI, to missing his flight, and his perfect attitude towards both. To BUFFALO, O-LAY, O-LAY, O-LAY.

To Nickolas Star Castle One Feather, his name, his stories and his attitude; the bag of weed, the letters we know he’ll write, and the letters we’ll write back.

To couch surfing meet-ups, to friends and possibilities.

To Jay – our favorite racist.

To MJ and following the green canteen.

To Katie, for taking us in and sharing San Francisco. For hosting us against all odds. To New Orleans, yet to come.

Stu, Medicine Man,
For bringing them together,
All My Friends. To you.

To Benny, who’s got it figured out. To not having as much fun as he was having.

To Mari, someone special to go back for.

To MDMAndy.

To Sha, and kindness for kindness sake.

To Vegas, and whatever happened there, staying there.

To the Grand Canyon, and, equally, Separate Ways by Journey.

To James in Flagstaff, blind trust and leaving the porch light on.

To the Dallas couch surfing community, the reputation of Southern Hospitality and learning its all true.

To Odd Bob, ‘French chicken’, and not having unusual dreams.

To Cary, the greatest saviour you could ever ask for. To not listening to warnings but ending up where we should have been eventually. To the friends he shared, and pointing us forward with another friendly roof on the horizon. To THE greatest collection of coffee table books ever.

To Jana and Marco – the perfect couple – and one far too short night with them. To night swimming, beers by the pool, and piggy-in-the-middle. To the spirit of couch surfing and to Finland… one day… Please?

To Melonie the Melon. R.I.P.

To David, and the unexpected and greatest day of our trip. For making Texas the place to remember, and for the coolest photos of us in existence.

To Jim and Zee, their time and the infectious cowboy spirit.

To Midnight, Joe, Rhiada and Spongebob (Thunderbolt?)

To Glenn, altruistic entrepreneurship, Ring of Fire, the Austin night life. To rooms with locks and maids with keys.

To Amy, the Ultimate Planner, and her claiming us on the way. To hours of laughter, and igniting a desperate need to skydive. To indoor glo-golf, and sending us on our way with actual vitamins inside us.

To New Orleans, Europe in America. To moaning about the heat, to tackling bins, to singing in the street, to swapping clothes, to mardi gras beads, to saying ‘ONLY IN NAWLINS’ every ten seconds.

To Sarah, a couch surfer just as soon as she figures out the Internet. To her impressive stamina, and the party always (never?) ending on her roof.

To the just-released murderer in Pensacola who wanted to use our phone. Fuck, you’re scary.

To Karla, as impressive a drinker as she is a criminologist. To learning all about the American judicial system… just kidding, to $7 all-you-can-drink – MY GOD, ALL YOU CAN DRINK JUST $7. To work and back before we got up. To the massive success that was Dog of Fire.

To Drew and Sara, great hosts who gave us maybe more than they realise. To Tambourines. To dog bites. To the unmissable Ichetucknee river. And to Drew, again, for putting us on the path to Enlightenment.

To Pat, the greatest tour guide, boat operator, husband, grandad, dramatic leaper and human ever. To knowing that if you want to meet the nicest man alive, he will be in Wakula Springs, Florida, loving his job.

To the Virginia police: fuck you, I’m leaving the country.

To Francis, the greatest saviour at the latest hour. To a great guy with great stories. To mixers as soon as we arrived. Mostly, to the box of CDs that got us to New York, and all the paper-planes yet to fly from the 11th floors of the future.

To Lisa, again, and Colombian stories we could not compete with.

To Lucy for killing them with kindness.

To Alex for understanding the value of money.

To Andy for his constant capacity to surprise.

To everyone I’ve forgotten.

To everyone who has read the blog.

And, finally, to THE road trip song. Thanks everyone!

(Go fuck yourselves.)