This is real cowboy country

The OST - pull up a chair or sit on a saddle, whatever works for ya

On the main street of Bandera Texas, there's space for the cowboys to tie up their horses next to massive 4wds. The old men in town meet at the OST (Old Spanish Trail) everyday for coffee, biscuits and gravy, and to just 'shoot the shit'.

This place is hot, dry and harsh. Land is bought by the five-acre. Some people buy to keep the developers out, others to breed exotic animals that they can shoot. But most people just like the quiet, the solitude, and the spectacular sunsets. They also love George Dubya.

We're visiting old family friends, who have their own little five-acre plot with horses, pygmy goats, cats and dogs. There's even a couple of hummingbirds that come to visit each morning. They're not born and bred Texans, but they've got the cowboy spirit in their blood. And we get it. We're completely hooked.

Sunny, the pygmy goat

We've gorged on fajitas, had our first taste of grits, biscuits, and gravy and learned a little about Tex Mex history. We never knew that this part of the US was once Mexico. In fact, a whole lot of the area along the border was once Mexico. But the Mexicans couldn't convince anyone to move here - there were better places in Mexico to live. So the Mexicans advertised in Spain - they gave away land or almost gave it away, and eventually people came. They were happy living as Mexicans. They elected General Santa Ana as their new President and all seemed just fine until Santa Ana got a little overexcited. He trashed their constitution and set about establishing a his own little dictatorship, but the 'Texans' wouldn't buy it. They declared their independence and vowed to fight Santa Ana to the the death. In response, Santa Ana sent in 6000 troops. They didn't just defeat the 200 men defending the Alamo in San Antonio, they decimated them, killing everyone including Davy Crocket and the handful of men who responded to their call for back up.

Bandera, the home of the cowboy

Roadkill of a different kind

Since leaving New Orleans, we've seen dead alligators and raccoons on the side of the road. Carl even made his own little contribution, accidentally driving right over a snake on the outskirts of Houston. I gotta say it's nice to see some different roadkill - it's certainly less intimidating to cross paths with a raccoon than to see a big red kangaroo flying through your windscreen.

We ain't got the blues

I suppose it's only appropriate that I should be slightly hungover after a Friday night in New Orleans. I mean, you can buy giant strawberry daiquiris to go. You can take them sightseeing with you and that, of course, is exactly what we did.

Em sucks back a lunchtime daiquiri-to-go

We strolled through the French Quarter, past the Bourbon St bars and sex shows, and in and out of souvenir shops packed with voodoo dolls and lewd t-shirts, the whole time happily sipping daiquiris and wondering how life got to be so good.

Happy hour cosmos and purple haze beer at the House of Blues snapped us out of our daiquiri daze. Then after a feast of popcorn shrimp, marinated gator, gumbo and jambalaya, we thought we were ready for some Bourbon Street madness, but we thought wrong. The street was a heaving mess of hens parties and cover bands, and the smell of vomit and stale booze stuck to the air.

Inside the House of Blues

We'd read about Frenchman Street, just outside the French Quarter, and thought we'd risk a mugging if it got us some decent blues and fresh air. It worked. We got a table, smooth live music, and I got wine in a whiskey glass, which seemed funny at the time but not this morning, when I had to drag my hungover butt out of bed and back into the car. When will I learn.

Mrs M, Mrs I, Mrs SSI, Mrs SSI, Mrs PPI

We've just crossed into Mississippi. New Orleans is about 100 miles from here. There's a wall of rain just up ahead and we've just realised that we haven't checked the weather report for a couple of days. Not a smart move in hurricane season.

Mmmm, I wonder what happened to the hurricane that was just off the coast of Florida a few days ago???

Cruising the Panhandle

Seaside, the set of the Truman show

This is where The Truman Show was filmed. It's picture perfect Seaside, on the Gulf coast of Florida, just down the road from Panama City in all its Americana kitsch glory. You just couldn't get two more different towns.

Seaside is all white picket fences, thick lush lawns and smiling Gap-wearing families. Panama City, five minutes away, is trying desperately to shake of its Redneck Riviera reputation. Developers are moving in, but tackiness prevails: garish adult stores, fun parks, go-kart tracks and seedy motels still outnumber the super resorts, and you get the feeling that's the way it will always be.

High-end eating in Panama City

But there is one thing Seaside and Panama city have in common: the coast. The beaches along this coast are considered among the best in America, if not the world. We're talking powder-white sand and crystal clear turquoise water. Okay, so there are no waves ... but there are sea turtles.

The Florida coast

Road trippin': from Miami to Houston

Carl behind the wheel of our hardcore Toyota Camry, grrrrrr

The open road stretches before us. It's big and American, and we are loving everything from the giant billboards that scream sexual innuendo to the tacky roadside motels, the drive-thru Dunkin' Donuts, and everything in between. The glitz and glamour of Miami is behind us. Alabama, Louisiana and Texas lie ahead. Yeeehaaa!

Going to Miami

Oi Carl, ya pervert

... welcome to Miami (there's a Will Smith song reference there, did you get it?), where the boobs are big and fake, the beach is beautiful and it's damn hot. Too hot to do anything but get your gear off at South Beach, so that's what we did. A big shout out to Jess and Jessica for showing us around and feeding us Steve's Pizza. Hands down the best pizza we've eaten in the States.

Carl hanging out on South Beach

A box o' Joe

Those Americans really do think of everything. A cask of coffee after a big night. I mean, does life get any better than that?

The fireworks are over

Fourth of July fireworks in DC

The fourth of July fireworks are over for another year, and so is our trip to Washington DC. Well, almost. We're hoping desperately that there's still time to bump into Georgie down at the local and give him a piece of our minds. We're a little miffed that he didn't have the bollocks to face us on Capitol Hill yesterday, but he was probably intimidated. I mean we are pretty tough. Maybe he should send in Barbara. I think behind those pearls is a force to be reckoned with.

Outside the White House - ain't nobody home

Actually, the little pearl-wearing intern who took us on our tour through the tunnels underneath the Capitol building and into the heart of US politics was pretty darn Republican-tough. She was not on the Obama-wagon. In fact, she was not even standing on the platform when that train zoomed past, but she did have an interesting perspective.

That's definitely one of the best things about being in ol' DC: everyone's got an opinion here, even if they didn't have one before they arrived. Politics is everywhere - in the bars, in the monuments, in the parks, and in the museums. It's almost tangible and it's hard to not get into the buzz a little, particularly when you're scarfing down some beer, some chicken tenders or some damn good sushi.

Aims gets into the spirit

"See you when I get home from Baghdad."

That's what it says on the rock placed on this headstone. It's a haunting message hidden among the 30,000 veterans from all of America's wars buried in Arlington National Cemetery. It's meaning sits heavy over the empty fields at the bottom of the cemetery, which will also one day be filled with rows of white headstones.

It's impossible not to be moved by a visit to Arlington National Cemetery, regardless of your views of war. Look past the famous headstones and memorials and you see that throughout the course of history, people from all walks of life have given their lives for something that they once believed in, among them more than 3800 former slaves who fought in the Civil War.

The Tomb of the Unknowns, at the top of the cemetery, is guarded by the U.S. Army 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. The 3rd U.S. Infantry (The Old Guard) began guarding the Tomb on April 6, 1948 and not a single day has passed unguarded since then.

Every half an hour in summer (and every hour in winter) you can watch the changing of the guards at the Tomb of the Unkowns