Newark airport

I much prefer Newark airport on the leaving side. No will-they-let-me-in angst. And the chance to indulge in a few final Americaney beers. Before I finally fuck off.

An 11-day geek fest. That’s the only way I describe this trip. Non-stop geeking of the best beery kind.

I’m sitting at a bar in Newark airport with a giant Sierra Nevada Pale Ale in front of me. A fitting way to cap any trip.

“What’s the beer with the dwarf on the tap handle?” a woman two seats down asks. My god – they’ve got Chouffe on tap. How times change.

I’ve just rattled along the NE corridor from D.C., with a landscape of rust and collapse, neat lawns around idealised US homes, soaring city centres and even the occasional countryside.

They’ve just shown an advert – on the inevitable TV – for a video doorbell that lets you answer your door remotely. I’d be happy with a doorbell that just fucking rang every time.

This the longest I’ve been in the US – other than for work – for decades. Williamsburg the last couple of days was amazing. Loads of my fave beer people in the same place. And the thrill of standing on stage not once, but twice. They say applause is  addictive. For me that’s far outweighed by getting laughs. I’m exhausted. Totally Donald Ducked. But happy.

Got Lexxie his sweets and Andrew his bourbon. I’m all set.

It’s not just about meeting old friends. Met loads of firm new ones. And discovered why I was black balled for the NHC. Looks like the Papazian Cup may return after all.

One of the best bits – being able to give Mitch Steele confirmation of Brettanomyces in Bass Pale Ale. Must remember to send him the reference.

I’ve not been taking notes. Who know which beers I’ve had? A few Devil’s Backbone IPAs. A couple at Right Proper in DC. A lot of IPA, if I’m honest. I am in the US, after all.

I hope they have a conference at Williamsburg again next year. I know even more people to geek out with now.

They’ve an intriguing set of beers in the fridge: Reissdorf Kölsch, Schneider Weisse, quite a few Belgians.

A couple of double bourbons in, and the edge of the day is not so much blunted as hammered into submission.

They bloke sat next to me is writing in a notebook. His handwriting is even worse than mine. Why Have I written so few notes this trip? I’ve rarely been alone. I’m too polite to write in the company of friends.

Time to drink up and get on the plane.