Jacksonville, FL

The joys of Jacksonville, Florida, have never struck me as ones of which I'd be likely to partake. The only things I know about it go hand in hand, namely that nu-metal rock chumps Limp Bizkit are from there and it's about as proudly redneck as Florida gets - neither exactly prime motivators for me to hop across the Atlantic to spend a weekend there, when Miami or Key West are much more in tune with a cosmopolitan metrosexual such as moi.

However in the spirit of adventure and, more accurately, because work demands it, here I am sat in row 52 of a British Airways plane, tucking into my tub of reheated chicken and rice, thinking ahead to the next few days.

My companions on this trip are Paul and Eleanor, photographer and scribe, coming out to interview renowned American rock gods, Alice In Chains. Having kicked off their US tour last night in Miami, we're catching up with them on their third show, headlining a major festival entitled Welcome To Rockville taking place in the city of Jacksonville, supported by those afore-mentioned sons of that parish, Limp Bizkit.

In an attempt to secure a little more space the three of us have each taken a seat in the back three rows of the plane, which are two-seaters and looked deliciously empty on the seatplan at check-in. If anywhere is going to be vacant it'll be these seats we figure. But of course, the entire flight is full to bursting and our precious oasis of calm is quickly intruded upon by random travellers claiming the spare seats.

While Paul cranks up Game of Thrones on his iPad and Eleanor leafs through her background notes for the interviews, I'm engaged in conversation by the man sat next to me. Rajinder is on the third leg of his journey so far, having set off from Jaipur some 18 hours ago and driven for five hours to New Delhi where he then boarded a longhaul flight to London. A three hour stop-over later, he's now on his final leg to Miami, where he'll re-join the "biggest cruise ship in the world", and start his next three month shift.

Rajinder is head of security and has a team of nearly 40 officers from all over the world under him, patrolling a ship that has 2500 staff and more than 6000 passengers. He works for three months straight, seven days a week, and then has two months off at home in Jaipur, before heading back to Miami and setting sail again. He confesses to being very chilled having just had almost nine weeks off, but is steeling himself for the drunken behaviour he has to face on a daily basis on board the ship.

I had no idea of some of the hair-raising antics that take place on the high-seas but it seems cruises are the preserve of ageing alcoholics, fornicators, racists and the mentally ill, many of whom he has to confine to their cabins or lock-up in the ship's specially-made cells for handing over to local police at the next disembarkation point.

He details one story of a 72 year-old woman who went doolally in the casino and needed restraining, and tells of many a US citizen who, after some gob-smackingly outrageous behaviour or drunken violence, has found themselves handed over to the police in a foreign port and been surprised to see the inside of a Mexican or South American prison, believing they have immunity from international law. To be honest, for some of the abuse he and his staff have endured for the colour of their skin, their gender or sexuality from the cruise-ship cretins, I'm surprised they let the arseholes out.

So hey, Jacksonville, here I come....

But first we have to transfer through Miami, swapping our BA flight for American Eagle. I love Miami, its energy and colour, fabulous beaches, funky hotels, glorious restaurants, quirky neighbourhoods, downtown dangers and Cuban flavours. And as we come into land, after nine hours cramped up with Rajinder, I'm seized by a desire to run through immigration and just grab a cab to South Beach, especially as the pilot announces the local temperature is 30 degrees, but alas it is not to be. Our flight from the southern tip of Florida to the far north still awaits.

Unfortunately, Miami is notorious for long immigration queues and we've been warned that while our luggage has already been checked through from Heathrow to Jacksonville (as have we), we have just two hours to clear immigration, locate our bags, take them through customs, put them back into transit and hot foot it to our departure gate without delay.

Considering it took Coman and me almost that long just to get through Miami immigration alone when we visited last year, I waste no time encouraging Paul and Eleanor that we have to speed our way through the milling hordes of fellow passengers, knocking then flying if needs be; politeness be damned.

It takes ages for us to get off the plane and sure enough the queues at immigration are horrendous. Three or four planeloads are still ahead of us, thousands of passengers snaking around the huge hall and each one delaying us a minute or two longer. We spot a noticeboard confirming our worst fears: "Due to federal budget cuts, customs and border protection staffing has been reduced and wait times are longer than usual. Please be patient."

It takes almost 90 minutes for us to get the precious stamp entitling us to enter the US of A, but then there's vast corridors still to negotiate before we can retrieve our luggage and clear customs. Trailing our suitcases behind us, Paul's particularly heavy with his lights, we run like the wind, following the signs for connecting flights. Oh no!!! More security.

Handing over our big items and praying to God there's enough time for them to be whisked on to our Jacksonville flight, we start barging through the waiting queues, the clock now ticking furiously.

"'Scuse me, 'scuse me," we cry, trying to explain our flight is about to depart. People let us through - there's not much point resisting when three sweating Brits are determined to get ahead - and then flinging our bags, belts, shoes, iPads, whatever through the x-ray machines, on we go.

But no, both Eleanor and I have our bags pulled by a leisurely security guard, taking his sweet time. We'd forgotten we had water from our first flight in there. Aaaaaargh. Bottles dispensed we run, run, run, trying to find gate D60, down more long corridors, up escalators, up more escalators... oh shit, you're kidding, there's a Sky Train?!??

We hop on board the shuttle, change terminals, race down escalators, look - there's gate 40, then more corridors, running running, past gate 52, down another escalator, and finally, ahead of us is the sign for D60 with the tail end of passengers disappearing through it. Boarding cards to hand we make it, with literally seconds to spare, and are waved through and on to the waiting bus to the plane, a gasping, sweaty heap!

Our fellow travellers bound for Jacksonville enquire as to why on earth we're headed to the city, which doesn't bode well, telling us we'll be the "only Brits for miles around," before engaging in a bizarre discussion about breakfasts that ranges from pancakes, biscuits, bacon and gravy all the way through to Marmite, which one elderly Floridian declares he thinks "tastes of fish".

The plane waiting for us on the tarmac is a small jet, seating less than 50 people, and as we fly out over Miami the sun is just starting to descend, glinting along the wing, blinding us with glare so we shut the blinds blocking out the view. An hour later as we descend to Jacksonville and raise them again, from horizon to horizon, all we can see are forests, hundreds of miles of them.

Finally at 7pm local time, some 18 hours after I awoke this morning, we land in our destination - only to find that one of Paul's bags hasn't made the flight, the one containing the batteries for his cameras and lights, and into which we'd also stuffed Eleanor's check in luggage so we didn't have to pay excess fees!!

A friendly member of baggage staff helps with the necessary paperwork and we cross everything that it will be put on the next flight from Miami and be delivered to our hotel in the early hours of the morning.

We hail a cab and drive into the city, checking in to the hotel and asking where we should go for dinner. The receptionist points out on a map that we're one block from the river, and all the restaurants are there in a place called Jacksonville Landing, which tonight is hosting a free country music concert. "There'll be lots of cowboy boots!" she laughs.

So a quick shower later we head over there and she ain't wrong. Cowboy boots, stetsons and blaring music is the order of the night. What she is wrong about is that we'd want to spend any time there having just got off a plane. It's thronged with people drinking beer from plastic beakers and all the restaurants are tacky chain affairs - Hooters et al - that have over an hour's wait for a table. Dejected we slope back to the hotel and order burgers, fish tacos and some wine in the bar.

It's 11.30 by the time we fall into bed, saying silent prayers that Paul's camera equipment - and Eleanor's wardrobe! - will be waiting for us when we awake.