I love America. This is a relatively new thing, born out of living there for a year from July 1998, but I love it with a passion. I love the people, who are friendly, decent, hospitable and fun to a fault. I love the food - why do we only import the worst of American cuisine? The best steak I've ever had was in America (marinated steak, Bogey's Diner, Route 10 westbound, Whippany, NJ, run don't walk), and I love diners to bits. Even the TV has improved in leaps and bounds. Compare the Simpsons, Ally McBeal and Star Trek: Voyager to any new TV Britain has produced since 1995. I love the "can-do" attitude there, the patriotism, the easygoing openness. It's a helluva country.
That said, you can't get decent tea or chocolate anywhere, and the Digital Millennium Copyright Act is the most braindead piece of legislation going. Let's not mention Microsoft, the doctor's told me to keep my blood pressure down.
Anyway, this particular story started when Ed Mendillo (hi Ed!), a friend from my time in NJ, emailed me a picture of Santa Barbara in the sunshine. This was in January 2000, and if you've ever experienced a British winter you'll appreciate how unfair this was. I saved the picture as my Windows backdrop, so had every spare moment to brood on it.
Two weeks later I phoned Virgin Atlantic and cashed a free flight voucher (gained from being voluntarily bumped) for a round trip ticket to San Francisco for two weeks. As things turned out, this happened between finishing work at Praxis and starting at Teleca. So I had two weeks in the USA with nothing weighing on my mind. This is the story of that fortnight.
Recommended tools for touring California:
I was staying over with Olly and Laurie in Reading, so come the antisocial hour of 7:30am I was standing outside their house waiting for the taxi. The next door cat came up to say hi, and it was quite frankly a shameless tart. And it shed ginger hair over my suitcase, but hey. Anyway, the taxi turned up only a few minutes late and it got me to Reading station on time. From there the Railair coach took me to Heathrow.
The year of Atlantic oscillations caused by the New Jersey work had left me with a Virgin Flying Club membership, so I could bypass the Economy queues and book in through Premium Economy. It had seemed like a throwaway gain at the time, but looking at the Economy queue in Heathrow that morning I started to appreciate it.
The flight to San Francisco was a shade over ten hours. I had gained a certain amount of strategy for surviving long-hauls, so in between the movies (a pretty good selection, Virgin does come up trumps in that department) I worked on some PhD stuff. Anyway, around elevenses PCT our 747-400 touched down at San Franciso International Airport.
Going through Immigration was the usual long wait, but no problem. SF Immigration were a touch friendlier than Newark, but maybe that's the West Coast attitude thing. I caught a minibus shuttle to the city, and got dropped off at the Days Inn on Geary Street which was my first port of call.
A shower and a shave later, I felt almost human. The afternoon had hours left to run, though my body clock was telling me that it didn't know what the hell was going on. I beat it into submission and walked out east towards Union Square.
It quickly became apparent that, if Geary Street was not officially in the red light district, it was only just next door. I made a mental note to avoid coming back after dark. But Union Square wasn't far, and was worth the walk. I grabbed a hot dog from a street vendor (mmmmm...), watched the trams for bit, then decided to walk over to the harbour.
It should be stated at this point that I had never seen a contour map of Nob Hill, nor had I paid attention during movies such as "Bullitt". Fortunately I like hill climbing, but even so San Francisco was taking the piss. I made it to the top without cardiac arrest, just, then headed down through Chinatown to the piers. The Bay was beautiful, with Alcatraz a forbidding jagged tooth to the north and the Bridge stretching across the entrance. I scouted around and located the Alcatraz booking office; I'd be back in a little over a week, and was determined to see "The Rock".
Heading back over Nob Hill I erred the west and came back almost spot on the Days Inn. My stomach was too weirded-out for much food, so I retired to bed earlyish. You can only fight jetlag for so long; it had been a very long day.
I was able to lie in, since I wasn't scheduled to pick up the rental car until 11am. For breakfast I headed half a block towards Union Square and grabbed a table at a deserted diner. The proprietor, a beefy man who clearly enjoyed his food, served me a top meal of steak, home fries, eggs and (American) gravy with toast and jelly. I savoured the tastes. Damn, I was back.
At checkout I gassed with the hoteel clerk; he used to head up recruitment for the USMC in (gulp) Harlem. An interesting guy! I learned that even gang leaders are patriotic, judging by what happened to one reprobate who stole the USMC Recruiting Office's flag (an aquatic grave in the Hudson on the same day.)
The Avis clerk cheerfully signed over a dark green Pontiac Grand Am to me, an apparent upgrade from my request of a vanilla compact. I wasn't complaining. I was just glad that it was unlimited mileage.
Thanking God that rush hour had passed, I nursed the car out of the garage and onto Route 101 South. The year of piloting automatic Ford Contours and Mercury Cougars down the roads of New Jersey paid off, with all the instincts and recognitions kicking in, though it was a while before I figured that turning right on a red was OK in California.
Route 101 took me south to 280, which in turn took me west to Route 1 and started my route down the West Coast, climbing cliffs and descending towards golden beaches with the ice-blue Pacific to my right. I caught myself humming Beach Boys tracks and providing backing percussion with my hand on the door handle. I was on holiday for real. The Pontiac was promptly christened "Callie", short for " California", and she embodied most of the state's attributes; good-looking, good-natured, relaxed, a touch greedy but easy to love.
Four hours of driving brought me to Monterey. Friends had told me to visit the aquarium at all costs. I did, and wasn't disappointed. It was a bit expensive to get in, but the exhibits were really impressive. The jellyfish were fascinating, with the lights on them showing their whole anatomy, but the real winner was the massive tank filled with huge fish. The sunfish won the "Strangest Creature" award outright, but the leopard sharks had the "Style" section sewn up. The otters were superb performers, the shore dioramas were excellent, and the whole thing was really good fun and education. Definitely recommended.
I picked up Route 1 again and started heading for Santa Barbara. Problem. Route 1 was closed further down the coast. Arse. A bit of "flexible and dynamic" planning, carried out in a cursing welter of maps in a layby, and I re-routed down Carmel Valley. It was clearly a slow road but I figured that the scenery would make up for it.
Carmel Valley didn't disappoint. I stopped at the main shopping centre for groceries (chiefly a gallon container of water, thinking ahead to the desert) and a café for ice tea plus pastry for calories. My accent in the grocery store occasioned a "Does Carmel Valley get tourists now?" comment from one of the assistants to her buddy. Sure does, hon.
Just out of the town I came across a road crew who have to rank as the most polite I've ever encountered anywhere ever. The lady directing traffic movements was terribly nice, mouthing "Thank you" as I pulled to a stop at the indicated place, and "Have a good one" as she waved me through when the road was clear. Plus, under the facial smudges, she was one good-looking lass. Why does America have so many beautiful women? I can't believe that it's all plastic surgery.
The road wound through horse country, ranch after ranch interspersed with low rolling hills and patches of trees. It was slow, not much above 30mph was possible, but I didn't mind. The sun re-emerged as I came down out of the hills, and beamed on Callie as she sped through fields of vines towards the interstate. I hadn't appreciated how much wine California could produce until I drove through just one of these fields. Two miles each way, at one bottle per ten square metres, gave over 200,000 bottles. Damn.
The interstate took me south as evenng approached. Today had been a helluva drive, so I was looking for somewhere to pull off. At San Miguel I spotted a motel by the intersection, pulled off and got a room. Crashed out on the bed, I happened to catch the pivotal episode of Ally McBeal on Fox. It was at the same time entertaining and frustrating; the former because it was a great episode, the latter because it would be 2001 before Channel 4 in the UK caught up.
I postponed breakfast until I'd got a reasonable way on my journey. One of the big pluses of my route was that I didn't pass any major city at rush hour, so driving was relatively relaxing. The only snag was the Russian Roulette of radio stations available. I turned east just south of San Miguel and headed across and up the plains on Route 46 towards Bakersfield; radio stations came and went every 20 miles, few of them good. Whatever happened to the hits of the 80s and early 90s? Or am I just an old fart?
The vine-covered plains turned into grass and became shrouded in mist as I came up through the hills. I also discovered that when a road sign says "Last gas station for XX miles" it REALLY means it. I stopped at Blackwells Corner for breakfast in a real diner (slab of Virginia ham, eggs, Smuckers grape jelly, drip coffee, bobby-soxed waitress who called me "hon") and Lost Hills provided gas when I needed it. Not surprising, as the usual fields of almond trees had given way at Lost Hills to hundreds of "nodding donkey" oil wells.
Route 99 took me to Bakersfield, then 53 East brought me up to Tehachapi Pass at 1153m. Here I saw my first real wind farm - hundreds of the rotors packed onto the hills - and the grey skies of the plains started to give way to the pure blue of the desert. U2's "In God's Country" was playing in my head.
Mojave was my first desert town, and indicative of what I'd find later on elsewhere; very utilitarian, lots of business, lots of sand and little soul. I left it quickly, following Route 58 east to Barstow.
I stopped off in Boron to post a parcel for a friend. The post office was shut for redecoration but business was carried on in a mobile home parked outside. The lady there continued the unnerving trend of US Government employees being super-nice and helpful. Anyone who's ever dealt with the IRS or DMV will know what I mean by "unnerving".
At Barstow I refuelled then headed down Route 15 towards San Bernardino. This took me up into impressive mountains again, then down to the east side of LA. I had resolved to steer clear of the City of Angels and so promptly headed east on Route 10 through the San Gorgiono Pass.
By now I was starting to flag, so the proximity of Palm Springs came as welcome relief. I stopped at the Tourist Information Office, found a room at the Palm Court Motel, and with a sigh of relief left Callie to chill out in the winds sweeping down off Mount San Jacinto. To stretch my legs I decided to walk down to the mall. I hadn't realised how far it was; nearly 45 minutes walking, and I don't dawdle. The back of my neck got somewhat grilled by the sun on the way, and by the time I started back the evening was falling and the winds were getting chilly.
On the plus side, my informal "Generation X" agenda advanced; I saw a cluster of bungalows which could have been exactly where Andy, Dag and Claire lived, and passed Jensen's Bakery where Andy loved the checkout clerk.
Dinner was at a place which advertised the best pies in the USA. I wouldn't go that far, but they certainly were very good.
Breakfast was in the diner next to the hotel; no great shakes, other than to note that my waitress was also called Adrian. You have no concept of how much trouble is caused y having a girl's name in the USA if you're a bloke. Unless you're called Laurie. Like my brother.
I checked out, visited a Net café to email home, then drove north through Yucca Valley to Joshua Tree. The sheer distances between "nearby" towns till took some getting used to. I procured some after-sun aloe gel to relieve my sunburn, some sunblock to stop any further burn, and a pair of disposable cameras, then visited the Joshua Tree Visitor's Center. It was quite well done, the various plants being well labelled so that you could see and name all the different cacti. I was relieved to see that the odds of being bitten by a snake, scorpion or spider were very low.
Happy that I was safe from the fauna, I entered the park, paying for a week of entry. The first stop was at the massive Split Rock. Several camera shots were taken, I scrambled around on boulders, saw all sorts of plants, and met my first Joshua Tree. It was weird; the picture on U2's album was accurate but didn't do it justice. Unfortunately it had been a very dry winter so few plants were blooming, but one or two of the Joshua trees had a nascent white bud or two.
From Split Rock the road wound through miles of featureful desert. I stopped off again, this time at Ryan Mountain, and took a hike to the top in order to see how I was with desert conditions. "Not too bad" was the conclusion, though the day was overcast so it may not have been a fair benchmark. From the top of the mountain you could see for tens of miles over desert flat as a pool table, edged by jagged mountains. I saw the ubiquitous lizards at several points on the climb, and the J oshua trees were also putting in appearances.
I then started for home, which meant another 20 minutes drive to leave the park. This part was covered in Joshua trees but nothing else, which had to be seen to be believed. It looked like the US Airforce had saturated the place with Agent Orange, but Joshua Trees were somehow immune.
Back in Palm Springs I found another motel closer to the town centre. Tomorrow would be the assault on Mt San Jacinto, and the less distance I had to drive the better. Dinner was at a mom-and-pop Italian joint just across the road. Good osso buco, authentially bad chianti and tiramsu to die for. Oh yes.
I rose bright and early, packed my rucksack with care, dressed for just-above-freezing temperatures and drove over to Palm Springs Aerial Tramway station with the air conditioning on full. It was already a warm day, and the fleece trousers plus thermal top were making me very unncomfortable. However, I clung to the claim that temperatures up at 8500ft could be 50F lower than at the elevation of Palm Springs.
As a matter of interest, I was packing the following kit.
Don't tackle San Jacinto in April with anything less. It only just fitted into a 35L rucksack.
The first tram car up thus contained loads of shorts-wearing chatty tourists and a very uncomfortable English hiker who was perspiring like no-one's business. Fortunately he saw snow as they passed the 7000ft mark and realised that the prediction was right. When the car stopped at 8500ft and let people out, pretty much everyone was bitching at the cold and I didn't feel quite so silly.
To go hiking on the trails one needed a pass, so I trotted over to the Ranger station. At this point I discovered just what an effect an 8000ft altitude increase has. I wasn't just short of breath, if I tried to do anything strenuous there wasn't any frigging air to breathe.
The ranger gave me a permit, and I headed up the trail to Round Valley. The patches of snow amid the trees quickly became a uniform blanket that covered any evidence of a trail. I resorted to following collections of footprints, though even these were not that reliable. Still, it was a stunning day with a dark blue sky dotted with small cotton-wool clouds. The conifers against the snow and sky made for wonderful scenes.
The trail took me up to the crest of the ridge which runs clockwise up to San Jacinto. There I met two other hikers, whom I'd hesitate to call lunatics had they not been camping there overnight. Apparently it had been "a bit cold". No shit. Still, they were sound guys and we had a good chat before I left to continue the hike.
The trail more or less vanished completely now as I came off the ridge and started the ascent. Finding my own trail in four inches of snow would have been hard enough without the altitude problem. In the event, I resorted to kicking steps up a steep snow face and stopping whenever I couldn't get a breath. It was really hard work, and I'd pay for it later, but finally it brought me to the saddle just below San Jacinto. A final push, and I was at the top. It had to be the hardest physical thing that I'd done for a very long time.
The hike had taken 4.5 hours to this point; it was 3pm and I didn't have a lot of daylight spare, so I didn't hang around. Still, I touched the "official" plaque noting the peak's height, photographed it, gawped at the stunning views (10,000ft straight down to the desert cities) and photographed them, drank and ate, then started down again.
This time I knew I didn't have time to follow my ascending route. I cut across the "bowl" towards Round Valley, carefully navigating through virgin snow in the woods and cursing the crap trail map most of the way. With a Ordnance Survey 1:25000 map I could have taken back bearings on the visible peaks and triangulated my position; that was not an option with the trail map. I should have got a USGS map, and/or a GPS receiver.
There was another problem, which crept up on me mostly unawares. Altitude sickness. My sustained exertion in the face of depleted oxygen had made my body hypoxic (short of oxygen where it counts) and it was starting to react. I was feeling cold despite the layers of clothing, sick, slightly light-headed and definitely worried. Fortunately I recognised what was going on, but even so this didn't help much. I hadn't managed to find the trail I expected, and had defaulted to following a stream down a valley. Problem was, it could have been one of two streams on the map. One would take me to the ranger station. The other went all the way down the mountain...
I stopped and re-assessed the situation. It wasn't good. If I was in the wrong valley I wouldn't have the strength to return to the station by the time it became obvious. My best strategy would be to descend as much of the 8000ft to Palm Springs as possible in order to mitigate altitude sickness and cold, don all my spare clothing and try to survive the night in a survival bag. The prospect did not appeal.
I had just shrugged my rucksack back on and started to press on and down when I heard voices ahead. Leaping forward like a hypoxic gazelle, I met a British couple (in T-shirts and shorts, for reference) who had been following the trail (for such it was) from the ranger station for 15 minutes. They had been touring CA in a Winnebago, and if either of them ever reads this then drop me an email because I don't think I've ever been so glad to see anyone in my life. I owe you several beers, at the very least.
I made the ranger station in 10 minutes, checked back in, bought my "San Jacinto" patch (damn straight I'd earned it) and made a heartfelt donation to the rangers' beer fund. Had I been in the wrong valley, they'd have faced the unenviable task of finding me, and possibly of carrying my frozen corpse off the mountain.
I caught the tram car down to Palm Springs, drove to the motel and changed, then walked into town and had a damn good meal at the News Cafe. Home-made meatloaf, mmm. It was weird to feel the warm sun on my bare legs and the chatting crowds around me, knowing that two hours earlier I'd been in sub-zero temperatures and scared green.
Still, if I had the choice of dying on San Jacinto or never seeing it again, I'd be naked in the Round Valley snow before you could say "core hypothermia".
Today was the official end of my employment by Praxis Critical Systems. Though in the Californian desert, that seemed to be a whole other world. I left Palm Springs, driving down through the other desert cities of Palm Desert and Cathedral City to see what they were like. Breakfast was at another classic diner on the road between Palm Springs and Palm Desert. The other cities disappointed to some extent with their sameness, so I came back to Palm Springs via the Palm Springs Air Museum.
I had been in two minds as to whether to visit this before; it had a Tomcat and F-16N parked outside which piqued my interest, but I didn't know what else they had. Well, if you're in Palm Springs and have even a passing interest in World War II aviation, GO! The two main hangers describe the air war in the Pacific and the air war in Europe. The walls are covered with background material on how the conflict festered, ignited and proceeded. Scale models of ships show you the materiel in exquisite detail. Dioramas show scenes such as Pearl Harbour on the morning of the attack, from a Japanese pilot's perspective. And WWII original planes are spread throughout the hangers. It is excellent.
It was well past lunch by the time that I dragged myself away from the museum. I drove back to Yucca Valley and booked three nights in the Super 8 Motel there. Once again, it struck me how clean and comfortable are American motels compared with their overpriced British counterparts such as Travelodge.
No hiking today; instead, I went to the cinema and saw "The Skulls". Quite silly, but good fun and it was interesting to watch from the POV of being an Oxford graduate and having visited Harvard. People have the weirdest perceptions of these places. Of course, sometimes reality is stranger...
Dinner was at a Mexican café just along from the hotel. It was principally selected for being walkable so that I could have a couple of beers. In fact, it was excellent. The staff were all Mexican, Spanish was the lingua franca (though most of my Spanish was learned for EMT work, and "Are you getting medications from your doctor?" is of limited use when ordering food) and it was very good value. Especially because Super 8 had a 10% discount deal with them.
Today I was determined to do a serious desert walk. Perusal of my hiking guides had located Eureka Peak (5500ft) as a worthy target. Mindful of the lessons of San Jacinto I popped over to Joshua Tree and got the relevant USGS map before parking at the Black Rock campground to start hiking.
The trails mostly followed desert washes, whose sand dragged at my feet more than the hard earth trails of Ryan Mountain, but hey I wanted real desert. They wound around the hills and slowly brought me up towards the southern mountains. I was passed by a horse rider n the full Monty (cowboy hat, jeans, vest, spurs) who got me to take photo of him on the horse with the desert hills as background. I hope it came out OK. In retrospect I should have asked him to reciprocate - I ended the holiday with two films shot, and no pictures of me at all.
The washes were a strange kind of beauty. All manner of shrubs and trees lined them, and desert creatures could be heard scurrying through the growth, but very little grew in the wash itself. Eventually the wash narrowed and it was plain that a stream occupied the path in rainier times. This finally took me up to the shoulders of Eureka Peak. Skirting around the south side I could see the San Jacinto range in the distance. The path took me up top, and I stopped for lunch. The obligatory food was pepperoni, water and trail mix. All the essentials, but a bit weird on the taste front.
I descended towards Covington flats and then struck off back along what looked like the right wash. Matching up the USGS map with reality was surprisingly hard. The problem was the utter lack of marked trails; it was hard to establish waypoints. Back bearings did help somewhat though. The wash wound very gently down and around; several times I though I was almost at the campsite only to be proven wrong. However, finally a water tower appeared around a corner and I knew I was back.
On the way back to Yucca Valley I stopped at Joshua Tree's Net café to update the folks on my progress. I left out the bit about navigation and altitude sickness, in deference to my mother's sensibilities.
Dinner that evening was at the Mexican place again. This time I ordered a chimichanga. From experience at "Las Iguanas" in Bath I knew that I'd be getting a parcel of spices, vegetables and rice. What I hadn't counted on was said parcel being the size of a pillow. I exaggerate but not by much. It was really good, and after the day's walking I was hungry, but even two Coronas couldn't wash it all down and I wimped out.
While dining, I was treated to the hitherto unseen spectacle of a full family dine-out. About twelve people plus small kids came in to eat. Head of the family was a guy who reminded me of Uncle Jesse in "The Dukes of Hazard"; long white beard, bib overalls, a bit more relaxed but otherwise frighteningly close. You could see the various children and partners around the table, and in most cases it was clear where the blood tie was. It was the first time I'd ever seen a real (non-TV) American extended famiy in the wild, and it was fascinating.
What they made of the pasty-skinned Limey speaking bad Spanish to the waitress and occasionally casting them furtive odd looks, I have no idea. I don't think I want to know.
Sunday was a day of rest. I find hiking restful. Hence, I hiked. This time it was the Lost Horse Mine Trail loop, which involved a long drive into the southern part of the park, and a fair haul on a rough oscillating dirt road. Fortunately Callie held up well, though she was getting a little dusty by now.
The day was hot and dry; Factor 20 sunscreen, hat and shades were the order of the day, but it was a good heat. I took the trail out of the car park past a strange basilic lava flow (fortunately now cooled). It looped and twisted unti it brought me to the old mine workings. These weren't much to see; just rusted machinery and shaft entrances, but the view from the top of the hill on which they sat was impressive.
The trail continued, until the point where I followed the guide book and struck off uphill. Pressing through scrub, and picking up an impressive mosaic of thorn scratches for my collection, I found the advertised remains of an old-time miner's dwellings. All that was left was a rusting bedframe (remarkably well preserved considering that it probably dated back to 1930) and a bizarre perfectly-constructed chimney and fireplace in the middle of nowhere. Not even the ruins of a house around them, just the desert scrub. Weird.
Somehow I found the trail again and enjoyed the vistas as it slowly wound back to the car park, descending into flat washes edged by low hills. In one part the desert had been scarred by fire; the Joshua Trees had been charred but survived, presumably because of their spongy fire-resistant bark. I hope it's not asbestos-based.
That evening I decided to ring the changes and went to a Denny's instead. It's remarkable how American fast food can be true to its name, whereas the British stuff fails both criteria. Next day was going to be another long drive, so I clocked off early.
An early start took me off to refuel, then striking north across the desert on Route 247. There were a few minutes of tantalisingly good radio stations, but the surrounding mountains put paid to that. Still, the scenery was impressively barren and the driving was easy.
Eventually I arrived at Barstow and drove west past Edwards Air Force Base to Mojave. The base was disappointingly free of air activity; maybe they had the day off. Anyway, I stopped at a fairly basic diner in Mojave for what could be called lunch, then drove back up into the mountains.
The original plan was to stay in Tehachapi for a couple of days. However, perusal of the Red Apple bookstore in the town revealed a lack of interesting round-trip hikes in the area, so I dynamically reconfigured my plans and pressed on with the drive. The almond tree plains west of Bakersfield were as uneventful as before, and as things worked out I found myself at the same motel in San Miguel as a week previously. Plus ça change, plus la même chose. I was looking forward to a new Ally McBeal, but Fox annoyingly decided to repeat last week's episode. Bastards.
Sleeping on my plans had left them flattened and somewhat rumpled, but I had the idea to exploit the extra time to see some Pacific beaches. I wasn't fooled by the possibility of bathing - friends had explained just how cold the Pacific was, and I know all about immersion hypothermia from a stint on the North Sea offshore oil platforms.
Route 101 from San Miguel took me back through wine country, though this time I avoided the Carmel Valley route. Instead I found myself on the coast at Moss Landing and had breakfast at something looking frighteningly like a biker's pub overlooking the sea. Still, the food and coffee were good, and the waitress was frighteningly like Ling from Ally McBeal.
I stopped at a random beach just up from Monterey and climbed down a steep path to the ocean. I dipped my toes in the surf and confirmed that it was indeed bloody cold. Re-donning footwear, I climbed up a massive rock that jutted out into the ocean, and stared up and down the coast and out to sea for a while.
I hadn't gone much further up the coast when I saw signs to Año Nuevo Nature Reserve, and remembered something about elephant seals there. So I pulled in, paid the entrance fee, parked, and discovered that it was about half a hour's walk out to the seal beach. No fear, I had my hiking boots. I took my shades but not my sunscreen. This was not smart.
The hike took me to the edge of a beach where the female elephant seals were resting, accompanied by a few pups but no males. Apparently January/February is the time for males on the beaches, and is fairly spectacular. A number of red-coated volunteers were present to answer questions, and one of the guys showed me photos of male seals battling. They stand seven feet tall and whack each other with flippers, causing no small amount of bleeding. Impressive, and apparently quite noisy.
With only females around, the beach was very peaceful. A few of the older male pups were playing fights in the surf, but on the whole it was a very "ahhhh, aren't they cute?" scene.
I worked my way up the coast on Route 1 to Santa Cruz. Finding a motel and booking in, I drove to the seafront. The town was pretty dead, and it was windy enough that the beach wasn't an option except for masochists, but the sun was enjoyable enough. I wandered up into town, stopping at a Net café to email home again, then went to a juice bar and tried my first blended drink. It was, in fact very good, tasty and even healthy. We're got to get us some of these in Britain.
A nearby bookstore drew me in, as bookstores tend to do. I swear, some agent of Barnes & Noble sewed iron bars into my jeans one night, and they have huge magnets just inside the doors. This might also explain why my trousers always hang badly. Anyway, this bookstore was large but not part of a chain. The absolute best bit was that on each shelf were two or three cards inserted between books; these held brief reviews of the books by readers or store clerks. Very cool. Much respect.
I drove to a nearby mall and grabbed fast teriyaki for dinner. I also secured a copy of Delta Force, for which - get this - I had to produce ID. The clerk was very apologetic as I hunted for my driving licence; it was store policy. Personally, I'd have been quite happy if he hadn't told me that so I could linger under the delusion that he though I was younger than twenty. A year in New Jersey and I wasn't carded once. Bastards.
In the motel while shaving, I noticed that my face was much more red than I had any reason to expect. It appeared that the Año Nuevo walk had been in more sun than I'd appreciated, and while I wasn't quite lobster-red we were definitely talking a fetching shade of crimson. I slept with the sheets well away from my arms.
Another leisurely drive up the coast took me to Half Moon Bay. The Lonely Planet guide raved about the town and beach, so I thought I'd take a look. Unfortunately the sky was grey and a brisk wind was blowing up, so the beach wasn't as attractive as it could have been. Nevertheless I had a good stroll along most of its length, observing any number of dead small jellyfish lying just outside the surfline. A mass invertebrate suicide pact perhaps? How spineless.
The town was very pleasant, however. Shades of a tourist trap, but not enough to spoil it. I had a very pleasant piece of key lime pie and coffee outside a coffee shop, then strolled down the main street seeing what was happening. A wine shop provided two bottles of quality Californian red, but for most of the time I was just browsing.
Back in the car, I decided to stop just outside the environs of San Francisco. Pacifica provided the venue; I found a generic motel there which was a bit modern, soulless and expensive, but there was a library in town which provided a couple of enjoyable hours of reading. Just down the street from the motel was a Thai restaurant, and I had a quite excellent meal there before retiring for the night.
It was time to return Callie to her owners. I located the Avis garage without much difficulty, said goodbye and then hailed a taxi to my hotel, the Atherton. This was in much the same area as the Days Inn, but had a lot more character. They gave me a 6th floor room, which kept my legs well exercised, but it was comfortable and reasonably quiet.
I had a couple of days to explore the city, so my first port of call was the Metreon Center, a collection of high-tech shops. Entering the Microsoft shop grated against all my instincts, but I did use it to send an electronic photo-postcard home. Leaving the Center and passing through the Virgin Megastore, I noticed that Travis were playing there later the next afternoon. I mentally bookmarked this.
I was determined to visit Alcatraz, so walked to Union Square and caught the tram over the hill. Boy, those things get crowded, but the experience was fun nevertheless. I'd found my way to the ticket office and was patiently waiting on line when I was hailed from behind.
It turned out that just behind me in the queue were James from Praxis and his pal Simon. I'd known that James was going to be in SF, but we hadn't arranged to meet because both our sets of plans were a bit dynamic; James had just flown back from Hawaii, and I'd been mucking around in the desert for a week. Bizarre coincidence, but welcome!
We booked on the Alcatraz ferry for late the next morning, then wandered down the piers taking in the sights. After lunch in a pierside restaurant and browsing the local music / poster shops we visited the aquarium. I was a bit sceptical after the experience of Monterey, but the aquarium here was altogether different. They had a moving walkway through a Plexiglass tunnel, with the sea life swimming all around you. It was no less than eerie to be buzzed by leopard sharks, and the graceful flying of the stingrays was nothing short of breathtaking. Definitely worth while.
We headed along the coast towards the Golden Gate, then passed by Fort Mason and back up the hill, saw the famously twisted Lombard Street, and refreshed ourselves in a café. I departed then to go sort my gear out; I was in desperate need of clean clothes, so popped down to a Chinese laundromat a couple of blocks from the hotel. While waiting for the washing to finish I did some work on my Psion, and found the owner's 5-year old son peering amazedly over my shoulder. I'm sure that by the time he reaches my age, PDAs will be as passé as 45 rpm records.
In the evening I went to the hotel bar and had a good chat with the bartender. He provided the lowdown on the whole city, corrected my inadvertent use of "Frisco" and generally clued me in to the place. Not to mention recommending a really decent porter from his stock of microbrews. Anyone who slags off American beer has drunk too much (read "any") Budweiser or Coors; the microbreweries can match the best beer that England can produce. Heavily tipping, I headed off to my room to sack out.
Today I rose relatively late and made my way over Nob Hill, using the tram again. Meeting up with James and Simon at the Alcatraz terminal, we stood patiently in line waiting to board. They had a photographer set up just by the gangplank so that you had to have your photo taken before boarding; they then developed it while you were on the island, and when you returned it was displayed on a board so that you would be tempted to buy it. Sheesh. Anyway, we survived that experience and got onto the top deck of the ferry.
It was another sunny day, and the view across the harbour was very impressive as we chugged over to Alcatraz. It didn't look all that far to swim, but I was assured that the strong Bay currents made it a losing proposition. The boat docked at the island and offloaded the passengers, then we had a quick briefing by a Parks ranger about the island, what to do, what not to do, and how to enjoy ourselves. The serious quantity of seagull shit on the ground made us walk with at least half an eye to the heavens.
We started off by watching a quick presentation on this history of the island, then joined a ranger for a tour around the east side. The island had been closed down as a prison in the late 60s. There was an occupation by protesting Indians for a good few years, but eventually there was a fire and it petered out. A lot of the outbuildings have been left derelict, so there's a fair amount of the island that's closed off to visitors. The main block, however, is open to be toured.
We'd all signed up for the "Cellblock Audio Tour" where you get a Walkman playing a guide tape, guiding you through the blocks. It was really good, not rushing you too much and providing lots of interesting information. The description of day-to-day life, the speeches by ex-Rock inhabitants, the details of the daring jailbreaks, all combined to give a really good atmosphere. Unquestionably good value for money, respect due to the US Parks Service. Though I still think that the guards in the shooting gallery must have been fast asleep to let the armed breakout happen.
Once the tour finished we walked out onto the west side of the island and up to the lighthouse, then back down to the quay. I was disappointed not to recognise many places from "The Rock" (Sean Connery and Nick Cage's finest moment) but apparently they filmed mostly in the non-public parts of the prison. Still, several points on the tour afforded the opportunity to mouth film dialogue:
"I'll do my best."
"Your best? Losers always whine about their 'best'. Winners get to go home and fuck the prom queen."
Back on dry land we resisted the temptation to buy the aforementioned photos, instead starting the long haul up Nob Hill to get to Union Square. On the way we passed a film crew shooting; in the UK this would have been a major event, but San Franciscans take it in their stride. It featured Liz Hurley, and we got to see the long-legged stunner as she took a brief walk out of her caravan. The film crew were pretty relaxed, merely asking that bystanders not come forward into the shooting view. Fair enough.
Our walk took us through Chinatown, under the tunnel (filled with carbon monoxide - I felt my life shorten by two years going through there) and finally to Virgin. We had about an hour in hand so went to the coffee shop up in the bookstore. An American invention, ranking right up there with diners for culturefulness. We rehydrated on latté and mocha, replenished sugar with pie, then wandered down to the ground floor to catch Travis.
The crowd started to build up about 5pm, with the band due to appear about 30 minutes later. Simon had the smart plan of buying Travis CDs to be signed now rather than later, and secured one for each of us. The band was about ten minutes late starting, but then Fran and Dougie walked on stage to appropriate adulation.
Disturbingly, about half of the audience were Brits. No matter, the Americans are missing out on this because they kicked off with "Driftwood" and were, frankly, superb. Fran has a voice to rival Marilyn Cutts, and superb fingerwork on the guitar. The heat built up in the store as over a hundred fans gyrated to the music between, around and under the CD racks. Fran followed it up with "Why Does It Always Rain On Me?" (because you live in Scotland, it's that simple) and Dougie took over the vocals for "Turn". Afterwards we queued for signings; I was restrained in just getting the CD signed, as several of the younger and more impressionable females were requesting autographed body parts. I don't want to know which parts.
Leaving James and Simon for the evening, I went back to the hotel and went down a block to the local Chinese restaurant for dinner. It soon became apparent that it was very Chinese. As in, I was the only round-eye in the place. Still, the food was excellent quality, even if the service was a bit slow. I tipped heavily just in case.
Homecoming day, but my flight wasn't until 4:30pm. I met up with the Dynamic Duo for some clothes shopping, then bimbled off to pick up my case and take the shuttle bus to the airport.
I had been given a vanilla seat on the flight back, but negotiated with one of the attendants at the gate and got an aisle seat - at a bulkhead. Oh yes! Room to stretch out, and then some. The flight itself was as exciting as these things get i.e. not at all, but I caught up on reading and sketched out most of a thesis chapter on my Psion. The film offerings were fairly standard but watchable.
We touched down at Heathrow at 10:30am on Sunday. Thoroughly jetlagged, I managed to collect my bags and catch the Railair coach to Reading. From there I went to my brother's for brunch, then caught the train down to Winchester. A new job at Teleca started there on Tuesday; for now, time to sort my life out, turn over a new page in my book, and - oh yes - get some SLEEP!
FIN
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