Can't get there from here

47 A.D.

She’s a siren!

She’s a temptress!

She’s a whore!

Who do I mean?

Why, Los Angeles, of course!

But before I get onto the-city-that-you-never-leave, please observe a minute’s silence for the following:

In Memoriam – GREYHOUND

Finally the love affair ends and this great and terrible bus service is no more in our lives. From east coast New York to west coast LA, we’ve had all sorts of fun and games and never had the same level of service twice. Even the final journey, a three hour ride from San Diego was notable for us being rushed on board and not being able to get our fleeces out of our baggage, leaving us at the mercy of rctic air con. And what was in many ways the simplest journey we undertook was interrupted at San Clemente station for a full-on search of all personnel by the border patrol (not THAT full-on!) So, that’s the end of this chapter. And to that person who voted in the latest questionnaire that they were sick of me whining about Greyhound, well, their wish has come true! RIP.

Tim got us a cracking deal at the Stay At Main hostel in downtown LA. Even though the bathrooms are shared, there’s plenty of them, including one right next to our door. Plus there’s complimentary popcorn at 4 o`clock – woohoo! It’s a boutique hostel, whatever that means – I imagine it has something to do with this flowery light type thing on one side of the room...

...as well as the red and white spotted duvets. Nice. The hostel is adjoined to the Cecil hotel and we can get in through there with our key cards when the hostel entrance closes at 11 p.m. The Cecil is a grand old 1920s place, supposedly with very naff rooms (at least according to the reviews), but a very grand foyer. In fact, I take to entering the complex through the Cecil, rather than the hostel.

The guidebook said we’re staying in a “dicey” area and I concur, if only for the beggars. To be fair, 99% of the beggars I’ve encountered in the US have never pushed it when I’ve refused to give them any cash, some have even been more polite than the Greyhound staff (oops, I’m still whining about it!) To save having to give too much of an explanation, I’ve developed the habit of telling the beggars that I’m “brassic” in the hope that they don’t know what the word means, but imagine it must be some serious hardship. But the first guy who bugged me here knew exactly what I meant;  “Ya can’t even spare one cent???” he yelled at me down the street. “One cent???” he continued to yell. Anyone know any more colloquial words than “brassic”?

Let’s get back to our adventures in LA. Saturday night – nothing happened. We didn’t even have a beer. Pretty dull, huh? Instead we spent the evening researching where to go over the next three days and how to get there. LA has been described as “19 suburbs looking for a city” and there’s no doubting just how gigantic it is. Everyone I’ve met who’s come from here has recommended getting a car. But we think we can wing it on the public transport system, just need to decipher the online maps which make the periodic table look like a kindergarten join-the-dots.

After sleeping well, despite the constant police sirens through the night, we hot-footed it down to the nearby subway station and bought day passes for $5. Unfortunately the subway is just that – underground, so you don’t get to see much of the city as you travel.  We alighted at the one place that we both agreed we had to see – HOLLYWOOD!

Okay, so the big film studios moved out decades ago, but the area still has plenty of allure for the casual tourist. The subway emptied out onto Hollywood Boulevard, featuring sidewalks decorated with the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Everyone who is anyone in this town has a star there, many of whom I’d heard of, but a great many of the names didn’t register. And a lot of them are still blank, so no doubt the fab five lads of popular boy band One Direction will be listed there soon, or maybe it’ll just be Harry Styles after he goes solo and takes over the world. I know, I know, bad example, but it’s been a long day.

[After taking this shot I was asked, "Sir, what is the significance of your rabbit?"] 

The guide book mentioned an underwear shop called Frederick’s along the boulevard, containing the free-to-visit Celebrity Lingerie Hall of Fame. Well, it’s something different, isn’t it? But alas, it was closed. Sunday bloomin` Sunday! Probably the most popular spot on the whole road was The Chinese Theatre where they still show movie premieres and people in strange costumes hang around outside waving for pictures.

Far in the distance we had spotted the fabled Hollywood sign, but it really was a long way away. Ducking into a nearby visitor centre, we asked which roads to take for a better view. The lady behind the counter duly obliged, but suggested that one should not attempt to walk it because of the hills – get a taxi up and walk back. Shouldn’t walk it? Telling that to the Grayboys is like a red rag to a bull! Not only did we intend to walk it, we’d stride up those hills with our San Francisco-experienced thighs! But it was hot. And steep. And tiring too. At the end of the day, we couldn’t get that close, so had to settle for a few shots standing on the road with the huge white letters like a tiny alphabet in the background. But at least we saw it.

The woman was right – going down the hill was a lot easier, but we were very hungry and there weren’t any benches, let alone any shade. Therefore we ate our packed lunches on a small wall on Sunset Boulevard AKA Sunset Strip. This was the place where bands like The Doors set the sixties ablaze with tunes like Light my fire at the Whisky-a-go-go club, but the only blaze today was overhead.

The next nearby destination was the Hollywood Forever Cemetery where several showbusiness people were buried, most notably Johnny Ramone (or, at least, most notable to me). As we entered the place, Tim went one way, and I went another. Was it a subconscious What Carcass Moment? Who knows, but by the time I looked around, I couldn’t see him. I kept wandering a little while, but no joy. By now it was really hot overheard and I was down to my last millilitre of water. There are better places to lose your brother than in a massive Jewish cemetery in a massive city in a massive country. I tried to remember commando training, or whatever it was I learnt in school – if you get lost, stay in one place so people can find you. But what if he does the same thing? We’ll both be rooted to the spot `til dusk! In the end we both worked out that it made sense to head back to the gate where we entered, like two minds working in tandem. I’m not sure if we’ve evolved a group mind yet, but we do often have the same thought at the same time. Can men synchronise? Let’s not go there, instead we’ll end the paragraph on a positive note – Tim found Johnny Ramone’s grave on his wanderings and got the pic, so it was all worthwhile.

[Johnny Ramone's grave not pictured due to potential copyright infringement from Tim.]

It was by now the middle of the afternoon and I was flagging. On US TV they’ve been constantly advertising the 5 Hour Energy Drink (it may be big on Britvision as well) and I got given a free sample on our way to the subway that morning. So I drank it and waited for the five hour magical buzz to happen...ha! If anything I was yawning more than before! It made sense to get the bus to our next destination – Beverly Hills. Unfortunately we got off a few stops too soon and ended up only skirting around the edge of this high class suburb. But boy were the houses fine! And even the grass on the sidewalk was a lush shade of dark green, every blade trimmed to perfection. The plan had also been to amble round to the even grander mansions of nearby Bel Air, but time was against us. Why did this city have to be so huge???

Tim is keen on his photography, so we headed to the glamorously-titled Avenue of the Stars for an exhibition called Who Shot Rock `N` Roll. This was all about iconic photographs of musicians through the last few decades and I have to say I was very impressed. I even commented to Tim how the album cover from London calling by The Clash  was deliberately shot to parody Elvis Presley’s debut, supposedly demonstrating the death of rock `n` roll after 25 years. This titbit of information wasn’t on the accompanying plaque and the people around us were very pleased to hear it. Ironically the exhibition did not allow photographs, so instead I’ll just post the visuals behind my tittybit...   

The bus journey back from West Hollywood to Downtown took nearly an hour. Yawn! We ate out at the Mexican equivalent of Subway, name of Chipolate. Scratched another new food off the list. And that’s it for today. May you come back for the next installment in which I will be displaying my wares on the beach...

South of the border

"Oh didn't we have a lovely time the day we went to Bangor Tijuana!"

45 A.D.

It was to be a What Carcass Day by default – Tim had shown little interest in going to Tijuana from day one of the trip and at this point his desire had diminished even further. I think he heard bad things about it from chums back home. Even Dan, who we’d just stayed with, had never ventured over the border. I wondered why – there was a whole other country down there and just a short train tram ride away! Some may have thought I was mad to go, I thought I would be mad not to go.  

I was up at 7.30 for my solo mission, leaving Tim still snoozing as I snuck out for 8. Our noisy neighbours hadn’t disturbed our sleep, but it sounded like they hadn’t even been to bed, given the amount of excited chatter from behind the wall at such an early hour.

The girl on reception back in the Parthenon hostel in Chicago had said I would be an easy target for the locals, given that foppish, blonde, English boys tend to stand out like sore elbows. She may have been exaggerating slightly, but I still left my “beard” attached to my face to look, I dunno, more intimidating I suppose, in a totally non-intimidating way. And I wisely left my multi-tool in the hotel room, my only form of self-protection being good manners.

I’d heard different things about the kind of tourists who visit Tijuana – on the one hand you have the under 21s who go to Mexico because they can legally drink. That would be a bad plan for me. The local transit guy I bought my 3 day pass from said the last tram back to San Diego leaves at 12.59 a.m. and the driver doesn’t wait around for a second. He went on to say that Tijuana is not the place you want to be stranded in the early hours of the morning, but I could work that out for myself. The other kind of tourist I knew of was the one who goes to buy cheap drugs...the legal pharmaceutical kind. If the expiration date for a drug is one year in the States, it will be at least twice as long in Mexico, and who wants to waste money on expensive prescription drugs? Oh yes, there was also the third kind of tourist – the curious pleb like me.

After a 30 minute bus journey downtown, I made my tram connection and it was another 45 minutes before I got off at the end of the USA. I couldn’t see any signs telling me where to go, so I just followed the crowd of sombre-looking Hispanics up the footbridge over the freeway.

Suddenly I walked through a big turnstile and that was it – bam – I was in Mek-ee-ko.

Immediately I was pounced upon by 1,000 requests for a taxi, and then for all kinds of other stuff, e.g. “You want the pharmaceuticals, amigo? I know where they are...” The guy in the tourist information office advised I head for “the arch” because that’s where the main shops were, and during all my time in this town I never let it out of my sight. However, to get to said arch I had to navigate another freeway and that meant climbing the raised sidewalk. Halfway up was an entrance to “family restaurant” and a chap called Camito leapt out in front of me, demanding I come and eat and drink a full meal there (it was 10 in the morning!) I said I’d think about it and he gave me his business card / tatty piece of paper, offering X free shots of tequila with every drink, etc.

When I got to the bridge over the freeway, I was met with an interesting sight. Next to the road was a large flood plain and a border control truck went screaming down the centre of it. Far off in the distance I could make out the tiny black shapes of people running back across the plain en masse, I assume having tried to rush the border. As a couple of other border control vehicles powered in to assist their colleague, the would-be border-jumpers scattered and disappeared back into the maze of Tijuana streets. I was only able to get the end of the spectacle on film, but I found it exciting and disturbing in equal measure.

Coming back down to the earth and the “main shops” that the tourist office described, I wasn’t particularly impressed, but then I never expected to be. It was a bit like a downmarket Spain, with the goods slightly naffer and the cars slightly rustier. The constant calls for me to stop and sample some souvenir or other were incessant. A few streets from the arch I was the only non-Hispanic person for as far as I could see, and in my whole visit I only saw maybe three other tourists. The atmosphere wasn’t exactly hostile, but there was a sense that it could become that way if I made the wrong move, so I kept my camera action to a minimum and gave out plenty of stay-away vibes. And I naturally kept my hands on my valuables at all times.

[Tijuana's finest mariachi band rests before welcoming Jimmy El Gringo to their country.]

I keep passing fierce-looking women waiting patiently outside small hotels that are closed. The hotels are closed, so what are they waiting for? Oh yes, of course – punters. They look me up and down with raised eyebrows, but they’re nowhere near as insistent as the street vendors who see me coming a mile off and shove plastic Jesus statues in my (bearded) face. Eventually I get tired of making excuses for my lack of custom in a mixture of English and Spanish and I simply say, “No dinero” (no money). They start saying, “We take Visa, amigo!” When I say I have no Visa, they offer me store credit! Que loco! Well, I suppose it’s all good practice for Asia.

After a couple of hours wandering, and into streets a little further from the arch than I’m used to, the ladies-who-lean become more desperate – “Please! Please!” is their cry. To say that to me they must be incredibly desperate! My time in Tijuana hasn’t been very long, but I realise I’d best head back to the relative safety of the US of A. There’s nothing really here for me, or maybe not for anyone unless they’re into underage drinking, loose women and expired Ibuprofen. Just so long as I have experienced Mexico, that’s enough for this English lad.

On my return journey, Camito spots me coming and blocks my path once again, thinking I’ve come to take him up on the offer to dine at his restaurant. He’s very disappointed when I tell him, “No dinero,” but I offer to return in a week with my brother. He tells me to keep his card.  

The way to the USA is clearly signposted and on my way over yet another bridge I am highly amused at the massive amount of traffic trying to leave Mexico, compared to the puny amount coming in. Then I see the size of the pedestrian queue and scream internally. It wraps so far around the surrounding streets that I cannot initially see the end of it. This was not going to be fun.

I take my place at the rear of the queue and ask the girl in front of me if this is normal. She says yes, and that it can sometimes take three hours to get across the border. It wouldn’t be so bad, but there is not much shade and I have to spend the time when I’m not under a street or a lamppost with my day bag on top of my head. Not surprisingly, I am the only person in the entire line adopting this look.

It takes me an hour and a half of solid queuing to get through homeland security, but it feels like longer. It’s a real buzz to switch countries again and obviously my conviction for jaywalking in New York hasn’t registered against my passport yet. It’s strange how queuing makes you tired and I drift off on the tram journey back to San Diego, regularly headbutting the window. Somehow, by a fluke of nature I didn’t need to go to the bathroom the entire time I was south of the border. This is especially meaningful as I never once saw a public facility and there were actually bars advertising restrooms as a speciality, rather than a compulsory feature!

Back at the Navajo Lodge, Tim was going to hit the beaches, but decided to have a lazy day getting things organised (can’t blame him for that). We spent late afternoon in the serenity of Balboa Park, where Rocky was born. It was a lush, green contrast to the mean streets of the morning, but, as pleasant as it was, it didn’t really stand out against other parks we’ve visited in other cities. This wouldn’t matter, but so far we haven’t really been able to find a true identity for San Diego. Think of places like New York and New Orleans and there’s an instantly-recognisable impression, but San Diego doesn’t stand out in that kind of way. It’s just a really nice place to live.

Our evening meal was spent in Jack In The Box – a fast food chain that they really should have in the UK. We both admit we’ve eaten a little too much junkfood while we’ve been here, but could it be argued that’s the American way? And it is convenient when you don’t have your own cooking facilities. However, that’s all changing next week...only one more destination left on the great American road trip...and I can't keep walking around looking like this...

California dreaming

44 A.D.

I ended the last post writing of my regret to wear flowers in my hair, and speaking of hair, I realised the other day that I’m going to have to head to the barber’s soon. Stay tuned for that particular entry -  it’ll be a belter!

Anyway, back to the present, or rather, Tuesday evening. Not only did San Francisco have a strong effect on me, it also won the award for Best Bus Station on our trip. However, given that we spent the night there upon arriving in the city, returning to the same space was a bit like going back to an old bedroom. These days I have sleeping on buses down to an art form and it’s almost a shame that this is the last overnighter...almost.

Upon arriving in San Diego, we see that it is cool, clean and packed with beautiful people. California continues to inspire us, intimating that all our dreams can come true if we’d only just move out here permanently. In the song Hotel California they sang that “...you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.” Supposedly, we’ll be checking out before 11 a.m. and leaving on the 31^st July, but you never know...

Our particular Hotel California, AKA “The Navajo Lodge”, could only accommodate us for two nights – Thursday and Friday – and so for Wednesday we had to put out the Couchsurfing Call. It was answered by Coco, who is originally from the Philippines and has lived in a loft apartment in the East Village of San Diego for 11 years. Coco is involved in all things artistic (she’s painted many wall murals across the city) and now focuses mainly on being a life coach. Most importantly, Coco has hosted loads of couchsurfers, including fellow Brits, and her place is as cool as can be.

[Loft from the left...]

[...loft from the right...]

[...and The English Couchsurfers' Suite.]

The apartment is all open plan, even the bathroom. Tim and I have our own mini loft space, slightly elevated from the main floor and hidden behind a large curtain for some privacy. Also living in the loft is Dan, originally from Colorado, who’s been in San Diego for about two years. He’s a budding film maker and he shows us some of the work he’s been involved in, such as “An unfabulous possession” and “Monster in my swimming pool”. The third resident of the apartment has just moved in that day; Mitch is from Lebanon and is over here studying for his degree in electrical engineering. So, with Coco’s art, Dan’s films, Tim’s photography, my writing, and, err, Mitch’s engineering, it feels like we’ve come together in a little multi-cultural arts community. By the way, I was only kidding about the bathroom.

Mitch’s living space is directly below the guest loft and Coco nips out to pick up a futon from across town. In line with previous couchsurfing experiences, Tim and I are called upon to move furniture and we transport Mitch’s new bed from the street to the living room. Then four blokes scratch their heads and try to assemble what is essentially a simple piece of kit while Coco cooks dinner. By the time she’s serving up, we’re still struggling with a rogue washer and whether to go against the instructions and drill holes in the base. Coco orders us to eat while she adds the final screws.

["Right!" said James, Tim, Dan and Mitch.]

Tim and I spent late afternoon / early evening strolling by the quayside to find the visitors centre, which unfortunately had closed. We returned for a game of sock-tug-of-war with Coco’s two dogs, Max (already neutered and very chilled out) and Mango (yet to be neutered and extremely randy). As the evening progressed, we decided we should head out and see what the Gas Lamp district of San Diego had to offer. Coco and Dan  understood our need for an economical(ish) evening and took us to Star Bar to fuel-up, before heading for the more hardcore-partying venue of Whisky Girl.

An aside – sticking with the word “hardcore”, we often have the television on in the background when in hotel rooms and consequently we’ve been exposed to a lot of US shows. Our favourite is Hardcore Pawn which is set in a family-run pawnbrokers in the heart of Detroit’s mean streets and features all kinds of nasty oddballs trying to flog their wares and becoming even nastier when they sober up and forget they pawned their TV for $5 the night before. It's great entertainment, though it gets a bit samey after four hours. 

An aside to the above aside – sticking with the word “pawn”, we were driving back through Nevada from Yosemite  last week and saw a sign for a shop called Guns `N’ Pawn.  Just thought I would mention it.

Whisky Girl had some great tunes to boogie on down to and we collectively shook our thang until the early hours. Back at the loft before bed, there was just enough time for a nightcap and an impromptu philosophy discussion (the kind commonly brought on by $7 coronas), 97% of the content of which is forgotten by morning.

Cometh the morning, cometh a fantastic breakfast cooked by Coco (I think Dan did the bacon, so he deserves credit if he did). After lounging around and dipping into selected Youtube clips on the large screen TV for a while, it was time for everyone to raise themselves to productivity and for the Grayboys to move on. Coco was a superb host (despite her poor attempts at a British accent – a kind of warped upperclass-cockney hybrid) and she made us feel right at home. In two days time she has two French couchsurfers coming to stay and I hoped we’d made a good enough impression for England to win the battle of the best guests.

The easiest way to get across town (or so we thought) was via the trams – The Navajo Lodge is quite a way from downtown, but it was the only place we could find available. Seems there’s some kind of convention on in town (seems there always is). We had to change tramlines in an area called Old Town and by the time we got to our latest in a long line of roadside motels, it had taken nearly a couple of hours to get from A to B. May have to get the local buses in future.

At time of writing, the sun has just gone down and we have neighbours in the next room who are more vocal than usual and have people calling regularly at the door, the last guy wearing nothing but a pair of pants and holding a hair dryer. Are we about to witness the flipside the San Diego’s cool, clean and beautiful image?

Pictures at an exhibition - part 6 (Las Vegas special)

Here's a few more for you while we undertake our last Greyhound overnighter (it's been emotional!)

[The tallest free-standing sign in the world and the tallest free-standing 31 year-old from Southport called Tim who supports Liverpool F.C. in the world.]

[Not so large that it sells Southport rock.]

[As the food situation became more desperate, James adopted the hamster-like approach of storing meals in his cheeks.]

[Living like a high-roller!]

[Wasn't much bigger than a Macdonalds (but I didn't eat an XXL size).]

[Spot The Bum competition - part 2]

[James contemplates various dark thoughts and grim ideas, as per usual.]

[A mobile multi-gym to work off the excess.]

[Okay, so this was bigger than a Macdonalds.]

[A sphinxter says what.]

[The largest television screen in the world photographed by the largest guy from Southport born on 16th September called James Alexander Gray.]

[Why???]

[No, we didn't.]

[It's not the size of the handle that counts...]

[Tim tires from reading my rubbish captions.]

[No comment.]

My people were fair and had sky in their hair, but now they're content to wear stars on their brows

[Rewind to the morning of Sunday, 22nd July...]

42 A.D.

It’s no fun having to get up and go in the middle of a night when you’re sharing a room with three people, even more so when you’ve got to climb down a rickety, creaking bunk bed to get there. No one heard me though. Blame it on the Budweiser. Tim, on the other hand, had a very different experience. He woke up thinking he was back in the Vanderbilt YMCA in New York and that the toilets were down the corridor, not in the next room. So he got down from his bed and considered making a dash for it, but somehow remembered he was in the SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL HOSTEL and the door would lock if he closed it behind himself. He therefore wedged it open with his pillow, then went back into thinking he was at the YMCA and dashed along the corridor. None of us heard him, but he himself did not become aware of where he truly was until he awoke in the morning. I’m getting worried about that boy.

[Looking over the bannister to a hundred laptops whirring below.]

We came down to breakfast wondering what great merriment the night had brought once we left the party people to it – both the communal PC’s in the lobby were out of order...I dread to think what may have been downloaded. Breakfast here consists of free coffee and pancakes, so long as you make them yourself. Tim was game, but I didn’t fancy the look of the frying pan that was doing the rounds and settled for my apple-a-day. Back up on the sixth floor (technically the seventh, and the stairs are killing us!) we said goodbye to Pankaj, who was still very interested in our trip. He said that six months was a long time to be travelling and that a lot of mental strength must be required. Nah, you just have to be mental.  

After the heartache of being unable to skype our parents due to overcrowded wi-fi, we left base camp and headed out into the city. We’re on Mason Street and the area directly west is called Tenderloin, but there’s nothing tender about it – lots and lots of bums and acid casualties talking to themselves.

San Francisco is an old port and we made our way to the quayside, enjoying the intermittent waves of heat, coupled with occasional blasts of cool wind. Everyone goes on about the weather in California being amazing, and so far I concur. The piers used to be a real rough `n` ready place full of dodgy sailor’s bars and brothels (a little like Ainsdale-on-sea), but now they’re a big tourist trap. Pier 39 is the biggest of them all, full of seafood eateries with a fairground feel. Having packed sandwiches, we took a seat and ate our lunch with a view of Alkaseltzer. Tours of the former prison are available, but you have to reserve them at least two weeks in advance, and we’d had no such foresight. Staring out across the bay, I was not surprised that so few inmates managed to escape (and apparently the one who did was recaptured immediately).

The piers ended at 44 and we headed up something that San Francisco is very famous for – hills – tonnes of `em, each more steeper than the last! As if the six flights of stairs in the hostel weren’t bad enough! We gritted our teeth and headed up to the swanky neighbourhood of Russian Hill, staring enviously at the people in the cable cars. Lombard Street is well known for having a section named “Crookedest Street” – a one way winding road that you would never want to attempt in winter. But there were no shortage of motorists driving down it in summertime.  

I should say that up in these elevated neighbourhoods there were no ker-azy bums or beggars, just nice clean, sun-drenched houses with quirky, individual architecture. I may end up having legs like tree trunks, but I could definitely live here. I also feel a very creative urge in this city, as if it would be the best place to come up with the next great American novel, although I’ve had no time to write anything more than my blog entries. It really does feel like you could change the world from here...

... And in a sense that happened in the next neighbourhood we went to. North Beach was where the beatniks made their home in the 1950s and Ginsberg, Kourac, et al gathered to read inflammatory poetry that was sensationalised by its censorship (are you loving my alliteration? Not very poetic, is it?) Slap bang in the centre of North Beach is Washington Square Park (every city we visit seems to have a Washington Square Park). There were lots of people chilling out here, but I couldn't be sure if this was where the flower children came in the Summer of Love to turn on, tune in and drop out. We just sat down on a bench to rest our weary calves.

[Spot The Bum competition.]

Even higher up in the city is Coit Tower, the money to build it donated by some famous lady I forget the name of who wanted to give something back to the city she loved. I can see her point of view, as well as the fog rolling into the bay. By now we’re really starting to tire and we need a Segway or a Starbucks, so we make our way back through a very chaotic Chinatown – the second largest Chinese community (after New York) outside of, errr, China.

Back at the SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL HOSTEL I meet the ever-enthusiastic Terry in the elevator. He asks me if I’m going down to the nightclub that evening and I answer, “But of course!” He goes on to say that a Sunday for them is like a Friday night because they have gallons of extra liquor, and tonight that liquor is margarita mix. They call it “Holy Water Sunday”. I would have whooped had I not been so knackered.

Back in room 602, Raul was hanging out and having the quietest ever argument with his girlfriend over the phone, but we had no extra room mate. Were we going to fluke it and go without? The lobby was always crowded with people arriving, sometimes without having pre-booked, so the chances of having a free bunk below me for Holy Water Sunday looked slim. And besides, way back in Washington D.C. we’d thought our luck was in, only for Hannah and Mike to burst in at 10.30. But this is America, and anything is possible here. I spent my time before tea productively sewing up the hole that was developing under the arm of White Shirt, then we went out for a meal at a 1950s-style diner. And for once I had a decent-sized portion that did not cost an arm and a leg (nothing exciting though – steak and eggs).

At a little before 9.30, the siren went off in the corridor and the free beer warning rang around the building. People gathered in the lobby again and Terry went through his spiel about condoms, chess and a special plea for people to stop writing in their reviews that the hostel bedrooms are dirty (they’re not great, but I’ve experienced worse). The plan tonight was to drink until the ale ran out, then sit down with the laptop and book our accommodation for the next stop, San Diego.

[Terry does his nightly stand-up pre-amble.]

[Bob, in the background, guards the doors and asks to see your room keys. Tim, in the foreground, pulls a silly face.]

Down in the club, I still felt bloated from the diner meal and resisted the urge to quaff like someone was going to take it away from me. Tim spoke to the right/wrong person and got conscripted into a beer pong team. Not sure if he won, but he learnt that there are more rules than simply throwing the ball into the cups, there’s all kinds of weird and wonderful things to do with trick shots and the like. I end up giving a Danish guy called Simon advice on hiring a car in the USA and how not to spend a night in Yosemite. Simon is 21 (probably quite old for this place) and has just finished four months in the Danish army – he wisely decided to quit before being shipped off to Afghanistan. Simon reckons that I am 26 and Tim is 21. When I tell him the truth he literally cannot believe it. And in a strange kind of way, I cannot either.

Beer pong goes on and on and on, with lots more people in attendance than the previous evening, but there’s only so much I can take before it gets boring. I head up to the lounge area to write the last blog entry (apologies if I forgot to run a spell check!) However, I keep nipping back to the bar for a quick margarita and I’ve no idea where Tim is. Consequently, drunken chaos reigns and the San Diego accommodation does not get a look in. By the time Simon and his Danish mates call me over to play a drinking game called “Goggles”, I remember that I’m 34 and it’s 12 years since I was at university. I leggit.  

Holy Water Sunday ends with me returning to the room to see the sleeping shape of a new room mate in the bunk below me. So close...

[Holy Sh*t Monday...]

Amazingly we made it out of bed sometime between 8 and 9 a.m. I did not meet new room mate because he’d only been in our room temporarily for the one night and was transferring to another floor. However, I concluded he must be German because of his deodorant – dusche das (“shower that”). So that means we’ve got another person to share the room tonight!

Another day of sightseeing beckoned to kill the hangovers, so we got the bus west across town to the Haight-Ashbury district. The fame of the original Beat generation pushed the prices in North Beach up high, so the younger followers had to find somewhere cheaper to live. They came to the Haight, an old rundown Victorian area, and settled in to become the first hippies and kickstart the psychedelic sixties. The area spawned the likes of The Grateful Dead, Janis Joplin, and The Jefferson Airplane. Maybe The Backstreet Boys as well, I can’t be sure.  

[Making notes for the blog at the centre of 1960s counter-culture cool.]

Nowadays Haight Ashbury is home to modern day hangers-on to the hippy dream, but the only thing to see are the tacky shops, most of them either selling things made in Tibet, or trying to save it. We made the relatively short walk to Golden Gate Park...maybe this was where the flower children first started dancing naked together? Not today though – it’s warm, but not that warm. Unfortunately there is little shade and I have to put my hood up because the top of my head is already pretty burnt. Yes, yes, I should have bought a hat, but there doesn’t seem much point now. Don gave me a baseball cap back in Birmingham, but I lost it somewhere in Texas.

Golden Gate Park goes on a lot longer than the map suggests. We realise this is because the left part of the map is not to scale and has been condensed. Where are we? I give my compass a nudge and it points north. I give it another nudge and it shows north in a completely different direction. When did that break? And how do you even break a compass in the first place?

After a lot of confused trekking, we find our way out of the park and take a seat on a bench for lunch. At our feet is a small hole and a goafer repeatedly pokes its head out, then disappears back into the darkness. Well, it’s something to look at! The thing we really came this far north west of the city to look at was Golden Gate Bridge. Created at the height of The Great Depression, it really was a masterful achievement for the time. The famous shade of “international red” was originally going to be an undercoat for a more conventional grey look, but the citizens voted to keep it that way.

We arrived in New York with the Atlantic ocean behind us, but now we’d met the Pacific...and it looked bloody freezing! As expected, it was incredibly windy on the bridge, which is about a mile long. Given how far we’d already walked, we went halfway along it and came back. We sensibly got the bus back to the San Francisco International Hostel (can’t be bothered with capitals any more).

Monday night was a much more civilised affair in the hostel. Sure, they still gave out free drinks and the beer pong tournament continued, but it was as if the excess of Sunday left most people wanting a quiet one. Our new room mate arrived – Marshall, from Vietnam. He’s been living in the US for nine months, which puts our measly few weeks to shame! And it’s a shame we don’t have longer to get to know him, but we have to move on. Unfortunately San Diego is proving a tricky place to book. There’s some sort of event going on that’s filled the hotels and put the prices up. Guess we shouldn’t have been so laissez-faire about getting it sorted on Holy Water Sunday!

Now, on Tuesday, we’ve checked out and I’m hanging out in the lounge and getting the blog written. Despite the hedonism of this hostel, I’ve really enjoyed my time in the city. San Francisco is definitely a place I could live in, settle down and have lots of little James’s who would grow up to be blonde-haired beatniks, hippies and bums.

And do I have any regrets from all the time I spent here? Only that I forgot to wear some flowers in my hair.