The US of A - some notes



Santa Monica Beach




San Francisco - An alley.

 I stood on the Santa Monica Pier and squinted into the distance, a chilling cold wind stinging my eyes as I watched flocks of great big sea birds soaring and diving and being chased up in spectacular white waves by beachgoers rugged up in warm jackets. An aging man strummed a guitar and sung a neat little tune for those few that wandered the pier under the gloomy grey skies. Skipping down off the pier I tiptoed across the wide beach and dipped my fingers in the Pacific Ocean as it lapped the shores of California, the birds flapping overhead.


I’m in America, I said aloud to myself. What a bizarre notion, I responded.

By morning the wind had petered out, letting the sun take pride of place. Los Angeles stood up and smiled, that’s more like it, I thought. I hired a bike and meandered along the wide, flat cycle path to Venice Beach, passing bums snoring on the grass besides bicycles laden down with their worldly possessions. I was up early so it was just me and the bums watching the surfers as they slid down the brown barrelling waves. By mid-morning Venice Beach was bustling with more bums and locals riding wild bicycles and skateboards. Little path-side stalls selling odd arts, dit dats and bits n bobs opened up. I had an interesting chat with a jewellery maker who fashions accessories out of bits of metal and keys he finds, we spoke about creativity and he told me how people the world over are learning to live simply to change the world. I agreed and I doubted, and I cycled on past the multi-billion dollar villas, tattoo parlours and touristy trash shops that line the beachfront.

“Can I’ve a dollar?” a voice called out from a park bench. “I want to smoke some pot.”

I do the tourist thing and take a hop on hop off bus tour which winds its way up through Beverly Hills, along shinny Rodeo drive and eventually to Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards, where every corner has a story, every bar its famous beginnings. Stars line the floor and the Hollywood sign shines in the afternoon sun, high above it all. Hawkers call to tourists trying to hussle up more fools eager to sight celebrities or stare at their fortified gates. Crazys stand on street corners screaming, bums ask for small change, any change.

I have a vivid memory of Los Angeles, of the countless, nameless street people that cover every part of shabby LA except the pristine lawns of Beverly Hills.

“Mummy, I saw a Trolley-lady,” I wanted to say. “A real live, honest-to-goodness Trolley-lady.”

8 hours on a bus, under pouring rain, and I’m in San Francisco, where it rains and rains while I trudge through its hilly streets. For some reason I don’t remember I’ve always wanted to come here. I’m in San fran-fucking-cisco, I tell myself, but I am one foot out the door and one lingering at home. The weather brings me down. The rain soaks through to my feet and slowly turns my toes to ice cubes. I walk and walk and see only my feet. Eventually I stumble into a Starbucks and by chance get a free coffee, which is blacker, stronger and grosser than tar, but never mind. Once again the new day brings the sun which scares away the rain but not the cold. I, and every other tourist in San Francisco, rent a bike and strike out towards where the Golden Gate Bridge stretches triumphantly across the bay. It’s a chilly, clear, crystal blue sky day. San Franciscans are out walking dogs, cycling, enjoying the return of the sun. I zoom across the bridge and back again and there you have it – I’ve cycled across the Golden Gate Bridge.

*Tick*

I wander San Francisco until I become resolutely sick of being on my own. But travelling alone gives you an excellent opportunity to open your eyes – I see things happen, watch the world go by around me in a way wakes my senses to the wonderful, wide world. I chat to street vendors, I listen to the back of the bus as it erupts into an interesting political discussion about global populations after a stop at a university. I listen to two men, strangers in a Starbucks, discussing Obama and the ‘true america’, I get a free bus ticket from someone getting off a bus, a free train ticket from a guy at the kiosk who was handing out ones people left in the machine (who does that?!) I hand a man a handful of nothing, 50c and he beams “You’re an angel.” I turn away because I think he’s going to hug me. “You’re an angel.” A big man falls into step beside me in a train station and chats like we’re old friends, later I bump into him again “You following me?” he says, and he laughs a hearty laugh from deep in his belly. “Have you ever seen such a happy man, so down on his luck?” I ask the city as the night wears on. I spend hours browsing bookshops, finding bargain books at a book exchange run by what must be one of the friendliest men in the world. I watch a kid sing at the top of his lungs and dance to his heart’s content while he and his family wait for the boat to Alcatraz. Another bum offers me a drink as he strides past swigging – “You like a good drink? Tequila? I bet you do!’ he laughs. Another man grins behind a sign “Please help me it’s my birthday and I want to get drunk.” Oh the honesty of the deprived, don’t try and tell me it’s lacking. I walk up and down hill, here and there all over San Francisco past distinctive, cute two or three story houses with their high stoops and fire escapes, through the Castro where men feel free to kiss and cuddle in the street and the rainbow flag flies on every post. I cross one street and find myself suddenly out of Chinatown and in Little Italy, where Kerouac, Ginsberg and co. hung out in seedy bars in the 50’s. “I’m on the road, Kerouac,” I proclaim. I explore goodwill and vintage shops in the delightfully colourful Haight Ashbury and Mission districts, where I am in awe of the street art, the history of revolution and the mix of people who zoom past on an assortment of different bikes, all going places in the great big city of San Francisco.

I love this city and I think to myself - this is what it means to see the world.

And this is what it means to miss someone. I whisper to the cold, clear San Francisco sky.

If I could take anything I liked home from San Francisco I’d take the bike lanes, and put them in every other city I visit. San Fran emits a friendly vibe, iIt’s joyfully eclectic and a beautiful place with endless rows of pretty houses and parks bursting with greenery – in such a city I could stay.

But time ticks on and I journey further away, onwards and westward across the American continent, over a white snow-dusted earth speckled with trees that look like chocolate powder shaken over white frothy milk. Mountains rise and bump miles below me and I wish I were down there, ankle deep in snow that would melt right through the holes in my shoes. Soon enough the land flattens out like flat brown clay and after a while crop circles extend like rows and rows of pie graphs or target signs as far as the eye can see. In time we seem to leave winter behind, and I arrive in Florida to be greeted by a gently humid evening masquerading as winter.

Here are those things you already know about America simply confirmed – it’s a big country with big things. Big pizzas; big cars – SUV, Chevrolet and hummers; big coffee; big shops - Big Kmart, Super Target, Walmart Super Centre – in America the supermarket is no longer super enough; big highways; big airports; big portion sizes; big savings – stuff is cheap here. Law firms and their advertisements abound, encouraging you to sue someone, anyone, now! Accident attorney, asbestos attorney, family attorney, divorce attorney, Morgan and Morgan - the biggest law firm in the state, as I learnt whilst handing out cocktails to attorneys at a golf tournament. No-freakin-Wonder there’s so many crime shows coming out of this country! Heck! And then, before Sesame Street could start, its 10 billion sponsors had to have their ads played.

On the quaint bricked streets that wind their way around the lakes of downtown Orlando every front porch sports a swinging chair and an American flag adorns every lamp post. Orlando is wide spread and decentralised, it is unquestionably a car city. It’s in central Florida, but as they say, in Florida you are never more than 45 minutes from a beach. Orlando is theme park central. Tourists flock here to shop, eat, disappear into the world of Disney and otherwise indulge themselves in every form of marketable entertainment imaginable. International Drive is tourist central, lined with massive souvenir shops. We chose to boycott these establishments, so that I might actually be able to return home with money left, and went instead to some old Florida amusments. At Weeki Wachee, one of Floridas original theme parks, I can promise you an experience unlike any other, a chance to meet Real Life Mermaids. As in girls wearing mermaid costumes and breathing from long air hoses so as to dance and perfom feats like eating an apple underwater. And of course to act out the corniest, lamest but most unique version of The Little Mermaid there ever was.

Florida, despite being mostly reclaimed swamp land that has been drained almost to the point of destroying the Everglades altogether, is full of beautiful natural, freshwater springs which are home to all kinds of creatures. I saw manatees (big, slow ‘sea cows’ that are much like Dugongs) and gators, an otter, the long legged blue heron and truckloads of ugly buzzards which look beautiful airborne but are ugly enough to scare the pants off anyone face-to-face. I saw some racoons, disappointingly, as road kill but was informed by most locals that they are nasty little creatures. My favourites however, are the squirrels which prance across the grass and up trees in even the most suburban or inner-city areas. They seem to go unnoticed by most people and look about as smart as the acorns they eat. They have spectacularly brushy tails and an exceptionally crazed look in their big, wide staring eyes – therefore I love them. Just as I love the café’s with average coffee, comfy armchairs and free wifi – an easily found hang out spot I will greatly miss here in small town Perth. In an affront to the traditional America mealtime we spent a lot of time eating vegan food at hipster cafes or in vegan bakeries run by hipsters and exploring the organic, fair trade goodies sold at Whole Foods Market. Raw food, vegan, vegetarian, organic food – the availability of choice at a not-ridiculous price was astounding to me, and reminded me of the down side of living in one of the most isolated cities in the world.

I also left America with a new appreciation for country music and weddings. The day before I flew home we finally arrived at the purpose of my visit, to see Miss Roll become Mrs Pyle in a simple and beautiful lakeside wedding, on a glorious Floridian spring day. She walked down the aisle to a sweet country tune to make Ben without a doubt the happiest man on earth, meanwhile the audience sniffed and wiped its eyes. From their first kiss as husband and wife, to their first dance and the toasts to their wellbeing crafted lovingly by family and friends – the whole celebration was one of those beautiful moments in which love rules all and we’re all happy to surrender entirely to its powers.

Now I sit in an airport café, I’m hardly even sure where, my mind is so foggy and clumsy from being stretched through the time zones from Orlando to Sydney and suffering from the feverish, cramped sleeplessness of airplanes that is interrupted only by the timed arrival of shit meals. My eyes water and waver and I have to pinch myself awake. I’ve crossed America and the whole Pacific Ocean, now I just have one more continent to cross before I’m officially home, in the arms of my favourite person in the world.

I love to travel, but the best part about going away is coming home.

And no longer having to figure out tipping and having tax included in the price...



Florida - the Gulf of Mexico




A nice day for a white wedding