Full Circle

I’ve been putting off the final blog entry for quite a while now, because I’ve been trying to work out if I actually learned anything profound and important on the road. Well the answer’s no. Though I did add to my knowledge of car maintenance, hotel booking, and US geography.

Just to update things – I flew back to New York after leaving the car in Seattle, and Ricky arrived in NY with the car a couple of weeks later. I’m now subletting an apartment in the grungy-yet chic Lower East Side, next door to a trendy rooftop restaurant. This area is known for its scummy apartments, dirty streets, extortionate rents and crap, expensive bars. Just what I needed.

It was interesting to see a snapshot of the country at this stage in its history. Large parts of the USA are suffering from third-world standards of poverty, while incredible wealth still exists in places like Miami, LA and of course New York. But that’s common knowledge.

What’s less well known, at least to foreigners, is that the majority of Americans are kind, polite and very interested in what’s happening elsewhere. They are often well informed about world events too, though growing up with an American value system means that certain prejudices exist.

It’s hard, for example, for many people to believe that foreign nations can be safer or more affluent than the US, or even have more “freedom”. I felt a deep sorrow for the many genuine people who had fallen on hard times. But I didn’t meet anyone who had given serious thought to looking for work abroad.

As time passes, my road trip is slowly fading into memory. All I have to remind me of those long, hard days behind the wheel are a Mickey Mouse hat, a couple of uncashed chips from the Strat, a clutch of parking tickets a beer gut. Oh yeah, and a summons from somewhere called Redding, California, for an inexplicable driving offence.

And of course the car, which Ricky bravely drove across the country without a hitch. It’s now parked in the East Village, waiting for a buyer. I’m so far averaging a parking ticket a week, fighting a losing battle with traffic wardens and local residents who jealously guard the limited number of free spaces available.

Since returning to Manhattan I’ve renewed some good friendships, had my bicycle stolen, and rediscovered how rude and exploitative some people can be. But as long as you’re able to harden your heart and choose your acquaintances wisely, this is still an amazing city to live in. I’m heading back to England in a few weeks, but I’ll return if the stars align themselves right.

Thanks for checking out the blog.

Cheap Cress in Seattle

I do try to keep abreast of the cost of salad ingredients. Fluctuations in the price of iceberg lettuce, mayonnaise and watercress are vitally to both my personal budget and the national economy.

Imagine my delight, then, when I discovered that a greengrocers’ store in Seattle was charging a mere $1.50 for a basket of fresh cress. A highly reasonable price for this vital ingredient of salads and sandwiches, and gourmet garnish

Actually, don’t. It’s all a big lie to justify another corny blog title. I had more pressing concerns in Grungeville, WA. Like my dental treatment for starters.

I’d driven up at breakneck speed from San Francisco to make a June 3 appointment at a dentist outside Seattle. I was stressed about the vist and my ability to pay the bill. It was a specialist treatment that would stretch my budget to breaking point. My financial worries were not been eased by the fact that that Bank of America saw fit to charge me $105 in fees for going five dollars overdrawn for less than a day.

During the rushed journey up the coast, my level of stress increased. Driving stopped being enjoyable, and I quit paying attention to the wonderful landscape. Whereas taking the wrong exit or getting lost in a strange town had been kind of fun before, it was now arousing anger and frustration. My driving was becoming aggressive and erratic, and my temper was increasingly frayed.

Besides being famous for crappy operating computer systems and overpriced coffee, Seattle also popularized neglecting your personal hygiene, wearing baggy pullovers, getting bodily piercing and blowing your head off with a shotgun. As I hit Seattle’s southern suburbs I wasn’t quite at the shotgun stage – but knew I soon would be.

My fears about the treatment were unfounded. It was very professional and surprisingly painless, and I was on my way within four hours. The best way to get into the city, I was told, was via a ferry, which was left from a jetty a couple of miles down the road.

Even though I’d been advised not to eat or drink anything, I decided a single pint on the boat wouldn’t hurt. Unfortunately, those indulging in alcohol are confined to a small, enclosed area in the middle of the boat. This spectacular view is exclusively for nondrinkers.

In Seattle, Priceline had once again “upgraded” me, this time to the Crowne Plaza, a swanky skyscraper hotel in the middle of town. But I’m not going to complain about the accompanying outrageous parking, food and Internet fees. Instead, I’ll just say what a privilege it was to be staying at such a snooty pad.

I’d arranged to meet up with a young British guy, Ricky, in Seattle who was also heading east. The idea was to share the driving. However, the more I thought about the trip, the more, I thought about another plan. Why not foist the entire responsibility on him and just fly back to New York instead?

Despite supporting Liverpool, Ricky seemed like a nice chap. After taking the car for a spin we went to the pub and proceeded to get hammered. If I decided to fly back to New York, he said, he promised to look after the car, not crash, and be in New York in ten days.

As Ricky was staying in a dorm, I suggested he share my hotel bedroom. However, after he agreed to bunk up with me, I found that Priceline would not extend my stay at the Crowne Plaza. Instead, the Negotiator negotiated a deal at “Seattle’s premier gay venue”, the Max. That artsy boutique hotel is chasing the pink dollar with a vengeance. Its keycards state “The Queen Sleeps Here”. Its sells $30 “intimacy kits” featuring lickable oil, massage bars, condoms, lube, and a “pleasure ring”. And the bags containing the hairdryers look like this

I broke the news to Ricky, but he didn’t appear too nervous. We settled into our cramped room like the numerous other male couples staying at the hotel. But instead of making use of the intimacy kit, we were formulating a plan. Ricky appeared surprised that the car didn’t have a name. How about Max, he suggested? My alternative was “beep” – which would allow me to be “Beepless in Seattle.

While I would fly to New York, we decided, Ricky would share the driving with Jess, a cute girl with a nose ring, tattoos on her face and a suspended driving license. I was slightly the worse for drink when I agreed to the Jess part of the plan.

So that’s it. In slightly anticlimactic circumstances, my US road trip has come to an end. No more new cities, car worries, moans about hotel rip offs, crappy pictures or drunken escapades from me. I’m off to watch the World Cup in New York, while Ricky takes over the driving.

But it’s not quite the end of the blog. Ricky and Jess will hopefully provide at least one update from the road. And I’ll provide some final thoughts when I can gather them together. But for now, I just want to relax and enjoy the feeling of not being in a car.

Cake Tales of San Francisco

I enjoy a nice piece of cake as much as the next person. A thick, creamy slice of Black Forest gateau perhaps; a generous portion of lemon meringue pie, or maybe just a simple sponge. So after passing an upmarket bakery in downtown San Francisco, I couldn’t resist popping in and checking out the delicacies on offer.

Imagine my shock when I was informed that a single piece of gateau – a single piece – commanded a mind-boggling price tag of…

Hang on a minute. Hold it right there. I’ve been reliably informed that this blog, though amusing in parts, is in danger of becoming a catalogue of moans about high prices. So I’ll stop here. From now on, no more whines about rip offs, add ons, taxes, hidden charges or outright cons. Even outrageous parking fees will not be referred to. Apart from this one.

Thankfully I wasn’t staying at this particular hotel – the Marriott San Francisco Downtown, if we’re naming and shaming. I’d ended up in the slightly less salubrious surrounds of the Red Coach Motor Lodge, Tenderloin, the Bay City’s red light district and skid row.

Located at the bottom of upmarket Nob Hill, this place also used to be the city’s cheap accommodation center. Indeed, at first glance it still appears to be home to hundreds of seedy budget hotels. But on closer inspection they don’t accept guests. They’ve all been taken over by the city’s homeless, and their doors are gated and locked. Obviously homeless people need to live somewhere, but they could have left a few of these historic buildings for the purpose they were originally intended.

My hotel was located in more upmarket part of Tenderloin that borders Nob Hill, known to the locals as “Tendernob”. Appropriately, a number of STD clinics are also located here.

This seedy place was a contrast to my previous stop, the quaint Danish town of Solvang. This cozy, picture postcard place trades on its Scandinavian heritage – so much so that it has no real shops. Solvang consists entirely of tourists outlets, Danish flags, restaurants, windmills and cake stores.

Eagar to blend in with the locals, I’d decided to partake of a traditional Danish meal at a local restaurant. Bad idea. Consisting of vinegary red cabbage, overcooked meatballs and undercooked potatoes, it was arguably even crapper than Long John Silvers’ fast fish. It was awful. And such small portions!

Probably the crappest food in southern California...

Along with the high priced hotels, this overpriced culinary disaster persuaded me that sticking around Solvang might not be such a good idea. I resolved to push on. However, while attempting a tight U turn on the way out of town, I managed to smash into some kind of metal sign or post. I heard a crash, a creak, and then angry yells. In horror I realized that I may have hit a Danish flagpole in the middle of the street.

Visualizing an angry lynch mob of Danish-Americans fuming at the desecration of their national symbol, I put my foot down and sped hastily out of town. Farvel, plastic Denmark.

Two days later I arrived in San Francisco, city of gay rights, hippies, rogue cops and punks who don’t feel lucky. And, of course, cable cars.

The Motor Inn, Tendernob was walking distance from the car terminus at the foot of Nob Hill, where the ancient wagons swivel round on an old wooden turntable before returning up the street. After dumping my bag, I headed straight out to sample what the Bay City had to offer. It was a Saturday evening, after all, and city was supposed to have one of the best night scenes in the US – although maybe a bit “flamboyant” for my liking.

Balking at the $5 single fare, I set off walking up the hill. These photos don’t do the gradients justice. They’re bloody steep, and less than half way up I was wondering whether the five bucks might actually have been a good deal.

Just as darkness was falling, I stumbled upon Chinatown. This place is huge, and it’s easy to get lost. It is full of dark alleyways, strange sounds, weird stores, dodgy smells and dim lights. It is supposed to be the biggest Chinatown outside Asia. I liked the fact that it wasn’t packed full of tourists, unlike London and even New York

Adjacent to Chinatown is North Beach, a lively district full of bars, strip joints burlesque clubs, psychics, druggies and queens. I spent most of the evening just walking, ending up at an Irish pub near the overrated tourist trap of Fisherman’s Wharf.

Three pints of Stella later, I was in no state to tackle the hill. The last cable car was at midnight, so I decided on an early return to Tendernob followed by a nightcap.

In these days of health and safety concerns, it’s great to see that they still allow passengers to hang on to the side of these cool cars. The ride was actually a lot of fun, although the drunken tourists crying “wooooo!!!” whenever we went down an incline didn’t add much to the experience. As I clung to the edge of the ancient vehicle, I attempted to take a photo of the crazy scene, but only succeeded in capturing the bonce of my folically-challenged fellow passenger.

The next day I headed to the city’s cable car museum, where the inner workings of the system are on display. A long time ago, the cars used to run all over the city, and the small stretches of track that remain today are just a small sample of what was here before. The museum also allows you to see the moving underground cables that the cars hook on to in order to get up and down the steep hills.

After I checking out of Tendernob, I headed to the legendary Haight Ashbury district. Having not enjoyed any female company for rather a long time, I was hoping that a braless, long-haired maiden might gently place flowers in my hair before inviting me to experience a “way out scene” on her love bus. No such luck, although I was actually addressed as “man” and offered LSD by an interesting-looking gentlemen.

I enjoyed San Francisco a lot, but like LA, getting out of the place was a nightmare. I sat for an hour in a queue of cars waiting to join the northbound lane of the Golden Gate Bridge…

..before risking a major traffic smash up to provide you with pics from said bridge. Was it worth it?

Next up, Seattle. Home of Pike Place Roast, Daphne Moon, Microsoft, and my date with dental destiny. I am supposed to be getting my teeth sorted out here, after which I may well dump the car and fly back to New York to watch the world cup. The prospect of driving another 3000 miles isn’t quite as appealing as it once was.

I’ll leave you with the song that inspired this week’s awful pun.