CHERTSEY FIELDS

Road cycling has defined for me certain environments. Or rather there are physical spaces that I relate to purely within a cycling context. Such psychogeographic relationships are particularly pertinent to cycling, a pursuit that demands mobility and encourages an acquaintance with one’s milieu.

It is more to do with perpetuating a mind-set, rather than covering physical ground. The cyclist is restricted to the road, and certain roads at that: motorways are out of bounds; many A-roads are best avoided; and cul-de-sacs, crescents and alleyways will rarely feature on any cyclist’s itinerary. The quotidian commute to work is particularly limiting, informed as it is by the need to move from A to B as swiftly as is feasibly possible, but wherever one cycles, and for whatever reason, there will always be constraints.

Geographical abandon is not what it’s all about. It could be, if you liked, but cyclists tend to want to know where they are going, how much ground they might cover, and the time all this is expected to take. The physical dénouement is the thing, as opposed to an interrogation of the landscape for its own sake.

For illustration, the first 7 miles of a 30 mile ride I take semi-regularly out to Chertsey are of no great consequence; I am too familiar with them and the attendant roads are trammelled with traffic, uneven surfaces and perpendicular junctions. It is not until I reach Marshall’s Roundabout and pull clear along the B375 that I begin to feel some sort of harmony within my location. Passing through Shepperton the road rakes upward. The approach into Chertsey itself offers a port-side vista over the Thames which, on a hot day, is singularly reminiscent of some of the riparian features I’ve come across in Southeast Asia (I think it’s the boats moored along the Thames’ riverbank, obscured by reeds and framed by Dumsey Meadow to its north and Chertsey Meads south). And then, as one leaves Chertsey via the A317, there is another roundabout, which is the fourth in a whole series of roundabouts that will ease my passage all the way into Kingston some 14 miles later.

It is this corridor – from Chertsey to Kingston – that more vividly conveys these psychogeographic elements I wish to explicate. I mix my route up a bit once I’m south of Thames, which is not so easily done on the northern approach through Twickenham, Hampton and Sunbury. Occasionally I’ll head down to North Haw and Byfleet, but more often than not it is through and around Weybridge, Hersham, Molesey or Esher where I seek to venture.

Chertsey itself is something of a dismal vicissitude, a necessary portal I must navigate to reach more fluid pastures and through which I take the path of least resistance. I did venture to its heart once, intent on pausing somewhere for coffee, but very quickly actuated an about-face and didn’t stop again until I’d made it all the way to Kingston.

Anyway, one needn’t hang about. Crossing Chertsey Bridge, I effect the first meaningful left turn and then take it all the way out the other side of Chertsey, almost bypassing the town entirely. Next, I attack the first climb – if you can call it that – a steady 700 metre push that is Woburn Hill. This is my least favourite section of this second stage of my round trip. One is encouraged to diverge off the road and onto a cycle path that takes up much of the pavement. I might occasionally disregard an injunction such as this, but for some reason motor vehicles are want to floor it up this particular incline, and the road itself is fairly narrow. Then the road levels out again for the short approach into Weybridge – or the part of Weybridge known as Elmbridge – with its peculiar High Street and incongruous collection of boutiques. If I’m going to be impeded by traffic then I’ll expect it here. There are potholes to be mindful of too, and then the next ‘climb’ – a sharp 300 metre kick up Monument Hill – where after I’ll pass Weybridge Green and start on the 3.5 km long stretch along Queens Road as far as the five-spoked roundabout that grants access to Hersham. This might be the best part of the whole ride. The roads are in fairly good condition and are flanked by many trees. The air smells fresh along here. If it’s been raining then you might find yourself cutting through cool pockets of air – something to do with Walton Common being there, I think.

Weybridge is an odd place. I like passing through it but wouldn't want to live there. It epitomises some sort of suburban ideal, although I'm not sure whose. There's no sense of there being a central hub, and neither any distinct periphery. The merest hint of a town centre will dissipate no sooner than it has appeared, but will then resurface again, apparently at random, despite the woods that intervened in-between. I do like the preponderance of trees but I'm not so keen on the fact that the general environment is so governed by groves, crofts, closes, drives, walks, and so on – residential avenues that lead nowhere, or do lead somewhere but forbid you from finding out. It is these gated communities (as well as the many golf courses) that seem to define much of Surrey – and Berkshire too.

Eight roundabouts on from Chertsey – after having passed through Weybridge/Elmsbridge, and Hersham (nothing doing there) – I enter Esher. There's an 800 metre climb up Lammas Lane, before I decide whether or not to take the northerly route around Sandown Park or continue east through Esher town centre. Esher is only marginally more intriguing than Weybridge and I will invariably have to stop at traffic lights. Still, from there it's an almost uninterrupted run into Kingston along Portsmouth Road, 6 km of fast riding before negotiating Kingston's one-way system. I might stop for coffee here or continue on to Richmond and the Hollyhock Cafe off Petersham Road, where familiarity nullifies the exciting potential of not knowing exactly where I am.

[Photograph courtesy of Alan Hunt.]

TRAVEL: USA PART 7 - LAS VEGAS

18/03/04: Las Vegas began life as a stop-off for people travelling to Los Angeles, which ensured a station was built there when the railroad was extended west towards California. The reason why people paused there was because of the availability of water, an oasis in an otherwise arid landscape. Indeed, Las Vegas means 'The Meadows' in Spanish.

Fate was again kind to its inhabitants, this time during the great depression, when the nearby construction of the Hoover Dam, the Union Pacific Railroad, and the efflorescent gambling industry, provided employment in a country that was short on it. Growth stalled slightly during the Second World War, although the location of Nellis Air Force Base nearby provided a captive audience throughout the conflict and the period immediately after. Perhaps more significantly, the seeds for the Las Vegas we know today were sown when local hotelier Tommy Hull built the El Rancho Casino in 1941, what could be seen as the blueprint for the casino/hotel hybrid that has come to symbolise Nevada's most decadent of settlements. The style back then was for mock Western-style constructions, but these were soon superseded by the Miami influenced ‘carpet joints’ that prevail to this day.

Back then 'The Strip' didn’t even exist. Downtown Vegas was where the action was, before they built New York New York, Luxor, Circus Circus, Excalibur, and all the rest. There’s still plenty of action to be had in Downtown Vegas but it’s been rebranded as the ‘Fremont Street Experience’. You may have seen this thoroughfare in the James Bond film Diamonds are Forever, whereupon Sean Connery is chased all around it in a fast car. This would not be possible now as the area has been pedestrianised and covered over with a cylindrical metal roof. The whole thing resembles the Bentalls Centre in Kingston, but on acid: lights flash relentlessly and the place won't shut up for a second. It is a 24 hour city in a very literal sense. You could lose days and nights here, should you choose to stay indoors, which is perfectly possible given the level of amenity.

Our breakfast reflects the opulence of our surroundings. I have the steak and mashed potato, which comes with a free side salad, a dressing of your choosing, and endless beverage refills, which in my case means plenty of juice and coffee. I say breakfast but it’s really lunch. We slept in late to prepare ourselves for what’s been earmarked as our final fling, our last night of collective revelry before going our separate ways. That it is to take place in Las Vegas is fitting.

Mid-afternoon and we’re strolling about downtown, soaking up the vibe. M and C are keen to play at cards. El Cortez will do. They throw in $20 each for a session of blackjack, and it’s not long before N and I are digging into our wallets and joining in. An officious looking gentleman strolls over to see how we’re doing. I get the feeling that he’s suspicious of us. I’m actually on a bit of a roll – I used to play pontoon for jellybeans with my grandmother and aunt – and we’re taking full advantage of the free cans of beer that are routinely passed our way. M and N are out of luck, C has doubled his money, but I’m the real winner, leaving with $80. Buoyed by the experience, we go for a drink to celebrate.

We return to our motel to freshen up. I have preserved a clean shirt for this night alone – a plaid number that I like to think Chris Hillman (of The Byrds) might have rocked back in the day. Our first destination is Circus Circus, a place of notorious mayhem, but by the time we get there the show’s over and it looks more like the vestibule of some suburban bowling alley, alive with nothing more than video games and one armed bandits. So we head back to The Frontier to catch up on our drinking and settle down for almost an hour with a lounge act called 'The Fortunes'. They play all the favourites: Dock of The Bay, Knock on Wood, Chain Gang. Their between song banter discloses this triumvirate of manhood to be from Coventry, England. They moved to Vegas some time ago, and the accomplishment of their act is testament to this.

Not feeling as drunk as we’d like, we head back to Gilley’s. It’s the same sort of crowd as before, although tonight they’ve got a mechanical rodeo bull set up. M and I are both game, and give it a decent go. It’s an odd crowd that gathers in Gilley’s. They don’t strike us as your high-city rollers or out-of-town types; it seems more a locals’ hangout. A sort of wild-west theme pervades. There are people wearing Stetsons and cowboy boots and there is line-dancing. In the name of transatlantic relations, I ask a random local if I can try on his hat. He says no, and in a manner that suggests that I shouldn’t have even dared ask.

19/03/04: N and I are due to fly back to San Francisco, while M and C plan on staying in Vegas for a few more days before they catch a bus to L.A. We head over to their new motel as a collective and share a final meal together. We then walk on down to Fremont Street whereupon N and I wave down a cab. It has been an honour to have been part of M and C's American Adventure and I don’t want it to be over. On our way to the airport, N insists we stop off at some warehouse so he can check out the price of lap-steel guitars. I don't have a problem with this but the music emporium in question lies alongside a major freeway and I’m left to ponder the impending difficulty of hailing a second cab while N pores over musical instruments.

And so it goes. Once N is done, we find ourselves stuck on the wrong side of the road with no apparent means to get to the other side. We successfully hail a cab but then have to dodge traffic to get to it. But we do, and my nascent fear that we might miss our flight soon dissipates.

By the time we land in San Francisco it is dark. The flight only took an hour, but the boarding and disembarking, and the train and the walk back to the Green Tortoise, wipe out the remains of the day. There is just enough time for a final fling down at Delirium, but it proves to be hard work. To liven things up I order in a round of tequila. Nathan reciprocates with another, but it is the proverbial straw and I end up throwing up in the toilets.

20/03/04: It feels strange, and slightly sad, to be back in San Francisco after our week on the road, but we have things we want to do. N wishes to return to Haight-Ashbury to purchase a lap-steel guitar, while I’d like to peruse the stock at Amoeba Records. We puzzle over which is the best route to take to Haight and decide to walk to town and catch what we can from there. We board a bus headed in the general direction, but it only takes us so far. It is very hot – too hot to be waiting around for buses – so we walk from somewhere near Mission to our intended destination. It’s a bothersome journey up steep hills, but we find our way to Haight-Ashbury and go about our business. Nathan purchases his lap-steel (after some deliberation) and I buy a couple or records: Weird War's If You Can't Beat 'Em, Bite 'Em and Marriage on the Rocks by The Amboy Dukes. The weight of Nathan’s newly acquired instrument demands that we get a taxi back to our hostel.

It’s a quiet evening, although maybe not as measured as it should be given we’ve ordered a cab to take us to the airport for 06:00 the following morning. We sink a few beers in Vesuvio, and another in the bar where John Lennon’s cinema-going buddy accosted us, grab a pizza and head back to the common room of the Green Tortoise. There we will end up talking politics with a savvy American until one o’clock in the morning, hanging on to the last fragments of a trip that’s ended too soon.

TRAVEL: USA PART 6 - BIG SUR, SANTA BARBARA AND LAS VEGAS

16/03/04: I’m awake early and decide to use the time constructively – write postcards, post them, and see if I can find a travel agent. N and I have decided we should fly back from Las Vegas to San Francisco, as opposed to travelling by bus. It is for the same reason that we deigned not to drive straight from Yosemite to Las Vegas: Death Valley stands in our way. There may be a way around it but it would be a long an arduous passage and we don’t have the time. I find a travel agent, make enquiries and return to our motel to talk it over with N. Flights will cost us a little over $90 each, to be paid for on my credit card.

It is about now that my hangover begins to kick in, and it’s a nasty one. The others are in a similar state of befuddlement. To exacerbate matters, it’s shaping up to be another very hot day. We return our room keys and climb aboard The Beast, which is almost on fire, but then realise we’re missing something. Where’s our liquor? What did we do with our stash? Flashbacks to the night before, in our room where we carried on drinking until the early hours. A picture forms in my mind, a revelation that we placed our cache in one of the drawers for safekeeping. The owner of the motel has since gone to lunch so we plead with one of the cleaners to let us back into our room so we can search for what it is we’ve left behind. She acquiesces and after much frantic searching we find what we’re looking for.

By the time we reach the travel agent I’m feeling a bit sick. The lady who takes my booking is very helpful, which makes me all the more aware of how awful I must appear. If she can smell last night’s booze on me she does a good job of not letting on. The whole procedure takes far too long and makes me dizzy, but it’s a relief to know that our passage back to San Francisco has been arranged. On the other hand, we’re now running late. We decide to skip breakfast and find a supermarket instead. The supermarket, once found, is a wonderful place to find ourselves: spacious, calm and air-conditioned with a comprehensive selection of potato chips, fruits and soft drinks to aid us on our road to recovery.

Roof down on The Beast, somebody puts on Harvest by Neil Young. We aren't sure yet where it is we are driving to, but N has warned us that he won't be able to manage more than 250 miles (San Francisco to Yosemite National Park was about 200 miles.) At the very least we would like to make it as far as Bakersfield, although Santa Barbara would be preferable. If we’re really pushed for time then there’s always Santa Maria, although that would leave us with a very long haul to Vegas.

Refractions of light flicker off the Pacific Ocean blue. After Neil Young, The Beatles and The Beach Boys. The Cabrillo Highway winds its way along Big Sur’s coast, keeping N focussed on his driving. After a few hours we stop somewhere for lunch overlooking the sea and could happily spend the rest of the day there.

We are making good time so we decide to press on as far as Santa Barbara. The last 50 or so miles, after Highway 1/the Cabrillo Highway peels off from its coast-hugging tract, aren't much fun. At one point the road takes us into a depression and a horrible mist descends upon us, freezing us to our bones. We’ve had no reason to put the roof up and it’s too late to do anything about it now. We reach our destination before it is dark, find a motel opposite Pershing Park, and walk down to the waterfront in time to watch the sun set.

Big Sur

Tomorrow is going to be the hardest day’s driving yet – something like 350 miles, bypassing Los Angeles and then on through the Mojave Desert towards Las Vegas – and we’ll need an early start. We find an Irish bar somewhere around State Street, order some french-fries and force down a beer. The place is dead so we try somewhere else (possibly the Wildcat on Ortega?) but it's not much better. A couple more beers later and the consensus is that we’ll call it a day.

C and I are talking our way down State Street and M and N are following behind doing the same when suddenly we’re told to stop. N has noticed a lively bar with potential. I am wary, as is C, but we defer to the wishes of our driver, who’s in a gregarious mood. The place is heaving. It’s a ‘student night’, and students in America – and especially Santa Barbara, it appears – can afford to drink whenever they want. There is a yard out the back which is even busier. We engage with the locals and people keep going to the bar and it gets quite messy and we don’t leave until late. When we finally do, C suddenly recedes into the night, M is seen chasing after two girls, N is stuffing his face with food he’s found from somewhere, and I’m doing press-ups on the sidewalk. We agreed that we need to be up no later than eight in the morning.

17/03/04: My limited experience of American motels has led me to deduce that their exterior mostly betrays the interior. From the outside they look how you might expect, stuck in a pleasing 1970s time warp which fits in with the whole road trip experience very nicely. But when you actually step inside these rooms the décor can be surprisingly quaint. Everything is very tidy, floral patterns are ubiquitous and there are plenty of little things, like doilies and brass door knobs, that give it an oddly European feel.

Our motel in Santa Barbara is no exception, and the breakfast area wouldn’t look out of place in an English bed & breakfast. We know this because despite sleeping until gone 09:00 in the morning, none of us are in any shape to do anything until we’ve had something to eat, even if that’s only an apple. M is particularly damaged. I knock on his and C’s door. No answer. I shout that they need to wake up, that we have to get to Vegas and we’re already running late. M comes to the door, opens it and then quickly closes it again. It is to be expected. We didn’t even go straight to bed when we finally regrouped back at the motel. Those of us who aren’t feeling so bad are probably still drunk, and N, our driver, fits too easily into this category.

It’s a real effort to eat anything at breakfast, although they’ve not laid on a very inspiring spread. So we will stop at the garage to stock up on water and potato chips. We shall also keep the roof up for a while because we need to be able to control the temperature and stave off loud noise. It is 10:30 by the time we’re ready to go – more than two hours later than scheduled – although that’s quite a good recovery considering our condition.

Leaving Santa Barbara

We pass through LA to the sounds of The Byrds (Younger than Yesterday), HOLLYWOOD visible on the hillside. The thermometer is showing 30°C and it's not even noon. Fortunately The Beast's air conditioning takes it in its stride. The traffic is heavy but flows steadily, and we make our way through the milieu of Los Angeles in reasonable time. After that the road adopts a long but shallow rake all the way to the edge of the desert. The soil glares a bright white but visually softens once we’ve reached the summit of Glen Helen Regional Park.

The Mojave Desert doesn't seem as quintessentially desert-like when you drive through it, but my photographs show otherwise – perhaps the traffic detracts from the sense of wilderness. Just over halfway and there’s about 150 miles of driving still to do. We stop at Lenwood on the fringes of Barstow and to Denny’s for lunch. These irregular eating habits are playing havoc with my digestive symptom, but I feel a whole lot better after my ample portions.

The Tony Blair-appreciating Marine in Monterrey had warned that we should book our accommodation for Las Vegas in advance, but we’re only just getting around to it. C’s phoning numbers from a local newspaper, without much success. He makes nearly ten calls before he finally find a downtown motel – the Bridger Inn –  with room for all of us, corroborating the ineluctable appeal the Marine assured us Vegas has for the American looking to cut loose for a few days, regardless of the time of year or day of the week.

Taking into account the hour we took for lunch, the journey to Las Vegas’s periphery takes us a full seven hours. Downtown Las Vegas is located north of The Strip, so it’s almost 19:00 by the time we’ve found our motel. The process of booking-in seems to take forever. The woman who works reception is in no great hurry – you’d think she was stoned or something – and there’s a large party to check in ahead of us. She studiously pores over everybody’s passport, cracking jokes if she spots an opportunity. The atrium’s piled high with luggage and there’s nowhere to sit. M is seething. N has almost lost his mind; he’s standing out on the pavement in a driving-induced stupor, bashing an empty plastic bottle against the side of his head.

Meanwhile, the return of our vehicle is now overdue and I’m given the unenviable task of phoning ahead to tell them that we will be there as soon as our receptionist decides she’s done with her comedy routine. The woman at the car-hire place is laying it on thick, explaining that she’ll need to charge an extra day’s rental if we’re late, which we almost certainly will be. I’m not so worried about that, but I am concerned that in establishing how much that extra cost should be our rental scam will be blown apart. I fancy, though, that she’s not quite grasping the nature of our predicament: 'No, we’re already in Vegas – we’re just tied up at the motel. We shouldn’t be more than about half an hour.' She finally understands me: 'Oh, you’re here in Vegas NOW? Why didn’t you say, honey?'

An hour passes and we almost have to manhandle N back into the car. He tells us his concentration is shot to pieces and the only way he can make it to the airport, where the car needs to be deposited, is by relying on us completely for directions. This seems fair, and to start with it goes very well. However, at the first major intersection this system shows signs of breaking down. It takes ages for him to commit to making a right turn, hounded from every angle by aggressive drivers sounding a concerto of horns. On the approach to Highway 15, the passengers collectively indicate to its driver the need to turn left. N immediately turns the car left. An explosion of panic reels him back in before the possibility of meeting another vehicle head-on becomes a reality. We continue to provide instructions for the rest of the journey, making sure not to give him too much forward notice in case he ends up driving us over the edge of a fly-over or into a brick wall.

We reach the airport without further incident – now about an hour and a half later than agreed – only to find that the aviation authorities have devised some sort of navigational test. Signs directing us to our terminus, when slavishly adhered to, lead us out of the airport and back toward the freeway. We turn around and try again. The same thing happens, only this time C succeeds in identifying where we’re going wrong. On our third pass we find the correct turning and thus the point of depository. Then finally some luck: the keys are returned without further ado, and no money is asked for. The severely depleted fuel tank isn’t even checked. Except now we’ve got to wait half an hour for a bus to get us back to the motel. We'll grab a cab.

Mojave Desert

We enter the MGM Grand looking for food and drink, find a bar and order a round of beers. No sooner have we sat down and the stage above the bar erupts into a vulgar explosion of music and dance. The lead singer starts warbling and prancing all around us, and if you're quick you can catch your dumbfounded faces, relayed as they are onto the big screen above the stage, as the cameraman follows this jester’s every move. Actual lions are trussed up in a faux-jungle landscape just across the concourse. We drink our beers quickly, find a food hall of sorts, eat pizza, and then get the hell out of there.

The more time you spend wandering around Las Vegas the more apparent its seediness becomes. It’s not the kitsch aspects that strike you – they’re blatantly apparent from the moment you arrive – but its grimy underbelly. Flyers for strip joints lay scattered all about you. Groups of drunken kids make a racket. Many of the smaller casinos which open up onto the street offer bottled beer for a dollar, or free vodka slush puppies – anything to get you through the door.

We each buy a large can of beer from a supermarket and wander down the main drag, drinking them openly – you couldn’t do that in San Francisco. We pass the most audacious fountain display you will ever see (Lake Bellagio). We stand there and watch this aquatic revue go through its routine at least three times. This is Vegas all over. There is nothing inherently impressive about what you are seeing aside from its scale, but it is enough, and we stand there, transfixed. After walking for another mile or so, we give in and dive into a random casino. M gets stuck into a game of roulette while I pick up the free drinks. When M decides to attend to the calling of nature I deputise for him and, without knowing what I’m doing, win him 20 dollars.

Next up is Gilley’s, which promises naked mud wrestling. By the time we’ve entered, this dubious spectacle is over, but we stay anyway because the beer is cheap. We’re exhausted so don’t take full advantage of this, but as with the night before we make some effort to keep things going back at our motel.

TRAVEL: USA PART 5 - YOSEMITE NATIONAL PARK AND MONTEREY

14/03/04: Despite leaving Vesuvio at a relatively early hour, we spent some time socialising with the traveller types back at the Green Tortoise, and it left us feeling a little bit dazed and confused. In the morning, C and I took refuge in the common room – with coffee, Gatorade and crisps – while M and N went to pick up the car. It was a Sunday and N and I would be returning on the following Friday via an as yet undetermined means of transportation. For M and C there would be no coming back. Los Angeles would be their next destination, before they crossed from west to east for a final fling in New York City.

M and N pull up outside of the Green Tortoise in a silver Chrysler Sebring convertible. What sorcery is this? The car that we were supposed to be hiring hadn’t really done it for N and M, but they were resigned to it anyway. M then observed the Chrysler moping about in the corner and asked how much extra it would cost to charter this formidable beast. $100, apparently, which must be some sort of mistake – or a deal done on the side perhaps? Who cares, we’ve got just the thing in which to drive to Las Vegas.

Our Chrysler Sebring – here on in referred to as ‘The Beast’ – has an external ambient temperature gauge, and it tells us it’s touching 30°C outside. Not that we notice: we’ve got the roof down, and the backdraft is keeping us cool. Within less than a mile of crossing the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, we’ve taken a wrong turn into Oakland. The surrounding buildings are low-rise in aspect, which suggests we might be in some kind of down-town situation; the sound of gospel music emanating from various churches gives the same impression. To the less religiously inclined denizens of Oakland, I fear we might look out of place – white skinned, driving a silver convertible with the sounds of the sixties blaring out. We think we know in which general direction we need to be travelling, but we’re not presently driving in it. To rectify this we elect to take a U-turn in the nearest parking lot – the one occupied by a division of Afro-American youths in typical ‘street’ attire. Traffic lights then dictate we pause at its exit. One of these youths saunters over. Is he armed? What’s his gun of choice: a revolver, a shotgun, or something semi-automatic? I don’t mean to stereotype but my teenage years spent listening exclusively to hip hop have primed me for this. Sensing that we might be lost, the gentleman asks us if we need guidance. We tell him that we want to get back on Highway 580 and he duly obliges with directions. His council is both accurate and  courteous, and the occupants of the shiny Sebring feel a mixture of relief and guilt; relief that we haven’t been mugged – or worse – and guilt for ever thinking that it should have been the case.

Oakland comfortably behind us and the topography starts to level out (around Tracy, possibly). To ensure an early start we skipped breakfast and are now in need of sustenance. We pull into a roadside Kentucky Fried Chicken and reaffirm with its employees that we’re heading in the right direction – the direction of Yosemite National Park. We are, and any residual uncertainty is obliterated by the military-like precision the proprietor of Kentucky brings to bear in sketching out the best route on our roadmap of California.

Contrary to global opinion, Americans are not as overbearingly arrogant as we sometimes perceive them to be. They are a friendly people who like nothing more than to engage with those who have made the effort to come and wonder at their fair and pleasant land, are proud of their country and appreciate its natural charm. When an American says to you that Yosemite National Park is one of the most beautiful places on earth, it’s not out of hubris, it’s because they genuinely believe this to be the case (even if they have never set a foot outside their own country).

When lunch is finished we visit the garage next door and stock up on beer. This turns out to be a bizarre experience. The petrol station is run by a family who emigrated here from the UK. That in itself is not overly surprising (although, given the remoteness of our location, it is slightly). What really strikes us as weird is the fact that they’re from Hounslow. N hails from Feltham, just down the road, and he, M and I have all spent varying amounts of time renting accommodation in Hounslow itself. N and I currently live in Isleworth, in fact, not 15 minutes’ walk from Hounslow Town Centre.

You’d have thought somebody had died. On being told of our residential circumstance, these economic migrants, who moved here for the sake of their children, so they tell us, are plunged into a well of wistful nostalgia for the old country. They want to know everything current that’s going on in Hounslow and would probably be very willing to take us in for the night to hear all about it. They make us promise to stop by on our return from Yosemite, and we don’t have the heart to tell them that we don’t yet know whether or not we’ll be coming back this way, and that the chances are we won’t. It’s scene of almost hysterical bathos.

As is the way with such things, when we finally start gaining some altitude the temperature begins to fall, so much so that we’re inclined to pull over to the side of the road and put the roof up on our air-conditioned beast. Meanwhile, N has asked us to keep an eye on the petrol gauge. We’ve been warned that refuelling facilities in Yosemite are scarce, and the journey is taking longer than we'd anticipated. A sign is passed that states ominously ‘Last Chance for Gas’, but peering over at the gauge it looks like we’ve still got half a tank of petrol left. We can also sense that dusk is imminent and would like to reach our destination before nightfall.

But N is concerned and wonders why none of us are similarly anxious. It finally dawns on him that M, C and I have erroneously been taking our fuel readings from the temperature gauge. We don’t quite run out of gas but it is dark when we arrive, and we’re lucky to find accommodation too. We will all have to share a room, and within that room will have to share double beds. There is a bus that makes the short journey to Yosemite Lodge – the only facility currently open where we can settle down for a meal. It’s like a Wetherspoon pub on a Tuesday afternoon, but with a wider demographic. There’s no time to make a night of it and we’d rather be outside anyhow. We decide to walk back to Curry Village, where our lodgings are, to take in the serene delight of unadulterated night sky.

 Depending on who you ask, bears are either not a threat at all or are very much a present danger and should be guarded against at all times. Such conflicting advice makes for just the right level of trepidation when walking back through Yosemite at 11:00 at night. We pause for a while in the woods to gain a fuller appreciation of our physical isolation. When we’ve had enough of that, C and N prepare for bed, while M and I decide to drink a beer out on our veranda and wonder at a silence only occasionally disrupted by a distant, thunder-like sound. We ponder this mysterious sonance for a while and theorise that it can only be the reverberations of huge slabs of winter ice crashing down scree ridden slopes. It is spring and the snow is melting.

15/03/04: I have slept well and maybe even made inroads into the sleep deficit that has been building up over the past week. If it wasn’t for N I might have gotten well on top of it. He’s been very active this morning, doing nothing much in particular, exiting then entering the room again and fiddling with the curtains in a concerted effort to get us all out of bed. Resistance is futile, so I commandeer the shower before the thought occurs to either M or C.

            I can see the thinking behind N’s provocation. It was dark when we arrived, but now the sun is out and who knows what awaits us. Moreover, we're all pretty hungry. Breakfast will be the ‘Three Brothers’ baguette, which is the culinary highlight of my trip thus far. We all indulge but each employ subtle variations on the theme, such is the nature of the Three Brothers experience. The numerical value of this delight refers to the three meats involved: ham, salami and pepperoni. You can then choose your style of bread, the salad contents, the sort of cheese you’d like, and your condiments. This, coupled with a cup of coffee, is the perfect way to start a day playing in the great outdoors.

We estimate that we have about three hours to spare to survey our environment. It has been decided that our next destination shall be Monterey, a distance of over 250 miles and something like 5 hours away. In terms of getting closer to Las Vegas this journey will not make massive inroads. However, it should make for a more pleasant driving experience, taking us through Big Sur and along the Pacific coast thereafter, before we are then required to head inland in the direction of Vegas itself.

It’s the perfect time of year to visit Yosemite. Our difficulty in procuring lodgings the previous night had nothing to do with an influx of visitors: there simply weren’t the rooms ready and waiting. Fresh snow lies piled up against the side of the roads, proof that Curry Village is still in the process of preparing itself for the influx of tourists that are sure to descend before the month’s out. We are freed from the commercial permutations that would ordinarily tarnish this most tranquil of settings and only occasionally pass visitors on our hike through the valley. It would be nice to stay another night. In hindsight, we should have left San Francisco a day earlier – maybe even two. As it stands, we need to have the car back in Vegas for Wednesday, and it is now Monday. There is little margin for spontaneity.

Before we leave there is the small matter of ‘gas’ to deal with. It can be procured locally but is slightly frowned upon: it is meant for the vehicles that tend to the upkeep of the area. We are made very aware of this by the local garage attendant who goes on to explain that the price of petrol is significantly higher than it would ordinarily be – hence the warning signs on the drive in – to deter people from buying it here. But we’re on holiday and couldn’t really care less about this extra expense. We’re just relieved we can buy enough fuel to get us on our way, and compared to the cost of petrol back in our own country this elevated tariff still seems rather reasonable, as demonstrated by the manner in which M deals out the dollar bills. (We’re only permitted enough petrol to get us on the road and as far as the next gas station, where we will stop and fill our tank to its brim.)

So we’re on the road again. It is a long drive through pleasant countryside, pretty uneventful save for an innocent encounter with a policeman curious to know what we’re doing pulled over by the roadside about two hours south-west of Yosemite. In fact, we’ve stopped for a cigarette break and to reorganise the contents of our boot, which is mostly filled with crates of beer and things. It’s hard to tell if he minds, or whether our English accents nullify any latent suspicion, but he takes us at our word and is quickly on his way.

It’s an epic journey along Highway 140 and we pass through a number of faceless towns – Merced, Los Banos – stopping just the once to purchase victuals to tide us over. It is dark when we finally run into Monterey. After stopping off at roadside diner, we find a motel and then walk down to the quayside in search of somewhere to drink. There doesn’t seem to be much going on. The only bar displaying even a modicum of life is some English themed ‘pub’ down on the quay, which actually turns out to be quite animated. Copies of the satirical publication The Onion are pasted to the walls of the toilet, there is a wide selection of beers, and the locals are very communicative. We end up in conversation with a US Marine who thinks that, 'Tony Blair’s got balls, man!' Despite his misplaced admiration for our then Prime Minister, this military man is polite, articulate and good company.

Perhaps because we’ve spent much of the day sitting down, we find the time and the energy to get almost as drunk as we were in Delirium, and stumble back through the empty streets of Monterey in high spirits.

TRAVEL: USA PART 4 - SAN FRANCISCO (UNION SQUARE AND MARINA DISTRICT)

12/03/04: Two consecutive nights of mild(ish) drinking have done wonders for my appetite, and it's going to take more than an Italian B.M.T.® to satisfy it. I spend about an hour alone in the common room, drinking coffee and stuffing my face with Sea Salt & Malt Vinegar Kettle Chips, waiting to see what the others feel like doing. N's on a downer, but it turns out that M and C are feeling similarly voracious. They’re also all keen on taking a trip to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art (SFMOMA).

The weather’s still holding its own as we descend into the bowels of San Francisco, through Belden Place and toward Market Street where all the high-street retailers and familiar fast-food outlets ply their trade. We hesitate before plumping for something we assume the locals might go for, and we are not disappointed. The place resembles a pre-war hotel lobby, with high ceilings and shabby oil paintings hanging off the walls. The clientele appear slightly downtrodden, the food suitably greasy. And then off to the SFMOMA.

I shan’t going into any great detail – the point of galleries and museums is to interact with them on a personal level – but the SFMOMA is worth the trip. The building itself is quite interesting, and the contents too. I was particularly impressed by Mark Rothko’s ‘No. 14’, a powerful canvas of blue and orange that sort of glows at you. Its impact surprised me, and when viewed from an angle it possesses the ability to disorient.

On our return to the hostel we discover the staff are laying on a spread. It’s basic fare – a sort of vegetarian spaghetti Bolognese – but probably the most nutritious thing I’ve eaten all week. What’s more it’s free. We then relocate to Vesuvio for the first drink of the day, followed by some random ‘Irish’ hostelry around the corner. We decide that we’ve probably exhausted the strip on Broadway and hail cab to take us to Haight-Ashbury, to touch base with Mad Phil in the hope that he might provide inspiration.

It’s alarmingly quiet back at Haight – it is Friday – but Mad Phil’s female companion reckons that Lower Haight is where it’s at. Another cab and... nothing. What was that woman talking about? We get chatting to an English bouncer, but he seems as nonplussed as we are. There’s always Delirium. We wave down another cab, and when we arrive the place is jumping. On Fridays a self-confessed Anglophile spins an eclectic mix of punk, garage and new wave. It is here that I discover the joys of Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers for the first time. Alongside that there’s a bit of DEVO, some Talking Heads, possibly Gang of Four, certainly The Cramps, some Sex Pistols too, and a load of other choice tunes befitting of the environment. We proceed to get just as smashed as we were on our previous visit.

13/03/04: Our last day in San Francisco – as a group, at least – and one of our number suggests walking up to the Golden Gate Bridge, that unmistakable icon which defines this imperious city. C’s out, we think on account of his hangover, although M suggests he might be in need of his own company after over a month with very little of it.

The North Beach area of San Francisco looks out towards Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge. The waterfront has a slightly faux old-world feel on the one hand, and is a bit tacky on the other. But the area is clean and the air is fresh, which, combined with a few slices of pizza, sets us up nicely for our long walk to The Bridge. It’s about five miles in all, and we take rest in San Francisco’s Palace of Fine Arts along the way.

On reaching the bridge we attempt to cross over it. I don’t like heights particularly, but I give it a go. Unfortunately I find myself consumed, quite literally, with a vertiginous sense of being off-balance and am forced to beat a hasty retreat. M and N make it almost halfway before also feeling slightly wobbly, and decide on turning back.

We fancy an air of sophistication tonight – no more impromptu trips to Delirium. The consensus is to eat Italian, and there are plenty of restaurants to choose from. Calamari, Veal, bottles of fine wine, hunks of crusty bread dipped into olive oil and balsamic vinegar – it really hits the spot. Satiated, we go for a couple of beers in Vesuvio, but we’ve had enough – for now – and we do the sensible thing and go home for an early night, our fingers crossed that we’ll be able to pick up that car without too much last-minute bother.

TRAVEL: USA PART 3 - SAN FRANCISCO (MISSION AND TENDERLOIN)

10/03/04: I would rather have woken up at the Astoria. Instead, I find myself in an eight-man dormitory, hot, bothered and hungover. Then I remember where my camera is, and that the means by which I can retrieve my Lomo LC-A has been facilitated by me being here.

I don’t mind hostels and have generally found the standard of cleanliness in them to be of a reasonably high standard, which is true of the Tortoise. This is just as well because I feel in desperate need of a shower. I notify N of my intentions and we agree to reconvene in the common room.

When we booked into the Green Tortoise just yesterday I suppose we’d anticipated spending more time here than we did – I assumed we’d return from Haight-Ashbury, kick back for a bit, freshen up, and then go out again. This didn’t happen so now’s my chance to have a proper look around. Yes, I think I like it here: people sitting around reading, making their breakfast, drinking coffee, smoking – it’s all very civilised.

Despite last night’s roistering we had the presence of mind to arrange a time and meeting place with our Mission based buddies: 12:00 at the bottom end of Chinatown. N and I are a little late, but nobody minds. We all look frightful, and feel it too. In this respect, the shade of the Financial District is a good place to be; although it would be nice to feel the warmth of the sun, its glare is too severe right now. I pick up a free local paper from one of those archetypally American street dispensaries in an attempt to follow up on the seaside dispute N and I witnessed yesterday. It makes for grim reading.

C has with him a handheld digital camera, and our bad state does not stop us from making use of it, albeit in a frivolous and very random manner. Bored with the tall buildings and the lack of anywhere appealing to eat, we decide to walk up to Fisherman’s Wharf. My hangover’s a stubborn little malady, so I buy myself some grilled prawns while the others indulge in the greasiest fare they can find.

After pondering over the sea lions and a possible trip to Alcatraz, we concur that it’s probably time to go and pick up my camera. The thought of catching a bus doesn't bare thinking about, so instead we grab a cab. The taxi driver is a friendly kind of guy, really talkative. We tell him how pleasantly surprised we are by the weather and he tells us it’s real unusual for it to be so hot at this time of year. ;It’s real unusual for it to be hot like this at this time of the year,' he tells us. 'Any of you guys play golf?' The taxi driver has been to Scotland, like many golf-loving Americans are want do, and he loved it there.

We collect my camera and get a couple of rounds in, out of politeness as much as anything, but also to put a stop to our hangovers (never a good sign). On the walk back N and I stop off in a thrift store, then for another quick drink in a place called Harrington’s – a faux-Irish bar in the Financial district – and finally for something to eat, in McDonalds of all places, which will do for our dinner.

The ensuing night is a relatively quiet one. M and C come to meet us in the Italian Quarter, we take them to Vesuvio and then Fuse before acquainting ourselves with a few other bars along the strip. They don’t seem to offer much in the way of entertainment, these other bars, but maybe that’s because it’s the middle of the week. The highlight of the evening is being gate-crashed by some large fellow whose opening gambit is: 'It’s 1972 and I’m with John Lennon,' in a cinema apparently, although he doesn’t really expand on this. Next he asks M if he’s related to Keith Moon, while simultaneously handing me a business card for some restaurant called La Flange. Shortly after, he’s ejected from the establishment by the door staff and then falls over comically on the sidewalk.

Outside Vesuvio

11/03/04: M and C stopped by the Green Tortoise on their way home last night to see if they might be better off joining me and N there. They decided that they were, if only out of practical necessity, although I think they dug the vibe too. The plan from the outset had been to try and orchestrate some sort of road-trip and such plans would be easier to formulate if we were all staying at the same location.

M and C’s American Odyssey was to last nine weeks, culminating in a trip to New York, from where they would fly home. They had already been to New Orleans, for Mardi Gras – where M was briefly incarcerated for unspecified drunken behaviour – and had spent time in Dallas and Houston. Now they were in San Francisco with us, as had been arranged, and there was the distinct possibility of them hooking up with more friends in L.A. in a couple of weeks’ time. It was inconceivable spending the whole fortnight in San Francisco, and we had vague ideas of driving to Las Vegas anyhow. Besides all of that, the Green Tortoise was cheaper than their Mission digs. M and C were already facing financial difficulties, so it made sense.

Our friends arrive and we gather in the common room to devise plans. Everything is dependent on us being able to hire a vehicle. If we can then we’d like to be on the road before Sunday. We contrive a number of possible routes, scribbled down on the back pages of whatever book it is N’s been reading (something old and with a nautical theme). The most logical outcome that presents itself is to finish up in Las Vegas, from whence C and M can catch a bus to Los Angeles and N and I can do the same back to San Francisco, or maybe even fly. In between, we can make a stop in Yosemite National Park and maybe Bakersfield or Barstow. All this is dependent on us finding somewhere that allows us to hire a car where the driver doesn’t have to be signatory, for it has materialised that C doesn’t drive either. To this end we exploit the free internet facilities at the Green Tortoise and make a speculative online booking at an establishment fairly near to us. The next step is for two of us – M and N volunteer – to follow up on our booking and see if it reaps any reward.

In the meantime C’s feeling a bit weary and I’m feeling very hungry. I welcome the return of my appetite because it’s been stifled of late on account of the excessive drinking we’ve been doing. I decide to tag along with N and M for a while, take some pictures of them hanging around Chinatown, and then I’ll find somewhere to eat. It doesn’t take long to find a Subway and it does the job. I then wander aimlessly about before returning to the Green Tortoise with nothing particular in mind. C’s up and about and feels rejuvenated, so much so that he’s up for a drink. There’s no sign of M or N so I take him to Café Greco, although I opt for coffee rather than beer.

Chinatown

Back at the Green Tortoise and N and M have cautious cause for optimism. Not only do they think they’ve found somewhere that will take cash but they suspect there’s been some sort of financial confusion that could well work in our favour. As British subjects, we declared ourselves as such when making our online reservation. Because of this, when M and N had shown up at the car-hire establishment and quoted the online booking reference, the notional cost was listed in pounds, rather than dollars. But this wasn’t realised by whoever it was who dealt with my colleagues, probably on account of them turning up in person. So as it stands, not only have we secured a vehicle but it is to be charged for at just over half the amount it’s supposed to. Nothing has been signed or paid for yet, so we will need to wait and see if this guy’s credulity can be relied upon. Whatever the outcome, we have procured a vehicle, and it’s a weight off all our shoulders.

N is convinced that there must be some sort of classier scene than the one found on Broadway and Mission, so we decide to walk down to the Financial District and mix it up with the city folk. We try Harrington’s, which showed potential when Nathan and I stopped by there yesterday, but it’s not really happening. We order some food – a couple of plates of putrefied chicken wings to share – and then hail a cab to take us someplace else. We’d picked up a flyer in Delirium for a club that is supposed to play sixties tunes, but when we get there the place is dead. We command our taxi to proceed to SoMa (South of Market) instead. I don’t know how or why, but I think we end up in the Tenderloin (the two districts border each other). Wherever we are exactly, it feels much more ‘downtown’ than Dolores or Haight-Ashbury, although this could purely be down to the time of day. Certainly, there’s a rough and readiness to the surrounding infrastructure, although the bar we end up drinking in seems sophisticated enough: exposed concrete walls, red lighting, many cocktail options. But it’s still not really happening for us and we end up retreating early to the Green Tortoise’s common room, listening to music, interacting with the guests and the people who work there, and drinking take-outs from the local liquor store until late.

TRAVEL: USA PART 2 - SAN FRANCISCO (OCEAN BEACH & HAIGHT ASHBURY)

08/03/04: I had no idea what the weather was going to be like. I knew California as ‘The Sunshine State’ (although it’s more commonly referred to as The Golden State, for a variety of reasons) but was also aware that San Francisco is a place regularly inundated with fog – famous for it, in fact. Regardless, it was early March so I didn’t really know what to expect.

Meteorological conditions were good from the off and at some juncture a taxi-driver informed us that San Francisco was presently caught within the grasp of some unseasonably hot weather. San Francisco is a lot milder than most of California, and in March one wouldn’t anticipate the mercury to rise any higher than 16°C. We enjoyed daytime temperatures almost a full 10 degrees upwards of that, the evenings were warm and we saw no fog.

My colleague and I hadn’t been immediately alive to this anomalous isopiestic stability. The Astoria lay in the shadow of the Financial District, and felt relatively temperate. Only when we moved north to Fisherman’s Wharf, or west toward Golden Gate Park, could we tell just how hot things were, and how bright the sun and still the air.

Walking up Grant Avenue, through the heart of Chinatown, slightly hung-over after our evening spent drinking around Broadway Street, I was picking up a positive vibe. There was a hustle about the place, but nobody was giving us any hassle. At the top of Grant Avenue the Chinese ambience gave way to a distinctly Latin flavour, as the Chinese restaurants made way for their Italian counterparts.

We take lunch at a pleasant Italian café – Café Greco – on Columbus Avenue. N and I order beef sandwiches, freshly squeezed orange juice and coffee. I am aware of the pound’s strength against the dollar and because of this I’m expecting everything to be reasonably priced. Our sandwiches cost $8, which works out at around £5. This does not represent the good value I’d been hoping for. We’ll be eating out three times a day for the next fortnight and this needs to be the cheapest meal, but when our sandwiches arrive they’re really quite something: sizeable buns rammed with layer upon layer of thinly cut beef. If all portions are this big then we should be able to get by on eating just twice a day.

On to Fisherman’s Warf where we will laugh at sea lions. It’s a tourist trap, but the time of year tempers the amount of excursionists present and it feels quite genteel. We catch a bus to Haight-Ashbury. It is very hot on the bus and we hope that this is because there is no air-conditioning, but debarkation brings only mild relief. Unfortunately, we need to board a second bus to Haight so our mild relief is also brief relief. Fortunately the second leg of journey is not a long one (and leaves me thinking we could have probably walked it).

Haight-Ashbury is more sedate than I expect it to be. It’s like Camden Market on a sunny day, but without the teenagers or the drug-pushers. Indeed, it’s a cleaner place in every way. It’s hard to imagine that this was once the epicentre of 1960s counter culture. But that’s okay: Amoeba Records is heavily stocked with vinyl and I make a note to return there before the journey home. We’re on a reconnaissance mission, preparing ourselves for the week ahead and the impending arrival of our two friends, who are already firmly entrenched on their tour of the States. We catch a bus south-east toward the district of Mission & Dolores, taking note of a potential nightspot along the way called Delirium.

N is hungry again. We only ate a few hours ago but he’s hungry again. There’s a café opposite so we go there. N orders the chicken burger & fries while I just have a coffee, although I end up feasting on his leftovers.

We were late in getting up this morning and it’s later now than it should have been. Still weary, and intent on giving tonight a go of it, we agree that we need to start moving in the vague direction of our hotel. Slightly disorientated, we take an unwise turning and find ourselves in deepest Mission. Before we’ve even walked 30 meters we register a paralytic drunk stumbling about the place, a woman having an argument with something imagined, and a whole host of sketchy characters collectively suggesting that we’re heading in a bad direction. It’s not as threatening as that sounds, and nobody gives us so much as a second glance, but it is a sharp contrast to what we’ve seen of San Francisco so far. We retrace our steps and look for somewhere secure to scrutinise our map, see the error of our ways and re-route accordingly – we need to make for Market Street. On our way we will stop off in a musical instrument emporium and army surplus/camping store, more for N’s benefit than mine. Once home, N will take a nap while I drink coffee al fresco in the café across the road from our hotel.

I want to give Vesuvio another go. Before we do there’s a bar atop some tower block, somewhere around Nob Hill, where N would like to have a drink – he’s read about it but I’m not sure where. It’s a struggle to locate this establishment and when we do we’re not sure we will be permitted entry: it looks swanky and we’re not dressed for the occasion. The doorman takes pity on us and allows us to stay for one drink, presumably because it’s early enough for it not to be a problem. We are grateful for this because the view is impressive, although the prices would cripple us if we were in fact permitted to stay for the whole of the evening.

            Vesuvio has quite a history. It’s where many of the Beat Generation used to hang out – Ginsberg, Kerouac, Cassady and the rest – and I like the affiliation. My colleague isn’t that bothered. He thinks it’s a very nice bar but is desirous of a livelier environment.

After a couple of beers we move on to Fuse around the corner, which isn’t a particularly interesting establishment but has a more youthful clientele. This is explained by its proximity to a hostel called the Green Tortoise across the road. 'You want to get yourself to the Green Tortoise, just over there across the road,' proffers one of its temporary residents. It turns out that they charge about half the going rate at the Astoria, but for dormitories with communal bathrooms. About this we are not concerned; N and I require the humblest of dwellings and the location here is more congenial to our needs. We take a look and are impressed with the institution’s archaically grand, if rather decrepit, common room. You can even smoke in there, contradicting the no-smoking policy enforced in the bars, cafés and restaurants we’ve frequented thus far. We make a reservation and intend on immediately retreating to the Astoria in readiness for our morning transfer. Instead we end up checking out the bar across the road from Vesuvio where a large jazz ensemble is readying to play. Their performance will have my colleague so enthralled that he decides to stay for a while longer, after I’ve announced my attention to turn in for the night.

The next day we compare notes on how easily we found our way home through those quiet streets of Chinatown and wonder whether this city was always so placid.

09/03/04: The Green Tortoise is just down the road from Café Greco so we return there for breakfast in preparation for the day ahead of us, for today our travelling companions will be arriving in San Francisco.

When M had told of his idea to take a trip across America he disclosed to me his proposed itinerary – New Orleans (for Mardi Gras), Dallas, San Francisco, Los Angeles and New York, and anywhere else that could be slotted in along the way. He’d already acquired a guidebook for San Francisco as proof of his commitment, and I agreed immediately to meet him there. We found a list of bars in and around Haight-Ashbury – for we shared a common appreciation of its myth – and arranged a time and place to meet: 16:00 on the 9th March in a bar called the Achilles Heel.

I don’t think I saw M again after that. The last solid communique between us was an exchange of emails leading up to his departure reaffirming that our arrangement still stood, in spite of it being still a few months off and the fact that I had yet to procure a ticket by which to get me there. In the meantime, I’d opened an invitation to a few associates. I was quite prepared to go it alone but knew a couple of people to whom the excursion might appeal. My friend N agreed to accompany me, with the proviso that I made all the necessary arrangements. I don’t think he appreciated at the time just how tenuous my arrangement with M was, or if I really told him, but as our appointment neared he started to express some concern.

We have plenty of time to kill before our 16:00 rendezvous so we take a stroll around San Francisco’s Financial District. I’m actually carrying quite a hangover and demand we stop at Starbucks for coffee (not specifically Starbucks, but it’s right in front of us). From there we turn back on ourselves and revert to Fisherman’s Wharf. The reasons for this are twofold: first, we know that we can catch a bus there in the direction of Haight-Ashbury; second, we’d previously noticed car-hire businesses plying their trade in that general area. It is understood that our two weeks in America shouldn’t be restricted to San Francisco and that the hiring of a car will be of great benefit if we wish to imbue our venture with the road-trip like properties that it deserves. In the two car-hire firms we enter it is established that the designated driver of any rented vehicle will need to make payment by way of a credit card, presumably as security. N has a driving licence but no credit card, and I have a credit card but not the ability to drive. I know M doesn’t drive either, but his friend C might. Satisfied that we’ve at least begun the process of inquiry, we decide to head over to Ocean Beach on our way to Haight-Ashbury.

The bus journey to the Ocean Beach puts San Francisco’s size into perspective. We’ve been doing plenty of walking – to N’s chagrin – and we’ve covered significant ground, giving the impression that this city is of a manageable scale. Our latest excursion asks that we reconsider. The road that runs parallel to Golden Gate Park seems to go on forever and it takes us some time to reach the coast. When we arrive it’s a little bit of a let-down. I was expecting something like Coney Island, or the seafront at Brighton. Instead, this endless vista of sand and sea is overlooked by a main road, random car parks and the western boundary of the park. There is nothing wrong with this but I’m not someone who likes beaches for their own sake. I require a degree of amenity about such places and prefer them to be quite lively (by day at least).

I judge too soon. Police cars and ambulances scream past us suddenly, and almost out of nowhere a police officer starts cordoning off the pavement directly in front of us. There has been some sort of fracas in the parking lot to our left (we’ve been strolling along the esplanade) and a man lies recumbent on the hot tarmac. And now a film crew. They must be affiliated in some way. A crowd is slowly gathering, although their general demeanour doesn’t suggest that they think it’s much of a big deal – the paramedic now furiously pumping away at that recumbent guy’s chest might beg to differ. My colleague and I consider walking down to the shore’s edge but, given the violent episode we’ve just been privy to, decide that maybe we’ll be on our way.

It’s a long walk to Haight-Ashbury. I thought we’d be able to pick up a bus sooner but instead we’ve have to walk almost the full length of Golden Gate Park’s southern side, which takes us through an area typified with pimped rides, ripped dogs and sullen looking young men. I’m not sure tourists should have a presence here; either that or the events back at Ocean Beach have spooked me a little.

 When we finally arrive in Haight we start asking around for the Achilles Heel. Nobody seems to have heard of the place. We pause for a drink in some faux-Irish hostelry and ponder our next move when suddenly I think I spot our cadres entering the drinking establishment opposite. This sounds surprising but given that my friend M is involved it somehow isn’t: the guy’s wired for strange coincidences. N and I down our beers before crossing the road to and join M and his accomplice, who by this time have settled down with some bonkers local in the beer garden out back. It’s a surreal moment but a triumphant one.

The chap who M and C are chatting with is called Phil, and he claims to be able to commune with animals. Apparently, he possesses strange powers which he divulges to us via anecdotes involving exploding priests, hordes of Italian cats and other bizarre goings-on. Caught up in the excitement of it all we get quite tipsy.

M and C, we discover, have already booked into some squalid hostel somewhere in Mission. They didn’t really have the time to properly bed in as they had an appointment in Haight-Ashbury with myself and N. As such, they will need to return there to freshen up for the evening’s revelry that inevitably awaits. So as not to delay proceedings any further, N and I elect to go with them. This makes good sense: that bar we spotted yesterday is in Mission-Delores so there’s little point us heading all the way back to the Green Tortoise, even if I would like to shower and a change of clothes. After a quick turnaround back at M and C’s dimly lit hostel, we find an independently run café somewhere off Market Street. We all order the steak and more beers are consumed.

‘Service for the Sick’ is Delirium’s Tuesday night thing and it all happens in a windowless room at the back of the building. It’s still early so we start off drinking in the front-bar. Only when we become aware that smoking is permitted in the back do we make our way there. It is a sparsely attended event, which encourages us to make requests. The DJ indulges this for some while but loses patience about half way through the instrumental coda of Can’t You Hear Me Knocking by the Stones.

We proceed to get properly lashed. At some point N reappears, from an excursion we weren’t even aware he’d taken, with some blond boy called Eric. It materialises that N had taken leave to buy cigarettes and stumbled upon this guy who looked like he knew his way around. As Service for the Sick reaches fruition, we ask Eric to take us somewhere we can continue drinking. We find a bar still serving, but only just, and order a round of vodka and oranges. A disturbing political dialogue with the staff, who are busy clearing up, culminates in us incanting the name ‘Nixon’ over and over again – like a rabble of English football supporters – towards our Democratic hosts who were generous enough to serve us after-hours.

I have no recollection of the journey back to the Green Tortoise but I do remember getting out of the taxi and realising I’d left my camera somewhere. Suddenly sober, I pleaded with the Canadian manning reception to call Delirium to see if they had it. They did, and he arranged for them to put it aside so I might return the next day and collect it.