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 The style back then was for mock Western-style constructions, but these were soon superseded by the Miami influenced ‘carpet joints’ that prevail to this day.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 really it's 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 $80 heavier.

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.

[A soundtrack to accompany this series can be found here.]

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 today. 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 am in desperate need of a shower. When we booked into the Green Tortoise just yesterday we’d anticipated spending more time here than we did. I had assumed we would 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. First, crisps and Gatorade for breakfast, and then somewhere for coffee in the shadow of the Transamerica Pyramid on the edge of the Financial District. Chinatown isn't far from there, so we make for our rendezvous to find C and M ready and waiting – they're not early, we're a little late. Everybody appears to look and feel as rough as each other, so we head back towards the Financial District to seek succour from the shade. Once there, 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 drinks 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.

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 in the same place.

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.

It took a while for my colleague and I to become aware of this. 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 it's not high season yet and 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. 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: 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.

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. We have plenty of time to kill before our 16:00 rendezvous so, breakfast done, we start walking towards 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 make further enquiries. The staff there seem to have a vague recollection of there once being a bar by the name of the Achilles Heel, but they couldn't say where or how long ago. Then, after something like 15 minutes, 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. 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.