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.

TRAVEL: USA PART 1 - SAN FRANCISCO (CHINATOWN)

07/03/04: We’ve caught the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) from the airport to Montgomery Street, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone around. I’m in San Francisco, replete with steam emitting man-hole covers. It feels warm considering both the hour and the time of year: ten o’clock in the evening, early March. Book into the Hotel Astoria, just where Bush Street and Grant Avenue intersect with each other. It is a straight-forward process and one that yields desirable results. There’s enough time left in the day to walk up Grant Avenue and then take a right down Columbus, find a bar, sink a few beers. It has taken some time to arrive at this point, and not a little strife.

Flying can be an expensive business, but at the start of the 21^st Century it often wasn’t. These were competitive, more fecund times, when a return flight to Copenhagen, say, would cost substantially less than an impromptu one-way train ticket to Plymouth. Moreover, the Pound was strong, especially against the Dollar, and to some extent the Euro too, which kept down the cost of renting a room in a hotel, and of eating, drinking and of buying things in general.

I took full advantage of these cheap airline deals and favourable exchange rates, probably to the detriment of my own professional development: it was what I spent my money on, taking up to three holidays a year for much of that decade (although many of these vacations were nothing more than three-night excursions to European cities).

In mid-2003 a friend of mine propounded his intention to foist himself upon the United States of America, sooner rather than later, for a period of something like two months. I was at the time still recovering financially from my five months spent travelling around Southeast Asia, and I received his proposition – for I was invited to join him – with restrained avidity. Accompanying him for the proposed duration was out of the question. It would be prohibitively expensive, and in any case I’d not been in my job long enough to take such a long and potentially unpaid holiday. On the other hand, my newfound tenure gave me a modicum of financial security, and if I could somehow borrow against that then maybe I would join my good friend for at least part of his intended odyssey. I decided I could justify giving over two weeks to a trip such as this, and so went about the business of finding ways to pay for it.

It was a close call. I applied for a credit card with a six month introductory rate of 0% on all purchases and balance transfers, but it took longer to arrive than anticipated. This was compounded by an ineptitude on my part that had seen me defer the application process in the first instance, for no particular reason other than I would forget, remember at importune moments, and then forget again.

When I finally attended to the matter in January, just two months prior to my intended departure, I found flights to San Francisco costing £240, leaving from Gatwick Airport, and only slightly soured by the condition of transfer. The scheduled departure and arrival times were perfectly acceptable, I’d just have to put up with the bother of changing planes in Charlotte, North Carolina’s capital. A minor inconvenience, I thought, it would only add four or so extra hours to my journey, such was the scheduled brevity of the actual transfer itself. My friend, N, wished to accompany me and preferred we flew direct, but I was making the arrangements and paying for it all upfront, and he was obliged to follow my lead.

For an extra £60 we could have flown direct and I ended up wishing we had. The passport control employee who inspected our particulars in Charlotte did not like that we had neglected to book anywhere to stay in advance, a fact she deduced from reading Form I-94 (Arrival-Departure Record*) and observing the blank space we’d left under the section entitled ‘Address While in the United States’. She did not present a reason why this was a bad thing but her tone was one of earnest reproof.

The warning signs were there on the flight over. An extended family of Presbyterian types bound for Charlotte had sat all around us. They talked of ‘coloured folk’ in hushed, pejorative tones, and of how they might welcome us into their home – should we ever be passing through – but only on the condition that we accompanied them to church on Sundays. Ostensibly friendly in manner, they would surely have retracted their invitation if they'd known what sort of adventure we were embarking on.

The upshot of our bureaucratic oversight was being forced to wait in a purgatorial waiting room until somebody could be bothered to accept responsibility and determine our fate. Some members of staff actively avoided doing this. After ten hours of flying, this was far from ideal. I had hoped there might be time for a cup of coffee, but not a chance. As it was there had only been an hour to spare. Now, with just 20 minutes remaining until our plane was scheduled to depart, the situation was precarious.

A fellow Englishman with a less pressing schedule picked up on our frustration and kindly allowed us to jump ahead of him in the queue – if we missed this flight then we were looking at a detour via Chicago the following morning. After a further 10 minutes had elapsed we were finally granted counsel to explain our ingenuous decision not to book  accommodation. The American immigration official was pedantic in manner and made references to the scars of previous travels contained within my passport. Acknowledging a Cambodian visa therein, he alluded to the taking of drugs, casting aspersions upon my character. This did not endear him to me but I was in no position to take umbrage. Finally, he picked up the phone and established the name and number of a suitable hotel in San Francisco, advised we call it on our arrival – because that was what he was now going to assume was our plan – before stamping our passports and washing his hands of the whole affair.

We made our flight with less than a minute to spare. The flight attendants rooted for us as we ran towards them, doing everything within their powers to keep the doors open and get us on that plane. I could only assume these ladies were from California and not tainted with the same prejudices and cynicisms that appeared to typify the inhabitants of North Carolina. On arriving at San Francisco International Airport we searched out the bar to gather ourselves and formulate an approach. It was now 20:00 and the place was alarmingly quiet. We pumped the bar girl for information before downing our beers and making our way to the train terminal.

I cannot recall how N and I found the Astoria – whether it was the establishment the guy in customs recommended or whether the girl at the airport tipped us off – but the place was perfect: rudimentary, affordable, clean. Our room was painted white, had a high ceiling, two large single beds and a decently equipped bathroom in which we could wash away the detritus accumulated over a 14 hour flight – a journey of almost 20 hours door-to-door. But we felt strangely wired by the time we'd checked in, so put our ablutions on hold and walked up through Chinatown intent on finding somewhere to have a drink. We found Vesuvio, and liked it there. We drank quickly to stave off tiredness and made a good job of it. It all seemed such a far cry from the diabolical potential that we’d faced six hours earlier in Charlotte.

[*Form I-94 no longer exists. Information pertaining to airborne passengers bound for the States is now obtained directly from the airline that flies them there.]

ASPECTS OF LONDON

Waterloo Bridge has no greater significance beyond the many other bridges that span the Thames. Every vault has its own history, and that any particular recapitulation may be considered more vital than another is surely moot – a matter for taste or self-interest. That said, Waterloo Bridge was rebuilt by a largely female workforce during the Second World War, which to some might seem remarkable. For those who lived through that conflict it should appear less so. In stark contrast to our Teutonic enemy, Great Britain embraced the potential of its female workforce and invested in them all sorts of heavy, menial tasks. What is worthy of remark is the fact that, on officially revealing the reconstructed article, there was no mention of the 25,000 female workers who'd put their back into building it. None the less, it is known to many Londoners as 'Ladies Bridge', which is an appreciation of sorts.

Hewn from Portland stone – a material respected for its ‘self-cleaning' properties, the process of lithification peculiar to this rock offering a resilience to the elements that appropriates its use in more urban settings – it is a graceful, contemporary bridge, cantilever in design. Its situation – breaching a north to east meander in the river – offers contrasting views. The riparian aspect to the south-west has changed very little in recent times. The London Eye has rested upon the south bank of the Thames for over 15 years now, its initial five year planning application having long been forgotten, renewed, and the matter presumably taken over by the GLA or the LDA. I'm not sure I like the London Eye being there – I like it, but maybe not there – but have come to accept it. I am grateful for the buildings that lie beside – the Royal Festival Hall in particular – for they are just about capable of bearing the responsibility of ensuring that this ridiculous Ferris wheel doesn’t completely detract from its surroundings.

The bank of the Thames that faces the London Eye represents a completely different proposition. Compromised of Whitehall Court, the Norman Shaw Buildings and Portcullis House, it is a spiky, perpendicular Gothic apparition very much in keeping with London's mythic pre-blitz past, and one that jars with the neoclassical Ministry of Defence building and the Shell Centre (more Portland Stone) on the other side of the river (post war developments both). This architectural disparity evokes visions of some of the formerly Soviet cities of central Europe – Budapest springs to mind. One barely notices the towers of Battersea Power Station, or the panelled, glass-clad buildings beyond that are coming to define present-day Vauxhall.

In any case, we have an amalgamation of architectural style that appears to seek concord with a vision of London as a low-rise city. Forget the towers – Elizabeth and Victoria – that protrude from the Palace of Westminster: they are mere aberrations and not all that tall anyway.

Looking east offers an entirely different perspective. It is to The City that I point this charge: The Gherkin, the Walkie-Talkie, Leadenhall Building, Heron Tower, CityPoint, and the many other developments that have filled in the gaps in and around Liverpool Street, St. Pauls and Fenchurch Street. The depth of field is deceptive and it’s not as clustered as it looks, but from Ladies Bridge it appears a symphony of glass and height. Add to this the Blackfriars Bridge development, with its fragmented solar panelled roof, and the illusion is complete. The City of London is beginning to resemble some sort of Oriental metropolis, like Beijing or Singapore.

A similar thing happened to Docklands not so long ago, but without the ancient physical characteristics that have been forcefully assimilated into this new City of London. Docklands was a waste-land by comparison, and seems less exotic. There’s more of an American flavour to it, laid out along perpendicular lines.

There are other areas of London that exhibit their own distinct architectural flavour, although this distinction in character is not always so perceivable from street-level. If The City represents some sort of futurist, Eastern vision with English Baroque elements, and the west a comfy tribute to both Europe’s Napoleonic and Soviet past, then Southwark offers up yet another schizophrenic tableaux. The South Bank extols the Brutalism that took hold after the Second World War: Bankside Power Station in the guise of the Tate Modern, and the whole of the Southbank Centre. Yet the area behind is a mix of Victorian terracing and low-rise tower blocks, and glass fronted buildings are intruding at any given opportunity. I like the atmosphere in and around Southwark, although it’s hard to put a finger on.

I wonder how much of this is deliberate. I speculate as to whether those in charge of town planning really know what they are doing. I entertain the thought that the whole of London is one circumstantial accident, and that its visual impact is entirely arbitrary. It probably is, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. My concern, however, is that over time these separate architectural enclaves will segue into one another, as land is sold and built upon in whatever style happens to be à la mode. And then one could stand on Ladies Bridge and whichever way one looked would reap only indistinguishable, homogeneous rewards.

TRAVEL: SOUTHEAST ASIA 24 - TWO NIGHTS IN BANGKOK / EPILOGUE

 

05/04/03: Breakfast at some swanky joint before boarding our flight back to Bangkok. Book into Kho San Palace and go straight to bed.

 

06/04/03: Breakfast at Wally’s. Look for souvenirs for relatives. Go to Siam Square for a third and final time. Tea at Chart; drinks at Dong Dea Moon, the Banana Leaf and Hole in the Wall.

 

07/04/03: Hungover. Send e-mails. Rainbows for coffee. Buy more souvenirs. Place with spinning ball for more coffee. Eat at Wally’s and then get a cab to the airport for flight home…

 

 

When we’d booked our flights a year earlier, we decided a few nights in Bangkok might make the passage home easier to bear. When it came to it, I regretted us not arranging to stay for longer. New Zealand's mild climate had left me with a yearning for tropical heat and the poignant aromas that come with it: grilled meat, fish sauce, garlic, even the smell of stagnant drains. We entertained the idea of putting back our flights, but I didn’t know if this was something I could afford to do and was in no fit state to carry on regardless. In New Zealand, I’d put back on a bit of the weight I’d lost in Southeast Asia, but my general condition wasn’t great and my clothes were torn and frayed.

In keeping with C’s enthusiasm for fine dining, he drives us somewhere nice for breakfast before dropping us off at the airport ahead of our flight to Bangkok, which will take something like twelve hours. The time difference between Auckland and Bangkok works in our favour and we arrive at the Kho San Palace, to check into the room we had the foresight to book before we left for New Zealand, at around midnight.

Breakfast at Wally’s. This must be at least our tenth visit, and it will not be our last. Peruse the gift shops on Rambuttri Alley, a charming street that runs parallel to the Khao San Road, and wonder why it was that we hadn’t spent more time here during our previous visits. Back to Siam Square to make last minute purchases and take shelter from the sun. It’s hotter now than it has been at any other time since arriving in November, with an average daily high of at least 35°C. In less than a week Songkran will commence, a national holiday that once denoted the beginning of the Thai New Year, in accordance with the solar calendar. It is traditional to engage in the throwing of water, to symbolically cleanse sins and to relieve one another of the heat. If we’d known about this when we scheduled out flights then we would surely have accommodated it.

We eat at Chart. I don’t know why here and not, say, Gulliver’s, but I do know that our last night in Bangkok is about drinking rather than eating. We go to Dong Dea Moon for old time’s sake, then to new favourite The Banana Leaf, and finally Hole in the Wall. The Hole in the Wall is where it all started – the first bar we frequented, where we were impressed with how the staff kept your beers cold for you until you were ready to drink them. Pipi’s still there, hustling around the pool table, but I don’t think he recognises me. Why should he?

It’s a heavy night – I drink Chang, not Singha – and a bittersweet one. The next morning, hungover, I can only manage coffee for breakfast. Our flight isn’t until the evening, so there’s plenty of time to recover, and we return to Walley’s for lunch. Nothing is enjoyable from thereon in: pick up our luggage, taxi to the airport, passport control, customs, and then just waiting, with nothing in particular to look forward to.

 

'Hole in the Wall'

When we touched down at Heathrow, it was typically overcast – no rain, just that grim low-lying cloud that we get so much of in the UK. It was a genuinely depressing situation. Freed from the anxiety and trepidation that I suffered at the beginning of my trip, I hadn’t wanted to come home, maybe ever. The next month or so was spent moving about between my parents’ house in Plymouth, Louise’s in Upminster, and my brother’s in Wandsworth, as I went about signing-on, seeking employment and a place to live. It turned out that I had more money left over than I’d thought, although given my predicament it was probably just as well I hadn’t spent more of it.

The routine that afflicts Western living seemed absurd now, even if it did come with certain benefits. What was harder to reconcile was the sheer formality of things – being expected to dress a certain way, cross the road at predetermined points, or being told to turn up to work at a specific point in time. Not to mention so-called first world problems and the sense of entitlement a lot of people seem to possess. It wasn’t as if I didn’t appreciate any of this before, just that I saw it now with greater clarity: that modes of living are generally arbitrary in nature and that our problems are rarely a matter of material survival.

But travelling had been an unsustainable way of life. I may have exaggerated the volume we drank, for dramatic effect, but we did by and large drink every day, if only because there had been very little else to do in the evening. Our movements had been governed by our whims, bereft of any impetus other than boredom or a vague curiosity. This was not altogether a bad thing because it gave room for places, or people, to surprise you. In this respect, travelling is a form of gambling. No matter what the guidebook says, you don’t usually know whether you’re making the right move. Thing is, the stakes are never very high, because there’s not anywhere that isn’t worth even a brief visit, and there aren’t many places so amazing that it’s worth staying for much more than a week. And so you plod on aimlessly without a care for anything, until you realise that you're in thrall to a different sort of routine, but a routine nonetheless.

TRAVEL: NEW ZEALAND 3 - THE SOUTH ISLAND (EAST)

28/03/03: Check out. Eat a Subway by the lake. Bus to Christchurch and book into Star Times Backpackers on Cathedral Square. Indian at the Asian Food Mall, Bailies Bar for drinks.

 

29/03/03: Do laundry. Coffee at The Daily Grind, check emails, wander around town, coffee, at C-1 Good, eat at hostel. Welsh L and K show up. Get drunk at Bailies and hostel bar.

 

30/03/03: Hungover. Drive to Akaroa on the Banks Peninsula. Get back, walk to stadium and take photos of Christchurch. More drinks at Bailies with L and K.

 

 

Everything is in place to get us back to Auckland: a coach to Christchurch and two nights’ accommodation; a coach to Kaikora, another two nights’ accommodation; a bus to Nelson, a night in a hostel and an early ferry to Wellington; finally, an overnight train all the way to Auckland. Having it all laid out like this means we can go about enjoying the remainder of our time here without worrying over logistics or the cost of it all. (My partner and I can't take all the credit. We explained our predicament to the travel agent who then came up with the plan and made the arrangements, and did so with much enthusiasm.)

M and S get up early and join us for breakfast down by the lake before we depart. S has more time to spare than we do, so she’s going to hang around in Queenstown for a few more days and continue her journey at a more leisurely pace. It’s possible that she also has the option of staying with Fergus.

In 2010 and 2011 Christchurch suffered a series of earthquakes. In fact, seismologists classify the subsequent quakes – including the most substantial, occurring on 22 February 2011 – as aftershocks resulting from the first, which happened on 4 September 2010. All the buildings that I photographed in 2004 – the Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament, Lancaster Park Stadium, the Government Life Building and Press Building on Cathedral Square, as well as the Cathedral itself – were damaged by the quake(s) to such an extent that they have either since been demolished or condemned. The loss of the Press Building is particularly sad. Built between 1907 and 1909, in a perpendicular Gothic style, it was one of Christchurch’s more interesting structures. Conversely, the Government Life Building was considered to be one of the city’s ugliest. I did not share in this assessment and admired its modernist sensibility.

Two other buildings that no longer exist are the Lyttelton Times/Star Building and the Warner’s Hotel next door but one, both overlooking Cathedral Square. The Lyttelton Times was once the home of the newspaper it was named after. In 2004 it was operating as a hostel called Star Times Backpackers, which was where we were booked to stay. (The Star Building was actually built as an extension to the Lyttelton Times Building, and presumably named after the company’s evening paper, The Star.)

 

Government Life Building

The drive to Christchurch takes about eight hours, with a number of stops along the way – Ashburton, Tekapo, Cromwell, Frankton. Sometimes these stops are to admire views, often they are for comfort. After checking into Star Times Backpackers, we walk down Colombo Street, take in the malls and have something to eat in one of the food halls therein. It’s been a long day, so in the evening we venture no further than Bailies Bar, occupying the ground floor of Warner’s Hotel. It’s a traditional pub entertaining an older crowd than I’ve become accustomed to, which I quite like.

The following morning we attend to our laundry, go for coffee on New Regent Street – a pedestrianised mall built in the Spanish Mission architectural style – and wander around town. Despite being New Zealand’s second largest city it strikes me as smaller than the third, which is Wellington. I think this is because it is less densely packed, lower in rise and adheres to a grid system. That being said, the city centre itself feels European, and there appears to be more shops than there were in Auckland, New Zealand’s largest metropolis.

That evening Welsh L and K show up, as anticipated. The idea is to go on a pub crawl, but we end up bedding down in Bailies for night. We pick apart our shared experience of Asia and smooth over the rough edges that beset our final days together in Siem Reap. The next day, very worse for wear, L and K drive us in their hire car to Akaroa, a small picturesque town on the Banks Peninsula, which is wasted on me.

It’s the middle of the afternoon by we time we get back – early enough to drag Louise to Lancaster Park, a 38,000+ capacity sports stadium to the south-east of the city centre. The journey takes us along High Street, away from City Mall, where there are older, more interesting buildings between more contemporary developments. Beyond the intersection with Madras and St. Asaph streets, the landscape reverts to type: low-rise prefabricated warehouses and thoughtlessly designed office blocks.

Louise and I have be up early for our bus to Kaikoura, so we settle for a quiet night at Bailies. It’s been great hanging out with L and K again, especially in such a contrasting environment to before, and it’s a shame we cannot continue our travels together.

 

 

31/03/03: Nearly miss the bus to Kaikoura. Check in to Dusky Lodge Backpackers. Develop photos while my partner goes whale watching. Drinks at the Strawberry Tree. Back to guesthouse for spit-roast. Rains heavily.

 

01/04/03: Go to town and pick up more photos. Have coffee and walk along the seafront. Bus to Picton and check into Dusky Lodge Backpackers. Early night.

 

 

Either the alarm didn’t go off or we didn’t hear it. We make our bus with literally seconds to spare, without having showered or cleaned our teeth or anything. Fortunately, the drive to Kaikoura is not much more than three hours. Unfortunately, I don’t really like where we’re staying. It’s got that bunkhouse, traveller vibe we found in Rotorua, with gap-year kids stewing in the hot tub. It might have something to do with Kaikoura itself. We are here so that my partner can watch whales and swim with dolphins, and such things attract a certain type.

I’m not interested in doing either, so while she’s watching whales I decide to look for somewhere to develop a roll of film. Mission accomplished, I then go for coffee in the Strawberry Tree, which looks like it might be a nice place for drinks come the evening. An hour passes, I collect my prints and meet my partner along the waterfront. We then return to the Strawberry Tree for lunch and to look at my photos. They are of the North Island. I didn’t know this when I dropped the film off because I have no way of distinguishing one roll from next. I had hoped they might be of Laos or Cambodia, but the developers have done such a good job I no longer mind. I decide to drop off another roll, although I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to pick it up.

Our hostel is putting on a barbeque, so that’s tea sorted. Our plans to go for a few drinks afterwards are thwarted by a torrential downpour and heavy winds, and we end up making a dash for the nearest convenience store, buying a few tins and having an early night.

 

The bad weather persisted. We were awoken yet again by another false fire alarm, before my partner had to be up ridiculously early to swim with dolphins, only for it to be called off on account of the weather conditions. By the time she’d got back the rain had stopped, so we walked into town, picked up my photographs, had breakfast and followed the esplanade as far as the Kaikoura Community Theatre. We then returned to our hostel to collect our things and catch the bus to Picton.

There wasn’t the time to do anything in Picton other than order a takeaway and hang out for an hour or so in the garden of our guesthouse. We had to be up very early to catch the ferry the following day, and the travel agent had booked us a conveniently located, and well appointed, guesthouse with our own private room. Ironic, then, that out of all the dormitories we stayed in this was the only one that had bedbugs.

 

 

02/04/03: Catch the 05:30 morning ferry to Wellington. Walk around town, go for a Subway, buy T-shirt, have coffee, take in a gallery and go for a KFC. Few drinks in Trax before boarding our train to Auckland.

 

03/04/03: Arrive in Auckland. Meet J for lunch. Drop off more film at the developers. Louise goes shopping. Go for a curry in the mall and then back to C’s. Meet J in pub for a couple.

 

04/04/03: Get bus into town to pick up photos. Go to Viz for coffee. Louise decides to develop some of her photos. Back to Viz to check out the results. Loaded Hog for a quick pint. Get bus back to C’s, have dinner and then drive to Ponsonby to bar with high ceiling.

 

 

It’s good to be back in Wellington, even if it is just for one day. There was no time to eat before our departure so we make a dash for the nearest Subway, which is seems to have become our go-to food emporium when we need something quick.

Louise is off to see a Lord of the Rings exhibition at the Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa. I’d quite like to go but I don’t want to withdraw any more money before we fly out in three days’ time. Instead, I’m going to wander around town and enjoy the sunshine. I buy a small, yellow T-shirt in a thrift store for a couple of dollars and then find a free gallery along the waterfront. When Louise is done we go for a KFC, out of convenience, and then make our way to the station, mindful of the consequences should we miss our train. That still leaves us with about an hour to kill, so we settle for a few drinks in a bar called Trax.

 

The train journey across New Zealand takes in some attractive scenery. Not that I got to see any of it: it was dark and I quickly fell asleep. I normally find it difficult to sleep on any form of transport, so I must have been tired – I didn’t even get to see the sun rise.

J has kindly arranged to meet us for a late breakfast/early lunch. Again, it’s good to be back in Auckland, and we make a day of it: develop more photographs (ever since Cambodia, I’ve been paranoid about losing rolls of film, or inadvertently damaging them), drink coffee and go for a curry. Louise buys a sweatshirt (by Karen Walker) she spotted in a magazine (Pavement) I bought in Taupo. While she’s doing this, I walk around town taking photographs having realised that I didn’t take many during our first visit. We meet at the Loaded Hog on the harbour for a quick drink before catching a bus back to Mount Eden. As it’s our last night, C is going to take us to few smart bars in Ponsonby, although his driving there precludes any sort of final blow out.

It’s a fairly subdued evening. Louise and I are sad to be leaving and C is sad to see us go. I have decided that I really like New Zealand, especially its cities. At the same time, I don’t feel like I’ve been in a position to fully exploit them. New Zealand is more a place to live than travel, or somewhere to take a long vacation, stopping over in hotels, rather than hostels, and wearing clothes more suited to a temperate climate. I would like to return one day.