New Mexico Part 2: Paradise at 7,199 ft

Outside a Canyon Rd Gallery, Santa Fe.

Upon my arrival in Santa Fe, I found I had three major problems:

#1 - The Greyhound station in Santa Fe is a tiny shed in the middle of the arse end of nowhere.
#2 - There were no transport options waiting outside the terminal, as it was around 10 p.m. at night and well, you've already read #1.
#3 - I did not know any cab numbers.

Shit.

Thankfully, Santa Fe is a town full of hippies and when they're not hazed out of their brains from all that bucket bong smoking, they're full of kindness and goodwill towards humanity, two concepts I haven't quite got my head around yet. So I hitched a ride in a station wagon with your typical Mama-Bear-who-Runs-with-the-Dolphins type and her offspring who she was picking up from the bus station. I really should be nicer; when all was said and done they took pity on the sick, stranded Australian, dropped me all the way to my hotel and didn't even run off with my luggage (that happened later on in the piece).

Here's the lowdown on Santa Fe. According to our friend Wikipedia, it is the highest state capital in the country, positioned at an almost altitude sickness worthy 7,199 ft (hence the title). To all my Australians reading this, our highest peak Mt Kosciuszko is a whopping 7,310 ft. All my Canadians are probably busy exploding from laughter right now. The city itself is divided into two distinct parts: the Old Santa Fe (beautiful, full of galleries, revoltingly expensive and home to all the fancy schmancy hotels) and Stripville (low, flat chain stores, suburbs, all the cheap hotels that bargain hunting tourists frequent). To their credit, most of the cheap hotels are more confortable than they should be and run complimentary shuttle services into old town. New Mexican cabs, like most places in the South, are fairly priced as well.

The cost of living in Santa Fe is double that of Albuquerque because of all the corporate CEO's who retired, bought up half the land in New Mexico, built ranches and became artists. The guy who runs The Gap, for example, has a huge property just outside of Santa Fe. I was told this one afternoon in a gallery on Canyon Rd, a street full of nothing but galleries and a place called The Tea House at the end of it (with an extensive selection of tea and yummy cookies). In one of the Canyon Rd galleries I saw an exhibition by a Chinese artist called Ying Zhao Liu who has since become one of my favourite artists. His still life paintings look more like photographs, I wanted to reach into the canvas and tear the tablecloth away. Out of all the Santa Fe galleries, I was most interested in the Georgia O'Keeffe museum (being a huge fan of her delicate va...flowers) and I wasn't disappointed. The museum exhibited more than just her classic paintings - there were some early sketches and most exciting of all - some of the Stieglitz portraits of O'Keeffe. This one is my personal favourite.

If you're not lifting your jaw along with your skirts inside the galleries of Santa Fe, take a look outside. The New Mexican landscape covers the whole spectrum of colour, especially the Jemez Mountains. It makes me wonder if people move to Santa Fe because they are artists, or whether they became artists because they moved to Santa Fe. The town centre is equally stunning, you don't have the development issues that Albuquerque is dealing with in Santa Fe because the city tries its very best to maintain the original adobe structures. A highlight is the St Francis of Assisi cathedral. If you haven't figured yet, I'm quite the fan of churches despite my disdain where organised religion is concerned. St Francis is a particularly special memory, because I walked in seeking respite from my nagging flu and ended up catching the end of the choir rehearsal.

Everywhere you wander in Santa Fe, you'll find the tan adobe buildings and turquoise/white window frames. One of the few exceptions is that of the State Capitol building, which stands out because it looks nothing like the other cookie cutter Capitol buildings.

The adobe buildings even look gorgeous through the lens of my terrible phone camera.

The other reasons to visit Santa Fe (not that you need more reasons) are the shopping and the food. The jewellery stores are of a higher quality than the ones you find in Albuquerque, but the theme is the same - turquoise and silver. The restaurants in Old Town (outside of town is nothing but burger and other restaurant chains, pass) are pricey but you're paying for quality. I went for dinner at a place called Dinner For Two (and sheepishly asked for a table for one), the owner took pity on me and kept me company with the usual tourist/local conversation ("Oh, you're Australian? My sister/uncle/ex-teacher/brother's ex girlfriend's dad's monkey's aunt went there for a couple of months, loved the place." etc.) and I had a chance to some to try some high-end local fare, like salmon (or was it tuna?) with mole sauce. Weiiiiiird. Quality though, and their desserts were amazing. I also went for high tea at the Hotel St Francis which was the equal of Sydney's Victoria Room for taste and was my favourite American high tea overall (The Victoria Room set the benchmark for all my high tea escapades, I've yet to find a better place) - I'd really like to stay at the St Francis next time. I am convinced that the mountain air, good food and all that tea I drank in Santa Fe cured my bout of Vegas flu.

I'm going to finish this entry with a couple of stories from Santa Fe. On my last night in Santa Fe I'd just returned from Canyon Rd and was about to sniff around town for some dinner when I hear voices calling in my general direction. Whaddya know, it's the hippie kids from my first night in town. I go over and bullshit with them for a while, let them know how I got on and leave them to their 'peace pipe'.

The day I left Santa Fe (another kerfuffle, there were no Greyhounds that went direct to Roswell from Santa Fe and no buses left for Albuquerque that matched up with the bus I would have to take from Albuquerque to Roswell). The Sandia Shuttle was my salvation and naturally I spent most of my time up front chatting to the driver who doubled as a technician in the local film studios. As I left Santa Fe in the morning, I had a chance to witness the Turquoise Trail (my previous glimpses of the landscape had been through brief lightning flashes) There was a moment where the mountain road opened up to unveil a panoramic view of the valley below. The intensity of the colours in the landscape made me want to cry, I'd never seen anything like it. The fantastic views soon gave way to reality when we pulled into the Sunport, I hailed a cab back into town and my driver wanted to personally drive me to Roswell himself. He spent the entire 15 minute drive back into town trying to convince me "You come with me, pretty thing, I take you to Roswell, it'll be cheap!" "Uh...yeah, but my Greyhound bus will be free (sort of)". Gross. Unfortunately that was small potatoes when compared to what came next...

New Mexico Part 1: The Lighter Side of Purgatory

The 300 year old San Felipe de Neri Cathedral, Albuquerque.

I'm back folks. Unexpected requests for me to resume writing my Great American Saga gave me the much needed kick up the arse. I aim to be writing about Canada by the time I'm 25. Now, where were we?

I spent most of my time in New Mexico sick as a second stage syphilitic skank in the noonday sun thanks to the torments of Las Vegas, and the pain of hindsight hurts me still. Why the hell didn't I say screw Vegas altogether and go straight to New Mexico from Portland? Why didn't I charge my camera battery and take better photos of such a photogenic piece of country? Why didn't I go to Taos? I have so many regrets concerning this underrated, beautiful state and cannot wait to go back someday.

After waiting a queasy, storming hour for a cab to appear at the Albuquerque Greyhound station (always a good start), I checked into my room at the Hilton (that's not a euphemism, the hotel was on special). I awoke feeling repulsive. Not wanting to let this small bout of flu get the better of me, I pressed on with my mission to explore the architectural gems of Route 66 so I grabbed a cab going into the Old Town Plaza, which is close to the strip all the old hotels and diners are.

Oh wait, I'm sorry. Were. Albuquerque, I've got a bone to pick with you.

I had grand plans to stay in a place called the El Vado motel when I was first planning my trip, primarily because of its history as one of the classic motor courts during the Mother Highway's heyday. My slightly dated Lonely Planet told me it was possible to stay here, but I couldn't find a website. It turns out that the El Vado was purchased by some bastard developer who wanted to raze the hotel and build luxury townhouses on the site. If you take away the white dots of old motels then the area around the El Vado is, despite it being tourist central, pretty much an unattractive, strip-malled dust bowl and luxury townhouses would've looked ridiculous. In conclusion, developers are idiots. As a result of the ongoing tussle between those who wished to preserve history and those who are the personification of Satan's colonic emissions, when I visited Albuquerque most of the Route 66 motels were crumbling to pieces, boarded up behind wire fencing. I was heartbroken. The good news is, just under a year later moves were made to save the El Vado. I hope the other historic Route 66 buildings are blessed with a similar fate.

If the wanton destruction of history is Albuquerque's downfall, its weirdness will be its saving grace. Their museums are a great example. They've got an Atomic Museum (the building with the giant warhead out front), a Rattlesnake Museum (awesome, cheap and characterised by the tortoises in a tub out front) and weirdest of all, a Holocaust Museum (I'm sorry, but when I think of New Mexico, I don't think of Jews). The Plaza area (home to the Rattlesnake museum) is a shameless, touristy place but I loved it anyway. They have a bunch of rough cowboy types trolling about shooting (blanks) at each other. They have this wonderful ability to blend the (pardon the English/Religion Major expression here) sacred and profane (yeah, sorry, I can hardly forgive myself for saying that but there's really no better way of explaining it. It's a place designed for religious reflection and yet it's so...tacky). Best of all, they have an entire store devoted to chilli sauce.

Yes. Oh God yes.

I bought one marked 10 + (they started at 5 and ended at 10 +++). It took me six months and the bitterest part of the Canadian winter for me to work up the courage to actually try some. I now think I've scorched off half my tastebuds.

At this point of my trip I had no working tastebuds to speak of. Wandering around in the heat did not help my illness, so after killing some time checking out the rattlesnakes and turquoise jewellery hawkers, I dined at a New Mexican restaurant in order to try some of the local fare. Big mistake. I'd consumed barely a quarter of my lunch when my sickness grew upon me, so I promptly paid my check (the staff noticed that I looked like death warmed over and thus knocked the price of my food off the bill. I tipped them the equivalent of my meal because I'm not a heinous bitch) and scarpered off, trying to will the horrific cramps away whilst waiting for my wonderful lady taxi driver (for some reason the name Rosie springs to mind). If you get on well with your cabbie when travelling around the smaller cities of America, always get their personal number. They'll reward your business with a bit of local history and, when you're about to puke in their cab, a bloody fast trip back to your hotel.

And that's right about the time that I projectile vomited. Joy.

After a night in with pay-per-view movies and room service, I woke up feeling decent enough to wander about the city again although this time I decided on eating my meals in places that didn't smother everything in green chile. I can't help but think now that I would've gotten more out of the city if I'd planned ahead. Albuquerque isn't really meant for aimless wandering unlike its richer cousin Santa Fe, but at the same time you cannot accuse it of being boring. I've got another American trip itinerary brewing in my mind in which I do Albuquerque & New Mexico justice and get a chance to do everything I missed out on this time like see the Balloon Fiesta, go up the Sandia Peak and find the 66 Diner.

Anyway, this blog isn't about what I didn't do. After my whirlwind tour of Albuquerque, I caught an evening bus to Santa Fe. The bus trip is only one hour, so it's not worth me doing a traditional note from the road post. I did end up chatting to a girl I met on the bus to Santa Fe who was originally from Denver, Colorado. She'd found the cost of living was becoming way too expensive (in Colorado?!) so she moved out of her apartment, married a Mexican and was in the process of shifting her stuff from home to her new ranch just south of the border where the cost of living was 1/3rd that of her former city, but her standard of living was, if anything, better. And Americans bag out Mexico because...why?

A Note From The Road - Vegas to Albuquerque

There's a woman and her two brats in front of me in the queue at the gates to get the hell out of Hell. The daughter is fairly undisturbed, despite the fact that she is toddler age, but I can already tell that the son is going to make my next twelve hours on the bus my penance for not giving in to the various temptations of Sin City. He will not stop moving around. My patience is wearing thinner than usual, as not only am I still trying to gather my ramshackle shreds of sanity together after my experiences of Vegas, but there's a tell-tale catch in my throat and I know something is festering in my chest cavity. It's not a good situation from the outset.

And wouldn't you know it, it gets worse.

I'm somewhere in the backdeserts of Nowhere, Arizona en route to Flagstaff. The bastard spawn is sitting directly in front of me. The girl, quiet though she was at the beginning, has been screaming at random intervals throughout the trip and the boy is giving his long-suffering mother grief by hassling the yelling girl. That catch has developed into a full blown sore throat, I'm red hot from fever and white hot with rage. Worse still, we've picked up a drunk. He's been hollering from the back of the bus since Henderson, NV and the bus driver's protests do nothing, because he doesn't speak a work of English and the driver isn't fluent in imbecile. We get held up as he gets kicked off the bus. That's my favourite part of Greyhound's policy - you cause trouble, you get packed off at the next stop and left there to sober up and wait for the next form of transport to shoot through and rescue you. The stop the drunk is stranded at won't see a bus for the next TEN HOURS and there's nothing around except for tumbleweed and skin cancer.

At the next stop, a guy gets on the bus and he has NO FOREHEAD. A huge chunk is missing from the top of his head. It's concave. His nose is grizzled, his hair is barely hanging onto his tightly-skinned skull and oh my god, if this was a film I'd be dead in an hour's time after he hijacks the bus and drives it off a cliff. And he's one of the more attractive patrons.

Some many hours later, I've managed to get a good two hours worth of rest and I'm gradually feeling worse as the minutes progress. The kid in front of me keeps looking back in my direction and every so often he shoots me a cheeky look, but there's also a note of concern in his eyes. As the sunlight fades and we near Albuquerque, his mother and sister fast asleep nearby, he works his tiny hand through the gap so that it reaches beyond the head rest and over into my side where my hand is resting against the window and the little fucker grabs hold. He looks about as tired as I feel, and we sit holding hands on and off for the rest of the bus ride. To this day it remains one of the most heart-warming and innocent gestures I've ever received from another human being.

Damn kids.

As we step off the bus a storm erupts around us, the stifling heat from the day erased by the downpour. The air instantly felt fresher. I waved goodbye to my little buddy and mouthed a thank you. I don't think he understood.

Las Vegas - July 30th - August 4th: The Inferno

Isn't Vegas photogenic!?! Mm. Good. Now that I've said something kind and loving and Christian, let's get down to the nasty stuff.

Attention: Potential Terrorists (if you're reading this) - stop attacking London, Glasgow & Tanzania and go for Las Vegas instead. You'll be doing myself, God and Darwin a favour by wiping out a huge chunk of stupid from the gene pool.

Attention: CIA/ASIO/etc agents (if you're reading this) - I don't condone terrorism nor am I plotting anything, I'm simply a humble would-be despot, waiting for her little revolution to begin. There will be no need for any water boarding here, thanks.

Looking back over a year on from my time in Vegas and having read the entire Divine Comedy since then, I can't help but compare myself to Dante. The both of us have been to Hell and back. This is the story of how I suffered through the circles of Hell in The City of Sin (irrelevant circles have been omitted for the sake of my fingers and your sanity).

THE FIRST CIRCLE: LIMBO

From the outset I have to say that Vegas, despite it being a godforsaken dust bowl that only a bunch of morons and Mormons would call home (that was something of a tautology wasn't it...) , has a few not-horrible elements to it. Take that photo up there for example. That's a shot of the water show outside the Bellagio hotel where they've a rigged series of fountains to go off in time with music (the word music is here used in its loosest possible definition, seeing as one of the 'tunes' used in the fountain show was 'God Bless The U.S.A). The Bellagio Cafe is also the only place in Vegas where you can get a decent meal without needing to tart yourself up in your best D&G or suffer the horrors of the fried chicken buffets. It's also home to this stunning ceiling artwork in the lobby. The other not-horrible casino is The Mirage/Treasure Island, purely because they've managed to cover the stench of cigarette smoke by filling the entire place with the scent of coconut oil and frangipani. That being said, I still wouldn't want to be shipwrecked there, especially seeing as this is supposed to be paradise, but there are worse places you could be stuck in, such as...


THE SECOND CIRCLE: LUST

On my first day in town, bewildered by the scorching 40+ heat in the desert outside and the masses of people inside my hotel the Sahara, I somehow stumbled into a near-empty (for no place in Vegas is completely devoid of people) alley way. A couple pulled over in a convertible next to me and the 'gentleman' driver called out "Do you swing? She wants to know!" I'd been in Vegas for two hours at this point and the fun did not stop there.

Of course I was expecting Vegas to be rife with opportunities to indulge in the sins of the flesh and I am by no means a prude, but come on Vegas. Try and have some class. Is it really necessary to replace ALL of your legit newspaper boxes with row upon row of call girl catalogues? Must there be filthy looking proles giving out burlesque show leaflets to every single guy that walks past every single casino? In regards to the porn proles, I couldn't help but admire their tact - I must have passed over 150 of them (no, that's not an exaggerated figure...if anything it's a conservative estimate) in my three evenings out on the town and I was not given a single leaflet. The married couples were similarly spared. They also advertise burlesque production on huge billboards outside each casino and around town. All this, and the jury's still out on whether you're legally allowed to see completely unclothed tits.

That's right. Prostitution is illegal in Vegas (although I get the feeling it's illegal in the same sense that pot is technically illegal in Vancouver) and if I recall my U.S law correctly, you're only allowed to see nipple tasseled bosom in strip joints (please feel free to correct me if I'm wrong). The state of Nevada may be exempt from this, but knowing Vegas and its 'tease and please without actually delivering' culture, I would not be surprised. For the record, you're allowed to see tits in Portland (heaven knows I saw a lot more than that) and they've got a more subtle way of going about it.

The Third Circle containing the Gluttons has been omitted because you already know about the buffets. Yes, there are some fat people in Vegas. No one should be surprised there.


THE FOURTH CIRCLE: AVARICE

This one should be obvious. The goal of most visitors to Hell is to amass as much cash as possible by feeding great wads of the stuff into a blinking machine's mouth. I'm not going to discuss gambling here, mostly because I'm not stupid enough to partake in the activity. Unfortunately I was stupid enough to fall for some of the other tricks and pitfalls that Vegas employs in order to rob you blind.

For starters, good luck getting cheap internet access, much less FREE internet access on the Strip. You can't even hack into someone else's Wi-Fi network. Unlike most hotels/cities the nearest cheap internet in Vegas is a good five miles out of town, in the arse end of nowhere. Secondly, don't take a cab if you're heading off the Strip. In my quest for teh internets I handed over a decent portion of my cherished green trying to get to the internet cafe out in the Styx, thus eradicating any savings I thought I'd make by not using the Sahara's internet. I walked the five miles back that night and got hopelessly lost after realising that the main road into town doesn't have a footpath for a large chunk of the drag. This is southern America, people. Nobody walks here. I almost missed my scheduled Cirque Du Soleil performance but thankfully a wandering hobo helped me find my way back into town.

Now just what in the hell is the deal with Cirque Du Soleil? I saw the Love show because I felt like I should experience at least one major Vegas event and when it comes to these kinds of shows I'll take the Beatles over a stock standard wank circus, a vaguely gothic take on life in an Ewok village, and tits, tits and more tits. It's a decent enough diversion for one evening - there were a couple of cute little effects and tricks. That being said, the ticket price is ridiculous, the soundtrack doesn't include Across The Universe (my mind boggles at the exclusion of the most lyrically stunning track the Fab Four ever produced) and GOOD LORD ABSOLUTELY NOTHING MAKES A LICK OF SENSE. Why is there a drag queen tottering around the stage dressed as the bastard child of Elizabeth I and the talking wardrobe from Beauty and the Beast?!
I cannae understand it.

In conclusion: next time I think I'll opt for the titties titties titties.

THE FIFTH CIRCLE: WRATH/SLOTH

By the third morning of Vegas, I was ready to make a break for Purgatory. Unfortunately, I'd prepaid my room at the Sahara in advance so I decided to say fuck it all and barricaded myself in my room, with my pay-per-view movies and my room service and my steadily growing collection of novels as my means of survival. The night after Cirque Du Soleil, I watched Knocked Up for the first time and dear lord, I very nearly killed myself laughing when I realised what I was missing from my Vegas experience (scroll to the bottom of the interview).

I'm omitting the Sixth Circle of Heretics because I've already mentioned the huge Mormon population there and if you want some Latter Day Vitrol, go see my Utah entry.


THE SEVENTH CIRCLE: THE VIOLENT

It's hard not to be a lazy bitch in Vegas, seeing as your alternative is to walk around in the hot, sandy desert all the live long day/night. It's even harder to be a woman out on your own in a place like Vegas because this place really does take all kinds. If you are dumb enough to go off the Strip, ladies, I implore you to never go alone. On the Strip you're relatively ok simply because there are millions of people outside at all hours and most are too dumb/drunk/busy trying to pick up the dumb drunkards to bother hassling you. The second you go off the strip, however, is when the crazies begin to swoop and Las Vegas becomes frightening.

For the record, I am dumb enough.

I spotted a gigantic Vintage store out the window of my cab on my first day in Vegas, so I made a mental note to go and check it out before I left town. The Attic Vintage Store is one and a half miles away from the Sahara, so not that far to walk and it's not even that far off the Strip. I walked down Main St and was about three quarters of the way to my destination when I crossed in front of a white van at one of the blocks. It takes me three more blocks before I realise that I'm walking in front of the same white van every single time I hit a street corner and that's when the hair on the back of my neck starts to rise. That's also when the driver picks up on the fact that I've picked up on the fact that he wants to pick me up and begins motioning for me to get in the van. I'm not that dumb, so I keep walking. After another block, he starts driving down Main St at my walking speed, repeatedly motioning for me to get in the car before he starts to hit the brakes harder. That's the moment when I discover that I'm right near the Attic, so I bolt inside and spend the next half hour examining tatty old showgirl costumes and contracting rabies from the resident cat. The creepy driver is not stupid enough to follow me inside.

THE EIGHTH CIRCLE: THE FRAUDULENT

Let us go straight to Bolgia #10 which in the Inferno contains The Falsifiers. I'd like to throw a whole heap of the people who recommended Vegas to me straight into that pit. Before I left, a bunch of people inquired as to whether I was going to Vegas and when I stated that I wasn't quite sure, people were aghast. "WHAT? YOU DON'T WANT TO GO TO VEGAS? YOU HAVE TO DUDE, IT'S LIKE ONE OF THE MAIN PLACES TO SEE IN AMERICA, EVERYONE GOES THERE".

The next time I hear that come out of someone's mouth, I'll have two words for them. Fuck. Off. The most popular parts of America (I'm thinking LA, Vegas, NYC, D.C. here) are also the worst. Don't let anyone try and tell you different. The best thing to do in Vegas is leave - stay longer than a day and the city, like the ring of the Falsifiers, will make you sick. If you're really that desperate to see the place, search for the Strip on Google Maps and try and look at it during their daytime. You're in for a shock.

Contrary to what's in the rest of this blog, the worst element of Vegas isn't the gambling or the titties. It's the environment. Outside it's hot enough to boil the buttocks of a thousand ice monkeys and if the heat doesn't get you, the dust blown around from the construction sites will. Inside the casinos it is freezing. The constant blinking, buzzing and glowing from the slot machines envelopes your senses. The confusing aromas of perfume, food, boozehounds and cigarettes permeate the air. Everything is made to distract your mind from reality and a result, you end up in a state of stimuli overkill. I developed my pulsing headache on my second night, which all the Nurofen in the world could not kill off. As a novelty, I even tried one of the oxygen bars that are all over the Strip and while it dulled the ache enough for me to last another hour of wandering, my head was still bitching when I went to bed and it only got worse from there.

Despite all the false information relayed to me about Vegas, no outright acts of betrayal occured, so the Ninth Circle is not included.

As the sun was setting on my last day in Hell I boarded my Greyhound bus to the heart of New Mexico . We may have been travelling through the darkness, but I felt that I was finally making my way back to the Light.

Discography:

Surprisingly, not that many songs remind me of Vegas but special mention goes to Luscious Jackson's Sexy Hypnotist (yes, I did hum it constantly as I wandered around) and Tom Jones' It's Not Unusual because it always reminds me of that scene in Fear and Loathing.

A Note From The Road: San Francisco To Vegas

If the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, then it is walled with posters for bad conventions. All along Interstate 15 the view out the window is nothing but visual pollution (Lance Burton, one of these days I will hunt you down and take a scythe to your testicles...I had to see reproductions of your bastard, ugly mug no less than seventeen times down that endless stretch of desert and by the end I was praying that I would be given the opportunity to make you and your boyband-chic bangs magically disappear) and bat country. No, I did not get to pull over to the side of the road and utter that line from Fear & Loathing. Yes, I thought about running to the front of the bus and ordering the driver to hit the brakes, but the bus was packed and I figured such an act would be considered poor form.

This is not where our story begins.

Our story begins, as always, in a Greyhound station...and in this case it's L.A. I've been in Los Angeles for approximately forty five minutes and thirty seven seconds waiting to change buses and I'm already desperate to leave, mostly because it's getting hotter every minute and uglier every second. We were given a small tour of the city before we reached the main depot, even briefly pulling into North Hollywood and the only remotely interesting sight out the window was the sign for Mullholland Drive. Yes, I squealed. Inwardly. As for the rest of the place? If you're unfamiliar with the sights and smells of Los Angeles, well, think of everything negative you've ever heard about it. It's all true. Think of everything positive you've ever heard about it. Right. I'm going to assume they were talking about Disneyland which, for the record, is in Anaheim. Not L.A.

Twenty two minutes and sixty three seconds later, the line for the Vegas bus gets moving and we're off into the desert. I have found the secret to scoring your own seat on a Greyhound bus. If the bus is packed to the rafters, you have no chance whatesoever, suck it up and spray some perfume so you don't have to choke on the aroma of stale rum wafting over from the drunk next to you. If there's only one seat left and you want to be the lucky bastard who gets to sleep horizontal, nay, the bastard who gets to sleep period, then here's what you do:

1. Gather up all your hand luggage (you will need at least two items) and pile it on the empty seat next to you.
2. Assume the position: scowl on face, arms crossed over your chest, knees up near your hand luggage on the seat next to you.
3. As soon as passengers start boarding, cough up a lung. As loudly as possible. Hack up some phlegm if you wish. Your chances are doubled if you mutter to yourself afterwards.

It never fails. I should know - I've taken over fifteen Greyhound trips and I've only had to suffer the company of strangers four times. I got lucky on the LA - Vegas bus, the people you get on this route are all the American weekenders with dreams of cash windfalls that are the size of their triple-stacked, cheese-laden Louisiana fried chicken buffet platters. Unlike everyone else on the bus, I didn't have to spend the next few hours with my cheeks pressed against the window and someone else's cheeks spilling over onto my thigh.

We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the boredom began to take hold. You know you're in trouble when this is the sight that greets you out the window. I loathe to think of what the road is like beyond Vegas if the next place of note is Salt Lake City, christ. We scored a lunch break in the delightful dustbowl that is Barstow. The blast of air that floated upwards as we all exited the bus was furnace hot and through the haze and face-melting I could spot little more than a Starbucks, a Macca's and...well...I think you're starting to get the picture. I'm considering my options for instant heart failure when a stray black kitten pops up from behind a rock under the bus station, spys me, freaks and crosses my path in order to get away. I'm not usually one for superstition, dear readers, but you can and should look upon that event as foreshadowing.

The only other real town on the desert road is Baker and all I've got to say about Baker is that I witnessed the towering structure that is World's Largest Thermometer as we flew past and I now feel that my life is complete. Sleep overcame me, and I woke up just in time to see a giant pyramid. And a castle, which looks inflatable and would probably be a lot more entertaining if that were true. And a rollercoaster circling the landmarks of New York City. There is only one place in the universe pathetic enough to contain all three of these complexes. I had arrived.

Six Days in San Francisco - July 23rd - 30th

I was expecting a lot from San Francisco, having been immersed in its pop culture ever since I was knee high to a grasshopper. At any moment I was expecting to see John Stamos, Bob Saget and the whole Full House gang (except for Joey who, in my universe, died from cancer shortly after the show went off the air) walking around Golden Gate Park holding hands with a miniskirted Margaret Cho and Harold Perrineau dressed in a sequinned frock and suspenders.

Imagine. They'd be the Tranners!

Instead picture this scene: It's 11 a.m and I'm arguing with a chick with blue dreadlocks over the fact that she won't let me check into my hostel, despite my bringing the pity party and relaying my story of the nightmare bus trip from Portland. I've just had a 'white knuckle, knee buckle' cab trip because people in the Bay City don't drive, they drag (*boom tish*), and the taxi drivers are the worst.

Sam's Tips for Surviving San Francisco #1 - Don't take taxis. Just don't. Walk from the airport if you need to, your chances of survival are greater and, with all those godforsaken hills, you'll be a few kgs lighter in a matter of days.

Needless to say, I lose the argument with Gonzo but she budges a millimetre and allows me to check my bags into storage. I decide to blow off the city for a day because I'm feeling completely shagged and even after I wash my face and attempt to shake off the bus-lag I still resemble the Creature From The Grease Lagoon. There's a huge screen TV in the lobby and free internets which means I'm set for the day, but the one thing I'm lacking in is food and I'm starving after wisely avoiding the 3 a.m Taco Bell pit stop. That warrants a wander to the nearest place with edibles. Unfortunately, the view from my cab was a building-tinged blur so I have no idea where I am or what I'm surrounded by. I discover just how unfortunate am I the second I step outside.

A woman in a raggy turban is muttering to herself and swatting away an unseen person. There's a man sitting huddled in a doorway. Another guy is surveying the street, eyes wide and bloodshot, as though he hasn't slept in weeks. There are unidentified suspicious substances all over the footpath. The street is devoid of well-dressed, sane individuals so in my present state I fit right in. My hostel is smack bang in the middle of the...quaint neighbourhood of San Fran known as the Tenderloin. Oh. Shit.

Welcome, my friends, to San Francisco.

Sam's Tips for Surviving The Bay City #2 - Whatever you do, if you're on the cheap accomodation-wise...DON'T, I REPEAT, DO NOT stay at the HI City Center. Stick with the HI Fisherman's Wharf which may be in the middle of Tackyland, USA (Fisherman's Wharf is like Darling Harbour except drenched in visual pollution, full of candy stores & bad tourist attractions and completely charmless) but at least you don't have to mess up your hair and put on a crazy face in order to avoid stalkers & drive-by shootings. YES IT IS THAT BAD.

I do have one good thing to say about the San Franciscan HI hostels and it is that they offer great walking tours of the city. I went on the trip to the Museum of Modern Art (great for Warhol but the rest of the collection was quite wanky) and got to meet a few people but the guy from the hostel we had as our tour guide creeped me out.

So, back to my finding eats. After some average pancakes at the nearest place I could find that looked relatively safe and drug hustler free, I scooted back to the hostel as quickly as possible to glare at Gonzo and settle down to a nice afternoon watching...the Sci Fi channel. What is it with hostellers and sci-fi shows? Is it because some of the people who frequent hostels resemble creature people usually found only on Star Trek? Or is it just a general rule that the most social of living arrangements end up attracting the most antisocial of inhabitants (eg: prison, hostels, comic conventions)? As I enter, there's a guy sitting on one of the couches who, without warning, hacks up a great glob of phlegm and spits it into his cup. I make it my business to slide along my couch to be as far away from him as possible. Come now, my fellow tera'ngans*, let's try and show a little decency, there's a lady present...

Two things happen which save me from my first day in The Hades Hostel. 1. Hugh Jackman's left bicep appears on screen. 2. Hugh Jackman's right bicep appears on screen. Yeah. X-Men 2 comes on and this is how I meet Meika. She comes into the TV room and since she is normal and hasn't run screaming from the room at the sight of unwashed Sam we do the awkward 'Who is going to say something first' dance, she wins, and we chat.

Approximately four hours later I'm in Jazz at Pearl's with Meika and her equally lovely sister listening to some big band numbers after a meal of average Italian with far too much cheese, some cheap beer and amateur palm reading. This is a hell of a lot better than the original night I had in mind. What amazes me on this first night in San Francisco and continues to amaze me all throughout this trip is the variety of people I've managed to come across and even, dare I say, appreciate as members of the human race. There were and are a lot of people who inspire the opposite emotion, but let's not discuss them just yet. Over the course of the next six days I meet Emma, a chick from New Zealand via the States with the most confused accent I've ever heard, two more Kiwi girls who are my roommates for a brief period of time, one who snores like the running engine of a Mack Truck and doesn't look much better, but they're both out for a good party and they're good people so I like them and then there was the most exciting meeting of all.

Picture this next scene: I've been trekking up and down the fucking San Franciscan hills all day and I'm in need of a break. I'm wandering around The Cannery near the Waterfront area, snacking on two huge scoops of Norman's delicious Gelato. That's when the most beautiful music begins and I realise that it's two buskers, a man and a woman of the usual opera build performing 'O Sole Mio', the one opera piece that I'm familiar with. I'm intrigued, so I grab a pew. Unfortunately the performance ends, the small crowd disperses and it's just me and the opera duo. That's when the woman pulls out a copy of Harry Potter 7, smiles at me and we get talking. Her name is Litz Plummer, but some may know her as the Opera Lady of San Francisco and you can listen to her here. Myspace does not do the great lady justice. The gentleman's name is Robert Close, he's performed as Piangi in the Broadway production of Phantom and he is hilarious.

Robert: (this was after extensive conversation) You know what I like about you? The fact that you're from Australia, which is famous for all the sun and beaches and yet...*lifts trouser leg* you're about as pale as I am.

(For the record, I managed to tan slightly after a week or two in the Nevadan/New Mexican/Texan sun but then I moved to the West Coast of Canada for the winter and any hope I had of retaining my slightly less translucent colouring was shot to shit).

Those three viginettes basically sum up San Francisco. It's not so much a city as it is a collection of neighbourhoods smashed together - some are naughty, some are nice. If you've got no idea what you're meant to be doing when you get there, then my advice would be don't move, siddown kid and listen to me.

Sam's Tips For Surviving San Francisco #3 - Places To See & Places To Avoid Like The Plague

Consult this map and be wowed by my MS Paint skills. You may notice that there's a clear path you can take to get around San Francisco whilst still avoiding the sketchy areas.

You can't travel to San Francisco and not visit Haight/Ashbury as it is easily the greatest neighbourhood of them all, although I'm sorry to say you will be disappointed if you're wanting to recreate the '69 Summer of Love. Unfortunately, some of the hippies survived to see the 80's. As the haze of pot smoke began to fade, they discovered the joys of creating outfits made from the trashed remainder of their marijuana plants before selling them to hapless tourists at a mark-up rate of 800%. Fucking business hippies man, is there any greater contradiction? They and their love children invaded the area, ditched the 60's spirit, kept the rainbow decor and now it's an expensive shopping district full of decent vintage outlets and stores hawking pot/acid paraphenalia (even though all the users moved to British Columbia some decades ago. You want to see real hippies? Go to Saltspring Island, not San Francisco).

So I had a look around the Castro because we all know of my relentless fag-haggotry and again, I was disappointed. Yes, the area is gayer than a cluster of antique dealers at a Margaret Cho show, but so is Darlinghurst and that suburb is twice the size of the tiny Castro. I did enjoy the sight of the local public school and it's definitely worth a look if you can avoid going near the neighbouring Mission area, you're gay and you fancy going clubbing.

One of the neighbourhoods I had no preconceptions about is the Nihon Machi district. It's the more sterile, less tacky Chinatown and on the map, it's situated somewhere in the Western Addition area. Eat here, as there are a few decent hole-in-the-wall Japanese places and you're guaranteed to be served a meal that isn't covered in cheese for a change. Your other option for food is Haight/Ashbury where I would suggest the Ethiopian restaurant in the middle of the main strip for a similarly cheese-free and cheap meal. After you're done, go check out the Asian grocery with the Great Wall of Pocky. Yes. You now know where I made a significant portion of my spending money disappear...

The worst part of San Francisco, Tenderloin aside, has to be the South of Market area, which is full of sketchy run-down buildings and the only thing more run-down than the buildings are the people. I walked around this area (thankfully not for very long) and I found myself questioning how San Francisco manages to be regularly ranked as one of America's most liveable cities, (especially seeing as I'm inclined to agree with most of the of other selections on Places Rated, except Portland should be #1 with Pittsburgh as #2).

Another suggestion I'd make to visitors heading to California is...don't (you have no idea how badly I want to make a shirt that says "Fuck California...I'd rather be in Oregon") but if you must head to the Bay area, take a day out and roadtrip. Your options are to head to the Napa valley and/or Sausalito which I didn't get around to visiting but if I had the opportunity again I'd go there or alternatively, you can head down south to San Jose, if only for the sunshine, relative warmth and the opportunity to sing "Do You Know The Way To San Jose?" on the Greyhound. I checked out the Winchester Mystery House (which isn't exactly mysterious so much as it is gigantic and full of unnecessary rooms and doors that lead to nowhere), and wandered aimlessly around the strip malls. My one recommendation for San Jose goes to Lisa's Tea Treasures mostly because I found the funkiest pair of teapot earrings there (sadly I didn't get to sample the tea).

After six days, too many hills and not enough scoops of Norman's finest ice cream later I left my a shoe in my locker at the HI, packed my gear and prepared, with a heavy heart to start my journey eastwards to Las Vegas (the one place I wasn't looking forward to visiting) and beyond.

A Musical Guide To San Francisco:

Honeymoon - Phoenix: I didn't have many romantic moments in San Francisco but driving over the Bay Bridge at night, listening to this song felt like one of those perfect instances of universal timing where everything just fit. I suggest you try it.

O Sole Mio - for obvious reasons.

Do You Know The Way To San Jose - Dionne Warwick: Again, obvious but very funny if you're me and you're quietly humming to yourself on a crowded public coach.

Any of Margaret Cho's comedy albums are great for commentary while you're walking around, the best of the bunch being Notorious C.H.O.



* that would be the Klingon word for human. You have no idea of the shame I felt when I googled the words 'Klingon Dictionary'.

A Note From The Road: Portland to San Francisco

I loved the ride from Seattle to Portland. It was short, it was smooth, the people were few and spaced out and we left Seattle and arrived in Portland on schedule. There was no muss and very minimal amounts of fuss. I thought, "How good is this?! Buying a Greyhound Discovery Pass was the greatest idea I've ever had." First impressions last. They're also, more often than not, completely and totally wrong and you don't have to be a character in a Bollywood film to realise this. I figured out just how incorrect my first impression of Greyhound the minute I witnessed the queue going to San Francisco on the 6:15 coach. They were packing the bus to the rafters. I realised that this ride was going to be considerably more confined than my previous journey but I retained a sense of cautious optimism after all, what's the worst that could happen...right?

Why on earth are people stupid enough to be optimists? Being optimistic and telling onesself Hey things aren't that bad/They could be worse/Let's look on the bright side is basically dangling the proverbial carrot in front of the fates and begging them to show you just how far they can stick it in. Don't be optimistic, kids. A semester of first year Philosophy will teach to listen to the greats: Hobbes, Voltaire and well, me. We'll tell you that if expect the worst, then you'll leave enough room to be pleasantly surprised. The only people who wax lyrical about the joys of optimism are tools like Rousseau...an idiot, communist and I hear he tortures puppies on the weekends he doesn't spend jacking off to his own doctrine regarding the state of nature. If the symptoms of optimism persist, fine...be that way, but at least try and suppress these instincts if you ever plan on travelling with Greyhound.

So, I realise five seconds after I sat down that I've made a huge mistake. I'm leaving the greatest city in these United States to get on a night flight bus that's filling up with your regular circus sideshow acts and the ringmaster is heading straight towards me. I could smell this guy before I saw him. It's a combination of stale beer, crusty sweat stains and cigarettes with a hint of the military. I was still in my stage of cautious optimism as there were a few seats left and I thought that maybe I'll be that lucky one who doesn't have to fight for elbow room for sixteen hours. However. As soon as I caught that scent, I knew that fate had once again taken up the orange rod and was aiming squarely for buttocks. I heard the slurred words "Anyone sitting here? You look like you'll be good for conversation" and had no choice but to take one last look around before uttering "Uh...er...ohbuggerit. No. I won't be chatting though, because this is a night bus and I intend on sleeping."

"We'll see about that." say the Fates.

Joining myself and the lead tenor in the 'Down With Personal Hygeine' acapella chorus on the bus to Sacramento were three girls around my age taking up the three seats behind me and a mother and daughter directly across the way. One of the girls looked as though she required the extra two seats for herself alone and well, she was fortunate enough to be able to take up two. Bitch. One would spend the next 9 hours talking aimless, vowel-elongating trash on her cell phone (re: 'Yeeeeeahhh....liiiike...I knooooow etc etc), causing me to fantasise about hijacking the bus and taking it on a trip to Facestab city. The other one would spend most of her time sleeping and if you think that would give her an exemption from a taste of my critical bile then you're wrong, because she snores and therefore I hate her. Not as much as I do the King of the Four Whiffs next to me, because he proceeds to pull from his bag of ancient relics one pre-(Gulf) war cassette deck and over the ear headphones which will allow him...and everyone else within a four seat radius...a chance to listen to his collection of 80's metal and hardcore hip-hop at full volume. It is so loud through his headphones that I can hear lyrics.
Thankfully, this is why phones now double as mp3 players. I look at mine only to discover that I'd forgotten to charge the battery last night. I have 18% of my battery power left and even when I become desperate and play Golden Skans for the 14th time that day, I can still hear a half-arsed riff spewing forth from the wax-laden inner ears of the Arizonian Asshole next to me.

This is why I hate the human race. I sit back and think of drag queens.

Too many godforsaken hours later, I can no longer feel my toes, it's the next day, we're somewhere just outside of Medford. I am not sleeping. I have not slept. Sgt. Blotto, despite my protestations, is still playing his music. That bitch behind me is still on her phone and the other two are bonding with my cellmate because they appreciate his taste in tuneage. I'm going to allow you to Madlib the emotion I was feeling at that moment, which you can feel free to insert [here]. Our one meal stop is at Taco Bell so I decide to pass and maybe get a glorious half hour's worth of snoozy goodness. Approximately 13 and a half winks later, we're back on the road again, the bus driver/my hero is warning The Cell Phone Trio to shut up before they're evicted from the Big Greyhound House and I'm using my last 5% of battery to play Golden Skans. Yes, again. I'm just at the point of reaching peace when the old lady in the front row heads to the back of the bus and promptly begins retching. This is why I don't eat at Taco Bell. Her contralto solo lasts for three rounds of five awkward minutes and suddenly, the Military Breath Monster and his collection of 'It Came From Planet Journey' cassettes doesn't seem so bad. It's right about now that my batteries decide to breathe their last. I sit back and think of sweet transvestites.

I wake up just in time for the sunrise, somewhere outside of Sacramento. We roll in at around six and finally the Fates decide to play it my way and I see that Captain Puce Heart and the Skankettes are queueing for the San Diego bus. I even manage to score a seat all to myself on the way to San Francisco and there may have been a few more half hours (although still not enough) of poorly-positioned napping because the Californian desert scene outside can only hold my interest for a short while. We roll across the Bay Bridge on time and all I can do is sit back and think about the Pearl I left behind.