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It has been so long since last I penned a blog. This shall surely produce a divided response. Fury from the true dedicated blog readers and relief at a fresh update, and horror/resignation from the faux-blog reader who secretly hates trawling through the inane stories of this adventure. I shall write on, in the face of both responses.
I last left you when we were departing for San Diego. Because I have limited time, and because once I get started on the topic of Greyhound, I shall not stop, I will provide you with key words regarding our bus ride to San Diego from downtown LA.
*Late (by an hour)
*Offered fries by two different people on two different occasions because we were eating raw noodles and must have looked homeless/orphaned
*Accidential consumption of green ‘Yummy Tarts’ – green because off, not because lime flavoured
That being said, the above key terms could just as smoothly be applied to LA in general.
When we arrived in downtown San Diego, Jenny picked us up in her ‘truck’ (everyone in California drives a monster mobile … apparently you’re nobody until you get a lifted 350 truck that could roll over a house) and took us back to her house which is located in ‘College Area’ – as the name would suggest, frat and sorority houses line the streets, and everywhere you look is a hot-panted American college student saying ‘like’ and ‘totally’ and ‘cute’. We ‘got cleaned up’ and Jenny took us to the local college hotspot for mexican(which is what I existed on for the next 3 days straight … nothing but burritos and tequila passed my lips) and then down to Pacific Beach for some drinks with the local PBers. For a nightcap we stopped into her boyfriend, Chad’s, bar – The Stadium Bar – which was festooned with Fosters paraphernalia, for some unknown reason. Being in San Diego was like being permanently on the set of an all American teen movie. The sun always shone, the frat boys drank Budweiser, and the sorority girls sported perma-tans. Jenny was the hostess with the mostess, and excelled herself the next day when she took us to …
Total trip highlight thus far. Chad and one of jen’s housemates, Melissa came with us, again in jenny’s truck. It was incredible. We only went to Tijuana, where all the college kids truck on down to to get pissed legally, as the Mexican drinking age is 18. We had barely taken 2 steps into the country before we sat down for margeritas, which turned into a couple of rounds, with a tequila shot for good measure, which meant by the time we left the bar to actually start sightseeing, no one was walking a particularly straight line. The colours of the city were so bright, but faded by the sun, so the buildings and signs were in rows of dusty pastels.
Again, time restraints dictate the necessity for key terms:
*Shop vendors – ‘bonita chicas, you liiiiike?’
*Manipulative little children who are trained to look sad if you don’t buy their parents’ wares
*a mechanical bull – Michele, I declined to ride it
*the best fajitas in the world
The next day we explored downtown San Diego, which is like the love child of Sydney and Brisbane, but not as built up – clean, sunny, palm tree filled and spacious. That night Jenny saved the best for last and took us to a popular college spot that’s big on a Wednesday (like El Rrrrrancho) called Typhoon Saloon, where a ridiculous cover band called Metal Skool play everyone’s fave metal tracks whilst wearing an obscene amount of lycra and being as vulgar as humanly possible short of undressing and performing sex acts onstage. I realise that sounds absolutely foul. We found an Aussie there, amongst the frat boys, who begged us to stay because he was ‘sick of being the only arsehole’ and had no American friends. It was so good to see the big, ruddy head of an Aussie, after so many square jaws and chinos.
We left San Diego in the same stylish way we arrived – on a rancid Greyhound vessel – and spent the entire day on public transport, trying to find our accommodation which ended up being located in hell (aka down the road from LAX). We ended up being forced to flag down a sherrif’s car and get directions, and when we finally arrived at ‘Tradewinds’, it was to be greeted by the most outrageous hotel/motel I have ever laid eyes on. And that is a huge call. I am talking Porpoise Spit meets 1985 retirement village decor. Microwave food served in a dining room Kath & Kim would have been proud to be seen in – think faux carnation and baby breath flower arrangements, and red serviettes arranged in fans poking out of glasses. A margerita that almost poisoned me. And the crowning moment, the discovery of a dubious stain on my bed. I think I caught bed lice.
The next day we caught a plane to San Fran and unfortunately, this is where I have to leave you. Time has run out, so I will have to wait until next time to regale you with tales of San Fran and its tenderloin district, our trip to Seattle and ferry to Canada. As I type, I am in a hotel in downtown Vancouver – it just so happens Court’s dad is some name in hotels, and so accommodation this week has been something of a breeze.
Stay tuned for San Fran and Canada, which I will hopefully have up by the end of the week, with accompanying photos. I warn you, most of them feature us eating.
Day 3 in LA dawned crisp and sunny … not that Dee and I would know, seeing as we slept in till 12.21pm. I like to blame jetlag (and the Turd Sausage). We both rolled over in our creaky bunks and said ‘well, that’s good in a way … it means we don’t have to eat breakfast, which cuts out a cost.’ May 5th was Cinqo de Mayo, a giant Spanish festival that everyone goes absolutely nuts for – most of our house guests started swilling Mexican beer at around 10am (not that we’d know) and didn’t finish until well into the wee hours of the morning. Upon rising, Dee and I decided to catch the bus to Beverly Hills, along with every single other person in Mid City LA, and so we stood, clinging to the hold-ons, our denim-ed arses in the faces of fellow commuters. The interim during which we changed from the 207 to the 757 saw an old man’s baseball cap fly off his head and land on the bonnet of a pick up truck (at which I started laughing hysterically, to the point I was physically incapable of helping him) then Dee’s day-pass was whipped from her hands and blown out onto the four lane road. In blind panic (probably thinking ‘I can’t afford another $3) she sprung to life and followed it out onto the road, only to retrieve it when a kind woman actually stopped her car so Dee could leap in front of it.
And so we made it to Beverly Hills relatively unscathed, and it was everything we could have asked for. Emerald lawns, palm trees, rose hedges lining the paths, Beverly Hills princesses zooming past in Mercedes convertibles, talking loudly on their ‘cells’ … perhaps the moment that best encapsulates the insane wealth of that area, was when we spied a large bellied man literally coated in gold, walking out of a dry cleaners, where he’d just picked up his Ralph Lauren pyjamas.
We had a slice of pizza (actually the size of an entire pizza, but that’s America for you) then a Starbucks and then, because we were in Beverly Hills and because strolling Rodeo Drive had made us pine for the long lost days of when we could afford garments (not tattered rags) we bought a nice light knit each from Gap on Beverly Drive. It was a must.
When we returned home, it was the turning point. You know after you spend a day or two somewhere new, there is a moment when it starts to feel like home, and that you actually belong there, as opposed to being temporary intruders into someone else’s reality? Well, when Dee and I rounded the corner into Gramercy Place, the moment occurred, and the glow about Gramercy Place has continued right through to today, our last day here. It could have been that everyone was off their face, seeing as Cinqp de Mayo coincided with a BIG fight (apparently) between De la Hoya and Mayweather, and the entire house had crawled from the woodwork to wedge in pizza and Buddweiser and cheer on the golden boy. We like to think it was because we had finally made Gramercy Place our home, but either way.
Similar to our stint at Food 4 Less, we picked up some necessities at the 99c Discount Store, to the tune of $3 … hair ties, juice, a gallon of filtered water (tap water is like chlorine) and Dee found herself yet another admirer in an hispanic octogenarian. Outside the 99c Discount Store, we were greeted by, and I cannot recall if I have told you about the bitter ‘behind the scenes guy’, but he is a fellow house guest and perhaps the weirdest of the lot (and that is a BIG CALL) … anyway, he was literally goose stepping down the street in the tightest pants and jauntiest jacket since Grease, his 1985 spectacles glinting in the late afternoon sun. His only words, as he goose stepped by, were ‘Cinqo de Mayo, ok?’
Due to jetlag (always blame jetlag) Dee and I didn’t get to sleep until 3.30am … it probably didn’t help that we ate pizza for dinner (when in Rome) and so we wound up watching the X Files movie and eating leftover cookies. And yes, in case you’re wondering, we are both as fat as butter with sallow complexions and the cholesterol of 63 yr old men. Jaunty Jacket appeared in the doorway for about five minutes of the movie, before melting into the night, muttering something bitter to himself, behind his curtain of oiled hair.
Day 4 saw us return to Hollywood, to meet an old friend of mine for coffee. En route to Sunset, we walked into a passionate one-man hispanic protest that was being blared across the streets via an extremely high powered megaphone; a trio of lounging latinos in a variety of poses (one crouching, one leaning against a tree … etc etc) and finally, at the bus stop, an old man joined us, whipped out his portable stool, and began air-drumming to the spanish version of ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ which was, and I kid you not, being blared out of enormous speakers otuside a spanish food mart.
The obvious choice of venue was our, now officially favourite, Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf on the corner of Sunset and Fairfax. We were, of course, late, because we did, of course sleep in. But we spent the next 4 hours with Adhir, who has moved to L.A. for his acting (and is doing very very well, may I add, watch this space) spotting faux celebrities (and yes they were all faux) and pressing Adhir for any skerrick of Hollywood gossip he could provide. In the late afternoon (Dee and I have to be home by sun down) we strolled down Sunset for our bus, fighting the tempation to nip into the International House of Pancakes (IHOP) for a shortstack. Once on the bus, we were nearly gassed – in fact we are lucky to be here, so intense was this smell – by the body and hair odour of a fellow traveller, who sported a tawny, uncontrollable shob (shoulder length bob … but do not think that by giving it a term it implies it was styled …) last seen on the head of my yr 9 history teacher. The smell was undescribable. I mean, LA smells vile at the best of times, but this … this was unparalleled.
On the way home we, of course, ducked into the 99c Store to pick up a gallon of moisturiser and a Snapple each. Skipping past the homeless men, crazy teens on bicycles and leering latinos, we made it home by sundown, to enjoy a nutritious meal of noodles and a cinnamon bun.
And today, we depart for San Diego. Thank God. Although the bizarre comfort of Gramercy Place will be missed, its stable of freaks shall not be so. Namely Jaunty Jacket.
NB: Lorenzo still hasn’t changed his outfit. It is now 5 days running. Nor has he left the couch. We seriously don’t think he has a room here.
And a parting gift of a recent conversation I had with the Harmless Nerd turned Convicted Criminal:
HN: Where are you off to now?
Liv: San Diego
HN: (knowing smile) oh … I should come with you … surprise a cute redhead I know down there …
HN: Wonder if she’s as cute as I remember …
Liv: Maybe …
HN: she broke my heart (laughing tone abruptly changes)
Liv: oh dear
HN: I asked her to marry me and she said no. I spoilt her, more than any guy should ever spoil his kid, his daughter. She put me through so much shit. I gave ger fresh flowers everyday, do you think she said yes when I asked her to marry me? No. Oh no, no no, when we hook up again, she’s coming to ME.
Liv: I think … yesss … hang on (roleplays suddenly remembering something)
Hope ya’ll well, stay tuned for the San Diego leg of the trip. We’re looknig forward to seeing Jenny and spending some time on the beach. After a couple of cold nights, it’s warming up here, it’s supposed to be 90 today! (30ish degrees)
NB: title comes from actual quote, as wheezed by house guest, ‘Lorenzo’
And so the time for the first official blog is here. This may be a long one, I encourage all to get a hot beverage, and settle in. I’m going to hark back to 1.45pm, January 14, a sunny Thursday afternoon. I was late to the airport, but that clearly isn’t going to surprise anyone. My mother got far too involved in a story, as she is so apt to do, and instead of veering left towards the International Airport, calmly cruised on into a tunnel that spat us out in Kingsgrove. After a u-turn (narrowly avoiding two policemen on motorbikes) we made it to the airport, just in time to greet Dee at the top of the check in line, and discover my frantic unpacking of items that morning in order to meet weight restrictions was pointless seeing as the United Airlines site lies about aforementioned weight restrictions.
It was a tearful goodbye; our farewell party consisted of our two mums, Dee’s little sister and my Nana. Everyone held it together remarkably well, Dee and Alyx even hugged. After sauntering through customs, we found ourselves in the duty free fragrance department. We spritzed for a while, I even attempted to sell a woman Miami Glow, before realising I wasn’t at work, and following this awkward interlude, I expressed my desire to purchase a trashy novel to tide me through the flight, and so we spent some time perusing the book store. I settled on Louise Bagshawe, Queen of Trash, and we proceeded to the registers. En route, we found some Vegemite, and purchased that too.
The flight was horrid. To those planning a trip to the USA, I cannot warn you enough of the emotional perils of the flight. To those planning a return trip, and who have forgotten the horror, I urge you to cast your mind back to the last time you spiralled into genuine insanity, and suggest it was actually on a flight to LA.
Dee and I were situated a metre from the bathrooms, which afforded us a plethora of unsavoury smells throughout the 13.5 hour flight. Every so often one of us would gag and inhale our jumper sleeve, rasping ‘shit smell.’
One of the male flight attendants (gay as Christmas, and needing a serious dose of testosterone) took a shine to Dee and his affections culminated in him offering to apply her lip balm for her which Dee, her arms pinned beneath a blanket, could only go along with, politely murmuring her assent and admiration of his accurate application. She found another fan in the form of a borderline personality disorder Navy man who fixed her with his divergent squint and said ‘you’re a very pretty girl.’ He then went onto reveal his life story to me, step-children, second marriage, warts and all.
With an hour to go, Dee lost it completely and my last visual memory is of her trussed up in a sweater, scarf and blanket, like a Christmas turkey, violently flipping from side to side cursing the United Airline’s nonexistent in-flight entertainment system.
We arrived at Gramercy Place unscathed, at around 11am, May 3rd. Except for a layer of grime which everyone seems to accumulate following five minutes spent in LA. Jetlag absolutely knocked our socks off, and after prevailing upon the owner for a speedy check in (said owner was feverishly surfing the net for Bon Jovi pictures as we entered the office) we literally passed out for five hours – even though we promised ourselves we’d ride out the day and sleep through the night. We also promised ourselves we’d never catch a cab, but how else do you think we got to Gramercy Place?
Within five minutes of being conscious, we’d perfumed the place with an assortment of spritzes, prompting someone to say, rather incredulously, ‘what smells good? … like a really strong … perfume smell …’, my toothbrush had fallen in the bin (thank goodness I’d packed a spare) and we both began to suffer ongoing bouts of nausea which I blame squarely on the foolish consumption of a ‘sausage’ at breakfast on the plane, which has come to be known as the ‘Turd Sausage’. Crass, but so accurate.
When we woke up, we set out in search of a grocery shop and, due to a wrong turn (how unusual) ended up in a possible hispanic ghetto, where men hung out of car windows and leered (not that much different to George St) and the streets were empty by dusk. We were directed to a grocery store that stocked the most ridiculous assortment of nothing, and ended up buying a loaf of bread and an insane amount of butter – it seems bulk is all this country knows how to do. Needless to say all we have been eating is vegemite toast. In fact, last night, we coerced about 6 of the American guests into eating vegemite on toast – most approached with trepidation, but we won them over with the occasional ‘it’s so good for you’ and ‘packed with vitamin b’. Dee and I dolled out butter and vegemite lathered slices of sweet, sweet American bread, as the crowd thickened with curious onlookers. We then ate some slices ourselves and went back to bed, only to awake at 4am this morning.
What followed the 4am wake up call was delirium in its most pure form, and following a panic attack from Dee when the TV wouldn’t work, more nausea accusations directed at the Turd Sausage and an entirely bizarre interlude with a bitter and twisted ‘behind the scenes guy’ whose robe was so thickly coated in cigarette smoke, I gagged in his face, we went back to bed for an hour, passed out on a single bunk because Dee couldn’t be bothered to climb upto her top one.
It should be noted here, that the robed man offered on several occasions to be our tour guide, all of which were politely refuted, and then insisted we all sit through a Gorillaz DVD as his morning wake up ritual. Casual conversation about his life turned into bitter spittings regarding ‘the rough ride’ his life has been (something about his best friend throwing him out of the house) and he then left the room with the TV not working, and Dee in a blind panic trying to figure out how to get it back on.
Today, we hit Hollywood (after some more vegemite toast) via the bus and metro. Their public transport system is pretty straight forward, even for someone completely incompetent like myself. Our trip into Hollywood can be summed up by the following key terms;
The Walk of Fame (cut and paste us with every single star on it)
The Chinese Theatre
The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf Cafe (we went to two in an effort to track down celebrities and perhaps Perez Hilton … neither of the above were tracked down, so we simply drank super sweet coffees and departed). The only thing spotted, in fact, was a man in an akubra nursing a mini apricot poodle sporting a matching mini akubra … and a short sleeved faux cow print jacket … and his ears were dyed pink. A curious phenomonen also made itself known, with the American inability to get the name ‘Dee’ right. Everyone has been calling her Day. In fact, on her Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf receipt, she first got ‘Day’, then on round two got ‘Daa’ … after spelling it out to the cashier. I got Elivia. Nowhere near as cool as Daa.
Leering Latinos – it’s getting bizarre. We must clearly not be from around here, but is it that obvious?
And finally … perhaps the best part of all … The $5.84 Haul (and yes that’s US dollars …)
In need of nutrience that vegemite just cannot provide, we went to Food for Less this afternoon and achieved perhaps the highest of shopping honours. In half an hour, and for under $6 we bought …
* 2L apple juice
* 2 apples
* 3 bananas
* 10 packets instant noodles
* A packet of 8 giant cinammon buns
We left on a euphoric high.
The people here are, in a word, interesting. And seeing as interesting is such an irritatingly non-descriptive word, allow me to offer you this; a majority of them are ‘background actors’ … aka extras, bar Lorenzo who is an alleged personal trainer, but I have my doubts. Perhaps I should leave you with this awkward moment …
Russian from Brooklyn, NY: ‘Have you seen the Professional?’
Hitherto believed harmless nerd: ‘No .. when was it made?’
Russian from Brooklyn, NY: ‘1993’
Hitherto believed harmless nerd: ‘Oh no, I was in prison in ’93….’
We then all proceeded to watch Wolf Creek together, Dee and I being the only two girls, and clinging to each other for dear life.
Tomorrow will perhaps bring a trip to Santa Monica, which is supposed to be very beautiful, and hopefully on Sunday we’ll have lunch with a friend of Dee’s, then a friend of mine. We leave Monday for San Diego, and residence with a normal, criminal-record-free family.
Hope this finds you all well, and stay tuned for the next installment – who knows what is around the corner … (Dee says, ‘probably a mugger.’)
I am writing this three days before our date of departure, more to break the ice than to actually post anything insightful. For those of you unfamiliar with the adventure Dee and I are about to embark upon, it crosses 3 continents, spans approximately 12 countries, comprises 12 flights and a ferry (well, they’re the arrangements we know of right now) and will deliver us back home, safe and sound on October 21st … all going to plan. Then again, nothing ever goes to plan with me, and so for those of you who delight in the bizarre, it is in your best interests to stay posted via this blog – I promise, it shall not disappoint.
See you in Los Angeles.
Over a decade ago when I worked for the president of Ziff-Davis Publishing in Boston—the top international tech publishing company at its heyday—my boss subscribed to a stack of periodicals for the IT news. It was my task to sift through the pile and let him know if I found anything about Sun, Microsoft, Apple, etc., and try to get the news to him before anyone else did.
Overtly, it was a competitive, edgy realm. Stressed-out sales and edit staff were predator and prey of this ecosystem, and sometimes newer, larger carnivores cast shadows on the carpeted walls. I tried to make my way through it with occasional stomach-churning and snarling, but I found the stress contagious, no matter how I chose to respond to it.
Once, Bill Gates came to visit and I had his personal assistant in my office without knowing it. I can still see the young man plugging away on his laptop, sitting on the floor because I denied him the use of my desk. I was annoyed at how he walked right through my office and came around to *my* side of the desk. When he tried to hijack my office without telling me his name, I—feeling my territorial, guard-dog hackles aroused—tried to put him in a conference room at the other end of the building, as far away from me as possible. I had things to do, after all, Bill Gates was in the building, somewhere, and I had to make sure there were hot croissants and cold bottles of Italian mineral water in The War Room. But this young scallywag wouldn’t budge. He scowled at me as he unplugged my fax, connected to his network, sat on my floor and banged out emails at a speed that sounded like bursting popcorn. Later my boss told me that it was Bill Gate’s PA and I said, ‘I don’t care who he was, he was a jackass.’ My boss laughed, that was one of the reasons I spent seven years working for him.
Oh the little battles, the stresses, the minute triumphs that seemed so bloody important. When really, I was just a guard-dog and I knew it. But the ‘research pulls,’ as they was called, the rifling through the piles of publications dumped daily on my desk, called this guard-dog to peer through a hole in the fence.
One of the publications was Newsweek and while much of it was what I call glossy-style ‘fun’ news with pretty pictures and tidy captions, even of disasters, I loved the quotations taken from the week’s headlines. Words from both bigwigs and everymen who put some perspective on the world’s events. It was the first thing I read. Sometimes the quotes were funny, like when a boozy politician babbled to the wrong guy, and sometimes they were soul-rending, like a bystander’s perspective on Kosovo.
Only once did a quote strike me as both so cosmic and so deeply hilarious that, between the shudders of excitement it caused, I cut it out and taped it to the wall. Everyday this quote slapped my back or jabbed me in the ribs, no matter who was on the phone or creeping around to my side of the desk. This quote reminded me of how I’d rather be, and still, all these years later, this quote has never left me: ‘I told my family if I die, I die. Bring a bucket and a mop.’
One-hundred years of perspective gave me this. These were the words of a 100 year-old man, after he went bungee jumping and lived. Since most 100 year-old people I’ve met were pretty cranky as well as horrified prisoners of painfully atrophied bodies [I spent a summer feeding, washing, dressing and talking with the inmates of a nursing home when I was 20], I thought this man was incredible. He didn’t hate the world. He wasn’t waiting for death in a corner. He was free. Even from the fear of death. Free beyond anything I have ever even seen.
Of course, I don’t aspire to bungee jump or to be 100, but I do aspire to this man’s perspective: the one that kept him sane and limber in a cascade of ways. And sometimes when that old feeling returns like it did every so often at that job—that everything is oh so fricking important, that I *have* to do this or that or everything will fall apart, that I’m stressed, crowded and talking to a jackass—I try say, ‘If I die, I die… bring a bucket and a mop.’
Overall, the idea of meeting stick-to-your-ribs wisdom when you’re doing something else entirely, is profound. It tells me something about perspective and sight, about how the wisdom is all around me if I choose to see it. If not, I can be stressed out and stupid and gleefully accepting a fleeting sense of meaningless victory like a guard-dog barking at passers by but still chained.
Or I can ponder that freedom for a moment, see that the chain is made of grass or candy and crumbles with a tug. If I want, no matter what or who is making demands on me, I can dance around on my dog-paws on a rim of infinity, on the wing of a crazy-sideways-8 and howl just for the hell of it.
Oh, now that’s good. Bring a bucket and a mop.