There are two things I have done whilst in America that have made me swell with pride at my own competence. The first is successfully flying there and back without any major complications. Minor complications are, of course, expected - for example, being taken to one side and being asked like a child to have a 'good, long think' after giving a very vague, 'I don't think so...' in response to the question, 'Are you holding any weapons?' (Incidentally, I wasn't).
The second is successfully mastering the Los Angeles city bus system by myself. I can barely manage getting to Leeds and back, so this is a milestone in my traveling career. I also managed to accidentally rip off all the bus drivers after getting it into my head that an American quarter is worth 50p, thus only ever paying half of my fare. (Incidentally, they're not).
During my plane ride there, I was fortunate enough not to sit with any questionable characters, which I was thankful about. However, after seeing that the man next to me had just watched me drop yoghurt on my iPod and proceed to lick it off like a cat, I realised that I was the 'questionable character' I had been looking out for. He looked at me in disgust as I concentrated on 'America's Funniest Dogs' (it was bad in-flight entertainment) and pretended I hadn't noticed. The final straw for him came when he saw me look in the back of my sudoku book for answers and he subsequently huffed off to the toilet.
After being collected from the airport by Molly and Brezil and doing the same 'you're-getting-in-the-wrong-side-of-the-car' routine that happens every time I visit, we embarked upon phase one of Amy's American Adventure: San Francisco. Due to unforeseen circumstances, phase one began with spending the night in the living room of a friend of a friend's apartment, which would have been simple enough had his drunk Mexican roommate not come stumbling home at 2am shouting, 'who are these bitches sleeping in my living room?!' as we, the bitches, pretended to be asleep. Thankfully, although not until hearing said drunk roommate throwing up in various locations around the apartment, we were rescued by aforementioned friend of a friend and finally got some sleep.
The next day, fueled on little sleep and lots of coffee, we, or rather, Molly with our 'help', drove to San Francisco in search of bigger and better things than Placerville. (Not that an old goldmining town full of antique shops isn't exciting, of course). San Francisco definitely did its job and provided us with lots of excitement, the first of which came in the form of what can only be described as the shadiest parking garage in the entire of northern California. After deciding we would park in it anyway, we walked out to the smell of cannabis and a gang of what, at first glance, appeared to be women. At a second glance, we promptly moved the car. After finally finding a place to park that was neither threatening nor impossible to get to, we spent the day exploring the city centre, during which I was talked into buying a book of poetry from a homeless guy who said he was only selling them because he wanted to be 'cool, like [me]'. I'm a sucker for people who think I am cool. We later headed to the Golden Gate Bridge, which took us over an hour to get to as opposed to the fifteen minutes recommended time due to our missing turns, getting trapped on one-way streets and the combined efforts of four people all looking at different road signs. Eventually, we got there and promptly locked ourselves out of the car with nothing but a camera and what seemed to be the windiest day San Francisco has ever had. After waiting an hour for the AAA to arrive and a long struggle trying to explain where we were, we drove back and comfortably indulged ourselves in Placerville's version of excitement: trying to entice the neighbourhood bear in with a leftover meatball.
After San Francisco, I took my ambitious city hopping to the next level and jumped on a Greyhound bus to Los Angeles. Having never been to a Greyhound station before, I had only one piece of passed on information about them: don't go at night. Naturally, my bus was at 10pm. I took this opportunity to put into use my nifty, incognito, under-the-tshirt bumbag (its difficult today to travel both in style and in safety...) and spent a while mentally sorting through the items in my bag and picking out those which would be best put to use during self defense. Not having very many possessions with me, the best thing I could come up with was a shaving razor, which I doubt would have come to much use if I was being attacked. 'Don't mug me or I'll SHAVE YOUR FACE'... Threatening, no? Anyway, I thankfully didn't need to use the nunchucks I had crafted out of two pens and a belt and I arrived safely in L.A. nine sleepless hours later.
After circling my hostel a few times (it seemed at first like the only way to get in was by climbing up the fire escape until I found a tiny, Alice In Wonderland door at the side), I checked in and headed out, bumbag at the ready, to explore Hollywood. By the end of the day I had completed my entire checklist of things to see, including 'Hollywood Forever', a graveyard full of (apparently) famous people. The only two graves I recognised were Dee Dee and Johnny Ramone, which were amazing but not worth the $5 I spent on a map. It was still exciting though, despite being surrounded by vicious geese, whom I later ran into again in Placerville with Molly after we fed one bit of bread to a duck and suddenly found ourselves running full pelt back to the car with an entire gaggle of adult geese chasing after us. I also visited Kat Von D's L.A. Ink tattoo parlour and got all my pent up tourist frustration out in one. Everyone in there was the epitome of cool whilst I stood at the side with a sunburnt face and a bumbag. I may as well have been wrapped in a towel, wearing crocs and carrying a beach ball.
Like any big city, Hollywood is full of beggars and I almost made it an entire day without being asked for money. Apparently, handing over a few cents and saying, 'sorry mate, I'm just as broke as you' does not have the same effect when you're sat there with an oversized digital camera and listening to an iPod. However, in Beverly Hills, my next destination, carrying a camera and an iPod is nothing to write home about. If you ever have a desire to know what it feels like to not fit in, try walking down Rodeo Drive in a scratty pair of denim shorts with unwashed hair and a box of crackers. However, bear in mind that there is nowhere to go for a wee - rich people must not urinate as much as their pauper friends, unless they all wear adult nappies in an attempt to even more dehumanise their characteristics.
Oh, also, if anyone is wondering where gay central is in L.A., it is apparently West Hollywood. I discovered this as I walked into what looked like, from the outside, an average bookshop. However, once inside, after the first thing to meet my eye was a giant poster of two men in a position they must have practiced yoga for years to do, I soon realised that this was not an average bookshop. By that time, though, it was too late and I was already at the point where the attendant had acknowledged my presence (hi, how are you, etc.) but not yet at the point where it had been an acceptable time frame to leave. Thus, I was stuck for the longest 3 minutes of my life in a homoerotic limbo, diverting my eyes to the only thing I could look at without seeing a penis: chewing gum, and vaseline...
After another week of having fun with Molly, spending my nights negotiating with her possessed cat about who gets how much of the blanket and flying down her drive on a chair on wheels (I'm aware that my inability to even walk without tripping means I should probably rule out any involvement in makeshift extreme sports, but I don't), I found myself back at Sacramento airport preparing for the flight home. As I didn't get a direct flight, I was stuck in Philadelphia for four hours trying to entertain myself before my flight back to Manchester. Being trapped in an airport for hours bores me to the point of reading all of the warning signs, one of which stated that 'Baggage containing dry ice must be clearly labelled'. Who the hell is taking dry ice on a seven hour flight?! In hand luggage as well?! You can't bring tweezers, but sure, you can bring dry ice... It always baffles me why tweezers on aeroplanes are prohibited. Imagine how much of a party you could have if you were allowed both tweezers and dry ice? You could create your own Stars In Their Eyes: 'Tonight, Matthew, I'm going to be a very well groomed terrorist!'
Blog in progress! Reverting back to handwriting it in a coffee shop due to lack of a laptop.