The City Of Angels

It was time to check out of the Navaho Lodge, a place that had been a good, but seemingly expensive, home to us. It had all the amenities we needed including kick-ass wi-fi which is always a bonus. We would be bussing it back to Downtown and then hopping on the trolley (tram) to get back to the Greyhound terminal to wait for our 12:00 bus to our last destination, Los Angeles. The busses to LA were frequent, pretty much every half hour, so we were hopeful that our last Greyhound trip would be uneventful and get us there in good time. We had been getting to the bus station with about 2 hours to play with to ensure that we were at the front, or very near the front, of the queue for whichever bus it was we were trying to catch. So we arrived at the open-air bus station (yes, open air – although there was a roof over our heads, but I wouldn’t want to have been there in the middle of winter) and got our luggage tagged before getting our bags searched by the burly security guard. A bus had just pulled up and he said that we could jump on that one if we were quick. But it was him holding us up searching our bags and checking our tickets! We managed to race onto the bus before it left and grabbed two seats near the back and settled in for our last coach journey in America. As with 95% of our coach journeys in the US the bus was freezing, and mainly due to one of the air vents above my seat being simply a massive hole as opposed to the closable vent that is the norm. But I had a plan. The Globe stress ball that I had acquired from Anna at work slotted snugly into the hole and made things at least a little bit bearable. But soon enough it was freezing again, with James having to tuck both arms inside his t-shirt, and me losing feeling in my toes.

As we had managed to get on a much earlier bus we would be arriving at our hostel much sooner than expected. Or would we....? After about half an hour of driving the bus pulled into a side road where a car with Border Patrol was parked up. Hang on though, we were heading AWAY from the border with Mexico. Just what the heck was going on? A green-uniformed troop boarded the coach and headed straight for the toilet at the back. Finding nobody inside he proceeded to check everyone’s papers and ID from the back to the front. As we handed our passports to him and advised him that we were flying out to New Zealand on Tuesday from LAX he continued his checking of every individual on the coach, presumably searching for illegal aliens. Someone questioned why we were being checked as we were heading north towards LA and he replied that the journey began in Mexico, so there could be “illegals” on board. After getting a clean bill of health we continued on our journey, thankfully with no more delays.

Once we arrived in LA I soon realised that I had left the globe stress-reliever in the hole in the AC, so maybe it will continue its travels for the foreseeable future in some kind of ironic twist of fate. So look out for it if you are ever on a Greyhound bus near the Mexico border, on the right hand side, about 15 seats back. Our hostel, Stay On Main, was not too far away, but the room was not ready when we arrived. We had managed to get a fantastic deal on this place, although we thought we had missed our chance when the room became unavailable when trying to book and then the website went down. £92 for 3 nights in Downtown LA with wi-fi, separate beds and breakfast included. James and I passed the time with a few games of Blackjack (not the 21-style Blackjack like in casinos, but our version where you have to pick up 12 cards if the other player plays a jack of spades of clubs, etc) and for the first time in our trip he beat me 5 games to 3. I tried to best him at Rummy (which is his forte) but it wasn’t to be. Although I did win the quickest game of Beggar-My-Neighbour in card history, so it wasn’t a white-wash. And then our room was ready for us. Two single beds, a sink, TV, some kind of flowers-on-the-wall light and a neat hand-seat in the corner. After we had unpacked and settled in we took a wander round the local streets and found a fantastic supermarket called Ralph’s. We stocked up on food and headed back to the hostel to tuck in and plan our next couple of days in the City of Angels.

The hostel

Tijuana Or Bust

Tijuana is the city in Mexico that lies just across the border from the USA. James had always been very keen on taking the trip there to witness what exactly goes on there. I, on the other hand, was not interested in crossing the border after hearing from many people who had made the trip themselves, and so decided to put my time to good use. After a nice lie-in, I switched on Dog The Bounty Hunter on the telly box and started to go through my list of errands. This included sorting out my entire bag contents and choosing what things were necessary to send back to mum and dad back in England. In the box to be sent home were a number of trinkets and presents for family and friends, a pair of shoes, a rock, a small Earth stress ball and a small hip flask that only contains 2 shots. These were to be sent back by the US postal service as according to the chap behind the desk, they are the cheapest in the WORLD!

I had planned to visit some of the beaches in San Diego if I had time, but due to my phone still being knackered I had to use some of the time to sift through a huge host of forums to try and identify what exactly was wrong with the thing and how to fix it. But where to start? Should I update the firmware? Maybe I needed a new ROM? Or could it be that I needed to flash the Clockwork Recovery Mod? I didn’t get it fixed and will probably end up taking it to a phone shop somewhere, but we Gray’s always pride ourselves on being able to fix things ourselves. Plus, the GB v Senegal game from the Olympics was playing on NBC so I got slightly distracted and didn’t get everything finished by the time James got back from Tijuana. Speaking of which, we had agreed that we would meet back at the hotel at 14:00 and then on the hour every hour until we were both inside, because there was only one key between us. When the clock hit 14:00 and he still wasn’t back I didn’t worry. When the clock neared 15:00 I was almost verging on getting slightly worried as I had heard many many stories of what could happen on a trip to Tijuana. But arrive he did, and we then set about a trip to Balboa Park, as we had heard good things about it.

So which was is the USA then....?

When we arrived at the park it seemed like there was lots to see and do, but with a sizeable amount to cover. We strolled through the park, and it seemed very much smaller than we had anticipated for we had “done” the park in no time and were heading back into Downtown. We had assumed that we would get the bus back to the Lodge, but due to the hunger that we had worked up we needed to grab some fodder. To have a new experience we dived into a Jack In The Box near the bus stop. Similar to Burger King and McDonalds, but with MUCH bigger burgers! We were both surprisingly full afterwards and that was a good sign as we would not need a little dessert or something else to munch on afterwards. We did indeed get the bus back and holed up in the Lodge with a few cans of Natural Ice (5.9%) whilst catching up on the ‘Lympics and The Big Bang Theory (of which we have become unnervingly massive fans of). The following day would be our last in San Diego, but our first in Los Angeles!

Tree-mendous!

Stay Classy San Diego

Our next stop, San Diego, was much further south than San Francisco and supposedly had the best weather...of anywhere....ever. So we were very much looking forward to it after the chilly evenings spent in San Fran. The last US overnighter was pretty uneventful, even with a slightly delayed transfer in Los Angeles at half 5 in the morning. We continued our tradition of finding the nearest ‘Bucks plus wi-fi and supped down the usual medium roast Grande. We were to be staying with another Couchsurfer that day, a woman called Coco who had a loft apartment for us to stay in on our first night in San Diego. Finding her place wasn’t a problem, but getting into the building or getting the right person on the intercom was. Having not received a flat number we had gone through the list and got people on their mobile, people who couldn’t hear us, etc, etc, so James scampered off to find a payphone to call Coco and tell her that we were outside. After about 15 minutes he returned, but with the mission incomplete. He needed change for the phone and the change machine in the library only took dollar bills, of which he had none. I gave him the quarters he needed and he sped off again. Not a minute later the door to the flats opened and out stepped a woman who seemed to fit the description of our host. We both pointed at each other in vague recognition and then got everything inside once James had returned out of breath and red in the face.

Coco’s loft apartment is fantastic. And I’m not just saying that because I know that she will be reading this. Open-plan, with her own art on the walls and such a wide range of object d’art adorning every surface, nook and cranny. Myself and James would be sleeping in a purpose-built-for-couchsurfers area above Coco’s new roommate Mitch, who had just moved in that day. Dan also lived in the apartment and to make the place that little more lively there was Max and Mango, two white (and thankfully small) dogs that were both very eager to meet the two new faces that had just entered the apartment. After a brief chat and introductions our first task as couchsurfers was to build a futon bed that would be in Mitch’s “room” underneath our own. With 4 strapping lads on the case and only a handful of bits to attach it should only have taken 5 minutes at most to compete. But we were still going after half an hour due to issues with washers, mis-aligned drill holes and two very excited dogs trying to help us. Coco had kindly started cooking some food for us all, something that both me and James were keen to tuck into – a home-cooked meal! With the futon 70% complete the men sat down to rest and eat the fantastic spread laid on by our host. Whilst we were eating, said host picked up the screwdriver and finished off the futon in two minutes flat, but we all believed that the hard work had already been done, much like loosening the lid on a jar.

Inside Coco's abode, with the dogs!

As we had no idea what to go and see in San Diego we decided it would be good to visit the visitors information centre down by the water in Downtown. Unfortunately we were already too late, as it closed at 5pm and the watch was showing 5:45pm. We did have a brief tour of the area though and bought some beers for the evening as an aperitif, for we would be heading out later to sample a few bars in the Gaslamp District. After a couple of beers in the apartment Coco, Dan, James and I stepped into a bar around the corner called Star. We had requested somewhere cheap and cheerful due to needing to stretch our hard-earned-dollars. The burly doorman with the ginger beard checked all our ID’s before letting us in and we ordered a round of drinks from the Eastern European waitress – she turned out to be from Belarus, which none of us guessed correctly. The drinks and the conversations flowed and soon it was time to go to the next place. A bar called Whiskey Girl nearby was the usual choice, so we entered the bar and got a few more drinks in. It was nice to be able to have an evening just doing as the locals do after so many days and nights spent touring areas and going from place to place in such short spaces of time. To have a few drinks and a dance was a real treat and felt great to blow off a little steam. 

Dan, James, Coco and me

Goodbye San Fran, Hello San Diego

As the Fleetwood Mac song says.....”you can go your own waaaaaay” and so we did. After we had checked out and sneaked our big bags into the holding room behind reception, the brothers parted ways. But only until the afternoon. James wanted to explore SOMA and a few other places whilst I fancied another pier-side stroll, picking up some seafood and jumping on the tram to get back to base. We agreed to meet back at the hostel in the afternoon and then set off in opposite directions.

I headed back to the north pier to have some peace and quiet amongst the joggers and tourists. It is a strange feeling to be in a new city miles and miles away from home and on a different continent. But it is an even stranger feeling when you are walking the streets on your own, essentially just you and the locals, cut off from everything you know. It was great just to blend in with the people on the piers, all going about their own individual routines and businesses. I had another wander through Pier 39, but basically only because I knew that there were restrooms there. On my way back I saw a group of people crowding around at the end of one of the jetties. I eased through the crowds and saw a large group of seals sunning themselves on a floating platform. I had heard that Pier 39 hosted seals but assumed that they would be in the aquarium/sealife centre, and as it was chargeable we knew that we would not be getting inside. So it was good to see them for free and in their “natural” habitat. The next stop on my little journey was to the seafood diners/cafes at Fishermans Wharf just down the road. We had passed this place on our first day and I desperately wanted to sample the delights that they had to offer, but we had just had lunch so I had ear-marked it for another trip for another time. This was that other time, and I picked out a shrimp and crab combo cocktail from one of the stalls, even though they were all pretty much identical with the same menu and the same prices. With no seating to speak of I perched myself on the kerb and sat down to my seafood cocktail. And to quote Adam Richman...”oh my goodness”. It was the freshest, most delicious thing I have tasted on the tour so far.

Frisco's finest seafood!

I stopped off at a little beach just down the way and sat there taking in the sights – the Golden Gate bridge in the distance, the ships on the water, and a small dog seemingly trying to dig to Australia. But there was a chilly wind blowing in off the Pacific Ocean so I moved along to find the tram stop that would take me back to Market Street. Following the map I managed to identify where the spot was and when I arrived there I was greeted by the usual massive line of people all waiting to get on. Now being of British stock I am more than happy to queue for a little while, but there were just so many people waiting and they weren’t even sending the full trams off. Deciding that I could possibly be there for a while I mooched around and set off up Russian Hill, as we had done earlier in our stay. We had seen the “crookedest street” and got some great pics, but we had not walked down it, so I thought that this would give me something to do as I weaved my way back to Market Street on foot. I had been advised to see the Cheesecake Factory in Macy’s at Union Square so I was heading in that general direction but taking a slightly different route than the one me and James had taken two days before. I managed to find a beautiful little spot, possibly at the very top of all the hills around the area and saw the most ridiculous road sign you could see in San Francisco. It was warning “hill”. You don’t say! But from that spot you could see way down to the piers and the CBD so I took some shots, had a little quiet time and then set off for Union Square.

Hmmmm, yo don't say!

I found the Macy’s that contained the Cheesecake Factory and headed inside. Once I had found the escalator to get up there (easier said than done!) I found a store that was almost straight out of a Charlie and the Chocolate Factory film. All manner of different styles and shapes of cheesecakes were available, but for over $5 a slice I passed on the opportunity. I could have easily spent the $5 left over from the tram fare that I didn’t use but I was still full from the seafood cocktail from Fishermans Wharf. With time on my hands I headed back to the hostel and booted up the laptop to update blogs, check out accommodation for LA and a few other bits and bobs whilst waiting for James to show up.

The obligatory footlong Subway for dinner/breakfast took unusually long to order due to a language barrier and a huge order from the guy in front of me. But once the first 6” sub had been scoffed back in the hostel we were off to the Greyhound terminal to wait it out for our bus to San Diego. We knew the building well from sleeping rough in it for 5 hours or so three days before, so we knew what we were getting into. Pretty small but I think it wins the award for Best Overall Greyhound Station as it was clean, secure (security guard searching bags and not letting bums in) and very helpful staff. It would be our last US Greyhound overnighter and it was tinged with sadness as it meant that our US road trip would soon be coming to an end. But I would have the window seat so I was reasonably happy with that.

Golden Gaters

It was 8:00am and my watch alarm was bleeping ferociously at me. Strange though, no apparent hangover. Well that’s a good start to the day, and surely it wouldn’t hit me later on. Today we would be exploring the west and north of the city, including the infamous Golden Gate bridge. In order to get to the bridge we would be heading west towards Golden Gate park (very aptly named) and because it seemed like quite a distance we thought we should pay the $2 bus fare to get there. James wanted to get off sooner than the park to get an picture at a supposedly iconic place (I had no idea what it was) called Haight Ashbury – the centre of the hippy movement back in the sixties. And sure enough, there was a hippy sitting on the floor trying to flog all manner of tat that he had made with organic natural (probably nicked) materials. Now I’m all for the free love and happy, hippy vibes but does that mean you can’t take a shower? Take a dip in the lake at Golden Gate park every now and again! Anyway, we walked the rest of the way to the park and had a wander, all the while veering north so that we could head towards the bridge.

The center of the Hippy Universe

After about half an hour or so in the park we needed to get our bearings as the map we were using was not getting us anywhere. It turn out that we had done a massive loop and had been heading wildly out of the way rather than heading on course, possibly due to me stopping to feed some Canada Geese (that scared the life out of James when one flapped its wings vaguely in his direction) or possibly due to James’s compass indicating the wrong direction....again. But we managed to get back on course and made it to the hilly streets that would lead to the Golden Gate bridge. It was at this point that the hangover kicked in. When I say “hangover” it was more lack of sleep than anything else, but whatever it was the only way I was gonna get through it was with a can of Mountain Dew from the conveniently-placed Chinese convenience store. They didn’t have any Mountain Dew so I had to settle for a big (20oz) can of Arizona Tea Mucho Mango instead, which certainly took the edge off.

A curious gopher

We had to stop by a small playground for James to have a “refreshment break” and thought it would be a good time to have lunch. I’ve just realised how that last sentence sounds, and I can assure you that there were actual restrooms available and he didn’t just cock his leg by a set of swings like a dog. Whilst sitting on a nearby bench we noticed a small furry critter burrowing away at our feet. The little fella was apparently a gofer, and seemed a bit like a cross between a mole and a squirrel. Satisfied after another round of peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches (the jelly/jello/jam had been snaffled from Mel’s Drive Thru) we marched on. And again we got lost. As we walked past the golf club (?!) and about 6 dog-walkers, each with about 8 dogs, we finally found a sign that was pointing us in the right direction. Or so we thought. For it was actually a mountain-bike trail and weaved through the hills on a surface of dry bark and timber chips until it finally opened out into a clearing. Said clearing had 8 large pipes jutting out from the ground in a kind of Super Mario style, and each was locked inside a small cage. To this day we do not know what this place was used for. Ritual sacrifice? People coming from far and wide to see real life pipes, which have to be kept behind bars? Answers on a postcard please...

Another sign and another direction for us to go in, but at least we had found a tennis ball to hoof along the small track to keep our spirits up. And then, we rounded a corner and we could see the bridge. It was far away and sometimes disappeared behind the thick fog that would come rolling into the bay, but at least we knew we were on the right track. Eventually we made it there, and what a feat of engineering! It was blowing a gale and there were people everywhere but it was such a magnificent sight that all that didn’t matter. The view of San Fran from the bridge was astounding and we managed about half-way across the bridge before we were forced to turn back due to the wind, the cold, and tiredness! But, as the Romans used to say – veni vidi vici. The trip back to the bus stop took us via the beach, but was much longer than we had anticipated. You see, the map we were using had been truncated and was not to scale. Imagine that the map has three vertical folds and you join push the two outer ones together so the middle one falls down – that is essentially what our map showed us. So we had to trek for miles to get to the bus, and once on board I assumed the Churchill nodding dog position, very nearly smashing my head on the back of my seat. We arrived back at the hostel weary and bleary-eyed (myself at least, I don’t know about James) and I jumped onto my bunk and went straight to sleep whilst James put another wash on and got some food. We briefly tried to search for accommodation in San Diego but the wi-fi was being very poor. And anyway, we were going to head downstairs soon as 9:30pm was approaching, but we would be one level up, in the lounge area as we were needing a quite one that night.

The amazing Golden Gate Bridge

I forgot to mention that the previous night we had not seen any sign of another bunkmate, or at least not until I woke up in the morning. He was a young German lad, but he was already collecting his belongings as he was moving into another room, as someone else had booked in for Monday night. We bade him farewell and said we would see him in the club that night. When we returned from the Golden Gate bridge we saw 3 large bags in the room that hadn’t been there when we left. This must be our new bunkmate. He bounded into the room and introduced himself just as we were heading downstairs. He was Marshall, from Vietnam, and was (as James aptly described him) a little firecracker. We headed downstairs and took our place in the lounge area hoping for better wi-fi so that we would have somewhere to sleep when we got to San Diego, but our luck was not in. In addition to that, our friends Simon and Lars joined us, along with their poker-loving roommate, so we had to attempt to navigate a host of websites whilst at the same time keeping in conversation and not wanting to come across as rude. The days (and previous nights) exertion was catching up with me so I made my apologies and headed for bed. James stayed up for a while later, supping at the last can of Tactical Budweiser and planning his next refreshment break before bed. We would be checking out in the morning, but that didn’t mean we wouldn’t have a big day ahead of us.

The Party Hostel

Did I mention the free beer? Good. Did I mention that the password for the wi-fi at the hostel was “partyhostel”? No? Ah, well it is, and that is what it prides itself on. And we clearly hadn’t read the reviews and/or full description on the website. But it’s OK because if you fancy a quiet one then you are not forced down into the party dungeon to socialise with people from all over......well, Europe as it turns out! So I may well leave a glowing review as the organiser/compare/crazy man keeps asking us to do. Did I also mention that there are no towels to use as such? Well there aren’t. So, rather than dig out my travel towel and then struggle getting it back into its little bag I decided to use one of my two bedheets they had provided me with. Again, this trip is not about glitz and glamour, so I made do with it as best I could. One of our bunkmates, Pankaj, was to leave us that morning and as people couldn’t check-in to the room til 15:00 we knew we would at least have a few hours of relative peace.

Sunday morning began with a morning stroll down to the edge of the bay where all the piers were to be found. They were as numerous as they were diverse, with one of them having the Alcatraz boat trip which we had both decided would be expensive and not great value for money. Plus you have to book way in advance and as you will have realised we have done a lot of this trip “flying by the seat of our pants” as it were. We had also been told to hit Pier 39, so we continued counting the pier numbers until we got there, and found a LOT of tourists. It’s a very commercialised area with gift shops, restaurant and all manner of tat being offered your way. Even a “magician” who was only working for tips, and he had already made his dignity disappear a long time ago. We saw Alcatraz from across the water and that was just fine by us, just as we had done with the Statue of Liberty in New York. We sat down for lunch in the shade (as James was having hot-head syndrome) and I greatly enjoyed one of Americas favourite meals – peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Pier 39, San Francisco

With food in our bellies (and licence for our tellies – see Paulo Nutini for this reference) we continued our walk down by the bay and then headed inland and up the steep hills that San Francisco is famous for. The first district we hit was Russian Hill (no idea why it is so called) and we marvelled at the trams coasting by, up and down the almost-impossible gradients. A strange noise entered our ears as we stood there by the side of the road and we turned to see a young lad on a BMX screaming down the hill towards the crossroads at the bottom. Using his shoes on the road as additional brakes we watched as he continued his descent, half hoping he would and half hoping he would not hit the car at the crossroads, and/or fall off in the process. He was then followed by two more BMX riders, but they all came to a halt without any harm. The legs were taking a pounding that day and we reasoned that we would have thighs like Roberto Carlos by the end of this trip. Further up the hill we happened across a street that I knew from a computer game called Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas (modelled on San Francisco, Las Vegas and Los Angeles) that weaved down the steep hill and was lined with beautiful gardens along the way. Aptly named “crookedest street” it was great little bonus to the day and broke up the day as we stopped to get some pics. We continued down to Washington Square (a pretty mediocre park) and the Coit Tower, the latter giving fantastic vistas of the city from up high. After that we arrived in Chinatown (seemed pretty much like any other Chinatown we have visited so far) and then Nob Hill (ahem) before seeing what was going on at Union Square. Some posh shops really weren’t going to entice us in so we called it a day and headed back to the ranch to freshen up before dinner.

A bit hilly...

I had selected a place called Mel’s Drive In, not because it is the name of my uncle back in Formby (although it is), but because the Man v Food places I had looked for were miles away and we were shattered. In order to have a decent number of beers that night, accounting for the free stuff running out fairly soon, we decided to get a six-pack of beers in from an offy and stick them in the fridge for afters. But we had been working on “middle-America prices” and were stunned when we had tried 4 liquor stores and none of them had anything cheaper than $2 per drink (the yard stick was for less than a buck a beer). We didn’t like this but grudgingly bought a six-pack of Bud for $12 and snuck them into the hostel. We didn’t need to sneak them in, but we felt we had to for some reason, maybe a flashback to the Parthenon in Chicago. As we knew the system now we sauntered down as the guy was half-way through his speech about the hostel and sponsors, etc, and headed straight for the bar once the basement door was finally unlocked. Assuming our usual position between the poker and the beer pong we gulped our watery beer and chatted with any bystanders who seemed not-a-psycho. Or the guy who wore his tight leather jacket buttoned right the way to the top and had a cigarette in his mouth the entire time, without ever lighting it. Sadly, the pretty German girls from the night before were nowhere to be seen, but I started up a chat with the guy standing next to me by the beer pong. His name was Simon, and he was from Denmark, and an avid beer ponger. He was staying in the hostel with his friend, who was playing poker (and losing), but they had been put in a room with another Dane, Lars. Once the first game of beer pong had finished we (me and Simon) were challenged by the winners, but for a team of 5. So we managed to persuade the 4 Irish girls to play who had been watching and we set about chucking the ball into the beer as required. It all got very messy and Simon was the only one who knew the rules, but with so many new players and people around there were balls flying everywhere and the rulebook went out of the window. Later, myself and Lars would have a “blackball game” against a couple of others, and I still don’t think I got a single ball in one of the cups. With me playing beer pong, James was chatting away to whoever sauntered up near the table and was happy enough with free beer in hand and a steady stream of new people and cultures to discover. As the beer pong stretched on into the night James went upstairs to grab one of the Tactical Budweisers and do some blogging, as I tried to gain a little bit of dignity among the other hostellers. After the beer pong had finished, I could no longer find James, but myself and Lars were more than happy to chat to the group of Swedish girls who were staying on floor 3. By the end of the night “a few beers” had made the clock say half 1 in the morning, so I clambered into bed to sleep off the beers and to hopefully memorise the rules to a fantastic new game that I will definitely be bringing back to England with me!

Frisco Disco

It was just after 1:30am when we disembarked from the latest of our Greyhound coaches. It had been a relatively short trip by our standards, only about 5 hours, and without any major incidents. But now we had a challenge. It was early in the morning and we couldn’t even attempt to get in to our hostel til about midday, so what to do? Well, choose a spot in the small bus station and try and get some more sleep. Easier said than done. The spot we chose was a good one – near  dividing wall in the form of an L-shape. However, the grandma with 4 small children chose the exact same spot to set up camp and as we tried our best to get comfortable these small rug-rats jabbered on and played games on the travel rug that they had laid out right next to us. The station was small, but we were the only people in there! If I was the guardian of 4 small children I wouldn’t bed-down right next to the only two people in the terminal. But maybe that means that we don’t look like sex-offenders, which is good. We would have been able to sleep better also if the TV wasn’t on so loud (we always complain that it’s too quiet to hear anything, and the one time we wish it was it’s dead loud!) and the old Chinese man who guarded the place had let us be instead of checking if we were OK or if we needed anything. And it didn’t help that James went to use his small bag as a pillow and accidentally opened the bottle of water that was in there that ended up going everywhere. It didn’t look good when he mopped it up and the toilet roll came away absolutely filthy from the floor/our bed for the night.

We both stirred at around 6:00am in the morning and after we had freshened up (as best you can after not having slept in a bed for 3 nights, not showering for over 2 days and having hiked in Yosemite and around Salt Lake City) we blearily trudged over to the nearest Starbucks to order “the usual” and wait it out til check-in. We both had a little scout of the immediate area and realised that we might be able to get into the hostel at 11:00 rather than 3:00pm that we had originally thought. One last game of Beggar-My-Neighbour (one of our favourite card games which has absolutely no skill element in it whatsoever) and we were heading in the direction of the San Francisco International Hostel in the mid-morning heat. I say “mid-morning heat” but actually it was quite mild compared to what we have been used to. The cooling breeze was a delight and meant that we weren’t overly-sweaty by the time we finally found the place. Desperately in need of a shower, we were disappointed to be told that we could check-in and leave our bags but our room would not be ready until 3:00pm that afternoon so no early shower for us! With our backs relieved of carrying the heavy bags we thought that now would be the perfect time for me to buy a book. Having not packed one in the first place I assumed we would come across lots of second-hand book stores but none had been found so far. We walked into a bookshop that sold new books and asked him if there was anywhere nearby that sold used ones, and he said it would be on Church Street which was 15 minutes away....by bus. We thanked him for his time and set off for Church Street – we had little else pressing to do and we wanted to get there on foot just to prove a point, that we are Gray boys and nothing will stop us getting where we wanna be! Once we had completed the trek (and walked past a LOT of bums/homeless people/mentalists) we both purchased a book and popped across the road for more sandwich-making supplies from Safeway. James chatted fervently with the check-out girl about how he had worked for Safeway in England, but it was no longer around these days.

Inside the Party Hostel

By the time we had finished getting back from the book store we were allowed to get in to the room and finally get the unbelievably-much-needed shower that we were both craving. Our room was to be shared with two other unknown entities (both male) who we would no doubt be meeting shortly. As we entered the room we saw the two bunk-beds, with belongings on both bottom beds, meaning both me and James would be sleeping at the highest point in the hostel (top bunk + top floor). As we have postulated before, we feel that height = money and that the higher up you are in the building/street layout then the better your financial and/or social standing. The first bunk-mate we met was Rahul, a young lad from India who would be staying there til Tuesday as would we be. He advised us of the house rules and what to do and what not to do so that we could settle in as best as possible. The other bunk-mate was out somewhere so we set about rinsing off all the sweat, dirt, pine needles and grease that had accumulated on us over the past few days. Next job.....laundry. Again, well overdue, and I was down to my last pair of pants. Fortunately there were laundry facilities in the hostel, but only one washer and one drier between 450 people. The rule “if you snooze, you lose” came into effect as we removed the previous users laundry and shoved it on the sideboard for them to collect later (we would do the same with the stuff in the drier too). A quick round of peanut butter and crisp sandwiches and we were ready for whatever the night could throw at us...

It turns out that we had heard the hostel offers free beers at 9:30pm to all guests. We couldn’t decide if this was a myth or hearsay but we thought we would grab a quick beer away from the hostel first and see what happened later on. One $4.75 US pint of Budweiser (I wasn’t happy) later and we were back in the room counting down to the big kick-off. An air-raid siren attacks my ears and I wonder if there is a bomb threat somewhere on the street. It turns out it is actually a hefty oriental man with a loud-hailer at the bottom of the atrium hollering that the free beer will be flowing soon so get downstairs and get off Facebook. Rahul advises that there is no rush as he usually goes through a lot of guff before any actual beer is served and we should take our time. But he does not know the Gray boys that well and we are keen to taste the free beer that has been offered up to us. As we sit on the couch by the entrance (we think!) to the “club” downstairs there are a few others mingling around us. Some are just sitting down to dinner (I say “dinner” but there seemed to be a large amount of Cup Noodles and popcorn doing the rounds) and some have reasonably posh frocks and shirts on. Then there is the Boy Band. Three (possibly four) young lads with almost identical outfits – espadrilles, checked shorts, black t-shirt and black baseball cap. The “possibly fourth” member I speak of seems to hang around with the other three, but maybe only since staying in the hostel, and he is without the trademark black baseball cap, for reasons we will never know.

The Beer Pong table.....minus The Boy Band

Rahul was right about the amount of guff the organiser went through, as we were there waiting for 20 minutes while he (tried to) beat-box, sang, asked us to “like” the hostel on Facebook, told us over and over how big the hostel was (third biggest in the US) and mentioned the sponsors names a thousand times. And then, and only then, after all that, we were let into the “club” downstairs. As we descended the steps into the dimly-lit corridor with loud music pumping and coloured lights flashing we both couldn’t help but think back to our university days and how weird this now felt. We passed the poker table, the table for Beer Pong and got to the bar for our first cup of frothy “two-buck chuck” beer. We had also stuck our heads into the Chess Room to see what it was like. The Chess Room was designed for people who wanted to......play “chess” after a few beers, and didn’t want to wake up or disturb their room-mates as there were at least 4 people to a room. We found it strange too that there clearly weren’t many chess pieces left so how a couple would have played a game was beyond us. We drank the free beer, got a refill, and steadied ourselves in the corner whilst overseeing both the Beer Pong (throw a ping-pong ball into our opponents cup to make them drink it in one go) and the poker ($5 buy-in that seemed too rich for our wallets). Rahul joined us later before heading out to meet a friend and we managed to get the very last couple of beers from the free keg before it ran out. I had struck up a conversation with a couple of young girls from Germany who had also just stayed in Yosemite and the four of us (them, me and James) were getting on great before a drunk Scottish lad in a snazzy shirt announced that they were all off to a club around the corner, and it was $10 to get in and between $5 and $10 for a drink. Obviously me and James were not up for this (or, it seemed, invited as the lad hadn’t even acknowledged our presence) but the girls decided to give it a go and so we were left with the last few people still trying to play Beer Pong with a few last dregs of beer. It was time for bed, and that was just fine by us! 

El Capitan

It seemed like only a short trip in the car to get to Yosemite Valley, but took us much longer than anticipated, partly due to having to negotiate the track out of the campsite and partly due to having to top up the car with a bit more gas. The problem was that neither of us could identify whether the car was petrol or diesel. Not being grease-monkeys we didn’t know if all automatics were petrol, where to look to see what juice was needed in the car or what type of petrol (if indeed it was petrol) was required. A brief chat with some random guy at the gas station indicated that the car was more than likely to be petrol, because it had spark-plugs, maybe. We chucked $15 in (as it was obviously a much higher price within the park) and continued our trip to the valley.

James and the Giant Car

The road took in some fantastic views and there were plenty of stop-off points where people would pull into without really indicating (a feature of 95% of American drivers) and it was very clear when we got into the valley itself as there were sheer cliffs on either side of us stretching up far into the sky. This area was the main reason people came to Yosemite, and rightly so as we had begun to think that everything was a bit “samey” the day before – rocks, trees, river, mozzies, rocks, trees, mozzies, rocks, mozzies, etc. But here it was a different story. Simply replace “mozzies” with “tourists” and that’s a start. Our first viewpoint was the Bridalveil Falls, a miniature version of Angel Falls, but still just as good. The sign said “Danger: slippery and uneven rocks” but that is like a red rag to a bull for me. Up I went, clambering and jumping until I got to the foot of the falls. A small group of Americans had been at the viewpoint debating whether to try and get nearer to the falls but seemed to be put off by the sign. As soon as they saw me hot-footing it across the rocks they were after me like a fox hunt. But none made it to the falls, they were called back by the parents who were still waiting safely on the path.

The sheer delight of Yosemite

The road through the valley had numerous points of interest along the way but as we were on limited time we had to chose our stops wisely. Our car had to be back by 6pm that night and we calculated that we needed to leave the valley by 11am to give us plenty of time to get back, give The Beast a once-over and hand back the keys. Our next stop was at a small “beach” area that was dramatically flanked on both sides by the huge cliffs, one being El Capitan. We even spotted a couple of deer but couldn’t get near enough before they pegged it. We took in a number of stops but unfortunately didn’t have the time to trek up to The Dome that overlooked the whole valley, or any of the other waterfalls that were just a little too far out for us to get to. As we were heading out of the valley there was one last point we wanted to stop off at, Valley View, but we missed the pull-in on the right hand side. I pulled in at the next opportunity to swing the car around and head back and “do a U’y” to make sure we got to see this last feature, but hesitated. And a good job too! The road through the park alternated from two-way traffic to double-lane one-way traffic, and on this road it turned out to be one-way. A good bit of hesitation, and maybe someone was looking down on us and prompted my caution, for had we made that turn we would have been heading straight into on-coming traffic. As we had missed it and didn’t have time to go all the way around again we decided that our time was up and we should head back, as it would take us at least an hour just to get out of the Park.

Time to leave Yosemite and get the car back to Reno

The sleep deprivation was kicking in so we alternated between driving and kipping most of the way back. The plan to hit Interstate 50 (the loneliest road in the world) was ditched as tie was not on our side and we continued through Carson City into Reno, with an hour to spare. Once we had got rid of all the garbage from the car and made it look at least a little bit presentable (there was still dust and pine-needles from Yosemite all over the place, and clearly looked out of place on a car like that) we handed the keys back and left the casino for the Greyhound terminal. We had not seen much of Reno, but then again we needn’t have worried as there wasn’t much to see that we hadn’t seen in Vegas. Arriving at the bus station in good time we booked our bags in and set about the long wait for our next bus This would get us into San Francisco at 1:30am which would mean a long wait in the station there, but hopefully it wouldn’t be another “Flagstaff” and would be open 24 hours.

The Biggest Little City in the World

I bet you all know which city I am talking about now. Of course, it’s Reno. The second largest city in Nevada, after Las Vegas, and yet still much larger than the State Capital of Carson City. Reno is essentially a scaled-down Las Vegas, and would suffice if you didn’t get the chance to get to Vegas itself. According to the guidebook people go to Reno for three things: to gamble, to get married, and to get divorced. James and I would be doing none of these things (hopefully!) as we were only in Reno to pick up a hire car. The reason was simple – Greyhound didn’t go to Yosemite National Park so we would get there by ourselves! After doing our research we settled with Hertz, as they are a reasonably well-known company and were offering a good deal. We had booked an automatic Kia Something (Picanto maybe?) that was the cheapest and seemed the most economical with a decent (for the US) MPG so we wouldn’t spend an arm and a leg on gas. When we finally found the Hertz place – it was INSIDE the Hurrah’s casino....obviously – we were advised that we would instead be getting a gold Chevrolet Malibu. Just our luck, a small and pokey car resembling a Fiat Cinquicento or something. This would have no street cred whatsoever and would probably make us look like a couple of dandies. Or so I thought. When we reached bay 365 we realised that we had already walked passed our rental car once because we were looking for a small matchbox car. What we saw in front of us was a sleek saloon car, much like a BMW 5-series. It turns out that the Chevrolet Malibu was a 3.6L beast with cruise-control, sunroof, massive boot, heated seats, and much, much more! It was a bit of a change from Bernadette (my small silver Peugeot 106 back in England) and reversing it out of the parking lot was a challenge in itself as it was parked in the corner by some motorbikes. The kind of motorbikes that you DO NOT want to scratch/mangle/knock over. The next challenge was to navigate our way to Highway 395 to drive the 200 miles or so to Yosemite. Unfortunately The Beast was lacking Sat-Nav, but it did have a small digital compass in the rear-view mirror. We only worked this out after we had spent 10 minutes trying to identify which road to take south out of Reno... 

One gold Chevrolet Malibu

Soon we were on the open road and getting rather used to the automatic gearbox and the American way of driving. Figuring out how to get the cruise-control working meant that we could set the pace accordingly and (almost) sit back and enjoy the ride. We finally arrived into Yosemite at around 4pm at we navigated our way to our chosen campsite. This was White Wolf, a cool-sounding place that would be sure to have some bears or coyotes nearby, or so we thought. And “campsite” I hear you say? But we have not mentioned buying a tent. That’s right. We hadn’t. There are certain campsites that you can camp at without a reservation, and also ones that will let you sleep in your RV/car. And White Wolf ticked both those boxes. And when we arrived it looked lovely – nice and quiet, facilities available and people happy to help. But it was full. And no amount of persuasion by ourselves towards the camp supervisor could change things, he simply shook his head from the moment I began negotiating with him. An unseen voice from a nearby tent advised we could try Yosemite Creek campsite as it was always the last one to fill up. So we left White Wolf muttering under our breath and set off to find Yosemite Creek and hope that the mysterious voice from the tent was correct and there would be space for us. 

The Great Outdoors

There is a reason Yosemite Creek is the last to fill up. That reason is the mile or two length of winding, bumpy track that twists and turns all the way down to the campsite. It was a very slow 20 minute drive along a surface that the Chevvy Malibu clearly was never really destined for. But we finally made it to the camp, grabbed a ticket stub and set it underneath a rock on top of the iron post, for that was the reservation system employed by the campsites. As it was gone 5:00pm we knew there was only a certain amount of time left to go and explore before the sun would be setting and we could be at the mercy of anything Yosemite could throw at us. We ventured outside the camp and into the rocks along the river. We figured that the river (or rather creek) would be a great indicator of the way back to the camp, and also may have some bears fishing in it (we lived in hope anyway!). We climbed, we hiked, we got bitten by mozzies, we had some quiet time at the top of some exposed rocks. And then it was time to head back as the sun began to set between the trees. Dinner that night was crisps, raisins and chocolate as the diner place at White Wolf was shut and that is all we could buy from the shop. A few games of cards before it got too dark to play and we decided to hit the hay at about 9:30pm. An early night for both of us, but after the one night at Salt Lake City sandwiched between two Greyhound overnighters we needed some kip, and we were to be up early in the morning to explore Yosemite Valley. 

The sun goes down in Yosemite

Thankfully, the Chevvy Malibu had very moveable seats and reclined almost to horizontal. How bad could this night be compared to the loud noises, disgusting smells and lack of legroom on the Greyhound? It turns out that it was even worse. Sure, there were no other people around to disturb us but it was just soooooo cold in The Beast. We had no sleeping bags to speak of, merely thin “sleep sheets” and layers of clothes to keep us warm. We had figured that it would be warm enough with the two of us in there, and it was summer after all. But it wasn’t to be. We both felt the cold and struggled under the various layers, both trying to inadvertently pinch an extra bit of the extra blanket that we had between us. Thankfully there were no attacks by anything around us and all that we woke up to was condensation on every single window of the car. I went for a quick walk/jog to warm up and ended up on top of the rocks above the car basking in the morning sun like a lizard. It didn’t work, so I climbed back into the car and turned the electric seats on to warm up, wiped the condensation from the windows and drove out of the campsite and down to Yosemite Valley.

Salt Lake City

I didn’t know much about our next destination. I knew it had a high percentage of Mormons living there, but that didn’t worry me, as we had fended off a different (and with an altogether more aggressive approach, I assumed) set of religious followers earlier that night. It sounded nice though, and was an obvious choice for a stop off as the Greyhound route didn’t go anywhere near where we wanted, and it would give us the opportunity to visit Salt Lake City and Reno before hitting Yosemite and San Fran. Imagine an isosceles triangle (I’ll wager that you never thought you’d read that in my blog!) with Las Vegas and Reno as the two points closest to each other, and that would make Salt Lake City the furthest point from the other two – that was the journey we needed to make, which was a little out of the way, but at least we would be able to add Utah on to our list of States Visited.

We rolled in to the station at 6:30am and quickly set up camp on a couple of seats before we could analyse our current situation and plan our next move. The normal POA (Plan Of Action) was for one to stay with the bags in the station whilst the other did a quick scouting mission around the nearest couple of blocks to find either; a) a cafe, b) a generic eatery/drinkery such as McDonalds or Starbucks or c) wi-fi. The latter was always the most important as we could check our booking/check-in times, places to see and things to do, and it was normally located within one of b) anyway (we did not intentionally seek these places in order to eat and drink, merely to order a coffee and boot up the netbook for potentially 6 hours or so whilst we waited to check in). It was my turn to scout this time, so I eagerly set off into town to see what was there. What was not there but which was rather surrounding the town itself were a beautiful set of mountains, outlining the city in a crescent-shape. There was no snow on the mountains as the temperature was already climbing at this time of the morning, but I remembered that Salt Lake City was the setting for the 2002 Winter Olympics. Not that I watched it mind. It is to the real Olympics what women’s football is to men’s. After setting out in completely the wrong direction and heading out of town (it was the mountains fault, the sun was rising, there were shadows, it was amazing!) I realised I was not going to complete my objective unless I did a swift 180^o. There was only a Mexican faux-gangster on his BMX and phone around so I turned on my heel and strode into town.

I managed to find a McDonalds with wi-fi so I headed back to the station to tell James all about it. Apparently he needed to have a walk also, to wake up, so we switched roles and I set about guarding the bags. He came back having found a nearer McDonalds so we lugged our bags down there, ordered a coffee and looked to see what this beautiful city could offer us. When I say “beautiful” I am not including the 40 or 50 bums that I saw in my 45 minute wander in the morning. I don’t know if they were homeless or crack-heads or what, but the majority of them seemed to be waiting for someone or something, possibly to take them to a manual labouring job outside of the city. Our hostel seemed to have a very strange and strict check-in process whereby you could check-in without anyone being there to advise you, but if you arrived before 15:00 you might get charged the price of the night before. So me and James alternated roles of exploring and guarding, this time in the open-plan eating area in the local shopping district that housed all the regulars – McDonalds, Subway, Dog-on-a-Stick, etc. When it finally came to half two we set off to find the Camelot Inn & Hostel and the apparently eccentric owner, as I had been reliably informed in the Visitor Centre.

The fine up-standing Camelot Inn

We had been emailed a code for the front door and as we entered we were greeted by a very excitable and camp gentleman by the name of Arthur, who showed his knowledge of our homeland by shouting “Liverpool! Football!” and doing a kicking motion with his feet. Our keys to the room were to be found in a small security box attached to the frame of the door, and once James had worked out how to open the thing we unlocked the door and entered our room for the night. Another set of bunk-beds. But good-sized ones too, although the room was distinctly lacking anything that you could even come close to calling luxury. No matter, it was only one night. It had been a long night on the Greyhound due to a lot of stop-offs, someone with a VERY loud cough, the guy behind me not letting me put my seat back, and then the guy behind me being accused of “touching and/or sleeping on” the woman next to him whilst she was sleeping. She had not taken kindly to this and had made the accusation when he returned from the restroom to find her sister in his seat (she had offered him $5 to move so her sister could sit next to her, but he refused stating that he needed to sit there so as not to get too claustrophobic, which was probably why I couldn’t have my seat back). I think that she made it up as they had been happily chatting for about an hour, which coincidentally added to the inability to go to sleep. So after all that we needed a quick power nap so that we could get out in the evening. The power nap was interrupted by a young oriental man asking to have our rotary fan. Who was this? Why did he want our fan? Did e work here? He said that we would get it back in a minute or two, so I yanked it from the wall and handed it over. Two minutes later he came back and stated that he had cleaned the fan for us. Magic. That made everything OK. Then, two more minutes had passed when Arthur was knocking at the door to check up on the young lads work. It seemed like he had done a good job so they left us to it and closed the door.

Downtown Salt Lake City

Our evening meal had been set in stone for that night, for I had done my research and found a place that had been featured on Man v Food. It was Crown Burgers, whose signature dish is a quarter-pound burger topped with a mound of paprika-infused pastrami. It was delicious, and certainly beat another round of cereal bars. As we headed back to base (we decided to get back and plan a few moves ahead and then sight-see all day on the Wednesday) we decided it might be nice to grab a cold brewski to “take the edge off” and we found a 7-Eleven next to our hostel. I perused the various cans available to us and steered well clear of the 24oz Steel Reserve can peering at me through the glass. Instead we selected a can that was even bigger than the 24oz monsters we have been getting used to. It was a 32oz (946ml) Miller beer that almost needs two hands to hold the little blighter. And for only $1.99 too! New York prices seemed like a distant memory! I saw 3.2% etched into the top of the can, but after checking the Steel Reserve (which we knew was 8.1%) it had the same etching so assumed that it was something to do with recycling or something. I then realised that my ID was in my Greyhound pass in the hostel room, so gave the can to James to buy me, reminiscent of my trip to Leeds to visit James in his 1^st year at Uni when I was 16. The girl who served us didn’t care, and scanned both cans through for us, and then she said something that would bring us out in a cold sweat. It WAS only 3.2% abv. But...the Steel Reserve in Albuquerque...the hangover...the swirling room...it can’t be only 3.2%! But it was State Law apparently, and only applied to Utah, so outside of this state the abv would vary depending on the brand. That explains it then, I hadn’t got smashed on 4 small cans of 3.2% lager...reputation saved! We sat down to drink our bins of lager and prepped for day two of Salt Lake City...

Oh yes, another Tim vs Food!

Leaving Las Vegas (for real this time)

We awoke for one last time in the comfy and almost luxury of the LVH hotel room. A later check-out than normal meant we could grab a bit of a lie-in to recharge the batteries. So after leaving our luggage with the baggage check guy we set off for the north part of Las Vegas, the Old Strip as it is known. We had been advised by Kwan’s brother Steven that it would be good to see if we had the time, and we had it alright – our bus to Salt Lake City was at 9:30pm.

The walk up Las Vegas BLVD was a hot one and we quickly realised that there was a good reason why everyone stayed on The Strip rather than up here – it was rough. Not rough like Harlem, or Seacroft, but decidedly less classy than the area we were staying in. We counted a large number of tattoo shops, Bail Bond shops and cheap wedding chapels. Once we had got trough “no-mans land” and onto the historical Strip it began to feel like home again, with slots as far as the eye could see. Freemont Street had a ceiling/archway across the street where they showed all manner of colourful light shows after the sun had set, but sadly for us the sun was shining high in the sky so we were not able to catch the show. We did manage to identify the Greyhound station and after we had both tried our luck on the massive one-armed-bandit in the Golden Nugget casino (with some success – we both came away with a big shiny gold coin, equivalent to the dollar that we had played) we jumped on the bus to get back to the hotel. The buses, if you didn’t know already, are double-deckers that were brought in from England. Which will explain why we both felt at home in them as they were very similar to the Volvo First buses you get in Leeds. We had a two hour ticket and therefore a two hour time window to get from North Las Vegas back to the hotel, pick up our bags and get back on the bus towards the Greyhound terminal. We made it, with plenty of time to spare. Which meant a reasonably lengthy stay in the bus station (approx 3 hours, which is nothing to us now) but as we had managed to be the second and third people to get in the queue we were fairly happy.

When in Rome!

And then the usual happened. Guy in front of us started chatting to us, and the girls in the next line, and everyone else who joined our line bound for Salt Lake City. I got the netbook out to catch up on the ol’ blog and left James to deal with the conversation, mainly around punk-rock/speed metal and how the girl in the next line had ripped a tendon in her leg from being “sling-shotted” into the mosh pit on her latest night out. In keeping with the “each Greyhound terminal does it their own way and you can either like it or walk” they began searching everyone’s bags before being allowed onto the bus. The girls in the other line had no issues with their luggage, but the chap in front of them did. He was wearing an orange t-shirt that had “Property of Las Vegas Prison” emblazoned across the front and back (which really didn’t help matters) and then the security guard searching his bag pulled out a foot-long claw hammer. Well, he wasn’t allowed THAT on the coach for sure so it was removed from his bag and left to one side. I’ll never know if he got it back in the end. As the girls in the other line departed we were left with an even bigger problem...

Whilst waiting in line a woman in a green top had come over to Jonathan (our young Mexican temporary companion) and asked him if he would like her to pray for him so that he would reach his destination safely. He politely (but with a slight turn of the head and smirk) declined this offer, even though the woman had stated that the service would be free of charge. She left us alone after that and we both sighed and realised that we had dodged a religious bullet on that one. But more was to follow. James returned from the restroom and suddenly two gentlemen approached us bearing such wide smiles that they could only be part of some weird collective. They were. We were again asked if we would like a prayer said for us and if we would like to join them in prayer as Jesus was awesome, or something to that effect. James took the assault full-on and bore the brunt of the attack. Jonathan and I were hit by shrapnel pinging off James as he bravely stood his ground. When asked what our religions were we replied: Atheist (Jonathan), Pagan (James) and no words sprang forth from my lips. I respect people’s right to believe in whatever they choose and I wasn’t going to enter into a religion-bashing contest with these two clean-living, wide-smiling Jesus-fanatics. From out of nowhere another one of Them joined in. She was the one who was apparently fully-qualified and could hear messages from God himself. He obviously wasn’t busy that night as He took the time out of his day to give each of us a once-over and offer his opinion to Rhonda so that she could enlighten us. She opened with James, and rambled on about leadership and being at the helm of the group. Probably because he was in the middle of the three of us, a clear foot taller than Jonathan and I, and I was trying not to be involved in their conversations. She seemed to miss-fire on Jonathan too as he rebuffed some of her claims and stated that she was only 50% correct. And then I waited for my summation. Both James and Jonathan had got theirs, but it seemed that He couldn’t be bothered to glance in my direction. And then I noticed Rhonda out of the corner of my eye, look me up and down and jot down some notes on her little pad of paper. It seemed that I was to be given the same treatment.

I was disciplined and ordered. Swing and a miss. I like to follow the rules. There’s two. I am diligent in everything that I do, including in my homework. Strike three, you’re outta there! It was a valiant attempt, but I couldn’t help feel that maybe she was picking up interference from the cold beverage machine in the corner. I didn’t want to dismiss her claims flat-out so I offered some reasons why I thought she was a little off with her predictions, but she always seemed to have a comeback for it. Apparently I didn’t seem to understand what she had said initially and it turned out that she meant almost the opposite so as to fit in with my corrections I sent her way. The next thing I know the woman behind us has joined in with the God Squad and was nodding and confirming many things said by the 3 original members, until her husband took her by the arm and said, “ok, that’s enough now, dear”. And then they were gone. One last try at getting us to say a prayer right then and there to book our place in Heaven (where apparently Adolf Hitler may or may not be....?) and they left us to it. Thankfully, this was because our coach had arrived, and we were to be getting on much earlier than the departure time, which was a first! So as we settled in for another night on the road we joked with the chap in front of us about tour little encounter and inflated our neck pillows ready to be finally Leaving Las Vegas.

Red or Black?

One more full day in Las Vegas. And more importantly one more night. After the debauchery the night before both Gray boys needed a good lie-in to recharge the batteries, so that’s what we did. After rolling in at 4am we were happy enough to be getting up at mid-day and made sure that the Do Not Disturb sign was on the front door and had not been pinched by the noisy neighbours. James was kind enough to do a Starbucks run and we knocked back the medium roast Grande’s whilst planning our next steps for the day and our onward travels. The difficult part was deciding how to get to Yosemite, by hiring a car, but from which city, from which pick-up point, which class of car, etc, etc. We settled on an automatic Kia Rio with apparently unlimited mileage, to pick up from Reno, near to the Greyhound stop. We had no luck with any couchsurfers for Salt Lake City (or rather we had done but we had dismissed them due to various criteria not being met – lived too far out of the city, lived with housemates, no references, insisted on giving us each a back massage if we stayed with him), and so had booked ourselves into the Camelot Inn & Hostel, for a measly $15 a head. It turns out that after we had done that we got some offers from surfers that we would happily have stayed with, but by then it was already too late.

Vegas by day

We had discussed exploring the old Downtown area of the city but due to the days late start and admin work we would have to save it for the Monday before we due to leave. Once again, the brothers were to be split up for (some of) the day as I had been given a night-time helicopter flight ride over The Strip by Philippa and Adam (again, many thanks to you guys if you are reading this!) and I was to be picked up from the LVH at 7:40pm and be taken to the Macarran Airfield in the south of the city. James was going to write a takeaway menu or a set of business cards or something, but I was to be swooping along one of the most famous roads in the world in a flimsy little helicopter hundreds of feet in the air.

Just like in GTA: San Andreas

James Maverick (his name was James and the tour company was Maverick Helicopter Tours, therefore I call him James Maverick, it sounds cool) met me outside the LVH and whisked me away to pick up our other guests. Other guests? My heart sank as I realised that I could potentially be caught in a very similar situation to the one I was in the night before – waiting on the bus whilst it picked up and dropped off numerous people from numerous hotels. And I had agreed to meet James at the Luxor Casino entrance at 9pm, and if either of us weren’t there then we would try again at 9.30pm, then 10pm, and so on, and so on. After 50 minutes on the small shuttle bus we arrived at the airfield and we checked-in, weighed ourselves (to make sure we hadn’t been lying on our application form) and helped ourselves to a complimentary “glass” of “champagne”. That means a small amount of cheap fizzy wine in a small plastic cup. But it helped to settle the nerves anyhow, as I’ve never been a great fan of flying. And looking at the seemingly tin-foil style chopper in front of me it didn’t make me feel any better about climbing aboard and zooming up into the air. After we were all checked-in the pilots came out and called out the names of the lucky people who would be flying with them. I got to take a trip with Travis, plus 5 other people, of varying shapes, sizes, ethnicities and mentalities. And looking at the 8 seats in the chopper I knew I had to get prime spot to get the most from this trip, as sitting in the two middle seats in the back would have severely reduced views. I edged closer and closer to the chopper aiming to get the window seat in the front, but Travis had other ideas. He had already pre-arranged who was sitting where in order to distribute the weight evenly. So it looked like I would have to take what was given to me, and lump it. I was given.......the window seat in the front! Hurrah! I could now strap myself in, sit back and enjoy the ride.

Roger, Roger!

And what a ride it was! It was a very surreal experience to be heading up into the air high above Las Vegas. Almost as strange a feeling as going up in a hot air balloon, but this had the added safety feature of a seat belt. We were up in the air for about 10 to 15 minutes and did a few laps of The Strip, swooping this way and that. It was a truly amazing experience and one I’ll never forget. And as we came back down to earth and landed with the rest of the parties that had been up with us, we headed back inside where we were offered the chance to buy our individual pictures of us with the helicopter, for a small fee of $19.99. Needless to say, I passed on this generous offer, and set off to meet James at the Luxor. Luckily, I had seen that we had passed the “Las Vegas Sign” on our way into the airport so I wandered down to take a couple of pics as we wouldn’t get the chance to do so the next day. Unfortunately this was one landmark that James wouldn’t get to see but I was going to make full use of the opportunity. But when I got there, there was huge wedding party and loads of young girls on a prom night or something so I only managed to get a couple of obligatory reversed-camera-at-arms-length shots before it was time to set off and meet James.

The Strip by night

We both arrived about 5 minutes before 10 and began our tour of the Luxor. After seeing the pyramid from the outside and the big sphinx, it turned into pretty much every other casino we had been in – hundreds of slot machines, high-stakes card tables, a couple of wheel-of-fortune games and countless zombies all desperately trying to win it big before their time in Vegas ran out. Once we were done with Luxor we hit Excalibur (a ye olde style Arthurian casino....apparently), New York New York, MGM Grand and a few others. Once again, after the initial intrigue of the casinos gimmick we would wander the slots attempting to cadge a free drink from one of the waitresses whilst slow-playing a dollar. This tactic got very dull after a point, where in New York New York it took 35 minutes before we finally got a drink. By which time it had probably cost us as much as it would have done to go to the bar. I had sidelined $20 for a few games of Black-jack or roulette in one of the big famous casinos before I left Las Vegas and the time had come, in the MGM Grand. I had seen most tables had a min 10 and variable max limit (sometimes up to 5000) but it couldn’t mean minimum bet was $10.......could it? After asking a Black-jack lady with no customers she confirmed that it was indeed $10 a hand, s that would give me two goes at trying to pay for my little Vegas trips out. I passed, and headed to the roulette where I thought I could put my money in the lap of the gods and go Red or Black. I cashed in my $20 bill for four $5 chips, and then realised something. There would undoubtedly be a minimum bet (larger than playing on single numbers) applicable to playing Red or Black, so I asked the croupier what this minimum limit was. She didn’t reply verbally, but simply extended all her fingers on both hands and mouthed the word “hundred”. Gulp. OK, so the gods did not seem to be looking down favourably on me on this occasion. I waited a turn to compose myself and ran through a few numbers that I thought might be lucky. 31 (my age), 21 (my house number), 6 (my birthday day) 16 and 25 (our room number in Vegas)? Before I knew it the ball was being prepped for another roll and the other two contestants in this riches-to-rags game were hurriedly lobbing on $5 chips all over the place. I place my four chips on the dividing lines of numbers (only a quarter of the odds, but a much better chance of winning something at least!), to this day I don’t remember which ones as it was all such a blur – the numerous Heinekens, the oxygen-rich air, the smokey atmosphere, the four chips lying on the table representing my hopes and dreams. Clunk.....clink.....clunk. The ball came to a stop. Even now I don’t recall which number it landed on. All I know is that all the chips were swooshed away into the “lose” pit. Apart from two chips. One blue, belonging to the chap who won $180 from a single chip, and one red, belonging to yours truly. OK, it had been spread across 4 numbers so I only came away with $45, but it was a win, and I was happy with that! So I thanked the croupier and went to cash my bounty.

The Strip

$7 of said bounty was spent celebrating with a medium-size Fat Burger as we trekked back to the LVH. A good burger, and one that I was definitely in need of having only had a banana, some raisins and a (nother) cereal bar. It’s a long walk back from the bottom of The Strip, and we got in at about half 3, still sweating from the heat and the long walk back. And that was it, our last night in Vegas. For this trip anyway...