Yes, folks, it’s the moment absolutely none of you have been waiting for: part two of the video of our California trip. Because, yes, our holiday videos come in different parts. Think of it as like the Halloween movies, only a little less scary. Only a little bit, though.
(Part 1 of this series, a.k.a. “San Francisco” is here, for those of you who are interested. Yes, mum and dad, I AM talking just to you now.)
Enjoy! And tell Terry he is AWESUM for putting this together!
And now I’m going to go and lock myself in my bedroom so I can cry over the fact that we are not there anymore…
The boulevards, the neon lights I’ve been in love since the first sight I wouldn’t change it if I could Welcome to Hollywood
~ Mitchell Musso, Welcome to Hollywood
P.S. On the subject of holidays, Lape posted an interview with me on her travel blog today – you can see it here! Thanks, Lape!
While I was in L.A. (Yeah, yeah, it’s another one of THOSE posts: just stick it out though and I’ll start talking about something NOT connected to my holiday, I promise) we were driving along the freeway one day, when the traffic suddenly slowed because of a truck’s cargo, which had apparently spilled onto the road.
As we drew closer to the obstruction,I glanced out of the window to see what, exactly, it was that was littering the highway and forcing the traffic to go from the thrilling speed of 15mph, down to about 5mph.
It was teddy bears.
Lots of them. Hundreds, maybe. They were little, tiny, multicoloured teddy bears, they were all over the freeway, being run over by the cars and, actually, their small stature and brightly coloured fur reminded me a lot of my own Pinky:
who you will, of course, all remember from this post, because you have obsessively read through my archives and are totally up to date on the subject of Soft Toys I Have Known. In which case, you are obviously one of my parents: hi, folks!
(Oh, God, see, I know you’re not actually going to click that link, so now I feel like I have to explain why I, a grown-adult, feel the need to own a small pink rabbit. IT’S A STRESS TOY, OK? Because I’m scared of flying, I take it on flights with me, and any time the plane is taking off, or landing, or going through turbulence, or just flying along, minding its own business, I squeeze Pinky tightly in my hand, and it makes me feel calmer. Or at least, it used to: these days I tend to spend the duration of the flight freaking out and going, “OMG WHERE IS PINKY I HAVE LOST PINKY!” and that’s sometimes even more stressful than the flights were without him. In fact, just a few minutes ago, I had to stop writing this and get up to go and check that Pinky was safely stowed in the drawer I left him in when we got back from California. Stress bustin’: UR doin it rong!)
The teddy bears, as I said, were scattered across several lanes of traffic, being run over by cars and trucks and honestly, it was one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen. (I know, sheltered life, huh?) I just can’t stand to see a stuffed animal in distress. In fact, my parents still have a large white bear my mum and I once found in a puddle when we were walking Chico one day, and which I insisted on bringing home and washing. And then we all stood in a circle around it going, “Well, what will we do with it? I dunno, what do YOU think we should do with it?” And no one could think of anything we could do with a large white bear*, so it ended up in my parents’ attic, and it remains there to this day. I like to think it’s happier as an Attic Bear than it would be as a Puddle Bear. It would probably be happier still if I gave it to a charity shop and some kid got it and loved it. I would do that, but how would I know it wouldn’t end up in the wrong hands, like, a bear farm or something? HOW WOULD I KNOW?
(*It was a stuffed bear, obviously. If I’d found a REAL bear in a puddle, I probably wouldn’t have brought it home and put it in the washing machine, but you never know.)
Anwyay. Teddies. On the freeway.
Those teddies on the freeway, they tugged at my heartstrings. So I yelled at my dad to stop the car and, of course, he yelled back that I was an idiot, and that he wasn’t going to pull over so I could run around an eight lane highway, picking up stuffed bears. We drove on. We left those teddies far behind, but I couldn’t get them out of my mind.
But things were to get worse, teddy-wise.
The next day, we visited Santa Monica, and there, on the roof of a building next to the pier, I saw this:
Yes, it’s one of L.A.’s army of homeless bears: those poor, forgotten toys who have been sent out into the world to fend for themselves.
Some just can’t take the pressure:
Others turn to drink:
(Yes, that’s Spongebob. He went to Hollywood to find fame: instead he just found the bottom of a bottle. It’s a sad scene, and one that’s repeated all over the city, if you just know where to look.)
Welcome to the seedy underbelly of L.A., folks: the part the tourists don’t get to see.
When we left L.A., I thought I’d left this teddy underworld far behind me. I was wrong, though, because when I was out running last week, what should I stumble upon, just lying on the footpath?
A lost lion. Now THERE’S something you don’t see every day, huh?
“At last!” I thought. “At last I have the opportunity to do something good for the lost teddies of the world: the teddies on the freeway. For I will take this lost lion home with me, and I will give him to Rubin, and he will be loved. Well, he will be chewed, and thrown around a bit, but it’ll be almost the same as being loved!”
So I picked up the little lion, and I ran on, his little yellow and blue legs dangling from my hand. I must’ve looked like an absolute idiot, out jogging with a stuffed animal in my hand. In fact, I must’ve looked even stupider than I look sitting on an aircraft with a stuffed animal in my hand, now I come to think of it. But I ran on, determined to save at least one of the lost teddies of the world, and every time I passed someone I gave them a look that was supposed to signifiy, “Oh, hai! I see you’re looking at the stuffed lion in my hand! Why, I found it abandoned on the footpath back yonder, and I am taking it home to my dog! Because THAT’S not weird!”
I think people knew what I meant. Either that or they just thought I was demented.
As I ran, though, I started to worry. This lion was clean, and by the way he’d been sitting on the path, I figured he’d been dropped, rather than abandoned. What if he was some child’s cherished toy? What if that child came back looking for him, and he was gone: handed over to Rubin, to be treated with the disrespect Rubin reserves for all members of the stuffed toy fraternity? WHAT IF?
I was worried. And I HAD been worried about the lion, but now I was worried about the nameless child who loved the lion. (The title of my first book: “People Who Love Lions Too Much”.) How would I feel, I asked myself, if it was Ted who had been lost?
So I turned around, and I ran all the way back to where I’d found the lion. And now I had a new dilemma. I had to leave him somewhere he would be safe: somewhere his true owner would be able to find him, but random passers-by wouldn’t notice him and take him. Er, like I had, I mean.
In the end, I found him a safe place in the undergrowth. Next to a can of beer, actually. And I turned around, and I ran home, and I left that little lion behind.
That night it rained.
In fact, it poured. There was even thunder.
There was more thunder, and more rain, the next day too. And the next night.
“The little lion will be out in the elements,” I fretted to Terry, as we were on our way home from my parents’ house, where we’d had dinner. “It will be lying there all alone in the rain! IT’S A TRAGEDY OF SUCH EPIC PROPORTIONS I MAY NEVER GET OVER IT!”
Terry said nothing, but a few minutes later he silently pulled into a car park near my running route, and parked the car. “What are we doing here?” I asked. “It’s dark, and it’s raining. Are you mad?”
“We’re going to get the little lion, of course,” said Terry. And that’s why Terry deserves a medal. Because he went back with me, under cover of darkness, and in the pouring rain (We did have an umbrella in the car, thankfully, and it was only a very short walk. But still.) to look for the little lion.
It was gone.
I like to think the child who owned it came back for it. I like to think that child was overjoyed to find his beloved companion safe and sound, although possibly slightly drunk. I like to think I did the right thing.
But sometimes, in the dead of the night, I worry that there’s a little stuffed lion out there somewhere, all alone…
OK, I’m taking pity on you all. I realise I’ve tresspassed on your patience long enough now with all of my “lookit my holiday snaps!” posts, so I’ve pulled all of the remaining photos into one, giant, easily-ignored post, and I’ll publish it, then I can get back to talking about… whatever it is I normally talk about here. Which, actually, what WAS that? If you have any requests, I’d love to hear them…
While I’m waiting for your suggestions to come pouring in, however, here’s LA in photos:
The Disney Studios
My friend Erik works for Disney, and gave us a tour of the Disney lot on his lunch hour one day. It. Was. Amazing. We visited the sound stage Pirates of the Caribbean was filmed on, met some Disney staff (who were all so lovely and friendly) and just generally walked around with our mouths hanging open. It was also amazing to finally get to meet Erik, who I’ve known since my days on Livejournal, and who very generously spent a lot of time giving us advice on what to do and see. Thanks, Erik!
Griffith Observatory
The first place to visit if you’re in L.A.: amazing views of the city AND the setting of one of my favourite movies, Rebel Without a Cause.
Chateau Marmont
Just, you know, hangin’ out at the Chateau…
Sunset Boulevard
They have me on tap.
The Valley
I wish I was there RIGHTTHISVERYSECOND.
The Queen Mary at Long Beach
Now we know what the phrase “like a foghorn” actually means.
Whale watching off Dana Point.
We didn’t see any whales, but we did get photo-bombed by that bird. Also: yay for matching sweaters!
Malibu and Santa Monica
Disneyland and California Adventure
(Don’t worry, I’m almost done…)
Union Station and Downtown LA
Venice Beach
(Pay particular attention to the background in the last one…)
Typical LA scene.
And finally…
Terry lost quite a bit of weight on holiday. Quite a bit.
Aaaaaand we’re done. Normal scheduling will now resume. Whatever that may be.
You see this swimsuit, folks? This is my New Favourite Swimsuit. And I almost didn’t get it. Allow me to explain…
You see, the swimsuit in question is by a company called Esther Williams. (Yes, named after THAT Esther Williams.) They make these gorgeous, retro-inspired swimsuits, and I’ve been coveting one for a long, long time. Specifically an emerald green one. Because if I can’t be wearing a 50s-style green dress, I want to be wearing a 50s-style green swimsuit.
But the swimsuits aren’t cheap, and although the brand is stocked by a handful of UK retailers, I had my heart set on an emerald green one, which was only in stock at the time on the company’s own, US-based website, meaning that international shipping and import duties would make an already Not Cheap swimsuit a Very Not Cheap swimsuit. I, however, was going to be in America myself at the very time I’d be needing the suit, and so it was that I hatched a cunning plan. I would wait until I reached San Francisco (where I wouldn’t be doing any swimming, and therefore wouldn’t be needing any retro swimwear) and once I was there I would order my suit, and I would have it sent to the house we were renting in LA, planning the purchase carefully so that the swimsuit would arrive at roughly the same time I did.
But things didn’t go according to plan. Because I’m an idiot, basically.
You see, these suits are made to order, and go through a meticulous quality control process, which means that it generally takes around 6 weeks from you placing the order to you actually receiving your swimsuit: a fact which is mentioned on the company’s website.
I realised this fact approximately five seconds after placing my order.
Whoops.
Realising that the swimsuit would, therefore, not arrive at the house until long after I was back home in freezing old Scotland, I did a bit of whining, and then I emailed the company, apologised, and asked them to cancel the order.
But they didn’t.
No, the next day I got an email from the lovely Marq at Esther Williams, who offered to have the suit sent to me in the UK, at no extra cost.
Now, even if that had been the end of the saga, I’d have considered it the best customer service I’d ever had, because this company was basically offering to absorb the cost of the international shipping, just because of MY stupid mistake. Which was pretty damn nice of them, I thought.
Of course, the problem with that was that swimsuits aren’t much use to me in the UK, and it seemed like a lot of money for something I wouldn’t get to wear until God knows when, so I apologised again and said that as much as I’d love to prance around my hometown in an emerald green swimsuit, people look at me funny as it is, so I’d better resist. And then I hung my head in shame, because honestly, they were being so nice, and I felt like a total heel for messing them around like that.
Anyway, I figured that would be the end of my Esther Williams swimsuit plan, but I had figured without Marq, who, it turned out, wanted me to have that swimsuit almost as much as I wanted it myself. So he called the company’s manufacturer, managed to track down a suit in the right size and colour, and had it overnighted to the company’s HQ, so he could send it on to me.
SERIOUSLY, IS THAT NOT AMAZING SERVICE?
(Um, these photos kind of give away the ending of this story, don’t they? I should really have thought this through more…)
Well, I was all a-tremble at the thought of the imminent arrival of my new swimsuit. Every day we would come home from wherever we’d been, and I’d rush to check the mailbox.
It didn’t arrive.
Like, AT ALL.
I was devastated.
So, I emailed Marq and asked if it had been sent yet. “Er, yes,” replied Marq. “In fact, according to the tracking, it was delivered last week…”
Ah.
I typed the tracking number Marq had given me into the USPS website, and sure enough, according to them, they’d delivered the suit to me the previous week.
Except they hadn’t. I’d checked the mailbox faithfully, and nothing had arrived. So I double-checked to make sure the address they said they’d delivered to was correct, then I went out and searched the perimeter of the property, to see if the mailman had simply thrown the package over the fence. (That had happened the previous week, with another package, which landed under the sprinkler and got a good soaking. Mailmen: they hate me.) Nothing.
Now, the house we were staying in was at the top of a hill, so we didn’t really get people just passing by. There were only two houses nearby, and they both happened to be empty at the time. The house was also surrounded by a high wall and gate, so no one could get into it without being buzzed in. The mailbox was on our side of the fence: people could put packages into it from the roadside, but you could only get them out from our side. All of these factors made it highly unlikely that the package had been stolen – and for that to have happened, USPS would’ve had to have left it outside the property, which would’ve been an odd decision given that there was a mailbox RIGHT THERE for them. So, basically, the only way USPS could possibly have delivered this package without us knowing about it was if they’d thrown it over the wall, which they hadn’t. My extensive search of the grounds proved this, and I also may have drafted in reinforcements to allow me to extend the search. I’m sure my dad really enjoyed those five hours spent searching the undergrowth for a swimsuit, too.
The upshot was that if USPS had delivered the package, I had never received it. At this realisation, a cold chill went down my spine. You all know about the lack of luck I have with mail. I’d assumed those issues were restricted only to Royal Fail, here in the UK. Now it seemed my luck had followed me to America: and had claimed my prechus swimsuit into the bargain.
Well, we called USPS. “Meh, we’ll look into it,” they said, in a tone which clearly told me that they would do no such thing.
So Terry and I jumped into the car and drove down to the local post office, which was where the package had last been tracked to. We stood in line for 30 minutes, before being granted an audience with The Grumpiest Man Who Ever Did Live. “Reeeallly?” he said, sarcastically, after hearing our sorry story. Then he rolled his eyes dramatically (“Hey!” I wanted to say. “Enough with the drama, old dude. I’LL be bringing the drama here, thanks very much.” But I didn’t, because I think he would’ve killed me with his eyes.) and went to get the manager.
The manager came shuffling out apologetically, refusing to look us in the eye.
“Yeeeaaaah,” he said nervously. “See, there’s not much point in me asking the delivery driver what happened to your package. Because he’ll just say he delivered it?”
There was a short silence as we all digested this piece of information.
“Soooo,” said the manager. “I dunno, really. Maybe just ask the company for your money back? And, like, hope they say yes? Otherwise you’re basically screwed?”
OK, he didn’t say that last bit. But it was what he meant.
I was really upset by all of this. I didn’t think it was fair for Esther Williams to have to bear the cost of the lost swimsuit, but at the same time, I didn’t really know what else to do other than to contact them again and tell them what USPS had said. So I emailed Marq, hoping that perhaps the ground would open up and swallow me before he got to read his mail.
THIS time would surely be the end of the matter, I thought, as I guiltily pressed “send” on my email. But I had seriously underestimated the lengths that Esther Williams Swimwear were prepared to go to to help out a Scottish girl in need of a retro swimsuit. You see, Ether Williams are based in California. Marq, as it turned out, was going to be at a bar not far from where we were staying, that very night. And that blessed man had managed to track down another swimsuit in my size. I could collect it from him at the bar, he suggested, and cut out USPS altogether?
That’s how I came to find myself collecting a mysterious package from a strange man in Canoga Park late one summer night. And that, my friends, is how the world was saved.
Oh no, wait, it isn’t: it’s how I came to have a green, retro style swimsuit. Ah well, same thing.
(As an addendum to this story, Marq tells me that the original suit was returned to them a couple of weeks later. My guess is that there’s a mailman somewhere in California who just really liked the colour green…)
While we were in LA, we found ourselves inadvertently walking in the footsteps of one of my biggest icons, Marilyn Monroe. I mean that literally:
(I was all, “I’M Marilyn. No, I am! You be Jane Russell, mum…”)
Hollywood Boulevard was a bit of an odd experience to start with. As we pulled up, and saw hoardes of tourists all jostling to have their photos taken next to the stars on the sidewalk, I couldn’t really see the point . “Why would you want to take a photo of someone’s NAME?” I wondered aloud. “That’s just silly. I would never do that!”
So, yeah, we just totally played it cool, you know?
Asolutely no “posing with the stars” for us!
Ahem.
But I was talking about Marilyn Monroe. And on one of our first days in the city, we got to see this:
Yes, it’s THAT dress. THE white dress. The ‘Seven Year Itch’, subway grating dress. And as you can see, it’s no longer white, unfortunately, but I was still absolutely blown away to be standing in front of it.
The dress was on display at the Paley Center in Beverly Hills, as part of the Debbie Reynolds auction collection, which consisted of more movie memorabilia and costumes than they could put on display. The Marilyn dress sold for $5.6 million just a few days after we saw it, and I still can’t quite get over the fact that we were able to be there. As far as I know, the dress has never been exhibited in public before, and it probably never will be again. There was a 2-week window of opportunity during which it was possible to see it, and it just so happened to coincide with the time we were in LA, which was a huge stroke of luck. I’m a huge Marilyn fan, and I couldn’t quite get over the fact that I was standing so close to THAT dress. (They had a few other dresses she’d worn too, including the red sequined one from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Wow.)
Alongside it, we also saw Audrey Hepburn’s dress from My Fair Lady:
Most of the clothes weren’t behind glass, they were just out on display like this one, close enough to touch if you dared. (We didn’t. They’re worth a fortune, and there were plenty of staff circulating, politely reminding people that pawing these items could damage or destroy them. One of the members of staff, in fact, had been an extra on Lost, and that made the trip for Terry, who instantly befriended the guy and talked to him for ages.)
There was also a ton of other amazing stuff. Oh, including this:
I would totally have bid for it if the guide price hadn’t been $200 – $500.
Having thus commenced our stalking of Marilyn Monroe, we figured we may as well continue with it, because, hey, why NOT be a crazy stalker if you get the chance? Here I am standing in front of the house she was living in when she died:
And, well, here I am visiting her final resting place:
That’s actually Dean Martin’s grave I’m standing in front of in the photo on the right. The cemetery has its fair share of famous names, and it was a really moving experience. Apparently Joe DiMaggio had roses sent to Marilyn’s grave twice a week for years. I’ve no idea who the flowers were from when we were there, but the tomb was also covered in lipstick prints, presumably from visiting fans. Although there were a few people visiting while we were there, it was still very peaceful and quiet.
I overdressed slightly for this particular day out. I was tired of being stripey all the time. (Yes, even I get tired of being stripey all the time…) I like to think Marilyn would have approved, though.
Finally, to wind up our Marilyn Monroe tour of Hollywood, here I am in Marilyn’s favourite booth at The Formosa:
We had drinks there one night with my friend Erik, who lives in LA, and while we were there we asked the waitress which booth was Marilyn’s. The restaurant was starting to empty out by the time we left, and the booth was empty, so we all popped in and took some quick photos. I’d imagine that seat has probably been recovered since Marilyn sat in it, but still, people. STILL.
Goodbye, Norma Jean Although I never knew you at all, I know you had the grace to hold yourself While those around you crawled They crawled out of the woodwork And they whispered into your brain They set you on a treadmill And they made you change your name.
And it seems to me, you lived your life Like a candle in the wind Never knowing who to cling to When the rain set in And I would’ve liked to have known you But I was just a kid Your candle burned out long before Your legend ever did
Because I just can’t seem to stop posting about my holiday right now, here’s a short video Terry made of our trip to San Francisco. Enjoy!
And it’s time to call in sick and pack your bags and bring the toothbrush Withdraw from that savings account, what’s savings for, time doesn’t wait and Hold the door, I’m coming, all that jazz Like I’m released from Alcatraz
Folks, if I can give you one piece of vacation advice, it would be this:
Never stay anywhere that’s significantly nicer than your own home.
Because trust me: it’ll be SO hard to leave…
The front gates
The driveway
We stayed in the Encino area of L.A., which is in the San Fernando Valley – or just “The Valley”. (Where the girls talk like this? Like, totally?) Tom Petty’s house was just one street along, and the Jackson compound was nearby. We’re told Clark Gable once owned our house, and used to bring his “floozies” to it: I have no way of knowing whether that’s true or not, but I liked to imagine Clark standing out there admiring the view in a silk dressing gown, holding a glass of whisky. (Because Clark Gable would’ve totally drunk whiskey for breakfast. And so would I, now that I’m home, actually, if I thought I could possibly get away with it.) As soon as we pulled into the driveway, and got a glimpse of the view, I knew I was in serious trouble. Surely my family couldn’t be expecting me to stay here for two and a half weeks, and then simply pack up and go HOME?
But they were expecting me to do that.
I wonder why they hate me so much?
Here’s the outside of the house, plus some random photos of me posing in my latest Bettie Page dress:
I know what you’re thinking. Why so tiny? Don’t worry, here is the spare, right next to it:
What, you don’t have two giant fridges? How do you survive?
Here’s the walk-in closet in the master bedroom:
It was larger than my ENTIRE HOUSE.
By far the best thing about this house, though, was the view:
Oh, how I miss it.
This little rocking chair was where Terry and I used to sit every morning with our coffee:
Every morning we’d sit there. And then, on our second last morning? We were sitting there drinking our coffee, when one of the springs on the chair broke with a BOOOIIIINGG and Terry nearly fell on his ass. And now nobody can sit on that chair no more. Which is just fine by me, because, you know, MY CHAIR.
(That photo of it is now my desktop wallpaper. I actually asked Terry last week if it would be possible to have it blown up to the size of the wall in front of our desks, so I could look at it every day and pretend I was still there. And I wasn’t even joking.)
You know how every time I take a vacation, my body thinks, “Oh, great, Amber’s giving me some time off: I think I’ll fit in a quick illness?” and I spend the first few days of my trip coughing and wheezing and generally feeling like death warmed up?
That kicked in on our last day in San Francisco, during which I also got me a migraine. So I was REALLY happy to be getting up at the butt crack o’dawn in order to go and pick up our rental car and then drive down to L.A. That’s why I’m wearing jeans and a hoodie in all of these photos. I’m just going to get that out of the way upfront, so you can all start laughing at me. I WAS COMFORTABLE, OK? And ill. And, you know, keepin’ it real. Ahem. Luckily, though, I didn’t have long to wait for our first stop, which was just outside the city:
The Googleplex. Yes, we did that. We went to an office complex and we posed outside it with our cameras while wearing tourist sweaters. (Well, one of us, anyway.) And at this point I’d just like to say a quick thank you to all of the Google employees who laughed, but did not jeer at us, as they walked by.
Now, my pet hate right now (and for quite a few months, actually) is when people declare themselves to be “geeks” just because they use Facebook, or like very mainstream movies or TV shows. (“I can’t wait for Eastenders tonight. I’m such a geek, lol!”) But I must confess, Terry and I did feel just a tad geeky* to be visiting the Googleplex, which is probably a little bit bigger than my hometown.
The thing is, though, Google basically OWNS me. They’ve been more or less paying my salary for the past few years. (Yes, Google, YOU paid for all those shoes!) So it seemed wrong to just drive by and not, you know, stop to say hello.
“Oh, hai Google! I can has Pagerank 7, yes?”
“They’re going to HATE it when they find out we were here,” I told Terry. “They will probably ban me from the internet or something. Especially after I steal that bike over there.”
Google provides these little bikes outside its buildings, which staff can borrow to get around the complex. I was slightly worried that I would, indeed, be banned from the internet or something when they found out about the two seconds I spent sitting on this one, but then I realised that THEY ALREADY KNOW. Because Google knows everything.
Anyway, having spent just a few minutes looking at the headquarters, we jumped back in the car and hit the road: specifically, the Pacific Coast Highway, or Big Sur.
Our original intention had been to take Highway 1 all the way to L.A. but in the same way that my decision to take a plane trip has the ability to make volcanoes erupt, my decision to take a road trip caused a section of the highway to become impassable due to a landslide. I should really just stay at home, huh?
We still managed to drive all but around 60 miles of Big Sur, however, and wow, is it beautiful. It’s also a really, really slow road to drive on, because every mile or so you have to pull over to look at the view:
Our next stop was Carmel-by-the-Sea. (Actually, we stopped there before taking the photos above: I’ve got my photos out of order.) My mum has wanted to visit Carmel ever since Clint Eastwood was its mayor, and honestly, I thought we were going to have to leave her there. It’s one of those picture-perfect little towns which almost doesn’t seem real. If you told me Carmel was a Disney attraction, I’d probably believe you.
We had lunch in the famous Hog’s Breath Inn (once owned by Mr Eastwood himself), and then we were back on the road.
We took Highway 1 as far as we could, and then cut right across the mountains, in an act of lunacy that I still look back on with amazement. The views were breathtaking. I mean that literally, by the way: we actually thought we were going to die. However, we reached the valley beyond safely, and settled down for several long hours of driving.
Since I was a teenager, I’ve been obsessed with the American road, and the idea of the road trip. In fact, a large part of my dissertation at university focused on the symbolism of the road in American literature, so I always look forward to long road trips with no small amount of excitement, imagining that I will be just like Jack Kerouac, having crazy adventures, meeting tons of “characters”, and feeling the poetry of the road.
Which is stupid of me really, because, for the past few years now, I have been completely unable to spend any amount of time in a car AT ALL without falling instantly asleep:
This photo was actually taken the following week, on the way to Disneyland, but it could’ve been taken anywhere because this is how I roll, people. I fall into a doze leaning against the window, and then I suddenly jerk awake, convinced the car door is going to spring open, spilling me out onto the highway. Then I rinse and repeat, over and over and over again. And oh yeah, I’m wearing TWO hoodies in this one. We quickly discovered that our rental vehicle had ISSUES with the aircon in that, anywhere we went, the people in the front would be so hot they’d be starting to see mirages, while those in the back would be so cold they had to wear everyone’s sweaters at once. And by “those in the back” I mean “me”. And by “our rental vehicle” I mean “every car I’ve ever travelled in, ever.”
So, basically, this stage of the journey was less like On the Road, and more like being stuck in a car for hours with nothing to look at but a field of wheat. I tell a lie: there was actually plenty to look at. We saw oil fields. We saw military bases. We saw the most beautiful mountains and hills. We saw little one horse towns that looked like movie sets. We didn’t take photos of any of them, because by that stage we were all just staring straight ahead of us with glazed expressions, wondering when the hell the road would just END, already. My poor mum, meanwhile, had a killer headache, and had also started to feel car sick somewhere on those mountains, so she got to spend the rest of the journey trying not to throw up. Fun times!
It was all worth it, though. Because after almost 400 miles and many, many hours, we arrived at The Best Holiday Home in All the Land.
But that’s another post for another day.
“What’s your road, man?–holyboy road, madman road, rainbow road, guppy road, any road. It’s an anywhere road for anybody anyhow.”
Want to know the strangest thing about visiting Alcatraz?
Right before you get on the boat, they make you stand in front of this giant photo of the island, and have your photo taken. Then, on the way back, they try to sell you the photo for $20. This struck us a a little, you know, weird, because why would you want to stand in front of a PHOTO of Alcatraz, when you can stand in front of the real thing?
The Real Thing
Of course, when we got back, there was a huge line of people, all patiently waiting to pay their $20 for a photo of themselves standing in front of a photo of the place they’d just visited. (The taxi drivers we met would approve of this, although would probably argue that once you’ve had the photo taken, there’s no need to go to the island itself…) I tried to convince Terry to take a photo of the photo of us standing in front of a photo, to see if we could perhaps make the universe implode or something, but there were signs everywhere saying “ABSOLUTELY NO PHOTOS OF THE PHOTOS OF THE PHOTO!” so he didn’t dare.
“What are they going to do,” I quipped, “Send us to Alcatraz? Oh…”
(Except I didn’t, obviously, because I only ever think of these things later. Let’s just pretend, though.)
Anyway. We chose to take the night tour to Alcatraz, because we figured it would be good and spooky there at night, and as you know, I love me some spookiness. I’m also fairly obsessed with abandoned places, and although Alcatraz isn’t strictly “abandoned”, on account of the hundreds of tourists who visit it every day, I think it still counts. The boat leaves in daylight, so you get plenty of time to see things before the sun sets, and it also circles the island before docking, which the daytime tour doesn’t do, so we thought it was well worth it.
(Word to the wise: we had to book the tour three months in advance, so if you’re thinking of visiting, BOOK FIRST.)
After dutifully having our photo taken, we boarded the ferry and were on our way.
It. Was. Amazing.
Alcatraz was one of the things I was most excited about seeing on this trip, and I definitely wasn’t disappointed. Most of the jailhouse tour is an audio one, which worked out quite well because although there were a lot of other people there, we were able to wander around at our own pace, and wait for the crowds to dissapear, while listening to the narration of the former prisoners and guards.
The jailhouse itself is one of those places you’ve seen so much on TV, and in movies, that it’s hard to believe it’s real, and that you’re actually there. Or that people actually used to be locked up there, in those tiny little cells, for hours and hours of every day. Every so often the crowds would clear from a particular area and I would just stand there and try to imagine what it must have been like, but it’s almost inconceivable, especially when we looked at the cells which served as solitary confinement, and which were absolutely pitch dark inside, and totally terrifying.
After we’d wandered around for a while, we decided to try to escape the crowds, so we all paused our audio tour and walked outside, where we found that the island was surprisingly beautiful: I’d somehow imagined that everything about it would be grey and austere, but it’s absolutely teeming with wildlife, and covered in flowers. And, of course, the views of the city are spectacular, and must have been particularly galling for those stuck on The Rock…
We did a bit more wandering, and then discovered a set of stairs leading to who knew where:
I mean, I say “Who knew where”. This should really have given us a clue:
Yes, it was the restrooms! And they were AWESOME!
No, I’m kidding. (And they weren’t, by the way. They were just OK.) It was the recreation yard, and it was completely empty:
Or it was until we arrived, anyway.
This was my favourite part of the tour, and actually one of my best memories of the trip. The whole island was so evocative – one of the most atmospheric places I’ve ever been, for sure – but the emptiness of the recreation yard, the setting sun and the huge building towering behind it made me stop in my tracks. My family had all gone on up the steps, but I stood there for a moment in the yard, and felt the history of the place surround me. I swear I could almost feel the ghosts of the various people who’d been there before me: and who weren’t all lucky enough to be able to turn around and take the ferry back to the mainland.
And, of course, once we did get back to the mainland… we tracked down that taxi driver and told him he was WRONG.*
* We didn’t.**
** He was, though.
(P.S. Most of these photos are courtesy of my mum or Terry, some by me.)
In our last episode of Amber Describes Her Trip to San Francisco In Excruciating Detail, our heroine (that’s me) was still on Pier 39, admiring the seals. As we left, however, the rain which had been threatening for a while finally started to fall. We’d been walking for hours by this point, so the sensible thing would’ve been to return to the hotel and get some rest, at least until the rain stopped.
We’re not sensible, though, so instead we decided to go straight to the Golden Gate Bridge.
This wasn’t quite as stupid as it sounds. The rain which had just started signalled the start of a two day storm which was due to hit the Bay area. We’d heard about this storm on the weather forecast, where it was being spoken about as if it signalled the End of Days. The rain would wash San Francisco right off the map, the weatherman solemnly informed us, so if we had any sights to see, we’d better get them seen before they were obscured forever by fog.
OK, he didn’t say that last bit. The storm did sound like it would be a pretty bad one, though, and we figured we should see the bridge before it started, so we jumped into a taxi and asked the driver to take us to the side of the bridge closest to the city.
“OH GOD, NOT THE BRIDGE!” said the taxi driver in horror. “What do you want to see THAT for? You can see it from here! And it’s going to rain! RAIN.”
Feeling like the world’s biggest idiots, we explained that we’d quite fancied walking across the bridge. “Actually,” said Terry, “It looks like the rain’s eased off a bit: could you take us to the opposite side, so we can walk back?”
“No,” said the taxi driver.
We all laughed, nervously, for we had assumed this gentleman was being paid to drive us, but obviously this was not the case. Awkward.
“No,” said the driver again, “I most certainly could not. You asked me to take you to this side of the bridge and that’s where I’ll be taking you. Anyway,” he added, “you don’t need to WALK the bridge to be able to SAY you walked the bridge. Just step onto it from this side, then you can say you done it, but you won’t actually have to DO it.”
He chuckled, pleased to have been able to impart such great wisdom to us.
“Tell you what,” I said, leaning forward, “How about you just take us back to the airport? We’ll just look at PHOTOS of the bridge on the internet and then that’ll be even better because we won’t have to see the rest of the city AT ALL!”
Except I only said that in my own head, obviously. Well, I didn’t want to annoy the man. He was actually quite nice. He just REALLY hated that bridge.
It seemed useless to try and explain to the driver that we didn’t want to just SAY we’d walked the bridge, we actually wanted to DO it, so we meekly got out of the cab at the place of his choosing, paid him, and, of course, tipped him for his trouble. And there it was:
“That’s rubbish!” we all chorused. “We should’ve just stayed at home and looked at a photo of it instead!”
No, I’m joking. It was well worth seeing in person. I mean, it’s quite some bridge, no?
Obligatory “arm out” photo. I promise we did actually GO to San Francisco. We didn’t just Photoshop that same photo of us on images of the various landmarks, although more on that in my next post…
We walked out to the middle, before the wind and rain forced us back, as we realised that if we walked all the way across we’d just have to turn and walk all the way back in the rain (The Other Side being a place where taxi drivers will not go, obviously…). Also, although he’ll probably kill me for saying this, one member of our party is not fond of heights, and was finding the constant shaking and groaning of the bridge just a little bit disconcerting:
He did conquer his fears, though. And he even found time for a quick low-level plank:
I did suggest that a plank on the side of the bridge would’ve been more impressive, but he suggested I take a running jump off the bridge if I was going to indulge in crazytalk, so that was that.
We still weren’t done, though. You really wish we were, don’t you? The rain had stopped again, so we headed first of all to the famous Painted Ladies:
After that, we walked to the Haight Ashbury district which, as I heard one passer-by say, “Is where the 60s happened.” It’s crammed full of vintage and second hand shops, and basically has a lot of counter-culture type stuff, which makes it endlessly interesting for a walk around. Haight Street is also home to the Bettie Page store where I bought this dress, so needless to say, I loved it.
THEN we headed back to the hotel.
In a taxi.
In the taxi, Terry made the mistake of telling the driver we were making the trip to Alcatraz the next day.
“OH GOD, NOT ALCATRAZ!” exclaimed the driver in horror. “Man, I hate that place. Worst day out ever. Seriously, you guys are about to have the most boring day of your lives. I’ve been twice, and I have NEVER been so bored. GOD.”
“Well, where would YOU go in San Francisco, if you were us?” Terry asked.
The driver thought for a moment.
“Honestly?” he said. “I’d just go home, get an early night.”
