Be Thankful For What You’ve Got

Massive Attack – Be Thankful For What You Got

Sam & Dave – I Thank You

Gladys Knight & the Pips – Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)

I was really looking forward to Thanksgiving. It’s not hard to be cynical about Americans and the way they live their lives, but they do schmaltz and ceremony like no-one else on Earth. And when it’s done properly there’s nothing wrong with that at all. Thanksgiving is the centre of all things ‘holiday’ in the USA. Christmas is an after thought as Halloween is now the hors d’oeuvre. From September to January Americans are in holiday mood, with the third Thursday in November set aside for family, gluttony and football. And with it being a Thursday it means it’s a 4-day holiday. Somebody thought that through really well.

I arrived at Lindsey and Zak’s house late on Tuesday not really knowing what to expect. I’d not seen Lindsey for nearly ten years and only Facebook had got us back in touch with each other. Originally from Durham she’d studied in Liverpool and stuck around in the great city for a bit before somehow being whisked away to California. The first thing that hit me was their dog.

Hoosier. Coolest dog in the world.

Hoosier is a bearded collie and certainly the best dog I’ve ever met. He likes nothing better than sticking his head out of the car window and let’s face it, he’s a dead ringer for Sprocket from Fraggle Rock…

The second thing that struck me was Lindsey’s accent. Now I have to admit that I’ve taken on a few bits and pieces of dialect and accent from where I’ve lived in the past, but her new Cali-geordie is a wonder! I in no way want her to feel at all self-conscious about it because it sounds great, but I think at one point she suggested she didn’t think it had changed much. Hmmm!

The third thing that struck me was their house, which is lovely. It has a great back yard full of plants where they grow their own herbs and fruit and veg, with a studio out back for Zak to work in (he’s an artist as well as a computer-graphic-designer-website-thingy. I really should’ve asked shouldn’t I?) It’s also where the beer is served for their annual Octoberfest party. They brew their own beer for that and went through 13 kegs this year. I want to go to  that party next year.

They live in Sunnyvale, which is one of the top 5 safest cities to live in the USA. It’s in Silicon Valley, close to San Jose. And the whole thing’s just idyllic. Lindsey and Zak are lovely, lovely people.

So a tired, sweaty Scouser arrives at their door. Entertain me!

After a nice meal out in Sunnyvale it was time for sleep. There was a long week ahead of us. Next morning it was up early to see another prime example of early American nutcases who built very big houses: the Winchester Mystery House.

Crazy lady house

Mrs Winchester, who was only 4′11″, was the widow of the bloke who invented the Winchester gun and thought her run of bad luck was to do with the spirits of all the people killed by her husband’s little inventions. When she went to see a psychic in Boston she was told to keep building her house so as to confuse the ghosts. When she stopped building they’d get her. The tour guide, a very loud, camp man who wore a scarf indoors (and just LOVED his own jokes) never mentioned if this psychic had carpenter friends in California but if you were a chippy near San Jose at the time you would’ve done very nicely for yourself as she employed men to work 24 hours a day for 38 years.

Her height dictates a lot of the house with steps rising only two inches at a time, winding round corners and filling rooms just to get up a couple of feet of incline. Doors open into fresh air ten feet up, stairs go nowhere and everywhere is dominated by the number 13. She could afford to do it because the gun company earned her $1200 a day (about $21000 today) but the main reason she did it was because she was really a little bit ‘touched’ wasn’t she? It’s a good way to spend a few hours, marvelling at the way a single house can have more window panes than the Empire State Building!

Lindsey, Zak and Hoosier

That afternoon we all got into Zak’s car and headed south-east. We were off to Hanford, in the middle of the Central Valley. The Central Valley is no ordinary valley. You can probably fit England in it. It’s prime farming land and flatter than Holland/a pancake/Keira Knightley* (*delete as inappropriate)

Hanford is Zak’s hometown and we were off to stay with his mum/mom (got to be bilingual here) Susan and her fiance Chuck. Once we’d got to Hanford, beating the Thanksgiving exodus we met Zak’s grandma and went to a Mexican restaurant for dinner – where I should’ve learnt from my earlier burrito experience in San Diego – and where I got a funny look from the waitress when I asked for a glass of water. Thinking I shouldn’t just give in and have another beer I thought I’d give it one more go, possibly resorting to saying “agua” instead. Still she didn’t get it until someone else at the table said, “he wants warder.”

“Oh, warder! – why didn’t you say?”

It’s my language and I’m sticking to it. I couldn’t believe that that was my first linguistic misunderstanding of the trip. Maybe I’d just assumed all of this language immediately? I was never to call a restroom ‘a bog’ ever again…

So anyway, Hanford. For some reason I have no usable pictures of Hanford (or Susan and Chuck for that matter, which is a real oversight on my part because they were great to me as their house guest – thank you so much).

People in this region seem to know their wine. Chuck certainly did judging by his extensive cellar and wine bar/shop on speed-dial(!) so that was where we ended up drinking a couple of very nice reds. I could feel my liver sighing. I’d found the wine it’d been trying to keep me away from for weeks…

The next day was Thanksgiving. Zak informed me to be ready for a long day and at least two full dinners. I could feel my trousers sighing.

Dinner No.1 – The Basmajians

I’d been looking forward to an American Thanksgiving for weeks and this didn’t disappoint. The Basmajians are a large family, Armenian in extraction and when we got out to their farm the party was clearly in full swing. In fact it had begun the night before when the head of the family (whose name I have clearly forgotten and tried to brush over) gets all the guys round, digs a big hole in the back yard and sets up an oven where he can cook over 40 turkeys and other assorted meats.

Mr Basmajian (I really should've taken notes) and Chuck prepare to feast

So, for dinner we had 13 guests tucking into a 20lb turkey, a 20lb ham and a 20lb piece of beef. So, just under 5lbs of meat for each guest then. Not to mention all the vegetables and about 34 types of potato and some great Portuguese sweet rolls. It was a wonderful spread.

I tucked in.

Dinner Number 1

So did everyone else.

I have to thank the Basmajian family for making me feel incredibly welcome and for letting me share their Thanksgiving, with special thanks to mom and dad Basmajian who talked to me all through dinner when surely they’d have rather been speaking to their lovely family.

But there was no time to lose, another dinner was awaiting us. Back in the car!

Dinner No.2 – The Akins

Back to Hanford we sped to the other half of Zak’s family, the Akins.

Here was a similar spread and we arrived just in time to say grace. Now here was another important ritual of US Thanksgiving. It really IS a saying of thanks for the blessings of the year, even when the year may not have gone so well. It was remarkable, if not actually surprising when you think about it, how seriously this was taken and how really emotional it was. The English stiff upper-lip was in attendance for yours truly but maybe the country had worn down some of my snooty and sneery attitude that some have accused me of in previous posts, especially about parties I’ve been to. Maybe it was because here I was surrounded by genuine and warm people who were a true family. The Akins had some wonderful characters around the table.

On a different point it was refreshingly disturbing to see one of the teenage daughters wearing a T-shirt bearing the slogan “EIE OMG – Enough is Enough, Obama Must Go.” Because if he’s not sorted it all out in the first 9 months it’s time for Sarah Palin isn’t it? (She’ll be the next president by the way…start digging the fallout shelters now).

Dessert from Dinner 2

But it wasn’t over there. We still had to go round to Zak’s dad’s house. He’d had 29 at his for dinner. TWENTY NINE!!!!! On two tables on different sides of the house yes, but still, 29. He looked a bit shocked when we turned up, and very shocked when the rest of the Akins followed on behind. But again, the house was open and we were made welcome. More red wine was drunk and the day finished cosily back at Susan and Chuck’s – once we’d all changed into our big comfy trousers and sloppy jumpers.

Thank you all for my Thanksgiving experience. I doubt I’ll have worked it off by Christmas, but it was an excellent training session for my mum’s turkey dinner!

On The Road Again

Leaving Vancouver (although not on this bridge, I had to go the other way)

It’s Immaterial – Just Drive

REM – Drive

Canned Heat – On the Road Again

In all the best traditions of ‘Planes, Trains and Automobiles’ I now faced a huge journey to Thanksgiving. 1000 miles of my own driving, followed by another 200-mile drive to dinner.

I’d been invited to Thanksgiving dinner by Lindsey and Zak Akin. Lindsey used to be Lindsey Dodds, who I went to university with back in Liverpool during the last century. She’s been following my exploits here in the USA and handing out some of the best hints and tips possible on touring this great country. Most of them were food-based and I blame her for my new rotund shape. But they were in Sunnyvale in California. I was in Canada. Back in the car.

After an intensive interview at the border during which the US patrol guard quite snootily looked me up and down before asking, “How can YOU afford to come to America?!” I ended up back to Seattle for the night where, as you do, I managed to get drunk with another Canadian. Hello Stephen. I can’t even remember what the other guy’s name was. In hostels, you just happen upon these random drinking sessions – and who am I to say no?

It was here that I got a bit upset with myself that I’d not planned things as well as I could. I missed out on meeting up with people I’d hope to meet again and generally I didnt know where I was going and when I wasn’t going there. These things happen though, and for it to occur so late in the trip is probably the biggest surprise. It’s not like I’d planned every day down to the last detail.

So apologies to anyone who I didn’t see back in Seattle. Maybe next time eh?

Saturday was a dull old trip from Seattle back to Eugene, where I stayed in the same motel but got there so late that I didn’t have a chance to go back to the Steelhead Brewery. I was shattered, still hungover from the night before and wary of their 9.6% beer! Sleep was required but it wasn’t helped by the storm about to hit Oregon. Winter was on its way and I’m sure that at about 4am it blew the motel room door open.

Sunday, back in the car with Chico in Northern California a target. That was a possibility, being about 400 miles away, but I didn’t make it.

So that's what the storm brought

I stopped after just 255 miles but I was quite happy with my choice of destination once I’d seen Mount Shasta appear in the distance. Snow had fallen and Northern California’s best kept secret was looking superb.

Mount Shasta - A real mountain. With a point at the top and everything.

Mount Shasta City is a place that you could really settle down in. It’s basically a village rather than a city, but I’ve learnt that 6 streets and 2 avenues constitutes a city here. No cathedral required, but who need a cathedral when you’ve got a huge, brilliant-looking mountain looking over the place? Christians possibly, but we’ll scoot over that.

It’s just a very nice place and geared up for people to come and visit and enjoy the mountain be it for summer trekking or winter sports. When you go there, try Billy Goat’s tavern. Say hi to Kevin for me. Kevin left San Francisco to head out to the country and found peace, calm amd himself in Mount Shasta. He was a vision of serenity, even if his beard was slightly disturbing. he even turned the American Football off to let me watch Beckham lost the MLS Cup Final on penalties. Oh the heartbreak…

Mount Shasta was cold. Very cold. In fact, there was snow on the pavement when I went for a run round the town the next morning. Yes, I managed a run at a temperature of 1c. My forehead froze (and it’s a big forehead).

Back in the car and a quick stop up a frozen hill takes me to one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. Castle Lake.

Castle Lake - yes, it's frozen

The drive up was a little bit dodgy. The Chrysler Sebring drop-top was not made for this. But on getting to the top of the 13-mile drive I found a wonderful Narnia-like setting complete with 6 inches of snow, iced-up lake and a curious half-man-half-goat creature.

But after a moment of reflection it was, as ever, time to get back in the car. Next stop: Chico.

A lack of 4x4 on the Sebring cause Easson no bother, even when the back went out and he slid scarily towards the precipice.

Chico’s a lovely little place, a university town which is apparently a riotous night out. All I can say is that the ice cream shop on Broadway Street sells a litre of ice cream masquerading as a ‘double scoop’. Reader, I ate it all. That what nights alone in motel rooms are all about.

Chico Time!

The next day I found a bar in the town that happily allowed me to watch Liverpool’s 1-0 total and complete destruction of Debrecen. With a spring in my step that only a season in the Europa League can bring, I got back in the car.

208 miles later I arrived in Sunnyvale California, nearly coming to an horrific end about 2 miles from my destination when I got confused by a ‘yield’ sign and nearly drove headlong into 3 lanes of traffic. Inches from disaster, but finally I was there. Thanksgiving was 2 days away, the sun was shining and I was prepared to feast.

Tossed Salads and Scrambled Eggs

Sunday morning and I had to get away. It had nothing to do with the troupe of girl scouts that were staying at the hostel, that was a coincidence. They made me sushi, that’s all. I dropped Janis off at the airport as she went back to Calgary and that gave me a chance to nip off somewhere really cool on my way up to Seattle.

Multnomah Falls

Multnomah is one of many falls that spill into the Columbia River gorge that cuts east away from Portland. The whole place is spectacular, and the snow was coming in to remind me just how far north I was.

That was the view from ‘The Bridge of the Gods’, which wasn’t quite as heavenly as it sounds, but the scenery certainly was.

Anyway, north I went to the home of Frasier, good coffee, grunge music and toe-operated shotguns. Seattle!

Jeez, can it rain in Seattle? (that’s rhetorical, I’m just warning you)

After checking in at the Green Tortoise Hostel (free breakfast, free dinner 3 times a week and the comfiest beds so far) I got an early night after a tough game of Scrabble. Yes, it’s been a rock’n'roll affair. I battled to a late win over my new Australian friends Simon and Kat. Winner!

The next morning we set out on the ‘Dead Guys Tour’ arranged by the hostel to show you Bruce and Brandon Lee’s grave, Kurt Cobain’s house and Jimi Hendrix’s statue and grave, even though he hated the place. It was raining its arse off and I was in the back of the van, crushed into the corner by two Aussie guys I’d first met in San Diego, forced to listen to Radiohead’s “Kid A” for a full 40 minutes.

I was miserable. It’s terrible. They’re terrible. Really bad.

We got to Jimi’s grave and I was in a right mood. Sorry Jimi.

At Kurt Cobain’s house there is a bench that fans have taken as their own personal place to leave messages. Some of which are just too inspirational to understand how deep they’ve had to dig into their own psyche.

Humbling, isn't it?

Bedraggled but inspired by such literature Simon and I ventured to the Experience Music Center under the Space Needle. That place is great. Not only does it take you through all of Seattle’s great music makers (and Presidents of the USA) and then allow you to make your own music in a huge bank of studios and musical instruments. The bad thing was that we ran out of time, since the whole museum closes at 5pm for some reason. Odd.

We escaped back into town on the monorail. You should’ve seen the smile on my face when I got on that. It’s the future of travel. And to think they said it was more of a Shelbyville idea…

…a few drinks later it was time for bed. The next day I woke to brilliant sunshine. On Tuesday I fell for Seattle.

View from Bank of America Tower

It’s a lovely city. The people are really friendly, it’s easily walkable and there’s plenty to do. They even like their football. After getting this view from the 73rd floor of the city’s tallest building I took a tour underground in the areas below the sidewalk.

It’s a fascinating and funny 90 minutes in the bowels of the city. The lower levels were abandoned when the city finally got itself in order and decided to build upwards and away from the problem of the whole city flooding twice a day without any sewers. Oddly they started by building the roads 20 feet in the air. For years people had to use ladders to get down to the shop doorways, with several dying from falls.

That was followed by a walk around Pike Place Market in an effort to continue my slow suicide by food. They throw fish around there. It’s quite a show. You can also eat a lot of fish. Loads of fish. And pastry. And cookies.

Flying Fish...who's ever heard of a flying fish...?

I was a happy man, and the night hadn’t even begun yet. I’d got myself tickets to see a British band called Fanfarlo at The Crocodile round the corner. A bit like Arcade Fire but in woolier sweaters and tighter jeans.

I don’t like going to gigs on my own. Where’s the fun in that? But my travels have given me a whole new outlook on going out alone…

Alina and Yesenia

So anyway, the band were good too.

Here’s what they sing:

Fanfarlo – The Walls Are Coming Down

I’d decided in a drunken moment to drive to Idaho the next day. I woke up the next day with a headache. I stayed in Seattle, but I definitely had the wanderlust again. But where to go?

After a wasted day feeling wasted and walking the city again, I got in the car and gave a man called Anders a lift to Vancouver. Canada! Again!

Now for some reason I have no pictures of Anders and I have no idea why. That’s all I’m saying.

It was raining in Vancouver, which is a lovely city I’m sure, so I just met up with Kat again and got drunk. You can’t feel the rain when you’re drunk right?!

Kat - helping destroy my liver once again

We came up with ideas for tattoos (you do that when you’re drunk for the 29th time in a month), but we didn’t have the guts to do it properly, so here’s the biro versions:

Kat's "Journey"

And my Fleetwood Mac/Stones-influenced number

We’re travellers you see. Not the kind that sharpen your scissors or tarmac your pavement. We long to keep on moving. And so, after a morning in Vancouver where I somehow met Manc Elliot from Portland, I went back to Seattle, despite the best efforts of the border staff who were really surprised I’d turned up: “How can YOU afford to come to America?”

It was as far north as I was going to get. The big drive south had begun.

Portland Of A Thousand Dances

A little groggy and now feeling all of 31 I set out to see the city of Portland. Unfortunately, or fortunately if you like that sort of thing, Portland in November is almost exactly the same as England in November: wet, windy, urgh. No wonder the city’s main pastimes are staying in reading while drinking beer or coffee. Coffee is definitely required due to the lack of daylight. Dark at 4.30? That would never happen at home. I’ve been away too long haven’t I?

Powell's Bookstore

My first visit (after a stomach-settling breakfast of eggs, pancakes and bacon…hmmm) was Powell’s bookstore, reputedly the world’s largest independent book shop. They have to hand out maps to customers and all the rooms are colour-coded. I’m sure some of the people standing around me have been in here since 1992. I buy “On The Road”, which I declined to buy in City Lights in San Fran because it was too obvious and I’d look like a saddo, and John Lennon’s combined “Spaniard In the Works” and “In His Own Write”, which both show the deadest of Beatles as a childish male-chauvinist lover of The Goons. Not great.

Two books I probably should have read by now anyway

On I walked and realised that Portland is a very nice city indeed. But there’s  nothing really to see. By all means walk it as much as you like, but it’s a moderately sized American city with everything an American city that size needs. And that’s the key to it. Speaking to people while I was there (yes, at the bar, where else do you meet people?) the majority of Portland’s inhabitants are young professionals who tend to love books, coffee and beer.

The city is a perfect size and the nightlife is great. Bands make it a stop-off on a West coast tour, while there are loads of great drinking establishments from swanky bars that don’t take themselves too seriously to your above-average dives. The people are friendly and you can easily escape to the countryside if you want to. The city’s Washington park has a hiking trail that’s 29 miles long! That’s a big park.

I climbed up the hill towards it but ran out of energy at the rose garden, where all the roses had lost their petals. It was essentially a twig garden.

I forgot to mention the rather odd PGE park, where they play football, baseball and soccer. It's missing a side. You can see everything from the road.

You’re right, today was a right-off. I got chatting with some people back at the hostel and went to see Tarantino’s “Inglorious Basterds” at the local cinema (with beer and food while you watch it – although I wouldn’t recommend food during this film, old Quentin’s getting violent in his old age). Cracking film, time for bed.

It was in the Portland hostel that I realised something. I’d started becoming a little bit racist. Towards the British. A lot of them are really quite annoying, they talk over people and make rather sweeping assumptions and observations. I do it myself, have you noticed? A lot of them don’t mix well with other foreigners, either through choice or upbringing. Some have realised this and try to overcome crushing anxiety and talk to random people, but they’re rare. That’s all I’m saying on this – I’ve annoyed enough people with this blog already.

But this brings me on to our Friday night and another English bloke I met in the hostel (honestly, the last paragraph is not about Elliot. I promise).

So there we are, Friday night in the hostel kitchen, all my cake has gone and five disparate (I said disparate) souls decide that the 80s night in town is right up their street. And it was.

So I, Janis (from my birthday night), Amanda (who’d seen the Tarantino film with me), Amy (who I’d not met but was/is a librarian from South Carolina looking for a job up in Portland) and Elliot (a Manc who didn’t even live in our hostel, and was a bit lost in the USA having travelled to see a girl who promptly dumped him when he turned up on her doorstep – cow!) went drinking and dancing and had a right laugh. As you can see:

As you can see, there were some startling moves on show from all concerned. It was a great night with me enjoying the huge amount of British tunes on offer (even Teardrop Explodes!), Janis enjoying memories that only a lapsed-goth can (she had Siouxsie hair in the 80’s y’know), and us all enjoying Elliot’s supreme dancing brought forth somehow without the use of alcohol or any other stimulant. Running man AND the robot in one dancing session? Respect to that, my son.

Ok, so the drinking’s getting a bit out of control but it’s my birthday week so sod off. I stay one more night in Portland but Sunday means I have to go north once more. Seattle is calling, but I know that Portland has been good to me and I’ll have memories of a birthday well-spent and definite new friends made.

Golden Years

The Beatles – Birthday

Cake – Short Skirt Long Jacket

David Bowie – Golden Years

Yes, I awoke a whole new age. 31. What a crap number, although in terms of Liverpool squad numbers I’d moved from Charles Itandje to Nabil El Zhar, which is a step up in my book.

With cake bought and hostel booked I headed for Portland, aided by Bowie on the iPod. That’ll do it. I’d had so many good messages from back home that really cheered me up and so i was in a good mood, but what would await me at the hostel? Would anyone want to celebrate? Would they all be vegan, non-alcoholic cake-haters?? I mulled all of this over while approaching Portland and promptly missed my turn-of 3 times, going over a lot of the city’s bridges. It’s got a lot of bridges.

But I got there and got a bottom bunk (cake bonus) and went off to find one of the city’s many, many, many brewpubs. And I did. And I did eat steak and drink ale at the New Old Lompoc Brewpub and feel good about myself generally. I rushed back to watch the film the hostel was putting on that night about travelling. A bizarre choice maybe, but it put a few things into perspective on my trip so far.

“A Map For Saturday” is the story of HBO producer Brook Silva-Bragg’s decision to quit his job and go round the world for 12 months with just a camera and a backpack and find out why some people are travelling for months, sometimes years on end.

In doing so though, he himself visibly changes as a person over the year he’s away and while he’s commenting on the people he meets, we can see his emotional journey being played out before our eyes.

He manages to pin down the feelings of the traveller. The first thing is getting used to is tomorrow being another day off. EVERY DAY IS SATURDAY.

It also makes a nonsense of the belief that you can’t go travelling for months on end when you have a husband/wife/partner/kids/great job/no job. You can, you’ve just convinced yourself you can’t possibly and the world would collapse around your ankles if you did.

On from that, it blows away any idea that you can’t do it for a long, long time.

Has that worried you all? Thought it might do. I AM coming home, promise.

A lot of people have said to me that they envy what I’m doing and wish that they could. Well…why can’t you? Seriously, what is really stopping you?

The film finished and as the lights went up we looked around at each other and tried not to speak to each other. Odd, but it was all because of one scene in the film where travellers tell Silva-Bragg just how bored they are of asking people who they are, where they’re from, where they’re going, where they’ve been and how long they’re away for. The 5 questions vital to hostel life.

I broke the silence with a simple message:

“There’s free cake if you want it. It’s my birthday. Anyone fancy a pint?”

Luckily some did, and I didn’t have to resort to plan B of going down the petrol station and asking the guy who works there.

The only photo taken that night. Look at me. I'm 31! Christ...

That’s me and an Aussie guy called Steve and Janis, who’s from Calgary in Canada. We’re in the Blue Moon. More beer?? Yes please! There was another bloke with us called John, plus a 21-year-old from Newfoundland who’d hitch-hiked all the way and didn’t mind sleeping in shop doorways. Now he was the real deal traveller. He barely carried any bags, just roamed the land while he could. He’d already hitched 4000 miles. He was a dude.

John was another story all together and I wish I’d got him on tape. A middle-aged man he was back in the country to visit his kids. He lived in South America. Why? Because he was so disgusted with his country when they elected George W Bush as President that he left the USA as a political refugee. He’d held his values and morals so closely, he upped sticks and pissed off. Brilliant. Why can’t more people respond to their disgust with the current situation by actually DOING something? He may have been a bit odd, but he wasn’t moaning about life and how the country was getting him down. He’d just gone.

But enough of these crazies…!

I ended up chatting away with Steve and Janis and having a great time. Everyone made my birthday a very good night indeed. I had been dreading it in many ways, but my friends (new, old, random, far away, close-by, hitch-hiking Canadians) made it great. Thanks.

Alone Again Or(egon)

Paul Bunyon and Friend

(sorry about the title)

(Actually, no I’m not)

Anyway, Arcata is finally done and the plan is once again to drive drive drive. I decided to try and keep to the coast as much as I could, but the destination would be to get as close to the city of Eugene as possible. Getting up early I managed to put in a marathon stint and go the 330 miles north, via the most scenic route possible. I stuck to the coast until I reached Reedsport in Oregon.

Before that though, another superb drive through Redwood National Park, Klamath (where the giant Paul Bunyan above stands with his bullish friend) and the Humboldt Lagoons, where the mist hangs heavy…

Then, all of a sudden…I’m in a new state all together.  I’ve managed to drive California South to North and man alive, am I great…sorry, do I feel great?

I done it, ma!

So into Oregon I go and immediately a few differences from California.

The petrol is about 30 cents cheaper per gallon, and there’s a nice man serving me at the pump saying, “Welcome to Oregon, I’m Jimmy”

Thanks Jimmy!

I get to Eugene very late, after cutting inland following yet another fantastic drive, this time along the Umpqua Highway. The road follows the Umpqua River about 50 miles into a stunning valley, bringing you out at the deliciously-named town of Drain.

With the promise of Eugene being a town of Merry Pranksters (the 60s acid collective – think Grateful Dead, Timothy Leary, Woodstock, Acid tests and living in communes) and brewpubs, I was determined on having that pint. Not so much the LSD.

With a motel found I set off for the Steelhead Brewery and set about sampling everything. They make it a bit easier by giving you a taster tray of 6 brews. What I hadn’t factored in was my tiredness and the fact that Katie who was serving me had given me a pint of “Hoposaurus Rex” with my pizza. That stuff in 9.6% and essentially a headache in a glass, but oh-so-tasty! I slurred my way out and off to bed. Tomorrow was my birthday – in fact back in the Uk I was already 31.

31???? you say. I know, I know.

Yes, it WAS a difficult paper round.

I woke up, bought myself two cakes with which to bribe people to be my friends at the hostel in Portland and got in the car again.

Ball of Confusion

The Temptations – Ball of Confusion

Doves – Catch the Sun

Kings of Leon – Wasted Time

“A documentary about baseball you say? I’m British. I don’t like baseball. It’s rounders for Americans. And come to think of it I have too short an attention span to watch a full documentary…what was the question again?”

That you may well say. Because you’re an idiot.

“Up For Grabs” is a top quality documentary that may well be about baseball, and one particular very valuable baseball, but it says a lot about the American psyche. There’s greed, arrogance, a huge court case and mass stupidity. If it wasn’t real you wouldn’t believe it were true, calling it a rip-off of the great mockumentaries like Spinal Tap, a Mighty Wind or The Office.

The ball itself was the final home run hit by Barry Bonds in the 2001 season. It was number 73 of the season and a record for one man in a year. The catcher of the ball would be able to sell such a rare ball immediately for a LOT of money. What ensued was chaos.

Have a look at the trailer here:

The film won the Audience Award for Best Documentary at the 2004 Los Angeles Film Festival,  as well as Best Documentary at the New York Gen Art Film Festival and the Phoenix Film Festival. So it did quite well. And here, five years later it was on at the Arcata Movie Theater and the man who filmed the ball being caught was sat watching it with us.

It could be argued local TV news cameraman Josh Keppel was actually luckier than both of the men who claimed to have caught the ball.

So here in a short series of one, David speaks to TV news cameraman and documentary filmmaker Josh Keppel. He’s a very nice man with startling sideburns that made me very jealous.

Josh Keppel. Remarkably hirsuit. Maker of good films.

While talking in the middle of an all-you-can-eat pizza buffet in Eureka, Josh tells me about the film, “Up For Grabs”, and goes on to describe how the appeal of local news on TV and radio in the USA is waning just as much as it is in the UK. Crumbs…

Josh Keppel – Up For Grabs

As a side note to the film, the Arcata Movie Theater is a joy to behold. How on earth does a small cinema manage to keep going in such a small town? What it does is this: be creative. So yes, on a Sunday night they show documentaries, but on mondays they show the Monday night football on the big screen. The secret is that it’s not a normal cinema. They levelled the floor out, put in a bit of a stage and most importantly put in a bar and food service. Monday Night Football is rammed in there.

They also do special nights around old films:

All You Can Eat Spaghetti Westerns? Brilliant.

Dope Springs Eternal

The Small Faces – Grow Your Own

The Friends Of Distinction – Grazing In The Grass

Curtis Mayfield – Pusherman

Saturday night in Garnerville, in the Sherwood Forest Motel (no sign of the Sheriff of Nottingham), and the place is no fun at all. I went out for something to eat but soon decided to grab anything I could and run back to the hotel room and lock the door. Harsh maybe, but fair. I didn’t come here to sightsee.

I get up early next morning and quickly made it to my next stopping point: Eureka!

I had indeed found it.

There was nothing there.

The Carson Mansion

Well, there’s a very nice waterfront with lots of very old Victorian era houses and buildings but aside from a woman who wanted me to turn to God, it was quite empty. The main attraction is the Carson Mansion, a house built by a rich and clearly rather wacky lumber merchant. They seem to have a lot of these houses over here. Rich people showing off? Maybe. he built another house over the street as a gift for his son on his wedding day. The town showed how much they liked that by doing it up in the 1960s and painting it pink.

Dandy

I wasn’t stopping here so on I went and arrived at Arcata, about 7 miles north. This was more like it. And far more interesting.

Arcata is a university town, with the University of Humboldt just over the freeway. It’s also at the centre of a very liberal part of California, one where conditions for growing things are really good. Like, REALLY good? (I’m doing that more and more often over here – feel free to hit me if I do that in front of you)

So when you walk into the town you can smell it. Really, the place reeks of mary-jane, wacky baccky, weed, marijuana, call-it-what-you-will, you can’t get away from it. Obviously the main square is full of the travelling type who just can’t go anywhere without their dog and their beard. But it’s got some real character and it’s as close to a real American town as I think I’ve come to.

It’s the grow your own capital of the USA. Having met a couple who live there when I went to see a film, they told me that for them, business was booming. Now that’s not to say Leslie and Aaron sell anything like THAT. They run a garden centre. In a normal town they’d be doing okay but hit by the recession. Oh no, in Arcata the money’s all in the garden centre. Every third ad on the radio is for one with “hydroponics” high on the shopping list (for those of you that don’t work reading police press release like I do, hydroponics is the system to grow plants in confined and dark spaces, getting water and lights to the lovely shrubs).

Leslie hit me with the startling fact that 1 in 8 houses in Arcata is growing its own marijuana.

No wonder it stinks.

I’m no prude, I’m reasonably liberal and don’t really mind people doing drugs unless it affects me directly (I know it affects us all indirectly in terms of crime and tax, but you know what I mean) but the vision of Arcata is a disturbing one. Nothing really gets done. Maybe that’s an overstatement. Maybe we should all relax a bit and chill out in the park more often, but life’s not like that. Is it?

And to top that, gun sales at the garden centre are going through the roof. Not least because there’s a Democrat president and gun laws are almost always likely to be tightened by a Democrat, but also because Obama’s black (you may have noticed) and obviously the whole country’s going to Hell in a handcart. One TV ad was selling a 34-gun safe, for when 33 rifles just isn’t enough.

Maybe I’m just going all right-wing in my old age, but I certainly felt threatened by the pot heads as I walked around the town. More so than the crack heads in Frisco. And I’m not sure why.

It’s still a very cool little town, not least because of the cinemas there. It’s amazing when you look at how a city like Liverpool can just about sustain 2 independent cinemas (FACT and Woolton) that a town the size of Arcata can have 2. I could’ve gone to see The Men Who Stare At Goats, but the other theater was showing a documentary about baseball. What’s not to like there?

The Redwood Stage

I left San Francisco on the best day possible. It was horrible. The rain had swept in, the fog had descended and the best place to be was in the car. Trouble was, I didn’t really know where I was going. North was the answer, but I had no destination in mind. Having heard of Bodega Bay from a guy in the queue for the cable car I reasoned that was as good as any. It was supposed to be pretty and Hitchcock had used it as the location for ‘The Birds’. Bingo.

Could I find this climbing frame? Could I hell...

(while searching for this picture I’ve found out they’re even remaking THIS – with George Clooney and Naomi Watts. Good God, nothing is sacred is it?)

The Icicle Works – Birds Fly (Whisper To A Scream)

I’d driven a long way but the fog was getting me down and and decided to put the foot down and find somewhere nice for the night. I found it in Gualala.

Just what I needed. I checked into the Surf Motel (run by Eric, whose wife’s family live in Croxteth, overlooking Brookside Close) and settled down on the comfiest bed I’d slept on so far. The noise of the surf helped drift me off to sleep. The weather forecast had given a warning of a very high swell over the weekend. The surfers were heading our way and the next day’s drive showed me exactly why. 20 foot waves were crashing in to the shore and as the coastline got somehow more impressive, the views became breathtaking.

The Beach Boys – Surf’s Up

Here’s Eric anyway…

Eric. His niece has a kop season ticket and he makes a very good waffle.

I’d hit the Mendocino Coast and by gum it was jaw dropping stuff. I sat for about an hour just watching the waves crash in. It’s not Alton Towers, I’ll give you. But for just an awesome way to spend your lunchtime it can’t be beat.

Boof! Eat that...

Mendocino itself is a very pleasant little village that seems out-of-place on the California coast. It’s almost New Englandy in its cuteness. But on I had to go. The map I’d finally bought in San Francisco showed that Portland – my next scheduled city stop – was actually bloody miles away. Onward, ever onward.

The Coral – In the Forest

Crowded House – Tall Trees

I can’t push the fact strongly enough, this coastline is OUTSTANDING and rivals anything Big Sur has, then at the end of it all you get to drive inland because the coast is just too densely forested to merit a road. This is the final part of Highway One and the turn into the woods is just as thrilling. Twisting and turning through gorges and forests the drive is magnificent.

Then, about 30 miles later, it’s all over.

Another adventure over.

But hold on, what’s this?

At the side of the road is a sign that would cheer up any weary traveller.

“DRIVE THRU TREE – $5″

I’m there.

The convertible roof is down once more (heaters on full blast) and off we go to The Chandelier Tree.

You've got to haven't you?

The coastal highway turns into highway 101 and the Redwood Highway. Soon I realise that this isn’t the only drive-thru tree in the area and the whole economy is now based on tree-related activities, usually trying to invoke some mystical properties of the forest. Some just sound like they’ve been stolen from an episode of Father Ted. “Confusion Hill” promises a land of confusion with a house that defies gravity (it’s built at an angle, that’s all) while not only is there a house in the shape of a boot but there’s also…

“We also have some small piles of rocks by the Playground Area just waiting for you to test your talent at Rock Balancing. Challenge your friends and family to see who’s the best balancer in your bunch!”

What a rare treat indeed!

I kept driving, stopping in Garnerville. It’s a small town famous only for a reggae festival it holds every year. Now what would bring a load of reggae fans out here to the forest for a music festival?

Hmmm.

There was a funny smell in the air. And it wasn’t my pants (I’d washed them in San Francisco)

Frisco Inferno

(There is no fire involved here – I just like the pun)

You've missed this face haven't you?

So the next day was tour day. I’d booked myself on Dylan’s tour. He’s a man with a van and just takes 12 people on his tour of the city for the day. It’s much better than those hop-on-hop-off big bus tours because it’s a lot more personal and Dylan seems pretty cool, and loves his city.

We got the full blast of San Fran and a bit more. Above is the view from Twin Peaks (nothing to do with Laura Palmer), and we went from there to The Mission (Mexicans), The Castro (gay) and Haight Ashbury (hippy layabouts)

In Haight we saw the Grateful Dead’s house and Janis Joplin’s place. They lived over the road from eachother, with Hendrix round the corner. Groovy, man…

Cool in the 1960s, still cool today, but with added freaks. With dogs. Many have dogs.

Grateful Dead house. They all lived there like The Monkees. On acid.

The tour went on for a good six hours and it was great. I’d recommend it.

We finished by crossing the Golden Gate Bridge to have a walk in Muir Woods. It’s 20 minutes away but it’s a breath of fresh air. Coastal redwoods!

Big Tree

Not that it was at all smoggy in San Francisco. I’d got to the city during its Indian Summer and for some reason there was no fog. Frisco DOES have fog. It has VERY bad fog, as many people told me “just like London.” I’ve had to to tell at least six, maybe even seven people that there is no fog in London (well, maybe 3 days a year, but that’s when Jack the Ripper comes out and kills prostitutes).

But this week the bridge was looking majestic every time I saw it.

The tour ended here and I went for a well-deserved pint before indulging in another scary night in Frisco. The Day of the Dead!

I met Wendy, a Dutch girl who was on the tour (and headed for Peru after this) and headed down to the Mission district. Day of the Dead is a Mexican tradition that celebrates the souls of those that have died, with a procession through the streets at night. It was brilliant. The parade lasted for ages with dancers and bands lighting up the streets.

Snake man!

Freaky dancers

And some dead people getting married

All very exciting, but it soon became very poignanat when the parade finally ended at Garfield Park, where families had erected their own altars to people from the community who had died that year. Their posession and pictures were very thoughtfully laid out and people filed past paying their respects. It was really very moving and made me feel as though we should treat people in the same way back home. Celebrate their lives and their passing with a huge amount of joy, remembering them just as they’d want to be remembered.

The rest of the night spent in a bar called Pop’s on 24th Street. I’d only gone into extend the night with a small beer, but as usual it went slightly downhill. There were lots of lovely people to talk to, including a touring party from The Globe theatre (lovies!) , Anna, who’d just finished her Blues dancing class (I still need to work out exactly what that is) and a man who I came to know as “Cowboy Dale” (that’s what he said to call him). He lived up north and liked his beer and his music and he offered me a place to stay on my travels up the coast. Dale said he had a house where I could stay and go fishing and where he “grew his own.” I later came to know that Northern California is very much a “grow-your-own” kinda place. I’ll come to that later…

Anyway. Drunk again.

(I didn’t take Dale up on his offer)

The next day the hangover took hold and my decision to go for a walk in Golden Gate Park still seemed like the thing to do to shake it off. It didn’t work. I got lost, I got bored, and I got attacked by squirrels in the Botanic Gardens when I tried to have a sandwich. Physically attacked. Fuckers.

My days in San Francisco were coming to an end, and I ended up really liking the place. It’s very cool and I can see why people want to live there so much. I did as much of the touristy stuff I could possibly fit in. Cue awkward cable car picture…

But I also fitted in some live comedy while I was there. I managed to see Kristen Schall, who some of you may know as the scary stalker fan Mel from Flight of the Conchords. She was nominated, along with her co-performer Kurt Braunohler, for the If.comedy award at Edinburgh and I tend to find her quirkily cute in a don’t-tell-anyone-they’ll-think-you’re-odd-too sort of way.

But I do, and she’s really very very funny.

See? Lovely...

San Francisco was done. Back in the car. Drive north. Go on.

Where’s the car????!!!!

(oh, there it is – in a garage that cost me more per night than my bed in the hostel)