So here is a story of two, quite different halves…..one of which at the time I wished was not happening to me, now, looking back I am very glad I was part of such a crazy event. My story begins on a ferry, heading for Portsmouth........
Pinot noir does not taste the same on a Brittany ferry as it does in Beverly Hills, LA. Fact. It looks very much the same, granted, but it comes in a sub-standard generic ‘ten for a fiver’ wine glass rather than the beautiful crystal goblets I have recently become accustomed to and it doesn’t pack quite the same punch.
I believe I might be becoming high maintenance. Generally I would have always said I prefer roughing it to living it up. Since a crazy round the world trip involving a stint of volunteering in the jungle a couple of years ago I had become an enthusiastic advocate of sleeping in a basha, washing in a river, making friends with the mossies. Now I’ve had a taste of crazy uber-glam LA five star lifestyle – I wonder if I could be persuaded to renounce the deet and the roughing it forever?
Could I?
This trip has been crazily memorable from start to finish. The story really began in London where I met a boy. One of those situations where you’re having an immense amount of old-fashioned fun and there is no need to ask any questions. And the next thing I know, I am faced with a crazy and somewhat unbelievable invitation to join this boy on a work trip to LA. I seriously never thought it would really happen. The LA talk began a few weeks into our dating, and I merely thought ‘this is just big talk and it's happening way too early’. I sat tight, let the discussions of the impending trip mainly wash over my head and bid him farewell when the call came for him to jet out to Hollywood. I honestly thought that’d be the last I’d see of him for a long while. Until I was emailed an e-ticket a couple of weeks later with my name on it. Heathrow, UK to Los Angeles, America.
Jesu Christo.
Taxiing down the Angelean runway I had butterflies to rival only those I’d experienced when I set off on my solo round the world trip. What if it all went wrong? What if we didn’t get on? What if it was all some massive April Fool and I was here alone? I pushed the negative thoughts from my mind as the boy and I texted each other with regards to actually meeting up. I was to look for a bright yellow convertible corvette outside the airport. Used to circumnavigating the globe (yeah, I know that sounds precocious) I was not ready for the chaos in my head and my heart when I arrived in LA. Firstly, everything was a little confusing as most people seemed to be speaking in Korean which was unexpected, and LA security dudes loomed large, stroking the guns on their hips. Gulp.
I finally made it through security and customs – every question felt like an accusation and I stammered my responses about my reason for being in LA - a holiday in Beverly Hills (even as I said it, I didn’t even believe myself). A final ‘have a nice day sweetie’ and I was booted out into the sunshine, scouring the surroundings for my hired ride. I’d been warned about the car and was pre-embarrassed about the sheer over-the-top ‘look at me’ ish-ness of it. Trying to hide the fact that I was majorly excited about actually getting into it and even more so about actually seeing this person I suppressed my real feelings about the situation by totally dissing the vehicle and generally being quite stand offish. This is often how I roll.
We roared off into the Californian sunshine - my stomach was left to catch up in its own time – and I shivered from tiredness, excitement and nervousness. Firstly we filled the hungry car with petrol and then we screeched into the Beverly Hills SLS Hotel. Jesus, Mary and Joseph what a place. A scurry of neatly dressed gentlemen fussing around for my luggage and a barrage of uber-politeness at reception, and I was whisked up to see the room. Didn’t I say I’d always wanted to be whisked? Whisking was definitely happening here, and it felt incredible.
My first impressions of this accommodation were difficult to describe. I was over-whelmed, there was no doubt about it and 24 hours without sleep had leant a kind of surreal quality to my vision. That, coupled with very dim ‘mood’ lighting and wall to wall mirrors made it difficult to know what to focus on. The boy was brilliant and basically said let’s get you fed and then put to bed. I was not arguing with either of these. In fact I didn’t seem to have any words at all – usually a steady flow of chat un-stemmed, on this occasion I was fairly mute.
My first meal in Bazaar, the SLS restaurant, was an amazing preview of the diverse gourmet experiences to come. A fine selection of asian fusion ‘tapas’ was brought before me, ranging from perfectly rare hangar steak, to melt in the mouth sushi to thai-inspired guacamole and tuna dim sums and an egg shell filled with delicious frothy…….well, froth. Tiny little dishes, yet seriously satisfying. Breakfast the following morning did not disappoint either (always my favourite meal of the day) and it arrived in the form of the most perfect eggs benedict (again, they did the frothy thing with the egg whites, they cook the yolks separately then pour on the air-whipped whites) with a side order of sour dough toast, cherry jam and orange blossom marmalade. HEAVEN.
Not forgetting the coffee of course. Coffee has become a real necessity in my life – who’d have thought that a non-alcoholic drink could be so enjoyable? There’s the social aspect of it which I love as well – I could very happily lose a day to coffee in a cosy lounge-style café. I’ve been really lucky and have sampled grounds from all over the world – and I intend to carry on my studies for a long time to come. On this first morning however, I got myself into a bit of a pickle with the stuff. I had it on pretty reliable authority that the coffee in reception was free. Yet once again (Jane and I’d stumbled upon this issue in Sydney) it all depended on which cup you had it served in. I’d found the correct urn, with a little ‘complimentary’ sign propped up against it – but my error was pouring it into the china cup which was on the table where I ate. I hadn’t noticed the Starbucks-style paper cups aside the urn, and this meant that $12 found its way onto the bill. Lesson learned.
Apart from the double-charging issue. I wanted to pay cash for breakfast and was determined not to put anything on the room tab, yet they brought me a little slip of paper to sign as well which I duly did. This ended up meaning that they took my cash as a whopping big tip (and ignored the fact that it was spookily the exact cost of breakfast) and also charged the meal to the room. You gotta stay sharp when it comes to payment procedures round here. It was possibly due to my disorientation, but it felt that the staff had taken advantage of my newness a little. I like to think it wasn't because I'm stupid.
So. The rooftop pool. What a place that was! Sunloungers in the pool. Four-poster beds around the pool. A myriad lovely waiters asking me if I was ok every 20 minutes or so. And, most amazingly a view of the Hollywood sign from one corner. Seriously, how glamourous? I found myself an optimum lounger and settled into contentment, feeling the morning Californian sun warming my skin. Questions kept zipping around my consciousness, ‘How has this happened? Why am I here?’ I didn’t get it then, I certainly don’t get it now – I do not know really why I was invited on this holiday. Within approximately ten minutes of stretching out on the gloriously comfortable sun bed I was accosted by an American spring-break student. Immediately I felt intimidated – I could tell the girl (and her two friends) were not only drunk but high as well. They wanted me to sit with them and share pink champagne. Oh, go on then. I accepted a glass of bubbly, but I was wary. The guy was say, 40 years old and the two girls were, how can I phrase it? About 19 years old and mentally unhinged’ll cover it. They wanted to know if a) I was interested in a threesome and b) did I want to ditch my friend and go to Las Vegas with them for a weekend at Coachella Festival? Oh God, neither, thanks. I stuck it out for maybe thirty minutes, then when Drunk Spring Breaker #2 started getting a little close for comfort I scurried off to the seclusion of our hotel room balcony and enjoyed a little peace in the relentlessly searing sun.
Further days by the pool were not quite as eventful as that first one, but there was always someone to watch or something to listen to which caused my eyes to goggle on stalks or my ears to blush. It’s all true – the stuff you read about in Heat Magazine – the Los Angeleans are kerrRRRAZY. I loved it, and I definitely felt privileged to be there, it was somewhere I never expected to visit, yet there was something which didn’t sit quite right, something indefinable. I don’t know whether it was something to do with the ridiculous levels of excess – in every way. When you’ve lived in a tiny community in the jungle, where the inhabitants have to wash in the river and supplies of food are never guaranteed it’s hard to be totally comfortable with paying £6 for a simple coffee.
But I loved being in that Hotel….. how many people get the run of a place like that? State of the art gym, amazing restaurants, beautiful décor (apart from the large metal animals bearing fruit – including a pig in the coldest pool with a tray on its head – odd) and the comfiest bed I think I’ve ever slept in. We settled into a nice little routine, the boy disappeared off to work at about 7.30am, handing me the morning paper with its superbly difficult crossword which I puzzled over at brekkie before hitting the loungers for a Vitamin D fix. Until Thursday, when I received an email asking me what I fancied doing at the weekend. Would I like to visit San Francisco? Jeezy Chreezy – a mini break within a holiday – what the hecky feck was going on? A couple of hours later and everyone (me, the boy & two of his colleagues) had their flights confirmed, we were off to The City.
The first evening was a pretty awesome meal in Salt and some hotel-worshipping (mainly by me) – the St. Regis was possibly even nicer than the SLS, and the view from our bedroom (we had a suite, don’t you know) was more than impressive. On floor 17 it felt as though you were living amongst the sky scrapers – and from every window there was just a huge array of skyscrapers, all vying to reach highest into the Californian sky. Day One of San Fran was a full-on sightseeing day. We started at Pier 39 and meandered around the Farmer’s Market, experiencing the diversity of choice for breakfast (me: custard and blueberry danish-pastry, Sam: fiery hot Mexican fajitas – cue everyone having to give him a wide berth for an hour or so). Next it was the ferry to Sausalito via the threatening-looking island of Alcatraz – we decided against actually going in, I don’t think any of us fancied a claustrophobic visit to the cells, which apparently is an option. They shut the door behind you for a bit so you can get a proper idea of how it feels to be imprisoned. No, thank you.
It was in San Francisco that I learned the true magic of the extensiveness of the American brunch. It’s like its own separate universe, and one that I definitely love and admire. In Sausalito we scouted about for somewhere to shelter for a while (the weather was being traditionally San Franciscan – cold, wet and windy – so us Brits felt nicely at home) and happened upon a little diner where brunch was definitely an art form. Pancakes and waffles and apple-smoked crispy bacon, eggs any way you wanted them with gloriously american descriptions; ‘sunny-side up’ and ‘over easy’, French toast and hash-browns, sausages, home-fries and bottomless coffee pots (hello my friend). And, what’s this doing on my plate? An orange quarter. How very random and out of place, and unnecessarily healthy. We all left the fruit.
Back out into the cold we ferried it back to the mainland and decided on a nice walk to encourage the cholesterol we’d just ingested to move around the system a bit. Sam (I can’t call him ‘the boy’ anymore – it feels too Carrie-esq a la Sex & the City) had chosen a Lonely Planet suggested tour and nominated me City-guide. I negated to mention my navigationally-challenged status amongst my friends, grabbed the book and ordered the guys to follow me. It was a long and hilly affair but we really saw San Francisco in all it's (quite European-feeling) glory. I loved it a lot more than LA – it’s a cosier and more approachable city, easier to negotiate crossing the roads and more opportunity for engaging with the locals.
After numerous hills; Russian, Telegraph...... Nob, we needed a sit down and a drink. There was an element of ‘losing the will to live’ by the time we settled upon the Gold Dust Lounge for refreshment. It sounded a lot more exciting than it was, plus it seemed to smell quite strongly of vomit so we didn’t stay long and soon headed back to the Hotel for a quick spa dip before dinner at Chez Panisse in Berkeley – apparently the 49th best restaurant in the world (at its peak it was 13th best). I think its fair to say that night we all got pretty drunk. Such a funny night though – and Henry kept us majorly entertained with his different accents, Ali G and the gay Melbournian two of his best. The latter backfired slightly, when on queuing for the loo he was overheard by a fellow restaurant goer who commented, and he ended up having to have a whole conversation in the accent. We all shared and tasted each other’s food that night and discussed their rating system for the restaurants that they had visited on this 'work' trip. By the end of the night it had been decided that the guests were allowed an input (that was me, James’ girlfriend and Henry’s boyfriend – both due out forimminent visits). In return the guys were going to rate the guests. All very daft, but at the time, hilarious.
So the following morning was a little arduous on the waking-up front. A tinge of a hangover perhaps? But only the sort you get from drinking a lot of excellent quality wine. What was I saying about feeling weird about all this excess and luxury? Ahem. A quick peek behind the electronically raised curtains brought the visual information of heavy rain. So we skipped straight into Mel’s Diner for an EVEN BETTER brunch than yesterdays. This time the oddly placed bit of fruit on the plate was a slice of pineapple (DELETE!). We put our own tunes on the jukebox and envied Henry’s peanut-butter milkshake, whilst I absent mindedly scanned the room for a defibrillator.
After that we waddled out into the wintry weather and tried to do a little more sight-seeing. A very angry tram-conductor took massive offence when Henry climbed over a seat instead of going round the vehicle, and there was a bit of a stand-off as he at first wanted Henry off the tram. This reduced us all to a silent trip in the streetcar (not named desire, rather more ‘contrition’). We tolerated the horizontal freezing rain down by the harbour for as long as it took to remark ‘oh yes, sealions’ – that might sound random, but the massive beasts are a real San Franciscan tourist-attraction and they haul themselves out of the water onto the wooden docks where they lie making a huge fracas and smelling bad. Numbers have apparently swelled to 1700 in the past, but we must have seen only around 50 or so. We finally admitted defeat, no-one was really enjoying being so cold and wet and we returned to the St. Regis for a wonderful afternoon nap in our cosy luxury hotel retreat.
That evening, it was my leaving do – the following day I was to be heading back to the UK and this meant I got to have a party. James, sushi-expert, had booked the wonderful Slanted Door restaurant as the venue. Actually I think this is the finest meal I have ever had in my entire life. Ever. Delectable wine, gorgeous asian-fusion sushi (to which I am now entirely addicted) and some impressive examples of cosmetically enhanced women to gander at. And by the end of this meal, under the influence of some seriously lovely vino blanco, it had kind of been decided I was going to stay a little longer than originally planned. In hindsight, was this a good idea? Probably not, for at least three reasons I can think of, but in a funny way, I’m glad I did.
By the time our silly o-clock flight out of San Fran back to LA (God, I am so international) took off I’d been on the phone to BA and my return to Heathrow had been extended by 2 days. How amazing! Going back to the SLS felt like coming home (in a parallel universe) and that evening instead of having to pack my case, I found some nearby tennis courts and Sam and I went for a hit in the scorching sunshine. Of course, I won every game we played. San Francisco had been fabulous but it was certainly nice to get back to blue skies and warmth. And Casey our Crazy Concierge. Later that evening we hopped into the crazy yellow bat mobile and searched out the famous Hollywood sign – that was brilliant. A bit of traffic-dodging was required as to get the best pictures you have to stand in the middle of the road and we took some funny snaps of us both looking like dorks in front of such an iconic monument. Ok, I looked like a dork.
So - Wednesday, and a second leaving do! Very sweetly I was given venue-choosing rights as I was yet again being said farewell to, so predictably it was more melt in the mouth sushi, and the longer I was staying the less I wanted to leave. We were just having so much fun and everything was such an event. Although arriving at this restaurant was very different to all the others – usually we either had our arrival ‘announced’ to restaurant staff by Concierge Casey, and when we arrived there would be an element of flustered ‘red-carpet’ like treatment as we were ushered to an appropriate table. This place was different. The 3 staff in reception all ignored us for, what? About five minutes? And then there was a bit of a silent stand-off before finally one of them just said ‘yes, can I help you?’ In the manner you might expect a policeman to speak to you if you’d just done something bad. Weird – the outstanding and often over-the-top customer service was part of what makes America, and I think we all suddenly felt as though we’d stumbled through a door directly back into the UK, where waiters look at you as though you are there purely to piss them off.
During the course of this evening, the boys rated me as a Guest – and I seemed to score pretty well in areas which ranged from conversation skills to the ability to stand cold and wet weather without complaint, and of course flying colours for my wardrobe choices.. Sam and I were confident that I might win the title of ‘Guest of the Year’. I’ll never know.
Eventually it was time to actually pack and get ready to return to planet normal, and it was with a heavy heart I folded my bikinis into my case. But, a quick peak at emails revealed an odd message from home. A volcano had erupted in Iceland! Eyjafjallajoekull (easy for you to say) was spewing out ash over northern Europe, and all airspace over the UK had been closed – no flights were getting in. Wowzers this is weird. I checked the BA website and sure enough, my flight was cancelled. Conflicting reports were getting through via various friends and family members, but the long and the short of it was, I was stuck. And suddenly, for some reason I felt a very long way from home. Maybe I imagined it, maybe not (I have finally decided that my gut instinct is rarely wrong) but it felt very much time to be gone, and for reasons completely out of my control, I couldn’t go anywhere. When Sam got home from work we went to Sprinkles for some award-winning cupcakes, and it should have been something to get excited about, but I felt totally flat. When we returned to the Hotel Sam hit the internet and doggedly searched for flights to get me back. The journey was finally sorted – LA to Philadelphia, then onto Madrid. He figured that being in Europe was better than being in the States. Ridiculously I felt adrift and confused – I was usually so happy to be on a journey, any journey, but this felt like heading into an unknown situation where nothing at all was guaranteed.
Once we’d set the new intinerary I had my third leaving do – quite a tame night at a Spanish restaurant, although the food was of course, delicious, everyone was fairly sleepy and we hit the hay at midnight. The following day was a bit of a road trip mission to find a gnarly surfy beach for Sam’s colleague James to dip his wetsuit in – once we’d found brunch I was already happy enough (this one came complete with bilberry syrup which made the French toast taste like jam donuts so I was in heaven) and didn’t really care where we went or what we did. We’d headed for the OC (Orange County) and were all fairly underwhelmed by the apparent bleakness of it. Where were the lithe tanned and toned hotties? We were all after some eye candy, but none was forthcoming and all we managed to find were fat Mexican kids or fat old people. Someting was wrong. It was depressing more than anything. We settled in the Bluewater Grill for some ‘hotter than hellfire’ Bloody Marys and then when we couldn’t stand the heat any longer we went back to part of the beach which had the biggest waves. A brief and pointless negotiation with James on how we’d notify him we were bored/cold/ready to leave – basically by simulating the international distress signal (a la Team America) and we sat amongst the crazy dogs, underneath dangerous looking rocks (some of which had apparently collapsed onto the sand that very morning) trying in vain to look for James ‘hanging ten’. We stood it out for about an hour and were all pretty happy when he waded out of the surf so we could all get back into the nice warm wagon.
I began to get my first serious pangs of not wanting to leave on the drive home – there seemed to be nothing further standing in my way, I had to leave this fantasy life and return to normality. And communication with Sam had pretty much dwindled to zero. On the way to the airport I hid a tear or two behind my massive LA shades, I sure didn't want to have to explain them - I didn't think I even could if I'd been asked.
So 6 hrs LA to Philadelphia was easy enough, and the 12 hours I had to wait there passed happily enough with a massive breakfast, a book of crosswords and chatting (at length) to a Maltese guy who was going through a divorce and custody-crisis (Lordy). Philadelphia to Madrid, another 6 hrs was also smooth, and it was on landing in Europe that the real homesickness began to take hold. Yes, I’m a seasoned traveler – but I had absolutely no idea really of where to go or how I’d get back into the UK – with all airspace in our country still shut, the only option was via land. Having been looked after so well in LA, I was suddenly very much adrift. My Easyjet Madrid to Bristol had of course been canceled, and all I managed to illicit from the staff at Madrid airport were varying degrees of shoulder height in their unresponsive shrugs.
I quickly got a grip and against all advice from my family, booked myself onto a bus to Santander. Only a couple of days ago I’d never heard of the place, now I knew that it was a hub for ferry crossings to Plymouth and Portsmouth. Varying conflicting reports were getting through to me ranging from ‘there will be no ferries until Saturday’ (it was Monday) to ‘the Royal Navy will be there to personally get you’. I couldn't rely on option 2 no matter how enticing it sounded, and it felt better to just keep moving so that’s what I decided to do. It was then I then bumped into the Hart family who were on their way back from a safari in Africa with three young daughters, and they kind of scooped me up. I really needed scooping by then. Distractedly chewing on a salami sandwich - the first food I'd had in hours and hours, I was not at my most chipper. Lucy and Andrew Hart said I was welcome to tag along with them, and the three kids' excitment about missing more school was infectious and distracted me from my immediate predicament. The coach from Madrid to Santander was uneventful and I drifted in and out of quite a deep sleep induced by pure necessity. I awoke halfway through by a shouting Spanish lady - her face very close to mine, and even though I had no idea what she was saying, the general drift was ‘get off the feckin’ bus IMMEDIATELY’, so I did. Thirty minutes of ricocheting around the little local shops later and we were back on, heading in to Santander.
Which to be honest looked like a pretty nice place to be, but La Famille Hart decided our best bet was to head straight for the ferry port to try and get on the mahoosive boat which was champing at the bit, harbourside. Some frustrating queuing, deflecting of pushers in and some serious ‘we’re British and stranded and this girl is on her own (everyone pointed at me in a mock-outaged comedy-fashion)’ negotiations saw us taking the very last seats on board. And then, dear God – my debit card didn’t work. I couldn’t buy my ticket. The Spanish lady looked at me with a ‘I can’t help you anymore’ stare and I fought back frustration. Daddy Hart slapped down his credit card on the counter and it bought my ticket. So - I was literally the last passenger on board, they booted me on and slammed a door behind me. I felt like personally hugging the captain (anything to get up close and personal with a man in uniform).
I found a bit of a base to dump my bags, there was unfortunately no cabin left for me, and I went in search of internet connection. Spotting a suitable plug I asked the family who had commanded the area as their own if I could perch for a while so I could log on and make contact with home and Sam. The father rudely told me the space was taken, and that was it – the tears came. It was exhaustion really, but coupled with an overwhelming pang of utter loneliness. This immediately afforded me space on their sofa and offers of tissues and sandwiches and help, which I fended off. I hadn’t turned on the waterworks on purpose but it did the trick nonetheless.
The 25 hours on that ferry were soul destroying ones. If I hadn’t already thought this, I would never choose ferry as a method of transport again, I think I’d rather row or swim. I had a couple of expensive yet disappointing solitary meals and watched a couple of crappy and depressing films – but really this is all just part of the big adventure of travelling. Without the lows when you just want to weep, you don’t appreciate the highs when you want to tell the world how much you love it and its occupants.
I only saw the Hart family again once – to repay them for my ticket once I managed to get cash out from the exchange counter on board, but I really wish I’d taken their address down as they kind of rescued me and without them I wouldn’t have been on that ferry. They live in Surrey, that’s all I know – if anyone reading this knows them, please get in touch.
As for me and the boy? (Sod it, I’m gonna go with the Carrie thing). Funnily enough, ties were cut as soon as I hit British soil – and I think my subconscious had known that was going to happen and that’s part of what made the journey home even worse. I will never fathom guys out. Why go through all the rigmarole of inviting someone on a trip like that when you don’t really give a monkeys? But, no matter, because this has been my most important penny. And I’m very glad it’s finally dropped. It doesn’t matter how glamorous the trip you get to go on, or how fast the car you get whizzed around in, or how gourmet the meals you are taken out for……….. if the love ain’t there, it don’t mean a thang. And for once in my life I was perfectly happy to simply walk away and move on. And that, my friends, is definitely progress.
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