(the literary equivalent of having to look at all those damned slides)
February 24, 1996
Have arrived in Chicago. Surrounded by airplanes (they say even God changes planes at O'Hare). Flight from Toronto reminded me how small airplanes are, or perhaps how tall I am. Struck by how much people seated in airlines resemble people seated in movie theatres; felt like trying to do a soft-shoe routine as I made my way back to the washroom, as everybody looked bored, except for the ones travelling with small screaming children, who looked frustrated. Parenthood is looking less and less appealing by the minute.
Co-pilot announces on landing, "Would our friendly flight attendants please stand by." Hostile attendants, presumably, can do as they please.
Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, I won't be given dinner on either of my flights, as neither my Toronto plane nor my San Diego plane was airborne during the official designated airline meal hour. (This despite the fact that the time zone change allows me to experience the dinner hour twice.) Ate two sandwiches at Dunkin' Donuts in lieu of dinner; given that my stomach is already a little queasy (courtesy of my sick nephew and his fondness for drooling on his beloved Uncle David), I fear the worst.
I have been told by reliable sources that my luggage will magically make its way to San Diego without my having to intervene. At this time, I remain skeptical.
Sign on door: "Alarmed Access Door". In my experience, access doors are perplexed at worst.
Chicago airport washroom toilets provide a new service for the worried traveller: push a big red button, and you get a spanking new clear plastic wrapping for your toilet seat, to ensure that you go where no man has gone before. (To order this for your own home, call Health Consultants, Inc., at (312) 332-SEAT.)
P.S.: My luggage did arrive safely.
February 25, 1996
Traveller's tip: to avoid nasty jet lag problems, travel while getting over the flu. Got to my hotel room, ate dinner, and blissfully lost consciousness until 6:50 local time (9:50 body time). Sleep? No problem! Sluggishly, I reach for the phone: room service breakfast is a gift from God.
Sunday morning television features somebody flogging a book called God Works The Night Shift - Acts Of Love Your Father Performs Even While You Sleep. "It's a wonderful book, my friend," croons the telepreacher, who reminds his listening audience that "we are in our 27th year of depending on you."
I am, temporarily, the proud owner of a spiffy white Mazda, suitable for travelling the California freeways in style. (The Hertz people were out of bland economy cars, and were forced to upgrade me.) A note inside the car reminds me that this vehicle "was professionally serviced with pride by Norm." I'm not sure I want to know what that means.
Armed with suitable vehicle, I head outside in search of bright California sunshine. Greeted by cold weather and rain. The local forecast calls for a high of 55, well below the normal 70; I appear to have brought cold weather with me. My original plan was to find a beach and flake out on it; this is no longer feasible. Feeling a mite gloomy, and faced with driving rain, I decide to go for a drive. As I head north on Interstate 5, the rain turns into the worst downpour I've ever travelled through (and remember, I'm from Southern Ontario, the home of the thunderstorm). The only good news is that there is too much water on the road to hydroplane.
Decide to follow my karma. Spotted an interesting drive-in movie theater which demanded to be photographed (they talk to me, I swear). Discovered that this was the exit for Anaheim Stadium. Anaheim Stadium, and Anaheim itself, are depressing: think of Scarborough, only with run-down bits mixed in with the strip-mall industrial parks and family restaurants. No wonder the Angels never win anything. I don't know how anybody could stand living there.
Another random stop brought me to an abandoned McDonald's in Downey, California. Judging by the cool 1950s-style signs, this was one of the original McDonald's; a notice listed the building as one of the "11 most historically significant abandoned sites in America". This left me no alternative but to photograph the snot out of it.
Around noon, I reached Los Angeles. Question: what do you do in Los Angeles without a map? The sensible answer would have been to get a map; my answer was to look for the "Hollywood" sign and drive towards it. The general rule I followed was to drive uphill whenever possible. As if to reward my choice, the sun came out.
The Hollywood Hills feature rich people's houses connected by very narrow winding roads; after a while, I stopped worrying and just casually motored around blind corners wide enough to fit only one car, trusting to luck or the ghost of Jack Warner to prevent collisions. Found a park with a breathtaking view in all directions. Look west, and you see the whole city of Los Angeles. Look east, and you see beautiful tree- covered mountains. The park itself featured many friendly dogs, one of whom, by way of greeting, covered my pant leg with mud in a most pleasant and amiable fashion. (I didn't mind; I wasn't planning to wear those pants again on this trip.)
After this, I drove down into Hollywood, and found I was at the fabled corner of Hollywood and Vine, which has run down a bit in recent decades. Bought a Reefer Madness T-shirt from a poster store, and saw a graffito reading "Agnes Moorehead is God". Photographed the snot out of it too.
On the way home, was afflicted with nasty stomach cramps (thanks, Stefan). Thank God for Lucky's Food Mart, and chewable Pepto-Bismol tablets. Ate dinner at the hotel, in a restaurant called the Tickled Trout. The sauce for my shrimp/scallop combination was actually peanut butter sauce, though the menu would claim otherwise.
Did you know that Los Angeles has a radio station that plays nothing but 1970's hits? Yikes.
February 26, 1996
Another sluggish morning. Turned on television to check weather forecast. Perky anchorperson claimed that today would be a nice day, "if you lived in Toronto". (I am not making this up.) Fortunately for me, I do: sunny with a high of 55 isn't that bad if you're used to 30 and "mixed precipitation".
Set off in search of scenic San Diego coastal stuff. Drove to Sunset Cliffs Boulevard. View of ocean, plus steep but slowly eroding cliffs. Lovely but chilly. Good thing I brought leather jacket. Read Truman Capote short stories while wind howled. Capote good writer. (Appear to have lost parts of sentences along way. Oh, well: adapt, adopt, improve.)
After lunch, I drove through La Jolla - upscale boutique/beach atmosphere - and then north to Torrey Pines Park, which was marked on my San Diego area map as being the largest chunk of open space next to the ocean. It's lovely: almost a mile of beach surrounded by green hills. Lots of angle parking right by the beach. Too cold to go outside, so I sat in the car and read. I felt like I was at a drive-in movie, except there was an ocean instead of a screening of Monsters From The Deep, it was day not night, and I didn't have a date. Lots of other people were sitting in their cars reading; I guess they didn't have dates either.
Since there were washroom facilities at the site, I stayed there the whole afternoon, alternately reading and walking the length of the parking lot and back. It was very peaceful, and just what I needed.
On the way home, I heard an ad promoting Pat Buchanan for President. Apparently, he will cut down on immigration, and make English the only language spoken in America. Also listened to a little of the infamous Rush Limbaugh. I was expecting to be infuriated, but was merely bored. I lasted ten minutes before I turned him off and found an oldies station. (All right-thinking people prefer "Soul and Inspiration" to phone-in shows.)
Ate at Ricky's Diner. Good, plain bland food - my favourite kind. Still weak from stomach bug; spent evening in hotel room in blood-sugar limbo. Say good night, Dave.
February 27, 1996
Ferocious racket outside my hotel room door, starting at about 6:30. I must be getting better: previously, I was so tired that I slept through it all. (For me, insomnia is a sign of good health.)
Drove east on Interstate 8, destination Phoenix. Lots of mountains just east of San Diego; as the elevation got higher, the temperature got colder. At the top (elevation 4100 feet), there was snow on the ground (remember, this is Southern California!).
Judging by my observations, there appear to be three kinds of mountains between San Diego and Phoenix:
Mountains that look like dozens of boulders piled on top of one another.
Mountains that look like God took a hunk of Play-doh, plopped it on the earth, and poked it about a bit.
Mountains that look like very large ant-hills from Grade B sci-fi movies.
On the other side of the mountains was the desert, which can itself be divided into two types:
Irrigated desert, which looks a lot like the area near Windsor, Ontario, except for the occasional palm tree.
Unirrigated desert, which looks like desert.
The speed limit on Arizona freeways is a manly 75 miles per hour. This poses no safety risk, as the ground is flat, it never rains, and you can see a billion miles in every direction. At times, I felt like I was driving in the middle of a painting.
Picked up a Mexican FM radio station, featuring American dance hits, Mexican pop songs (including a Mexican heavy-metal band), and Alanis Morissette. Sigh. They must be playing Alanis Morissette on the moon by now. (In L.A., they bleep out the naughty words in her songs.)
Stopped at a McDonald's in Yuma, Arizona. Got hit up for spare change by a bearded man carrying his worldly goods on his back. He looked like a prospector from an old photograph of the Gold Rush of '49. Called me "little brother" (I was sitting in my car at the time). He seemed polite and non-threatening, so I gave him a dollar.
In Gila Bend, I got yelled at by a cranky old lady when I took a picture of the sign advertising her motel. I suppose I am lucky she didn't shoot at me. Had trouble finding my car keys when attempting to make a quick getaway, which pleased the cranky old lady's husband no end. (He was repairing the roof of the motel, which was rather run-down.) As a consequence, the probability of my re-visiting Gila Bend, Arizona, any time soon ranks close to nil.
Postscript, 1997: I didn't realize until months later that the issue of Esquire on the stands that month contained an article about Sarah Miles that referred to a motel in Gila Bend, Arizona. Apparently, many years ago, a lovestruck admirer of Ms. Miles had committed suicide in the motel in question. Since there aren't many motels in Gila Bend, it was probably that one. The motel owners undoubtedly thought I was yet another ghoulish tourist.
Stopped at a roadside rest to take photographs of the desert. Not a soul around (not counting the occasional car passing by on the road). Wonderful, but spooky.
Arrived in Phoenix at dusk. Drove downtown to see what was happening. The short answer: nothing. Downtown Phoenix is abandoned at night, except for people partial to drinking outdoors out of paper bags. Wound up going to the local K-mart to buy postcards. Depressing.
Great local restaurant - Marie Callender's - featuring a turkey dinner and all-you-can-eat salad. Very, very healthy. Once again, goodbye blood sugar and goodbye consciousness.
February 28, 1996
Hotel features free continental breakfast. Ate bran for the first time in days. My body is happy now.
Not as exciting a day as I would have hoped. The morning wasn't too bad: I drove into Chandler, Arizona, home of the Milwaukee Brewers spring training facility. Got there in time to watch an inter- squad game. Inter-squad games appear to be bad for the health - one Brewer tripped rounding second base and turned his ankle, and a pitcher got hit on the butt by a line drive. Both had to leave the game.
It was nice seeing baseball again, and the weather was perfect for it. I sat in a chair, and soaked up the sun (not scheduled to arrive in Toronto until May, due to cutbacks).
Travel note: Chandler, Arizona, is just like Markham, Ontario, except warmer and with more dirt.
The afternoon was less enjoyable, as I proceeded to make every wrong turn it is possible to make in Phoenix. Found the Peoria Sports Complex, spring home of the Padres and Mariners, at about 3:15 in the afternoon. (This is 3:15 Mountain Time, not to be confused with 2:15 Pacific Time or 5:15 Toronto time. I have no idea what time my body thinks it is.) By this time, the players had left the field, and presumably were off to play golf or meet babes. A group of hopeful fans hung around outside the Padres parking lot, hoping to get autographs from players leaving in their cars.
The Peoria Sports Complex is brand-new and very depressing. The colour scheme is adobe pink (a common colour in these parts) and institutional royal blue. The place looks like a jail: lots and lots of bars and fencing to keep the Great Unwashed out.
Fortunately, there's always the human factor in any security operation. By the time I finally made it to the Complex, I was in desperate need of a bathroom. As I was about to leave the meagerly-stocked souvenir shop in search of a McDonald's or something, I absent-mindedly opened the door that led inside the stadium. No one noticed me leave, so putting on my best "Yes, I really do belong here" face, I snuck into the nearby men's room without being noticed.
This, sadly, was the high point of my afternoon. Phoenix is depressing and automobile-oriented, and I want out.
February 29, 1996
A more eventful day than planned. After I successfully fled Phoenix, I drove at great speed westwards, not stopping until I reached Blythe, California. Stopped at another McDonald's, and got hit up for spare change again. (I'm always stopped for spare change. Beggars will cross streets to seek me out.) This beggar was travelling with his dog, and offered to sell me a knife. I declined, and backed warily away, as this guy looked like he was missing a few high cards from his personal deck, if you get my drift.
Next stop was Indio, a nice town entirely surrounded by mountains. (It must get hot as Hades in the summer, as the mountains trap the heat well.) Stumbled across a great used book store; bought about half a dozen, including In Cold Blood and a 1956 guide on raising "adolescents".
Just east of Indio, the fun began: my right rear tire blew out. Phoned the AAA from a call box; the nice AAA man put my emergency spare on (do not drive over 50 mph!) and escorted me back to a nearby gas station. (He seemed startled when I told him I thought it was warm out; the weather, in the upper 60’s, was as cold as it ever gets here.) I phoned the Hertz toll-free distress line; it turned out I was just north of Palm Springs, home of the Bob Hope Desert Classic, which featured a regional airport and a Hertz rental site. There, they exchanged my now non-functional Mazda for a much more reliable, though less flashy, Toyota Tercel SR5, and I was back on the road again.
Palm Springs, by the way, is unbelievably tacky - lots of deliberately planted palm trees, serving as a theme - and the regional airport was full of rich people. Rich people look just like you or I, except slightly better-groomed and with an air of entitlement. My impulse was to stay out of their way, and genuflect when necessary.
Once I got back to San Diego, the fun continued: after picking up my room key, I managed to drop it into a slot containing the parking brake, and I couldn't reach in to retrieve it. A cheerful hotel employee with a flashlight came out to check out the problem. Fortunately for both of us, the woman in the next parking spot happened to be a lab instruments salesperson, and her sample case contained a foot-long pair of tweezers complete with grippers. Using these, the hotel employee retrieved my hotel key. Gratefully, I offered to buy a pair of scissors or something, but the woman only had her sample case with her and only sold to large institutions (presumably in dozens or more).
All the driving (and a bit of ill-advised jogging in my hotel room) have caused my right knee to flare up again. At least my stomach isn't bothering me anymore. There's always something, I suppose.
March 1, 1996
A fairly uneventful day, thank goodness.
Drove to the Mexico border to find out whether it is possible to visit Mexico without driving there. (Hertz doesn't like it when you drive their rental cars into a foreign country; given that I had already had one break down on me, I didn't want to trust my luck.) No problem - there were lots of parking spots at the border, and many eager shuttle bus operators willing to ferry us tourists into Tijuana.
I was a little worried that I might appear to be the very image of the Naive Tourist Ripe For Fleecing, but compared to the other passengers I was worldly-wise indeed. One older couple spent the trip cackling that their car was probably being stolen even as they spoke.
The shuttle bus let us out in front of an elaborate structure that I first thought must be an official public building, but turned out to be a jai-alai arena. Judging by the buildings in the surrounding area, I appeared to have found the auto-parts district. Lots of photograph opportunities, provided I was careful to look down as I walked: Tijuana sidewalks are irregular and bumpy, providing many sprained-ankle opportunities for the unwary traveller.
I would have stayed longer, but I realized that in my haste to board the shuttle bus, I had left my sunblock in the car. Tijuana pharmacies do not stock sunblock - not surprising, as the locals don't need it, particularly in March. Took the shuttle bus back; it took me past the various Tijuana tourist traps. The whole thing reminded me of the CNE midway.
The afternoon was very relaxing. Bought lots of books at a La Jolla bookstore (I was in desperate need of new reading matter), then went back to the Torrey Pines beach. It was now warm enough to sit outside in shirt-sleeves and shorts. I proceeded to do so.
Spotted a photographer taking pictures of a woman wearing a billowy white dress. As she stood in ankle- deep water, pirouetting gracefully, the man with the camera snapped away. The sun was shining. It was warm. There were people out surfing (the waves were about eight feet high). The ocean burbled peacefully in the background. I had gotten what I had come for.
March 2, 1996
On my way to the airport, I saw a car with the following three bumper stickers:
Jesus Loves You
Live Long and Prosper
Go San Diego Chargers
My seat-mate on the flight to Chicago was named Kathleen (Katie) O'Neil. She was an Irish Catholic from Chicago, and had ten brothers and sisters. I didn't think that still happened nowadays.
Got home at 11:00. It was -2 Celsius. The wind was blowing. There were snowflakes falling. I was back where I belonged.