11.10.07 - Cross-Cuyo Road Trip.... Part 1

"Are the British the only people that are foolish enough to drive up here?!" (EGT Fisher at 3000m driving up the Andes pass)

My goal was a simple one. Hire a car. Drive into the Andes from Mendoza to visit the naturally formed Puente del Inca bridge and the bubbling thermal spa underneath before heading for the remote and apparently stunning remote town of Barreal to snap up a bed for a couple of nights.

Simple. The best plans are.

Hire car. CHECK.
Map. CHECK.
All belongings. CHECK.

And I was off! The cheeky little hire car was a brand-new Chevrolet Corsa... exactly the same design as a Vauxhall Corsa from the early '90s in Europe. With immediate effect I had slipped into the Argentine style of driving, nipping in and out of the Mendoza traffic and kicking the gears into place while taking a haphazard approach to stopping at the never ending series of cross-junctions. The Italian and Spanish blood is an interesting mix, and a terrifying one when put to effect on the roads... but I was with it and loving it. Nothing was going to stop me on my new adventure.

The powers that be were not on my side however. Has anyone here heard of signposts? And what about maps that are up-to-date? This concoction of inadequacy had the potential to really frustrate Lord Farquoi, which is quite an achievement I must say. So after an hour of trying to get out of Mendoza on the correct road I found myself bouncing down a cracked tarmac strip with the rich, mossy-green banks of the Andes slopes rapidly filling the little windscreen of my silver Corsa, heavy grey, cotton clouds decending over them so that the peaks were blotted from view. This was promising indeed.

A rush of excitement as.... oh...

A dead end with tourist stalls selling everything you might possibly need to take home, from Gaucho ponchos to wooden flute broaches.

A quick exit after being seen attempting to get into the wrong silver car with my key. Mildly embarassing seeing as the owner of that Fiat was apparently calling over to me as I showed frustration in not being able to get into the car. One of my better moments. DOH!

Leaving Mendoza once again, on another route, I felt relief. This was the tarmac to take me to Puente del Inca. It felt right. The shabby huts made of breeze-block and wood gave way to open flat Cuyo plains. The narrow strip of scorched tarmac, seemingly never ending in its relentless straight slice through the olive-green briggy twush (or is that twiggy brush?) that filled the flat landscape all around, rippled with fissures and bounced me and my speeding silver bullet. Once more the clouds were accumulating over the looming undulations of Andes slopes that break so indiscretely from the horizon. The moist shadows bled into the greens of the undergrowth that covers the banks to mix up an incredibly rich, green, mossy texture over the forms. The green spongey trees and bushes of Hornbey railway sets came to mind.... and with it my somewhat unrealistic dreams of creating one of those incredibly intricate train sets in my loft as a kid....

As the tarmac fell apart the road began to weave and incline slightly and the shadows of the grey clouds were cast over me. There was something really quite ominous about the athmosphere as though something bad was about to happen. I passed one car. Was that a good sign or not? Even the donkey I passed looked quite miserable. Though I was slihtly distracted from this by the jumping Spanish CD in my stereo, Michelle Thomas calmly burning my ears over and over again with:

"The emphasis must go at the end. You must be careful to put the emphasis on 'eeeeto', 'necesseeeeeeeeeeto'. The emphasis must go at the end. You must be careful to put the emphasis on 'eeeeto', 'necesseeeeeeeeeeto'. The emphasis must go at the end. You must be careful to put the emphasis on 'eeeeto', 'necesseeeeeeeeeeto'.The emphasis must go at the end. You must be careful to put the emphasis on 'eeeeto', 'necesseeeeeeeeeeto'. The emphasis must go..."

Goodbye Michelle! Time is up. There was little hair left on my scalp and under no circumstances was there room for both of us in that car.

Unexpectedly the remainder of the tarmac came to an abrupt end and the road started to bank and weave sharply into the damp slope. I passed a middle-aged couple sipping from their thermos flasks from the back of their 4x4, the looks of puzzlement on their faces as I threw pebbles up over them concerning me ever so slightly.... was I not meant to be up there? Perhaps this was not such a wise idea. Which is exactly why I carried on.

Relief! Another car, as small as mine swung into view as it descended towards me. Arms waving from the windows encouraged me to stop for a friendly chat.

"Habla Ingles?" the three eager male occupants proffered in shaky accents.
"Si Senors... how are you doing?" I replied.
"It's not good up there" the driver delivered with an evident streak of Irish blood bubbling from his vocal chords. "Yeah... we just had a flat tyre!" a passenger ejected dramatically.
"Yes, we had a flat. There are a lot of sharp rocks on the track up there. We stupidly drove all the way over (from Santiago). There is thick fog. Bad conditions."

Thanking my excitable fellow lunatics I bade them good luck and continued my assent. What fools attempting to drive all the way over this old Chile-Argentina Andes pass. Ok, so it's true. I too had considered it. But Beaver points (I never made it to Cubs) to me for being sensible enough to draw a line on my stupidity. Within a few sharp and narrow mountain turns it was clear that this road was no more than a small track cut into the rock-face. My little wheels had no more than slick, grooved and rutted rock, loose grit, stones and rocks and a wet coating to gain traction on. A lone llama leapt up onto the bank above as I decelerated with the gearbox before swinging the car up again, now into the creeping tendrils of fog. Within a few turns the valley below was all but invisible and all I could see was a few meters of rock-face and track.... and the fog. It was at this point that I re-assessed my situation...

...please refer to the opening quote.

Adrenalin moved me on through the bends, around the fallen rocks and further up the pass. In retrospect I am truly grateful for the fog... otherwise I may have been terrified of what was below the edge of the track and the fact that not one safety barrier stood between me and the drop below. Indeed I should have been mildly terrified. Memories of family holidays sprung to mind, dad driving us over the mountains to the South of Spain on some tiny road. My father's enthusiastic cliff-edge driving being bombarded with pannicky shrieks from my mother, followed by the image of the terrified bikini, sarong and sun-visor-clad Mrs Fisher standing in the middle of the road, refusing to get back into the car despite the honking of horns from the cars that had stopped behind us! Ma. You had it good. For on this road I have no doubt that you would have jumped off the edge of this Andes track to be done with the despair!

At 3000m I admitted defeat. The fog had defeated me. I did not want to spend the night on this pass in the middle of a cloud. Puente del Inca will have to wait. Once I had done a swift 3-point turn on the rocky road I thrashed the gears and swung the car down the twisting mountain track. Perhaps rally driving is for me.... after all, I made it down alive...

8.10.07 - Is There Any Justice?

Sometimes I have this feeling that I am far too honest for my own good.

I have been aware of this for quite some time. I always, somewhat foolishly perhaps, put my hand up and own up to my bad behaviour, ever since I was five years old I suppose when an overriding guilt swept over me for pinching a paintbrush shaped eraser from Emma who sat on the desk next to me and was so distraught that she was unable to control her bladder... a disgracefully callous and fiendish act that I did not own up to. Usually any conspirators keep quiet however, bulging their watery eyes a little more than usual as if to imply extraordinary innocence and ignorance! I shan't mention any names... but more fool them, they will one day get their comeuppance for their dishonesty and willingness to leave me to take responsibility and the resulting flack alone (call me a martyr if you wish! ) .... or will they?

Monday had brought a surge of excitement for I was making my way out of Buenos Aires to explore the West of Argentina, starting with Mendoza in the heart of Cuyo vineyard territory. Rowena, the cheerful portenos on reception, had neglected to notice that I owed them for an extra night and so casting aside the Espanol-Ingles chit-chat I proudly displayed my honesty (thank you mother and father) and proffered the 75 extra Pesos. In return she happily complimented my new sunglasses...

"They make you look like a tigerrrr" she giggled.... GRRRRRR!!

Such a simple airport transfer became really rather complicated... and two hours later I was in my second cab heading all the way back into Buenos Aires to the local airport that was only ten minutes away from my hostel. Not one to get stressed by these things I calmly sat on the back seat and thought of flowery meadows and the irritating little girl that runs through one in the opening sequence to "The Little House on the Prairie". I was not happy getting into the cab back at the international airport, because I had a sense of distrust in the driver who kept on glancing in his mirror at me. "The Little House on the Prairie" for all of it´s preachings was at least taking my mind off that image I had of the taxi taking an alarming detour and pulling up under a concrete flyover where the homeless were huddling to keep warm around a fire in a trash can....

"Ciente veinte pesos senor" the driver said cheerfully as he let me out of the cab at the domestic airport to the East of Buenos Aires.

Gulp. 120 Pesos. But i was not too concerned... twenty ponds was not going to bust the bank and at least he had managed to get me there in time for my flight. I handed him a carefully selected 100 and two 10s before glancing away to grab my bag.

"No, ciente viente pesos" he muttered as he fanned out three 10s in his hand.

"Oh, siento!" I said to apologise as I grabbed a 100 Peso note from my wallet. Silly me. But "NOOOO!" a voice in my head screamed. He was conning me. I might as well just be done with it and take all of my clothes off, get out of the taxi naked and tell the driver to be off with all of my possessions! Despite what you may think, I did not opt for this birthday suit display. What an absolute fool I am for falling for such a lame trick. Far too polite to say anything and tell the driver where to go. I had even glimpsed out of the corner of my eye his lapse attempt to drop a note into the foot well of the cab (my 100 Peso note I am certain), when he no doubt replaced it with a 10. And yet my reflexes immediately replaced it when he objected! And I apologised!! I deserved to be ripped off.

So that is what the honest traveller gets in return for a good deed. I have not let it bother me too much, and instead see the amusing side. But, is there ANY justice? Will he get what he deserves? I only hope that the 100 Peso note went towards something worthy, such as adopting an endangered whale in the Antarctic.

Looking back, I could have wasted 100 Pesos in a far more exciting manner. I could have dressed up as Eva Peron (a swept back blond wig tied into elaborate buns on the back of my head, a sharply tailored skirt-suit, a neat chain of pearls around my neck and a streak of rouge on my lips would have set off the theme beautifully ) climbed to the famous palace balcony in Plaza 9 del Mayo to throw one hundred 1 Peso notes to the thrilled crowd below with an elegant sweeping motion of my arm. What fun that would have been. Perhaps even money well spent?

Far more punches for my Pesos!

7.10.07 - I Recoleta the Madrid Civil War

Buenos Aires is a city that appears to be struggling to maintain its posture. Everything seems old and decrepid, from the ancient Peugeot´s clattering around the streets with their dark green and yellow taxi liviery to the telephone lines that weave their way across the streets from building to building, from the boarded and shuttered shops to the pavement that is in such disrepair that one cannot help but feel that a large crevasse will open up under your feet at any given moment. I am so relieved that I am not an elderly lady.... in part because I doubt I would be able to make it to the end of the block without taking a tumble on a loose tile and end up with a ladder worthy of assisting a window cleaner in my stockings... the unintentional suggestive nature of that last sentence sounds dreadful but it made me laugh so it stays in the text!

"Oh young maaaan!!!"

Take a walk down any street in Buenos Aires and you will see where I am coming from. South. Walking towards the centre I spent a good deal of time looking up at the buildings around me. Occasionally a handsome old building is in sight, often in apparent disrepair, with the usual leaking gutters, weed growth and need of a good paint licking. Gaps are apparent in the rows, no attempt made to disguise the ghostly form of the structure that was evident on its neighbours walls. A car park makes use of the open space now. Concrete architectual insults have been thrown up into spaces once home to impressive colonial architecture all over the city, the weathered concrete casting a depressing numbness over the view.

Avenida de Mayo runs from West to East across the centre of town and is claimed by the Argentines to be the widest avenue in the world at over 400 feet. They are welcome to it to be quite honest. In the 1940s the Communists cleared a long row of beautiful Italian renaissance inspired mansions to make way for the new, impressive avenue. Of course the only one that remains, and obstructs the Avenida, is the French embassy! The French calimed it was private land and refused to budge... no stereotype jokes at this point please! But boy is it ugly on Avenida de Mayo. Hideous, bland and cheap looking concrete buildings are packed into the blocks on either side.... rewally quite depressing when you see the eveidence of how beautiful the city once would have been.

And it is here that I realise what I am reminded of... where I could not put my bony finger on it before. I feel like I am walking through the Madrid I picture from the Spanish civil war. It is really reminiscent of the European city that I love so much... though this city is tired and run down, where there are gaps I expect to see piles of rubble, the endless displays of posters for the political elections, the crumbling San Telmo and rubbly pavements everywhere.... I would not have been surprised to see barricades hastily erected across the streets with any furniture that was at hand... it is uncanny.

The one saving grace this city has, is its people. There is an overiding positive feeling from the people that you speak to. From the friendly "buenos dias" in the local cafe to the music that can be heard on every street corner. On Sunday evening I found a perch outside a bar in Plaza Dorrega and watched as the San Telmo antiques market drew to an end. Tango music and the roar of an audience... an incredible bongo performance can be heard around another corner. The area is buzzing with life and the happy locals are having an absolute ball. This is what i expected of Buenos Aires and I love it.

And Recoleta Cemetary was stunning... the walled area where wealthy portenos were buried. Every well-to-do family had or has a spot in Recoleta´s resting place. Ornate structures with glass domes, towers, spires, angels and all manner of decoration form streets inside the walls, the deceased family members´ coffins entombed inside. It is fascinating... and strangely morbid that this should be such a huge tourist destination! Caskets are easy to spot, some open to the elements and clearly crumbling. Food is left out for the multitude of cats... to stop them eating the corpses!

Did I visit Eva Peron´s (or Madonna as one friend referred to her when asking a porteno for directions to her final resting place!!) tomb I hear you cry? I was not going to go out of my way to desperately hunt her down... though the sight of a Japanese family studying a map of the cemetary in detail almost had me laying bets that I would end up at Evita´s tomb should I follow them. I was leaving through the collumns at the entrance when a local lady with incredibly neat English dialect gave me a map and pointed out Evita... oh go on then. I could just make out the black marble fascade over the hoard of tourist who were listening intently to the story of Juan´s battle to have Evita entombed inside Recoleta.

Ha... but one of my favourite moments occurred as I went to bed. The German lesbian lovers arrived that evening. I smiled and gave a cheerful "buenos noches" at the one as she made her way to the female bathrooms... she strode past, slim and upright, hair peroxide-bright, short-cut and overly prim, the sharp nose held up to slice through the air like the bow of U-boat hunting its target and her mouth puled tightly across her jaw with a slight downwards curl at the corners. No reply. On turning back I saw her inspect the view of the bathrooms from a good five paces back. That lady sure knows how to have fun, I can tell!

They had turned the lights off in the main corridor when they went to bed... childish but irresistable all the same, I reached out through my double doors and flicked the floodlights back on again! Back into bed with a grin on my face....

6.10.07 - Tango or Steak?

I went to bed feeling mildly lonely on Friday 5th October 2007. I had a case of the blues. Before my dear friends and family rush to send me messages of condolence (oh go on then.... I like the attention), understand that I am putting the emphasis on MILDLY. A whisky stop ensured that I was sleepy, and with five minutes I was fast asleep within the four flower-wallpapered walls of my hostel room.

And behold! On waking I felt a new sense of excitement! I was refreshed and full of new travelling spirits. It was time to do something new. I was going to book a flight to Mendoza in the West of Argentina for Monday, to begin an adventure fit for a Lord-a-Far-Far. It was time to leave the big cities behind and explore the countryside... alone. With this new realisation my day could only get better.... starting with my shower.

Hostel Ayres Portenos is a quirky themed hostel. I picked it for the sheer tack-value and boy did I get it. The old 19th Century villa is painted from doorframe to locker with tango murals and an occasional characertured model of a milonguero (male tango dancer) leaning over a false balcony or greeting that miserable German lesbian couple at the door.... it sounds foul I am sure (I am not talking about the German lesbian lovers), but it is bright and good fun. The piece de resistance is in the bathroom however. So you want a shower or to go for your daily constitutional (the latter phrase a corker from Donald).... either way you head to the gents, or the ladies, walk into a cubicle and it is all there for you! The sheer pleasure I felt in that little cubicle (no jokes please), and the sense that I have been cheated for 27 years in never having experienced this before..... sitting on the lavatory with the hot showerwater pouring over my feet! Such a joy... you can try this one at home... grab a bucket and fill it with hot water the next time you need to take a seat in the bathroom. Ha! ;-)

Tonight was the night for me to see a tango show in San Telmo. While I sat in Plaza Dorrego with a cerveza watching the sun set while sketching away with a moment of inspiration I stareted to divert from my itinery. I blame the beer. I suspect it was the evil 'wife beater' Stella Artois. I could go to see a tango show on my own. Or, I could try out the bistro below the hostel that is always so busy and have a great piece of steak. Hmm. Guess what I did....

Steak lovers.... if you are like me you know when you have a really great steak. In fact you know that you have had several really great steaks over the years, you just cannot remember where? So there is a Top 10 that you can safely assume your latest amazing steak slots in without having to make the dedicated decision to name it "the best ever". Wow. This steak was incredible... so beautiful in fact that I am dribbling on the space bar... oh and on Alt. Sleeve. There. This steak was thick and tender, moist and the colour of paprika inside.... but the flavour.... like nothing I have had before. Served with a pot of the local chimichurri paste... oil, chilli, thyme... UHH!

I feel so much better for getting that off my chest.... who needs tango anyway?!

5.10.07 - Walking Buenos Aires With Elvis Under an Umbrella

BOOM! Rumble-rattle-rumble...... titter... tatter...

Gritty daylight filters through the decades of urban silt that have accumulated on the panes of glass that cling to the tall arched wooden window frames, casting a dull glow over the aged decadence of peeling wallpaper and ornate wall panelling. Layers of soot roll out from the gaping black hearth unnoticed by the handsome old marble fire surround that awaits a new dawn. Feeling somewhat out of place in this dank, neglected opulence I look up through the dancing clusters of dust and into the shadows high above, just able to make out the elegant forms of a multitude of decay encrusted gems swinging ever so slightly from their frame as though awoken by my presence.

Turning back towards the tall double doors to step back into the mozaic magnificence of the main hall I feel a surge of excitement sweep through my body. The potential for this rambling piece of history is breathtaking, and I am fortunate enough to be person to bring it back to...

BOOM! Rumble-rumble-rattle....pitter... patter...

Crawling through a miniature attic door that even Alice would find to be a tight squeeze I find myself to be in a tiny room. It seems perfectly normal to me. Why shouldn´t one have rooms this small in one's house?! A bed is made up in thecorner and a naked bulb illuminates the cosy space. Another miniature door necessitates further use of my hands and knees. There is a new sense of urgency in my pace as I realise there is a danger in the musty air. Claustrophobia begins to grab a greasy hold of my temples with the understanding that there is a predator downstairs, and I am the prey. The alien beast glides up the bare wooden staircase, it's octopus head protected from the native athmosphere by a special piece of gear that looks like an upturned goldfish bowl. A fluid tentacle snaps through Alice´s little attic door as I drop out of immediate reach though a trapdoor. Frenetic movements upstairs add a new sense of urgency to my desperate plight, and as if in mockery the beast HONK! HONK!

A bead of sweat on my forehead. My squinty eyes adjusted to the light to see the white fan hanging high over my head from the ornate ceiling caramel painted ceiling. Huh? Oh. So the sleeping tablet worked then I thought to myself as I picked the pen and the SuDoku book out of my bed and untangled my headphones from my neck. On opening the shutters on the tall 19th Century doors and stepping onto the balcony to hear the crescendo of traffic and see the grey, overcast sky I pieced together the evidence that a thunder storm had swept over the city in the small hours.

Here's to my first morning in Buenos Aires!

So what to do? Go shopping. Armed with a sketchpad, guide to Buenos Aires and an iPod I headed North from San Telmo´s decrepid streets in search of Avenida Florida. The heavens opened up over me, and while not adverse to getting seriously wet, I decided the time had come to invest in a brollie! And a pair of sunglasses. And a pair of cashmere and wool jumpers (though at 130 Pesos or roughly 20 Pounds who could resist?). And what better way to escape the rain than to spend the day ambling in and out of backstreet bars and cafes?

I hate to destroy the moment, but the most exciting discovery of the day was not Buenos Aires. Nor the thrill of drinking alone at lunchtime in a buzzy Italian restaurant. More exciting even than the new inspiration I found to start filling my wee leather book with energetic little sketches? Walking the streets of the Microcentro, Retiro and San Telmo with a smile on my face and my headphones set firmly in ears....

I HAD JUST DISCOVERED ELVIS!!

A BIG HUNK OF LOVE Avenida FloridaOne Night Plaza de Mayo The Girl of my Best Friend Avenida 9 de Julio Can´t Help Falling In Love Avenida Codoba BURNING LOVE Balcarce Its Now Or Never Tucuman Always On My Mind Defensa ALL SHOOK UP Avenida Belgrada Suspicion Avenida Paseo Colon Teddy Bear Venezuela Hound Dog Avenida Santa Fe RETURN TO SENDER Jailhouse Rock Avenida Independencia

4.10.07 - Argentina Locos!

The big black bag that I call mine was bundled into the passenger seat of the Renault Clio sedan by a friendly young chap who was living proof that the 'mohawk' hairdo is still alive in South America. I bundled myself into the back seat before he ofered to do so for me. Another slicked mohawk...

"No hablo Ingles?" I asked the mohawk.
"Ah! Ingles! Si!...No! Ahhh... David Beckham! "

Well this was going to be an interesting conversation! The mohawk cheerfully chatters away in the front seat that is cutting the blood circulation from my legs. The engine strains to pull the car up to speed for the motorway as we head towards Buenos Aires, but it does not matter... the cars are so small here! All around us on the road are booted versions of European superminis from Peugeot, Citroen, Renault, Ford et al. The early indication is that the rumours are true and Argentina is still fighting to strengthen its economy since its collapse a few years back. We overtake a battered old 1960s truck with strips of old tyre fitted onto its bumpers and wooden crates full of succulent fruits piled high onto its flat-bed, thick oily smoke belching out of the exhaust.

The horns blast in chaiotic symphony on the other side of the road as we pull away from a toll gate. Mohawk laughs, points his finger to his temple and circles it, chuckles....

"Argentina locos!!"

... the message is clear... the horny honkers are crazy... and Argentinian´s clearly have a good sense of humour!

Green fields give way to the shabby concrete balconies of ugly towerblocks, the usual oddities from everyday life cluttering each and every one, a sight that is reminiscent of any European mainland city. Crumbling two, three, four-storey buildings are packed against each other on either side of the concrete overpass and into the distance all around there is nothing to see but bleak urban sprawl. The further into the city we drive, the more concrete obscenities there seem to be.

The cheeky little car swings down a grey concrete ramp of the motorway onto Avenue 9 de Julio which appears to be the main wide North/South thoroughfare through Buenos Aires, and we are bumper to bumper with other portenos who have somewhere and nowhere to go. I am feeling confused by the whole sight... I am in Buenos Aires, Argentina, and yet here I am amongst all sorts of European cars, many designs so old that you would struggle to notice any on the roads of the European continent. From first appearances the architecture, old and new(er), looks to have been pulled straight from France, Spain and Italy by the settlers and their descendants. I came all this way to be in Europe?

Horns honk and bumpers grind... no this is not a Canye West or Beyonce video... and we pull free from the grubby gridlock. The rattle from my teeth indicates that the taxis suspension needs a check, and that we are rumbling down a cobblestone street. A peek through the windscreen confirms this. The grey 19th Century walls rise up on either side of us, occasional weeds breaking through the ragged pavement and old brickwork is visible where the rendering has given up the task of bonding. A corner is currently the home for a pile of garbage, posters and soggy notices forming a papier-mache coat for the old lampost that rises out at a slight angle from the ragged detritous. A bag moves, a head pops up from it and then it walks around to another spot... the scavenger continues to rummage for unwanted delights!

The taxi rattles past sorry handsome old facades, all decayed, some collapsed and most with large weeds growing out over the once impressive carved stone roof mantles. Shutters sometimes hang broken and open over damp black interiors, or access is prohibited by padlocked metal gates. Colourful graffitti characters inject a sudden burst of colour between a corner grocery store and an antiques shop. A tango scene is depicted on a small wall mural where two elderly ladies stand to chatter enthusiastically. A handsome bistro spills tables onto the pavement where a young couple walk past arm in arm. A hint of hope amongst the decay. The cab stops and I fall out.

Welcome to old San Telmo... the home of the Tango!

3.10.07 - Time to Fly From LA-LA-Land.

I was having an out-of-body experience on Wednesday morning. I watched as I packed my toothbrush and my musical banana in my backpack (which has still not been on my back yet... what a snob I am ). I observed the view of the McDonalds "drive-thru" where we purchased a couple of coffees and some breakfast.... and with horror I watched myself consume those two number 10's. Antelope Valley passed by the windows and I noticed LA seemed to sweep by in a blur. I bid Donald farewell from the curb outside Terminal 5 at LAX and casually watched the Dodge disappear into the morning traffic. I was strangely detached. And yet, there I was... alone again.

I was closer to tears than I had been when dad waved me off through the security at London Heathrow back in May... although admittedly the combination of no sleep and a caffeine tsunami had incapacitated most of my bodily functions on the morn of my travels. I will not bore you any further, but I will miss Donald and Mark and I am just so grateful to have met them and shared such great times. My home from home in the USA. America has been good to me....

God Bless America!

Just as the tears began to well my feet swung around and marched me off confidently to the Delta desk. Mind over matter. The show must go on. The next phase of my travels would be the most challenging yet and thankfully my grasp of the Spanish language would do me well. Oh. The Spanish language. Yes. Never mind, I am sure that the age-old English technique of speaking slowly and in a raised tone will get me by.... isn't that right ma?!

Two of the "Golden Girls" were sitting next to me! (Granny) Annie from Oregan sat to my left on the flight to Houston, her curled grey hair lifted high on her head to reveal gold ear studs and a gold chain necklace, a strong set of cheekbones and twinkly green eyes somehow giving away her ease and humour. Her rather more preened and cautious sister Glenda sat next to her with a similar haircut bathed in a warm red hue. And why were these two old ladies jetting off to Houston? Oh to go to an 800 person strong family reunion!! 800! I would love to see them try to talk to every one of their relatives there in one afternoon. And Annie leaned over with a cheeky grin on her face and confided in me...

"Oh dearrr.... I have to tell yah... (heh-heeee!).... ah'm no good at th' name thang!"

What a great granny. I just suspect that she was on good behaviour though. If her sister Glenda was not there she would have joined me for a G&T ("Oh that there is such a Briddish drink if ever I saw one!")... have no doubt!

SuDoku nearly cost me my next flight. Imagine that. Sitting at the bar slurping my Hoegaarden... a string of sixes going through my head as I check the boxes... "6 here... 6 there... 6 time... oh the time.... AHHH!!!". The darned book should have been left behind as punishment. I just made it to the plane by the whiskers on the stewardess' chin! So close.

I settled into my chair. Thankfully there was an empty seat between me and the rather large Austrian with thick grey-blond locks. Black trousers ( I didn't look but in retrospect I am convinced they would have been slightly too short for him), black waistcoat stretched over the belly and a vivid red shirt... how does that man sleep at night?! I managed to settle down and acted as though I was oblivious to anything in my peripheral vision for fear of a conversation striking up. It worked. I was alone with my (forgiven) SuDoku. I would emerge in the morning from a sea of pointless numbers and boxes to find myself in Buenos Aires. Perfect.

But why did the captain seem to be repeatedly pressurising the cabin?! I kept on hearing the same repeated 'whooshing' sound. I lifted my head as though seeking an explanation... and I got it. The 'whoosh!' seemed to be the sound that accompanied the darting motion of Benni's (the new name for my Auatrian travelling companion) tissue-laden hand to his nose. Oh help.

And then the sneeze....

"TssssssssssssssssssssssssT! TssssssssssssssssssssssssT!"

16.09.07 - The Ghost Town

The 395 has angled steeply up the incline of the mountain on the Eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada and Don proudly shows off the power of his V8 Hemi engined Dodge Charger, after all if it wasn't for the brute force of his rear-wheel-drive beast we may have struggled to get up there at all (isn't that right Donald?! ). We are now riding 9000 feet above the sea level and the peaks of the bare mountains seem almost within reach. While there is life up here, it is sparse and little more than gorse and hardy grass prevails. This is wilderness indeed... a perfect setting for the destination we are heading for.... the abandoned ghost town of Bodie.





Think of Bodie as the epitomy of the Wild West portrayed in the movies, a rural town notorious for wickedness and badmen, robberies, stagefights and death. By 1879 this gold mining town had a population that had swollen to approximately 10,000 souls and over the next 10 years produced $35 million of gold. This town was known as the wildest in the West with regular killings. Perhaps understandable when you take into account the extreme weather conditions, for in the winter the town would be stranded in the grip of -35C temperatures, up to 100 mile per hour winds and deep snow drifts..... enough to drive people to the edge perhaps?!



"Goodbye God, I'm going to Bodie" one little girl wrote in her diary as her family set off to start a new life!



We turn off the 395 between the walls of two cliffs that look as though they have just opened up to swallow us. The small lane snakes through the gully occasionally passing patches of vegetation that indicate the juice of life is present. There is no chance of going fast and one soon begins to feel a little claustrophobic. The gloomy grey cliffs and darkly cast shadows fall away a few miles down the lane to reveal a pasture of sorts... a lush, soft green immediately filling you with a brief sense of relief... when the tarmac suddenly runs out and we are cast onto a dusty track more suitable for a horse and cart! The scenery once more radiates the heat from the sun the only indication of life is dry grass. And then, after a few miles of airborn dust whipping up from the rolling tyres, we roll around the slope of a hill and deep rust coloured wooden shacks begin to appear in the dry meadows of the valley. The ricketty manmade forms are scattered with very little apparent order, with the more modern large grey sheds of the mines looming over the far slopes. Metal debris that has taken the same deep reddish brown tones as the wooden forms litters the scape amongst the dead grass and up on the slopes to our left the crumbling remains of wooden, stone and metal grave markings peep out from scorched undergrowth.



10,000 residents? Hard to imagine when you see the remnants of the town. The latter of two fires destroyed hotels, houses, saloons and the like in 1932 and until it was designated a historic park in 1962 it was left for the elements to decide Bodie's fate. There have been no efforts to restore the town, but instead the endeavour has been to maintain the 5% that remains in a state of "arrested decay". The little boy in me re-surfaced and my fascination with ruins and destruction resurfaced once more. With the map in hand (mine!) we explored the hard dirt streets of Bodie....



Old skeletal electricity pylons line the two main streets. The Protestant church with the old pews and a log burner clinging to the sinking wooden floorboards beneath the simple peaked windows. The crumbling wooden horse trap pulled straight out of a Western movie. The brick post office and hotel... a dusty saloon bar, stools and remnants of a liqueur display still visible through the windows. The wooden structure of the men's club leaning up against the hotel with all sorts of old fashioned gymnasium equipement still in place underneath crumbling wallpapered walls. The little town morgue (a stable business to be in no doubt! ) with its once richly decorated front rooms for family of dead relatives to discuss funeral arrangements.... the ornate wallpaper now bleached of most of its colour now crumbles onto the daybed and padded furniture below... then through a second window a casket sits alone in a room in all of its glory, awaiting the final goodbye from loved ones... and through the third a large display of remarkably short caskets fills a room. A bell hangs over the shed that is the fire house on Main Street next to the ruins of a hotel. The windows along the front of the schoolhouse reveal a single large classroom full of educational equipement from old cast-iron and wood single desks to the final writings on a large blackborad, from a cracked wooden ball the size of a football on the windowsill that once indicated to the kids where the President of the United States lived or where the two poles are to a dusty image of a human skeleton.... thick sheets of dust blended the scattered books into the surfaces of furniture. The Boon Store windows reveal shelves packed with displays of everyday goods that the people of Bodie needed to go about their lives. A peek through the window of a small wooden house reveals the collapsed ceiling and falling walllpaper once more and the thick dusty scattered over the table and chairs, the metal stove and the little iron bed visible through a doorway.



One house was open to walk into.... the remnants of the former owners scattered around, from an ornate chaise-longue below a weathered mirror, to the kitchen that still has a cupboard containing some encrusted china, old bottles and cooking equipment and the shreds of net curtains over a crumbling window. Broken layers of floor lino and decorative wallpaper reveal the basic wooden structure underneath and betray the humble standard of living.



It is truly bizarre that the villiage sits like this, as though residents fled in a rush with no care for their belongings. Rooms are untouched and caked in decades of dirt, while outside the extreme elements endeavour to raise it to the ground. The empty space where buildings once stood is now filled with metal scrap, from old mining tools and machinery to the rusting hulks of motor vehicles and wooden carts.



The sight of an old iron bathtub was too much to miss and so I whipped off my shirt to pose for the camera.... and on endeavouring to climb out I hear "Hey no! Stay in therrrre!" cried out by a white haired old man with a great dane (not his wife for she was behind his four-legged companion) and a camera pointed in my direction... so I obliged and proceeded to scrub under my arms!



Stories of duels, bank robberies, horrific accidents and of prostitues trying to be accepted by the community are rife and sketchy. Untold things have happened in this eery place and there is an overwhelming sense of.....

....well, lets just say that I would not want to spend the night there.

23.07.07 - A Spot of Culture?

Culture was the name of the game on Monday for Edward Guy Thomas Fisher. It was the day that I would break the cycle of waking up early and spending the day pottering aroud the villa and lounging around in the pool. It was the day that I would make some progress in my creative travelling mission. It was the day that I would go out there and show that I was driven to learn and to explore. It was an important day in the story of ME.

Whatever.

Actually Don suggested that I get a lift with him into Los Angeles and that I have a day at the Getty Museum. I will take the credit for the fact that I had already told him I intended to make a trip to the cultural castle that sits high up on the hillside over Beverley Hills, but he instigated it. I am going to hold my big "Thanks Don" back, just for now. Ungrateful I know.

So we head into Los Angeles and the imposing Getty building comes into view high up on the green, tree lined hill. If it had turrets and a drawbridge I would be making more references to the castle, however being a modern, bright and clean design it conjures up memories of Tracey Island from the 'Thunderbirds' set. Happy days. Sadly there are no string puppets to be seen, not even George Bush or his fashionable poodle Tony. Don swung the Dodge into the drop-off area from where I would hop onto a tram to take me up the hillside. A bitter member of staff told us that the tram was not operating and that I would need to catch a bus up to the Getty Museum. So just around the corner I jump out of the car, grab my things and wave goodbye to Don. The Dodge disappears onto the main road. I ask another member of staff where I should go to get the bus.

"Get out de road! I come an' tok to you over der" he barked at me when I stepped into the completely empty drop-off area. Under these strict orders I did as he said, and when he decidd it was safe to come over to me he announced that the Getty Museum is closed on a Monday!

Oh. And there I was with no telephone and I did not want Don to have to pick me up again. I thanked him for the helpfulness of the staff in putting me in this predicament and decided to walk into town.

Oh. It seemed to be quite a long way. I walked for quite some time down towards the south on the 405 and there was nothing of any use to me such as a shop or a cafe. Oh no. That would make things far too simple! So after being propositioned by a large black man who pulled up on the other side of the road in his car I decided to walk around the Los Angeles National Cemetery. It is basically a large park with row upon row of white headstones and grass plaques dedicated to war veterans. The Bee Gees had their moment on the iPod and I walked around this peaceful, well groomed place in the sunshine. "Stayin' Alive" seemed to be quite ironic and I had to hold myself back from dancing up the paths and amongst the headstones! If only I was wearing a snazzy white suit. I sat myself down on a bench on Constitution Avenue and calmed myself down before resuming my walk.

Cutting through the back streets of Wiltshire Boulevard into Beverley Hills towards Santa Monica Boulevard was great. Green trees lined the roads and the houses were fascinating to compare. The plots do not seem particularly large in these Beverley Hills spots, and yet they are worth a lot of cash. Lush green, carefully manicured gardens roll up to houses of all shapes and sizes, from sharp modern with green tinted sheets of glass and Bauhaus simplicity, to New England panelled houses with neat and abundant cottage gardens. Sprinklers can be heard on every road, the occasional stream of water on the pavement in defiance to the stories of a possible hose pipe ban next year and severe water shortages.

And what came of my cultural enlightenment today? An afternoon of shopping in the Beverley Hills 'Western' shopping complex and a frozen yogurt with strawberries and almonds. And the double burger that Don and I bought at a drive-in at 09.45.... he read my mind so it must have been the right thing to do. Cultural schmultural was just not meant to be today....

22.07.07 - MC Lord Flips Some Pool-side Tunes.

A warm, dry breeze sifts through the crowd and over the pools magnetic cool depths. A rakish, long legged lady in a sharply styled cream bikini adorned with a chunky black Chanel buckle elevates herself up elegantly from a teak lounger as her long, sleek brown hair is flicked by the snap of desert air, to reveal a long, ornate, glittering piece of fine ear jewelery. She whispers into the ear of her beau, an effortlessly handsome man who stands confidently with his back to the pool as he discusses his latest high-profile wristwatch modelling campaign. The legs begin to do the walk past the group in a pair of poolside 'spikes' ( "Oh my God SHOES! " ) with a life of their own and the sleek party guest is drifted towards the open expanse of the villa's sliding doors.

Few heads have turned because this is no exceptional sight. Don and Mark's back yard has been transformed into an LA film set. This is an LA pool party after all. Clusters of people in the latest couture bathing costumes and surely the largest 'Jackie O' sunglasses I have ever seen (what is the point in wearing makeup if you have a pair of inter-locked dinner plates for sunglasses?!) are forming and merging like the wax in a lava lamp, an olive bejewelled Martini or a tall glass fanned with pineapple and strawberries in their hands. The hosts are busy networking through the crowd... Mark poses in front of the mountain-scape with a stylish 'dinner-plate' lady on each arm for the linen-wearing photographer, while Donald reclines 'pimp-like' in his new jacuzzi with a huddle of four guys and two gals hanging onto his every word. This guy is in demand.

And here I am, looking over the crowd from the terrace above. My best LA pout is adorned under my Prada eyewear. A white canopy flaps in the breeze above me holding the rays of the beating sun back from my neck. Amongst the party people I can hear the odd vocal sneaking energetically out of the pool scene below.... this is too good to be true...

"Woo!"
"Yeah!" "Alriiiiiiiiiiiiiight!"
"Get down!"

Marvin Gaye seems to be working it rather nicely with "Got To Give It up" . A smattering of guests is strutting carefully to the music, showing off their best poolside moves, not a smile to be seen for fear of giving the impression that they are having a good time. I will sort that one out... within moments I have flipped through my smooth-groove, terrace-tearing collection and I spin the next tune into the crowd. How can they resist James Brown...


"Fellahs I'm ready to get up and do mah thang....I wanna get into it man!"
"Woo!" "Yeah!"
"One... two... three... four.......

GET UP, ah... get on up...
GET UP, ah... get on up...
STAY ON THE SCENE... get on up...
LIKE A SEX-A-MACHINE...."

"OWW!!"

Reality check! Welcome to my vivid imagination... and thank you for humouring me by reading this. Let it be known that I have taken much pleasure in stretching the truth about our Sunday around the pool. Perhaps I owe you an explanation for how I dreamt up this sad diary entry?

It is really quite simple.... having lost and found my iPod and joined my hosts for a relaxing day around the pool I felt the urge to play my own music. After the late night we had had we decided that a cocktail was on the cards from the start and so we had a great day. I had such a thrill flipping through my music list and picking out track after track... (of course Mark and Don may not agree!)... the sun beating down out of the clear sky, and that spectacular view.

Three of the guys we had been chatting to at The Abbey the night before turned up... but not until about 6pm. Of course I had an early meeting first thing in the morning (sure Edward) so this was a great pain for me! The drink flowed, the alternating coloured pool lights flicked on, the jacuzzi bubbled and the garden flares were lit. Into the jacuzzi we jumped to make the most of the sunset... and oh... was that wacky-backy being passed around?! So now of course the conversation took a turn for the worst inevitably, the one they call Christopher took the limelight and chattered away with his camp comedy... and we laughed.

This sure beats a Sunday night trudging through a drizzly summer evening in London to have a final weekend pint... I only wish my great friends there could be here with me to enjoy the moment.

21.07.07 - Flying The Flag With Pride

The flag.

It seems to be that every American home should have one and display it with pride. It is common to see them hanging from a specially erected flag pole in the front garden of a house whether it be in Beverley Hills or the Antelope Valley where Don and Mark's house is. Of course my fellow Brits would scoff at such an idea.... who would display a Union Jack in such a manner in the UK after all? It is just not the done thing... you can just imagine the neighbours laughing over their Sunday roast at the mention of your display of patriotism!

I rather like the Union Jack though... it looks far more stylish than the 'Stars 'n' Stripes'. Perhaps I will invest in one on my return to England to hang from my father's bedroom window!

It just so happens that Mark and Don have a flag in their cupboard, or perhaps 'closet' would be more appropriate. The pool party will be upon us within a week and Donaldo is very keen to take the flag outside and show it off to the world. Patriotic? No. This particular flag can be seen hanging proudly from the streetlamps of the main boulevards in San Francisco. It is made up of horizontal stripes but there are no stars. Dorothy sang about it. Yes, I am talking about that bold and jolly gay rainbow flag.

Don had been eagerly skipping around the villa clutching the flag. While Mark and I were relaxing in the pool the flag appeared over the railings of the upstairs terrace followed by the straw hat donning Don and his excited question "Hey guys, what do you think?!". Of course our response was to raise our eyebrows at each other. Considering the view down through the valley I would say "so I take it that you want everyone to know your sexual preference then?". The flag disappeared.

Don came bounding around the pool while Mark was out in Palmdale with a long black plastic drainpipe cluthched in his outstretched hand. On reaching the height of the jacuzzi's terrace which has the best view through the valley he turns to me as I float dreamily, plants the post and says "Hey homey! What do you think? I could hang the flag from this!". I thought this was fantastic news indeed, imagining the flag billowing boldly in the wind from the mountainside for all to see. Worthy of a photograph I felt. "Great idea" I said heartily! What a shame it never came to be! Perhaps Don should wear the flag as a cape at his P.A.R.T.Y?

The Abbey again?! Why certainly! After a strenuous day of floating and dreaming, and helping to prepare for the party next week ( in the form of lighting displays, hanging a certain flag to keep the D happy and doing other general bits and pieces) we decided a few drinks in town were needed to spruce up the feathers for. As usual the bar was packed with a brigade of neatly coiffed LA party posers, and this time I had a decent group of friends around me. It makes a change from being the Mr Drinkaloner at the end of the bar... of course this has never lasted for long but even so it is a pleasure to walk in with friends! And it seems that the three of us are quite a good team together. Inevitably the evening turned into a whirlwind of chatter, bad jokes and stupidity.

By 05.30 Mark and I decided that it was probably about time to stop talking on the terrace and call it a night....

"IT'S A NIGHT!!"

19.07.07 - Wild Fang... I Think I Luurve You

I have some news to break to you all.

There is someone special in my life.

He is male.

He goes by the name of Fang.

He is 18.

He is great in bed.

He has a hairy back.

He is cross-eyed.


HE IS A CAT!!!


Fang is the shadow in the dark, windowless hallway. He has risen from his slumber on a chair in the dining room or the fur throw in my room (which he blends into!). On seeing me walk past he casually strolls around the corner into the light of the ground floor living room, his thick, luxurious Mink-like fur exchanging the dark of the shadows for a silvery-grey mottle. His tail lazily flicks up and around the corner of the wall as though for balance as he leans into.....


...wait....



....tail?



...HE HAS NO TAIL!



Poor little blighter... what have they been doing to you here little Fang? I suspect that Mark and Don have a tail-pohobia seeing as neither of the dogs has a tail either. Or perhaps they fixed the tails to the back of their bikes like fox-tails? Oh you never had one?

Fang glides over to me and decides to sit at my feet, so calmly that you almost think he is hoping you have not noticed his arrival. He glances around, blinking as though he has just been pulled out of a deep sleep, the bright light playing havoc on his retinas. And then there is the bald patch on his back where the old thing has neglected himself and a tuft of fur has been removed. Of course he has no idea, in fact I am sure that if he was human he would be like one of those middle aged Englishmen who only cuts his hair under duress... the wife threatening to leave if the locks don't get a chop! This patch suddenly gives puss a comical appearance.

And then he looks up to catch my gaze.

Oh Fang. How can I take you seriously as you gaze up to ask for some love, when you appear to be staring intently at an imaginary fly on the tip of your nose? A cross-eyed cat?! Do you suppose that he is aware he has a special gaze? Does he see two of everything?!

I love to stroke this pussy... he gets such a thrill from it. The paws stretch and relax and the purring rattles the windows. And stroke his belly as he is standing? The back arches up and he stands on the tips of his paws while taking little struts at the same time.... the joy is written all over him.

Fang prefers the dog food. And Fang likes to drink from a tap in the bathroom. And Fang likes to go outside occasionally, retreating as soon as the exciteable pups bound over to lick and sniff him in equal measure. And Fang likes to be with people.

So as I get into bed the Fang struts in and musters the energy to leap onto the bed. Purring wildly he plods over towards my head and begins to find a comfortable spot curled up against me and under my arm. Sleep is only disturbed by his weak bladder, so the occasional plodding of paws on the carpet can be heard as he disappears to relieve himself. Once back in his spot at my side he reats a paw on my arm and drifts off contentedly....

...and then his snoring starts....

16.07.07 - LA Cruisin' Hannibal Style

The joy of driving?!Well I thought London traffic was bad but wait until you see LA.

"LA is a great big freeway, put a hundred down and buy a car" Dionne Warwick cheerfully sings in that 1960s classic "Do You Know The Way To San Jose".

I do not have a clue how to get to San Jose although I recommend that she 'google it. After all the mighty Google people know all. I suspect that the Wizard of Oz would have been out of a job had Google been around. But even if she does not know how to get to San Jose, she does have a point with the LA-freeway connection. The roads are huge and never ending, and they seem to be eternally busy. It is as though there is a vast population of people here who do not have a home, and spend their entire lives merely driving!

The thrill of driving is lost here it seems. So the best place to be is in the passenger seat. From this splendid position you can entertain yourself immensely by observing the other drivers. To the right is Senor Rodriguez sporting a proud handlebar moustache, just visible through the dusty window to be chewing a plastic lighter (please do not ask me why.... I suppose it was to hand at the time) as he drives his battered and collision-streaked 1980s Ford open-bed pick-up. Just passing on the left is a sleek black Mustang with noone driving it... oh my mistake... Aviator sunglasses-wearing Mickey Mustang was in the passenger footwell searching for his marbles. And why is the car in front drifting to the left before making a sudden correction and repeating the process to the right? On passing the erratic silver Toyota Camry it all makes sense... MAKEUP!! Well we know this one in England too don't we? But how can Katya Camry be curling her eyebrows at the same time as driving.... AND being on the phone to her Brucey Bonus boyfriend? Hidden talent I suspect.

Give me the opportunity to drive though and I will be happy no matter what the driving conditions may be. And Don must have worked this out pretty quickly. Presuming his Dodge may have been ready for collection in LA by the end of the day he suggested that I join him for a speedy 'car pool lane' commute into LA and then then drive back. In the Mercedes SL convertible. DEAL!

And how it made my day. The car is red with a cream interior (ooooh) and is about ten years old. To me this gives a Mercedes enough time to become attractive! Driving position, mirrors...check, check. iPod.... CHECK! And so Beverley Hills was subjected to some classic 1960s Ike and Tina Turner style rhythm and blues. A big smile swept across my face and I headed back towards Antelope Valley on the freeways. I have to admit I felt pretty cool...

...until I heard that I snored the night before. "But I don't snore?!" I objected when Mark said that he had overheard me snoring the night before. Preposterous! It is not possible. Is it? I sounded like what?! Nooooooo!!!

Yes indeed... apparently I sound like Hannibal Lecter making that creepy slithering sound when he contemplates eating a succulent human cheek morsel when I snore. I do not know what to say.....