Travel Biography - Week 101.

A Stag Night in England versus Ibiza.

Here we go again! As I read through the pages of today's Daily Mail national newspaper - this particular media aimed at a conservative middle-class society that is interested in every aspect of the Royal Family, politicians and wealthy celebrities, there is another two-page spread about us Brits on holiday, this time, at the Spanish Balearic island of Ibiza. This week, the article was written by the journalist Jane Fryer whilst in San Antonio, observing mainly the female tourists, "scantily dressed, and worn down by endless drinking, drug-taking, vomiting, fighting, and sex in the streets, along with inevitable hospitalisations..."

She then includes one example of a groom at a stag night party, leaving me wondering whether he would ever make it to the church on time. Should the reader think I'm one of those sad, prudish individuals who had never cracked a smile, I recall my stag night back in 1999. After I was treated to a slap-up meal at a restaurant in another town several miles from home, I was then taken outside and handcuffed to a sturdy metal railing of a garden fence and had water thrown over me. Then all my mates ran off and hid, leaving me drenched and immobile in the deserted street whilst they hid and watched from a distance.

But I wasn't drunk, as I hardly touched any alcohol that evening, save a glass of wine, perhaps. I wasn't sick, I didn't vomit, and I was fully dressed. Thank goodness. One of my mates, after handcuffing me, wanted to pull down my trousers as well, but the others didn't agree to that. Furthermore, I didn't see the inside of a police station or a hospital. Furthermore, there were no hard feelings. Rather, I was still in high spirits yet nervous for the coming wedding a week later.

Arriving at Santa Barbara, California.

At State Street, Santa Barbara.

An example of Spanish architecture.

An outdoor restaurant on State Street.

Yet, just over two years before that memorable night, I was at the AYH hostel in the Gaslamp Quarter of Downtown San Diego, preparing to leave the city to arrive at my next stop, Santa Barbara, 218 miles or 350 km north along the Californian coastline. For the first time, after 1977, 1978, and 1995, I didn't have a Greyhound Bus Ameripass ticket, leaving me with the need to pay the fare before boarding. Hence, interstate bus travel in 1997 was restricted, staying local to Los Angeles, where I would fly back to London after three weeks spent in California.

The journey from San Diego to Santa Barbara wasn't direct but necessitated a change of buses at the Los Angeles terminal. From here, I boarded the Los Angeles to San Francisco Americruiser which has a service stop at Santa Barbara. Los Angeles is almost halfway along the route. The distance north to Santa Barbara from L.A. is almost the same as from San Diego to the south.

Arriving at Santa Barbara.

As I was about to leave San Diego, like with Sydney, I didn't fully realise that this would be the last time I ever walked the streets of the city. The city bus terminal was still at the same location on Broadway, a few blocks east of the YMCA building. (The bus station had moved to a different location since.) Once boarded, I was on my way.

After alighting to change buses at L.A. and waiting a while before boarding, I was once again cruising along the route I was already familiar with, having travelled directly to San Francisco in bygone years. But unlike the previous overnight journeys done on this route, this was a daytime journey, having left San Diego during the late morning and arriving in Santa Barbara during the late afternoon or early evening.

After arriving at the Greyhound station and alighting, there were no adverts for hostels at the main foyer, as many bus stations have, including the one at San Diego. Therefore, I had to rely on the USA hostel guide I had, which I used in 1995. By then, it was already outdated. There was meant to be an AYH hostel just down the street from the terminal, but when I found the address, I saw that the hostel had closed down permanently. There was no alternative accommodation advertised, so I was left to look around the town.

And it took a long while. It was after someone suggested the hostel at East Ortega Street. It turned out to be a Banana Bungalow hostel, affiliated with Rucksackers North America, the first of its two hostels I stayed in California (the other being West Hollywood). It was housed in a disused military hut, a large arch-roofed chamber where the majority of occupants had a mattress arranged in two or three rows along the floor. However, for a higher fee per night, I was allocated a bed in one of the side bedrooms.

And that wasn't without an incident at the reception, located immediately at the entrance. The desk was staffed by two young men, I assume were the owners.

As I was greeted by one of them, and with the heavy rucksack on my back, I gasped, By heck, it took me a long while to find this place after arrival.

To which he replied, Oh! That's a great pity. All the beds here are taken.

When he saw the look of horror after so much searching, he broke into laughter and gave me a choice of the main hall or, with a higher fee, sleeping in a small side dormitory. I felt a great relief that he was only joking, and I was happy to pay a little extra for the dormitory bed.

Los Pedros provides a background for the Beach.

Pier Views.

At Santa Barbara Pier.

Pelican on the Pier.

The hostel was housed in a disused military hut, a building with an arched roof. Like all other hostels, whether affiliated with HI or Rucksackers, this one too had a member's kitchen with an outdoor verandah for the dining area. However, its downside was that it had only one single-occupant bathroom, creating a problem if I needed to use it. But for a place to sleep at night, the accommodation was adequate.

For the record, sometime after I stayed there, the hostel closed down, and the hut became a superstore before it was eventually demolished. This backed the warning on the front page of the guide. American hostels often have a short lifespan before closing and the building is sold or demolished. However, some have survived to this day, including San Diego Downtown on Market Street, West Hollywood Banana Bungalow and even its sister in San Diego.

Those staying at the hostel were mostly men, although there were a few women as well. Among fellow backpackers was a British chap who was studying to be a psychiatrist, so he says, although he looked more like a mature student rather than a typical undergrad. And I was with a gay couple one evening in the kitchen whilst cooking dinner. Of all the residents there, the gay men were the only ones whom I sensed that I wasn't welcome by them, although they weren't hostile.

Like at Byron Bay hostel in New South Wales, here too, the staff laid special events for the guests. One of them was a beach volleyball contest one afternoon. However, when invited, I refused to join them. The memories of losing the table tennis at Arlie Beach in Queensland, followed by a thrashing I received at snooker at Coffs Harbour, NSW, had made me somewhat phobic with ball games. However, I partook in one of their evening suppers served by the staff, like at Byron Bay, and enjoyed a social.

Santa Barbara is a coastal town with a wide sandy beach crossed by a pleasure pier. The main shopping precinct lines State Street, through which Ortega Street crosses at right angles as with all symmetrical grid layouts. Like San Diego, Santa Barbara is a handsome, subtropical city backed by the mountains of the Los Pedros National Forest and the foothills of the Rockies. At the city railroad station, an Amtrack train remained stationary at one of its sidings.

I spent three nights in Santa Barbara, or four days in all. As far as I remember, there was no SeaWorld or zoo, but the pier did house a small aquarium. However, one advantage Santa Barbara had that San Diego hadn't, was the mountainous countryside visible in the background, the Los Pedros National Forest.

One day, while I was browsing in a bookshop, I went to the local attraction shelf. Among the books there, there was a guide on hiking trails around Los Pedros National Forest. The nearest trailhead from the city goes up Rattlesnake Canyon to Flores Peak, from there, magnificent views of the city and the coastal region can be seen and enjoyed. However, the guide also warned me that a certain bug - a variation of the tick, if bitten, could end up having Lyme Disease. And medical treatment in the USA isn't cheap!

As I left the shop and headed for the beach, I thought about these things. While I was in the bookshop, I also came across a fiction story, 2001 A Space Odyssey by Arthur C. Clarke, and I bought the book. Having seen the film by Stanley Kubrick, I thought having a read would help pass the time during quiet moments. Also, at the pier, there was a jukebox with a selection of Northsounds CDs and cassette tapes. Not having a CD player at home during 1997, I was interested in some of the cassette tapes. One disc with its corresponding tape was Pachelbel Ocean, that is, Canon in D Major, with the sound of ocean waves crashing on the beach in the background.

I bought the cassette tape, along with two others I also like. Since then, I have always regretted not buying the CD versions. The tapes are no longer functional. Had I bought the CDs in addition to the tapes, chances I could enjoy such music now, reviving memories, especially of the Great Barrier Reef, whose picture adorned the lid of the cassette and disc cases. Oh, the lack of foresight!

A walk along the beach.

More Pier Views.

An Art Sale at a park.

An Amtrack train at the sidings, Santa Barbara.

Walking along State Street, the "High Street" of Santa Barbara and the hub of the shopping precinct, there were shops with these inflatable aliens on display. Not merely one shop but several shops in one street had them on display. They all looked the same - a humanoid with a large head on a skinny bipedal body with two skinny arms. Its face consists of two very large eye sockets, a tiny nose and a tiny mouth, not unlike a coin slot. The creature seems to indicate an advance in evolution with little use of food consumption and digestion, yet with vision and intelligence vastly superior to ours. What is this obsession with extraterrestrials? Are they seen as potential cosmic saviours with the power to save us from ourselves?

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Next Week: Hiking up Rattlesnake Canyon.