Travel Biography - Week 18.

Travel and Phobias Don't Mix.

Sometimes, travelling on a tight budget means finding yourself in an uncomfortable situation. Such was the case of finding myself in an upstairs room of a seedy hotel in the heart of Manhattan on the first night after landing. Squalid is the best way to describe this hotel room. Although the bed was properly made up and the sheets appeared clean, on the tiled floor beneath the bed, some cockroaches scurried across from one side of the room to the other, as if my presence disturbed them.

Generally speaking, I don't have much of an issue with insects, although a floor populated with Goliath beetles may be enough for me to make a quick exit. But facing a colony of bugs, none of them more than a centimetre in length, I had a choice. Either tolerate their presence or flee from the room. If I had fled, then what? A night spent in the street of an unfamiliar city? Or find a hotel that would dry up all my financial resources even before I step out of the city? Nope. It was neither. Instead, I just have to grin and bear it. And refrain from complaining at reception. At least I had a place to stay.

Night view from my New York hotel window, 1995.

Indeed, if a brochure advertising the hotel was available with the description of - a venue you always dreamed about and remember - hmm. Remember? Yes. But dreaming about it? Perhaps only in a nightmare, after eating cheese immediately before bed. I had to face it. This hotel was one of the worst I have ever stayed in.

Therefore, I pulled myself together and crawled into bed, shutting out the creepers from my mind. This was TRAVEL. Like when some of my friends warned me about rattlesnakes and other dangerous wildlife I might have encountered whilst hiking the Grand Canyon. Or that there was a huge, 4cm cockroach nestling in the washbasin after arriving at Amarillo in Texas, or watching a mouse scurry across the kitchen floor of a backstreet hostel in St Louis, Missouri.

It was like any fear I had to conquer the first time I ever had to climb a ladder on my own to inspect the outside of an upstairs window. No one was below to stand on the lowest rung. Rather, this ladder was an old wooden one I borrowed from the church I regularly attended. And it creaked and groaned as I climbed up.

That was my new job as a self-employed handyman-turned-window cleaner back in August 1980. Along with getting to feel at home up on a ladder, I also had to contend with a community of garden spiders - the type with short legs and a wide abdomen - as part and parcel of my job, along with a variety of bugs. Either that or remain on the dole and go hungry whilst struggling to pay the rent and bills. And believe me, living entirely on meagre benefits paid by the taxpayer was no honour!

Therefore, I remained in the Manhattan hotel room for the whole night whilst outside there seem to be some commotion. If only I felt alert enough to go outside and check for myself. Had I, I would have seen a building on fire with the street blocked with fire engines and red cars, along with a crowd of spectators. And that was what I saw the flowing morning after checking out of the hotel, except that by then the street was deserted.

That was 1978. This wasn't the last I see of the hotel. Rather, in 1995, I was at the same hotel and I believe, in the same room after landing at J. F. Kennedy Airport, and some failed attempts to find a vacant bed in one of the city's backpacking hostels. This time, I only saw a couple of bugs scurrying across the floor, an improvement from 1978. 

A Day in Manhattan.

I left the hotel and walked through a street where fire engines were parked outside a scarred, smoke-blackened building, I arrived at Port Authority Bus Station, the New York terminus of the Greyhound Americruiser reaching to all parts of the States as far as Los Angeles and San Diego. Here, I deposited my suitcase in a left luggage locker and booked an overnight seat on a bus bound westwards using the Ameripass, and after having breakfast at the station cafeteria, I was free for a whole day to check out the city. This was in 1978 but very much the same schedule was repeated seventeen years later in 1995.

This first visit included asking how to get to the Statue of Liberty, New York's most famous landmark and that of the whole of the USA, and known around the world, too. The statue was a gift to the nation made by A. Gustave Eiffel, who was also responsible for the famous Paris monument. I was directed by a subway ticket seller to a fast underground train and alighted at Battery Park, from where ferries sailed for both Statue Island and Staten Island.

Inside the head of the Statue of Liberty, 1978.

In 1978, entry to the inside of the Statue of Liberty was open to visitors all year round. A tight spiral staircase led to the inside of her copper head, which, by this time I was soaked in my own sweat. There was hardly any reward for a view, as the only opening was a grated slot at her headband crossing her forehead. With such restricted ventilation, the interior was a heat trap, and by 1998, when I visited the statue again, the interior was closed to visitors during the summer months, as the trapped heat brought illness, including fainting, to the more vulnerable victims.

Returning to Midtown, another famed landmark was Times Square, brightly lit up at night by a variety of neon adverts. Not truly a square in a traditional sense but more of a six-pronged star as West 45th Street intersects at right angles with 7th Avenue, and Broadway also intersects at a narrow-angle from 7th Avenue. In 1978, several cinemas were lining Broadway, all advertising XXX movies, and I wondered who would be entertained by such erotic films. However, by 1995, there seem to be far fewer of these theatres, either that or they have modestly been less showy.

Times Square, taken 1995.

Since 1978, I stopped in New York in 1995 and again in 1998. The 1995 visit was basically a replica of my 1978 visit, arriving from London in the evening, and after failing to find a bed at the city's several backpacker hostels, I remembered the hotel I stayed at my first arrival, and I found it without difficulty. As for the hostels, I was surprised at how full they were. It was early September when I arrived, purposely timed just after all the schools in the UK had re-opened after the summer break. But I failed to take into consideration that universities open later in the year, and September is the month when many students have ended their summer work contracts and were free to explore before returning home. So I was told by a hostel staff member.

And so, the first night of the 1995 trip was spent in the same hotel as in 1978. As I looked out of the window over 8th Avenue, across the road and to my right was Goldilocks Deli, a grocery store. I was amused by the name, typical American. Between times of quietness, groups of Afro-Caribbeans sauntered along the street, their Saturday night stint over as they made their way home. However, sometime later, a crowd of them began to amass just outside the hotel and a brawl broke out. I thought this was the right moment to make myself invisible and crawl into bed.

With such drama, who needs to be in a luxury hotel near a Mediterranean beach at the height of summer? This was much more exciting!

Back in 1978, it must have been a late afternoon or early evening when I boarded the night bus bound for Los Angeles, where my next city of call would be St Louis in Missouri. With the help of the departure board, like at any main railway station, I was able to work out my arrival into St Louis was to be by lunchtime on the next day.

On to St Louis, Missouri.

Both the 1978 and 1995 trips to the USA began with a bus journey of nearly a thousand miles or 1,620 kilometres, taking between 20-22 hours to complete. That's approximately a third of the USA from New York. It goes to show how huge the continent really is, especially when compared to the size of Europe. 

The Americruiser's final destination was Los Angeles but I chose to alight at St Louis, not only the first city across the Mississippi River but one with a remarkable monument, a 192-metre-high steel arch whose two stems are also 192 metres apart at its base, hence, the distance between its two "feet" is the same as the height of its apex.

St Louis Courthouse and Gateway Arch, 1995.

But a word on the journey itself from New York. It was the second longest bus journey in North America after the Winnipeg-Toronto route I completed the previous year in 1977. New York to St Louis is almost the same distance as London to Rome, and I recall the early to mid-1970s when travelling by train, along with a ferry crossing the Channel, was an adventure in itself, and indeed, I would use the same train route tomorrow if given the chance - ferry and all, instead of the Eurostar!

The train journey from London to Rome took about 24 hours to complete, give or take. This compares with the journey time on the Americruiser bus. This goes to show that despite the train being faster than the bus, the waiting times involved with the trans-Europe journey, especially when boarding the ferry, the wait before the continental train departing from Boulogne-sur-Mer, along with the two long stops at Paris, and then at Modane, before another at Torino, Genova, and other major cities on the way. 

The terrain east of the Mississippi was not unlike a typical English countryside, as the road passes through cities such as Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Columbus, and either Dayton and Indianapolis in 1978 or via Cincinnati and Louisville in 1995. Therefore, on both trips, I didn't consider exploring cities east of the great river. To me, America - the America that had inspired me - begins after crossing the Mississippi.

View of the Courthouse from the arch viewing gallery, 1995.

During the 1978 trip, I spent just a few hours in St Louis before boarding the evening bus to my next destination, rather similar to Chicago a year earlier in 1977. In 1995, however, I spent three days and two nights in St Louis before heading off. However, on both trips, my attention was centred on the Gateway Arch, the underground museum beneath the arch and the nearby St Louis Courthouse, where an 18th Century negro slave has bidden for his freedom. However, ascending the arch to reach the apex observation gallery was the most unusual means I had ever seen and experienced.

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Next Week: My Experience at St Louis and my approach to the Grand Canyon.

Travel Biography - Week 17.

Psychology for World Travel.

In 1972, whilst still 19 years of age, I thought this was the end of the road for me when my girlfriend said goodbye. At that time, which was the spring of that year, I still had the tickets for a holiday together in Spain - on the Costa Brava to be more precise. So I contacted the Cosmos Booking Office to ask for an amendment. The result was that a male college friend accompanied me on this package instead of my ex.

At my peak. How I looked in New York 1978.

By the end of 1977, I had come a long way. Perhaps ironic in a sense, my desire for travel was borne out of that broken relationship experience. Here I was, as a teenager, already thinking about courtship, marriage and having children. To be the "average guy" like a couple of ex-classmates I had seen pushing a pram in the street, and the very thought of being left on the shelf seemed foreboding.

Just this week, a couple of evenings before this week's blog was written and published, the BBC documentary Ambulance highlighted a case of a man in his early thirties who was recently dumped by his girlfriend. This left him feeling suicidal, and he called 999 after an overdose of drugs that had left him in a hysterical state, even lashing out at the vehicle furniture around him. He had to be gently calmed before admission into the hospital.

Therefore, Christian devotionals such as Enjoying Being Single by Elspeth Stephenson are unlikely to wash with him. With a female author, this book was probably geared more toward women than toward men and therefore, unlikely to have impressed the male patient in the ambulance. However, what she had written struck a cord in me. For example, on the cover is a photo of a young muscular man controlling a sailboat at speed. Although I had never sailed in my life, I can still see a connection between this marine activity and international backpacking.

Although, I refer to my travels as backpacking, during those early years, if I say that the luggage I was carrying throughout the 1970s was a suitcase rather than a rucksack, then how the term is defined, I leave it to the reader. But to me, backpacking is defined as a constant move from one destination to the next, rather than staying at just one hotel throughout the entire vacation, as was the 1972 Spanish getaway, which is defined as a package holiday.

With the breakup of our relationship in 1972, a bid to explore the world was the answer to such feelings of foreboding. This is where the difference lies between the ambulance patient and me. Rather than escape into a world of oblivion, the desire to travel demanded determination and hard work. Literally.

The factory making ball-bearing races (the two rings in between the tiny balls roll) closed during the Autumn of 1977 to transfer over to Plymouth in Devon, making us all redundant except for the few machinists with the greatest skills. After working there for over four years and putting in weekend overtime to save up for the first trip across the Atlantic, I was advised to apply for a post at British Aircraft Corporation in Weybridge, Surrey. These works covered a much larger area than the former works and had a larger number of employees. And the wages were good, despite a daily commute from Bracknell to Weybridge by train.

As such, I was able to work hard and save up hard for my next trip, this time wholly within the USA, in the following year, 1978. This trip, built on the experience of the last trip, was to be a life-changer.

But first, the renewal of the entry visa after the first one had expired after a year. With experience behind me, it wasn't difficult for the personnel officer of BAC to write an official letter endorsing my employment with them. So, off to the Embassy in London once again. This time, it was straightforward. I was already on their records. With no further ado, I walked out of the building with a multiple-entry visa lasting the life of the passport, stamped inside. With quite a few years of validity left on the document, plus an agreement made in the 1980s between our PM Margaret Thatcher and the current US President Ronald Reagan for the Visa Waiver Scheme to be put in place, this meant no more visa applications ever, despite three more trips to the USA after 1978. They were in 1995, 1997, and 1998.

Both in 1978 and 1995, I stood here, Colorado River.

Summary of the 1978 Trip to the USA.

Having given a day-to-day running commentary of both Israel 1976 and North America 1977, this time I wish to centre this and future trips on the highlights. This is due to both 1976 and 1977 being first-time experiences, yet each so different from the other. By contrast, all five trips to the USA are very similar, hence of no need for day-to-day repeats. Also, the 1997 journey on the Australian Pacific Coast from Cairns to Sydney had taken the same formula - a bus pass valid for unlimited travel for some time. The same applies to Israel in 1993, 1994 and 2000. Although each was slightly different in detail, each was also broadly the same as the initial 1976 experience.

Being the case, from now on, instead of concentrating on one particular trip, I will jump from one to another when it's called for. For example, the Grand Canyon. I hiked this natural wonder twice, the first in 1978 and the second time in 1995. They were the same hikes but each had some differences that are worth mentioning together.

When I arrived in Toronto, the first item I had to buy was a Kodak 110 Instamatic camera to replace the one given to me by Dad which broke down during the outbound flight. All the photos from the 1977 trip were taken with the Instamatic. But for the 1998 trip, I made a decision to try transparencies or slides shown on a projector and thrown onto a screen as a dramatic image fitting a slide show for family and friends. Therefore, the photos published here are mainly from the 1995 trip, as for example, the Grand Canyon does not change in appearance over seventeen years! Also, the Instamatic failed to take good photos at the most crucial part of the hike, mainly due to poor daylight, and this was the reason why I repeated the Grand Canyon visit in 1995 in the first place. I wanted a photo album of such an adventure and I was prepared to take risks in repeating the challenge.

However, the bus route taken in 1978 was very different from the 1977 route. On the second trip, not only had I landed in New York instead of in Canada, but the Greyhound Americruiser route was a much longer figure-of-eight course starting at Port Authority Bus Station and taking in St Louise Missouri, Amarillo Texas, Flagstaff Arizona, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland Oregon, Denver Colorado, St Antonio Texas, New Orleans Lousiana, Miami Beach Florida, and then back north to New York. Like on the previous trip, my arrival in New York from Miami Beach was on the morning of the same day I took off back to London a month after my arrival, with the day spent on the roof of one of the twin towers of the World Trade Center.

On the 1978 trip, I spent more nights on a bus than on the previous trip. There were two reasons for this. First, I should have brought more funds. Like in 1976, I made a miscalculation on how much to take in Traveller's Cheques. This was due to not taking into consideration the rate of inflation over the past year. But rather than panic, I used the experience to learn how to travel on a shoestring. And travel on a shoestring I did, and not only did I have an astonishing experience, but I took in a much wider scope of the USA than I could ever imagine.

How a French Air Traffic Control strike brought hysteria.

The day finally arrived for me to depart. Excited but very nervous, this time I made my own way to the airport by train. After arrival, I checked in as normal, aware that there is a French Air Traffic Control strike affecting all flights into France and all routes passing over France, such as to Spain, Italy and much of the rest of Europe, and maybe some long-haul flights for Asian countries and beyond. Only the Americas were unaffected.

At the boarding gate, we waited there for the Jetsave agent to let us through. Opposite our gate was one for a flight to Spain. A crowd of people were standing there waiting to board. Apparently, they should have boarded the previous evening, but a night spent alternating between the gate and the departure lounge has worn their patience to razor-thin. And it showed.

Just then, the tannoy came to life with a request for all on this particular flight to Spain to return to the departure lounge, just as the Jetsave agent arrived to allow us to board our transatlantic flight.

Suddenly there was a scream, a loud masculine scream of demonic rage and frustration coming from a young man of about my age. As the crowd began to saunter back to the departure lounge, this man was lying on the floor, beating it with his fists and screaming out his rage. I pitied him as I walked down the steps to board a transfer bus to the waiting aeroplane. I couldn't take my mind off him as I settled in my assigned seat, looking out of the window and watching others alighting from the bus to climb the steps to board, including a tour group. I was relieved when the plane finally took off for New York Kennedy Airport.

I sat next to the window and the port side of the plane. As I looked down at the Irish Sea directly below, I gasped as if with astonishment. For a glancing moment, I thought I saw an outline of a submerged settlement just before the east coast of Eire came into view. Oh well, just put it behind and let's look ahead.

Arrival in New York.

Once having arrived at New York airport, I was preparing to board a shuttle bus to Manhattan, when a young man from the same flight took a liking to me. He told me that he was heading straight to San Francisco and asked me whether I would be willing to accompany him all the way. I refused, even though San Francisco is on my agenda. I was slightly bothered. If he wanted to go straight to California, then why didn't he fly direct to San Francisco? Jetsave does flights to all major cities in North America.

New York as I've known it - before 9/11. Taken 1998. 

The journey into Manhatten was trouble-free, and I managed to find what looks like a seedy hotel on 8th Avenue and West 44th Street in a district apparently inhabited by Afro-Caribbeans. Indeed, the receptionist of the hotel was a young Afro-Caribbean, but he welcomed me as he assigned me a room upstairs. I entered the room, only to find beetles running across the floor as if my entry had disturbed them. There seems to be a lot of commotion outside with the wailing of sirens. If only I was aware! At one of the city skyscrapers was a fire, and fire engines blocked the street from traffic as they attempted to put the fire out. But having jet lag. being six hours behind British Summer Time, the only energy I had was to crawl into the rather manky bed and get some sleep.

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Next Week: Travel has no time for nursing phobias.

Travel Biography - Week 16

Last week I was away at the Creation Ministries International Third Conference, held at the Emmanuel Centre located near the Palace of Westminster. One of the issues at the conference was the probability of a cell of any living organism evolving from a molecule to its present form purely by chance and without any divine guidance. This turned out to be one chance out of 10 raised to the 340,000,000th power, or in plain English, one chance in one, followed by 340 million zeros!

By comparison, if we mark just one grain of sand so it stands out from the rest, then mix it thoroughly into a ball of sand the size of our known Universe with all its galaxies of stars, then the chance of a blindfolded man being sent into the ball and picking out the marked grain on his first attempt would be once chance in one, followed by only 96 zeros. With such a dramatic comparison as this one, to look into a volcanic crater that wiped out a civilisation nearly two millennia in the past, and to float on the surface of the Dead Sea, as well as swim in the Great Salt Lake, to stand near the edge of the mighty Niagara Falls, and then to experience the Redwood trees of Muir Forest in California, all of these has raised my appreciation of Creation, highlighted in last week's Conference.

And all that is only a part. Still to come is the Grand Canyon, the live crater of Mt Etna, the Great Barrier Reef, and the Blue Mountains NP. Indeed, I encourage you to keep reading this Travel Diary, as some astonishing events affecting personal experience are still in the pipeline.

Arrival in Vancouver.

The six-hour overnight journey on the Greyhound Americruiser from Portland in Oregon to Vancouver, British Colombia, covers 316 miles or 512 km. However, my re-entry into Canada from the USA at the Washington State town of Blaine was uneventful, unlike the chaos in our preparation to enter Detroit more than two weeks earlier. Back in Canada, I travelled east toward Toronto on the Trans-Canadian Highway, a single road that connects Vancouver with Toronto. Unfortunately, by not having a car, I missed out on most of Banff National Park, let alone the promising-sounding Jasper National Park further north. However, the highway passes through the Rockies, and I was intrigued by the mountains as the bus journeyed one late afternoon.

After arrival in Vancouver, I found a suitable hotel straight away, as it was like all other budget hotels, near the Greyhound Bus station. Like at all other times, I was offered a room after presenting myself at reception.

I explored the town which lines the southern bank of Vancouver Harbour, itself part of the Burrard Inlet. This Pacific inlet is partially barricaded by a natural peninsula jutting out of the city, bearing the name Stanley Park. This was one place I was intrigued by. When I visited this site in 1977, this was a virgin forest, except for the main highway passing through it before crossing the narrow neck of the inlet on Lions Gate Bridge. This was the original land before Vancouver was ever built, and thus the trees making up the forest were in all conditions, from young saplings to mature trees, including logs of dead trees that had fallen and were eventually covered with fungi. Amid the forest was The Lost Lagoon, (now called Beaver Lake) a large, weed-covered pond surrounded by trees.

The Lost Lagoon, Vancouver. Stock Photo.

The park is approx 2 kilometres across and it's crossed by the highway. It was during one early afternoon that I started to walk from the city to Grouse Mountain, on the North side of Burrard Inlet and visible from the city. This view inspired me to hike to the mountain summit to take some panoramic photos of the city below. Alas, it wasn't quite meant to be.

However, crossing the narrow neck of Burrard Inlet on Lions Gate Bridge was an experience in itself, and on the other side, I began to follow the road leading out into the wooded countryside. The sky was overcast but it wasn't raining. As I made my way along the road, a car approaching from behind gave me a blast from his horn. As he overtook me, he told me to walk on the other side of the road and face oncoming traffic. Here we go again! A repeat of the Walnut Creek incident, only this time on foot. I might have left Britain, but the UK is still very much in me, especially with the road traffic regulations.

Much to my surprise, I arrived at the lower terminal of a cable car system taking passengers to the summit of the mountain. At that time, I was aware that the only alternative was to stay on the road and walk up. Instead, this was far more adventurous. And it wasn't expensive either. Yet, if only I knew then what I know now, that there was the start of a hiking trail snaking through the forest to also reach the summit, it would have been a toss-up whether to hike the trail or ride in the cable car. Quite likely, the trip would have consisted of a hike up and a ride back down.

I boarded the cable car with a group of other people and enjoyed the smooth, noiseless glide up the mountain. By the time we reached the summit terminal, it was raining. I crossed the outside quadrangle and made my way to the summit cafeteria and found myself in a queue, waiting to be served.

A tall, slim man was a place or two behind me in the queue and he looked as if he was one of the Spaniards from the Los Angeles area. Like me, he too was on his own, and I wondered whether he would help me pass the time here on the summit of a mountain where all views were obliterated by the wet weather outside. I wasn't far wrong. During the ensuing conversation, I found out that his name was Craig, and he was from San Bernardino in Southern California.

We stayed together for the rest of the afternoon. His original intention was either to use the ski slope or partake in some other outdoor activity. He had an interest in clocks, and we both looked at some on display in the corridor outside the cafeteria. Indeed, we were both frustrated by the rain and the mirky air outside. Rather than clicking at the shutter, my camera remained packed away. Really, I shouldn't have been surprised at the weather, despite being August. British Colombia has an identical climate to that of the British Isles - mild winters, cool summers and plenty of year-round rain. Later, after a ride down the cable car together, he offered me a lift in his car to my hotel, having told him of its location. After I alighted, he drove off and I never saw him again.

At Calgary

Onward to Calgary and Winnipeg.

After three nights spent at the Vancouver hotel, I boarded the bus for my next stop along the Trans-Canadian Highway, Calgary, in Alberta. From Los Angeles to Vancouver, I was within the Pacific Time Zone, eight hours behind British Summer Time. But as we headed east into Alberta, we lost an hour as we entered Mountain Daylight Time.

From the bus, I was able to admire the Rockies as the road winded its way through the valleys, as it was still daylight when I boarded the bus. The journey took over twelve hours to cover 663 miles or 1,074 km. Up until one of the early morning stops, the seat next to mine remained vacant. Then, whilst at the Banff area service stop, another tall, slim young man boarded the bus and took the seat next to mine.

We started talking, and I found that this blond was from Holland or possibly Denmark, and his name was Henry Gebbineck, and he was alighting in Calgary to meet a married couple, Graham and Shirley Brown. But, as we talked, I noticed a slight stutter which, I believe, led him to ask a favour of me once we had arrived in Calgary. No, not to ask for money, but to make a phone call on his behalf for the couple to come to the bus station to collect him. After some hesitation, I finally agreed.

As soon as I made the phone call at the Calgary bus station, I handed the handset to him and he paid his fee. After the conversation ended, we both filed to the station cafeteria for breakfast, as it was now my custom. Henry was very happy and grateful for the favour I did for him. He then invited me to meet Graham and Shirley. Eventually, when they arrived, I saw that they were all my age. The couple took to me quite well and the four of us made a short trip to Graham's house.

Whether Henry's arrival was specifically timed for this or not, that day was to be an Indian Reservation festival held in a field or a park outside the city. We mixed into a crowd of American Indians as they danced and celebrated. This also included a visit to the Heritage Museum where, at one department, a blacksmith was at work, demonstrating his skills to us all.

Indian Festival, Calgary

Calgary was one city where I did not look for a hotel as I originally intended. Instead, I was taken to their house until the evening, when I expressed my desire to travel onwards. They then dropped me off to begin my next leg of the journey, a fourteen-hour, 822-mile or 1,332 km journey to Winnipeg in Manitoba. This overnight journey would cross Saskatchewan, with Regina its capital on the Trans-Canadian Highway, for an hour's service stop in the middle of the night.

Calgary Heritage Museum

On this leg of the journey, gone are the Rocky Mountains, and the view is one massive flat plain stretching for miles on end. From time to time, I could see those characteristic Canadian grain silos as we passed by them. Else, much of Canada is a flat semi-desert with little to offer any vistas and I imagine, a pretty cold and hostile environment during the winter months.

With my arrival in Winnipeg, I booked into a nearby hotel, the very last hotel of this 1977 North American trip. The final leg to Toronto would be a 1,280-mile or 2,075 km journey lasting over 22 hours - the longest continuous leg of the entire holiday. And just as well, as I am to arrive in Toronto on the same day as I take off on a flight back to London. Never mind that there is an industrial dispute at Toronto Airport that would delay my flight for six hours, I still need to be there on time.

I spent just two nights in Winnipeg. Unfortunately, without a car, I wasn't able to see the nearby Lake Winnipeg for myself, but I guess that once you see one freshwater lake, you've seen them all. Therefore, I wasn't too bothered.

Flowerbeds at Winnipeg.

However, Winnipeg had one highlight, a roller skating rink not far from the hotel. On both evenings, I went there and hired a pair of roller skates. Here, I let my hair down! By keeping to the outer perimeter of the rink, I was able to accelerate and speed around the edge of the floor whilst the music played, especially some of Abba's greatest hits. Perhaps for the first time since I was a boy who roller skated up and down St Georges Square in Pimlico so many years earlier.

The second evening, whilst I was skating, a group of young men and women entered. After starting a conversation with them, I found out that they were from a local church fellowship. Thus we stayed together, sharing both our social and spiritual experiences until closing time when everyone dispersed and I made my own way to the hotel.

The next day, I boarded the Greyhound bus for the last time and for the longest leg of the journey back to Toronto. It was during this journey that I made another friend, a resident of Toronto who recommend a visit to the Toronto Science Museum before heading for the airport.

The journey took two nights, arriving in Toronto on the morning of the third day after leaving Winnipeg. During the morning of the day after boarding, the sun rose as we skirted the north shore of Lake Superior. The view was excellent, as I sat on the side of the bus facing the coast. With the straight horizon, I could have been next to an ocean shoreline. With the lake so large, there was no real difference.

We arrived in Toronto early the next morning. After breakfast, at my friend's recommendation, I spent a good part of the day at the Science Museum, where hands-on exhibits made the visit more exhilarating. I also stood once more at Queens Street, looking across Nathan Philips Square at the two tall skyscrapers as if guarding the City Hall between them.

That evening, it was to Toronto International Airport, the "Holiday of a lifetime" coming to an end.

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Next Week: I Prepare for the 1978 Trip to the States. 

Travel Biography - Week 15.

California Dreaming.

The name California seems to have a romantic or a paradisal ring to it. For example, the Mamas and Papas' 1965 song California Dreaming reflects the narrator's desire for the balmy climate of Los Angeles whilst enduring the cold, winter months in New York. Also, Scott McKenzie's hippy song, San Francisco (be sure to wear flowers in your hair) of 1967, and California Girls, which was a 1965 hit by the Beach Boys, along with up to a hundred other songs were related to California. These, together with dramas such as the above-mentioned Starsky & Hutch, Pulp Fiction, L.A. Story, The Graduate, Sunset Boulevard, and many others were all stories based in California.

Lombard Street, San Francisco. Stock photo.

Aside from Starsky & Hutch, was I the only one who had a strong curiosity over this "fabulous" State? Apparently not. When I was in Italy, I came across some Italian lads who became good friends, especially in Naples where I first met them. One of them, a student named Valentine, had a strong desire to visit California, with San Diego his greatest wish. In 1976, a few weeks after returning from Israel, Valentine stayed for a few days in my apartment before moving to London in readiness to fly home. After that, his father dispatched him to a family home in Walnut Creek, a small town east of San Francisco and Oakland. Once there, he invited me to where he was staying if ever I wished to visit the USA. This had given further motivation to cross the Atlantic Ocean.

The Greyhound Americruiser left the Los Angeles terminal late in the evening for a 382-mile, six-hour journey, for a morning arrival in San Francisco. However, after arrival, instead of looking for a hotel as was my norm, I managed to phone the student from the terminal. He instructed me to take a BART train to Walnut Creek. I would meet them there.

Arrival at Walnut Creek.

Back in 1977, being in America, I thought that BART was the name of a man who owned the railway or one who originally founded it. It was later that I discovered that BART stood for Bay Authority Rapid Transit, and is apparently State owned. Like the Picadilly Line on the London Underground, the BART line passes under the city and under the bay itself to emerge at Oakland, and then overground for the rest of the line heading east, just as the Picadilly Line also passes through the suburbs above ground. The journey took just over half an hour to reach Walnut Creek Station where Valentine and his host, Mrs Carson, were waiting for me. After much greeting and hugs, I climbed into their car, and Mrs Carson drove us to her house, where she offered to accommodate me for four nights. 

Whether the Carsons were childless or whether they had grown up and flown the nest, I was never told. But I was offered a bed in one of their spare rooms, where both Valentine and our host were to escort me around the city and then a day later, to Stinson Beach where I had a swim in the Pacific Ocean, and then to Muir Woods National Monument, a forest of Redwood Pine trees. Indeed, had it not been for the hospitality offered, I would have missed out on these two natural venues.

Cable Car, taken 1977.

As for the city itself, on the day I arrived, the two of us, Valentine and I visited the famed Golden Gate Bridge. Or at least, we tried. When we got there, we saw that the whole bridge was wrapped in thick fog that covered the bay and the Golden Gate inlet that connects the bay to the open ocean (and from which the bridge is named) and we both felt disappointed, and I wondered whether the bridge was permanently shrouded, or whether I had chosen an unlucky day.

Fortunately, when Mrs Carson drove us into the city the next day, the fog had cleared to reveal the splendour of such civil engineering. Valentine was teasing me, thinking that because I took delight at seeing such a well-known crossing, I was worshipping it. Rather, I felt privileged to be there, to see the structure for myself rather than just on TV or through another person's camera.

Other attractions included Lombard Street, known as "the most crooked street in the world" as it descends the rather steep Russian Hill in eight switchbacks. The inside of each curve is occupied by a small garden, thus adding aesthetics to the route. From the base of Russian Hill, as seen from the summit, the street runs dead straight as it crosses a wide panoramic view of the city.

Then there's Fisherman's Wharf, perhaps the most famous of the kind in the world. Here, there were many stalls selling wet fish, a variety of shellfish, fruit and vegetables. Indeed, it was a very lively harbourside market with a very cheerful atmosphere. Looking north along the bay, the isolated Alcatraz Island prison stands on an isolated rock. Nicknamed The Rock by the inmates, it eventually ceased to serve as a penitentiary when the last of the inmates were transferred elsewhere in March 1963.

California's wildlife.

There was one day when both Mr and Mrs Carson were out when Valentine and I went to visit a private lido in Walnut Creek, to which he had access. As a guest, I was able to swim in the pool and relax and sunbathe on one of the sunbeds provided. Later that day, I borrowed Mr Carson's bicycle and set off on it, until Valentine yelled at me!

You're on the wrong side of the road! What are you doing?

Then I realised that this is America and over here they drive on the "wrong" side. Not to worry, in Europe they do the same. Fortunately, there was no other vehicle and I corrected my mistake, feeling strange as I rode on their correct side which is on the right of the road.

Eventually, I approached my friend who was holding a stick. 

Look, here's a tarantula.

"Where did you find that?" I asked.

On the side of the road.

The large black hairy spider was perched on the end of the stick my friend was holding. It wasn't as big as an African tarantula as it was a different species. I felt tempted to stroke its furry abdomen, but Valentine advised me not to touch it, so I didn't. Looking at it, I felt sympathetic for anyone suffering from arachnophobia - a fear of spiders. They are fast runners and one can suddenly appear unexpectedly, making someone jump. I'm not immune from being startled by one. Then again, it wouldn't feel nice to wake up one morning to find a tarantula like this one nestling between the sheets or making contact with it with your toe whilst slipping into your shoes, or in the case with my brother many years ago, seeing a big house spider nestling inside a teacup after taking it down from the shelf.

At Chinatown, San Francisco, 1977.

Should I give a false impression of being some kind of fearless Hercules or Apollo, then I much prefer to admit that I have fears of my own. Like the time I was in Singapore. I was in the hostel elevator going up when it stopped unexpectedly between floors. I was gripped by panic and punched hard at the alarm which, to my relief, got the lift moving again. I refused to use the lift thereafter. Instead, I used the stairs, as I still do at times in some buildings. Or if I have to use the railway station lift to use the platform crossover whenever I take my wife Alex out in her wheelchair. I always make sure the presence of the alarm.

On to Portland, Oregon.

Eventually, after a few days with my Italian friend and his hosts, it was time for me to move on. When I found out when the next bus for Portland, Oregon was due to leave, Mrs Carson drove Valentine and me to the San Francisco Bus terminal, where my friend and I were locked in a long embrace before leaving me alone to board the bus to my next chosen stop. After the bus pulled out of the terminal, it took the same route as when I arrived, by crossing the bay on the imposing Oakland Bay Bridge, which also passes over Yerba Buena Island, out in the middle of the bay. I was sorry to leave San Francisco and I felt that I hadn't spent enough time there. But would I ever be given another chance?

The journey to Portland was another overnighter, a ten-hour, 635-mile journey north along the Pacific coastline, exiting California and entering the State of Oregon before eventually ending back in Canada after passing through the State of Washington.

After arriving in Portland, it wasn't difficult to find another hotel where I was offered a room. All I could see was that it was a nice town, with pleasant streets and squares. But unlike the other cities I stopped at, Portland did not have the attractions which in themselves attracted touristic fame. That was one major disadvantage of being a lone backpacker. Had I known better, I would have walked to the bank of the Williamette River that flowed past the town. Back in the seventies, I wasn't aware it was there. However, one building that I have found very intriguing was an office-block edifice facing onto the main square. On its roof was a massive billboard with huge letters spelling out the words, JESUS THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD. 

Those words made my spirit rejoice. However, there is not a chance on Earth that I would ever see anything like this in the UK. And those were the times when it was quite common to see a poster with the verse of John 3:16 fastened on the wall at any railway station or High Street. Looking back, I'm now wondering whether political correctness, woke, or whatever crazy line of thinking had forced the banning of these posters so as not to "offend" people of different ethnicities or faiths.

Portland, Oregon

My stay in Portland was short compared with Los Angeles or San Francisco or should I say, Walnut Creek. However, on the second day there, late in the afternoon, somehow I found myself caught in the Church of Scientology. Actually, although it calls itself a church, it was anything but a church. Rather it was a brainwashing centre where psychological trickiness meant paying them hundreds of dollars to receive mental and emotional liberation, to be set free "to be the person I meant to be, freed from the restraints imposed by society and past aches." The surprising thing about all this was I was very nearly convinced, and almost ready to pay out the huge expense for the so-called treatment, itself as quackery and as far from mainstream psychiatry as it gets. In the end, I was glad to get out of there with my funds intact. 

Relaxing in Portland.

The next day, I took a greyhound Americruiser for a day trip to Newport on the Pacific coast. Although this journey was short, just 2.5 hours each way, the Ameripass was valid for the day trip. After arriving there, I explored the quiet and deserted sandy beach but the air was cool and breezy and the grey ocean uninviting. So I didn't swim. Instead, I remained dry and I also kept my leather jacket on - a contrast to how lightly I was dressed whilst in southern California.

After returning to Portland, that evening I made plans for a six-hour overnight journey to Vancouver in Canada, some 360 miles north along the Pacific coastline.

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Due to attending a Convention, I won't be able to write next week. But in two weeks, I'm in Canada, where I begin my journey back to Toronto.

Travel Biography - Week 14.

Before starting this week's blog, I wish to send all my condolences to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, who passed away on Thursday, September 8th, 2022, at Balmoral Castle, Scotland. I wish her son, King Charles III, a long and happy reign.

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Change is inevitable.

Having visited Salt Lake City in Utah in 1977 and swam in the Great Salt Lake itself, 45 years before writing this blog, how would I feel if I were to visit the same area now? I think, pretty devastated! This was the conclusion I arrived at when I checked out the area on Google Maps before writing this blog. What I saw was that the Visitor's Centre had been demolished, along with another structure, and only the choir hall and the Temple itself remain standing. Where those buildings once stood, now, ugly crater sites are hovered over by two large cranes making up the present skyline.

However, if a couple of years from now, I returned to the city and find a couple of swish new structures that are tourist-friendly and pleasing to the eye, then there would be some justification for the redevelopment. However, a greater sense of sadness would come over me if I was to visit the lake itself. From where I stood in 1977, the water's edge would have receded as the lake shrunk, leaving the spot where I stood high and dry. Furthermore, one of the islands further out would now be the head of a peninsula.

Much of this is the fault of Man, first of all, diverting the River Jordan, one of the mountain rivers that has fed into the lake, away for industrial and domestic use. Also, the snowmelt that normally drains into the lake, is diverted for general use. Added to these, climate change is causing longer drought periods, and it's believed that the entire lake will dry out in the future unless something is done.

Likewise, Downtown Los Angeles, my next stop after a 690-mile, 10-hour overnight journey from Salt Lake City, looked different in 1995 from when it did in 1977 and 1978. New skyscrapers were added during the seventeen years that had elapsed between visits. In the seventies, there were buildings that I recognised after watching the TV cop series, Starsky & Hutch. By 1995, several other skyscrapers went up including a sky-high hotel. However, one skyscraper I recognised straightaway and has appeared on occasions in the detective cop series, the American Bank Financial Center, to me, the symbol of Downtown Los Angeles.

Downtown LA. The American Bank is on the left.

Pershing Square was another site that had changed its appearance over the years. In the seventies, it resembled an English garden with a circular fountain. By 1995, the circular fountain was dry and an ornament of some kind was built over it. It wasn't too far from here where, on a Sunday morning in 1977, I came across the First Baptist Church. I entered the church which was several floors up in what looked like an office block, but in the large auditorium, the service was good. The church might have moved to another location since then.

Disneyland, Anaheim.

I was fortunate enough to visit Disneyland four times in my lifetime. They were in 1977, 1978, 1995, and 1997. Even in the seventeen years between my visits in 1978 and 1995, I have seen some changes there. For example, the disappearance of the Sky Buckets - bucket-like cable cars that hovered some distance above ground as they moved quietly around the park and passed through the Matterhorn and the Space Mountain roller coaster rides, as well as the Inner Space Ride, and over the whole park in general, giving a panoramic view. Its disappearance by 1995, disappointed me. In the 1970s, the Sky Buckets were sponsored by Goodyear Tyres, as many more amenities in Disneyland were sponsored by private companies. Perhaps the withdrawal of such sponsorship might have led to the decline of that scenic, quiet flight. 

The whole park is divided into different themes. In the 1970s, Main Street USA, the central street lined with souvenir shops, candy stalls, and restaurants, gave access to Fantasyland, New Orleans Square, Bear Country, Adventureland, and Tomorrowland. When I returned in 1995, I saw that Mickey Mouse Toontown was added, along with Indiana Jones' Temple of Doom roller coaster.

The Matterhorn with Skybuckets, Disneyland. Taken 1977.

In 1977 and 1978, at the entry gates, a book of vouchers was purchased. The book contained vouchers marked A, B, C, D. and E. Voucher E was for wilder rides such as Space Mountain, the Matterhorn, the Submarine, and the Monorail. The others were for more tame rides, such as Snow White and Pinocchio. Theatres, where bears spoke and sang were covered by vouchers A and B. Attractions such as The Haunted Mansion and The Pirates of the Caribbean were entered with either C or D, along with the Sky Buckets. As expected, the stack of E-vouchers was the first to run out, but there were kiosks located here and there where fresh vouchers could be purchased. However, when I returned in 1995, I saw that the voucher system was no more. Instead, the entry fee covered everything.

At Disneyland, 1977.

It took me two days to explore Disneyland more thoroughly, although even then, I didn't see or experience all of it. Yet, I believe, this is the marvel of Travel. I see it as a kind of triunity - meditating in prayer inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, letting out a yell as the roller coaster car flies at high speed inside the starry darkness of Space Mountain, and enjoying the natural vistas offered on a hiking trail where my strength, energy and stamina are tested.

Some Superlatives.

In 1977, in Los Angeles, I stayed at the Hotel Madison. In the States, it wasn't unusual for hotels to be named after past Presidents. As budget hotels in America were close to the Greyhound Bus terminal, I have found that a plain room for the night, without opulence and without breakfast, seems to benefit my budget well, especially when most of my interstate travel was done at night. After arriving at my destination, sometimes early in the morning as was the case of L.A, after a wash-and-shave in the bathroom, I had collezione at the terminal cafeteria. This usually consisted of breakfast cereal, a large American apple, and a mug of coffee. Together, it was inexpensive and can be quite filling, plugging my appetite until later in the day. 

Also, I have placed Los Angeles on the travel record of superlatives. L.A. in Southern California is in Pacific Time Zone, eight hours behind British Summer Time, and until twenty years later in 1997, at nearly 6,000 miles, remained the furthest location I ever travelled from home. Los Angeles is on coordinates 34.05 N, and 118.24 W. However, the most southern point ever reached, in 1976, was Hebron, in the Middle East with a latitude of 31.32 N. Then two years later in 1978, I arrived at Miami Beach, which is 25.81 N.

Thus, until I flew to Singapore and then onward to Australia in 1997, the superlatives stood as L.A. remaining the furthest destination from home, Miami Beach the most southerly, and the most easterly being the Dead Sea at 35.47 E. The most Northerly venue visited is here in the UK, which is Dunnet Head, at 58.40 N, near John O'Groats on the north Scottish coast, and this record was set in 1990.

Universal Studios, Hollywood.

The other venue I spent the day in 1977 was Universal Studios in Hollywood. This local bus trip included a stroll along Hollywood Boulevard, made famous by the handprints of well-known celebrities set permanently in cement. Admission into the studios includes a circuit ride in the Glamour Tram, and the props for such movies as The Ten Commandments, the Bridge of the River Kwai, Jaws and many others, including Westerns and city-based dramas, were all shown to us as the tram glided noiselessly through. Buildings that remain permanently uninhabited and used only for outdoor shooting, although a person can be filmed entering or exiting the same prop, as all indoor filming is done elsewhere. The whole setup, in my opinion, is very clever indeed, the filming of the world-of-make-believe where the viewer would never guess that the actor talking inside a room is not in the same building he walked into a moment earlier.

Props at Universal Studios, Hollywood.

The whole set-up was rather amusing - if only! Supposing the movie Ben Hur, a Roman drama, based on the time of Christ, of two former friends turned enemies, a Roman commander named Messala and a rich Jew named Ben Hur and includes the famous chariot race where Hur defeats Messala. And across the arena, a 1977 horseless Glamour Tram passes by, unnoticed by the film crew.

The Glamour Tram at the Red Sea prop.

Furthermore, I wondered whether the Glamour Tram would ever be unintentionally shot while the film was being made. The same applies to westerns or war films. Two rivals in a western settlement draw their guns for a shootout, when in the background, a tram, full of tourists, can be seen gliding silently behind a gap in the props. If only. Indeed, if only. I'm sure the world would be a more amusing place to live!

The Bridge of the River Kwai prop.

Los Angeles was the apex of the whole holiday, even if it's a massive urban sprawl. The original idea of setting foot in the USA was to be in the same city where my 1970s heroes, Starsky & Hutch were filmed. I knew perfectly well that I would never see those two detectives in the flesh. I had never expected to. Yet, the whole trip has given me the satisfaction of setting foot in their territory, seeing for myself the very sights these two were so familiar with. Also, becoming familiar with the city centre itself, especially around Pershing Square and Broadway nearby, with a walk into one of the covered markets alive with sellers and buyers. As for the coast, in 1977, I didn't make it. Not that I couldn't, but I was already intrigued - and very privileged - to walk the streets of Downtown Los Angeles, Disneyland and Hollywood. But as we shall see, Both Long Beach and Santa Monica were on the table.

That evening, after vacating my room, I boarded the Greyhound Americruiser for another overnight journey, this time to San Francisco.

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Next Week, I meet an Italian friend in Northern California.

Travel Biography - Week 13, extra pics.

 A Quote from a Backpacker's Bible?

I believe that most churchgoers are familiar with what Jesus said about Worry, recorded in Matthew 6:25-34. But if I were to quote from a Traveller's Bible, I may read words such as these:

Consider the Arctic Tern. He doesn't need passports or visas, and nor does he buy airline tickets or carry a rucksack on his back. Neither does it need a camera, as he knows every area of his convoluted route. Yet, each year, he flies from Pole to Pole, crossing the Equator as he does so. In a single year, he's able to cover up to 44,100 miles or 70,900 km. Yet, your Heavenly Father feeds and guides him. If he's so concerned about the birds in the air, how much more is he concerned about you, oh ye of little faith? 

The Arctic Tern. Stock Photo.

Perhaps, we Homo Sapiens need to learn a thing or two from this fascinating bird. Why is such a humble bird able to fly around the globe so freely whilst I tend to tie myself up in knots in an attempt just to fly across the Atlantic Ocean at a fraction of the distance? Especially where visas are concerned. As I have already noted, whilst waiting in line, I watched a man dressed in a business suit storm out of the American Embassy in London with his passport in his hand and a look of frustration on his face. I didn't have to make any effort to realise that his application for a visa was refused for reasons only he knew.

Meanwhile, the Arctic Tern flies overhead, and if his instincts lead him to make a pit stop in the States whilst on its way to Antarctica, then not a single human would even notice, let alone take any action! I suppose this scenario makes me wonder just how accurate evolutionists are when they say that we Homo Sapiens are the most advanced in Evolution, especially for the white race of Nazi understanding. 

A bird can fly multiple thousands of miles - and land at the precise spot where he was the previous year. Yet, among the human race, there is, on one end of the scale, the mentally retarded who can't leave the house on his own without supervision. On the other end of the human spectrum is the high-ranking scientist whose research may call for business world travel. Yet, not even he has the global navigation powers of this fascinating bird. Instead, he has to depend on the skills of a trained pilot.

As for me, I have considered myself very fortunate to find myself travelling Westwards from Chicago to Salt Lake City, and like the scientist, I too had to depend on someone else for navigation - first the airline pilot, and then the bus driver. The Greyhound Americruiser is a long-distance bus whose network covers the whole of the United States and also the Canadian Highway. Not to be confused with escorted coach tours. With the Greyhound Ameripass, I have enjoyed as much independence travelling on my own as if I hired a car. Indeed, the FlyDrive scheme became very popular among British tourists visiting the States, especially throughout the nineties.

But, due to not holding a Driving Licence, I couldn't hire a car whilst I was in the States. Not that I wanted to, either. One of the conditions of hiring a car is the Collision Waiver Fee, an extra expense for which without this extra payment, the user would be responsible for the cost of the vehicle, either repairs or even a replacement, should a collision occur. Such a heavy responsibility I don't need whilst on my travels. The Greyhound Americruiser was ideal for me. However, there were disadvantages.  

This included missing out on various national parks such as Yellowstone with its Old Faithfull geyser, Yosemite, Crater Lake, Bryce Canyon, Arches National Park - and the Grand Canyon National Park - the one I felt was the most important attraction. Greyhound Buses linked city to city and as far as I was aware, those buses did not call at these national parks. Hence the big advantage of hiring a car, and that despite the heavy responsibility of looking after it, along with all the paperwork attached.

Another example was the big difference between downtown Chicago and the Old City of Jerusalem, both across eight time zones apart. Such a cultural difference between the compact, pedestrian-only Medieval streets in the Middle East where pedestrians stroll at a leisurely pace accompanied by Eastern music, and that of a modern bustling city where a police officer had to direct busy traffic filling the wide street with constant car-engine noise and horn blasts. Maybe this was why I didn't book a hotel in Chicago. Instead, after several hours spent in the city, I decided to move on.

View from the Willis Tower, Chicago.

City Rapid Transit, Chicago.

At Chicago Fountain

Near the shore of L. Michigan, Chicago.

The bus journey from Chicago to Salt Lake City took about 22 hours, including at least two major stops, each an hour long. These were service stops, first at Omaha in Nebraska, and then at Cheyenne in Wyoming. The purpose of these stops was refuelling, oil check, tyre pressure gauging, and general maintenance of the bus to avoid any possibility of breakdowns. It was during these stops that I ate in the terminal cafeteria, including breakfast at Omaha during daybreak, along with a quick exploration of the town itself. Shorter breaks, those lasting only twenty minutes, were for refreshments. These included Des Moines in Iowa and Rock Springs which is also in Wyoming. After a journey of nearly 1,400 miles, the bus eventually pulled into the Salt Lake City terminal in Utah for an hour's stop before proceeding to Los Angeles. At Salt Lake City, I alighted to look for a hotel, as I planned to spend a few days here.

I have gained another hour as I was already in Mountain Time Zone, seven hours behind BST. I saw a reasonably priced hotel not far from the bus station. After checking in at the reception, I climbed the stairs into my assigned room, slumped onto the bed and quickly fell asleep.

I must have slept for up to three hours, as it was already evening when I woke up. I had a stroll around the streets and inquired about a reliable venue where I can board a bus to see the Great Salt Lake for myself.

The next morning, I arose, had breakfast at the Greyhound terminal cafeteria, and then made my way to the pick-up point to board a local bus (for which I had to pay the fare - the Ameripass wasn't valid for local buses.) To my surprise, there was a crowd of people all waiting to board the same bus. I got by word of mouth that they wanted to see the open-cast copper mines, and the Great Salt Lake was a stop on the journey.

We all boarded the bus. The driver then gave a commentary on the journey ahead. The final destination was Kennecott Copper Mines, west of Great Salt Lake, which is open to the public. Then the driver asked,

Does anyone here wish to alight at the lake itself?

I raised my hand as if this was a school trip. Much to my surprise, mine was the only hand that went up amongst the people filling the bus. But as the driver tried to start the engine, all it gave was an unhealthy whine and the vehicle refused to move. Further attempts to start the bus also failed, and we all had to alight as the driver phoned for help.

Shortly afterwards, another bus arrived from the same depot and we all boarded. Then the driver called me over to his cab for a briefing, instructing me on when and where to wait for its return to take me back to the city.

Having a high saline content, the Great Salt Lake can be compared to the Dead Sea in the Middle East, but the Salt Sea's salination wasn't nearly as intense. Furthermore, while the Dead Sea was a totally lifeless lake some 430 metres below sea level, the Great Salt Lake had an average of 1,283 metres above sea level, although this varies slightly due to the intensity or lack of rainfall. At this moment, drought, along with the use of snowmelt, is causing the lake to shrink further, and there is a future threat of the lake drying out completely. Also, unlike the Dead Sea, this lake supports countless numbers of brine shrimp.

In a way, I felt sad that this was once part of a much larger body of water which covered much of Western Utah, also covering a little of Idaho and the eastern fringe of Nevada. This was Lake Bonneville, formed during the melting of the last Ice Age. However, it's believed by geologists that an earthquake had breached a dam containing the lake, and the water escaped through Red Rock Pass in Idaho, resulting in the Bonneville Flood, eventually leaving the present salt lake as a remnant.

Having stripped down to my bathing trunks, I managed to wade into the lake. The beach sloped very gradually into the water as the shrimp swarmed around my feet without touching the skin itself, and I was far out before I managed to float. Eventually, a few other people arrived by car to enjoy the lake.

Posing on the beach of the Great Salt Lake, Utah.

View of Salt Lake City from Twin Peaks.

The next day, I decided to climb the western slopes of Twin Peaks, on the eastern side of the city, for a splendid panoramic view. Although I never realised it back then, where the city is located, it would have been underwater of that once great lake with the mountain forming the east coast.

The last two days in Salt Lake City I spent in the city itself, which to me, has a very interesting historical legacy. It's what I call, "The Vatican of the Mormon Faith." Although not a follower of Mormonism, nevertheless, its headquarters has a history that contrasts sharply with the headquarters of the Watchtower Society - the latter just a large block of offices and printing press - that once stood in Brooklyn, New York. Here in Salt Lake City, the main building is the Temple, the original and the oldest Temple of its kind in the world, but not open to the public. Nearby, the Visitor's Center is a museum of Mormon history, with many exhibits displaying Bible verses (and hardly any from the Book of Mormon) along with short films on its history and its theology.

I liked the place, and it has a relaxing atmosphere where I can just sit and meditate, although it was very unlikely that I'll end up as a member of the Church of Latter-Day Saints. However, I was intrigued by how they take the Story of Joseph Smith, the founder of their faith, so seriously and as a historical fact of finding a pile of golden plates buried on a hill outside New York City, and with the text written in "Reformed Egyptian", he was able to translate the text into English using oversized spectacles named Urim and Thummim, to produce The Book of Mormon, before the plates were supernaturally taken up to heaven.

And so, this city was built on a story that was, I believe, borrowed from a fiction novel, yet taken seriously as essential to the faith of every Mormon. Yet, on arrival at the Center, I was obliged to give my name and address, as all visitors had to, to give them a huge master list for future proselyting.

And indeed, a few weeks after arriving home to my apartment, there was a knock on the door.

Going back to Salt Lake City, on the next day, I vacated my hotel room to continue the journey further west to Los Angeles.

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Next Week: Arrival in LA and I head straight to Disneyland.