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.