Travel Biography - Week 63

 Arrival at San Diego.

All photos here are my own, taken in 1995.

Having spent another night in the seat of a Greyhound Bus, I felt good about sleeping in a bed again. And for more than one night. As soon as I exited the Greyhound Bus terminal, which in the year 1995 was located on Broadway, I took a liking to the street and the harbour town straight away. I then walked west towards the harbour and came across a rather large, aged building that was once a military base before its conversion into a YMCA. The organisation then rented out one of its upper floors to HI-AYH as a backpacker's hostel, just the ideal place for me to settle in.

San Diego Skyline from Broadway Pier.

I entered through the main door and saw the hostel receptionist directly ahead, where I booked and paid for the next five nights, the venue for the most nights spent of the whole American trip.

I found the bedroom that was assigned to me. It was a small room containing two bunk beds and a washbasin. One of the beds was occupied by one other male, a man in his late twenties who was Australian. After we introduced each other, he explained that while he was in the States, he worked on a contract as a builder. After his contract ended, he allowed some time to backpack across America before arriving here in San Diego. In a few days, he'll be on the plane flying across the Pacific Ocean homeward.

This was not the first time I met and talked to a builder while on my travels. I recall just the previous year. While I was convalescing at the New Swedish Hostel in Jerusalem, I met this Irish builder who also finished his contract in the Holy Land, and was doing some backpacking before flying home. We spoke joyfully to each other for maybe up to an hour. These two, one in Israel and the other here in San Diego, opened my eyes to the reality that long-term travel wasn't restricted to students of middle-class backgrounds. Rather, by having served an apprenticeship and developed craft skills, the world was open to them.

This fellow in the bedroom shared with me some details of Australian life. Just when I was beginning to believe that I was becoming an experienced independent traveller, I felt that I was put in my place. Compared to this guy, I only just rounded a corner from home.

I found some time to sit alone and think, or should I say, reminisce. I recall 1991. Back then, I was a member of Thames Valley Triathletes, based in Reading, and one of the largest triathlon clubs in membership numbers in the UK. We all noted the arrival of a new member, Steven. What was remarkable about him was that not only was he a tall, sleek athlete and a good cyclist, but also from Australia. He was spending a few months here in the UK on a work visa, working at Mars Electronics International at nearby Winnersh Triangle. Although he was liked and well-respected by other club members, I was envious of his travel experience. Even his natural high-pitched voice tone didn't alleviate my envy of him. However, by the time I left the club in the Autumn of 1992, he had already flown home.

City's flower garden. The rail track is on the left.

It was through these encounters with two travelling Australians, each up to 6,000 miles apart and separated by four years, that a seed was planted in my mind. If these two could travel around the world so easily, why couldn't I do the same? Could this be possible?

Checking Out San Diego.

One of the first things I had to take care of was groceries. This was decided upon after exploring the single-floor hostel, a Monopoly board setting of rooms built around a central atrium containing the main stairwell. The combined kitchen, dining/games room and TV room were all clean and well-kept. The bath/shower room was also spacious, with military-style open-wall showers, but also with proper privacy at all other facilities.

The food storage pigeonholes were also clean after I gave an inspection (after what I saw in St Louis.) What I did notice was that every item stored in the pigeonholes was labelled with the owner's name. This was mandatory. When a jar of peanut butter was left on one of the shelves unlabelled, it was gone by the next morning. Indeed, the jar was either taken and destroyed by a staff member, or a fellow guest had a lucky day! Then I went and found a superstore nearby, and stocked up. Back at the hostel, I made sure that all items were labelled with my signature on a strip of adhesive tape provided by the staff. That will guarantee the safety of my stock whilst I am out.

Trolley Tram to San Ysidro

I left the building and headed west towards the harbour, where I had a splendid view of the city skyline resembling a smaller and more tropical version of Manhattan. From Broadway Pier, cruisers ferry people from the mainland to the Coronado, an offshore landmass connected to the mainland by a road, the Silver Strand Boulevard, built on a strip of land enclosing a lagoon, San Diego Bay. Heading inland and then turning north, I found Balboa Park with its superb Spanish architecture, rich in aesthetics and enhanced further with palm trees. As the park was also the home of the city's museums, I spent time visiting two of them, the hands-on Science Museum was one of them. The other was the Museum of Man. There was also the San Diego Zoo. But I didn't visit this venue until I arrived nearly two years later in 1997.

The beautiful central shopping mall didn't lack aesthetics either. The coloured masonry above the shops gave the proper atmosphere to a city set in the semi-tropics, with palm trees adding further enhancement. Nearby was a flower garden, and I was fortunate enough to arrive whilst in full bloom. But what I found very unusual were the railway tracks cutting straight through the garden and unfenced on either side. Anyone could step on the tracks or even walk along them. And perhaps some daring youths did. By the time I returned in 1997, the tracks were fenced off.

Bright red trolley trams ran along these lines. There were two trolley routes. One of them, I became familiar with. During my first visit to San Diego, I took a trolley all the way to its southern terminus, San Ysidro on the border with Mexico, with Tijuana on the Mexican side. This allowed me to cross into Mexico, as I had my passport on me, and spend a few hours exploring Tijuana. 

At Balboa Park.

Social Life in Southern California.

Back at the hostel, I got on well with other backpackers, including one young man, taller than me and slimmer, who, on the following morning, chose to sit opposite me at breakfast and announced quite loudly that he was gay. When I asked him if he was travelling around in the same way I was, he denied that and explained that he was temporarily residing at the hostel until he had found a more permanent residence in the area. Sensing that I wasn't after any relationship, his attitude towards me cooled, and we went our separate ways. Yet, while we were still talking, I could sense the underlying anger and frustration brought about by his orientation and society's attitude towards it. I couldn't help feeling sorry for him.

Other friends I made included a young Jewess who was eventually heading for Vancouver. Although we didn't stay together while I was in the city, when it was time for me to leave San Diego, she asked when and where I was going. By then, I had arranged my next stop to be at a HI-AYH Santa Monica. When I told her that, she booked a bed for herself on the same night as mine, and then she asked me to accompany her to downtown Los Angeles, and then to Santa Monica. Her reason was that while we were passing through L.A. - she felt protected by my presence.

Balboa Park's fascinating architecture

A couple of other guests suggested visiting Mission Beach, SeaWorld, the Old City, and even Little Italy, all of which I will describe later. However, one evening, the third evening after arriving myself, two young British men arrived, I believe from Scotland. I had to chance to speak to them while I was cooking dinner. They turned out to be brothers and like me, they were backpacking across America. The only difference was they travelled together as a pair, thus sharing their experience.

They looked to be in their mid-twenties and the better-looking one closely resembled the son of one of my window cleaning customers, except that this one had longer hair. Along with getting to know me, they also got to know my roommate, the Australian who slept on the bed directly under mine. Eventually, we became a foursome for that evening. After we had eaten, washed the dishes and cleared away, we gathered around the table football, paired with each other and created havoc with the game. With my reflexes being slow, it was little wonder that the other team won most of the time, flicking the ball at lightning speed into our goalmouth!

And here is the psychology behind this scenario. What made me, a man in his forties, team up with people half my age and partake in their way of entertainment? Despite the rich fulfilment in this American experience, deep within the depths of my heart, I was lonely and found verbal communication in a group difficult. As I have mentioned earlier in the biography, I'm on the spectrum. At least that is not as dramatic as saying that I have autism, albeit in a mild form (formerly, Asperger's Syndrome, or Aspie for short). Therefore, I enjoy travelling alone rather than risk having disagreements with a companion or with the rest of the group. This difficulty in communicating was the cause of the rejection I felt over a year earlier when I volunteered at Stella Carmel Christian Conference Centre. 

How I love those palm trees!

However, is being on the spectrum really a disability? This depends on one's opinion. For me, I have turned it in my favour. This survival instinct includes a sense of adventure. For example, it was autism that drove me to travel on my own, exploring faraway, dramatic places after receiving warnings of the dangers of wildlife, especially in the Grand Canyon, from concerned friends. If I were a normal communicator and a keen team player, the chance is that this biography might never have been written. But with all this comes a desire to be loved, accepted, to fit in. Hence my mixing with these guys. Yet, I'm not ashamed to say that being on the spectrum has pushed me into territory not many can boast about. I't the matter of having control over it rather than it over me.

The four of us left the hostel after we were through with the football. We walked through the street, acting more like football hooligans rather than backpackers, and already I was beginning to wonder whether we could have the Law on us. The other three may be happy with what they were doing and the noise we were making in the streets of San Diego, but I wasn't that happy. I would much rather relax in the hostel lounge, or even watch American TV, despite the plethora of commercial breaks interrupting the programme every five minutes.

Looking south at San Diego Harbour.

Like the second evening in San Diego, the day before those two brothers arrived. I felt a fever coming on, and I knew that if left untreated, I would go down with a temperature. So, I left the hostel and walked to the superstore. Fortunately, like in British stores, there was a medicine shelf. I searched for and selected the American equivalent of Lemsip which contains Paracetamol. Back in the kitchen, I took a dose of the medicine and relaxed as I watched a news report of snow falling over Arizona. By heck! I was at the Grand Canyon region less than a week previously. And it's only September. Freak weather, perhaps? Freakish enough to make it into the national news? Gradually, as I sat and watched, I felt the medicine do its work towards my recovery.

Bed was a welcoming sight, with or without the Aussie.

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Next Week: The Areas Around San Diego.