Travel Biography - Week 68.

A Recap from Last Week.

All the photos here are my own, taken in 1995.

Having arrived in Santa Monica from San Diego, I stumbled upon two sites where filming occurred. After coming home, I didn't give any more thought to these instances, and they were practically forgotten, except that a record of these events was preserved in my photo album. While I was reminiscing on these incidents while writing the biography, I promised to post a couple of photos I took of one of the sites. This has enabled me to do thorough research for the past week, especially that of Charlie Grace, a detective drama.

But first, to cycle past a filming setting on a public right of way at the Baywatch Headquarters seemed very odd, as I would expect the area to have been roped off to prevent public intrusion. This week, I gave it a serious thought for the first time in 28 years. Rather than filming a drama, I now believe that someone, possibly a member of a cast, was interviewed. If the BBC news bulletins are anything to go by, interviews often take place in the open street with passing traffic and pedestrians. Furthermore, if I recall, the camera was pointing away from the cycleway, enhancing my idea that an interview rather than a movie shoot was taking place.

Research on Charlie Grace revealed that it was not a film made for the cinema, as I first thought, but a TV series of just nine episodes spanning the year 1995. Although this might have been on par with Starsky & Hutch (1976-1979: 4 seasons, 92 episodes) or The Man from U.N.C.L.E. (1964-1967: 4 seasons, 105 episodes) - both having made their way across the Atlantic Ocean to appear on our screens, Charlie Grace had never reached our TV screens and therefore virtually unknown here in the UK. Here, I mention the TV series, The Man from U.N.C.L.E. (an acronym for United Network Command for Law Enforcement) after the death, earlier this week, of one of its star actors, David Keith McCallum, at the age of 90.

Last week, I promised to post a couple of photos of the Charlie Grace shooting, I took on the beach. For a bonus, I posted three:

Filming of Charlie Grace at Santa Monica.

Mark Harmon talks to Leelee Sobieski during filming.

A close-up view of the camera.

The shoot is of actor Mark Harmon who plays Charlie Grace, talking to Leelee Sobieski who plays his wife, Jenny. The filming was already underway when I arrived. I was able to watch the process without being told to move on or to get out of the way. It was as if I was instead welcomed by the camera team.

Visiting Areas Outside Santa Monica - Downtown L.A.

Santa Monica is one of the coastal districts of Los Angeles, the home of Hollywood Studios. Hence, it came as no real surprise that on this stretch of beach, the sight of a TV camera shouldn't be so unexpecting. Although I did visit Hollywood Studios in 1977, and I was set for a revisit in 1997, which would be twenty years later, I was intrigued by how the skyline of downtown Los Angeles had changed dramatically over those past two decades. One example of this redevelopment was Pershing Square in the heart of the city. In the seventies, its layout consisted of an English-style garden featuring a circular pond with a fountain in the middle. By 1995, it had changed dramatically. Fully concreted over, the area now features a large undefined structure from which a small waterfall cascades into the circular pond below. The square is also surrounded by shimmering new office blocks I didn't remember having been built in 1978.

Not far away, a couple of skyscrapers I remembered from the seventies had now been dwarfed by several taller skyscrapers, all forming a cluster of tall buildings that can be seen from far off, hence, anyone familiar with the city would know where the financial centre stood. 

Pershing Square, Downtown Los Angeles.

Financial District, Los Angeles.

Unlike London whose street sidewalks are busy with pedestrians, whether they are smartly dressed bankers or shoppers out on a spree, tourists on their way to an attraction, or families on a day out, the sidewalks lining the streets of Los Angeles seemed far less busy, as if the car was the sole means of urban transportation, along with a fleet of buses. Due to the threat of earthquakes, during 1977-8, hardly any underground lines existed. But it was during the nineties and into the new millennium that new lines were built and opened. For example, the Expo Line Light Rail from Atlantic Station to Santa Monica Terminus wasn't fully completed until 2016, nineteen years after my last stay in Santa Monica in 1997. 

I did little in the city except stroll through the streets and wander into the financial district. The atmosphere was quite different from that of the coastal district, Downtown was very quiet and sedate compared with the hustle and bustle of the resort's 3rd Street Promenade. Getting Downtown from Santa Monica was made much quicker and easier after learning at the hostel that there was an express bus service connecting the two at a faster, non-stop pace.

Disneyland - Third Visit.

Imagine a Victorian explorer who managed to travel in a time machine instantly from 1850 to 1995 and, after spending a couple of months trying to get to grips with modernity, he then spent his time watching my travel schedule. If I were to ask him how I would compare with him as a world traveller, he would burst out laughing! Me, a world traveller? Pull the other one!

To him, a world traveller would sail the stormy oceans to far-away lands, inhabited by primitive tribes with a risk that cannibalism is included as part of their cuisine, especially making a meal of a foreign invader. In addition, he would risk the possibility of disease. No hotels and the only accommodation is his own tent. He might be a missionary out to evangelise a primitive tribe of animal worshippers, or a doctor tending to the sick and the infirm. Or simply an explorer cutting a trail through thick, virgin jungle, crossing a desert, or conquering a mountain and encountering harsh weather or dangerous wildlife.

Therefore, to fly across the ocean in a comfy plane to visit a family theme park would be too cosseted for the Victorian explorer to rate me as a traveller. Then, he asks me,

Why did you fly to the USA in the first place?

To which I would have replied,

I flew to the USA from England specifically to hike the Grand Canyon.

He then responds,

Did you succeed?

I answer,

Yes, I completed the hike with a heavy rucksack on my back. Furthermore, towards the end of the hike, I went down with severe leg cramps. I thought I might even die, as I was alone on the trail and the night was drawing in. After completing the 23-mile hike despite the pain, I found out that the malady was hyponatremia, a thinning of the blood due to drinking excess water without an adequate salt intake.

The explorer gasped and then took back everything he had said.

I'm so sorry. I now see you as a traveller. Go and enjoy yourself.

From the hostel, I took the express bus service into the city, and here I had to change buses to Disneyland. I was told that there were buses destined for Disneyland from the stop I was waiting at. I waited for a surprisingly long time before one finally arrived with the logo Disneyland displayed on the front.

At Disneyland, 1995.

New to me - Toontown.

The bus pulled into Disneyland stop shortly after ten in the morning. To my surprise, the park had only just opened and there were not so many people around, unlike the summer of 1978, my last visit there, where queues had formed at the entrance pay booths. It was at that moment I realised why I had to wait for so long for the bus to arrive. Arriving at the gates before opening times would have been pointless.

By checking out all the facilities within its grounds, I noticed some definite changes. For a start, the People Mover, or as I prefer to call the Sky Buckets, had disappeared. This overhead cable car system, sponsored by Goodyear Tyres, passed slowly and silently through the Matterhorn roller coaster and then through Space Mountain, moving slowly along a level platform as the fast, indoor roller coaster whizzed along inside the dark, starry chamber. The cable car also passed by Inner Space, a slow-moving carousel where each rider was miniaturised to the size of a snowflake, then right down to the water molecule, then finally to the size of the atom, with images of protons and electrons whizzing around in their orbits. Then quickly, we had to expand to our natural size as the snowflake was starting to melt.

That was in 1977 and 1978. By 1995, this educational attraction had also disappeared. Too much like school for the children, perhaps. However, other facilities such as Adventureland, Fantasyland and New Orleans Square were as I remember them. The railroad that runs around the perimeter of the park was still there with its climax at the rim of the Grand Canyon, as it is now and as it was at the time of the dinosaurs.

One of my favourites was the Submarine ride. In the seventies, it was painted a battleship grey, in 1995, it was bright yellow. From inside, I was able to photograph from an underwater window.

By 1995, new facilities were added. This included Mickey Mouse Toontown and Indiana Jones' Temple of Doom roller coaster ride. Various other rides and amusements I also enjoyed, like the Runaway Train, another new addition since 1978 - after all, as I could have explained to the 19th Century Victorian explorer, this was a holiday, or vacation, and not an expedition or missionary, quite likely he too would have seen the lighter side of his travels.

Yellow Submarine, Disneyland.

An underwater scene from the sub.

Again, similar to how I felt at Mission Beach, San Diego, a few days earlier, I wondered whether enjoying these rides as a lone forty-year-old was prattish. Would I have gone to Legoland, Thorpe Park, or Chessington World of Adventures, all within a few miles from where I live, alone and in my forties? Very unlikely. But when Steve, the son of one of my customers, agreed to take me to Thorpe Park in the spring of 2014, we enjoyed ourselves to the full, without the slightest of embarrassment. And I was 61. And that was the secret. Such experiences are meant to be shared, regardless of age.

By six in the evening, the park was closing for the night. This was a vivid contrast to the seventies when Disneyland stayed open until midnight, climaxing with a massive fireworks display. As the park emptied of people, I watched how the submarines were parked in its hangar, and how an almost eerie stillness hung over the whole park. A bus took me back to the city where I changed buses for the express to Santa Monica. Somehow, for me, the passing of summer also took away the party exuberance of Disney.

Back at the hostel, the kitchen awaits.

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Next Week: On to San Francisco.

Travel Biography - Week 67

Comparing AYH Santa Monica with AYH San Diego.

With six days in San Diego already behind me, I arrive at Santa Monica, the coastal district of Los Angeles, with mixed feelings. The AYH San Diego was housed in the YMCA building whose entrance was always open 24/7. That means anyone could have walked into the building itself. But for the hostel accommodation, every hosteller was given a key at the ground floor reception to let himself in on the third floor. In essence, it was a cut-price hotel with no curfews, no duties, and no restricted times for entry, as all these were the traditional customs of YHA England & Wales.

AYH Santa Monica, the Quadrangle.

AYH Santa Monica was similar to San Diego except that the whole building was the hostel, and instead of a key handed out at check-in, one had to show the payment receipt to the receptionist before being allowed in. Here, the reception desk was at a window outside the main entrance and facing it. That means that checking in was done before entering the building, unlike most other hostels and hotels. There was also a curfew with the use of the kitchen at certain times during the 24 hours. However, unlike most hostels, including San Diego, here in Santa Monica, the building featured an open quadrangle with a working fountain in the middle and surrounded by palm trees. During the warm evenings, I was able to spend some time relaxing on one of several seats facing the fountain.

Arriving at Santa Monica.

I didn't travel from San Diego to Los Angeles alone but with a young Jewess who sought me for company whilst we made the journey on the Greyhound Americruiser. After arriving at the L.A. bus station, we caught the #4 bus to take us across the conurbation to the coastal district. It was during the latter part of the journey - the seventeen miles from East 7th Street to Santa Monica - that my presence gave her a sense of protective security.

Thus a casual friendship developed between the two of us. When we finally arrived at the rather swish hostel, we paid our fees and each went to our separate dormitories. Like in other destinations, I found out where the nearest superstore was located so I could restock.

3rd Street Promenade as seen from both ends.

On one of the days I was staying there, I had to keep showing the receptionist my receipt before he used the remote control to unlock the main entrance door every time I returned after going out. Perhaps for some, they would feel the benefit of the extra security. After all, how would anyone feel when they return to their dormitories, only to find their luggage ransacked? However, would the potential thief steal smelly, sweat-laden clothing? Would he rather go for traveller's cheques, loose cash, or a camera? Rather, any backpacker with an ounce of common sense will always take his valuables with him when he goes out. 

Yet, I can't help but find this security tactic to be an unnecessary nuisance, and his repeated request to show my receipt to the same receptionist more than once. Surely, I could be remembered from the last time I passed through. After all, I wanted to be treated like an adult who could be trusted, like I was in San Diego and all other venues. Yet, I could also see that times were changing. Not only hostel security was stepping up, but also a need for advance booking. Thus, I felt that true independent travel - perhaps perceived as near to hitch-hikers' style - was becoming compromised, eroding away the spirit of spontaneous travel freedom with its off-the-street hotel walk-ins I have always enjoyed. Therefore, from then on, I felt the need to carry a small, see-through plastic wallet to preserve the receipt to show to the receptionist when asked. 

However, the strength of door security also depends on who was manning the reception. Sometimes there was someone who acted by the letter of the law, asking for the receipt before allowing me to enter the hostel. But there were also one or two others who kept the door unlocked continually whilst concentrating on the guest bookings, their check-in times and checkouts. Happily, there were more days with the latter receptionist than the former.  

An Unsolved Mystery.

The following morning, while I was in the kitchen preparing breakfast, I was keeping my eye out for the Jewess to show up, just as she did in the San Diego kitchen. But the longer I waited, the lower my heart dropped. She was nowhere to be seen, and I was beginning to wonder whether she was in the hostel. It was later when someone who saw that we were together, informed me that she had already set off to Vancouver.

That has really puzzled me! If she had set off that early, did she make her own way to the Greyhound Bus station alone? Or did she find someone else to accompany her? That is, whether she travelled onwards by bus in the first place. She might have boarded the train. Or even headed for the airport. I never knew back then and I guess I'll will never know now. I thought we were friends. She could have stayed around, maybe explored the environment together - the beach, the famous pier, Third Street Promenade, the clifftop esplanade lined with palm trees. Maybe even have coffee together. Would this friendship lead to a relationship? Who knows. Yet, I have heard about holiday romances, some leading to a happy marriage, but others to disaster. And so, off to Vancouver, she went while I stayed behind in Los Angeles.

The ocean waves lap the beach at Santa Monica.

Unlike in 1977 and 1978, Santa Monica was a new place for me to visit. In 1977 I stayed at the Hotel Madison and in 1978, at the Hotel Cecil, both within the heart of downtown Los Angeles and both close to the Greyhound Bus Station before it moved to East 7th Street, quite a distance from the city Centre. The coastline was a far better area to stay. Santa Monica didn't have the business air of the city. Rather, its atmosphere was more jovial, having a holiday feel which touched on the international scale. After all, according to HI-AYH regulations, every guest was supposed to have been a non-American.

Santa Monica rests on a clifftop, and I was struck by how similar the cliff face of Santa Monica was to the cliffs of Bournemouth, UK, even if the geological rock chemistry might be different. Along the clifftop, an esplanade lined with Palm trees on both sides, thus separating the path from 1st Street, a part of the highway that connects East Los Angeles with Malibu, the latter lying northwest and just outside the L.A. administration zone. The cliffs look over the open ocean, unlike the esplanade of San Diego which looks over a lagoon enclosed almost entirely by the Coronado.

The hostel itself was located on 2nd Street, near the famous pier. Hence, this ideal location gives easy access to three nearby attractions: The pier, the Esplanade, and the traffic-free 3rd Street Promenade with its dinosaur models, palm trees and beautiful shopping malls with their many coffee bars and restaurants. The 3rd Street Promenade was a Disney-like thoroughfare that was almost like a street party in the evenings. And when there was a large crowd pushing towards the door of one particular building, one could guess that a famous Hollywood celebrity had hit town.

Palm trees line the Walk.

Hollywood visits the Beach.

The Ocean Front Walk, at which the clifftop esplanade makes up part, runs along the beach itself, thus, at the town, the combined cycle and footpath runs at both levels, clifftop and beach. A ramp eventually lowers the clifftop level to the beach path which runs northwest for over three miles to Will Rogers State Beach. From the other side of the pier, the path continues southeast to Venice Beach, 1.6 miles further on until it comes to an abrupt end at the Marina del Rey.

The pier was famous for not only being the ideal scene for filming beach movies but its the original terminus of Route 66 from Chicago. Some evenings I stood at the raised pierhead, watching the sunset over the distant horizon to a pelican balancing itself on one of the rail posts while below, the Pacific Ocean waves lap the gently sloping sandy beach. On the south side of the pier, a Ferris wheel never seems to rotate, and I have wondered whether I arrived too late in the year for a ride, as it was already autumn.

On one occasion, I hired a bicycle to ride the whole length of the 4.7-mile walk/cycleway from Venice Beach to Will Rogers State Beach. During the ride, I unintentionally passed through a scene at Baywatch Headquarters where I believe some filming was taking place. If this was true, I just hope my sudden appearance and passing through didn't disturb or even anger the film crew and the cast! However, unless the camera crew and their associates were skilful in editing out passing cyclists and pedestrians, then I couldn't help thinking that a public right of way wasn't an ideal spot to shoot a film unless it was specifically called for.

And talking about filmmaking, One afternoon, I was strolling along the beach south of the pier when I arrived at a film shoot. Upon enquiry, I learned that the movie Charlie Grace was in the process of filming. The talking couple in the centre of the shoot was obvious. But it was more difficult to discern that the surfboarder entering the sea and a passing walker who just got out of the sea were both actors. Other people, posing as the public, were also acting. At least the one in charge of the crew, the director, wasn't put off by my inquisitiveness. He was happy to talk to me and let me in about the art of filmmaking. When I took a closer look at the camera, he didn't seem to mind.

(Due to a lack of foresight when preparing this week's blog, I hope to post a couple of pics of this scene next week.)

The famous Santa Monica Pier.

Life at the AYH Santa Monica was different from the San Diego hostel. There were more people, and they generally kept themselves more to themselves. With a sudden culture change from the chattering friendliness of the San Diego dining room to the larger, more formal take of Santa Monica's version with its more British-like sense of a self-reserved attitude, waves of loneliness came and went.

Nevertheless, I thought that Santa Monica had its own natural and man-made beauty. The 3rd Street Promenade, as I remember from 1995, had shopping malls which were rich in aesthetics. Potted palm trees thrived in the busy indoor precinct, and I really felt that I was in the subtropics. Coming to think of it, if those palm trees were able to thrive in an indoor environment where the temperature was kept at a constant, then why not grace our indoor malls here in the UK? Can we learn something from California?

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Next Week: Visiting Venues outside Santa Monica.

Travel Biography - Week 66.

The Journey Across the Border.

Note that all photos here are my own, taken in 1995.

Outside downtown San Diego, so far, the venues I visited lay north of the city. These were The Old Town, SeaWorld, and Mission Beach. When I had to walk from the Old Town back to the city after missing the last bus, I passed through Little Italy, a line of shops owned by Italian-speaking traders. At a grocery in that area, I bought that evening's supper, a packet of raw spaghetti and some bolognese sauce which were both cheaper than from the superstore I normally called at. It was a moment I thought I was back in Italy.

To the south of the city, the trolley tram took about half an hour to cover the fifteen miles to get to San Ysidro, a terminus station close to the USA/Mexican border. As traffic on the Route 5 freeway lines up at the border crossing, a footbridge carries pedestrians over the road, giving views of both sides of the border.

One particular day, after doing some shopping and visiting a launderette, I was sitting opposite a young man while having a light lunch. We got chatting, and he said that he wanted to visit San Ysidro. When I asked him whether San Ysidro was on the border with Mexico, he confirmed that it was, and if I was to take my passport, I should have easy access to Tijuana, Mexico's border town, once the home of the Tijuana Brass Band, fronted by the trumpeter Herb Alpert, whose wind instrument became popular worldwide, particularly in the sixties.

When I asked him whether he was crossing the border, he said that he wasn't, but asked me if I would like to accompany him as far as San Ysidro, and then I'll be free to enter Mexico. I thought that was a good idea, and agreed. Throughout the talk, I had gotten the impression that he was only interested in the trolley ride, to say that he had used it. My aim went further. To enter Mexico whilst backpacking the USA would add that extra sparkle to the whole transatlantic trip.

The Trolley at San Ysidro Station.

Together that early afternoon, we both set off to American Plaza Station, serving both the mainline Amtrak trains to Los Angeles and the local Trolley to San Ysidro. My companion seemed familiar with the system. He showed me where to buy the tickets and to board the tram with the logo San Ysidro displayed on the front. He cautioned me when the tram arrived, heading north, away from its destination, but we were to board it, anyway.

After leaving the station, the tram turned and headed east along C Street. Indeed, on that stretch, it was a city tram, subject to traffic lights at intersections as well as halting at designated tram stops. Then, fifteen blocks further on, the line turned southeast at City College, and as the tram left the city, it became more like a proper train, stopping at well-spaced stations dotted along the route until ending at the border terminus.

At San Ysidro, my companion said farewell after we both alighted from the tram. I was alone once more as I made my way to the border. A little further on, a flight of steps led me to a pedestrian bridge that passed over the freeway. On the road below me, there were several lines of cars, each slowly moving as every vehicle had to halt to show their passports at the road booths. Amazingly enough, there was no passport control for pedestrians. Instead, I passed through a gate down the stairs on the other end of the bridge, on the far side of the freeway and Ole! I was in Mexico.

At the Mexican Border.

As I walked along the street, I found the city centre street layout to have a symmetrical grid pattern as with San Diego and other American cities and towns. But unlike San Diego which fronted the harbour at San Diego Bay, central Tijuana was nearly seven miles, or eleven km inland from its beach.

Despite its symmetrical grid city street layout, Tijuana was very different from San Diego, as its buildings were considerably lower, mostly just two storeys high, although a few had three floors. There was more of a chaotic look and feel to the town with overhead power cables not only on each side of the streets but also crosses the road as frequent overhead cables. But I shouldn't be too surprised. I have just entered another country, itself a sovereign state with its own Government, its own capital city, flag, currency, language, and religion, that is, unlike the USA, Mexico was, and is, predominantly Roman Catholic.

I didn't feel encouraged to buy anything in Tijuana, as the Mexican currency is the Peso, and due to my spontaneous decision to visit for a couple of hours, I didn't visit a bank or a currency exchange kiosk in readiness. However, I would have been surprised if none of the shops so close to the US border accepted the US dollar. 

I did little in Tijuana except walk around to explore the town. However, nearby was a large church, the Church of St Francis of Assisi. I went in, and the 14 Stations of the Cross lining the wall reminded me of its Catholic affiliation. There was also a central garden, with a copse of palm trees that also reminded me that this part of the world enjoyed a balmy, subtropical climate. However, what I found rather astonishing was the number of dental clinics, each quite close to the other, and looking as though having formed a competitive cluster hugging the international border as if expecting to treat the rotting teeth of so many sweet popcorn and candy-floss-loving American clientele!

The Church of St Francis of Assisi, Tijuana.

Although I said that in jest, I have actually wondered whether there's a kernel of truth in the above statement. American healthcare is reputed to be so expensive, that a private health insurance policy is held by most citizens in the USA. And this could include dental treatments. Is there any plausibility of San Diegans actually crossing into Mexico to visit a dentist and paying a lower, more reasonable price for treatment? Indeed, I was able to see the possible reason for such dental clinic rivalry to exist in Tijuana.

While I was sauntering through the streets of Tijuana, I wondered what it might have been like to backpack across a country so different from the States, Europe, or even Israel. Being a poorer country, would I have been able to do it? Would the budget stretch further? Or could I have fallen victim to a drug gang in one way or another? Yet, I have heard of backpackers finding adventures in such countries, whether it's the beaches of Alcapulco or the Aztec ruins, both in Mexico, or the Inca ruins of ancient cities, found in Peru or Ecuador. Or even tracking through the thick jungle of Brazil. I once knew an undergraduate who hiked through the jungle of Brazil. However, I'm also aware that lone backpackers to these locations are far and few between, although those who do venture out are more likely undergrads or graduates taking a gap year, and like the one I knew, they usually venture out as one in a group.

Eventually, after passing shops where the traditional wide-brimmed Mexican hats were displayed for sale, I made my way back towards the border. At the tourist precinct was an arch overhead with words which read, Come back Amigos. Thank you for your visit. That was the only English script I saw in the whole of Tijuana, even then the Spanish word for friends was retained.

A street in Tijuana, Mexico.

When I got to the border pedestrian bridge, after climbing the stairs leading up to it, all I saw was a lone US passport officer standing aside and waving us through (it was approaching evening and there were quite a few of us returning to San Diego). Reentering California from Mexico was very easy. I made my way back down, followed by a short walk to the waiting trolley tram, its bright red exterior making a contrast to the rich green leaves of the nearby trees.

The return journey to San Diego I made on my own, as I didn't see the young man who accompanied me until I arrived back at the hostel.

Preparing to Move on.

In 1995, I spent five nights at the AYH which was housed in the YMCA building on Broadway, making my stay in San Diego six days long. This particular hostel was the best I have ever stayed, and no other hostel around the world could quite match it. I made friends there, including my roommate, the Aussie builder. By sharing the bedroom with him, a seed was planted in my mind that opened the possibility of visiting Australia sometime in the future. However, he vacated his bed one night before I did, hence the first four nights were shared. For the fifth night, I had the bedroom for myself. Also, the two Scottish brothers left at the same time, but just before leaving, the better-looking of the two wanted a photo taken of us all together as a group in the dining room. He then stood directly behind me, his hands on my shoulders and his head directly above mine whilst someone else took the picture. To me, his pose was unusual.

Tijuana is semitropical.

There was a young Jewish woman hostelling along with us. When she heard that I was preparing to move on in my travels, I said that I would like to make the AYH Santa Monica my next stop. She, along with another female friend, asked me to make a bed reservation for myself whilst still here in San Diego. This was something new to me, as I have always been an "off the street" client, especially here in the States. But even in the mid-nineties, it looked as if changes were coming.

After I made the booking, she did too, at the same hostel. That means we could travel together. She was looking to me for protection, especially on the transit across Los Angeles from the Greyhound Bus station on East 7th Street to the Santa Monica hostel, some seventeen miles or 28 km across the southern Californian metropolis.

I spent the morning in San Diego before the Jewess and I got together to board the Americruiser for Los Angeles. However, before boarding the bus, I returned to my hostel bedroom to vacate it. While I was still there, a young Japanese backpacker entered the bedroom, having just checked in. We instantly recognised each other, as we met and became friends at my last stop, Pheonix. I felt sorry to leave just as he arrived. I'm sure that we could have spent some time together and enjoyed each other's company. I almost regretted making the advanced booking at Santa Monica. Had I kept to my original way of travel, I could have simply gone downstairs to pay for an extra night here in San Diego. But as it was, it was too late.

The two of us embraced, and then I picked up my rucksack and sauntered out, never to see that bedroom ever again.

Tourist Plaza, Tijuana.

Sometime later, the Jewess and I boarded the Greyhound Americruiser bound for Los Angeles for a 120-mile journey over two hours from San Diego to downtown Los Angeles. As we entered Los Angeles, I could see that she was becoming nervous and leaned on me for protection. After we alighted at the bus terminal, I went to find out if there was a local bus to Santa Monica. Fortunately, there was a direct link on Route 4, for our final destination.

The #4 bus crept slowly across the conurbation, rather like taking a London bus from Tower Bridge to Hounslow, on the western edge of Greater London. Eventually, we saw the Pacific coastline as the bus pulled into Santa Monica to reverse back to Downtown L.A. The two of us made our way to a nice-looking building on 2nd Street. At the reception, we both paid our fees - I paid for the next four nights, and we were assigned our beds in the appropriate dormitories. On payment, we were given our receipts and told to hang on to them throughout our stay.

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Next Week: I wake up to a shock.

Travel Biography - Week 65.

A comparison Between Two Different Towns.

Note: All photos here are my own, taken in 1995.

In the week between writing last week's blog and today, my wife Alex and I spent five days in Exeter, Devon, primarily to see a longstanding friend, Dave Rogers, one of the leaders of a church there. Interestingly, the street plan in the centre of this cathedral city is laid out in a near-symmetrical grid form. This was no surprise to me, as the original settlement of Isca was built by the Romans from 55 AD onwards. Not far from the Cathedral, remnants of the Roman Wall are still standing. This is what remains of a typical Roman playing card-shaped fort that was always unique to them.

The Californian Dream. At Mission Beach, 1995.

On one of the days of our holiday, we took a local train to Exmouth. As the name suggests, the resort developed on the Devonian coastline east of the River Exe Estuary, around ten miles south of the city, where the River Exe cuts a valley west of Exeter, and the same valley shared with the main railway connecting Penzance in Cornwall with London Paddington. After we arrived back home, I joked with Dave via Facebook that Exmouth should be nicknamed "Spaghetti Town."

Comparing Exmouth to San Diego, 1995. A Visit to the Western Old Town.

I believe that the description of two contrasting English towns based on their history is relevant here. San Diego, like most American towns and cities, is laid out in a symmetrical grid pattern, with just one straight road connecting the Greyhound Bus terminal with the YMCA building and the harbour - the Broadway. Also, both towns are coastal. Thus, as I will mention again below, a walk along a lonely road back to the AYH hostel from four miles out of downtown San Diego late in the evening turned out to be straightforward, without getting lost. In Exmouth, the walk was considerably shorter, but we still lost our way from the station to the seafront.

Earlier this week, we arrived at Exmouth terminus station. However, heading for the seafront was difficult due to inadequate signage and not having a street map of the town. The street layout was typically English, a tangle of intertwining streets enabling us to lose our way and the need to ask directions from passersby on a couple of occasions, adding up to an extra half-mile to our walk to get there. When the weather is hot and muggy - the heat combined with the high humidity and eventually soaking my tee-shirt with body sweat - such walking dampens the holiday experience, both literally and mentally.

Old Town, San Diego.

One afternoon, after a recommendation from a fellow hosteller, I boarded a bus to the Old Town, four miles or 6.5 km north of San Diego city centre. Upon entry, which had free access, I saw that the difference between the modern city and the Old West was staggering enough. Along the traffic-free street, a horse-drawn wagon was parked next to the Blackhawk Smithy and Stable. The street was also lined with old-style houses, including the First San Diego Courthouse, the Mason Street School, the Seeley Stables, Racine & Laramie 19th Century tobacconists, the Casa de Machado y Silvas, I believe, notorious for its haunting by the ghost of its former owner, and many more that could have been a delight to Hollywood filmmakers, and I had gotten the impression that I had stepped back in time and was expecting a cowboy riding in swinging a lasso, the same way I felt when I was in Phoenix, a few days earlier.

However, the attraction I found most delightful was the bazaar, a market selling garden utensils and furniture, along with an abundance of tropical plants. The large enclosure was graced with an alfresco stage, just like in Tulsa and in Phoenix. A group was performing a Mexican dance to music that delighted the small crowd that had gathered to watch the performance. Unfortunately, my arrival at the site coincided with the end of the show, for I only enjoyed the last few minutes of music.

A Wagon parked in the Old Town.

I felt exuberant as I strolled around the bazaar. Stalls selling tropical plants abounded, but what grasped my attention were the working miniature fountains on display for sale. Although I say miniature, some had heavy clay bowls as large as a dinner plate, and therefore, more suited for the garden than indoors. But I reasoned to myself that it would have been so desirable to have a fountain of that size to grace my apartment back home in England. Except for two reasons. One is that the bowl was actually of real earthenware and not a plastic imitation. Hence, carrying that in my rucksack would have been a heavy burden, especially if it came with its own packing, making the item also too big for my rucksack.

The second reason for ruling out buying such a unit was the incompatibility of power voltage. In the States, the domestic output is 120 volts. Here in the UK, it's 240 volts. Thus, unless the fountain comes with a voltage adaptor, the motor driving the fountain mechanism would blow. Hence, how unwise it would have been to have bought it.

Yet, I spent a long time just gazing at one of them, the one with the dinner-plate-size bowl of real earthenware, and wishing that I lived locally. I would have snapped up the item without any hesitation.

As the afternoon gave way to evening, I remained at the heritage park until dusk, with much of the time admiring the tropical vegetation and the working fountains furnishing the stalls. Other stalls displayed a miscellaneous collection of trinkets and niceties, including coloured wax candles. On one of the stalls, a notice was placed next to a jar of candles. It read:

I don't itch. So please, there's no need to scratch me.

Most amusing. Yet the message was clear enough. Why some had a habit of scratching candles remains a mystery to this day.

At dusk, I made my way to the exit and approached the bus stop for the return ride. After waiting a while, alone and with no one else waiting with me, I realised that the last bus of the day had already been. I was stuck outside the heritage park, four miles outside the city. With the far-off city lights illuminating the sky above, I began the ninety-minute walk towards the city. On the way, there was a souvenir shop, open but with no other customers. On the shelf was a collection of drinking mugs, each with a personal name from both genders. On the side of one of them was my name, Frank, while beneath my name was a picture of a yacht sailing across a sunset over the Pacific Ocean. I bought it and carried it back to the hostel. It's still with me to this day.

Along Mission Beach.

I carried on walking along the quiet, almost traffic-free road. There was no threat of gangs lurking around, nor any other pedestrian or dog walker. Yet, I knew that I wasn't lost. I watched as the city skyline illuminating the sky drew closer.

Back at the hostel, and after carefully placing the well-wrapped ceramic mug inside my rucksack, I made my way to the kitchen.

The visit to Mission Beach.

One morning, again after someone advised me in the hostel dining room, I boarded a bus to Mission Beach, also north of the city. It was further away from the city Centre than the Old Town was and on the same latitude as SeaWorld. The strip of sand formed a peninsula almost enclosing Mission Bay into a lagoon lay north of the Coronado, hence the west side of the beach faced the open ocean, which was unlike the city harbour enclosing San Diego Bay, the larger of the two coastline lagoons. On the east side of the beach, a seemingly endless line of private homes fronted a combined cycle/footpath. Hence, while I was at Mission Beach, I was unable to see the theme park on the other side of the lagoon. The enclosure was accessible for boats through a narrow inlet with two piers jutting out to sea, one on each side of the harbour.

Mission Beach has its own shopping precinct to the south of the peninsula, along with Belmont Park, the site of a roller coaster. There was something I loved about the whole area, its tranquil sub-tropical climate allowing palm trees to flourish in abundance. This was my version of paradise.

I didn't swim in the sea, as if my instincts warned me not to venture in. This was confirmed when I sauntered along the main pleasure pier, also used by fishermen. My attention was caught when a group of fishermen let out a whoop when one of them reeled in his line. Dangling at the end of his line, a small shark was flapping vigorously!

I have found it to be amazing when just strolling along the beach without a care in the world, how quick time goes by. I spent time watching some surfers ride the waves. Fearing a shark bite? Maybe that was why these surfers were clothed with a full bodysuit despite the warm weather. In situations like this, I ask the question: Where is the line drawn between bravery, cowardice and foolhardiness? I'm referring to swimming in the sea, something I always do when I arrive at a beach. Like at Mission Beach, I didn't swim in the sea at Santa Monica either.

Palm Trees at Mission Beach.

A similar set of feelings kept me away from the roller coaster at nearby Belmont Park. But these were very different feelings. Rather than bravery versus cowardice, the struggle was between a strong desire to ride the roller coaster on my own and without a child for company against that instinctive feeling a prat!

Indeed, travel was meant to let go of any inhibitions and enjoy the facilities to the fullest. After all, nobody knew me outside the UK, but there was always that nagging feeling that someone was watching me while peering around the corner. And that turned out to be true. After arriving back at the hostel, the two brothers from Scotland whom I spent the evening with previously, along with the Aussie roommate, came up to me while I was cooking a meal in the kitchen, and basically declared that I was seen at Mission Beach by them that day.

Mexican Dancers at the Bazaar, Old Town.

Therefore, I felt relieved by not paying for a ride alone on the roller coaster, yet, why am I missing out on something that would enhance my enjoyment? Yet, had these two brothers gone on a ride, the very fact that they would have shared their experience made all the difference. Therefore, I waited for another two years, that is in 1997, and on my second visit to Mission Beach, I finally let go of my inhibitions and boarded the car at Belmont Park.

The latter part of the day was taken up by meditating whilst standing at the end of the Harbour mouth pier that juts out into the ocean. The ocean itself wasn't that far below where I was standing, and I watched the waves break as they approached the shore. Before dusk, I boarded the bus to take me back to the city.

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Next Week: I cross into Mexico before heading to Santa Monica.

Travel Biography - Week 64.

A Source of Joy in the Basement.

Unless specified, all photos are my own, taken in 1995.

Having arrived in San Diego for the first time in 1995, I have rated this city the best I had ever visited in the North American Continent. I was impressed with the aesthetics, especially in its shopping mall and Balboa Park. Furthermore, its location on the Pacific Coast at the southern end of California, just north of the Mexican border, allows for the semi-tropical climate with its array of palm trees to enhance its vista.

The YMCA building housing our hostel. Stock photo.

The HI-AYH-affiliated hostel was on a single floor in a ninety-year-old former military base which was either owned or rented out to the YMCA, which in turn, had sublet its third floor to the hostel owners. For me, this was the hostel I had enjoyed staying at more than any other, and memories of it lingered for years afterwards. There was no mandatory duty or nighttime curfew, as with all British hostels. Here, I actually felt more like a proper adult, despite that the 'Y' in AYH stands for 'Youth'. For example, if I wanted a taste of nightlife and returned at 2:30 AM, having access 24/7 was made possible by having my own bedroom key, like any hotel. Also, the kitchen had round-the-clock access. One night, at two in the morning, I couldn't sleep. So, scantily dressed, I went to the kitchen to warm some milk. Both of these occasions would have been out of the question at any YHA in the United Kingdom.

I shared the bedroom with one other hosteller, an Aussie. One night, he, along with two brothers from Scotland, and I went on a bit of a rampage in the streets of the city, although that, for me, was something out of character. The following evening, the three of them went out again, but this time, I wanted to remain indoors and enjoy a quiet evening. It was during these small hours, with my roommate not having yet returned, that I needed to go to the kitchen.

However, the social atmosphere, particularly in the combined kitchen and dining room, was excellent. That is what made the hostel so memorable. One guest has spoken to me about a gym, a swimming pool, a jacuzzi and a sauna - all in the basement. Therefore, the descent down a few flights of stairs to the sauna from our bedroom forever held the record for the shortest journey I ever had to make to reach a spa suite from home!

Entrance to SeaWorld.

During my stay in San Diego, I made two trips downstairs for a swim and sauna. Indeed, there was a fee to pay at the basement reception, but as a resident, I had a discount, thus the fee was quite cheap. A towel was also loaned to me at the desk. I saw that the basement of the YMCA had a gym with its own running track within its perimeter, an unusual setting. The lower basement where the indoor swimming pool was located, and a male staff member reminded me that my long hair needed to be ponytailed. Furthermore, he actually tied my hair himself.

Within the same room as the pool, a warm water jacuzzi blew tiny bubbles into a square masonry tub, thus, tickling rather than massaging my back, and at one end, a sauna cabin with its upper section built almost entirely of glass kept the air within at a constant 100 degrees Celcius.

I rate that Californian sauna top-class! Other than the two in my home town of Bracknell - Coral Reef Waterworld and the Leisure Centre - and also aside from San Diego, I have visited four others, two in the UK and two others overseas. Two were very good - the sauna at a holiday camp in Shanklin, Isle of Wight, and at the Technion, Haifa, in Israel. The other two were rubbish, unable to maintain a proper temperature, the sauna complex at one of the Center-Parcs, and the rooftop sauna in Sydney.

I had a good swim in the pool before trying out both the jacuzzi and sauna, taking up most of the afternoon.

Visiting Sea World - A Taste of Child Psychology.

During my six-day stay, I didn't confine myself to the city. There were four venues I called, all outside town and all recommended by other hostellers. One was SeaWorld, a bus ride north of the city, Mission Beach is next to SeaWorld, the Old Town, also a bus ride north of town, and Tijuana in Mexico, reached by the trolley tram, a light railway linking San Diego to the borderline terminus of San Ysidro. 

View of the Dolphin Theatre from the Skytower.

Soon after breakfast, I boarded a bus for SeaWorld, an oceanarium separated from the ocean by a narrow strip of a peninsula, Mission Beach, almost enclosing a lagoon entirely, except for a narrow entrance harbour. This lagoon is Mission Bay, and SeaWorld is built on a stub of land jutting into it.

In a way, I could rate SeaWorld as a marine version of Disneyland. At least the two parks share the same entrance fee, in 1995 both were $30 per person for a day. Since 1995, the theme park has grown more like Disneyland as new fun rides were apparently added after my time there. According to Google Maps, at least three roller coasters have been installed since my second visit in 1997. They are Journey to Atlantis (a water chute), the Emperor, and the Electric Eel.

During my two visits, the theme park was already graced with the Skytower, a rotating observation capsule that is boarded at ground level before rising to 98 metres to give a magnificent view of the park. I took advantage of the ride while I was visiting. But what with the roller coasters?

Dolphin tricks. It splashes, I was splashed.

Back home, I recall a day trip with Ascot Baptist Church to Thorpe Park in Surrey during my bachelor days. Once just a quarry lake, since then, it has grown into a fully-fledged fairground with a variety of different rides. After we had all boarded the coach parked in front of the church entrance, one of the elders who organised the trip announced to us all,

After some fun on the rides, we can go and see some farm animals.

He was referring to the Celtic farm that was, in the early 1990s, still included in the park's attractions. However, immediately, his own eight-year-old son suddenly cried out loud and clear:

Oh! How boring!

Thankfully, his father didn't reprimand him in public! But this could be one of the reasons why the need for roller coasters in a park that was meant to exhibit marine life. That youngster in the coach seemed to reflect the attitude of many children who see such venues as 'too schooly' when, especially on a Saturday, they want to disassociate from anything educational and instead, enjoy some fun. Hence, Thorpe's sister park, Chessington Zoo, of my boyhood days, had grown into the Chessington World of Adventures with a large variety of fun rides. Therefore, in a State like California, an excellent opportunity was opened to usher in further, more exciting and dramatic entertainment and attract more customers.

The Orca Whale. It gave me a thorough soaking!

A Paradox in Paradise?

But on my first visit to Sea World, I was solely interested in the marine life. But far from being dull and 'schooly', paradoxically, I had both a wonderful and troubled time, yet learned a lot. And I was appropriately dressed in a vest and shorts in the warm sunshine. At the dolphin display theatre, I found myself sitting in the splash zone. I was thinking that a drop or two of water on my singlet wouldn't harm me whatsoever. But after the show got started, indeed, I ended up wet through to the skin! The splash zone? Maybe the dolphin was having an off day. But I didn't mind. The seawater was acting as a coolant in the warm sunshine. After the show ended, I was free to buy a bag of chopped raw fish and hand-feed the dolphins. It was a unique experience, but I had to watch for the birds which were too eager to swoop down and snatch away the fish.

From the Orca, also putting on a show for the audience, along with the screaming seals, the peaceful aquarium housing moray eels was indeed a moment of tranquillity, with just the right soothing music playing non-stop from the speakers installed nearby.

Tranquil. Moray Eels.

Another marine life I found inspiring was the shark aquarium, the manta rays, the giant starfish, the penguins, the turtle pen, and even the flamingos. However, as already mentioned, I felt both joy and trouble, a paradox that was a surprise coming from a resort such as SeaWorld. So, what was troubling me?

The lives of the orca, the sea lions and the dolphins were all egged on to perform for the watching public. On the same day I received a soaking from the dolphins, I was again thoroughly soaked to the skin by the performing orca, even more so than by the dolphin. I couldn't help but think that this was their way of getting back to us, who kept them in captivity to entertain a gleeful public, instead of having the liberty to swim freely and without restriction in the open ocean, for which they were created, travelling vast distances, feeding when they need to and pairing up to mate and raise their young. And not for performing unnatural acts, maybe even unwillingly, but still encouraged by the rewards of constant feeding. In short, I felt sorry for these animals.

However, my interest in how the park functioned was fulfilled when I came across a couple of female staff members out on a break. This gave me a chance to speak to them and find out the ins and outs of the theme park. They were willing to talk to me. It looked to me that they appreciated an inquisitive customer like me with a journalistic bent.

At SeaWorld, 1995.

By asking them, I learned how the tanks operate to keep their stock alive and healthy. Their explanation was that it was no accident that Sea World was built on a strip of land jutting into the lagoon. Here, filtration pumps send the seawater into special tanks, hidden from the public, where it is cleansed from any natural impurities found in the ocean, along with the regulation of water temperature. The water is then pumped into the aquarium, they said, and then sucked out to be returned to the sea, taking all the waste the organism produces with it, hence the health of the organism is maintained. Also, divers periodically clean the inside of the aquarium to prevent any build-up of algae.

It was beginning to get dark, and people were streaming out of the exit. While most of them rejoined their parked cars, I headed for the local bus stop. 

Back at the hostel, my groceries awaited cooking before I settled down for a nice meal.

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Next Week: Mission Beach, the Old Town.