Travel Biography - Week 69.

Review of all Three American Trips.

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

Of the entire 1995 backpacking trip across the United States, more than half of the holiday was spent in California, the Golden State. This includes six days in San Diego, followed by five days in Santa Monica and a further five days in San Francisco. The latter was the terminus of the whole trans-USA journey from New York before flying back to London.

This made 1995 very different from the two 1970s trips across the Atlantic, as the first one began and ended in Toronto, and the second a year later began and ended in New York City. Thus, these first two American trips were cross-country circuits, the first taking in much of Canada. With the 1995 trip starting in New York and finishing in San Francisco, this was a one-way route that allowed for longer stops and more nights spent in bed rather than sitting inside a bus.

View of the San Francisco skyline from Pier 39.

However, the main reason for the 1995 trip to the States, the third so far, was to re-hike the Grand Canyon after a failure to build a proper photo album during my first hike there in 1978. By contrast, the better-quality photos taken of the Colorado River and its immediate environment made the whole of the second hike worthwhile and fulfilling. Furthermore, the HI-AYH San Diego, consisting of a floor hired from the YMCA who owned the building, has created memories which had a deep and positive effect on my emotions which no other hostel experience could equal.

A Short but Questionable Hike?

At this point, I must make myself clear when writing this Biography, so no misunderstanding occurs. What I'm about to express reflects how I thought and felt at that moment whilst walking along the street carrying a heavy rucksack as narrated in the following paragraphs. This was due to having experienced in my younger days and more than once, what it was like to be a target of street violence - to be suddenly surrounded by a group of hostile young men and punched to the ground. Whilst in a state of vulnerability, such memories revived fears when I went through a similar form of helplessness. Therefore, I narrate this part of my journey with an honest description of my thoughts and feelings. But I'm not insisting that Los Angeles, or even a small part of the city, is of any bad repute! In other words, Los Angeles is no worse than any other town or city around the world. Bad incidents can occur anywhere, regardless of location or situation.

*****

After spending four nights at AYH Santa Monica, on the fifth day after arriving there, I felt it was time to move on, as I had barely a week left before flying back to London. Since where I was staying was seventeen miles from the L.A. Greyhound Bus Station, I decided to phone in advance rather than just turn up at random only to find that there were no more departures that evening. Therefore, at a public phone box, I phoned the Greyhound Bus Customer Service for a list of departures to San Francisco. The call was quickly answered by a female at the other end of the line, who began to ask me personal questions such as, Hi, how are you feeling today? and Are you enjoying yourself where you are? (Try asking the business caller such questions here in the UK!)

However, instincts taught me to play the cards right, and instead of replying, None of that is any of your business! Instead, I answered her questions politely and with a tone of friendliness. I knew by then that I'd get the best of the service. She then gave me a list of departures, along with the address to find the station. On East 7th Street. An overnighter was ideal for arrival in San Francisco by breakfast time.

That evening, I vacated the dormitory bed and the hostel to begin the journey to San Francisco. From Santa Monica, I took the express bus into downtown Los Angeles, and I got off near Pershing Square, the most familiar area of the sprawling city.

I could stand around and wait for a bus, or dare I - walk to the bus terminal. East 7th Street was a block away from Pershing Square and therefore easy to find from where I was standing. That was what I loved about the symmetrical grid layout of a typical American city. A guy with a heavy rucksack hanging from his shoulders would reach his destination without much ado. The walk was a 40-minute, 1.5-mile trek through a commercial area of Los Angeles and as unattractive to tourists as it gets. Near the city centre, Hotel Madison stood out, and further along the straight road, I passed the Hotel Continental. Despite its executive-sounding name, the building looked rather seedy, similar to the one I stayed in New York for the first night after arrival. The questionable reputation of the hotel was further enhanced by a group of shady-looking characters lingering around the entrance. As I walked past them, one of them shouted, Are you heading for the Greyhound? 

I was already feeling apprehensive as I walked along, as I was at that point feeling vulnerable. My response to his question was to shake my head and silently stroll past without saying a word. I wasn't sure what I was expecting. I imagined a sudden blow to the head, then waking up and finding myself alone, in pain, and maybe even with the rucksack gone. Or would I be stabbed? Or would they form a circle around me? The latter I had already experienced more than once in my home town of Bracknell back in the seventies and eighties. English youth gangs seemed to be good at encircling a lone victim and proving their virility by flooring with a single punch. The last time that had happened was in 1985. Back then, I just got up and walked away. I was followed for a short distance before another punch was thrown and the group turned and retreated.

But why was I a target back then in the mid-eighties? As a self-employed window cleaner, I had already built up an active domestic business. A little earlier, a potential rival, the father, a relative, or even a friend of the ringleader, tried unsuccessfully to persuade my clientele to switch to his services. Not one of my customers responded. Quickly, I became a target in the community. Hence the flooring.

And here I was, ten years later, wondering if I would meet the same fate as I carried on walking. However, I refused to run. For at least two reasons. First, the heavy rucksack would impede any effort to run. Secondly, the sight of me attempting to take flight would have excited their instinct to chase and bring me down. Instead, I kept on walking, looking directly ahead, unhindered but still wondering whether or not I would arrive at the bus station intact.

The very fact that I was left alone to finish the trek unhindered shows that these guys may look threatening, but they weren't that bad at all. They were lingering at a hotel entrance. As far as they were aware, I could have been looking for accommodation, and seeing the hotel walked straight into the reception area. Would any of them harm me then? Very unlikely! Rather, they might have given me a guide to the city's attractions.

Grace Cathedral, San Francisco.

During the walk, I thought about the Jewess from San Diego who leaned on me for protection. We were on the bus, safe. During our journey to Santa Monica, we saw some shady characters lingering outside a building. Whether it was the hotel or somewhere else, I couldn't be sure. But the sight of these men made her cling closer to me. Therefore, how she managed to vacate the hostel and move on in the morning after just one night remains a mystery to me to this day.

Yet the question remains: What made me decide to walk the 1.5 miles through the unattractive commercialised street of Los Angeles in the first place when I could have easily boarded a bus? I think it was a desire for a challenge, something of a dare, a hidden want for a taste of American life away from the tourist spots. I was aware of the risks but somehow, a strong, deep-rooted instinct drove me to walk the street, or else, I would have some regrets later, believing, even falsely, that I was Chicken.

Arriving in San Francisco.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the Greyhound Bus terminal come into view. It seemed that I had walked for hours over many miles. But I only walked 1.5 miles in about 40 minutes. On the positive side, if I remember correctly, during the walk, I passed an insignificant-looking car park. However, in my old favourite detective cop drama, Starsky & Hutch in the 1970s TV series, this car park appeared in several episodes with Starsky parking his famous car there whilst the pair were on an investigation.

After arriving at the bus terminal and reserving a seat, I had to wait a few hours before the bus to San Francisco was ready to depart. It was a bit like the wait I had to endure at Flagstaff for transport to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, a couple of weeks earlier. The difference was, whilst at Flagstaff, it was the early hours of the morning and I was the only traveller there other than the staff. Here, in Los Angeles, many people were waiting to begin their journeys, hence the waiting area was a hub of activity as outside it was getting dark.

When I eventually boarded the Greyhound Americruiser - for the last leg of the journey across the USA - I felt safe and smug, leaving East 7th Street behind as the bus joined the freeway which would link us to San Francisco.

At daybreak, the bus finally pulled into San Francisco Bus terminal, and here, I washed and shaved and settled down for breakfast at the station restaurant. Afterwards, I reached Market Street. I walked along looking for accommodation. Shortly, the Grand Hostel came into view. I entered the ground floor reception area and I was offered a bed, which I accepted for the next four nights, giving me five full days in San Francisco. Once again, it was an off-the-street walk-in to the reception without the need to pre-book, as was the case with the need to pre-book at Santa Monica.

I took the elevator to one of the upper floors, and I arrived not at a dormitory but at a bedroom that was very similar to the one at AYH San Diego. Here too, the small room had two beds, one on each side. One bed was in use, while the other bed, the one assigned to me at the reception, had the occupant's rucksack resting on it. I moved the rucksack to another position, and then I went to find a local superstore to stock up.

When I returned to our room, a surly Frenchman had returned and leaned his rucksack on his bed while he threw my luggage across my bed while I was out. I was also annoyed. There was a china mug packed away in my rucksack. This was, and still is, a treasure, the only reminder of San Diego until all the photos were developed. We hardly spoke, although my willingness to put all matters aside and attempt to start a casual conversation brought out a few words in the French language that revealed his nationality.

There was no friendship of any level between us, quite a contrast to the Aussie I met in San Diego. I went back out, and when I returned sometime later, the room was vacated and I never saw the Frenchman again. Instead, I had the room to myself for the rest of my stay there.

Fisherman's Wharf, San Francisco.

To me, San Francisco is a far livelier and more touristy city than Los Angeles. The population was also quite diverse between the two cities, especially in 1977 and 1978. In Los Angeles, the people who paced the sidewalks at Broadway were mostly of Spanish origin, suggesting an influx of Mexicans pouring into Southern California in search of a better, more prosperous life. In San Francisco, the population was more of a white British complexion, perhaps out of preference for a cooler, less subtropical climate. Whether I'm theoretically right or wrong on this matter, I was still astounded by the difference in skin colour in the seventies. By 1995, it looked to me that the demarkation had become less obvious.

The southern of the two peninsulas, the San Francisco Peninsula, partially encloses San Francisco Bay along with the adjoining Pablo Bay to form a large lagoon covering a recess in the North Californian coastline which is also partially enclosed by the northern peninsula, Marin County. Hence, the two peninsulas allow a narrow passage to the Pacific Ocean. It's the narrow strait that is called the Golden Gate. The famous bridge that crosses the strait was named after it.

Whilst at the hostel, I was wondering whether the building that accommodated me was triangular rather than a normal four-sided block. The upper floor had a kitchen and dining room that seemed to be triangular. This was soon confirmed later when I got a map of the city. The private-owned hostel, which was not affiliated with HI-AYH, was located at Market Street, a diagonal straight road on the map, separating the main city from the southern district, known as South of Market, laid out on a 45-degree angle of difference from the North-South compass points. Yet, its location in the city couldn't be better, with easy access to most attractions.

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Next Week: I begin to explore San Francisco.