Travel Biography - Week 106.

The Day after Disneyland.

During my final stop in Santa Monica on the 1997 Round-the-World backpacking trip, starting and finishing in the UK, and having already spent a day with two colleagues in Disneyland, there were two more outings before heading to LAX International Airport. They were to Downtown Los Angeles and a 24-mile round trip cycle ride to Malibu.

But neither were before the next morning after arriving back from Disneyland. That was when Mike joined me for breakfast. He explained that Chris had gone to return the hired car to its owners before heading to the airport. That left Mike on his own with me. After breakfast, Mike wanted me to accompany him outside, and I soon realised why. He needed to make a phone call but wasn't sure how to go about it here in the States, and so he wanted me to make the call for him. And I did, having used the American payphone a couple of times already.

Mike talked over the phone to someone about a purchase transaction, I believe, for an electronic part of a hi-fi music unit. After the call was completed, we went into a cafe and as a reward, he bought me a coffee. We then returned to the hostel, and as we parted, he asked me to wait for him in the dining room while he returned to his dormitory. I waited...and waited...but he failed to make a return to the dining room. I eventually rose from the table and stepped outside.

The Broadway, Downtown Los Angeles

Pershing Square, Downtown Los Angeles.

On the cycleway to Malibu.

Mr Hammerhead guards the Malibu precinct.

I made my way along the coast west of the pier. My thoughts were troubled. Did I let Mike down? How did he feel when he saw an unoccupied table where he left me earlier? And sooner or later he would have to pass that way to get to the exit. And so, as I walked along, my emotions remained in flux. A moment of weakness on my part, perhaps? Or was he engaged in a deliberate plan to rid himself of me by staying in his dorm, perhaps even for a late morning nap? Did he perceive me as a clinger, someone in a desperate search for friendship? If the latter was true, then I would have been happier had he said clearly that he had to go now, but was happy to have me as company for the last 24 hours. Was I trying to cling to him? Unlikely, as lone travel usually called for stoicism. However, after that morning, I never saw him again, and I still had a few more days here. I assumed that he checked out on the same day.

As I kept on walking, I crossed the boundary of Santa Monica into the Malibu district. What I wasn't aware of was that Malibu lies outside the Los Angeles Administration area, hence leaving L.A. altogether. Yet, I just kept on walking along the coast until I arrived at a point level with Villa de Leon, 5.6 miles (9 km) west of Santa Monica Pier. The walk turned out to be an unplanned hike over 11 miles (18 km) long, and taking up a good chunk of the day. A site on the beach just west of the Villa was an ideal turnaround point. By the time I reached the hostel, it was already evening.

Downtown.

On one of the days at Santa Monica, I thought about visiting  Downtown Los Angeles, especially when considering that nobody at the hostel placed such a visit high on their priorities. For the majority of backpackers, Downtown L.A. held little or no interest. To them, it was just a huddle of tall office blocks interspersed with busy highways. In many ways, they were right. All the tourist spots lay outside of the Downtown area. Hollywood Studios lies to the northwest of the city, Santa Monica to the west, Long Beach to the southwest, and Disneyland in Anaheim, to the southeast. In 1995, I walked the length of East 7th Street from the city to the Greyhound Bus Terminal, some 1.6 miles (2.6 km) through uninteresting commercial sprawl. Yet that same sprawl was recognisable. It was featured in the 1970s cop drama series Starsky & Hutch.

My bike is seen here at the precinct.

The Lagoon at Malibu

Looking across the Lagoon from a sandbank.

Malibu Creek Estuary and Lagoon.

A non-stop bus links Santa Monica to the Downtown, making the journey rapid. Within thirty minutes, I was near Pershing Square, the central hub of the city. I recall Pershing Square as far back as 1977, my first visit to Los Angeles (inspired by the cop drama) - and again a year later in 1978. Back then, Pershing Square was an English-type garden with a circular pond with a fountain. When I revisited the same site in 1995, I was appalled at the monstrosity the fountain had become. It was a solid block of concrete forming a pillar from which the water tumbled.

I also walked through Broadway with its markets. Since I was already familiar with the street, I could see that no major changes had taken place there since my first visit in the seventies. I just wished that they kept Pershing Square to the original layout, a green, breathing lung in the heart of a bustling city.

The skyline remained unchanged from the 1995 visit, although very different from the seventies. I recognised many of the original buildings from that era, including the Bank of America Financial Center, a tower with alternating black and white vertical stripes, instantly recognisable in Starsky & Hutch and my own memories of the seventies. The taller, more modern-looking skyscrapers went up during the eighties, I believe. Among the cluster of tall office blocks were hotels, I assume, for visiting businessmen attending their conferences rather than catering to the tourists. One brand new hotel, the Westin Bonaventure Hotel consists of five cylindrical towers with the larger one in the middle and the four others at each of the four corners. It boasts several outdoor elevators, each with glass walls which gives a clear view of the city as it rises.

Anyone could use these elevators as they were open to the street. So I stepped into one and chose an upper floor. I didn't expect what happened next. As the lift rose along its shaft, the view of the receding ground gave me a sickening feeling of vertigo. I had to shut my eyes and block out the sensation. I have just discovered a weakness not felt by the majority who use these elevators. At last, the lift halted at the chosen floor, and I found myself in the corridor lined with room doors. From one, a businessman emerged and gave me a suspicious look as he walked by. But he took no action.

After reaching the ground, I didn't have far to go before arriving at the city library. It was a larger building than the one at San Luis Obispo, hence holding far more books. This time, I didn't browse like I did before. Instead, I did a thorough tour before boarding the bus back to the hostel.

Malibu.

It was the last but one day before flying back to London, and there was just one night to come to spend at the hostel. The following night I'll be flying some 35,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean. That morning, which was Monday, my energy levels were high, prompted by nervousness about the coming journey. So what was better than hiring a bicycle and draining some of my energy on a pair of pedals?

I hired a bike from the same shop as I did in 1995. Back then, I rode from the pier to Little Venice and then back under the pier to Will Rogers State Beach, a 4.7-mile (7.6 km) stretch of the Ocean Front Walk. But this time, I wasn't as interested in Little Venice as I was in Malibu. After all, having completed an unplanned hike a couple of days previously, I wanted to explore further, perhaps as far as Malibu town itself. And what better way than by bicycle.

The 12-mile (19.3 km) ride was flat and smooth but not necessarily fast. Little wonder that the most devoted in cycling say that two wheels offer far better scenery than four wheels. Not only the absence of refuelling and polluting the air, but riding a bike offers fitness as well as a greater enjoyment of the scenery, the fresh air, and if riding off-road, greater safety as well.

Nearby residency, Malibu.

The Lagoon, Malibu

Backcountry seen from Malibu Creek.

Returning to Santa Monica.

I rode past Will Rogers State Beach along the Pacific Highway that would eventually lead to San Francisco. The urbanisation then petered out as I exited the L.A. administration area to enter the Malibu district. But I still had a few miles to cover before arriving at what I thought was the coastal town on the other side of the Malibu Creek and Lagoon. Here, there was a large shopping precinct, busy with people, and I naturally assumed that this was Malibu town, despite its small size for a town. In fact, Central Malibu, a larger settlement, is another seven miles further down the road and easily doable on a bicycle. If only I was better informed! I would have had no hesitation to cover the 19 miles from Santa Monica Pier to Central Malibu and back, totalling 38 miles (61 km) in a day. 

But as I checked Google Maps on Malibu to fill in memory gaps, I wondered whether Central Malibu would have been worthy of the extra seven miles of riding. It's a town like any other, and its coastline looked to be less spectacular than the lagoon area where I was. Furthermore, Central Malibu looked to be a vast residential area built on a hilly terrain, and as lifeless as any wealthy estate. As a consequence, it was no accident where Malibu Pier was located. It's on the east side of the lagoon, hence I had to ride past it to get to the shopping precinct. Unfortunately, the pier was closed for maintenance on the day I arrived, missing out on some spectacular photos of the lagoon as seen from the sea.

The shopping precinct was dominated by a pipe sculpture of a human hammerhead. That is the head of a hammer instead of a human looking out to sea as if guarding the precinct from a pirate or enemy invasion. Whether the sculpture is still there to this day is another matter. The precinct was alive and beating with people out on their errands. The lagoon gave extra character to what would have been a "boring" strip of sand lining the Californian coastline. In turn, the hilly backcountry of Malibu gives the area that extra dynamism that has made the whole day out a worthwhile experience.

Yet, this was my last full day in California with one more night to come at the AYH Santa Monica. This was different to 1995 when my visit to Santa Monica was followed by a week in San Francisco. Knowing that within a couple of days, I'll be back home in my apartment in Bracknell, the Round-the-World finished for good. Therefore, during my visit to Malibu, waves of sadness swept through my soul as I looked around under the balmy sunshine. I try to comfort myself. As I saw it, I couldn't see myself as a married man in any way soon. Therefore, another Round-the-World experience was in gestation within the womb of my mind. But that won't be at least in the year 2000 if not later. It's all to do with the budget.

By the evening, I was cycling back to Santa Monica. Near the Pier, I returned the bicycle safely and in good condition to the owners and made my way to the hostel to prepare dinner.

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Next Week: The flight home and time spent contemplating.

Travel Biography - Week 105.

Round-the-World 1997. The Final Stop.

Defining a stop on a worldwide journey such as in 1997 simply means a break on the route which includes at least one night, hence the shortest was two days long, the day of arrival and the day of leaving. Thus, from locking the door of my apartment on Tuesday, May 23rd, 1997, to the next day, I spent the first night in the YHA Earls Court before taking the Piccadilly tube train to Heathrow Airport. Therefore, my first stop on the worldwide journey was London rather than Singapore. My final stop was five nights at the HI-AYH Santa Monica before boarding a local bus to LAX Airport. I landed at London Heathrow on Wednesday, August 2nd, 1997, which meant that I was out of the UK for exactly ten weeks.

A day spent at Hollywood Universal Studios was more from circumstance rather than advanced planning. Initially, I wanted to arrive in Santa Monica directly from San Luis Obispo. However, there were no vacancies for the next two nights at the resort. Instead, I booked those two nights at a Banana Bungalow hostel in West Hollywood, giving me easy access to the studios.

View of Santa Monica Beach and Pier.

Santa Monica seen from the Pier.

The Terminus of Route 66 from Chicago.

But now it was time to move on. The day after, I took a local bus direct to Santa Monica, and with the reservation already made, it was easy to check-in. I was assigned a bed in one of the dorms at one of America's exquisite hostels.

Looking back, I came to realise that the AYH Santa Monica was the only hostel I stayed at more than once, the first visit was two years earlier in 1995. This made the stop at Santa Monica unique throughout the entire 1997 Round-the-World, except for Earls Court, London, where I also spent the night on the eve of take-off from Heathrow to New York in 1995. As for San Diego, true enough, I did stay at the same hostel, both in 1995 and 1997. But on my initial stay in 1995, the hostel rented a floor in the YMCA at Broadway. By 1997, the hostel management had moved to a different, less impressive (at the time) vacant building on Market Street.

The hostel in Santa Monica was on 2nd Street, a block parallel to 3rd Street Promenade, a pedestrian-only thoroughfare decorated with sculptured bushes and ornaments, a scene very similar to The Corso in Manly, just north of Sydney. Ocean Avenue runs along over the top of the cliffs, and it's as busy with traffic as the Pacific Highway running parallel to Ocean Avenue but along the foot of the cliffs. A wide, sandy beach stretched along the coast, interrupted by the famous Santa Monica Pier, the terminus of the original 2,448-mile (3,940 km) Route 66 from Chicago, its free entrance provides a place of refuge to watch pelicans rest under the evening setting sun over the Pacific horizon. 

Between Ocean Avenue and the clifftop are a couple of footpaths, or the Dutch-style footpath and cycleway running separately but parallel to each other, with lawns and rows of palm trees forming a strip, 1.7 miles (2.74 km) in length from the pier to Ocean Towers, thus keeping the paths away from the main road. At one point, the cycleway turns towards the coast on an incline to join the Ocean Front Walk, a combined foot/cycleway giving beach access to Malibu, a town 12 miles (20 km) west of Santa Monica Pier. 

Main Street USA, Disneyland.

Waterfalls, Frontierland.

New Orleans Square is seen from Tom Sawyer Ferry.

The Matterhorn had lost the sky buckets of the 70s.

A Trip to Disneyland - in a Friend's Car.

It didn't take long to settle down at the hostel. Little of it had changed since my last visit in 1995, except that this time, the patio fountain wasn't functioning. But by checking the Internet, AYH Santa Monica is very much alive and well to this day, and even modified to modern hotel standards. Therefore, the non-functioning of the fountain in 1997 must have been a temporary blip.

Near the reception kiosk, there was a pin-up board where guests could post certain events they were planning to attend or to seek company on a day's outing. One notice was asking anyone at the hostel if he would join him on a car trip to Disneyland. Having visited this theme park three times already (in 1977, 1978, and 1995) - I didn't have much of a motive for a 4th revisit. It wasn't on my agenda, although I was aware I could change my mind and make an effort to revisit it. Especially after 1995, when I saw that the sky buckets were removed, the Monorail shortened, and the park was not quite the same as in the seventies. However, with a companion, everything changed. I signed my name on the allotted space on the pinboard.

Throughout the 70-day Round-the-World trip, I paired up with two other people three times. The first was in Singapore when I joined two other European students for a day at Sentosa Island, including a swim at the outdoor leisure pool. The second occasion was with two Chinese undergrads I joined up with, also for a day, to see the sights of Sydney. This was after encountering them at the YHA Brisbane. Now this. I was about to pair up with at least one other companion for a day trip to Disneyland. Of just three days in good company out of 70, that leaves the other 67 days spent mostly alone, and purposely avoiding any effort to seek friends or companions. Being lousy at team or ball sports could be one reason. After all, at the YHA Coffs Harbour, NSW, I did shed a tear after I was thrashed at a snooker table and teased to the core by a female motormouth.

The next day, after I was contacted by the host, we agreed to meet at a certain spot at a certain time. When I got there, a tall European, roughly half my age, was waiting. He introduced himself as Chris, and there was a third person, Mike, who would be joining us. Like in Singapore and Sydney, I would be one of the threesome heading for Disneyland. When Mike arrived and introduced himself, I saw that he was about the same age as Chris, and equal in height. All three of us were lone backpackers from Europe, but Chris rented a car instead of using public transport. As such, he was the escort for the day and we both submitted to his leadership.

Along the highway and not far from our destination, Chris halted at a gas station (petrol or refuelling stop, to us.) Whilst Chris was talking to the assistant, Mike and I were joking around while I was mimicking a dialogue:

Chris: Can you direct me to Disneyland, please?

Assistant: Disneyland? Where is that? I never heard of it!

A silly joke perhaps, but it was effective in making us both laugh, as we were getting into the spirit of Disney.

We arrived and Chris found a parking space. We then bought our own entry tickets as other people poured in and entered the park to enjoy the day.

Chris and Mike respected my knowledge of the theme park, having visited three times already, whilst theirs was their first visit. Therefore, I became the escort, and I took them on several rides and adventures. However, Mike felt uncomfortable with the fast, gutsy rides (such as Space Mountain) and we had to keep with the more "tame" rides and adventures.

Perhaps as an undergrad or recent graduate, Chris was a better explorer and journalist than I was, and he noticed various facilities that had never crossed my mind in visiting during my last three experiences. One example was the Sleeping Beauty Castle, the central exhibit of the whole park. As I always thought that the castle was nothing more than a Hollywood-type mockup, Chris saw that we could go inside. We found that the castle housed a museum of the history of Walt Disney, his success in creating family movies and having visions of a theme park based on the characters he created, with Mickey Mouse and Pluto the dog becoming Disney's most famed pair. Disneyland in Anaheim, south of Los Angeles, was the first of such parks to be constructed, and it opened in 1955. Walt Disney World in Florida was built afterwards, followed by Disneyland Paris, which opened far more recently, in 1992, with a short-lived, unpopular name of Eurodisney.

Tomorrowland Station, Perimeter Railroad.

Mississippi Steamer, Frontierland.

River Cruise, Adventureland.

Micky Mouse Toontown.

Another idea Chris had was the River Cruise in Adventureland and the ferry to Tom Sawyer Island in Frontierland. Of the former, I recall the river cruise in the seventies, but Tom Sawyer Island and the ferry to it was something new. It featured a cave in which the whistling sound of the wind was heard blowing, and if one listened carefully, the ghostly voice of an Indian who died after falling into the cave below could be heard in the wind.

Mickey Mouse Toontown was a new feature that wasn't there during the seventies, but I saw it for the first time in 1995. Included was a tame rollercoaster suitable for children and for Mike. He and I boarded one of the cars as Chris stood by and watched. What with the Perimeter Railroad train views climaxing at the remarkable image of the Grand Canyon, the day was turning out well, with an after-dark firework display exploding as the sky was lit up. In all, although the two lads looked to me to show the park to them, it was Chris who led us to adventures I had not thought of before (except the River Cruise) including a peek inside the Sleeping Beauty Castle.

Of the two lads, Chris had a very adult worldview of Disneyland, and he was more interested in the serious educational side of the theme park. Mike, like me, was more of a fun lover, although he was nervous about the more "gutsy" rides. Yet we stuck together throughout the day. Had we split, I guess Chris would have studied all the exhibits inside the Sleeping Beauty Castle, Mike would have enjoyed the more tame, child-oriented rides, and I would have gone for the more challenging rides such as Space Mountain and Thunder Train roller coasters.

It was getting late at night when Chris called time and led us back to his car, and he drove us back to the hostel. 

On all three occasions, Singapore, Australia and California, I didn't allow my age difference to get in the way of such group friendships with people half my age. But I suppose, by the mid-nineties, I was still free and single - making friends whilst on my travels proved to be an enriching tonic.

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Next Week: Downtown Los Angeles and Malibu.

Travel Biography - Week 104.

The Journey from San Luis Obispo to West Hollywood.

The four days I spent in San Luis Obispo took three nights and four days. These included the day I arrived as Day One, and the day I departed as Day Four. This gave me two full days - the first, I hired a bike and rode to Avila Beach. The second full day I spent checking out the town and spending time in the library. On day Four, it was time to return to Los Angeles, as I had just one week left of this 1997 Round-the-World backpacking experience. I intended to settle in Santa Monica, the coastal district of Los Angeles, where I stayed two years earlier in 1995.

The HI-AYH Santa Monica didn't accept off-the-street check-ins. Instead, the hostel required an advanced phone call booking and a submission of my credit card number to get a reservation. So, whilst I was still in San Luis, I found a public phone box and dialled the number for the hostel. For the first time, I was told over the phone that for the coming evening, all the beds were taken, but they were happy to take me two nights later. By working out the evening of take off, I managed to reserve for five nights starting on a Thursday to the following Monday night, the final night spent in a hostel before boarding the flight on a Tuesday evening.

Hollywood in 1977. Much has changed by 1997.

None of this existed in 1977. This was 1997.

King Kong dominates the Upper Level.

Stairs linking the two levels, Universal Studios.

My hostel guide booklet for North America included a Banana Bungalow Hostel in West Hollywood. Thus, with extra care, I made a booking for a two-night reservation starting that evening. If everything goes to plan, I have the advantage of revisiting Universal Studios in Hollywood for the first time since my initial visit in 1977 as narrated on Week 14.

Later that afternoon, a couple of backpackers were also ready to leave. There was even a suggestion of a car lift to the Los Angeles area, but the guys weren't heading there. But I was offered a lift by them to the Greyhound bus station and left to make my way south alone. To my joy, there was a Greyhound station at West Hollywood, just the ideal location to alight! It was far better than ending the journey at the main city terminal on East 7th Street.

The 185-mile (298 km) Americruiser journey took around five hours to complete. After arriving at West Hollywood, I alighted, and with the aid of my guidebook, I found the Banana Bungalow hostel and checked in. I was assigned a bed in one of the carports or garage in a row of several, the most unusual place to spend the night. The mouth of each carport had a thick, translucent plastic sheet covering it which hung freely, allowing anyone to enter and exit. Inside the carport were four bunk beds, two on each side, thus each carport accommodated eight sleepers. It also meant that to get to the bathroom, I had to step outside onto the yard to reach the main building where the bathroom was housed.

The adjoining main building was inviting, with a games room dominated by a snooker table. Throughout the evening, I watched as a group of lively guests concentrated on the game. The best I could do was casually watch. But I didn't play, instead, I shopped locally for dinner and the morning's breakfast. Like at all other hostels, this one too had a guest kitchen and dining room, thus rating the accommodation as adequate. But some of the other backpackers I spoke to gave the hostel a poor rating.

As for me, spending a night or two in a garage didn't bother me too much. It was summer, warm, the south Californian climate was subtropical, and palm trees flourished. Indeed, any creepy crawlies could have sneaked under the plastic sheeting, yet there were no bed bugs. Recently, I have heard about upstanding hotels and even a British holiday camp chalet suffering from bedbug infestations.

Palm Trees at Hollywood.

Outdoor mockups seen from the Glamour Tram.

A tree in a remote village.

The same tree gets flooded, Glamour Tram views.

A Day at Hollywood Studios.

After making my way there from the hostel, the price of $36 admitted me into the theme park. Straight away, I saw big changes from the 1977 visit. A giant cutout of King Kong dominated the main street, and cinemas were showing classic Hollywood movies, along with buildings several storeys high and housing shops and stalls. Neither were there before. The theme park was on two levels. All the commercialism was on the upper level. The studios proper was on the lower level, and it was at the lower level where I spent most of the day, including getting an unexpected soaking.

However, the outside mockups on the lower level remained very much the same as in 1977. A more updated version of the Glamour Tram was still in operation, winding its way through the mockups as well as passing through an indoor tube station setting, where an explosion on a stationary train startled all of us. There was from my side of the tram a street deliberately flooded, uprooting a tree in the process. As already explained during the 1977 visit, actors are filmed entering and leaving the mockup townhouse, but all indoor scenes were shot in a studio room elsewhere.

A Cowboy prepares to shoot.

This was in Bruce Almighty and Back to the Future

A view of the mockups from the upper level.

After the glamour tram ended where it began, I was free to wander around the site, although the public was forbidden to venture among the outdoor mockups, I was still free to visit the indoor studio elsewhere in the park. At the entrance, the doors remained shut until a reasonable-sized crowd had assembled outside. Then the doors opened and we were all escorted inside a large shed. This building was one of several which housed the mechanical side of filming, where various machines produced both visual and sound effects when making a movie.

The escort stood on a stage above us all and pointed his finger at someone in the crowd. When a person responded by approaching the stage and climbing a step to reach the waiting escort, he was given instructions on how to operate the visualisation gadget when given the signal. I couldn't help but feel a tinge of envy at the random picking from the audience. He then pointed his finger at what looked to be directly at me.

You sir - please come up here. He called out as he stood by another of the machines. Startled, I made my way to where he was standing.

As I approached and climbed the step that led to the stage, he cried out, I wasn't calling you, but the gentleman behind. But come up anyway and I'll show you what to do!

I was led to the sound simulator. I was told that when a pilot light lit up, I was to turn the crank handle fast. We both waited. The other chap's light came on first and he activated his gadget. Then the light on my gadget lit, and I began to turn the handle, and a siren sound was emitted from a nearby speaker. The light went out, and I stopped. Then it came on again, and I began to turn the handle again. In all, I turned the crank three times at exactly the right moment.

On the screen above the stage, the demonstration was replayed after filming. The blending of the visuals and sound in harmony was the basis for making a movie.

It was difficult to describe how I felt afterwards. On one hand, I felt honoured to partake in a public demonstration here in Hollywood, yet also humiliated after he disclosed that I was the wrong person to come up to the stage. Who was the fellow behind me? I didn't look back to see. Was he wearing a green hat, for example? Then why wasn't the escort more specific? Such as: Will the gentleman wearing the green hat please come up here? Like that, I would have known that he wasn't referring to me.

But he said nothing about a green hat, and his finger did point directly at me. This was Hollywood. A place where people act, to create a world of make-believe. While I was writing this, I thought back to the incident. Was it likely that his "wrong man" statement was deliberately delivered to hinder any puffed-up feelings?

However, whether the escort liked it or not, I partook in a demonstration right here in one of the world's most famous locations, whose image is broadcast worldwide. The feeling of achievement won over the feeling of humiliation. Yet, this little experience has opened my eyes to how such an ego booster the studio really is, and always has been. Aspiring actors have always dreamed of Hollywood, the ambition of drama students to have their names illuminated in big letters right across the cinema screen.

But with fame comes responsibilities, especially in maintaining marriage relationships. According to statistics, the divorce rate of Hollywood celebrities stands at 52% (Source: the website Bonobology.) Hollywood has one of the highest divorce rates among celebrities. True love, family commitment and inflated egos don't seem to match very well, especially at home. For me who is at present fully committed to our own marriage, Hollywood, where many would give an arm and a leg to star in a movie, gain fame and rich pickings, can make shipwreck of the noble institution of marriage - going back thousands of years - to lie in ruins like a bombed city.

Wet, Wet, Wet.

There is at least one rollercoaster, or rather, a water chute in the Hollywood theme park, the Jurassic Park ride. After my stint in the indoor studio, I made my way to the attraction. Having noticed that everyone was dripping wet when they alighted from the boat, I asked whether there was a safe place to store my camera for the duration of the ride. I was led to a room lined with lockers. In one of them, I left my camera and other valuables.

I boarded the vessel at the front for the best views. By then I knew that we were all going to get wet, but that still left me to ponder: Why do American amusement owners have an obsession with soaking their guests? Along with Hollywood studios, both Disneyland and SeaWorld have attractions that could leave one dripping after the ride or show. 

However, the ride itself was amazing. We sailed past dinosaurs - the Brachiosaurus, Psittacosaurus, Stegasaurus, the duck-billed Hadrosaur, a Dilophosaurus, and then the Tyrannosaurus lunging straight at us, but just escaped its claws when the raft fell down a 26-metre waterfall into a lagoon below. But even before the waterfall, we had already been spat upon with water from the mouth of some of the dinosaurs we passed, but the waterfall was the final climax. The splashdown drenched us.

Entrance to the water chute ride.

The 26-metre waterfall.

Splashdown!

After the ride. I had no other clothes to change into or no towel to dry myself with. But thanks to the warm, balmy climate, along with wearing a summer shirt and shorts, it didn't take long to dry out, and I stayed in the vicinity until I was dry enough to move on. At least that was one big difference between 1977 and 1997. On the earlier visit to Hollywood, I stayed dry throughout. 

As evening drew in, I made my way back to the upper level and passed under King Kong to make for the exit, and to make my way back to Banana Bungalow Hostel. I also had to prepare for the next day, when a short local bus journey would take me to Santa Monica, my final stop on this Round-the-World trip before flying back to London. Santa Monica would bring mixed emotions.

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Next Week: The Final Stop. I made the most of it.

Travel Biography - Week 103.

Preparing for the Onward Journey to San Luis Obispo.

The dayhike at Los Padres National Forest enriched my stay at Santa Barbara. However, that still left me to decide where to go next. San Francisco was too far north, and the flight to London was scheduled to take off from Los Angeles. Therefore, during the third stage of the Round-the-World, I had to remain near Los Angeles. However, my desire was to visit places I had yet to see. Indeed, I was already familiar with San Francisco, having visited the city three times already. 

By checking a map of California, I saw one city that might be worth a visit, San Luis Obispo (not to be confused with St Louis in Missouri) which is about ten miles inland from the coast. This town was low on the tourist list, allowing me to witness American life unhinged by tourism. San Luis was of California as Coffs Harbour was of New South Wales, except that the American version wasn't blessed with Mangroves flourishing on the banks of a nearby river. In 1997, I thought that a stop at San Luis Obispo was a good idea, something new.

On the main highway (Route 101) the two towns are 95 miles (153 km) apart, about two hours northward on the Greyhound Americruiser, a daytime journey. As for accommodation, in Santa Barbara, I was staying at a Banana Bungalow hostel affiliated with Rucksackers North America, a rival to Hostelling International. Therefore, there was no Book-a-Bed-Ahead scheme for San Luis, as there was only one hostel at the time, a converted private home affiliated with AYH, on the other side of town from the Greyhound Bus station. AYH San Luis Obispo was the smallest hostel I stayed at throughout the entire Round-the-World trip. It was one in a residential estate in a quiet part of town, and difficult to get to from the bus station.

Arriving at San Luis Obispo.

I vacated the Banana Bungalow hostel in Santa Barbara and made my way to the Greyhound Bus station, where I checked for departures for San Luis, and bought a ticket. At the assigned time, I was cruising northward along the Pacific Highway in the middle of the afternoon of the fourth day after arriving in Santa Barbara from San Diego.

Shopping precinct, San Luis Obispo.

Mission San Luis Obispo de Tolosa.

Another view of the Mission.

A Street in San Luis announces a festival.

After about two hours, the bus pulled into San Luis for a service stop where I alighted. At the foyer, an advert for the AYH hostel was advertised with an instruction to phone the owners from the station, and they would arrive to collect me. Their phone number was clearly displayed. Nearby was a public payphone, and since I was fortunate enough to have some loose change, I proceeded to make the call.

A short while after making the phone call, a tall, strapping American approached me and asked if I phoned for a hostel bed.  I did, and I was escorted to his car waiting outside whilst my rucksack was loaded in its rear trunk. It was a short ride across town to the hostel. After I arrived, I checked in for three nights, that is four days, the same as in Santa Barbara.

The hostel was a private house in a residential estate with a few extra beds in two of the three bedrooms, hence taking in up to just six members. Apparently, the kitchen and the bathroom were shared with the resident owners. A bicycle was also available for hire. A few other backpackers were already there when I arrived, and as I was still to find out, they had their own car.

The only venue of interest in San Luis was the Mission San Luis Obispo de Tolosa, a Catholic church and monastery founded by San Junipero Sierra. Otherwise, it was a typical American town free from any tourist tat. Spending four days here was not a boring experience as one might expect, but more of an enlightenment on how an average American lives. This includes a superstore not far from the hostel, where I restocked as I always do when hostelling, mainly for breakfast and evening meals.

However, the location of the town to the coast, along that a bicycle was available for hire, meant that I was able to find adventure here in San Luis, even if there were no mountains or forest trails nearby for day hiking, although the surrounding country was hilly. Also, there was no major river, but a small creek ran through the town.

Avila Beach.

The next day after arrival, I asked the receptionist to hire the bicycle. At first, he seemed reluctant but decided that I could be trusted with the mount. So he went to the carport that was attached to the house and wheeled out the bicycle. However, my excitement at the sight of the machine had blinded me from the fact that no cycle lock came with it. Had I noticed that it was missing there and then, I would have insisted on it. However, by the time I got underway, it was too late. As I kept on riding, I still didn't realise that no security was provided until I arrived at the coast and wanted to lock it up.

The ride was flat, without hills, but I had to ride into the gentle breeze. The surrounding countryside was hilly, thus offering pleasant views as I rode along a traffic-free highway. The distance from the hostel to the coast was approximately ten miles (16 km) but after reaching the coast, I then proceeded further for another mile and a half further west along the coast to Harford Pier. This was a fishing pier with no traditional leisure amenities, but it was worth visiting, even if I was alone with nobody else around. From it, a splendid view of the beachless slope of the high ground of Point Luis plunged straight into the sea, a natural wild section of the coast which reminded me of the Whitsunday Islands off the Queensland resort of Arlie Beach, but this time without the fringe reef corals.

Just before setting off to the coast.

A view from Harford Fishing Pier.

The slopes of Luis Point drop into the Sea.

The hills are seen from Avila Pleasure Pier.

While watching the unsecured bike, I spent a considerable while on the pier, admiring the view. Afterwards, I cycled east to Avila Beach with its more traditional pleasure pier. Avila Beach is a short strip of sand with sunbathers populating the strip, thus creating a holiday atmosphere. To the east of the beach, a limestone headland, Fossil Point, juts into the sea, and its profile as seen from the beach, resembles the head of a domestic cat permanently gazing out to sea.

However, I didn't get around to swim in the sea. Due to the sweat I created by pedalling the distance, I was in the mood to swim, but I couldn't. The reason for that was the unsecured bike. The machine wasn't mine, therefore I felt responsible for the safekeeping of somebody else's property. While admiring the giant cat ahead, I kept watch on the bike. But that didn't mean I didn't enjoy myself. And that included strolling along the esplanade, wheeling the bike.

Presently, the sound of a live band could be heard from a distance as the band struck up at a local park. This was the third time I heard a live band play in a public open space, the first of the other two was at Port Douglas, Queensland, and the second occasion was at San Diego Zoo. Now here in Avila Beach. It was during these occasions that made me wonder why such bands are uncommon in the UK, although the Salvation Army have its bands playing in various populated areas during the summer, and perhaps on the approach to Christmas too, these uniformed players have a more formal and military feel in their performance. By contrast, these live bands could be taken for any pop group willing to play to freely entertain the public.

I joined the small crowd who were watching the band play. It livened up the atmosphere, enhancing the holiday feel of the beach. Although while I'm writing this, I cannot remember what day of the week all this happened, I wouldn't be at all surprised that this particular day was a Sunday. Or even a Saturday, as the shops were open for trading. In one of these shops, I paused to buy a new roll of film for the camera.

I wish to make a point that the beach has always been one of my favourite natural attractions. I was at the beach but as a backpacker rather than a young alcohol-drenched Sunseeker. And the population here seem to agree. At Avila Beach, the whole population of all ages were orderly, all of them enjoying the sunshine at the beach without the need for excess alcohol or drugs. Avila Beach, under the administration of San Luis Obispo, couldn't be any more different from Magaluf on the Mallorcan coast, as appeared in national newspapers and described here recently. And I could ask, how many from Britain are familiar with Avila Beach up to this day as they are with Magaluf? Yet both had their origins in Spain, as California was settled by the Spanish conquistadors and was part of Mexico until the Mexican-American war during the mid-19th Century.

A group of surfers get themselves ready.

Fossil Point looks out to sea.

At the mouth of Luis Creek.

A live band plays at a nearby park.

As the evening drew near, I knew that it was time to return to the hostel, and I had a ten-mile ride ahead. By then, the band had finished their performance and each member was packing away their equipment. I mounted the same bicycle I kept close watch during the day and began to pedal northeast towards San Luis Obispo.

The gentle breeze that was blowing in from the coast was still active, and now with a tailwind, I began to pick up speed as the road widened into a major highway as it headed inland. I decided to give the bike my all. I accelerated until I was pedalling at full speed, tearing along the highway as if there was no tomorrow. During that ride, I hearkened back six years to 1991 - at the height of my fitness as a competitive triathlete. I recall overtaking a truck during a fast coastal ride between Hastings and Folkstone on the southern English coastal road. Back then too, I was also aided by a tailwind.

I arrived at the hostel at around half the time it took on the outward ride. The owners of the bicycle were relieved to see their property returned safely and in good condition.

A Contrast.

The next day was a contrast to the previous day (which I believe might have been a Sunday after all) as I spent that day strolling around the town. When I arrived at the town library, I entered and began to browse the shelves. One book stood out, A History of the World in 10.5 Chapters by the English author Julian Barnes. With a title like that standing out among the rest with a picture of Noah's Ark on the cover, I took the book off the shelf, found an unoccupied table, and began to read.

The quietness of the library was a contrast to the hectic cycle ride and the holiday spirit of Avila Beach. Here, in the stillness, a story of two stowaways in Noah's ark describes the activities of all the other animals in the ark while the flood pummelled the boat from outside. These stowaways were forbidden by Noah to enter the Ark in the first place, but they managed to enter discreetly, unseen by the others. As it was day-to-day business as usual in the Ark, the two stowaways watched continually at all the activity, and commenting on them, as the first chapter of the book drew to a close, the two forbidden stowaways were revealed to be woodworms.

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Next Week: I prepare for West Hollywood.