Travel Biography - Week 70.

Since I'm Fond of Mice, the Need for Travel was Essential.

Except where specified, all photos are my own, taken in 1995.

If I want to go to Disneyland to spend a day, I would need to live in the Los Angeles Area. The trip would still be plausible had I lived in San Diego, for it would take about ninety minutes to reach the park by car. From Santa Barbara, it should take around two hours. Lucky for me, had I lived in Santa Ana, a mainly residential area south of Los Angeles, Disneyland would have been a 15-minute drive away. 

However, for Walt Disney World, a park covering a much wider area in Orlando, Florida, a three-and-a-half-hour car journey from Miami would have made a day trip practically implausible. On the other hand, a trip to Disney World from Pensacola, also in Florida but close to the border with the State of Alabama, a six-hour drive to get there would have required at least two nights at a nearby hotel.

Yet, had I lived in Paris or nearby, a ridiculously named Eurodisney would have been very convenient. Rather, if I'm correct on this, the name of this French park has since changed to Disneyland Paris. As it is, from where I live, a Eurostar train from London to Paris would have been necessary, and like with the Florida version, at least two nights in a hotel would be required if I wanted to spend a whole day. Unfortunately, Eurostar had ceased direct services to Disneyland Paris a couple of years ago, thus necessitating a change of trains at the French city of Lille.

Quite an effort just to see a very large mouse!

When I was a boy attending Wedgewood Primary School in London around 1962, the class took care of a pet mouse kept in a cage. Each morning, we all took turns having this tame little white rodent rest on the palm of our hands under the supervision of the teacher. I handled it several times.

However, Walt Disney also kept mice - gigantic black mice, all of them named Mickey - who stood on two legs, giving the notion that mice were bipedal, like us. In fact, one little boy who visited Disneyland with his Mum was so intrigued by the giant rodent that at the end of the day, a newspaper reported, the mother took Disneyland to Court for deeply upsetting her young son.

Disney's Mickey Mouse. Stock photo.

What happened, unfortunately for Mickey, there was an incident in the park which required emergency action. For convenience, Mickey took off his headgear, only to reveal that Mickey was a man dressed in a mouse costume. The boy's shocking encounter with reality made him so upset that his Mum felt that suing the park in Court was appropriate.

Nowadays, I don't have to fly halfway around the world just to say hello to Mickey. Instead, I could just travel to Paris. But, to me personally, neither Paris, Orlando, nor Los Angeles could hold a candle to one particular coastal city I had just arrived at - San Francisco.

San Francisco's Cable Cars.

If there was a city with so many attractions confined in a comparatively small area, San Francisco has them. And the most intriguing, not just to me but to the majority of tourists, are the cable cars. No pretence here, they are a means of transport for commuters and tourists alike, thus making the city the most unique in the world. I believe it's those cable cars that inspired songs such as, I Left My Heart in San Francisco (1962) by Tony Bennett, San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your Hair) (1967) by Scott Mckenzie, Let's Go To San Francisco (1967) by The Flowerpot Men, and many more.

There are three separate lines on which the cable cars run, each name from the street through where the municipal railway runs: The Powell Mason line, the Powell Hyde line, and the California Street line. Throughout my stay in the city, I enjoyed rides on all three routes. The Powell line turnaround terminal wasn't far from the Grand Hostel on Market Street, where I was staying.

One day, I was strolling along Mason Street when I arrived by chance at a building which is at the corner of Mason Street and Washington Street. Despite my previous visits to San Francisco (in 1977 and 1978) when I didn't notice or was unaware of the building, this was the first time I took note. Over the door was the logo, Cable Car Museum. I thought, why not? I'll go in and see what this is all about.

The most famous view of a cable car.

What I saw was more than just a display of exhibits. It was the powerhouse of the entire cable car system, and it was here that I learned about this amazing and unique transport system. From the public viewing gallery, I saw eight large rapidly rotating wheels, all the same size. There were four power wheels, driven by power motors. One was for the Mason Street line, another for the Hyde Street line, a third for the Powell Street line, and the fourth for the California Street line. Each of these four wheels drives a cable through the middle of the rail tracks embedded in the appropriate street of the city. Each cable is 1.25 inches thick, with the longest cable at 4,900 metres, powering the Hyde Street line, and the shortest at 2,800 metres powering the Mason Street line. The speed at which each cable travels non-stop through the city is 9.5 miles per hour. Hence, the rotational speed of each wheel is the same for all.

Inside the Cable Car Powerhouse.

Each car is equipped with a grip located under the vehicle. The operator pulls the lever and the grip clamps the cable, hence, the car moves at a steady 9.5 mph whether it goes uphill, downhill, or on level ground. When stopping at a station, the operator pushes the lever and the grip releases the cable and the brakes are applied. The braking prevents the car from accelerating if going downhill, or rolling backwards if going uphill. None of the cars had a motor of its own, much to my surprise, but all its movement was by gripping the cable.

As I stood, mesmerised by the rotation of the wheels, each giving off a constant whirring sound, there were frequent jolts on each of the four cables. That was when a car gripped the cable to start it moving. And that was the purpose of the other four wheels which moved either to the left or right. They absorbed the tension in the cables and ironed out any jolts.

The Balclutha and Fisherman's Wharf.

I had just arrived in San Francisco after an overnight journey from Los Angeles, and I had already checked in at the Grand Hostel on Market Street. After restocking the kitchen pigeonhole from a nearby superstore, I made my way to Hyde Pier. Here, the tall masts of the metal hull ship The Balclutha stood above the other vessels moored at the pier. Furthermore, it was open to the public. It was built in Glasgow in 1886 to serve as a cargo vessel, carrying merchandise around the world before becoming part of the San Francisco Historical Park in 1976. I was free to stroll around the ship without an escort (unlike at the USS Constitution moored in Boston, Massachusetts, where a tour guide was mandatory.) Surprisingly, there weren't many other people on board, only an occasional couple.

The masts of the Balclutha are behind me.

After strolling around and taking in the history of the ship, I sat on one of the seats on deck and fell asleep. This was due to the stress of overnight travel. Sometimes I see the next day without any tiredness. But there were also times when I could drop off to sleep after sitting on a bus throughout the night. At the Balclutha, this was one of those occasions.

View of the city from the Balclutha.

Sometime later, I strolled onto Fisherman's Wharf, a bustling centre where fishermen still bring in their catch. Market stalls selling seafood were seen here, although I didn't try any of them. Except for cod and chips (fried potato wedges), seafood was never a favourite. The whole area, in contrast to Hyde Pier, was very touristy, crowds of people swarmed the area, despite being Autumn. If it was like this at this time of the year, I have wondered what it would be like in the summer. The esplanade looked out into San Francisco Bay, where the azure blue water of the Pacific Ocean isolated the natural island on which the presently closed down Alcatraz Prison, also known as The Rock, could be seen a mile and a quarter away, with easy access by ferry. 

My last visit to San Francisco was in 1978, and over seventeen years, some modernisation seemed to have taken place to make the area more attractive to tourists. Back then, I boarded a ferry to Sausalito, a small harbour town on the east side of the Marin County peninsula, hence facing into the bay. The boat ploughed through the clear sea, passing Alcatraz Island, back then inaccessible to the public despite having already closed in 1963. From the ferry, I saw directly above a couple of seagulls soaring over the ocean.

Fisherman's Wharf was also the location of Pier 39, the city's most famous and popular pier. Bustling with shops and restaurants, it also boasted a merry-go-round. The spirit here was very jovial. However, what intrigued me most of all about the area was the abundance of sea lions. In the bay adjoining Pier 39, rows of abandoned boat landing boards were arranged in rows. Rather than all being removed, they became the ideal resting platforms for sea lions. Such wonders, as I saw them, of nature taking advantage of man-made environments.

Pier 39.

Sea lions on the decking.

The harmony between nature and man. The two peninsulas, the San Francisco Peninsula and Marin County Peninsula create a natural gateway for the Pacific Ocean to flow inland to form San Francisco Bay. All that, along with the most unique form of municipal railway transport system, really makes this city worth my time and money.

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Next Week: I hire a bicycle to ride the early morning deserted streets of the city.

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.

Travel Biography - Week 23.

Before Leaving Los Angeles...

If I had a daughter still living at home, or for that matter, already flown the nest to attend college, then after graduating, announces that she wants to do some backpacking abroad for a gap year before settling down, how would I feel? Most likely happy for her, but not without a father-to-daughter talk about some people to avoid. Indeed, like any loving parent, my concern for her would always be in the back of my mind.

I remember reading a true-story book which I borrowed from a friend. Although this was many years ago, I had never forgotten its contents. The titular was an English female graduate I shall call Anne. She, like me, was backpacking around the USA, when she was chatted to by a couple of other women in the street of downtown Los Angeles. She was then escorted into an upstairs room where a thin weasely man delivered a lecture to a congregation of people of similar age. Is this beginning to look a little familiar?

Anne was immediately impressed, and she made a choice to go with the group to a mansion in the mountainous countryside, a beautiful spot away from any urban sprawl. Thus the group, officially known as part of the Unification Church, sounded very much like any other Christian denomination.

Mass wedding ceremonies were mandatory in the Unification Church.

However, it wasn't until she had arrived at the remote mansion that she heard of Sun Myung Moon, the founder of the church, for the first time. During the introductory lecture, like the one I attended in 1978, no leader claiming to be the Second Coming of Christ was mentioned in the preaching. When I paid attention to the lecture, not only had I found it dull and lacklustre, but something about it wasn't right. So I began to put him to the test of his beliefs by asking whether Jesus was the Christ, the Son of God. He couldn't answer. Furthermore, I was escorted out of the room, down the stairs, and out into the street. To them, I was poison. Fortunately, there was still plenty of time to get to the Greyhound Bus Station and book a seat on an overnighter to San Francisco.

The Cult's Inner Brainwashing.

But Anne lapped it all up. After arriving at the mansion, she, along with the others in her group, was each assigned a mentor as a course of intense indoctrination began. Like the other new recruits, she was taught that when Jesus attempted to establish his kingdom here on earth, instead, his mission came to an abrupt end when he was crucified. So, nearly two millennia later, the Holy Spirit called a rather obscure South Korean to America to establish the kingdom of God, with an emphasis on uniting all the churches under one spiritual umbrella. Hence the Asian, Sun Myung Moon, was hailed as the Messiah and the Second Coming of Christ fulfilled.

With such beliefs, I am wondering how anyone with a sound mind can be sucked into such nonsense! Had I not been thrown out that evening, I would have run - and kept on running - even from the mansion, over the mountains until I found safety at the bus station. Yet, mostly the younger people by the thousands, students, in particular, are convinced and are taken in.

At the mansion, Anne was never alone, not even for a moment. Instead, her mentor stuck by her at all times. Even when household duties were assigned to her, she, along with all other recruits, was constantly monitored, thus preventing any free thinking or allowing any doubt to set in. Yet, she soaked it all in and became an ardent convert to the movement. She began to write letters to her mother back in the UK, expressing the glorious wonders of the Unification Church, also known as the Moonies, how the movement met all her desires and her ambitions, and how a large percentage of her fellow converts were former graduates. She described her new associates as being one of a happy family.

Her mother was immediately concerned for her. After some time spent swopping letters, she flew to Los Angeles where her daughter was based. There, she sought out a couple of deprogrammers, a private business to which she had to pay an exorbitant fee. After much searching around the city, she was spotted, but her mother was instructed to hide from her offspring's presence and not to show herself to her, or else the deprogramming would fail and her daughter would be further entrenched into the cult. However, the mother did manage to meet and speak to the initial lecturer about her daughter, and the distress he had brought to her own family. That night, at her hotel, she had a dream that as she was looking at the thin man, his face metamorphosed into a demonic entity.

Sun Myung Moon.

After weeks, perhaps months of effort, the two long-haired and bearded men managed to get through to Anne, and gradually, she began to see the true nature of her "family" and began to drift away from them. Only after was her mother revealed to her, and the two were locked in a tight embrace, much to the joy of the deprogrammer's success in their efforts. The book which tells it all was co-authored by both Anne and her mother.

Isn't this meant to be a travel biography? Why, then, am I writing all this? Because of my own encounter with the same group whilst I was in Los Angeles in 1978, and also, going by their description, the very same lecturer as the one I met was part of my own travel experience. Anne's encounter took place shortly after mine, I believe, around 1980, give or take. And so, I write all this to demonstrate how easily anyone who needs love, social acceptance, or an uplift in self-esteem, could fall into the clutches of mind-bending cults and isms especially whilst far from home.

All of that goes to show what the 1970s were like. A time of religious fervency, particularly among young people who were deluded by the work ethic, war, the machine society, and the established church. Like whenever I went to London on a Saturday. Every time I was at Oxford Street or Piccadilly Circus, there was this group of young men, around my own age, all dancing in a line, chanting the Hare Krishna mantra along with accompanying rhythmic clanging of cymbals, dedicated to Swami Vivekananda, a guru of the Hindu god Krishna. These men were very distinct from the rest of us in the way that all were shaven-headed and each wore colourful Indian gowns. During the rest of the week, they all lived together as a commune under a strict, regimental discipline imposed by their leaders. Their popularity and fame were enhanced by ex-Beatle George Harrison with his 1971 song, My Sweet Lord.

The Journey Continues.

After I was thrown out of the Unification Church building near Pershing Square in the heart of Los Angeles, I made my way to the Greyhound Bus Station, itself towered over by the upper floors of the Cecil Hotel, from where I vacated earlier that day. It was while boarding the Americruiser and settling down in my seat, chosen at random, that a young black man ordered me out of my seat to make space for his girlfriend.

Wow! If there was a time that I felt very unwelcome, I think that was here in Los Angeles. First, I was escorted out of a building by, I assume, a church elder or steward. And now, I'm ordered to leave the seat I had every right to occupy. The abrupt suddenness of the order stunned me into silence, and I immediately rose to take the seat directly behind. When his girlfriend took her place where I briefly sat, a quarrel erupted between them, with her disapproving of his action. At last! A sense of vindication.

I arrived in San Francisco the following morning, and after a wash-and-shave, I had breakfast at the Bus Station restaurant, as was the custom. After that, I found a suitable hotel just across the road from the terminus. This was very different from the previous year's visit when I boarded a BART train to Walnut Creek to stay with a friend from Italy. This time, I intended to remain in the city and check it out properly, as my friend had already returned to Italy before my 1978 arrival.

And so I did for the next few days. This includes an ascent up the Transamerica Pyramid, a 48-floor tower which was, until 2018, the tallest building in San Francisco and the 17th tallest in the USA. However, in 1978, the observation gallery was on the 27th floor before it closed to the public in 2001. Barely halfway up the slender pyramid, it still offered good views of the Bay Area, with Coit Tower taking prominence of the scenery seen from the north side, with Alcatraz Island beyond. From the east side, the view take in Oakland Bay Bridge as it crosses the bay and passes over Yerba Buena Island. 

The one issue that struck me was how the people populating San Francisco were somehow different from those in Los Angeles. Whilst those living in southern California were predominantly of Spanish origin, hence having a darker Mediterranean complexion, people in San Francisco were paler, more British or Norwegian. Also, it seemed cooler here than further south, with fog often clouding the Golden Gate Inlet.

That didn't stop me from crossing on foot the Inlet on the Golden Gate Bridge (which is painted a dull red, not gold) to reach Marin County on the other side, from where I have an amazing view of the city skyline seen from a distance.

Along with riding the famous cable cars, especially along the California Line that goes up and over Nob Hill. After arriving back home, a friend asked me whether I was acting fully British by sitting inside the car like a proper commuter on his way to the office. I blushed a little and gave only a nodding ascent. Not like many of the locals who stood on the outer ledge and hung on whilst the car was moving. 

By contrast, praying and meditating in Grace Cathedral on the summit of Nob Hill gave me a time of quietness and even solitude. Quite a contrast to the crowded ferry which set sail from Fisherman's Wharf, past Alcatraz Island with its fortress prison, to a neighbouring harbour town of Sausalito, located on the east coast of Marin County, where I spent an afternoon sauntering around.

A Hare Krishna street chant.

Indeed, on my own, I have seen far more of San Francisco than I did when I was staying at Walnut Creek in 1977. A city built on two hills, Russian Hill where the switchbacks of Lombard Street make a tourist attraction in its own right, and Nob Hill, crowned with Grace Cathedral, of an Anglican denomination and apparently, the principal church of the city. Other attractions I visited that year included Pier 39 and Union Square.

Indeed, I found the city of San Francisco more tourist-friendly than downtown Los Angeles, but that is not a discredit to the Southern Californian city. After all, nearby is Disneyland, along with Hollywood Studios. Then I visited Long Beach, a pleasant stretch of sandy beach sloping into the Pacific Ocean. The Los Angeles administration area also covers Santa Monica with its historically famous pier, which I visited in 1995.

By contrast, San Francisco is built on a natural peninsula, with the Pacific Ocean to the west, Bay Area to the north and east, and two prominent hills, giving views of the surrounding coastline. Marin County, a smaller peninsula north of the inlet, is taken up mostly by the Golden Gate Natural Recreation Area towards the west, and the harbour town of Sausalito on the east coast, facing into the bay. The Golden Gate Bridge, itself a tourist attraction, connects the two peninsulas, making the city and the bay one of the most unique places on Earth.

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Next week, I shall be away on a hospital appointment for my wife as she attends a pre-op consultation. Thus by not being home in time to write another blog. Instead, I hope to publish a set of photos of what I have covered so far.

Travel Biography - Week 15.

California Dreaming.

The name California seems to have a romantic or a paradisal ring to it. For example, the Mamas and Papas' 1965 song California Dreaming reflects the narrator's desire for the balmy climate of Los Angeles whilst enduring the cold, winter months in New York. Also, Scott McKenzie's hippy song, San Francisco (be sure to wear flowers in your hair) of 1967, and California Girls, which was a 1965 hit by the Beach Boys, along with up to a hundred other songs were related to California. These, together with dramas such as the above-mentioned Starsky & Hutch, Pulp Fiction, L.A. Story, The Graduate, Sunset Boulevard, and many others were all stories based in California.

Lombard Street, San Francisco. Stock photo.

Aside from Starsky & Hutch, was I the only one who had a strong curiosity over this "fabulous" State? Apparently not. When I was in Italy, I came across some Italian lads who became good friends, especially in Naples where I first met them. One of them, a student named Valentine, had a strong desire to visit California, with San Diego his greatest wish. In 1976, a few weeks after returning from Israel, Valentine stayed for a few days in my apartment before moving to London in readiness to fly home. After that, his father dispatched him to a family home in Walnut Creek, a small town east of San Francisco and Oakland. Once there, he invited me to where he was staying if ever I wished to visit the USA. This had given further motivation to cross the Atlantic Ocean.

The Greyhound Americruiser left the Los Angeles terminal late in the evening for a 382-mile, six-hour journey, for a morning arrival in San Francisco. However, after arrival, instead of looking for a hotel as was my norm, I managed to phone the student from the terminal. He instructed me to take a BART train to Walnut Creek. I would meet them there.

Arrival at Walnut Creek.

Back in 1977, being in America, I thought that BART was the name of a man who owned the railway or one who originally founded it. It was later that I discovered that BART stood for Bay Authority Rapid Transit, and is apparently State owned. Like the Picadilly Line on the London Underground, the BART line passes under the city and under the bay itself to emerge at Oakland, and then overground for the rest of the line heading east, just as the Picadilly Line also passes through the suburbs above ground. The journey took just over half an hour to reach Walnut Creek Station where Valentine and his host, Mrs Carson, were waiting for me. After much greeting and hugs, I climbed into their car, and Mrs Carson drove us to her house, where she offered to accommodate me for four nights. 

Whether the Carsons were childless or whether they had grown up and flown the nest, I was never told. But I was offered a bed in one of their spare rooms, where both Valentine and our host were to escort me around the city and then a day later, to Stinson Beach where I had a swim in the Pacific Ocean, and then to Muir Woods National Monument, a forest of Redwood Pine trees. Indeed, had it not been for the hospitality offered, I would have missed out on these two natural venues.

Cable Car, taken 1977.

As for the city itself, on the day I arrived, the two of us, Valentine and I visited the famed Golden Gate Bridge. Or at least, we tried. When we got there, we saw that the whole bridge was wrapped in thick fog that covered the bay and the Golden Gate inlet that connects the bay to the open ocean (and from which the bridge is named) and we both felt disappointed, and I wondered whether the bridge was permanently shrouded, or whether I had chosen an unlucky day.

Fortunately, when Mrs Carson drove us into the city the next day, the fog had cleared to reveal the splendour of such civil engineering. Valentine was teasing me, thinking that because I took delight at seeing such a well-known crossing, I was worshipping it. Rather, I felt privileged to be there, to see the structure for myself rather than just on TV or through another person's camera.

Other attractions included Lombard Street, known as "the most crooked street in the world" as it descends the rather steep Russian Hill in eight switchbacks. The inside of each curve is occupied by a small garden, thus adding aesthetics to the route. From the base of Russian Hill, as seen from the summit, the street runs dead straight as it crosses a wide panoramic view of the city.

Then there's Fisherman's Wharf, perhaps the most famous of the kind in the world. Here, there were many stalls selling wet fish, a variety of shellfish, fruit and vegetables. Indeed, it was a very lively harbourside market with a very cheerful atmosphere. Looking north along the bay, the isolated Alcatraz Island prison stands on an isolated rock. Nicknamed The Rock by the inmates, it eventually ceased to serve as a penitentiary when the last of the inmates were transferred elsewhere in March 1963.

California's wildlife.

There was one day when both Mr and Mrs Carson were out when Valentine and I went to visit a private lido in Walnut Creek, to which he had access. As a guest, I was able to swim in the pool and relax and sunbathe on one of the sunbeds provided. Later that day, I borrowed Mr Carson's bicycle and set off on it, until Valentine yelled at me!

You're on the wrong side of the road! What are you doing?

Then I realised that this is America and over here they drive on the "wrong" side. Not to worry, in Europe they do the same. Fortunately, there was no other vehicle and I corrected my mistake, feeling strange as I rode on their correct side which is on the right of the road.

Eventually, I approached my friend who was holding a stick. 

Look, here's a tarantula.

"Where did you find that?" I asked.

On the side of the road.

The large black hairy spider was perched on the end of the stick my friend was holding. It wasn't as big as an African tarantula as it was a different species. I felt tempted to stroke its furry abdomen, but Valentine advised me not to touch it, so I didn't. Looking at it, I felt sympathetic for anyone suffering from arachnophobia - a fear of spiders. They are fast runners and one can suddenly appear unexpectedly, making someone jump. I'm not immune from being startled by one. Then again, it wouldn't feel nice to wake up one morning to find a tarantula like this one nestling between the sheets or making contact with it with your toe whilst slipping into your shoes, or in the case with my brother many years ago, seeing a big house spider nestling inside a teacup after taking it down from the shelf.

At Chinatown, San Francisco, 1977.

Should I give a false impression of being some kind of fearless Hercules or Apollo, then I much prefer to admit that I have fears of my own. Like the time I was in Singapore. I was in the hostel elevator going up when it stopped unexpectedly between floors. I was gripped by panic and punched hard at the alarm which, to my relief, got the lift moving again. I refused to use the lift thereafter. Instead, I used the stairs, as I still do at times in some buildings. Or if I have to use the railway station lift to use the platform crossover whenever I take my wife Alex out in her wheelchair. I always make sure the presence of the alarm.

On to Portland, Oregon.

Eventually, after a few days with my Italian friend and his hosts, it was time for me to move on. When I found out when the next bus for Portland, Oregon was due to leave, Mrs Carson drove Valentine and me to the San Francisco Bus terminal, where my friend and I were locked in a long embrace before leaving me alone to board the bus to my next chosen stop. After the bus pulled out of the terminal, it took the same route as when I arrived, by crossing the bay on the imposing Oakland Bay Bridge, which also passes over Yerba Buena Island, out in the middle of the bay. I was sorry to leave San Francisco and I felt that I hadn't spent enough time there. But would I ever be given another chance?

The journey to Portland was another overnighter, a ten-hour, 635-mile journey north along the Pacific coastline, exiting California and entering the State of Oregon before eventually ending back in Canada after passing through the State of Washington.

After arriving in Portland, it wasn't difficult to find another hotel where I was offered a room. All I could see was that it was a nice town, with pleasant streets and squares. But unlike the other cities I stopped at, Portland did not have the attractions which in themselves attracted touristic fame. That was one major disadvantage of being a lone backpacker. Had I known better, I would have walked to the bank of the Williamette River that flowed past the town. Back in the seventies, I wasn't aware it was there. However, one building that I have found very intriguing was an office-block edifice facing onto the main square. On its roof was a massive billboard with huge letters spelling out the words, JESUS THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD. 

Those words made my spirit rejoice. However, there is not a chance on Earth that I would ever see anything like this in the UK. And those were the times when it was quite common to see a poster with the verse of John 3:16 fastened on the wall at any railway station or High Street. Looking back, I'm now wondering whether political correctness, woke, or whatever crazy line of thinking had forced the banning of these posters so as not to "offend" people of different ethnicities or faiths.

Portland, Oregon

My stay in Portland was short compared with Los Angeles or San Francisco or should I say, Walnut Creek. However, on the second day there, late in the afternoon, somehow I found myself caught in the Church of Scientology. Actually, although it calls itself a church, it was anything but a church. Rather it was a brainwashing centre where psychological trickiness meant paying them hundreds of dollars to receive mental and emotional liberation, to be set free "to be the person I meant to be, freed from the restraints imposed by society and past aches." The surprising thing about all this was I was very nearly convinced, and almost ready to pay out the huge expense for the so-called treatment, itself as quackery and as far from mainstream psychiatry as it gets. In the end, I was glad to get out of there with my funds intact. 

Relaxing in Portland.

The next day, I took a greyhound Americruiser for a day trip to Newport on the Pacific coast. Although this journey was short, just 2.5 hours each way, the Ameripass was valid for the day trip. After arriving there, I explored the quiet and deserted sandy beach but the air was cool and breezy and the grey ocean uninviting. So I didn't swim. Instead, I remained dry and I also kept my leather jacket on - a contrast to how lightly I was dressed whilst in southern California.

After returning to Portland, that evening I made plans for a six-hour overnight journey to Vancouver in Canada, some 360 miles north along the Pacific coastline.

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Due to attending a Convention, I won't be able to write next week. But in two weeks, I'm in Canada, where I begin my journey back to Toronto.

A New Toy For A Grown-Up...

What happens when a child, especially a boy, receives a new toy, whether it would be for Christmas, his birthday, or just because good old Mummy or Daddy just wanted to treat him? Yep, you guessed correctly - he would continue to play with it until the novelty begins to wear off. How long it would take for the novelty to wear off is entirely dependent on the boy and how he feels for the toy. It could be as quick as a few hours or as long as several months. However, there is always something exciting when something new comes into his possession.

Only there is no difference between a boy and a man, except that the man's toys are more expensive. Well, most of the time. Sometimes a freebie can work wonders. Like within the last couple of weeks I downloaded Google Earth Pro onto my laptop. For free. An excellent idea during this time of Coronavirus lockdown, when I can take virtual journeys whilst seated on our lounge sofa.

And as the whole of page 20 in today's Daily Mail newspaper is emblazoned with the HM Government words, STAY HOME SAVE LIVES screaming at me - as if I was such a blithering idiot if I even consider stepping outside the front door just for a moment - virtual travel is something I can amuse myself on.

But with a difference. This is a virtual trip down Memory Lane. And so as I zoomed in on 39th Pier, not far from Fisherman's Wharf, both on the northern coastline with its continuous row of harbour piers continuing on to the east coast of San Francisco, facing into the Bay. Then other names such as Union Square and Russian Hill, along with Coit Tower and Nob Hill, all come onto the screen as I reminisce on my last actual visit to the city in 1995. Then, as I zoomed in to a rather accurate detail of Vaillancourt Fountain - considered to be the city's ugliest monument and hated by many - such an image has conjured up my own fondness of it whilst stopping to admire and to take pictures.

Vaillancourt Fountain, San Francisco. Stock photo.

It was an Autumn Sunday morning, I recall. The weather was nice, clear sky, warm early morning sunshine. And quiet, empty streets. Therefore, having hired a bicycle from the reception desk of the backpacker's hostel where I had a small, two-bed dormitory to myself, I took great pleasure in riding through Market Street, as straight as it could be, from the hostel to Vaillancourt Fountain, then on to Pier 39 and beyond.

And not to forget Golden Gate Park, where I arrived late afternoon. Having parked the bike by leaning it on a tree without locking it up, I went to check out a waterfall, Huntington Falls, man-made indeed but looking as natural as any cliff-face interrupting a river course. When I returned to where the bike was, there was this chap gazing at it. I asked him what he was doing. When I confirmed that it was mine after asking, he called me a fool for not securing it, as he was just about to make off with it. Had he, less than a couple of seconds later, had I not showed up by then, there would have been repercussions at the hostel with the forfeiture of my passport unless I used my credit card to reimburse for the loss.

The guilt I felt for my negligence remained with me for many years afterwards, even causing sweat to break out. And the worst thing is, I was due to fly back home the very next day! If there was such a thing as divine intervention, this incident could qualify as one good example.

And so I relive the experience as I travel through on this virtual journey. And the new toy will continue to allow me to revive memories as I have also browsed through the Grand Canyon, hiked also in 1995, and around the Pacific coast of Australia, where I travelled along in 1997. And so I can go on.

And now, with this lockdown in place, I can be very grateful to God for allowing me to travel when times were good. But at the same time, I can also thank God that I have made no bookings for this year. Therefore I can't help but pity one of my Christian friends, Andrew Milnthorpe, who has made a booking to visit the Amalfi Coast in Italy with Oak Hall later in August. So he tells me, having set his heart on it. Someone may argue, why not simply postpone until next year? Ah! But that's much easier said than done. Because I know how I would feel if I were to be in his situation. Especially if there's no guarantee that it would be safe to travel even then. I would be very frustrated indeed, and perhaps angry too. I would look for someone to blame, as anger must have some outlet. 

And who would I blame? Most likely the posh boys, those public school and grammar school students who flew out to Northern Italy during the Spring half-term break, for a skiing holiday, and then return with one, maybe two, three or four, infected whilst boarding the aeroplane for the flight home. Then I can imagine the moist, virus-ridden rancid breath inhaled by fellow passengers sitting close by. Then the air current within the fuselage, circulated by the jet engines, would spread the virus out further among the other passengers mid-flight. How many were already infected by the time the plane lands is anyone's guess.

It would be easy, even safe, to say that the pandemic which has already taken more than 20,000 lives here in the UK and has placed the whole country under lockdown, is caused mainly by middle-class holidaymakers who can afford to travel other than, and in addition to, the normal Summer break. After all, that was the only way the virus could make it all the way to Britain from China. By air. Supposing I was still single and booked a Round-the-World backpacking trip, comparable with the 1997 trip and already paid for with hard-earned cash, and then this happens - yes, I'll be fuming!

Huntington Falls. I nearly had my bike stolen near here.

Hold on! Round-the-World backpacking trips? Aren't they done mostly by graduates on a gap-year? Does that make me middle class, too? Not at all. Because for the 1997 RTW trip, I worked hard with my hands, running a window-cleaning business, and saved up hard. Only then did I walk into the appropriate travel agency, Trailfinders in Kensington High Street, to lay the money down. No credit was taken, despite holding a credit card can be perceived by some as a sign of status. However, many graduates travel for much of the year, maybe even for a whole year, and may include some work. In 1997, I was out of the UK for just seventy days exactly.

Therefore let's assume that I have booked and paid for a very similar RTW backpacking trip for this year. I'm almost ready to take off. Then this happens, a national lockdown due to a viral pandemic, and the cancellation of all flights. Then a hard slog to get a refund, which is made much more difficult by an overlooked void within the small print. 

Oh, the fury! The rage within! The cursing and the swearing aimed towards those responsible in bringing the virus into the UK in the first place!

Or the forgiveness, which in a case such as this one, can only be supernatural.

Forgiving someone or even a group of people is vital not only for a healthy walk with God but also for physical health and wellbeing. Forgiving is important enough when Jesus taught his disciples to pray, Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. (Matthew 6:12.)

This was recited from infancy at school without fully understanding it. Yet no one had said anything on what Jesus had said immediately afterwards, which was, For if you forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive your trespasses. But if you forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses. (Matthew 6:14-15.)

I once heard one of our Elders preach on Matthew 6:14-15, especially from verse 15 quite a few years ago, implying that if God is not going to forgive your grudge against others, then you will lose your salvation. But it says here that your Father will not forgive your trespasses. Which brings me to ask: How can God remain as my Father, if I'm destined for a lost eternity? The theory of eternal hell for those who refuse to forgive others is full of flaws. First of all, it violates our adoption into God's family through faith in Christ. Secondly, the imputed righteousness of Christ becomes invalid. Therefore, if God no longer sees me as equally righteous as his Son, then how could God remain as my heavenly Father and me as his adopted son? And thirdly, it is a denial of God's omniscience, that is, He does not know what's going to happen next and is also capable of making mistakes, that is, having chosen a "dud" gift for his Son, according to John 6:44 and 17:6.

Yet despite these flaws in the theory, there are many good and sincere Christians who accept Matthew 6:15 to mean a loss of salvation. It's one of those problems which arises whenever one reads hell into verses which aren't appropriate. This looks to be one of them.

Later, Jesus gives a parable of the Unforgiving Servant in Matthew 18:21-35. This servant has always been a bit of a mystery to me, not on his final destiny but on why he had such a cruel attitude on his fellow servant, who owed him the equivalent of a few pence. Earlier, his master reminded him that he was in massive debt, owing to his master a vast amount of money, and unable to pay back, he was threatened of being sold along with his family. So the servant begged for extra time, and his master released him from the debt. 

When he should have jumped with joy and gave his fellow servant a hug and to tell him to forget his small debt, instead he bullied his colleague to pay him what he owed. Soon afterwards, his master had him condemned to prison until his huge debt is fully paid.

I can deduce a couple of thoughts out of this:

First, the servant's release from his massive debt has left his attitude unchanged. Instead of jumping with joy with a fervent love for his master, he began to bully his colleague. This shows that forgiveness of past sins is not sufficient enough to redeem the soul. For this, imputation of the master's own character was needed for a full changing of the servant's heart, along with adoption as a son and heir to all what the master owns. All this comes with a full regeneration of the servant's heart to become a new creation, with which he would have gladly released his fellow servant.

The second idea is based on what Jesus had said immediately after his model prayer, recorded in Matthew 6:9-15. Here, Jesus refers to God as your Father not forgiving your trespasses if you don't forgive the trespasses of others. I don't believe that the master/servant relationship of Matthew 18 is the same as the Father/son relationship as recorded here. But the same principle can be applied in both cases if the forgiveness is applicable in this life without affecting our eternal destiny.

The unforgiving servant.

All forgiveness is done here and now, in this life. Actually, it has been proved throughout history that unforgiveness is detrimental to both health and wellbeing. Unforgiveness leads to bitterness and anger as well as a multiple of illness and early death. When I forgive Fred Bloggs, I don't forgive for Fred's sake but for my own sake. By forgiving Fred, I would free myself from such burdens and enjoy a much more of a fulfilled life which involves a better relationship with God. 

Then again, I do see a difference between someone who had his holiday plans ruined by a circumstance caused by the want of pleasure by another, whom he has never met, and a petulant servant who wants his money back from someone he had lent. I think it's much easier to release a debtor than it is to forgive a group of people for initially stealing away a holiday to fulfil their own desires. I wonder whether that was the reason why the unforgiving servant received a greater punishment, whether in this life or the next, simply because he willingly made the wrong choice. But with the heart regenerated by the Holy Spirit, to forgive is made possible for all circumstances.