San Diego: Drink it in..

A WHALE’S VAGINA

There:  I got the Anchorman reference out of the way nice and early. Now we can all move on with our lives. 

The face of San Diego

It took two hours to ride the Greyhound from Venice Beach to San Diego. For some reason that now evades me, I decided we'd depart LA at 7am- possibly to ‘get the best of the day’ having arrived in the new city. We therefore began in the addled blur that accompanies waking up at four in the morning after both our alarms failed to go off. I couldn’t tell you about the ride itself as I spent the best part of it snoring and wrapped around the Graduate in a way that afforded me the best possible comfort and left him with a pair of dead legs and a headache. When we pulled into the station, however, we found ourselves on the brink of a sea of people: as apparently the population of San Diego had also risen early to run some sort of rock-music marathon. Everywhere we went we saw people swathed in tin foil, gulping water and stretching out their hamstrings.

We stayed at the incredibly affordable Lucky D's Hostel, right on the border of the old Gaslamp Quarter: the hub for cheap drinks and young trendies. The deeply apathetic man on the front desk gave us the key to our room and told us we could check in- withholding the fact that the previous occupant was in fact still in residence, which was something of a surprise when I tried to get into the room.  Returning to the front desk we were unapologetically told to come back in four hours, but at least they let us dump our bags in the office. 

The Gaslamp Quarter is a medley of restaurants and bars that stretches for several blocks, marked by some ‘old’ iron streetlamps and an arched sign welcoming visitors and tourists. With so much local competition, this is the place to go when hunting for cheap drinks: the bars jostle each other for the best happy hour deals and cheap meals, and there’s something going on every night of the week.

Pecto Park, San Diego Padres vs. Toronto Blue Jays

 Lucky D's was right on the doorstep of the Petco Park stadium, so on the first night we attended our first ever Major League Baseball game: San Diego Padres vs. The Toronto Blue Jays. That we didn’t understand the league or the sport itself was nowhere near enough to deter us: after all, they had pulled pork sandwiches.  For $10 each we could sit on the grassy lawn on the far side of the stadium, so the field and the stands reared up in front of us, and the view- at least for two people who don’t know how baseball works- was perfectly clear. The game itself was about average in terms of exciting moments, but it was worth it for the moments when the cameras zoomed in on people in the audience, who displayed a plethora of reactions when they realised they were on display, my favourite being a middle-aged man, wearing only gold glitter from the waist up, who greeted the screens with a dramatic flourish and slow spin. It was so popular they replayed the clip for the rest of the evening.

As a city, I didn’t really know what to make of San Diego. It felt the most like a Sim City (designed by a fourteen-year old with no particular architectural merit) out of any place I visited: and the blocking system of houses and offices seemed more obvious than anywhere else I’d visited. But the public transport system was great: all Americans who tell you it’s impossible to survive without a car in SoCal are LYING, and much more affordable than San Francisco.

Outside the Old Town

 We took the metroline up to visit the historic Old Town, which was like the set of an old Western, full of small stores containing tobacco pipes and throwing knives; glass-fronted chocolate cabinets; a Wells Fargo Wagon; and shelf upon shelf of exotic dried teas. This small patch contained the origins of San Diego, where the Spanish settled and promptly left again, after finding there was very little fertile land there. With walking tours and lots of small exhibitions, it’s well worth a look. After a couple of hours exploring,we took a rattling bus up to the Cabrillo National Monument and Point Loma lighthouse: a perfect whale watching spot and outcrop that looks over the whole of San Diego, the naval aircraft hangers in the bay and the built up skyscrapers of the central district. It wasn't whale season, but there were a couple of fighter jets doing flybys over the Marina Bay, which in The Graduate’s books was just as exciting.

 

Speaking of jets, we also stumbled upon a small bar and grill called the Kansas City BBQ by the Marina, which was a filming location for Top Gun. The walls were full of paraphernalia, the ceiling was hung with bras, and we shared a rack of ribs with the cheekiest sparrows known to mankind.  

Silverback Gorilla at San Diego Zoo

Although Sea World was slightly crippling in terms of entry fee, we couldn’t leave without visiting the San Diego Zoo. We missed the pandas (the queue to get in to see them was ridiculous so if anyone has their heart set on the black-and-white beasts I’d suggest you get there as early in the morning as you can) but managed Gorillas, Tigers, and a very enthusiastic Polar Bear. If animals are your thing then set aside a full day to explore this extraordinary menagerie.

Of course, the people were all insanely friendly. On our last night we found a bar serving Tezcal beer for $1.75 and got chatting to a helicopter pilot. He was so delighted with our accents he rang his sixteen-year-old son and made me have a conversation with the poor boy- I could feel the awkwardness seeping out of the phone- and then bought us a pair of luridly blue shots and told us all about the collapse of his first marriage, and the time he flew over a dead lake in Nevada and accidentally interrupted the shooting of a porn film there. Then he offered us a free canoeing trip on his Uncle’s river in the Napa Valley. Only in America…

Next stop, Vegas. You stay classy. 

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Venice Beach: sun, sand, and- more sand.

The Los Angeles I’d heard of was the one I visited last January: the shimmering expanses of tarmac, the somewhat jaded Sunset Boulevard and the kitschy Universal Studios. The Graduate and I saw none of that having finally flown from San Francisco. Instead we marooned ourselves in the bohemian outlet of Venice Beach, Santa Monica’s sketchier sibling.

You can’t mention a trip to LA these days without singing the praises of the Megabus. If you’re trying to get around America without a car (and I can now confirm that we’ve managed a very successful three-week roadtrip without one) then Megabus would be one of the first go-to places I pointed you. While it currently has a limited repertoire, only ferrying to LA and Sacramento from San Francisco or Oakland, it’s crazy promotions means that if you book early enough you can get impossibly cheap rides. Our eight hour trip down the coast to LA cost us five bucks each- less than a return fare on the San Francisco BART. And the bus wasn’t even sketchy: we had all-too-effective air conditioning (I wore two jumpers the whole way down and was still shivering like a leaf) free moderately-effective wifi, and some good reclining seats. We were even sitting next to a thirty-something Dungeons and Dragons master called Greg, so the conversation was lively.

When we eventually stepped off the bus, The Graduate balked and hissed ‘let’s get away from the engine, it’s boiling at this end’. It was only having hauled ourselves a few feet away that we realized the overheating bus engine was not at fault, but that this was simply the temperature at this end of California. Having heard about LA’s somewhat limited public transport (you Americans are way too used to your cars: get on a bus sometime) we were at a slight loss as to how to get from the Union Station to the beach, when Greg the Dungeonmaster stepped in and offered to give us a ride down in his car. Then Graduate responded with enthusiasm, I with slight trepidation that increased as he led us us past several haphazardly parked police cars and a street liberally roped off with yellow police tape.

“It’s totally fine,” Greg said cheerfully. A helicopter buzzed overhead.

We did make it down to the beach in one piece, reminding me again that most Americans are actually just friendly, and arrived at the Samesun Venice Beach Hostel. In lieu of a doorman there was a slightly addled chap in a dirty vest, who shouted “DO YOU SMOKE WEED? DON’T LIE TO ME, I KNOW YOU TAKE THAT SHIT,” as we walked past him.  

Murals at Venice Beach

Despite the initial alarming reception the hostel was great, but we didn't spend too much time in there because we were out on the sand. The Venice Beach boardwalk is sandwiched between Santa Monica and Muscle Beach: a space full of mad graffiti, street artists and skateboarders. The long flat expanse of tarmac on the edge of the sands is a perfect place for spending a lazy afternoon, and there’s always something going on. Take, for example, the numerous ‘Green Doctor’ booths dotted amongst the buskers and tourists, where for the advertised price of only $40.00, Americans could be diagnosed as stressed out or depressed and given a medical marijuana permit by a man in a green tracksuit and matching baseball cap. I don’t know what I was more amazed by, the mere presence of the booths, or the fact that they were never empty. Head far enough North or South, and you’ll reach the slightly more upmarket Santa Monica, with it’s pier and shopping district, or the Marina, which feeds into the Venice Beach canals and some big ol’ yachts.

Anyone feeling stressed?

Hitting the beach was the best way to stay cool in the middle of the day. The Samesun hostel had a cupboard full of boogie boards for the residents to take out (there are also any number of places to rent bikes, surf boards, and boogie boards along the boardwalk), and a couple of volleyballs. The Graduate and I amused ourselves with one of these for several hours, gaining looks of askance from the local muscle beach inhabitants who take the game very seriously- one man even came over just to tell us how terrible we were.

The food was amazing all week; there are lots of boardwalk bars and affordable restaurants on the edge of the sand, and more upmarket jobs with valet parking at Abbot Kinney, a few roads deep from the beach. The only thing we could feasibly afford there was some upmarket deli pizza.

Margaritas at Casablancas

I've been hearing all year that the further south you get in California, the better the Mexican food becomes, and for anyone thinking of heading the Venice Beach way my strongest foodie recommendation would be to walk to Lincoln Boulevard until you get to a very run-down looking roundabout next to a Whole Foods. On the roundabout  and go for a Margarita and a Calamari dish at Casablancas. It's an amazing little place, where flour Tortillas are thrown together on a flattop stove in the middle of the restaurant, and a maitre’d pushes an old fashioned drinks cart between the tables, throwing together hand-crafted cocktails as he goes.

So yes, we missed the Hollywood sign, the studio tours and Beverly Hills, but didn't regret it for a second. If you’re heading to LA for a summer weekend, hit the beach. You won’t be bored.

Sunset at Venice Beach

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If you're going to San Francisco...

There are over forty-seven named hills in San Francisco. In the past five days, I think I’ve walked most of them. The Graduate has no idea when he will next see the city, so he drags me around the city at high speed. It shames me to think I’ve been here for a year and yet seen more sights in a single four-day period than in something close to eight months.

A plywood waitress at the Golden Gate Grill 

We have walked, either alone or in the company of my brother, stopping off on his way home from Australia, around all the best known parts of the city, and my feet are feeling it. On Saturday we had breakfast at the Golden Gate Grill off Union Square, a loft-like upstairs diner with large planes suspended from the ceiling, booths and circular seats topped with red leather. at around $10 for a stack of pancakes it was a pretty good breakfast, enough certainly to sustain us as we climbed from Union Square to the Coit Tower ($7 to get to the top), at one of the most famous peaks of the city. San Francisco was doing what San Francisco does best: a protest march, and Market street was flooded for hours in the afternoon. Thousands were marching against GMO situation, in red smurf hats, bumblebee costumes (no, I’m not sure either), bearing placards against the patenting of Mother Nature.

Sing-a-long Grease in the Castro

Public transport- some of the best California has to offer- was the biggest drain on our funds. Taking the BART in and out once a day came to about eight dollars, and the muni transport (the trams, the metros and electric buses) was $2 a ride. Even on the day we walked through a riotous carnival in the Mission District to the Golden Gate Park- about five miles up and over hill with a detour through the Castro- we must have spent about $15 each on getting to and from, then around the city. Still, if you can cope with the size and frequency of the hills, I'd say get walking. You'll be amazed at how much ground you can cover in a good pair of shoes! 

Despite leg cramp, we refused to be deterred by the hills, and picked up rental bikes from Shattuck Avenue’s bike station to strike out across the Golden Gate to Sausilito on Tuesday. This was my second time crossing the bridge, and this time I noticed, asides from the amazing views of the city and the churning water below, that there were phone boxes placed strategically along the eight thousand feet of metal girders and suspension. Small plaques above the phones said simply There is Hope. Make the call. 

It was windy as hell out in the middle, and although I knew the gentle shaking under my feet was down to the car engines, I suddenly couldn't get back off there quick enough. We freewheeled down to Sausilito and wandered the streets before catching the ferry back to the San Francisco waterfront. I probably won’t go back onto the bridge, at least not for my remaining time in America.

Mission District Carnival

I think I'll always have regrets for not managing to make more of my time around San Francisco and Berkeley, but I am so happy to be having the opportunity to show some of my favorite people what I’ve been up to and where I’ve been living all year. I really believe it will make returning to the UK a little less lonely. 

Next stop, LA! 

Lakes and Mountains

The Graduate and I tread carefully around each other. He landed, heavy-eyed with jetlag the day after school finished, was given the briefest of looks at Berkeley before my parents and brother arrived in a silver jeep and whisked us towards Nevada. Four days in and I’m still jumping at the fact that he’s there.  It’s one of the hidden clauses of the long-distance scenario. While the eventual reunion is the climax everyone is pushing for in this long, hard, slog, what you never seem prepared for is that you have actually spent a large amount of time apart. Even if you've emailed and texted and spoken via webcam on almost a daily basis, you have still forgotten how to simply be together. There are small things about him I've completely forgotten. He reminds me of them with a vague frown. Details of Christmas are hazy.

Cabin

What with Thanksgiving and skiing this is my third visit to the lake, this time on the North side in Carnelian Bay. For people visiting California, especially for new and upcoming Berkeley students, I can’t recommend this place enough. Take a weekend away from the campus time and come up here to breathe some proper air. We stayed in a second ridiculous log cabin, this one with huge cathedral windows that have sunlight pouring in on us at all times of day and panoramic views of the cedar pines surrounding the house. I moved from bear territory to bear territory: in the cabin information pack are instructions on how to not get eaten. For the sake of anyone planning a trip up here, who may not be wilderness-savvy:

IF YOU ENCOUNTER A BEAR IN YOUR YARD:

Do not run from him, this may stimulate his instinct to chase.

Let the bear know this is YOUR territory and he doesn't belong there

Don’t be afraid or submissive

Yell at him, bang pots and pans, throw rocks. Make him think you are a bigger bear than he is!  […]

And so on, and so forth.

Emerald Bay

On Tuesday we drove the car up to Emerald Bay, approaching the south side of the Lake, which holds some of the most astonishing scenery in the area. The mountains- still capped with snow, even at the beginning of summer- rear out of the water with such alarming force, you  can’t help but wonder if someone stuck them there as a joke.

Instead of racketing through in a pell-mell taxi ride we stopped this time, and hiked past Eagle Falls down to the beach. There’s a large stone building called the Vikingsholm down there, a little way back from the sand. It was built in 1929 by an American woman who was so impressed by old Nordic Architecture she had a large summer house of Scandinavian design designed and built in the cove. Because the holiday season won’t begin for another month it was shut, but The Graduate and I could get into the stone-flagged courtyard and amble around the perimeter.

We hiked up a lot of hills for the rest of the week, and rafted down the Truckee River, (it does, as the taxi slogan suggests, get you wet), through some Grade III rapids. We each tested the water at Meeks Bay, The Graduate lasting the longest with maybe half a minute of submersion before staggering out with the unanimous shout of ‘WHERE HAVE MY LEGS GONE, THESE APPENDAGES DON’T FEEL LIKE MY OWN” while visiting Californians stood, mouths agape on the sunny shore.  

If you’re going to swim, get a wetsuit first.

The Graduate on the beach. No filters, everything really is that blue. 

Now back in Berkeley, having parted with my mum and dad and arrived within reach of a reliable internet connection, The Graduate and I are gearing up for the next three weeks. Starting in San Francisco, we’re heading down the coast first to LA, then to San Diego, before we trek across the desert to Fabulous Las Vegas. Once we've managed to lose all our money on the blackjack table we’ll fly back to the Bay, possibly chasing The Great Outdoors with Yosemite National Park, or maybe heading to a beach town for a day or two of surfing.

With any luck the internet connections en route will be more reliable than those of the past week, so keep following, and I’ll do my very best to keep the blog posts lively.

Who doesn't love a chipmunk? 

Away we go!  

Transience

I feel very peculiar writing this. It's about ten pm Pacific Time. I've handed in all my final papers, my parents have come, fleetingly, and gone. I have climbed up to the big C to watch the sun set over Berkeley with my friends and I'm now sitting, in my gutted student bedroom, for my last night in International House. On the other side of the world The Graduate is in a car headed for the airport, and tomorrow I will see him for the first time since January, ending, for the time being, my long-distance relationship.

I'm still here but everything feels very fragile. I've passed too quickly from being a student into being a tourist, I've had to start saying goodbye to some wonderful people, and I feel almost cheated by time for passing away so quickly. I haven't had a moment of closure, particularly, except for a few hysterical tears on the handing in of my final paper. Berkeley looks to continue indefinitely, but I only have about forty-eight hours left. So, yes. Transience. Not a student, not entirely a tourist, not at all sure how to feel about the fact that this year is coming to an end. I wanted to write before The Graduate lands, because tomorrow is going to be a disgustingly happy day for me and my emotions will be trampolined up into the stratosphere. I've had adrenaline running through me all week. But it's also the end of student life at Berkeley.

I'm hoping to blog a lot in my last four weeks. The Graduate and I are heading first to Lake Tahoe with my family, then back to San Francisco for a few days before turning our sights south. Los Angeles to San Diego to Las Vegas, before flying back North, and after that is anyone's guess. Perhaps Yosemite, somewhere with some Redwoods.

So stay tuned, there should be some fun stories. And from Berkeley, thanks very much for reading. Berkeley Girl has had well over eight thousand hits- let's get it to ten before I fly back to the UK!

X

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California Happy Theory

The other day I was writing a list of do’s and don’ts for The Graduate, who has never been to America before. At the top of the list was:

DO: expect to be faced with some of the most wide-eyed sincerity you’ve ever encountered. It’s not a joke. Californians actually are that happy.

I’ve been puzzling over this ever since I moved out here and started living through these beaming smiles and excitable moods. I was initially convinced the entire country was trying to subtly mock me, and spent the first month staring over my shoulder to check I wasn't walking around with my dress tucked into my knickers. A while later, and with no underwear situation presenting itself I had to uncertainly arrive at the conclusion that actually, this is just a happy place. 

GLITTER DRAGON 

I’m not saying I haven’t seen stress or the occasional attack of rage while out here. Particularly around the campus people like to push themselves to their limits, and it often shows. But as a general rule I’d say everyone seems around sixty percent happier- at face value- than they do in dear old Blighty. Take last weekend, for example.  I went to the 14^th annual How Weird Street Fair, a peace and love fest that was a veritable orgy of glitter and dancing and nudity. There were thousands of people of all ages, out enjoying the sunshine together; there was a big sequinned dragon, face-painting, several accordions  and an art bus driven by a six-foot transvestite. The fair crossed four different streets, and all afternoon the vibes were just... very positive.

Dancing at the How Weird Street Festival

We do have festivals in the UK: there are all the big music numbers- Glastonbury, Reading, Latitude- where people go to swim in a lake of mud for four days... There’s Gay Pride in the Summer, and the famous Notting Hill Carnival. But it’s much less of a common thing to have a couple of thousand adults, kids and dogs casually get together to have a dance to some weird folk music- especially for free. Next to the financial district of the city.

The sun evidently has something to do with it. I know this because the Laconic Australian doesn't find the infusion of endorphins radiating from the Americans we meet nearly so unusual as I do. And yes, London is not quite as accommodating of joy as San Francisco. It’s much harder to cavort around in a bikini and body glitter when it’s grey and sleeting outside your sitting room window. No-one wants to smile at a stranger when the  hems of their trousers have just been soaked with filthy rain water by a passing bus.

But there's still more to California Happiness. Perhaps it's all the easy-access dope that people consume. On 4/20, (which I now correctly know as ‘weed day’), the Laconic Australian and I went out to watch several hundred Berkeley students gather in Memorial Glade, light up several rounds of joints and create one enormous communal hotbox*.  The campus security trundled mildly around the scene in their little golf carts, but otherwise everyone was more or less left to take most of their clothes off, and get on with it.

Perhaps it’s just that Californians exercise more, and across the board there’s subsequently more of a natural endorphin kick.

In conclusion, I’m still figuring it out. I know for a fact that the people of England could do with some more sunshine. Perhaps all Londoners just need to get a little bit more naked, share a big old spliff**; throw on the odd glitter-infused unicorn horn and go hula-hooping in Trafalgar Square every couple of months.

Maybe we all just need to chill out.

*I know an open-air hotbox is a useless device. 

*In case the idea of my open-air hotbox didn't convince people, then for all and any current professors or prospective employees who are reading this, I don’t smoke dope. Even if I wanted to I wouldn’t know where to begin with that kind of enterprise. I am famously inept at such things. 

This would look better on a Tumblr.

The World's Greatest Lover said: 
"When is he arriving, again?" 

And I said:
"Next week." 

And it made me happy.