I’m shivering as I type, warming up inside Denny’s awaiting my breakfast slam. Ahh…that’s better: ‘sausage’, eggs over easy, pancakes with maple syrup and a cup of coffee that keeps being refilled. Righteo, so how did I get here, from Californian November warmth to 7000feet and freezing?
The Gigalopolis
A few days ago, when I first arrived in the OC, I thought I was in LA. Not according to the locals. It’s a different city altogether. Seems a bit pedantic to me. Sure, it may be 35 miles from downtown LA but its not like there’s any distinguishable break from the endless city-blocks full of traffic and freeways projecting people around. You couldn’t really go anywhere without a car. And I think if you had a car you would simply end up driving around in endless circles (or squares, rather) going from one place to another, and never escaping. I was escaping. So I caught the train.
To San Bernadino. Another MCW* (the fourth I’ve visited), but again I was dissapointed to come out alive.
California
My first ride was a couple of hollywood agents, cruising back to their mountain retreat to put up christmas decorations. We drove through the hilly desert, and they dropped me at a rather pleasing mountain pass.
I threw some rocks. I had my first encounter with the California Police:
“You have to stand that side of the tree to be legal” he shouted (pleasantly?) from his car window. Apparently I had been blurring the lines between what is interstate and what is not. Yes sir, and I moved. But a gang of Mexicans who were doing some roadwork parked their truck in such a way that being legal meant not being visible. So I moved back to where I was originally, and before long got picked up by a Mexican who took me 20 miles down the road to the small city of Victorville.
God
Victorville was a bad place to stop. First because nobody was picking me up. Second, because God starting talking to me:
“You’re not aloud to be there…” said God.
I looked around for the source of this disembodied voice. It wasn’t God afterall, rather another cop hiding in the bushes, using his megaphone to scare people by pretending to be God. I gave him a smile, and a little hand-gesture and shuffled about 20m back down the onramp, leaning my things against the sign that says “No Pedestrians, No Farm equipment, No Mexicans.” I was honestly just trying to be legal, but I guess he thought I was being smart.
“What are you doing?” he shouted incredulously through his windown. He looked a bit confused, like The Wizard of Oz after he’s discovered, unsure whether to continue using his megaphone or not.
Oh, I was trying to get a lift into Arizona.
Well you can’t hitchhike here!
I pulled out my old chestnut: “Oh sorry officer, I was under the impression that the onramp was ok, but not the interstate itself.” This confused him. He didn’t seem to be sure if hitchhiking was legal or not (and nor am I), but he was sufficiently thrown by this to think of a new excuse.
“That sign there is just a guide,” he told me. “I’m highway patrol, and I have jurisdiction over the whole onramp, so I’m afraid you can’t stand there. It’s a matter of your safety, that’s all, not because you’re a nuisance, but because we’re responsible if somebody takes the corner too tight and hits you.” Oh sure sir, no problem sir, thanks for allowing me to cross the onramp twice for you to explain how I might get killed standing beside it. Prick.
So for the first time I was forced from a spot on legal advice.
Slow progress, good vibrations.
The next onramp, a couple of miles away seemed the best option. I walked down the road holding my ‘Barstow’ sign, backwards. A wonderful lady picked me up, and took me to the next onramp. She was brilliant, offered me a place to stay if I got stuck, and even came back 20 minutes later with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches!
I waited, no police, good! No traffic either. Bad. I practiced bouncing the ball (see Ep. 3) on my head.
Away...
I was in the car of a retired soldier. We drove past breathtaking scenery, a surreal desert/mountain combination. We had a nice chat. We agreed about everything, except creationism and muslims.
I was in Barstow, on a little frequented onramp of the I-40, the highway that runs all the way to North Carolina. It was getting dark. Earlier and earlier every bloody day. I needed a lift quick. I needed a new sign. I looked around for a scrap of cardboard, found one, and lo and behold, already had ‘Needles’ written on it. I don’t see other hitchhikers, but they exist, I’m sure. I’m not alone.
Isaac was a nice fellow in the 10th car that passed by. He was a divorcee, spoke with an accent that sounded European, but when I asked where he was from he simply said “Barstow.” He was going to see a friend in Newberry Springs. He left me at the exit of that impossibly small town. It was dark. There was a gas station.
A travel van stopped for gas. They’d passed me back in Barstow and I had waved. Isaac and I had overtaken them. I went and said hello.
I was lounging on a mattress with two dogs, driving down the road. They were on an adventure. The owners too. Back in Oregon, timing had been fortuitous, both had fallen out of work at the same time, and desired to spend a few months in Mexico surfing. They were driving down the 40 to that effect.
Then we were drinking Jack Daniels at the rest-area where they were going to camp the night. I hung out for a couple of swigs and a couple of smokes. They were very kind.
I was reading the tourist info at the rest area, all about Arizona, and about the rules for rest areas. I watched a guy go into the toilet. I watched him leave, hesitated for a moment, and then. Excuse me buddy…
The Summer Ends
80mph we sped, and I found out he was a combat engineer for the army. Apparently this is a standard infantry ‘grunt’ who occasionally gets to blow up bridges and the like. He was driving all the way across the country to his new station in North Carolina, where he would join the 82nd airborne. He was a wonder, a very sharp character. We became fast friends. We agreed about a lot of stuff, and we enjoyed disagreeing with each other too. He was mostly playing the centrist conservative, and I the centrist liberal (in the american sense). He had wanted McCain to win. He agreed that the country was in bad shape, but had a refreshing view of what those problems were. We talked for four hours straight, and were just short of Flagstaff when he pulled over to sleep a few hours. We were at 7000ft. It was cold. Very cold. 33 degrees according to his car. I still don’t always get farenheit, but now I know that 33 is cold enough for me. But he was army. He was tough. I was the whimp who had to borrow a blanket.
Before sun-up we set off again, and he dropped me here at Denny’s, where now I’ve finished my breakfast, and my fourth refill of coffee. I’m warm again now. The sweet blessed warmth of the indoors.
*Murder Capital of the World.
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