Monterey to Santa Cruz (just a wee one)

Up and at em, refreshed and ready to roll to...wherever!

Out on the highway, it wasn’t long.

He was a landscaping contractor, we moved some blueprints so I could get in.

Working for government, so many regulations, so many phone calls in such a short trip, to Watsonville.

Then it was a plumber, of mexican descent, who’d given up on Florida, and returned to California, he worked for Home Hardware,

Managed the plumbing section. The job was secure, but it was tough to buy a house, for his young family.

Then I was in Santa Cruz, and I liked it well enough, so I stayed for a while.

OC to Monterey, Day 3 (The wise)

A Medicine Man talks about new levels of conciousness

An early start didn’t get me moving very quickly. It was a native man of 70 years who picked me up after a half hour or so. He seemed to be fighting fit, but apparently had all sorts of conditions from cancers to emphizema, and as a result he smoked marijuana medicinally. By this stage it was par for the course when he shared his medicine as we drove along that winding road, following the cliffs, stopping to look at waterfalls and the like. I only got scared once when we seemed to slip a little on a particularly sharp bend. He dropped me at the next hotel/restaurant along and bought me a delicious breakfast. ‘How funny’ he said, ‘that an old man picks you up, buys you breakfast and then drives off with only a “happy trails.”’ How funny indeed, and how nice. Thankyou, and happy trails to you sir.

*****The Bender ends******

Walking the Dog
I was relaxing and enjoying the sunshine, not in a hurry after the spiritual guidance of my last ride, when I met a man taking his dog for a walk. He’d started the walk 30 days previously in San Francisco. We chatted away and it turned out that he, despite appearances, was a man of some means, who simply liked to live a simple life. I really admired the guy. His dog had hurt a paw, so now he was going to hitch a ride to get some treatment. We were going opposite directions for a while, before he decided that South wasn’t the way he wanted to go. He joined me in my spot looking for a ride North.

No point Russian
We waited a long time on that very quiet highway. Then a middle-aged couple with thick accents stopped for a look at the view. As they were getting back in the car, I negociated a trip down the road with them. Unfortunately, they didn’t have room for my friend and his dog, so I said my goodbyes to them.

They were a couple of Russians who’d emigrated to the USA at the end of the cold war. They lived on the East Coast and were on a little Californian getaway. They wanted to keep stopping and looking at things, which is pretty much the reason I was there too, so we were temporary travel pals. They were lovely people, perhaps slightly confused by my vagrant lifestyle, I mean, don’t I have a job, or actually do something? One day, one day…

Pays to sleep
Suddenly we were off the quietest highway in the world, and there was traffic everywhere. I got dropped off in Monterey. I strolled down to a busy onramp, stuck my thumb out, not sure where I was going, maybe Santa Cruz. As I stood there, as dusk fell, an overwhelming weariness took over my body. Unthinnkingly I walked back to some motels I’d seen, I used a credit card, actually paid for a bed, turned on the TV, and the next thing I knew it was morning.

OC to Monterey, Day 2 (Green)

After a long walk into town from the CalPoly campus, a coffee, and another unsuccessful busking attempt, I walked out to highway 1. This was it, I would cruise along the coast and see the lovely cliffs.

Mirrorvision
The first guy who picked me up was the founder and president of Mirrorvision, a company that will revolutionize the way we view media. He took me to his studio apartment in the little town of Morro Bay where he demonstrated (after another puff of a pipe) his product, four angled mirrors around an 8 inch TV screen from the 70s. He showed me a version of The Empire Strikes Back, specially edited for the Mirrorvision format. I also got to try some special Mirrorvision goggles that act as a kind of kaleidoscope but of course way cooler and more revolutionary. Its only a matter of time before everybody can enjoy this technology, so enjoy the last days of seeing the world straight before Mirrorvision takes over.

Uninhabited
About this point I realized that I had lost my map back in SLO. Oh well, what they hey, I wasn’t going to go back for it. But if I had it, I might have realized that I was about to enter into terrain where nobody really lives. My next lift was three very friendly youngin’s on their way back to Cambria after picking up some groceries in Morro Bay. They left me at the liquor store, opposite a pretty beach, apparently the spot where everybody would stop before attempting to drive on further.

A Surfer and some enormous seals.
Then a guy looking for waves picked me up, and we cruised along. He insisted that we didn’t smoke the joint mr mirrorvision had made for me, and instead we smoked one of his. He had just knocked off work and was relaxing with a beer and a drive. We looked at some enormous seals, elephant seals apparently, as they flopped about on the beach. He very kindly took me to the next stopping point 10 more miles down the road.

Hospitality
We stopped at the start of the amazing cliffs, had a walk around and stood in awe as it got dark. The surfer headed back home, I put my bags and my ‘Monterey’ sign in a prominent position in the outside eating area. I soon realized there wasn’t much point trying to hitch since there were absolutely no cars. Hmm. Interestingly, in this little stretch of California coastline no houses can be built, and the only things that exist are resort like hotels like the one I now found myself in. So the only people moving around were hospitality staff. I met the guy running the convenience store where everything was overpriced, and we became friends over another joint (there were no customers as you can imagine). He really looked after me, finding me some delicious leftover chicken to eat, gave me some free beers, and then when it was revealed that I had launched out into this coastline without a tent or sleeping bag, he offered me a place to sleep. It was his car, much more comfortable I must say than the chilly outdoors, and he even gave me a blanket. I am still so thankful, sir.

OC to Monterey, Day 1 (The hardest hitching to date)

So after Las Vegas exploits (which I would tell you about, but I’m bound by statute 22: “what happens in Vegas…”) and after a sick-day in Orange (was feeling horrible, until Jaeger-bombs and Rock-Band), it was time to hit the road again.

After a brief consultation of Google Maps, I decided that the train was the only reasonable option for getting the hell out of Orange without a car. So I caught the commuter into Union Station LA. I tried and failed to not pay. At Union I assesed options for getting to a thumbable freeway but in LA transport and/or information are shit so I decided to try

AMTRAK

It was nice, I had 4 seats to myself, it cost $21 from LA to Santa Barbara. I met a cool college kid who was going back to school at CalPoly in San Luis Obispo. He was a young guy and I liked him because he thought everything I said was interesting. He was wise with big bright eyes.

Santa Barbara
Attempted to busk, got shunted by security in the mall, then had to compete with the endless beggars on the streets. One example was a couple of guys with a sign that said “Hungry, hungry Hobos”. How is a Simon & Garfunkle song supposed to compete with that?

Getting out of Santa Barbara, THE HARDEST HITCHING EVER
I was at a pedestrian crossing where I had to convince cars to stop, hold up the cars behind them while I got my bags and self into their car. Even I couldn’t believe anyone would do that, they didn’t, I left.

At the next on-ramp there was no room either. From entry to merge was about 20m, and I couldn’t work out how to get a ride without causing an accident. I tried the least busy entry, which had a vague spot where maybe someone could have only knocked over one or two trees while they pulled over. No good. I had to think of a new trick:

THE RED LIGHT TRICK
One of the 3 entries to the onramp was a traffic light where cars were waiting. There was no room to pull over, but enough time to get in and away on the light cycle. I waited, picked out a solo guy who pulled up as the light turned red. I gave him the would-you-mind-winding-down-the-window signal. I told him I was trying to get a lift and that I was stuck, that even a ride just down a few exits would help. He helped.

ILLEGAL ROAD CROSSINGS
Where that photography student dropped me was even worse. The onramp was embedded amongst intersecting roads not intended for a pedestrian to ever reach. I watched traffic for a long time before crossing two roads illegally. Then I was standing in an illegal and moderately dangerours spot, waving my thumb out.

I kept smiling as the sun got lower. It seemed hopeless. Then

A GIRL!
A lovely girl by herself. She gave me a quick test:
-You’re not crazy are you?
-You’re travelling aren’t you?
I must have answered correctly because before long we were rolling along to San Luis Obispo. As we drove we had a taxi-cab like confession session. She told me about her boyfriend troubles, and I chimed in with the occasional ‘Right on sister,’ Then I revealed a restless doubt of my soul (or two) and we literally bonded (literally in the american sense, actually we bonded figuratively)

Then I called up my new college friend
***the bender begins****
and he helped me find a place to sleep where I was able to develop a method of lying flat on a sofa and a single-seater ordinarily too small for sleeping, very handy if you ever end up in college accomodation.

Flagstaff AZ to Las Vegas NV (A Movable Feast, Hitchhikers, Christian-Rock and Holiday Traffic Jams)

Thanksgiving

A light drizzle was falling on Flagstaff the last Thursday in November. It was the morning after a crazy Wednesday, a night of open-mic, 25c drinks, sand-speckled beer that had been down the grand-canyon and back and finally the couch of a sweet half-swedish girl. She’d made me feel great about my Swedish, more than any real Swedish person could, “Snakke du Svensk?” “Ja!”

These memories were floating through my head as my phone rang. It was cousin Ed and Ms. Watson calling from Atlanta, wishing me a happy thanksgiving. Alex across on the other couch started talking to her mum too, and I could hear that on the other end, the phone was being passed around, and over and over the sentiments of this American holiday were being expressed. I give thanks for you every day, she said. I felt inexplicably joyful.

The day before I’d been offered to eat thanksgiving dinner with some of the fine locals I had met in that little mountain town. I had declined. Vegas was calling. But now it was Thursday and outside the rain was falling. I was tossing how best to spend Thanksgiving; eating too much turkey, or getting wet with my thumb out. In the end it was a no-brainer.

Dinner was scheduled for 1pm. But after the crazy night, the hosts were still in bed at two. I went over to help with preparations; my role was chopping onions and then getting out of everybody’s way. I drank beer and a little pipe was being passed around. We played games. Dinner was served at 6.30pm. The turkey was great. The mashed potato was delicious. The stuffing was unbelievable. Everyone was so full of food, and we continued playing games, and singing along to the guitars and the mandolin. Occasionally I looked outside where it was still raining and where hardly a soul could be found. I was still contemplating hitchhiking. It would be miserable, nobody on the road, and that endless drizzle, while inside was warmth and joy. I’ll catch the Greyhound bus at 2am, I told myself, arrive in Vegas in the morning. The guitars kept singing, and then, the bus, if it existed at all, was past. At 5am I fell asleep on another couch.

Marching with Confidence

The rain had stopped and it was getting light. I had slept two hours but felt fresh as I marched out towards Interstate 40. Once again I hadn’t done my research very well. The spot had only about 10% of traffic heading in the direction of Kingman. Most cars were speeding past on their way South to the big city of Phoenix or East to New Mexico. And nobody heading in my direction stopped. I waited an hour before I decided to find another spot, possibly on the historic Route 66. There are only bits and pieces of that famous highway that remain, but the main street of Flagstaff still bears its name. I walked back into town and toward the 66. On route I stopped at a service station to get some advice. The first local I asked thought the 66 wasn’t the option. He said that where I had been standing was the best spot.

Another Hippy goes out of his way

The second local told me: “Get in.” He was a proper mountain hippy, in his 50s with a little white beard and the kind of hat that you could imagine on a real-life wizard. He was spending the day taking some photos. It was his hobby, although he confessed that he had some talent. A woman had given him the Infinity we were driving in, for example, in exchange for five of his photos. He didn’t really care where he took photos, so although he hadn’t been planning on it, he would take me to Williams.

We were already at 7000ft, but as we drove along he asked if I wanted to get high. Then the cab was hazy and we talked about life and politics. He’d tried to leave Flagstaff a few times, but he always ended up coming back. He was left-leaning, as hippies tend to be, but with a certain degree of cynicism and a lack of tolerance for bullshit, the kind of qualities that often come from spending a long time on the planet. I was very grateful for his company.

A Frog

I walked from where I’d been dropped off to the on-ramp of the freeway. And lo-and-behold, there was already somebody standing there. Could it be? It was. Another hitchhiker. Finally.

He was Etienne, a French dude riding his bike from New York to Los Angeles. The rain had trapped him in Williams for two days and now he was behind schedule. He was trying to get a lift with his bike and all, but without much confidence. For a while we stood together, then he very kindly offered me to stand separately from him, since I could get a ride in anything, whereas he needed a pick-up truck. I moved my bags down the road, but still drifted back and talked to him. And in the end we got a ride together.

Christian-Classic-Rock

A father and son tried to spend thanksgiving riding their 4-wheel motorbikes in the mountains. But their car broke down. Now they were on their way back with a massive trailer, room for an extra bicycle and all our gear. Then we were rolling along. They asked for a song so I took out my guitar and played a few as we drove. The son was about 14, a sweet kid, full of curiousity about Australia and France. The dad was into classic-rock, and he told me that he also played guitar, and wrote music. Christian Music.

When we stopped for a toilet break, he played me a number. Try to imagine a guitar riff in 2/4 by Eric Clapton in the Cream years or The Rolling Stones, that goes (starting on the off-beat) Nah, nana, nah, nah, nana. So the song went:

He’s the King…
(Nah, nana, nah, nah, nana)
The King of Kings
(Nah, nana, nah, nah, nana)
He’s the lord…
(Nah, nana, nah, nah, nana)
Of all things
(Nah, nana, nah, nah, nana)

It was still stuck in my head long after I wished goodbye to the three of them in Kingman.