On the way home from my first trip to the States, I end up finding myself stranded alone in Los Angeles for a few days. Stranded might be too harsh a term, a self-imposed separation from my travel companions is probably more accurate. I was driving to L.A. from Colorado via Salt Lake City with two mates, Dono and Ted. Then I take a hastily organized and poorly thought out side trip to Austin, TX for a few days. They say travel isn’t about finding yourself, it is about creating yourself. Well on this trip I find out I am an idiot and create a lot of drama.
Originally my flight to Austin is to leave from Salt Lake International via Las Vegas. Then I find out that the only accommodation I can afford, while alone in the capital of Utah for three extra days waiting for the flight, is a downtown motel that rents by the week. The reason it is so affordable is that the décor would make a roach infested, flea bag dump feel like a penthouse suite with an extra bathroom at Caesar's Palace. For three days, if I have to the balls to leave my room, I will be rubbing shoulders with the elements of society that regularly rent motel rooms by the week who are not cheap Australian travelers. Men who just completed a rehab course for hard drug addiction, or men about to start a rehab course. Not all Mormons live in a big house with six wives. A few unlucky ones fall off the rails and exist on the fringes of society, with only four wives. The accommodation is essentially a half-way house for vagrants that has given itself the fancy title of motel. The three of us stay there two nights while we enjoy hitting the excellent Utah powder at the mountain resorts of Snowbird and Alta. Three white boys with drinking problems on a ski vacation from Australia. We all fit right in with the residents of Bob's Downtown Lodge.
After seconds of deliberation, rather than wait it out in Salt Lake's low rent district I decide to continue westward with Dono and Ted for three more days. This allows me a chance to ski one day at Squaw Valley and avoid contracting Hepatitis C by using the toilet at Bob's. Then my mates drop me at Reno airport to take my hastily reconfigured, and now even more poorly thought out, trip to Austin. Now I transfer in Phoenix. I am experiencing the grandeur of cities of America one at a time from the food outlets at airports. Joy. The other lads continue to San Francisco with a vague plan to meet up with me in L.A.
Sitting alone in a departure lounge is a great place to come to understand when you have made a poor travel choice. Other times it takes a further two days, 14 hours and 31 minutes, as you find yourself alone in a random motel on the edge of a town in Texas. The forging of character that stems from travel doesn't come from moments when you are surrounded by 800 people knocking back steins in a beer hall at Oktoberfest. Or while staying up all night at a rave in Ibiza. Or walking hand in hand with the woman of your dreams along a country road in Tuscany during Springtime. It is during harsh moments of introspection when cold, alone, and afraid in an unfamiliar city.
Isolation is the anvil of self. This is the first trip where I have left the safety of my country. I then relinquished the security of being around my mates at the airport in Reno. Arriving in Austin I started to feel nervous I had bitten off more than I could chew. Now it is all on me. Most of us grow up being coddled to a large extent by our parents. When things go pear shaped they are always there with a comforting word or a reassuring hug. There are no hugs being given out by the motel staff in Texas. After accepting responsibility that my visit to the city had been extremely poorly thought out I jump on the first available flight to the city of Angels.
Austin should have been great. It is the home of the University of Texas. There are numerous parks and lakes for activities. San Antonio is just over an hour's drive south. There lies the Alamo, the precursor and inspiration to every school shooting in USA since 1836. Austin is famed for its music scene and nightlife. It is home to the famous 8th Street. A staple feature in every college town in the US is an area of the city that contains a few college bars, Austin took that idea and went crazy with it. Let's have a whole street lined with bars they said. I am of an age where the concept of an entire street lined with pubs holds considerably greater interest than the historical aspect of Austin being the state capitol. Probably still am. It really could have been a fascinating trip if I hadn't been so dumb.
I had been invited to visit the town by someone I met while skiing in Steamboat Springs. The excitement of making new acquaintances obviously has people make offers they have no intention to honor. As I sadly find out. A great rule to remember. Not everyone who tells you they will be thrilled if you come to visit them, will be thrilled when you come to visit them. This is how I find myself in the predicament I am in.
Naivety, inexperience with the world, and a cute girl. The unhappy triad. Did you think I went to Austin for the Texas chili? I had essentially been ghosted, stood up, or shot down. This is a kick in the gut when it happens going to meet someone at the local Starbucks. To fly half way across the country for that experience is my crowning glory. A betrayal of the human spirit. If you don't want someone to visit you then don't ask them to come and visit you. It's not hard. It is something some of us like to call respect. While not as sinister as Brutus murdering Cesar, it is certainly on par with Judas selling out Jesus. I leave Austin with the loss of my innocence. Where does my trust in my fellow man go from this point? Will I ever get back on the horse? My flight touches down at LAX on Friday morning, three days earlier than planned. Now I must wait a few days prior to the pre-arranged rendezvous back with Dono and Ted. What am I going to do by myself in Los Angeles? If being on my own in Austin was intimidating, what will it be like in the sprawling monstrosity that is L.A.?
Stunned mullet - part 2
As my boundless luck has it I have a rugby mate living in L.A. Playing rugby is like having a rolodex of contacts for the world. When I find myself in a strange country at a loose end I simply call up an old team mate, he speaks to some of his old teammates and suddenly I am drinking beers with rugby players in Phuket watching an English test match on the telly. That is how it works. Don't ask me how. Rugby is like Latin friend finder.com before there was an internet.
Ryan played the previous rugby season with me on the Queensland University club in Brisbane. I love having a beer with Ryan. He spent the last year in Australia doing what I had just spent the last three months doing, being a bit of a bum. Dropping all commitments and responsibility to live the life of someone who will go anywhere on a whim. Like bloody Austin, TX. I call him from my cheap motel in Inglewood, a city that the online Urban Dictionary refers to as having at least one liquor store every four blocks, one porno book store every eight blocks, and an Asian massage parlor every mile. Thankfully my accommodation only makes a flea bag dump look like a Caesar's Palace penthouse suite without the extra bathroom.
'Ryan, it's me, Simon. I am in L.A.'
'What are you doing?'
'Staring at a cockroach in a motel in the Los Angeles' hood,' I reply.
'Jesus, are you okay?' Ryan enquires.
'Mate, don’t worry. This place is absolute luxury compared to Salt Lake City.'
Having a mate suffer this indignity is unacceptable for him as he is thrilled to hear from me. He invites me to stay the weekend at his family home in Palos Verdes, an affluent suburb covering an entire headland that rises above the city's south bay beaches. Twist my arm and force me. I can handle that. Only problem is, after playing rugby with his club on Saturday afternoon he is going on a date that evening. I will be at a loose end and he thinks it rude to leave me alone. I love having a beer with Ryan, when he is not spending his time chasing tail. He offers to cancel but I tell him no. There must be something I can do with the time? It is quickly decided that I will hang out with his rugby teammates for the night then taxi back to his house. Great plan. Better thought out than any other decisions I had made during the previous week.
Saturday I am invited to suit up for the game of the B-side 15. For the last three months the extent of my aerobic activity has been rather limited. Standing at a lift line directing skiers, over consuming tacos, a
nd drinking beer. Still, you can take the man out of rugby, but you can't take rugby out of the man. Ryan plays for the L.A. Rugby club and they grateful accept me as one of their own for the afternoon. I borrow a pair of rugby boots, as someone always has a pair to lend and suit up. The game is a barnburner. Play goes from one end of the field to the other and my side lead by four points with a minute to go. The referee then awards a try to the opposition with no less than five players from my team lying underneath the ball. Unless the ball touches the grass, it is not a score in rugby. Players have been known to accuse referees of being blind. To infer that about this ref would be a slap in the face for sight challenged people everywhere.
The opposition players celebrate way over the top. Totally uncalled for. Unrestrained boasting in the face of your opponents is a very unrugby act. My team is incensed. Scratch that, I am the only one incensed. Before the trip to Austin I would have probably quietly accepted the taunting. Not now. I had felt the lethal sting of humiliation in Texas. Now I react the same way I would to an uninvited finger up my arse. I am not going to roll over and take it. My team trudge back to half way for kickoff. Heads down. Resignation on their faces. The referee explains that at the next stoppage the game will be over. This means that after we kick the ball to them they can kick it straight out and that is it. I marshal the team together one last time, forget the result guys we have the next 10 seconds to take it to them.
From the restart the ball holds up high in the air allowing my team to contest it cleanly. We win possession! Any dropped ball from this point will end the game. We have three drives forward with our pack making good yards. Mentally the other team has switched off, and once someone does that it is almost impossible to get their minds back in the game. Another charge forward with the pack brings us to the opposition 22.
With the forwards making such easy ground it would be common sense to keep the ball with us. As is always the case, the halfback ruins it all by picking up the ball and passing it out to the backline. The backs do exactly as they are supposed to do, don't drop the ball, and the ball ends up in the hands of our winger who sprints in to score the winning try. One the most satisfying victories I've ever had the rugby gods bestow on me.
After the A-side match, both clubs retire to the home team's bar for post-game drinks. One player on each team has split their head open during play. Both teams have a doctor on their side. In true rugby fashion, the injured players are laid side by side on the pool table. The doctors are made to scull a beer then race to see who can stitch up their player first. This is the aspect of rugby that anyone who plays it loves. You can be trying to thump a player one minute, then be cheering him on the next as he wraps up putting six stitches in his teammate's scalp. All while drinking beer out of a rugby boot.
Ryan leaves me at the bar to go on his date. The rest of the team take me to the three-story townhouse of another doctor who is away this weekend. Here we watch the Mike Tyson-Frank Bruno heavyweight fight on his large screen TV. Tyson scores a TKO in the 5th and we all depart for a nightclub in Hermosa Beach. I've only met these guys today, but they are all very friendly. It is only after I visit the nightclub's bathroom that I suddenly realize I am too drunk to remember who I came with. This fact isn't aided by, eight years after I was willing to sacrifice taking a cricket ball in the testicles rather than wear glasses, I still choose not to wear them. I can't recognize my own family unless they are two feet from my face.
For 20 minutes, I wander around the nightclub inserting myself into any large group of people and asking if someone knows me. No one does. Out of options inside the bar I walk out to the street. I make a quick judgement call as to which side of the road has traffic heading south towards Palos Verdes. Being only 20, therefore by definition broke, young, and stupid, I stick out my thumb to hitch hike. My plan is to at least get closer to Palos Verdes before hailing a cab to take me to Ryan's house. I hitch hiked a few times in Colorado while I was there, and the people were always welcoming. I never felt in danger. Los Angeles is a huge place but surely filled with lots of friendly people willing to give me a lift. Nothing to fear. I wonder how eager I might have been to thumb a ride if Pulp Fiction had been released before 1998.
Good judgement is derived from experience, but experience is derived from moments of shitty judgement. And my life has been full of piss poor judgement. Within a minute of sticking out my thumb a car pulls over. Good job. Apparently, my instincts haven't let me down, L.A. has the most welcoming citizens in the world. The driver courteously asks where I want to go. 'Just get me as close as you can to the big hill at the bottom of Redondo Beach,' I tell him. Sure, he winks at me. He continues down the main thoroughfare he picked me up on then makes a right-hand turn. Why did he do that? Maybe he knows a short cut. He negotiates his way through side streets until he comes to a parking lot at the ocean front in Redondo. The car engine is turned off. Hello, did he get us lost? Me thinks not. There is a moment of uncertain silence between us.
'What do you think about gay sex?' He coyly asks.
Hello? Where did that come from? Mate I just asked for a lift to save me some cash and now you are making the improbable leap to assume I was trolling for sex? That requires a bloody wicked imagination. I am cheap, but not desperate. So now he is putting in the groundwork to try and get some action? In a parking lot. Eww. Couldn't he at least pony up to take me to a flea bag dump motel? Isn't that how it is supposed to work? And how far does he think he is going to get by being such a cheap arse as to only take me to a flea bag motel? I have already experienced my fair share of shit holes in the last few days. Show some class mate. Never going to win me over with that attitude.
Before Austin I might have been feeling cold, afraid, and very much alone. But I had survived the experience of being kicked to the curb in that city and left to fend for myself. I had taken my hits and stood back up on my feet. Since then I learned to look at the world in a much more sarcastic fashion. No situation in my life is so dire that a healthy dose of cynical wit cannot see me through. The driver thinks a 10-minute drive is going to let me have his bald-headed gnome skirt cover charge and slip in the back entrance? Not a chance. He has given 10 minutes of effort. Hell, I just flew 1400 miles to get fucked over.
'Not my cup of tea,' I succinctly reply.
'So why are you out hitchhiking on the side of the road in L.A.,' he states, 'why else would you do that?'
'Because I'm Australian, I'm drunk, and I'm too cheap to pay for a taxi all the way to Palos Verdes,' is my reply.
It is good thing that I had done my soul searching in the motel in Austin. I no longer have any reservations as to the tight bastard I am.
'You wouldn't be interested if I asked you?'
'Errrrr, no!'
'Have you ever tried gay sex?' He persists.
'Mate, I am not gay. Not thinking about becoming gay. I am sorry if being too stingy to pay for a cab all the way to my mate's house can be construed as a subtle signal in the gay world that I am on the prowl for some male company tonight, but no. I have no problem with gay people going at it on their own, simply that I am not interested.' At this point, any rational human being might have exited the car to go and find a taxi. Not me, I am digging my heels in. I am intent on getting my free ride all the way to Palos Verdes. 'So, if you're happy, can we continue now please?'
'I'm not interested in driving you there anymore.' He states.
'Too bad. You picked me up, you should take me to where I asked to go.'
Poor guy has the expression of a stunned mullet. 'It doesn't work like that.'
What! The cheekiness of this bastard. Going back on his promise of giving me a lift home. 'Mate, suck it up. You picked me up with the expectation of gay sex. I was picked up with the expectation of a lift to Palos Verdes. We shouldn't both be disappointed tonight. Drop me at the first gas station we find on Palos Verdes. Not a mile sooner.' I retort. Damn, I have never been this brave in my life.
The fellow knows better than
to argue with someone going full defiant sarcasm in his front passenger seat. He motions as if he is going to give me one more refusal, pauses, then concedes. He puts the car into reverse and backs out of the parking space before driving me to a gas station up on the headland. He lets me out and it costs me five-dollars in taxi fare for the rest of the way. The events of the past few days had taught me a valuable lesson. Don't expect anyone in the world to be out there looking out for your interests. Learn to stand up for yourself and don't back down. When someone promises me something I hold them to it. Mean what you say and say what you mean, as my father always instructed me. But the real moral of the story kids? Wear glasses if you need them to see properly, or you will probably end up being propositioned for gay sex.
Bloody oath
I don't always have a problematic time making it through customs when I enter a country. But when I do, I completely bugger it up - The Most Interesting Man in the World.
Immigration officials are ordinary people like you and me who are just doing their jobs honestly and to the best of their ability. The same as any loan shark, timeshare salesperson, or vengeful bounty hunter chasing down the fugitive who raped his sister. Normally, travelers breeze through the entire customs process without a hassle in the world. Occasionally, and this is very occasionally mind you, the process becomes a nightmare of red tape, onerous regulations, and burnt animal sacrifice.
Wanderlost 2 Page 3
