OE USA: A New Zealander's travels in the US (Part V)
by Andrew Bates
Pat, an Objectivist I had met at the FreedomFest conference, recommended I stay in a hostel near Ocean Beach where he took me to get the “best darn hamburgers on the West Coast.” We hit the bars in Pacific Beach and, without my passport, I could only get into the Aussie Bar where we met a pack of rugby-playing American girls. A few beers (VB!) later and they wanted me to show them how a New Zealand prop lifts a lock in a line out. I was glad to oblige, as the lock was tall and svelte and keen as mustard. Thankfully I wasn’t asked to lift the prop – she said something about wanting to see my tackle so perhaps she just wanted to ruck.
I was almost showing them my haka when Pat decided we (I) needed some food and to call it a night. The next morning I awoke at 6:30 as the first airplane took off right over the top of us. San Diego may be beautiful, but the flight path for arrival is directly over Banker’s Hill, which overlooks the adjacent downtown, and the takeoff flight path is over the beautiful beaches. My hangover was compounded by this and by my not having stretched after my workout with Garin at UCLA the day before (see part 4).
Sore as I was, I went up the coast looking for a rugby tournament that Garin’s cousin had told me about. I found it, but it was a golden oldies tournament and my hunger for rugby remained unabated. I then drove South, almost to the border, and then came back up the peninsula and crossed into the city via the harbour bridge, where the views were spectacular. I had seen enough – San Diego is without question the most beautiful city on the West Coast. Pity they can’t move the airport.
After playing table tennis for two hours with some South Africans who had migrated to the States, Pat and I went to a nightclub in the suburbs. Clearly, he had not enjoyed meeting the group of girls that had been readily accessible (thanks to my accent) the night before – the music was incredibly loud and girls could barely tell I had an accent. We axed that place and went into town where Dave, the Canadian we brought with us from the hostel, gave money to the first bum who asked for it. That’s one Canuck who now knows that not everyone thinks such alms-giving is moral. That said, Dave and I were both famished when Pat dropped us off, and were glad that someone had left a packet of tacos in the communal food basket, which we chowed down over the course of 15 minutes.
The next day I said goodbye to the South Africans (who I had played table tennis against for two hours the night before) and was about to depart when I met a fine young thing by the name of "Summer." We talked for an hour on choosing a career, the spice of life and The Fountainhead. I told her I had to go back to SF to pick up my computer, auto insurance and banking stuff. She gave me her number and email address and told me to get in touch with her when I came back down so we could hit the town together.
To San Francisco and back via San Juan Bautista and LA.
I got back to SOLOHQHQ around 7pm and we went out for a feed at an Indian buffet. I was famished after the day’s drive and ate more than Jeff and Angela together. My plans for a night out in SF with the SOLOHQHQ gang were dashed when Angela pointed out that she and Phil had a wine-tasting event the following night and a karaoke party to host the following night. Ironically, it was not until Phil and Angela arrived home from the Friday wine-tasting that they had the best wine – one of the two bottles of Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc I had bought my hosts as a token of my gratitude. Despite breaking with tradition and not being the most pissed at the Saturday night karaoke party, I surprised everyone the next night with a rendition of The Bangles’s Eternal Flame.
My debit card had arrived but my internet banking paperwork had not. I called the bank to find out when that should be arriving and was informed that the trainee teller, when changing my details from my NZ address to SOLOHQHQ, had reordered the debit card but not the internet access. Jeff tempered my fury, suggesting that the bank teller had wanted me to come back and see her again. I explained to the bank representative on the phone that I had been delayed three weeks and now had the prospect of a longer wait and asked what I could do. He gave me internet access over the phone using the details only I could know. With this stark example of how incompetent she had been, I could find nothing positive to think about the teller, Jeff’s suggestion notwithstanding.
While I was still waiting on my auto insurance card to come through and the car salesman to finalise the transfer of my van and give me my registration stickers, I decided I must leave SOLOHQHQ for the last time. As Joe doesn’t drink and Jeff doesn’t drink white wine, I took them out for lunch and then hit the road to San Juan Bautista to have lunch in a Mexican restaurant with a huge garden with my generous relatives. Shortly after 3pm I headed off to LA to drop off a copy of The Fountainhead for Alec’s grandmother (who said she would have studied architecture had she grown up free) and Economics in One Lesson for Alec’s father (who had studied economics and enjoyed the theory but not the nonsensical level of mathematics) and to continue on to San Diego. At 6:30pm I started to accelerate to build up my speed for the climb up The Grapevine, a steep pass through a mountain range just north of greater LA.
I wasn’t keeping my eye on the engine’s water temperature and she overheated 100m up the hill. I was able to coast to the shoulder, got out, and started checking out the engine when a guy pulled up in an old Mitsubishi pickup and swiftly took charge of my situation. His diagnosis: I had not only overheated but would not be able to start again without getting a new distributor. During the 25 mile drive to the nearest Autozone he explained that he had been a mechanic all his life, before getting cancer five years ago, and had been supplementing his sickness benefit by driving that stretch of road to help motorists whose cars break down. We returned to tow my van to the first truckstop up the hill where he replaced the distributor and added water to the radiator, and we headed off to the nearest town for me to pay him. I gave him $240 for the three hours he had been with me and this, in combination with the $100 I had spent on the distributor core, meant my cheap van was starting to get less cheap.
I phoned Alec to say I had been delayed. He told me to proceed to his place anyway and called his mother to let her know I was coming. His mother had given up on me when I arrived after 11pm and she offered me a place to stay that night. After all the uncertainty involved with my van breaking down at the aouthern end of a desert, I cannot convey how glad I was to hear those words. When I awoke the next day, Alec’s grandmother wouldn’t let me on my way without stuffing me full of food.
After a tour of LA I met up with Garin for a lunch of deep pan pizzas and “pizookie,” a divine desert made with a baked chocolate chip cookie base and melting ice cream on top. Despite advice to head to Utah to see the Grand Canyon, I decided to head down to San Diego for a night downtown with Summer or Pat. Unfortunately, when I got there that night, I discovered that Summer, with no firm commitment from me to return, had headed to Utah (where she had started reading The Fountainhead on my recommendation) and Pat was too busy with work and study to hit the town – though he put me up on the floor of his studio apartment. It was time to head East, so I set off at 9am the next morning for Arizona.
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Fancy meeting up with me on the East Coast or in Florida?
Email bates *at* deletethisbit.orcon.net.nz or call +1-408-506-0784.
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