An American Epilogue

The day I left London, I said my last goodbye (for now) to Peter, who has been both generous and fabulous. Are there two better adjectives ever used in praise? I have heard them not.Arriving later at Heathrow than I planned I was forced to quibble over luggage and pay a 30 pound fine for overweight luggage. How about my extra ten kgs doesn't matter because you didn't charge that guy in front of me with an extra 40 kgs around his waist? It's a cruel world. So it was time to buy a bottle of water, squeeze past that same guy who is now blocking the candy aisle, and go to my boarding gate. My gate was at the farthest reaches of Heathrow's labyrinthine extensions. Near the end I started to see goblins and fairies and I think at one point, David Bowie.

My first stop was San Francisco (above). Ask the average American what San Francisco means to them, and they'll probably say "Gays and weed". And to be fair, there are liberal quantities of both. There are also a lot of homeless people. And crazy people. And crazy homeless people. I really wanted to teach them about the importance of SPF. They would go to sleep on the footpath with their faces unprotected from the mid-day sun and it's no wonder they all look twenty years older than they really are. Someone needs to start handing out free sunscreen because being homeless is no excuse to stop looking after your skin.

My next stop was Reno. There is little to say about the city itself except that it is a poor man's Las Vegas. However, Brooke lives there, so I have gladly visited a number of times. One afternoon we drove up through hours of arid lands and Native American reservations to Black Rock Desert. In this huge tract of barren, cracked dust, the silence is like a blanket. Brooke and I shouted to each other but the sound was swallowed by the vast nothing around us. In such a naked environment, there was nothing to do except become naked ourselves. So we took off all our clothes, and I went to write while Brooke did yoga. It was hedonistically sublime.

Much of my travel between cities relied on greyhound buses. You might recall that someone was beheaded on a greyhound two years ago. On one ride, a greasy little man with his rubbish-bag of belongings was kicked off for smoking in the toilet. He clearly thought that he was still south of the border. On another, I was forced to stand up and loudly rebuke two crass young men for inflicting their explicit conversation upon the entire bus. I was less concerned about the content than I was about the volume. "Inside voices, children."

In Los Angeles I divided my time between West Hollywood and Long Beach in the south. Not much can be relayed about this time except that I caught up with some wonderful old friends and was treated to the warmest hospitality that money can't buy. Oh... and Orlando Bloom? Not so hot in person.

This brings me suddenly and wistfully to the end of this blog. My travels have been over for more than a month. I have delayed so long in writing this post because it seemed like the final nail in the coffin of this wonderful adventure. I have a good job at Wellington hospital and am about to move into the most lovely old room. I think I will be happy. For now...