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'Baby' World Tour - Part 8
The 'Baby' World Tour (Part 8)
San Francisco, an epic train ride, then home!!
Tuesday 24th April
Hardly get any sleep at Footprints hostel on Pitt Street, Sydney. Spend most of the night writing up my previous diary entry. The anticipation of the morning flight to San Francisco via Auckland keeps me awake. I do catch an hour or two in early hours. I share a 4 bed dorm with a young Scottish couple who are hoping to stay in Oz long term.
Catch the 7am airport shuttle bus. The bus is driven by a chirpy Croatian looking/sounding chap. Sydney this morning is under a grey dark cloak of rain cloud. It is pissing down, second day in a row of torrential rain, something of a novelty for New South Wales. It feels cool as well, an English type of cool.
In the shuttle bus we listen on the morning radio to a phone-in discussion regarding the water shortage crisis in Australia. The eloquent announcer outlines the scale of the problem by stating that NSW uses up more water in a year than the whole volume of the Murray/Darling river system. He goes onto say that a professor of one of the universities in Oz had drafted a report as long ago as 1985 stating that if nothing was done about it Australia faced a water shortage crisis on a monumental scale. One of the recommendations at the time this professor did the report was to introduce desalinisation plants. 22 years later the Australian government are no further forward on this issue, too much talking and not enough doing. I know we're all guilty of talking the talk and not walking it from time to time but surely there comes a point when something has to give. Australia has reached that point regarding water.
Ironic then that at 11.30am i reluctantly fly out of this amazing country with the rain hammering down. We soon move out of cloud as the plane heads east over the Tasman. The pilot announces that Auckland is bathed in sunshine and that we will get good views of the Tasman 30,000 feet below. He's not wrong.
By the time Air New Zealand's congenial stewardesses have served their food and drink to the passengers we are ready to land in Auckland. I know I'm only at Auckland for 3 hours to wait for the connecting flight to San Francisco but I still feel excitement at seeing the coastline of New Zealand once again. Bathed in evening sunshine the islands and peninsulas that surround Auckland can be seen as clear as a bell and the sky lights up all different shades of blues and reds from the falling sun. No haze just outstanding views. The city itself looks nothing short of magnificent as we fly over it and prepare for landing. On the way down i spot 'One Tree Hill' and Auckland's sky tower.
After a 3 hr wait for connecting flight to San Francisco the plane takes off at 7.30pm from Auckland airport. The flight itself is 12 hours. We are due to land in San Francisco at 10am the same day. It all gets very confusing with the time zones. Basically the West coast of the US is roughly a day behind NZ. So in effect we gain a day.
On the flight i get chatting to a lad from Wellington. He is on his way to a friend's wedding in San Francisco. He is wearing an Everton shirt. Turns out he has relatives from Liverpool and is a big fan of the Toffees.
As the plane flys over the equator (somewhere over the Pacific) we hit some hard core clear air turbulence. The plane wobbles, then drops then evens out again and continues on its merry way. Some people don't bat an eyelid and appear to have slept through the mini roller coaster ride. I on the other hand nearly cack myself. I don't get any sleep. I spend the next few hours watching Ricky Gervais' 'Extras' on the plane's in-flight entertainment. This keeps me amused for a bit. Then i go for a walk down the aisles of the plane and do some stretches. I must look like a right mad bastard.
Eventually darkness turns to morning light. I head to the back of the plane where there is a vacant window seat. I am excited about seeing the coast of the United States for the first time.
It is a beautiful morning, bright blue sea below. I make out a red and white tanker. I can even make out the white foam created by the bow of the ship as it pushes its way through the waters of the Pacific. There we are! There resplendent in the morning sun is the coastline of California stretching away to the south. The hills look green, rolling and inviting. Some of the hills look to have quite dense forests. The beaches look equally impressive. Golden sands. What is also impressive is the size of the surf, foaming white as it hits the shores, a surfer's paradise perhaps.
We land smoothly onto US tarmac. At customs everyone's fingerprints are taken. They also photograph people's faces. Although quite rigorous i was expecting US customs to be very serious. The US customs officers, decked in their black police style uniforms seem quite relaxed. The girl who checks my passport asks me if I've enjoyed my journey so far and wishes me a good stay in the US.
An hour later i take the Bart (San Francisco's underground) to the centre. It is a 30-minute journey. I am heading to a hostel called Pacific Winds on Sacremento Street in central San Francisco. On arriving at the city the first thing i notice is the fresh breeze. Feels like Wellington in terms of both climate and scale of the place. What is different from Wellington is the sight of huge American flags perched on top of the city's big high-rises. They are flapping hard in the strong breeze. The city is not quite as busy or hectic as I had imagined. It feels cool in the shade of the buildings. The cool wind is being funnelled down the street. There is however an optimistic smell of spring in the air, weird having just come from autumn. My body and seasonal clock are well and truly confused. A yellow taxi goes by. I spot more US flags. The stars and stripes are out in force on top of many buildings.
I find Sacremento Street and check into the hostel. A lad called David greets me. He is relaxed and his long straight hair is in keeping with the San Francisco easy going image. He shows me around the tiny hostel, which is unique in the sense that it is situated up on the third floor of a 4-storey building. The only way you can get in is by using an electronically activating key, which automatically opens the main door. Then it's a case of tackling the steep stairs up to reception. Next to the reception is the kitchen, which is tiny but homely, and there is a cosy narrow dining area leading off from the kitchen.
Though I'm tired i fancy taking the evening air. I walk up Sacremento Street to the glorious Grace Cathedral. I go inside and admire the sheer scale of this colossal structure erected in the early 1920s. From the top of Sacremento Street you get great views of the city and the surrounding harbour.
I head down to Fisherman's Wharf. On the way what strikes me is the village atmosphere of the higher reaches of San Francisco. The houses have a homely wooden look to them.
I can't believe the steepness of the streets. Unbelievable. A tram passes me ringing its bell.
The cherry blossom is out on the roadside trees.
I arrive at Fisherman's Wharf. There stretched out in front of me is San Francisco Bay. Alcatraz is just across the water straight ahead. To the west is the Golden Gate bridge. Because the sun is setting behind it i can't make out its unique golden colour due to the glare. I walk past the Maritime museum and out onto an old premonitory jutting out into the harbour. A seal rises out of the somewhat murky waters. There are swimmers clad in wetsuits swimming in the sheltered waters of the enclosed harbour. It is a beautiful sight to behold. It has been a long journey from Sydney and a long day, but I'm glad to be taking in the fresh sea air.
I return to the hostel before night time and meet up with fellow travellers in the hostel's narrow dining area.. One of the group is a shaven headed lad called Colin who is a Geordie and unfortunately for him a Newcastle fan. He is a good lad all the same. There is also an amiable blonde girl from Reading who coincidentally went to Durham University at the same time as Colin was there. They never met at the time. She is a lovely girl to talk to, but as usual, i have subsequently forgotten her name. After travelling for a year all over the world she tells me she is heading back to the UK tomorrow. I ask her if she's looking forward to getting home. "I feel excited to be seeing my family and friends", she replies. Good on her. I must admit I share her sentiments in many ways.
Later on i use the hostel's guitar to bang out a few numbers since it feels the right cosy environment to do so. Colin requests a Paul Weller number. I play 'A Town Called Malice'.
Then later get chatting to a Kiwi lass who has been travelling on Route 66 and seems to have had a splendid time stopping off at the roadhouse diners and bars on the way.
Colin and myself go halves on an 8 pack of Bud light. Not the best lager in the world, but after such a long flight tastes good all the same.
Retire to bed looking forward to my first full day in San Francisco tomorrow.
Wednesday 25th April
Don't wake up until 2 in the afternoon, severe jet lag. I feel like I've been kicked in. When i do finally get up i decide i will try and busk on Fisherman's Wharf.
There is a problem however. When i open my guitar case i realize that there are no strings on it. I had forgotten that Air New Zealand had made me take the strings off at Sydney the day before. The reason for this can only be explained as part of a new crackdown on terrorism. Shame really, as If i had taken the strings off and put them in my large rucksack and onto the hold i would have been ok, but i hadn't done so because none of the flights i had previously been on had bothered about the guitar and its steel strings going on as hand luggage.
With the 'Baby' string less I traipse around the streets of San Francisco looking for a music shop that sells strings. When at last i do find one i realize that the small bone coloured saddle that helps elevate the strings is missing. I can only assume it must have dropped out at passport control in Sydney.
At the large music store I buy a new saddle but it's way too high so i then have to buy a file to file the bloody thing down. By the time i get back to the hostel i am a bit wound up. Fortunately a beer calms me down. I sit at the table filing the saddle down. I get chatting to a chap called Richard from Exeter. Richard has just come from Yosemite National Park. He has also been trekking in Peru, New Zealand and Oz. We both agree the two antipodean countries are the Mut's Nuts.
I must busk tomorrow.
Thursday 26th April
I head down to Fisherman's Wharf. The Baby is all set to go. With new strings on there are no excuses. "Hello America!", I shout to myself (no-one hears me).
I begin playing. 'Me and Julio Down By The Schoolyard'. A group of youngsters smile and clap along with my foot tapping on the red tambourine as they pass by. They decide to stop and listen to more. They chuck some change and a couple of dollar notes into my straw hat. I thank them. It feels good to play in the morning sun, the air fresh blowing in from the sea.
Soon a grey haired chap with a moustache approaches me. "You've got a really great sounding guitar there". He asks about my CDs. "How much?" He enquires.
"$10" i answer.
He hands me over a $20 note and tells me not to worry about the change. What a top bloke! This fills me with encouragement.
I continue playing in the sun.
A school party arrives and plays on the beach behind me. The kids look as though they have never seen the sea before. They are fascinated by it and scream with laughter and run from the waves when they come in. It's good to see. The teachers have brought along a picnic..
Soon after a San Francisco Park ranger dressed in a green jumper approaches me.
"Excuse me sir but busking is prohibited in this area", he explains with a hint of bureaucracy in his voice.
I resign myself to moving on.
The ranger then proceeds to tell me that I can busk anywhere along the strip which is lined with shops not far from Fisherman's Wharf. A little pissed off I swallow my anger and take his advice.
Before i start busking on the strip i call in at Sacremento Street where there is a kind of information desk. Here I ask for some advice regarding busking in this area from a sprightly grey haired chap.
"You'd be better off in Arizona", he explains. "In California there are too many rules and regulations". He then goes onto tell me that he personally hates rules and regulations. From here the conversation soon shifts onto politics. The old man goes on.
"Now Ronald Reagan, he couldn't stand rules and regulations and he was a great president", He was in full flow now. I could see loosely where this conversation was heading but i didn't expect the next utterance.
"You know what was the best thing Reagan did", he asks me rhetorically.
"He got rid of them Commies"
The funny thing about that last statement is that another employee of the information centre comes up to the desk at precisely the moment he mentions 'Commies' so his last words are somewhat subdued. Almost like he knew he shouldn't be sharing his strong political views with the public. I don't mind. I think it's funny. It was like something from a Mel Brooks film.
I set up along the esplanade. Cafes, restaurants and shops all line the strip. It's very busy. Everyone seems to be in the holiday mood. Blacks, Whites, Asians, all are out in force.
I feel relatively safe busking here. I wouldn't fancy the centre of San Francisco with its homeless and drug addicts but here feels ok. Continue to see money drop into the hat. Not a fortune, but with the sale of the album earlier that day it is worthwhile.
Have another sing song back at the hostel in the evening.
Friday 27th April
Manage to get up much earlier than the day before.
Busk on the strip not far from where the ferries go to Alcatraz. Sell an album early on to a chap whose little kid seems fascinated by the guitar and tambourine and harmonica.
Later on i sell an album to a Dutch girl called Venus. She is full of life and is with a lad called Sunny who sounds like (judging by his accent) he is from San Francisco. I think they only recently met up a few days earlier.
Venus asks me "if you were an animal what would you be?" The first thing that comes into my head is a koala bear.
Venus gets me to sign her travel book. It is full of words of wisdom and expressions of love. You can't beat the Dutch. Later on I check out how Sunderland are doing against Burnley by going on the internet. I am that sad that i end up paying just to sit looking at the live scores coming through on the SkySports vidiprinter. I nearly hit the roof when it reports Sunderland's winner. Looking very good for promotion now. I feel happy about this and later do some more busking in good spirits. I even get in for a dip down at Fisherman's Wharf.
At 6.30pm i buy a ticket at San Francisco's Amtrak that will take me on the train all the way up to Portland. My ticket is actually for Seattle but as the train doesn't pull into Seattle station 'til the very early hours of the day after next, this is something i would not look forward to. Al least with Portland i arrive early evening when there is still daylight. I don't fancy wandering the streets of Seattle in the early hours of the morning trying to locate a hostel.
It was kind of a snap decision to head up to Oregon so soon. Bottom line is i fancy spending a few days on the train relaxing and looking at some American countryside. Hopefully Portland will be OK. If i settle in Portland for a few days i might then be in a good position to head up to Seattle and into Canada perhaps. Who knows?
At 10.30pm i board the coach. It sets off crossing the Bay Bridge from San Francisco to Emeryville station where the train coming from Los Angeles and heading up to Seattle will stop. This is going to be a long ole journey.
I board the train at 11.20pm. It is not due into Portland until 6pm the next day!! That's a journey of over 18 hours.
We move out into the darkness. Fortunately there is lots of legroom on these double Decker Amtrak rail carriages. It is a light night. The moon is out. I can just make out the shoreline of the San Francisco Bay. We move past suburban houses and alongside moonlit flat fields. The train then passes industrial works with towers that illuminate the night sky like a Christmas tree. Flashing iridescent greens yellows and reds. The smell of rotten eggs accompanies this man made spectacle. We arrive at a sizeable town called Sacramento and soon after I fall asleep.
Saturday 28th April
I wake at 5am to see a totally different landscape. The train is in 'Big Foot Country'. We are in the mountains of Northern California. Lots and lots of coniferous pine trees all around. A river runs below to my right. The train is moving painfully slowly. I ask a chap from Portland who i meet on the viewing car what the river is called as I haven't a detailed map on me. He tells me it's probably the headwaters of The Sacramento River. Whichever river it is it's good to look at. It's flowing fast. Occasionally we get a break in the pine forest and get wider vistas of more distant mountains. The early sun creates a line of shadow on pine-clad east facing slopes. The west facing slopes are still not lit up, mile upon mile upon mile of pine forest. Wouldn't fancy getting lost in the woods here.
It is roughly 6am. I have moved from my seat in the very last carriage to the viewing car 3 carriages further up train. It's well worth doing this as you get great 360-degree views and the seats face out towards the window. I'm keen to know where the next station is. I ask a friendly grey haired be speckled chap from Portland if we are still in California or whether we've passed into Oregon. He tells me we are an hour from the Oregon border.
At times the train is only a matter of yards from the flowing waters of the upland river. We pass the odd fisherman out to catch an early trout for breakfast.
Still the train climbs, painfully slowly. What hinders progress even more is when it has to wait for a freight train to pass (freight is given priority over passenger trains).
Suddenly the 14,000ft snow capped volcanic peak of Mount Shasta rises majestically above the surrounding pine forest hills. There appears to be fresh deep snow on its flanks. The morning light gives the whole surrounding area a real vibrant clarity. Clear blue skies, white snows and green forests always a good combination.
Mount Shasta, 14,179-foot (4,322 m), is the second-highest volcanic peak in the Cascade Range and the fifth highest peak in California. It is a member in the Cascade Volcanic Arc and is located in Siskiyou County, and has an estimated volume of 108 cubic miles (450 km³), making it the most voluminous stratovolcano of the Cascades. Physically unconnected to any nearby mountain, and rising abruptly from miles of level ground which encircle it, Mount Shasta stands some 10,000 feet (3,000 m) above the surrounding area.
Apparantly Shasta was memorably described by the poet Joaquin Miller as: "Lonely as God, and white as a winter moon, Mount Shasta starts up sudden and solitary from the heart of the great black forests of Northern California." (Wicyclopedia)
We arrive at Klamath Falls on the California/Oregon border 2 and a half hours late at 10.30am. We're late due to the train going slowly and waiting for freight. Having spoken to some passengers who use Amtrak regularly it is common to be 1 - 2 hours behind schedule (bit different from Japan or France where lateness is measured in seconds not hours).
At Klamath Falls the passengers get off the train and stretch their legs. Many are having a ciggy. I run down to the luggage carriage at the front of the train to tell the baggage handler. I'll be getting off at Portland and not Seattle.
After 20 minutes the train pulls out of Klamath Falls. The next few hours see us travel through wide-open flat valleys before climbing once again up above the snow line. Indeed the train climbs so high at one point that on a rickety bridge over a spectacularly wide deep and rocky valley, i feel like we are suspended in mid air.
Later in the day as we approach Portland i notice that there are some decaying industrial works that appear to be pumping out all sorts of shit into the Willamette River. I might be mistaken but it doesn't look too healthy.
At Portland Railway Station I contemplate getting a taxi to a hostel 3km out of town that i had first read about in my Rough Guide Book to the USA. However I am told by a chap at the station's information desk that there is a hostel just up the road on Glisan Avenue.
I wander out of the station but immediately feel uneasy. Can't put my finger on why. It's Saturday evening. There's plenty of daylight. The streets are quiet. Perhaps that's the reason for my unease, as it appears the only people about look dishevelled and homeless. I start to walk down Glisan Avenue. There are a few youngsters playing French Bowls in a nearby square. Somewhat reassured my unease returns when a thin bedraggled looking figure with long greasy dark hair and a beard shouts out to me from the other side of the road, "Hey man, do you want a spliff?" He appears quite genuine in his offering as he is holding out a rolled up joint. Fortunately he doesn't bother me by crossing over the street. I feel edgy and a trifle exposed with my backpack, straw hat and guitar. I decide to return to the station and get a taxi 3km over the Willamette River to a better hostel in the more congenial neighbourhood of Hawthorne..
The taxi ride starts off sedately enough. Mike, an African chap, is driving. We go through the centre of Portland. The main street is lined with cafes and restaurants and bookshops. There are people dressed up enjoying drinks in the crowded bars. Portland has a parochial small town feel with only a few high-rises. It feels to be a similar size to somewhere like Halifax in West Yorkshire. We drive over the Willamette River to the Hawthorne district of the city. Mike drops me off across the road from the Hi-Portland Hawthorne hostel. "Now, you ring me if you want some fun tonight. I'll give you my card. You ring me". Mike sounds adamant that i should ring him. He goes on, "I will expect a call from you"
I don't ring Mike. Instead i check into the cheery Victorian eco-friendly (it has a roof lined with mosses and plants that helps retain rain water) house/hostel and get my head down after starting on a bottle of wine.
Sunday 29th April
I decide Portland is not for me, and not relishing the prospect of adding yet more hours to the train journey by continuing up to Seattle i decide to head back south. I catch the midday train with thoughts of my finances getting steadily lower and with questionable prospects of improving them anywhere in the USA. I begin to feel that an early return to Blighty might not be such a bad idea.
As day turns to night on the train i feel more relaxed and in the viewing car - this time travelling south - i get chatting to a couple from New Jersey. Beverley is a professional singer and multi-instrumentalist. Alan, Beverley's husband is managing director of an art gallery. We get singing. I have the Baby guitar to hand. I think of stuff we can do together. Gershwin's 'Summertime' proves to be a good one as Beverley is keen on jazz.
I quickly realise that she has a beautiful voice and can harmonise in an instant. It's clear she has been performing for a long time. She tells me she even performs at funerals.
We are singing when the train slowly grinds to a halt after an urgent voice on the train's intercom system asks.
"Do we have a nurse or a doctor on the train?".
We both stop singing. Something serious must be going on.
An elderly chap has had a fatal heart attack. For the next two hours the train is stationary in the darkness. In a while a priest comes on board and administers the last rights. A flashing ambulance waits outside.
In the dimly lit carriage where the death has occurred the priest shines his little torch on passages from the bible and reads aloud. He has a slow and deliberate delivery.
A wave of emotion seems to flow through the train, perhaps compounded by the tiredness of passengers faced with the long journey. In a surreal way the death acts as a uniting force. People begin to open up and talk freely on the issue of mortality and the meaning of such events. In the viewing car Beverley starts singing 'Amazing Grace'. Her voice has a purity that ascends into heavenly realms.
Let's hope the old man suffered no real pain.
Monday 30th April
Wake up at approx. 6 am with the train moving through flat Californian vineyards and the sun rising over the fields. Next stop is a town called Chico. I get chatting with a young couple from Cornwall who have just come down from Canada. Also get chatting to Alvin, a lad who has just been cycling along the Oregon coast. On the train the mood of the passengers is still reflecting on the events of last night judging by some of the conversations going on. For example down in the buffet car the attendant is talking to a couple that witnessed the death, philosophising that everything happens for a reason.
Alvin, the young Cornish couple and myself have a good breakfast in the restaurant car. Tomato Omelette and hash brown, plied with plenty of coffee and orange juice. I get talking to Alvin about his music. He plays violin and is in a string quartet. He lives just outside San Francisco. He is fan of some of the English composers such as Vaughn Williams and Elgar. I ask him if he ever plays a Vaughn Williams violin piece called 'The Lark Ascending'. He tells me that he does occasionally.
The conversation shifts onto busking. Alvin tells me of a famous contemporary violin player who regularly packs out the concert halls in the US. Apparently this violin player went busking recently in one of the US cities and made $25 in an hour, $20 of which was from a cd sale from a punter who recognised him. Perhaps this is an indication of just how fickle the music biz is and points to an over reliance of concert halls on hype and promotion to get bums on seats.
The young Cornish couple talk of their travels in New Zealand, Canada and India. It's good to talk to them about places like Wanaka, Dunedin and Milford Sound on New Zealand's south island. They are flying home from LA in a couple of day's time.
On arriving back in San Francisco Amtrak rail centre I ring Virgin Airlines to check if I can change my flight to today. Incredibly short notice I know. I'm very surprised when the friendly Virgin girl employee tells me there is a seat available on the plane. I catch the Bart to San Francisco Airport for the flight home to London, the plane flies out at 4.30pm.
In all honesty when I get on the plane I feel relieved that I'm heading home. The 747 takes off on time. It heads over the Pacific initially then banks east. We get great views of San Francisco Bay bathed in late afternoon sunshine. The green hills of the Coast Ranges give way to the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada before changing to the drier desert hills and plains of Nevada. From there the window blinds go down and we fly into the night, heading northeast. I look at the states we will be flying over on the in flight entertainment screen in front of me. Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Nebraska, Iowa, then further north east over the Great Lakes, Quebec and on over Newfoundland, and finally, The Atlantic!!
Tuesday May 1st
As daylight slowly returns i head to the back of the plane and lift the window blind. Below are the immense (and receding) glaciers of Greenland. Some of the vertical black cliffs that rise from the trackless white expanse appear massive even from this height. What a privilege to look down on such a vast icy wilderness.
Later in the morning we reach the West Coast of Ireland. A rugged rocky coastline surrounded by blue Atlantic seas. Interspersed are sandy beaches. Inland is a patchwork of emerald green fields bordered by dry stonewalls. I've never flown over Ireland or The Atlantic for that matter so I get quite excited viewing all this.
I recognise Lough Neagh and what must be Belfast. I can see north to the extended arm of The Rinns Of Galloway and Stranraer. Then the Irish Sea gives way to more rugged cliffs and the green hills and moors of The Isle Of Man. This is great. Heading home on a clear spring morning. It feels good. From the right of the plane the west coast of Wales can be seen stretching away to the south and to the left is the Wirral estuary.
Fields of rapeseed, very yellow go well with the green as we approach Reading and descend into Heathrow.
I catch a coach from the airport to Reading, then a train from Reading to Birmingham New St. From Birmingham New St i head to Oxenholme, Lake District.
I feel lucky to travel through England in spring. The ickle lambs (some of them not so ickle anymore, obviously popping out much earlier in the spring or even earlier in winter), the bluebells, the blossom.
It's weird how my perspective has changed slightly. Everything about Blighty appears to have reduced in scale. For example The narrow country lanes appear even narrower. The higlety piglety cramped design of Reading station feels not much more than head height. I know this perspective of mine will disappear in a few days, but it ain't half weird when you've been away for four months.
Was i viewing good ole' Blighty with rose tinted glasses while i was away? Possibly. The proof of the pudding will be in a few days time when the cold rain and grey skies return.
At least when I ask the Baby Taylor what she thinks she tells me it's good to be home.
That's all folks. xx
