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PART FIVE: A TOSSPOT IN AMERICA AND CANADA
By Keith Skellern
Some of the readers of this continuing saga could possibly be
Americans and will no doubt have given up, after reading the first few
paragraphs of the first episode of ‘Tosspot’ which was basically about
growing up in the United Kingdom. Everybody likes to read an
outsider’s opinion of their own neck of the woods, so this is an
attempt to get Americans to read an unbiased account of my travels in
the States.
For any Americans reading this, it should be borne in mind that I
travelled around the ‘Land of the Brave and the Free’ in 1978 and I
know that things have changed in the ensuing thirty years. It is not
for me to say whether the changes have been for the better or worse, I
am sure that you already have an opinion on that.
MY FIRST ENCOUNTERS WITH AMERICAN CULTURE
Nearly every kid has been exposed to American TV in the Western World
since WWII i.e. Popeye, The Roadrunner, Bugs Bunny and the Sitcoms.
Which incidentally, didn’t arrive in the Skellern household until
about 1957 and even then, the shows were predominantly British.
There were also of course the films at the local Cinema, which were a
bit of a mixture of Brit and Yank, but I have never been a
particularly avid TV viewer or Cinema fan.
I use the term ‘Yank’ for Americans, in the same way as the Americans
use ‘Limey’ or ‘Brits’ for the British, it is not meant as a
derogatory term and should not be taken as a double insult by any
Confederates out there.
MY FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH LIVING AMERICANS
There were no Americans in the town where I was raised and none at the
University in Cardiff. I can’t recall meeting any in my travels in
Southern Africa, or in my first six months in Western Australia. To
cut a long story shortish (If you want to read the rest of it, you
will have to read ‘A Tosspot in Australia’ Cunning eh?). I was
travelling around Australia, with a South African surfing
acquaintance, from Port Hedland in the North West of WA, all the way
round the coast to Cairns in the North East of Queensland.
We arrived in a place called Margaret River, in the south west of WA,
which I was assured was a world famous, surfing beach. My mate, Creasy
went out to do his thing on his surfboard and having all the surfing
ability of a badger on a balance beam, I went down to the beach for a
spot of sunbathing with a good book.
After a short period of time and with my skin turning lobster
(crayfish) red in the tradition of all true Poms (Australian for
Limeys) I decided to retire to the closest hostelry for a bevy (beer)
or six. After a couple of hours of convivial conversation with the
barman on my part, not an unusual occurrence, I might add. Creasy
returned in the company of four Yank surfers.
These guys were a motley crew (not Crue), Marty was from LA, as was
Tom C: Tom S. was from Cleveland and Monty was from Washington State
or Oregon or maybe even Montana, somewhere mountainous and rustic.
All four of them were teachers, who had been employed by the Victorian
State Government along with a lot of other young Americans on a two
year contract, working tax-free in Aussie schools. There must have
been a dire shortage of local teachers at the time, and it must have
seemed like a gift from the gods to be able to travel free to Aus and
then work tax-free. Some of them, perhaps, thought they were going to
Austria and may have been surprised to land in the Antipodes instead
of Europe.
Anyway, suffice it to say that I ended up having more Yank friends in
Melbourne than Aussies. By the time they left, most of them that is.
Some stayed behind and married Australians and others took their
partners back to the US of A and married them over there. Whatever! I
had an open invitation to go over to the States to visit them.
I applied for a tourist visa some time later and after having filled
out a document about the thickness of ‘War and Peace’, stating that I
was not a communist, was a good ‘God Fearing’ citizen and had never
robbed any banks or mugged defenceless little old ladies. I lodged it
with the American Embassy and promptly forgot about it.
Quite a long time later (a fair few months, at least, if not a year) I
received a letter saying that I had been accepted. Co-incidentally I
was having a bit of turmoil in my job and decided that then was as
good a time as any, to visit my Yankee mates.
I packed all my worldly possessions into a metal trunk. I had never
been in the habit of accruing material things and have always believed
that you only really need 1 spoon, knife, fork, bowl, plate, mug and a
couple of pans for your comestibles and a radio for entertainment. You
can get by with a sleeping bag, but it tends to get a bit smelly after
a few months, so sheets and a couple of blankets can be considered a
necessity rather than a luxury.
I packed my backpack with the essentials, socks, jocks, T-shirts,
jeans and a toothbrush. I also added a decent pair of strides (slacks)
along with a business shirt and tie (on the off chance that I could be
invited to the White House) and set off for the airport.
My plans, as vague as they were, were to visit Marty and Tom C in LA
and then to travel up to Montana to meet Pete and Jan. Then go into
Western Canada before meeting up with Tom S in Cleveland, from there,
I intended to go to New England down to NY, Washington, New Orleans
and back to LA. My ticket was around the world via Auckland, LA, NY,
London and back to Melbourne.
I don’t really know why we were flying via Auckland, New Zealand and I
can’t remember which Airline it was with, but I ended up next to a
rather large Kiwi guy who worked for Air New Zealand and had scored a
free flight to the States. He was a good sort of a bloke and we both
enjoyed the flight, lubricated with a fair few beers and other
assorted beverages.
ARRIVAL IN AMERICA
CALIFORNIA
When we arrived at LA Airport, we had no problems with immigration,
although the guy on the desk asked me how long I intended to stay and
I foolishly said “Seven or eight months”, so he stamped my passport
with a six month visa. No matter, I was in America.
After clearing customs my new found Kiwi (New Zealand) friend and I
adjourned to the airport café for a coffee and a bite to eat. We were
just sitting there slightly jet-lagged, when this middle aged lady
rolled up to take our orders. When I say ‘rolled up’ this is not
poetic license; she was actually wearing red roller skates and a red
mini-skirt.
We both ordered coffee and not feeling particularly hungry ordered a
fried egg sandwich. This caused a barrage of questions, Sunny side up?
Over easy? Easy over? Whatever! And the main question ‘Supersalad’? We
both looked at her and said ‘What?’ She repeated the question and my
Kiwi mate realised that she was asking if we wanted to partake of soup
or have a salad with our sandwich.
Not feeling like either of these alternatives, I said ‘neither,
thank you’, the waitress almost fell off her roller skates at this
effrontery and said ‘You have to!’ So, I settled for soup and although
I didn’t eat it she was satisfied and so was I, until she brought the
coffee.
I have no wish to offend you coffee drinkers in the US, but the
coffee they serve up in restaurants and diners is abysmal, it’s like
tepid mud. The tea is marginally worse if that’s possible. They also
have a habit of refilling your mug as soon as you take a sip. The only
answer to this is not to sip and order a beer instead, unfortunately
your beer never gets topped up. This scenario happened everywhere I
went in the States, so you can’t blame the Airport for that.
My Kiwi mate tried to get a cheap hotel to stay in for the
night, but for some reason everywhere was full. For once in my
miserable life, I had used a bit of foresight, probably at the
insistence of my travel agent in Aus, and had booked into a hotel in
downtown LA for two nights. I told the Kiwi that he was welcome to
sleep on my floor and because he was a sort of rep for NZ Airlines (I
think), the hotel was happy to make up a bed for him in the same room.
The next day we decided to visit Disneyland and caught a bus to the
‘Magic Kingdom’ and yet again I am going to offend a lot of Americans
(believe me this will not carry on, I like Americans, I really do).
However, I have to say that I had never seen so many, overweight,
garishly dressed people in my life (mainly in large pairs of shorts
and Hawaiian style shirts and that was just the kids).
We paid our money and went in, the Disney people are awfully cunning
and hide the lengths of the queues for the rides, you think that you
are in a queue of about 20 people. When you get inside you find that
there are actually 2,341 people in front of you. After going to the
Pirates and the Jungle and a couple of others, we ended up at the
‘Land of the Little People’.
I can’t remember the name of the jingle now and if I ever hear it, it
will probably give me nightmares. I do remember coming into the light
of day at the end of the ride and having a hundred or so people
looking down at us, a giant Kiwi, and me sitting in a dinky little,
pink boat with the jingle floating in the air.
After that we decided that we had overdosed on enjoyment and went to
look for some refreshment, this being the Magic Kingdom there was no
alcohol available. The closest we could find was a mint julep, so we
decided to depart and seek refreshment elsewhere. We found a bar
somewhere and then went our separate ways, being somewhat wiser about
attending theme parks over the age of fourteen.
On returning to the hotel I phoned up Marty and arranged to meet him
the next day at Manhattan Beach, the following day. I then went out to
get something to eat and drink, where I learned another lesson, nobody
walks in LA, the pavements are more dangerous than trekking in Nepal
and you are considered to be some sort of imbecile by the local
populace.
I noticed that there were an inordinate number of Mexican restaurants,
so I picked one at random and feasted on nachos and enchiladas for the
first time, washed down by copious quantities of amber fluid. The
locals thought I was relatively normal with a quaint accent (Not for
the last time).
The next day I arrived on the beach and a few minutes later Marty and
his future wife arrived. Marty carrying one of the most beautiful
sights in the world, a large steel can of icy cold, frosty Fosters
Lager. I could have kissed him and probably did.
I was particularly impressed with the inhabitants of the beach; they
all seemed to be ‘Beautiful People’. Gliding along on skates,
skateboards, bikes and jogging along the sidewalk. The ones actually
on the beach were suntanned and scantily clad, playing volleyball,
surfing, swimming or just plain sun bathing. A major change from
Disneyland. (I told you I’m not hyper critical of America).
By this time, Marty was running a successful framing (carpentry in
Aus) business and he and his lovely partner fitted in superbly. I only
stayed with them for a couple of days, at their house, which was
fairly close to the beach. Almost walking distance in fact, but nobody
walks in LA. Because they were both very busy and I didn’t want to
outstay my welcome, I decided to set off for Montana.
Marty drove me to the bus station and I caught a Greyhound Bus to
Missoula via Las Vegas, Salt Lake City and Butte. I cannot recall much
about the actual bus trip, this is par for the course for most bus
travellers, I think.
LAS VEGAS
We got to Vegas and I think that I am one of the very few visitors not
to spend a single, brass razoo (Dime) on gambling. Even at the bus
station there were rows of pokies (poker machines), but I’m a drinker
not a gambler. We had an hour or two to spend (no pun intended) there,
so I walked up and down the Strip and had a quick look in a couple of
places, but that never has been my scene, so that was it, a look or
two.
As for Salt Lake City, it brings back no memories whatsoever, perhaps
we arrived there in the middle of the night and the Mormons had closed
up shop, who knows?
MONTANA
From there we travelled on our inexorable way to Butte. At the bus
station there, I went to the refreshment area and a kid of about five
took one look at me, grabbed his mother’s skirt and said. “Look Ma,
there’s one of them Hobos you was telling us about” Out of the mouths
of babes and innocents eh?
From there I caught a ‘local’ bus to Missoula and was met by my Aussie
mate Pete and his American wife Jan (Who naturally enough, had been a
schoolteacher in Aus). They were staying with Jan’s godfather who
owned a ranch and obviously a ranch house. The place they were staying
in was a ‘Guest House’, which was bigger than your average suburban
home in Aus.
I was invited to stay with them and that night they introduced me to
the owner. A very genial, largish sort of a guy, very Montanan, all
jeans, boots, check shirt and big hat. He owned a haulage business
trucking some sort of ore from one heap to another heap close to a
railhead, for transporting somewhere.
Pete, Jan and I were invited to the main ranch house that night for a
barbecue. I was introduced to his wife and two teenage daughters and a
couple of other people, who were all very friendly and hospitable. We
then had a few beers and mein host started cooking up gigantic T-bone
steaks. When I commented on the size, he told me that they were small.
“In Montana, we catch a steer, knock off it’s horns, wipe it’s arse
(ass), throw it on the fire for three minutes and then serve it up
with two dozen eggs and that’s just breakfast for the kids”.
I suspected that there may have been a bit of hyperbole, in this, but
the steaks were far too big for me. I have noticed that the British in
general are small eaters, the Australians eat a lot more and Americans
surpass them, god knows what they serve up in Texas, I never got down
there. I managed to get through about half of the steak and the mound
of barbecued spuds (potatoes) and with the help of a couple of dogs. I
became their best friend, by surreptitiously slipping them large
pieces of steak; the three of us finished it off.
After the meal we had a few more beers, before retiring for the night
to the guesthouse. Montana even in late May can be a bit on the cool
side, but the bed was well provided with warm blankets and I had a
good night’s sleep. The next day we were invited back to the main
house for breakfast, luckily for me there were no steers or steaks on
the table.
After breakfast, Pete went off to work driving trucks and Jan went off
shopping or something. The two girls asked me if I would like to go
for a horse ride with them. I thought that sounded like a good idea,
so they saddled up a horse for me. It was a large horse and we looked
at each other rather dubiously, but the girls assured me that it was a
very gentle steed.
The two girls jumped onto a couple of smaller horses, without saddles,
if my memory serves me correctly and galloped off. The noble steed and
me set off at a more sedate pace, with said steed stopping at regular
intervals to graze on the pasture.
I decided that it was about time to assert my authority over this
equine hulk and pulled sharply on the reins to interrupt it’s
breakfast and dug my heels sharply into it’s flanks. This surprised it
somewhat and we started moving along at a reasonable pace. We came to
a gulch (luckily dry, are there any others?) and the steed wanted to
go the easy way to the left, but I was determined to maintain my
authority and forced it to the right.
This was an error of judgment on my part and we ended up at the bottom
with a very steep ascent in front of us. My noble, equine friend
turned and gave me a withering look and then bolted up the bank, I
held on for dear life and we both got to the top. After that we came
to a compromise i.e. it would do as it liked and I would sit there
quietly.
A few minutes later the girls came galloping back and reined in to
check on us and then set off back to the ranch house. Upon sensing
that it was on the way back to the stability of it’s stable, my loyal
companion, also started galloping wildly home. Try as I might, I could
not get my arse to go in the same direction as the saddle and at that
precise moment, vowed never to sit astride a horse ever again.
The owner offered me a job on the water truck, which sprayed water on
to the dirt road, to keep down the dust, as the dump trucks drove up
and down. It was my job to hang on to the back, and to control the
flow of water using my feet to open and close a tap (faucet). When the
truck was empty we drove down to a creek (pronounced crick) to fill it
up again. This was not the greatest job I have ever had, but by no
means the worst.
The best part of the day was when all the drivers congregated at a
tavern to discuss who was the gun (most trips) driver of the day. To
me this was incredible, these guys were all getting the same pay, but
were competing on how many trips they could complete, and a puncture
was a major disaster. This could explain why the US has been so
dominant.
The ‘Gun’ driver was usually Pete or one other guy, as a mate of Pete
and a visitor, I never bought a round of drinks (a shout), in the week
or so, I was there. Pete and I would bullshit about Australia, and the
beer just kept on flowing.
After a week, I was starting to feel that I had overstayed my welcome
again and Pete and Jan dropped me off on the outskirts of Missoula. I
didn’t want to travel by bus again and wanted to go back to my old way
of getting around, hitch hiking.
HITCH HIKING
I’ve been doing it since the age of about fourteen, in the early days
I had to walk everywhere and if I heard a car coming up behind me,
more in hope than anything else, I would stick out my thumb. This very
rarely had any result, but it didn’t take any effort to try.
When I went to University, it became a much more serious affair; I had
to get from New Mills (my home) to Cardiff, about 250 miles away,
definitely not walking distance. Back in those days, if you were
wearing a duffel coat and Uni scarf and carrying a sign saying Cardiff
in bold letters. It was fairly easy to get lifts, often with truck
drivers, going long distances and wanting someone to talk to.
Nearly everybody who picked you up was friendly and appreciated a
listener, even more than a talker. I became quite adept at carrying on
conversations with people from all walks of life, or just sitting
there listening to their trials and tribulations, with the occasional
grunt of acknowledgement.
It also paid to know where the hell you were going and choosing the
right place to hop out. A couple of times I got stranded just north of
‘Spaghetti Junction’ (a motorway interchange in the Midlands of the UK
and a hitchers nightmare).
Hitching in Australia is very similar to the UK, however in America if
you’re a white; male with a backpack (even if it is emblazoned with a
foreign flag) it is a bit different. Truckies very rarely stop, single
women almost never (for obvious reasons, would you?) Hispanics and
(How do I say this without causing offence?), Coloured People, also
very rarely even consider stopping.
That leaves single, white men, couples and small families. Even with
this small hitchable base, you can still get around fairly easily,
provided you don’t look too weird. In some States, hitching was/is
illegal and I think you can be picked up for vagrancy, but I never
encountered any problems with the law. With some of my lifts, well! If
you continue reading, that’s another story.
I have to say that the vast majority of my rides were with completely
normal people, but there is no point in telling those stories. So,
what I will be relating are the abnormal ones, some good and some bad.
BACK TO MONTANA
I think I got a lift to Helena but my memories of Missoula, Helena
and Butte are a little confused and I can’t separate one from the
other. I stayed overnight in one of them and no doubt imbibed a few
beers.
From there I got a lift in a four-wheel drive with a genial young guy.
We drove around Yellowstone and I managed to get a photo of Old
Faithful from a distance, but he wasn’t interested in getting any
closer and hitchers can’t be choosers. We travelled on, through the
Grand Teton National Park, over a pass that still had six feet of snow
on either side of the road in early July, possibly thrown up by a
snowplough.
I’m also not real sure where he dropped me off, but it must have been
a small town in Wyoming. Most of the small towns I visited seemed to
me to be very similar, with used car lots, agricultural machinery
stores and the like on the outside, then bars and motels and fast food
outlets closer in and then the town centre. This generally seemed to
consist of a City Hall (with ‘Old Glory’ flying above it) and usually
a park in the middle, with other civic buildings surrounding the park.
I am probably doing a disservice to rural America, but that has been a
lasting impression. I enjoyed the small towns and after checking in to
a motel (the cheaper the better, for my budget). I would go to the
first bar which caught my fancy, usually the least garish and have a
‘few’ beers. I was never really fussed whether it was Budweiser,
Millers, Coors or whatever, a beer is a beer and I never get to
develop a preference.
I liked the barman’s habit of taking your money for the first and
second one and if you gave a tip, the third one was ‘on the house’. I
also found the local drinkers to be a font of information and
generally enjoyed their conversation and I never had any problems in
America, I can’t say the same thing for Canada, but that will come out
later.
I then travelled south through Colorado; getting short to medium
length lifts and mainly staying in small towns, mostly as described
above and nothing untoward happened, worthy of describing.
I did however get one lift, with a middle-aged guy who seemed normal.
As it was getting late in the day, he suggested stopping at his place
for the night, and stopped to buy four T-bone steaks and a case of
beer. Inferring that the steaks were for me, him and his wife and
daughter. I thought that’s cool and agreed with his plan.
When we got to his place, he pulled into a rather ramshackle house,
with rusting car bodies and other garbage in the yard. Odd I thought,
but went in with him; there was no sign of any females anywhere in the
house. He opened up a couple of cans or six and talked for a while and
then produced some gay porno magazines. I told him in no uncertain
terms, that I was a dead-set hetero, but he kept plying me with beers
and asking me to go for a shower.
He was obviously trying to get me drunk, but I could have finished the
whole case and not blinked and there was no way in the world I was
going to set foot in his shower. After a while he asked me if I wanted
to go a local restaurant, to get something to eat, he obviously had no
intentions of cooking the steaks. We went there and I noticed a few of
the other diners looking at me oddly, but that could have been me
getting paranoid.
We left there with another six-pack of beers and he headed off “on a
bit of a sight seeing tour”. We ended up at a rather picturesque,
lakeside/riverside beauty spot, with quite a few guys holding hands.
By this time, I was getting more than a little pissed off and told
him, “that if he didn’t take me back to his place, (my backpack was
still there,) I was going to rip off his family jewels and stick them
down his throat”.
We got back there and I spent the rest of the night watching TV
(eyeing a rifle in his lounge room) and drinking his beer. In the
morning he behaved like a perfect gentleman, (although he did ask me
again if I wanted a shower) and dropped me off out of town, at a
perfect spot for hitching. I put that one down to experience.
From there, I still headed south down through New Mexico again
uneventfully, although I did get offered a job. It was greasing and
looking after those funny little oil drills that look like miniature
dinosaurs. He offered me a great wage, but it was miles away from the
nearest drinking hole, so I politely declined his kind offer and
headed towards Arizona.
ARIZONA
The obvious reason for any tourist to be there would have to be to
visit the Grand Canyon. Being an obvious tourist, that is where I
headed. The Canyon is without a doubt the most awesome, natural
feature that I’ve ever seen, it’s unbelievable. It’s so huge that it
dwarfs any thing else. It’s only possible to comprehend its immensity
in two ways, either flying over it, or descending into the depths on a
mule/ass/donkey.
I couldn’t afford the former, I could possibly have managed the
latter, but travelling alone with a backpack, they wouldn’t allow me
to burden, said mule, with the extra weight. I was reasonably fit in
those days and would have had minimal problems walking down (I
think). However, ascending backpacked, may have presented a few major
problems.
In the end, being a tight-fisted bastard, I decided to walk along the
rim for a while and take a few photos, with my 125 camera. This is the
equivalent of taking a photo of a tsetse fly on an elephant’s bum, not
altogether successful in indicating the size of the pachyderm. But,
being my only alternative and not wishing to pay for the cost of
accomodation, I settled for 22nd best.
That night, I joined a community of like-minded people, playing
guitars and singing. They loved my accent and Irish Ballads and we had
a good time, drinking beer and smoking dope, before retiring to our
sleeping bags, on the edge of the Canyon (not literally). All in all,
I was most impressed with the Canyon, a mind-boggling place.
The next morning I set off hitching to LA, after a few minutes I was
picked up by four college girls in a panel van, I’m not sure what
they’re called in the States. They’re a van with two seats in the
front and a closed in back, often used by tradesmen. In Australia
they’re also called ‘Passion Wagons’, because you can also throw a
mattress in the back.
This is what the girls had done and I jumped in the back with two of
them. If you think this is going to turn out to be a tale of lust and
debauchery, you’re going to be very disappointed. I made myself
comfortable in the back and started talking to them, they all seemed
to be very personable and we were getting along nicely.
I then asked them where they were heading for and one of them said
Vegas and asked me where I was going, when I replied LA, we realised
that we were going in opposite directions. They didn’t believe me
until we reached the entrance to the park, where we asked a ranger. He
confirmed that we were indeed travelling towards LA.
This was where total stupidity kicked in on my part; there was
absolutely no reason for me to go to LA right then. I could just as
easily have gone with them to Vegas, to see what transpired and then
gone from there to LA. But no I got out and they turned around and
drove off.
As soon as I got out of the van, I realised that I had just let a
seminal moment in my life slip through my fingers. I ran after them
before they disappeared, waving, shouting, pleading and cursing, but
it was too late. I babbled incoherently for a while and kicked a few
uncaring trees, before getting down to the serious business of getting
to LA.
I had an uneventful trip to LA, just got lifts with normal people and
having studied the maps later, I found that going via Vegas is
probably a very similar distance anyway. Ah well! You lose some and
you lose some more.
RETURN TO CALIFORNIA
When I got to LA I stayed with Tom C’s family, all very Californian
people, suntanned, blonde, and athletic, with all the brothers heavily
into beer and dope. On my second day there, the brothers and me went
to the Dodger’s Stadium for a baseball match.
Before we left we had more than a few beers and a joint or two. I’ve
never been a real fan of dope; I don’t know how to control it, so I
was very stoned when we got there. It may have been my imagination,
but I had never seen such a steep stadium, I was scared crapless to
move out of my seat, in case I fell down and landed on the pitch,
field, diamond or whatever it’s called.
My knowledge of Baseball is, I have to admit, absolutely abysmal and I
wouldn’t know a pitcher from a catcher, if one or both came up and bit
me on the bum. Also the score was 0:0, 0:0, 0:1, 1:0, 2:1 (that must
have been exciting) etc. I came away and made the decision that I
would stick to Cricket and Soccer in future.
I know a Cricket test match lasts from 10:30am until 5:30pm and can
last for five days and still end up in a draw, but at least you’re not
in any danger of falling hundreds of metres and losing your life. You
are also far more likely to be quaffing pints of cider/beer than
smoking joints.These are of course minor quibbles and overall I
enjoyed my stay in Los Angeles.
VENTURA
I was dropped off by one of the brothers to the north of LA and got a
couple of lifts to Ventura where I was met by Tom C, who take me to
the place he was sharing a mobile home with his Aussie wife. These are
semi-permanent establishments that have probably never been mobile
since they were deposited there.
This one was a large two bed-roomed place with all mod-cons and more
like a smallish home than a caravan (trailer) in the Australian sense
of the word, which is towed behind your car to exotic destinations in
Aus and then parked for a couple of weeks.
I stayed there for a week or so and I think I was a bad influence on
Tom, by encouraging him to imbibe a fair bit more than his wife was
happy with. We had a few home-cooked meals, Aussie style and went out
to a local Mexican Restaurant a couple of times.
I think she was also feeling very homesick for Aus. as she was from a
very close knit family. Once again, I thought I should not overstay my
welcome and set off north.
As a bit of a postscript, Tom and his wife returned to Aus. fairly
shortly afterwards and although I’ve lost contact with them. I believe
that they are now living happily, somewhere south of Melbourne, with a
fairly large extended family.
SAN LUIS OBISPO
Any student of America is probably wondering why should San Luis
Obispo rate a mention? I did warn you that this is a very personal
account and although it is not particularly well known to most
travellers, I know it rather well.
The reason for this, is that I was dropped off just south of there and
spent over four hours trying to get a lift. It wasn’t a particularly
bad place to hitch from, but nobody seemed to have the slightest
inclination to stop. I did notice one car who slowed down, but was
going in the opposite direction.
After that time, I was starting to get a bit desperate and then the
same car, going in my direction this time, stopped and offered me a
lift. He was a Mexican Gentleman and explained to me on the way to San
Luis Obispo, that four hitch-hikers had been murdered around there in
the last year, which could explain why nobody was too happy to pick
anyone up.
It turned out that my good Samaritan was the owner of the Greyhound
Bus Depot in San Luis Obispo. It would be uncharitable of me to
suggest that he had ulterior motives for giving me a lift and I was
extremely grateful.
Not only did he introduce me to his lovely wife and daughters, but he
also gave me a meal (for a price) and a discounted ticket to San
Francisco. So if he or any of his kith and kin should ever venture
down to Melbourne, Aus. I will be happy to return his hospitality.
SAN FRANCISCO
I arrived in SF and was immediately captivated by the place, it is
definitely one of my favourite cities in North America, the others
being, in no particular order, Seattle, Vancouver and Boston. All of
them are pedestrian friendly, as well as being people friendly. This
also applies to a lot of other towns of course, but I’m talking about
cities here.
I arrived at the bus station after another uninteresting bus trip and
set out for the highly recommended YMCA. At that time, I was 29 years
old, which is hardly young and an atheist, but at least I was male and
as someone once didn’t sing “One out of three ain’t bad”. This place
wasn’t bad, it was cheap and clean and full of healthy looking males
who appeared to be young and presumably Christian. Not my ideal
ambience, but I’m tolerant and so were they.
I met up with a Kiwi bloke who sort of recognised the flag on my
backpack, he thought it was a New Zealand flag, which is very similar
to the Aus flag, but I won’t go into that. I also met Yanks who asked
me if the flag was Canadian, which is a little more inexcusable.
Anyway, me and the Kiwi teamed up for a couple of days and did the
usual touristy things in SF, visiting Fisherman’s Wharf, where we were
accosted by some sort of religious sect dressed in Eighteenth Century
Costumes (strange that). Eating the seafood, which wasn’t at all
strange and was excellent.
We also caught a few street cars which was neat, Melbourne has lots of
trams but is somewhat deficient in the way of hills, being as flat as
the proverbial pancake. We were going to take a ferry to Alcatraz but
for some reason that I can’t recall, we missed it and had to be
content with taking photos of the ferry from behind a barbed wire
fence.
Speaking of photos, in the four/five days I was in SF, I never
actually saw the Golden Gate Bridge, as it was always shrouded in
cloud. I had to settle for the next best thing and ended up taking a
photo of the cloud, if you use a bit of imagination you can sort of
see a bridge somewhere in there.
We also did the other obvious things, you can’t go to SF without
visiting Chinatown, which we did and enjoyed the food. We also visited
a few bars, but I think I was there a few years too late to join in
the ‘Flower Power’, ‘Free Love’ scene which was a pity.
I left SF a little regretfully, I would have liked to stay longer, but
I still had a lot of places I wanted to visit. My first lift after
leaving was with a young newly married couple (I think), we got on
fantastically. They were both mad keen ‘Monty Python’ fans and we
enjoyed a couple of hours of quoting different sketches.
They were on their way for a holiday (honeymoon?) to Lake Tahoe and
invited me along to join them, I politely declined. I didn’t think
that it was very appropriate and they were far too nice for me to
intrude on their holiday. I think they must have dropped me off before
Sacramento and I continued north.
My memory must be failing now, because I could swear that I travelled
up the coast road from there, which is impossible, I must have joined
that further north at Brookings perhaps. Somewhere between Sacramento
and the coast road, I got the ‘Ride from Hell’, again it was a young
couple.This time though, they picked me up and offered me a beer, ‘You
beauty’ I thought. Then the beers started flowing more freely and a
bong was being passed with even more frequency.
Being one of the world’s most laid back passengers, I could have
handled this, but then the driver started taking his hands off the
wheel and passionately embracing his partner. The car was swerving all
over the road and my sphincter was clenching so hard, it was making my
eyes water. Eventually, after what seemed a lifetime, but was probably
a bit over an hour, we had to stop at a service station to get petrol.
I took the opportunity to grab my backpack and thanking them
profusely, beat a hasty retreat.
After having a typical hearty American lunch, with an untouched soup,
no salad and a beer, no coffee. My heart rate returned to normal and
my sphincter unclenched and I sallied forth to travel onwards. My next
lift was with a normal young guy, no beer or dope which came as a
welcome relief, who pointed out some of the highlights of the ride,
including the sequoia.
I don’t really remember much of the journey, some spectacular
coastline and forests, but not being a photographer back then, I have
nothing to jog my memory. He didn’t take me all the way to Seattle, so
I must have stayed in a few small towns and got a number of uneventful
lifts, which was probably lucky.
SEATTLE
I did have a couple of friends in Seattle, but unfortunately I didn’t
have a contact number, so I couldn’t get in touch with them. I don’t
have any really outstanding memories of my time there, but I did come
away with the impression that it’s a really lovely, friendly place and
I should have spent a lot longer there.
I’ve just been onto the net to see if it reminded me of anything, but
it didn’t. I think perhaps it reminded me in a lot of ways of
Melbourne, it doesn’t have the brashness of some of it’s more famous
sister cities and is a similar size. I also found it ‘pedestrian
friendly’, which is an asset.
From there I hitched across the border into Canada, Vancouver to be
precise, I don’t recall any hassles in going across the border from
either the US side or the Canadian side, my passport and visas were in
order, so it was just a formality
VANCOUVER
I liked Vancouver, it’s without a doubt my favourite city in Canada,
but like Seattle, I can’t really pinpoint why I liked it so much. It
is in a very spectacular location and I remember visiting the park
overlooking the city and the Sound, with the Totem poles. That’s about
it, which doesn’t say much for my memory and as I wasn’t really into
photographs at that stage of my life, I have nothing much to jog it.
One thing I do remember as any Tosspot worth his salt would, was the
peculiar habit of banning drinkers from standing at the bar, you had
to take a table and wait for a waiter to serve you, you put in your
order and he (it seemed to be invariably a male) would bring a beer,
take your money and give you your change out of what looked to me like
an Aussie carpenters’ nail-bag.
This may be a very civilised way of drinking, but it defeats the
object of going into a bar and meeting people. It’s very hard to go up
to a person sitting at a table and saying “Mind if I join you”, as
there’s more than a 50% chance of being told to ‘Piss Off’.
Whereas if you belly up to a bar, you can start talking to the barman
for a start and any half decent barman can hold a conversation with
six different customers at the same time. While the barman is at the
other of the bar, it’s easy to start talking to the people close to
you. Much better for a lone traveller and I hope the Canadian practice
has been abandoned by now.
After leaving Vancouver, I decided to head for Calgary thinking that I
might get there for the last day of The Stampede. I got one reasonable
lift and then I thought that all my Christmasses had come at once. A
beautiful, blonde in a red sports car picked me up, but sorry to
disappoint you, alas and alack I was struck if not dumb at least
temporarily stupid by this vision of loveliness. Instead of impressing
her with my wit and repartee and worldly sophistication, I was reduced
to a mumbling, half-witted dolt.
She then dropped me off at a small hamlet so she could head off north
and I could continue east. In retrospect, I think that my drooling
probably distracted me from appreciating the beauty of the Rockies.
Also the hamlet where she deposited me was just that, it had a motel
with no bar or alcoholic refreshment and when I asked about the
whereabouts of the nearest hostelry, I was informed that it was about
20 miles away. I ended up buying a gallon of apple juice from a nearby
farm and spent the night watching TV in my motel room, not a great way
to spend time under any circumstances.
CALGARY
The next day it took me a fair time to get a lift, as vehicles were
few and far between. I did eventually get a lift as far as Calgary, I
don’t think that there was anywhere else to go, only to find that I
had missed The Stampede by one day. Instead of doing the sensible
thing and booking into a room somewhere, I decided to do a bit of a
bar crawl.
Again, I came up against the strange Canadian habit of having to sit
at a table in order to consume alcohol. I sat alone at various tables
in a few pubs, consuming copious amounts of beer and not indulging in
much in the way of conversation.
I eventually ended up in a bar a few hours later and I sat at a table
with a guy in a wheel-chair. After a while he took exception to
something that I said, along the lines that Canada’s drinking laws
were a pain in the arse but wouldn’t affect him anyway. In Aus. this
would have been taken in the spirit it was meant and we would have
enjoyed a good conversation. This was not to be, he complained to a
bouncer/waiter and I was thrown bodily through the ‘bat-wing’ doors,
span around the hitching rail outside and had my backpack thrown after
me.
I brushed myself down and looked for a room, but by this time it was
getting dark, so I headed for the edge of town and not passing any
promising motels I decided to sleep rough. I climbed through a fence
and unrolled my foam mattress and sleeping bag and using my backpack
as a pillow went to sleep.
The next morning I woke up and found that I had been sleeping under a
sign, I had a look at it and read ‘Do Not Enter, Wild Bears in this
Wood’, luckily I hadn’t met any during the night, perhaps they were
sleeping as well.
By this time I was starting to feel that maybe Canada wasn’t meant for
me, so I headed south for Montana, instead of going east to Regina and
Winnipeg and then south. I knew that I would receive a friendly
welcome in Coal Creek Montana.
BACK IN MONTANA
I stayed with Pete and Jan and their friends at the ranch for a few
days and was treated with what I had now come to consider to be real
Montanan hospitality. I met up with Pete’s co-workers again and
enjoyed a real bar environment, I love those supposed red-necks.
Pete and Jan drove me to a good hitching position on the outskirts of
Missoula and I bade them a fond farewell. I got a good ride to
Billings and booked into a hotel there. That evening, I got talking to
a house-painter in a bar and he told me that there had just been a
tremendous hail storm in Billings, with hail-stones the size of
golf-balls. He told me that if I met him at a certain place at 8:00
the next morning, he could give me a few weeks work painting damaged
roofs. I woke up the next morning at 8:30!
BILLINGS TO MILWAUKEE
I guess that my tardiness paid off, because the next day I got a lift
with a truck driver. Usually, when someone gives you a lift, they say
they’re going to the next town, so if they don’t like you, they can
get rid of you after a short time. I guess this truckie did the same
thing. However, we got along well and he ended up giving me a lift
through half of Montana, all of North Dakota and Minnesota and most of
Wisconsin.
That is a big lift in anybody’s language, it must be around 2,000kms
and took us three days. At nights he would loosen the tarpaulin on his
load and I would sleep up top in my sleeping bag, and he would grab a
kip in the back of his cabin.
I don’t recall what we could have talked about for that length of
time, but I suppose I was better company than his radio (which he used
whenever we passed another truck). He was full of mid-western
bull-shit, telling me on the first night that I slept up top, that he
had lost three hitchers carried away by giant mosquitoes, and I fed
him a load of horse-shit about kangaroos being a traffic hazard in
the middle of Melbourne.
I would say that we spent half the waking time talking and the other
half in companionable silence. When we stopped at truck stops, he
would pick up the tab at one and I would pick it up at the next. He
didn’t mind me picking up a six-pack of beer for myself as long as it
was in moderation and I didn’t want a piss-stop too often. And that is
how I traversed the Mid-West, he dropped me off south of Milwaukee,
where he thought I had a better chance of a lift, so I never did get
to see Laverne and Shirley country.
CHICAGO
After my Truck Driving friend dropped me fairly early in the morning,
I got a lift with a young couple from Chicago. I recall that they were
horrified when I told them that I had been hitching in the west, they
thought I must be insane as all Westerners were red neck lunatics. I
assured them that this was incorrect and that the vast majority of
Westerners are perfectly normal, I think they were unconvinced.
After driving and talking for a couple of hours, they asked me if I’d
like to spend the night at their place and after a few nights of
sleeping on top of a truck, this seemed like a good idea and agreed.
They took me home to one of their parent’s place and I enjoyed a
pleasant evening with the family and a good nights sleep. That was
probably the closest I got to a typical American family lifestyle.
I wouldn’t have minded seeing Downtown Chicago, but the next day they
insisted on driving me to a suitable hitching spot for Cleveland and
as the house was in one of the southern suburbs, it seemed churlish to
refuse. Missing out on the Major US Cities seemed to be becoming a
habit, this didn’t particularly worry me, as I’ve never been a ‘Big
City’ person, I prefer towns any day.
Having said that I can’t recall where I stayed between Chicago and
Cleveland, I must have stopped in a couple of small towns because I
don’t remember any really long lifts and nothing strange, different or
untoward happened to me. Probably just the usual routine of staying at
a motel and checking out a diner and a couple of bars, not necessarily
in that order.
CLEVELAND
I was met in Cleveland, by my old buddy Tom S. we had stayed together
in Melbourne, with me sleeping on a mattress behind his wardrobe and
also travelled through parts of Asia and the UK together. And been
drunk together on a number of memorable occasions, so we had a lot of
reminiscing to catch up on.
Tom was back studying at University and working part time as a barman
at a Rotary Club (or something similar). Tom introduced me to the
Manager late the next morning, he asked if I’d ever worked as a barman
I said no, but I’d had a lot of experience on the other side and I was
a quick learner.
After that, I spent a few hours serving the customers and they loved
it, hearing this strange accent and bullshit artist telling all sorts
of lies about Australia, I became so popular that they were waiting to
talk to me instead of the regular bar staff. “Say something man, I
love that accent”. I thought that I had found my niche in life,
getting paid for talking crap.
It all came to an end when the Manager gave me a bag of money and a
set of car keys and told me to take it to the bank. When I explained
that I couldn’t drive, in fact had never driven in my life, he was
somewhat taken aback and terminated my employment there and then. In
fairness to him, he did reimburse with a case of Budweiser and I
didn’t have a ‘Green Card’ and I’d had a great time serving instead
of consuming.
Sometime over the next few days Tom and I went to a Supermarket, this
was the first one that I had been to in the States. I was gob-smacked,
in the ‘Bread Aisle’ alone there were more different types of bread
than you could point a raggedy dog’s arse at, the same with milk and
everything else, but it was the bread that got to me. How could they
possibly sell all those different types in one day? People don’t buy
two day old bread, what do they do with it?
On my last night in Cleveland, Tom took me to a party at a Sorority
House. These and Fraternity Houses are unique to the American
educational establishment. Nothing like Phi Kappa Beta exists anywhere
else in the civilised world and although I’ve read quite a lot about
America, I’m still not sure what the concept involves. In England and
Wales you have ‘Student Houses’ (Watch ‘The Young Ones’) where you
have a bunch of ratbag students living together, but they don’t call
themselves a mob of Greek Alphabetic Characters, why would they?
Anyway, Tom and I were invited to this sorority house after a night on
the grog at one of the local bars I think. I can’t say that I remember
much about it as I was as pissed as a parrot and woke up the next
morning on the floor in the middle of the lounge, and I can’t recall
any strange incantations from the girls of Mu Lambda Omega being
chanted over my comatose body, but I did have a rare and terrible
hangover.
In this awful state, Tom drove me to a suitable spot for hitching
towards my next destination Niagara Falls, now I don’t blame Tom for
the following events, he probably felt as lousy as I did and we were
in contact until a year or so ago, he can’t be blamed for anything.
After Tom dropped me off, I was picked up shortly afterwards by a
black truck driver, this was fairly unusual as I had never been picked
up by a black person before and apart from my lift across the Mid-West
no truckies. This guy was driving a truck full of tar-macadam
(black-top) for a road works going on somewhere, he was a really nice
bloke and we talked for an hour or so, before he dropped me off.
Unfortunately, he dropped me off at a hitch-hikers nightmare, an
approach road to a motorway (highway) with no local traffic, I stood
there for about 40 minutes and there wasn’t one car passed. Knowing
that it was illegal, I walked down to the main drag and started
hitching there.
I was stuck there for three hours, with no chance of getting a lift,
even if someone wanted to pick me up, they were hundreds of yards past
me, before they could stop. After three hours a car pulled up, the
driver was as evil looking a character as I could imagine in my
hungover state, he was big and tattooed and only had one hand, but
shit, when you’re stuck you can’t be too choosy, so I got in.
He wasn’t very friendly and didn’t say much for an hour or so and then
asked me if I wanted some breakfast, I said yes, thinking that if he
stopped I could grab my backpack and make a run for it. He pulled off
the highway onto a ‘service road’ and drove for what seemed miles, I
was thinking “You’ve blown it this time, say bye bye world”.
We eventually got to a diner and he parked, I got hold of my backpack,
but he said leave it there buddy, I’ll lock the car it won’t get
stolen. Without a great deal of choice, I followed him in, I knew I
still had my passport, traveller’s cheques and ticket in my ‘Shoulder
Holster’ type money belt that I’d bought in LA.
He ordered a huge breakfast, while I had a couple of slices of toast
and a cup of American style sludge coffee. He was a bit worried about
my lack of appetite and forced a couple of pancakes on me. By this
time he was a lot happier, maybe he was feeling as bad as me when he
first picked me up, and after the sugar hit of the syrup I was feeling
a bit better myself.
We got back into his car and the atmosphere was completely different,
he was a Viet Vet who had lost his hand over there and had recognised
the Aussie flag on my backpack, because he had spent time in hospital
there on his way back to the States. In the end we were such good
friends, that he offered to take me home with him and I could shag his
sister, if I wanted. I thanked him for the generosity of him and his
sister, but said that I wanted to go to Niagara Falls, so he turned
right and I turned left.
The next lift I got was with a ‘Struck off Priest’, this whole day was
starting to get surreal, I can’t remember now, whether he was struck
off for sexual indiscretions, or perhaps disagreeing with some Papal
Bull, but I think It was the former. He did thankfully drop me off
somewhere close to the Falls.
NIAGARA FALLS
I didn’t actually find a place to stay near the falls, by this time it
was June/July and the middle of the ‘Honeymoon’ season and my budget
didn’t stretch that far. I got to stand close to the Falls on the
American side and it was awe inspiring. I’d already stood close enough
to ‘The Devil’s Cataract’ at Victoria Falls in Rhodesia to feel the
tug of the current in the water.
This was something else again, maybe it’s been exaggerated in my
memory, but it seemed like a mass of water 15-20ft deep just falling
down vertically over the edge. I would have loved to have gone on ‘The
Maid of the Mist’ but like The Grand Canyon and the mule ride, I
didn’t have anywhere to leave my backpack. I ended up just watching it
awe-struck for about half an hour.
After that I travelled across the border and stayed in a motel
somewhere in Canada, that was a tad more affordable. This should be a
lesson to anybody trying to ‘Do’ America on the cheap, don’t!!
CANADA
I wasn’t ready for hitching again, so I decided to take a Greyhound
Bus to Toronto and after that I stuck to that form of transport for
the rest of my trip. This was a big mistake, maybe I was just unlucky,
but my fellow passengers were very uncommunicative and the Bus
Stations always seem to be in the most depressed parts of cities.
This means that you arrive in a depressed area, look for cheap
accomodation in the same area, which is equally as depressed and you
end up the same way. I was particularly stupid, as I had a ‘Round the
World’ air-ticket and could have flown for nothing to
Toronto/Montreal/Boston/New York and possibly even Washington and New
Orleans, but having a hitchers mind-set and wanting to meet as many
local people as possible, it never even occurred to me at the time.
In Toronto I found accomodation and had a look around, I ended up in a
bar somewhere and don’t really remember have any conversations with
the locals again because of the strange Canadian drinking custom of
sitting at a table rather than the bar. The next day I did a bit of a
touristy thing and went up the ‘Tower’ and saw a few ‘unforgettable’
sights that I’ve forgotten about and went to another bar that night.
MONTREAL
I caught another Greyhound Bus to Montreal, with the usual result, I’m
sure I’m incapable of sitting next to somebody and being unable to
strike up a conversation with someone over a number of hours. I seemed
to be becoming an expert. So I read my ‘Lonely Planet Guide’ about
Montreal.
One of the things I read was that the Quebecois appreciated it if you
tried to converse in French, so I spent the rest of the trip racking
my brain for my schoolboy French. We arrived at the Bus Station in the
usual rundown part of the City and I set off for a recommended B & B
place.
I knocked on the door and was ‘greeted’ by a large lady who said “’allo”.
Thinking to ingratiate myself I replied “Avez vous un chambre pour un
nuit s’il vous plait”. She let out a torrent of French of which I
didn’t understand one bleeding word. So I replied “ Je parle Francais
un petit peur, mais ma Francais et il tres pauvre”. She snarled at me
“Well if you cannot speak French, do not try” in a very Gallic accent.
I did stay there for the one night and she did give me a reasonable
‘continental breakfast’, but this did confirm my Francophobic attitude
to all things French, no matter where in the world they may dwell. I
can’t in all honesty say that I enjoyed my stay in Quebec.
NEW ENGLAND
After arriving back in America, again by Greyhound Bus, the trip
being no more pleasant than any others I had experienced, I stopped in
Portland and it was like a breath of fresh air. I stayed at a place
run by a fairly young widow/divorcee and her and her friend took me to
a local restaurant where I had my first (and last) taste of Clam
Chowder. Everybody I met was so friendly I wish in retrospect that I
had stayed longer, but I had decided to travel on.
BOSTON
This would have to be my favourite city in the US, I loved the
Bostonians, I stumbled across a bar there, that was similar to the bar
in ‘Cheers’. All I had to do was go up to the bar and order a beer and
within minutes I was talking to about six guys, they were intrigued by
the accent.
This may seem a little strange as they are reputed to be very aloof,
but that wasn’t my experience at all, they were advising me about the
best places to stay along the coast and where to get the best food.
All very convivial and it made a great impression on me.
I had spent the day prior to this travelling along ‘The orange brick
road’. I presume every American knows about this, it takes you to all
the famous places in Boston associated with the ‘War of Independence’.
The Boston Tea Party, the meeting house, the place from where Paul
Revere set off etc. This was a bit disconcerting for me, being a
Limey. I’d never considered myself to be an enemy before, unwanted yes
but not an enemy, still it was a very interesting and sobering
journey, which made the bar experience even more pleasant. I stayed
there for a couple of days and enjoyed it immensely.
PROVIDENCE R.I.
After catching yet another Greyhound Bus and arriving in Providence
late at night, I couldn’t be bothered looking for a place to stay and
settled into my sleeping bag in a park there. Sleeping on or under a
park bench with some sort of statue nearby celebrating something or
other. To do with the Pilgrim Fathers I think, but I could be very
easily mistaken.
The next day I woke early, as you do when you’re sleeping rough. I
decided to treat myself to a decent hotel. I walked to ‘The Holiday
Inn’ and tried to book in, but the receptionist took one look at me
and told me there were no vacancies.
As I walked away from the hotel a beautiful girl approached me and
said “Why so sad?” I told her my tale of woe and she said that she was
Jackson Browns’ girlfriend and he was staying there and she was sure
he wouldn’t mind me having a shower there. I was very tempted, but to
be honest I’d never heard of Jackson Brown and I knew how I’d react if
my girlfriend turned up with a scruffy, unshaven git wanting a shower.
So I politely declined and went to look for other accomodation.
I did find a place somewhere in Down Downtown Providence, it turned
out to be what is known in Asia as a ‘Short time’ place. In other
words a ‘Knocking Shop’. I stayed there for one night, alone I
hesitate to add and I would have to say that the park bench was more
comfortable than the mattress. I decided that Providence was a
misnomer and left for New York on a bus the next morning.
NEW YORK
I am sure that New York is a wonderful city, if not the greatest city
in the world. However, by this time I was sick and tired of travelling
by myself, so as soon as I arrived at the Greyhound Bus Station, I
headed for the closest taxi rank to get a cab for the airport.
One other amusing thing happened while I was in NY. At the same place
waiting for a cab was a rather plain looking English girl, a stunning
Scandinavian girl and lastly me. It turned out that we were all going
to the airport.
A Hispanic cabbie pulled up and the English girl was going to get in
the cab, he said that he would take the two girls, for the price of
one. They refused to get in with him, unless he took me as well. He
decided that was fair enough as long as the Scandinavian sat in the
front seat. He took us to the airport and as we were all travelling on
different airlines he dropped the English girl first, me second and
took off with the Scandinavian, she looked like she could handle
herself.
GOODBYE USA
I had covered quite a lot of ground, but I hadn’t really done justice
to either America or Canada. In hindsight I may have been better off
travelling from East to West towards my friends. I should also have
either stuck to hitch hiking or used my plane ticket.
Strangely enough, when I was hitching in the West and told them I was
going to carry on doing it in the East, they said I was mad. When I
was hitching in the East and told them that I had hitched all over the
West, they said I was insane.
Overall! I enjoyed myself in the US of A even if it did end with a
whimper rather than a bang. I recommend it to any young adventurer,
just stay away from the buses.
Keith Skellern
Kskel5@hotmail.com
Reviews and comments requested
Posted 08/02/2008
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