Email from Caro: LA/San Luis Obispo/Catalina

[Fade in: "...LA woman in a Hollywood bungalow..." -The Doors]

So after the madness that was non-smoking San Francisco, where we met Fran and his Travis cohorts and heard dodgy stories from an enthusiastic tour guide in Alcatraz by night, who had very white teeth by torchlight, we skipped town and headed towards warmer climes.

I hear what you're saying -"Warmer climes? It's California, man!" - not so, I had to divest of my superior fashion status and wear my Marks & Spencer fleece (circa winter 2000), which was buried deep in the dark depths of my backpack, at least twice. 

I got caught short one afternoon and even had to buy an emergency fleece in a tourist shop on the pier just as we sailed off to Alcatraz.  Symon managed to peel off a few shots of me looking like a "tourist geek" as he put it. 

It was a particularly stylish number (navy blue with a big "San Fran" logo) costing $15 - a bit of a risky venture I grant you, but we didn't know anyone in San Francisco, it was blowing a gale of about 5000 knots, I was suffering a bad hair day and the other flock of tourists were either hip Mexican guys with white singlets, hairnets and baggy pants or in the 40-70 years age bracket, armed with camcorders, bad perms, sun visors and very white reebok trainers.  Hardly a group to call on the fashion police.

After an uneventful trip via Amtrak (never do this), and being forced to listen to 2 old biddies playing "I've got better grandchildren than you" game, where they debated their children, grandchildren, ex-husbands, insurance policies and real estate, we arrived in a pretty little town called San Luis Obispo...and stayed in the most gloriously hideous Hotel called the Madonna Inn, built as part of a massive cattle ranch. 

It was only fitting that I left my "ugly tourist fleece" in the room when we left.  By accident, of course.  (Symon still thinks it’s in the bottom of my backpack).

We picked the hotel because we'd heard about the vulgarity of the place, having ornately decorated themed rooms: Jungle Room, Cave Room, Blue Room, Tower Room etc. We found ourselves in the "Marguerite" blue room. Who knew so many different floral patterns could be worked in the same room? 

The only other person I know, apart from Symon, who would have deeply appreciated the flowers on the toilet seat and the gilt-edged everything, the fantastically garish bedside lamps, and plastic flowers on chandaliers, is Lisa Brown.  (Deep sigh) We would have cackled with glee over the themed rooms, the plaques dedicated to John Wayne and the sickly pink leather seating in the ballroom, where the night we went to dinner, a saxophonist got down and groovy in a beret, high-necked jumper and sunglasses. I felt like I was in acartoon. 

Old people were ballroom dancing. 

It's amazing how sometimes the poor old things become mobility-challenged and yet as soon as a Glenn Miller medley starts up,  they're gliding across the dancefloor: gliding, gliding, turn, dip, glide. The tango moves unleashed that night could give a person whiplash. However, by the time saxophone guy had moved into his disco and nineties medley, they were getting stuck into the dessert trolley.

We spent the next day just wandering about the town and visiting the old Spanish mission, which I thought was a very tranquil, peaceful place, with the birds and people wandering around the gardens, until my ears met with a screeching followed by some guitar string picking.

Yes, not only was it a small town steeped in Spanish history, it was also a university town, featuring a revolting Joni Mitchell reincarnation in the beer garden, behind an Irish pub. This "poet" looked part of a university scene. I've encountered such types before, when I was at Waikato University and being an impressionable young lass, I thought it was all very cool and deep.  So, too, did these Uni students, who were drinking and clapping.  Or, perhaps it was the revelry of the beers on a sunny day. 

At a glance, I surmised she was going out with her bass guitar guy, who wore horrible short shorts and looked like he was suffering, (and only a man in love would suffer this much).  He occasionally plucked a string for emphasis.  

She had long, graying hair, eighties jeans, birkenstocks, possibly majoring in Feminist Theory or American Literature, and was selling a pile of her own CDs.  She told the seething crowd (or handful of people trying to eat and have a quiet beer on a Sunday) she hated to cover other people's songs and then warbled her own full-length unplugged tunes about society, broken hearts, runaway children, uncaring urbanites etc.  

Bloody tragic.  I love hearing folky stuff, but not at the expense of a perforated eardrum.

So, back to the ranch, curled up in our "blue room", air conditioning full blast and the Howard Stern Show, featuring the "Queen for a day" competition, where people had to tell their awful life stories to win $10K. Another perfect day in a series of perfect days, since we started this trip 7 months before. 

I really love this kind of TV viewing.  Geez, it really appeals to my evil nature.  Obviously, the guy in the wheelchair, with the speech impediment, who had been abused by his alcoholic father and was begging on the street, won.  

Then he got all pissy 'cos the title was "Queen" (Howard reminded him that only women are supposed to enter the competition anyway) and he managed to spew forth a few expletives and a few anti-gay remarks before he was removed from the studio, clutching his money and last heard shrieking, "Yo' Momma!", which, I understand, is really quite insulting.  Hours of enjoying Jerry Springer has taught me that.

Back on the train, traveling at 0.2 miles per hour, we were able to take in the awesome scenery -mountains, desert and gorgeous beaches. California is a really beautiful part of the world.

LA for us, was quite a scary place and so it mainly became a trip to Universal Studios (where I nearly peed myself when the shark from "Jaws" reared up beside me, much to the delight of Symon who had his camera ready).  Three times I managed to get wet on the backlot tour: the display of fake flooding, a display of how they create rain on the set and the Jaws incident.  I got off the trolley, a soggy mess, having another bad hair day and my leather jandals so soaking I squeaked when I walked.  How can a goddess be so blessed? 

And then I got to be Eddie Murphy's "wind" in the "Nutty Professor 2" special effects show, for about 300 people and their children.  And yes, I do mean that kind of wind that is accompanied by a yellow cloud. Symon took photos of that, too.

We decided LA was not that cool and was actually quite a scary place, unless you live in a maximum-security mansion on top the hill, so we made plans to go to Santa Catalina Island. The only things I had heard about the place were: 

a) The Hollywood rich and famous have been partying there sincethe 1920s.
b) Natalie Wood drowned somewhere in the waters around Catalina.
c) It was a port of call on one of my favourite 70s shows: "The Love Boat". Isaac the Barman, Gopher the Purser, Captain Stubbing and Doc. Yay.

And it was beautiful. Population 3,500 plus tourists. This is where I want to retire to - a place where cars are prohibited and golf carts are the transport of choice, a place where yachts are just one of the family, and where the sun shines everyday.  Nice.  We spent all our time wandering around the shops, sitting at cafes, watching the constant activity in and around the water, just drinking in our surroundings and imagining us living here, providing an exotic holiday location for all our friends.

We even played mini-golf (or crazy golf to Brits), where I spectacularly whipped Symon's arse with my technique with a putter. And I hate to say it, I am a bad winner - victory dance accompanied by a victory cheer.  I'm the same when it comes to cards as well.