I'm going to be honest. Going into Texas all I could think of was gun totin' rednecks, steak, patriotism and bigotry. Years of immersion in stereotype riddled media had left me entirely prepared for the worst. As it was, Kip and Otto must have felt this to be the case even more-so, pushing, when we were in Las Vegas, to go north through Colorado than south through Texas en route to New Orleans.
I was unswerving, however, in my desire to go to Austin. I had no particularly good reason for this aside from the good word of B-rad and Cheesedick, but for me this was enough. Given then that I can be rather stubborn, to Austin it was, my faith in my advisors desperate for vindication.
Vindication, o what vindication would soon be had.
To begin, we arrived at 10:30 on a Saturday night and managed to make our way into downtown and 6th street by just after 11. Kings Cross traffic met Newtown sensibilities here as people awash in tattoos, ironic hats and beards traversed all directions. With a range of smoke filled bars, live music in almost every venue, the odd club and pedi-cabs to carry you home, it was an all-in hipster experience. Most pleasingly, however, was that unlike the pretense of Australia's hipster capital, Melbourne, Austin was far more laid back and far less ostentatious. Finally, high quality street dogs and pizza made the 2am Texan curfew much more palatable.
Given that Austin is known for its live music, Sunday saw us scanning The Chronicle, the gig guide to the city. As it was Easter it was a little bit quiet, but after cross-referencing ipods we found some high quality desert style stoner metal in Karma to Burn playing at Emo's that night. In what seemed to be a fairly prototypical Austin music show, the crowd was eclectic and eccentric. The first opener, Fur King (say it out loud) had to repeatedly stop to re-tune their instruments and fix their ancient amp, filling these transitional periods by bantering with the audience with such gems as, "I love boobies. Who doesn't love boobies?"
Honky, the second act, impressed me so much that I sit here writing wearing their band tee. Two guys in cowboy hats and big grey beards and a bear of a man behind the drums, the three piece appeared to be somewhat of a cult favourite and old as the scene itself. Suffice to say that they alone were well worth the price of admission, with the singer dedicating one song to himself and his two favourite things, "fishing and pussy".
For their last song people were jumping on stage to sing lines and they handed their instruments over to the Karma to Burn band members for passages. It was hypnotic. Karma to Burn, meanwhile, while commanding the headline position and a better sound, didn't seem to have quite the same charisma, despite an eccentric homeless looking drummer. Nonetheless, top stuff.
Earlier that day, meanwhile, while asking the hostel staff for vegetarian tips to better feed Otto, it was let slip that there existed a new and very popular barbecue joint in Austin. Hearing this all thoughts of considerate meat consumption were hurled aside in favor of pending plans for hedonistic gorging on animal flesh as Kip and I developed a slightly feverish look of carnivorous anticipation.
Making our first pilgrimage to the hallowed grounds of Franklin's Barbecue on the Monday only to discover it was closed, we unknowingly met the owner who told us to come back the next day before 10. Breakfast barbecue? Why, yes. This, however, is not the barbecue of Australia - that is just grilling here. American barbecue is an art form of smoke, slow cooking, rubs and marinades, and Franklin's Barbecue did it well enough to have a queue form outside an hour before it opened at 11am. At the front of this queue? Kip and Ryan.
As our fellow barbecue enthusiasts lined up behind us, we were introduced to Charles J. Lohrmann, editor of Texas Highways and Wyatt McSpadden, author of Texas BBQ. With one clad all in denim and the other describing his last visit to Franklin's for his book, it seemed we'd found some true Texans.
It was here we learnt the subtleties of Texan barbecue, specializing in beef and not sullied by additional saucing, although Franklin's was open minded regarding this. According to Charles, the brisket we were about to sample had been reviewed as "moist enough to bathe in", and with the promise of meltingly tender ribs and dense, beef-heart filled sausage links, drowning in drool we were finally allowed in to worship this church of beef. An hour later, a bloated, sweating, farting, gasping wreck of a man could be seen on a hostel couch. Meat sweats and shame, however, could not temper the deliciousness of that which I'd experienced.
Charles and Wyatt also informed us of some quality barbecue 30 miles south of Austin, so on the way to Lake Charles and having deceived Otto with the promise of civil war history, we went to Kreuz's barbecue in Lockhart in pursuit of the much vaunted and highly recommended pork chop. Suffice to say, the meat sweats appeared again, but I have no regrets. I did, however, make a point to embark upon a fibre dense diet for the foreseeable future.
While in Austin we also met up with one of Sleepmakeswaves' fan boys. Fan man might be a more appropriate term, however, given that Tom was a 48 year old soon-to-be radio DJ specialising in post-rock and IDM after growing tired of prog rock. After a fine Tex-mex dinner we caught the playoffs over fancy beers at a brew house (there's hope for American beer after all) as music was discussed ad nauseam.
All in all, Austin was not at all what I expect of Texas and every bit as good as I'd hoped. On to Louisiana for crawfish and gumbo, I say.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Pensive (read: pretentious) reflections from the road
There are few experiences as humbling as realising your insignificance. What's more, there's no more frequent emergence of such emotion than when traveling through the wide open spaces of a seemingly endless countryside.
En route to the Vegas via the Grand Canyon was one such experience, with the drive through the desert a mere forbearance to the vastness that is the Canyon. Indeed, once I recovered from being charged $44 to see it, there was a certain tranquility I experienced gazing upon such a tremendous vista - that is, when I could manage to do so around the people posing in a witty variety of stances for their collection of happy snaps.
I am a self-hating tourist, it would seem.
Nonetheless, I could have sat down and stared expansively for hours, mind bereft of distractions or concerns in the comforting awareness of my insignificance. Indeed, this was a feeling I'd become familiar with as we travelled from Indio to Austin, with the sheer space of America something I hope I'll never get used to.
On a less pseudo-philosophical note, on the road to the Grand Canyon we stumbled across the Last Stop gas station-come-restaurant, the subtle delights of which I will not soon forget. Encouraged by the all-American enthusiasm of the hostess, it was here that I supped on the finest burger I've experienced in America. A delight for all the senses and of the style such that one requires a shower post-consumption, I would readily return simply for another delicious mouthful.
From the Canyon we went to Las Vegas - an experience previously detailed - after which we undertook one of the larger driving periods of our trip as we made our way to Austin. First stop was Flagstaff, a rather charming little town an hour or so past the Canyon. Driving here was slightly testy, as Kip had warned me not to can too heavily as I would need to drive the next day. As it was, sunglasses on and passed out in the backseat, I desperately tried to recover from my bacchanalian excesses to avoid furthering the scope and fury of his passive-aggressive wrath.
Arriving late at Flagstaff and all quite wearied after the 300 odd mile drive and Vegas, we sought respite in sleep. Thus it was that Flagstaff, we hardly knew ye.
Next stop was a 400 mile drive to Albuquerque in New Mexico, a city I mostly associated with the brewing of crystal meth thanks to watching too much Breaking Bad. While I failed to see any telltale plumes of green smoke, the sleepy city was pleasant enough. While here, so exhausted by the low quality highway-stop food we'd supped thus far, it was time for some down home style cooking, the excitement of which around the hostel led all its occupants - grandmas and a shaman - to comment on the delightful smells issuing forth from the kitchen.
This was definitely where the party was at.
Judge not too soon was the lesson, however, as Ken the Shaman was quite a pleasant room mate, even if a slightly sozzled Otto mistakenly engaged him in a lengthy conversation regarding his series of youtube videos, which, it turned out mainly consisted of him emerging from hot springs drying his beard. On the plus side, a future collaboration between Sleepmakeswaves and Shamanizing could well be on the cards.
We also met traveling grandma Eileen, who - as far as we could ascertain - has no home and just travels around the US pursuing her children and grandchildren - and also eating the pasta sauce of enterprising travelers. Being engaged by her in conversation proved far more fruitful than anticipated, as our planned route to Odessa was apparently one plagued by fierce winds and wild fires. She also claimed to be able to drive to Austin via "San Anton" in one trip, something which, if grandma could do, so could three (strapping) young lads.
Thus it was that we embarked upon an 850 mile one-day road trip through New Mexico and Texas to Austin, crossing two timezones and driving until the wee-hours of the evening. Rotating through the backseat for restorative naps and with the driver getting to choose the tunes, it was a 7:30am-10:30pm balls-to-the-wall drive come singalong of the most disconcerting variety. This was particularly the case during Kip's periods at the wheel, his eclectic selection on his 'USA cruisin'' playlist an affront to all.
We also met John the McDonalds manager who befriended Otto on Facebook with the anticipation of their becoming "the best of friends" and Otto being his tour guide when he comes to Australia to explore his family history. Sounds like fun.
Of all the characters we met on the road, however, perhaps the most perplexing was my anonymous Mexican friend. Frequently calling my mobile, the novelty of our conversations soon wore off as the endless calls, chiefly substantiated by confused exchanges of "hello?"s, soon, by weight of contact, led to my increasing curtness and lyrical use of Spanish. "No hablo espanol" and "numero wrongo", while grammatically dubious and no doubt mildly racist, seemed to at least slow the tide of calls. Oh well.
On the plus side, by the end of our drive we ended up in Austin in time to experience Saturday night on 6th street, and it was definitely worth it.
En route to the Vegas via the Grand Canyon was one such experience, with the drive through the desert a mere forbearance to the vastness that is the Canyon. Indeed, once I recovered from being charged $44 to see it, there was a certain tranquility I experienced gazing upon such a tremendous vista - that is, when I could manage to do so around the people posing in a witty variety of stances for their collection of happy snaps.
I am a self-hating tourist, it would seem.
Nonetheless, I could have sat down and stared expansively for hours, mind bereft of distractions or concerns in the comforting awareness of my insignificance. Indeed, this was a feeling I'd become familiar with as we travelled from Indio to Austin, with the sheer space of America something I hope I'll never get used to.
On a less pseudo-philosophical note, on the road to the Grand Canyon we stumbled across the Last Stop gas station-come-restaurant, the subtle delights of which I will not soon forget. Encouraged by the all-American enthusiasm of the hostess, it was here that I supped on the finest burger I've experienced in America. A delight for all the senses and of the style such that one requires a shower post-consumption, I would readily return simply for another delicious mouthful.
From the Canyon we went to Las Vegas - an experience previously detailed - after which we undertook one of the larger driving periods of our trip as we made our way to Austin. First stop was Flagstaff, a rather charming little town an hour or so past the Canyon. Driving here was slightly testy, as Kip had warned me not to can too heavily as I would need to drive the next day. As it was, sunglasses on and passed out in the backseat, I desperately tried to recover from my bacchanalian excesses to avoid furthering the scope and fury of his passive-aggressive wrath.
Arriving late at Flagstaff and all quite wearied after the 300 odd mile drive and Vegas, we sought respite in sleep. Thus it was that Flagstaff, we hardly knew ye.
Next stop was a 400 mile drive to Albuquerque in New Mexico, a city I mostly associated with the brewing of crystal meth thanks to watching too much Breaking Bad. While I failed to see any telltale plumes of green smoke, the sleepy city was pleasant enough. While here, so exhausted by the low quality highway-stop food we'd supped thus far, it was time for some down home style cooking, the excitement of which around the hostel led all its occupants - grandmas and a shaman - to comment on the delightful smells issuing forth from the kitchen.
This was definitely where the party was at.
Judge not too soon was the lesson, however, as Ken the Shaman was quite a pleasant room mate, even if a slightly sozzled Otto mistakenly engaged him in a lengthy conversation regarding his series of youtube videos, which, it turned out mainly consisted of him emerging from hot springs drying his beard. On the plus side, a future collaboration between Sleepmakeswaves and Shamanizing could well be on the cards.
We also met traveling grandma Eileen, who - as far as we could ascertain - has no home and just travels around the US pursuing her children and grandchildren - and also eating the pasta sauce of enterprising travelers. Being engaged by her in conversation proved far more fruitful than anticipated, as our planned route to Odessa was apparently one plagued by fierce winds and wild fires. She also claimed to be able to drive to Austin via "San Anton" in one trip, something which, if grandma could do, so could three (strapping) young lads.
Thus it was that we embarked upon an 850 mile one-day road trip through New Mexico and Texas to Austin, crossing two timezones and driving until the wee-hours of the evening. Rotating through the backseat for restorative naps and with the driver getting to choose the tunes, it was a 7:30am-10:30pm balls-to-the-wall drive come singalong of the most disconcerting variety. This was particularly the case during Kip's periods at the wheel, his eclectic selection on his 'USA cruisin'' playlist an affront to all.
We also met John the McDonalds manager who befriended Otto on Facebook with the anticipation of their becoming "the best of friends" and Otto being his tour guide when he comes to Australia to explore his family history. Sounds like fun.
Of all the characters we met on the road, however, perhaps the most perplexing was my anonymous Mexican friend. Frequently calling my mobile, the novelty of our conversations soon wore off as the endless calls, chiefly substantiated by confused exchanges of "hello?"s, soon, by weight of contact, led to my increasing curtness and lyrical use of Spanish. "No hablo espanol" and "numero wrongo", while grammatically dubious and no doubt mildly racist, seemed to at least slow the tide of calls. Oh well.
On the plus side, by the end of our drive we ended up in Austin in time to experience Saturday night on 6th street, and it was definitely worth it.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Las Vegas
Las Vegas is like catnip for bogans. Thus spake Kip, and worryingly, it seemed to be the case. Dumped in the middle of the desert where there should rightly be little more than a few tumbleweeds, Vegas sits like a wart on the sparse and unforgiving landscape.
There seems no better symbol of American excess than building here a place named 'meadows' and subsidising it by draining water from all available sources at a terrifying rate and peddling sleaze, debauch, and endless filth while the sum of these parts is self-destructing at an alarming rate, yet not slowing down or even recognising any problem.
Moreover, this very same grotesque essence has an even more unspeakably vile exterior, plastic imitations of some of the world's most recognizable icons garishly reproduced for entirely pointless consumption, as any history, significance, elegance or cultural import is lost in their tawdry imitation. Baudrillard would have a fit. The Rialto Bridge, Eiffel Tower, Brooklyn Bridge, Trevi Fountain - it goes on. More depressing was not the fact that these paltry imitations existed, but the way in which they were peddled; stereotypes extrapolated out into hideous themes such that each great history was rendered as insipid and institutionalised as a McDonalds playground.
As a story of decay and impending fiscal failure, however, I doubt I'd have noticed the signs; mainly, the stalled construction of several buildings, were it not for our particularly excitable cab driver who gave us a 20 minute history of Vegas, detailing its rise and fall from grace, as well as that of his own; farm owner, neighbour of Mark Twain, gold prospector, real estate magnate - now cab driver, 200k in debt, and hunting down his Czechoslovakian bride from the internet.
Indeed, given the traffic around the place, the constant stream of old people whittling away at their pensions, families sending Dad off to win big while they took in the 'sights', the odd high-roller and a lot of bro-typical gentlemen looking for the infamous good time, I can only imagine quite how vulgar the place must have been in its heyday.
You might have gathered by now, that I was not a huge fan of Vegas. Indeed, simply walking around made me feel dirty. The place was coated in grime and desert dust, bankrupty billboards, and people walking around in parody t-shirts strained around their engorged paunches and just generally consuming at a rate only America could have conceived. Small Mexicans flicking cards and looking like they lost their souls many years ago offered flyers for women who could arrive in 20 minutes and around every corner was another strip club, fast food chain or Casino - not that the strip has any corners.
By far the best part of Vegas was downtown where our hostel was (but still only about 5 minutes from the strip). Downtown was home to some actually quite enjoyable eateries, desert-vibe, and all the pawn stores one could want to get those last few dollars for the ever-imminent win on the slots.
Speaking of which, in the grand tradition of manly-gambling, Otto embarked upon the slots with a humble dollar our first night in Vegas. This dollar soon turned into $40, which was then turned into $80 on the roulette table. Winnings pocketed and Vegas 'beaten', we embarked upon a pawn-store hunt in search of an $80 guitar so he could vent his poet's soul and hopefully win over some comely fellow travelers. While the latter is yet to eventuate, in our search of the perfect guitar we stumbled across the pawn shop from 'Pawn Stars' and I insisted we go in search of Chum-Lee. While we got inside, Chum Lee was not around, nor was there an affordable guitar. Downtrodden but glad to be able to claim to have queued to get into a pawn store - FROM TV (I think this is called living the American dream), we eventually found a guitar and all was well.
One of the stranger pressures of traveling is the urge to properly experience where ever it is that you are visiting. Given my lack of enthusiasm for Vegas, I feared that I would fail to get this experience, turned off as am by the vulgar excesses that seem to inform it. This made me sad.
I need not have feared, however, as hosteling absolution was at hand.
As Kip and Otto chose to catch up on some post-Coachella sleep debt, I opted to can-on with some other hostel mates. We were led by the mysterious Itai, a man who we discovered, after he led us around Vegas not going anywhere in particular for a good couple of hours, was not actually employed by the hostel. Rather, he was a party-enthusiast from Israel who'd been in town for a week. After not being allowed into a place full of high-rolling bogans and prostitutes because we had failed the dress code, we managed to get into a place full of low-rolling bogans and prostitutes. Hmmm.
Realising the doomed quality of our venture, a small splinter group left to enjoy some carousing else where. This was far more successful, with particularly notable our venture into the basement of the MGM casino for some authentic beer pong.
While not quite a Vegas experience, it was still ample fun, but the dream eluded me.
Thankfully there was still time.
Indeed, the Vegas experience finally came to pass the morning after the next day, when with a large and painful bump on my temple, no money in my wallet, no pants on, still drunk and in someone else's room, I awoke full of evils and with no recollection of half the night. I put this mainly down to traveling around in the back of a van with an illegal amount of people, stopping at 7-11 for booze and buying 'Loco', a vast can of 12% poison that tasted like the diabolical spawn of Donaghy Estate champagne and cold medicine. Simply evil.
Fleeting recollections have Otto being re-dressed by a dancing bar maid and Kip falling asleep on a bus until he was at the ass end of no-where in downtown Vegas at 4am in the morning.
Vegas, baby.
There seems no better symbol of American excess than building here a place named 'meadows' and subsidising it by draining water from all available sources at a terrifying rate and peddling sleaze, debauch, and endless filth while the sum of these parts is self-destructing at an alarming rate, yet not slowing down or even recognising any problem.
Moreover, this very same grotesque essence has an even more unspeakably vile exterior, plastic imitations of some of the world's most recognizable icons garishly reproduced for entirely pointless consumption, as any history, significance, elegance or cultural import is lost in their tawdry imitation. Baudrillard would have a fit. The Rialto Bridge, Eiffel Tower, Brooklyn Bridge, Trevi Fountain - it goes on. More depressing was not the fact that these paltry imitations existed, but the way in which they were peddled; stereotypes extrapolated out into hideous themes such that each great history was rendered as insipid and institutionalised as a McDonalds playground.
As a story of decay and impending fiscal failure, however, I doubt I'd have noticed the signs; mainly, the stalled construction of several buildings, were it not for our particularly excitable cab driver who gave us a 20 minute history of Vegas, detailing its rise and fall from grace, as well as that of his own; farm owner, neighbour of Mark Twain, gold prospector, real estate magnate - now cab driver, 200k in debt, and hunting down his Czechoslovakian bride from the internet.
Indeed, given the traffic around the place, the constant stream of old people whittling away at their pensions, families sending Dad off to win big while they took in the 'sights', the odd high-roller and a lot of bro-typical gentlemen looking for the infamous good time, I can only imagine quite how vulgar the place must have been in its heyday.
You might have gathered by now, that I was not a huge fan of Vegas. Indeed, simply walking around made me feel dirty. The place was coated in grime and desert dust, bankrupty billboards, and people walking around in parody t-shirts strained around their engorged paunches and just generally consuming at a rate only America could have conceived. Small Mexicans flicking cards and looking like they lost their souls many years ago offered flyers for women who could arrive in 20 minutes and around every corner was another strip club, fast food chain or Casino - not that the strip has any corners.
By far the best part of Vegas was downtown where our hostel was (but still only about 5 minutes from the strip). Downtown was home to some actually quite enjoyable eateries, desert-vibe, and all the pawn stores one could want to get those last few dollars for the ever-imminent win on the slots.
Speaking of which, in the grand tradition of manly-gambling, Otto embarked upon the slots with a humble dollar our first night in Vegas. This dollar soon turned into $40, which was then turned into $80 on the roulette table. Winnings pocketed and Vegas 'beaten', we embarked upon a pawn-store hunt in search of an $80 guitar so he could vent his poet's soul and hopefully win over some comely fellow travelers. While the latter is yet to eventuate, in our search of the perfect guitar we stumbled across the pawn shop from 'Pawn Stars' and I insisted we go in search of Chum-Lee. While we got inside, Chum Lee was not around, nor was there an affordable guitar. Downtrodden but glad to be able to claim to have queued to get into a pawn store - FROM TV (I think this is called living the American dream), we eventually found a guitar and all was well.
One of the stranger pressures of traveling is the urge to properly experience where ever it is that you are visiting. Given my lack of enthusiasm for Vegas, I feared that I would fail to get this experience, turned off as am by the vulgar excesses that seem to inform it. This made me sad.
I need not have feared, however, as hosteling absolution was at hand.
As Kip and Otto chose to catch up on some post-Coachella sleep debt, I opted to can-on with some other hostel mates. We were led by the mysterious Itai, a man who we discovered, after he led us around Vegas not going anywhere in particular for a good couple of hours, was not actually employed by the hostel. Rather, he was a party-enthusiast from Israel who'd been in town for a week. After not being allowed into a place full of high-rolling bogans and prostitutes because we had failed the dress code, we managed to get into a place full of low-rolling bogans and prostitutes. Hmmm.
Realising the doomed quality of our venture, a small splinter group left to enjoy some carousing else where. This was far more successful, with particularly notable our venture into the basement of the MGM casino for some authentic beer pong.
While not quite a Vegas experience, it was still ample fun, but the dream eluded me.
Thankfully there was still time.
Indeed, the Vegas experience finally came to pass the morning after the next day, when with a large and painful bump on my temple, no money in my wallet, no pants on, still drunk and in someone else's room, I awoke full of evils and with no recollection of half the night. I put this mainly down to traveling around in the back of a van with an illegal amount of people, stopping at 7-11 for booze and buying 'Loco', a vast can of 12% poison that tasted like the diabolical spawn of Donaghy Estate champagne and cold medicine. Simply evil.
Fleeting recollections have Otto being re-dressed by a dancing bar maid and Kip falling asleep on a bus until he was at the ass end of no-where in downtown Vegas at 4am in the morning.
Vegas, baby.
Road Tripping - Origins
"You're going to Coachella?"
Maybe it was the glazed, feverish look in my eyes. Maybe the fact that
like another assorted 80,000 rich white kids, ageing hippies, scantily
clad women and of course, bros, I was heading south through California
swarming every store along the highway. Maybe it was the four cases of
Bud I hoisted onto the counter top - but most likely it was all of
these factors that led the bored looking man behind the counter, like
so many before him, to utter and wryly chuckle, "so you're going to
Coachella?"
More statement than question.
This was day 4 of our road trip after landing in sunny San Francisco
on the 11th of April and Otto, Kip and myself were on the way to Indio
California for one of the world's biggest festivals. To begin however,
San Francisco.
Arriving early in the morning, it was never going to be an easy day as
we battled jet lag while vainly trying to make the most of our time in
San Francisco by exploring the city. Given Kip and I were in charge,
first point of call and an early lunch was the Swan Oyster Bar for
what is apparently the best New England Clam Chowder. Given my not
quite encyclopaedic knowledge of all things chowder I can merely
affirm its tastiness and delicious, if suspicious, chewy chunks. Would
bag again.
The next morning saw the sun's rays wash over a shame-filled Ryan as I
beheld the world through the sordid eyes of someone who had the night
previously supped from the dish known merely as pulled pork in a Blues
bar. Shame and pig-sweats abounded, and in search of absolution we
went questing bikes to cross the Golden Gate Bridge.
As my severely bruised pereneum would later attest, this was an idea
of mixed blessings, as with the delight of fresh air, exercise and
spectacular views came hand in hand the crippling of my ability to
comfortably sit for some period of time. On the plus side, this trip
also forced us to climb aboard the trams of San Fran which, although
dear to the tight-fisted student, were filled with amiable conductors
and helpful advice. This was sorely needed as this afternoon it was
time to pick up our car.
A small, red, Ford Focus that wobbles at highway cruising speeds and
would later become known as gruel - mainly for its ability to sustain
our travel, but provide little else - was awaiting us in sunny down
town San Fran. Worrying signs first appeared when we arrived at our
train stop only to realize we did not have the car rental firm's
address. Moreover, there was no wi-fi, useful map, or any means of
ascertaining where it was. At this point, two warring tribes of what I
can only assume were corner boys began a brutal game of fisticuffs
about fifty metres away. Scared in the way only white-kids from the
other side of the world can be, we huddled for safety in numbers with
other white people. One of these kind souls had a laptop and wi-fi, so
we found our address and were on our way again.
The next problem arose when 'Adventures on wheels', while the name of
the website, was not the name of the actual rental place, which turned
out to have a lot full of RVs and then one small red Ford. Highly
suspicious, and having detailed the million scuffs 100,000 miles wears
on a tiny shit-box such as ours, we hit the road for the first time.
Perilous and guided by the cheapest sat-nav Radioshack had to offer -
and a significantly better deal than that offered by the seedy
middle-eastern man Otto befriended and insisted we buy from - our
first trip, while a trial on the nerves, was successful as we made it
safely back to San Fran, picking out drug dealers on the way through
downtown.
The next day, however, proved somewhat more troublesome.
With a plan to cruise down Highway-1 while enjoying the coastal views
en route to Los Angeles, we started the day in driving rain such that
death seemed surely upon us in the ignominious trappings of a red tin
coffin. Unwilling to succumb to such a fate and in defiance of all
those hurling spite upon our craft we made it Monteray and the
sunshine. After this cheese-filled interlude we continued making good
time down the highway only to discover a land slide and no-detour made
the closed road a 2 hour (but breathtakingly picturesque) time sink,
thus putting us significantly behind schedule.
Fast forward 8 hours, and after 550 miles and 13 hours on the road, we
coasted into Santa Monica, LA. Lurching into the hostel we managed to
sort out all our mess in time to catch Kareoke at the local, with Otto
sending the crowd into throes of rapturous delight with a Miley Cyrus
ballad, and Kip, myself and a passing German tri-eting Queen's Don't
Stop Me Now. The Hostel's pub crawl then found us, and things kicked
on.
After putt-putting around LA in search of sites, Hollywood signs and
plastic-looking people, we hit the road to Indio in anticipation of
Coachella. Gridlocked in LA traffic, the 2-3 hour trip spiralled into
a 10 hour slug fest along the highway. Having finally reached the
grounds and claimed our tickets, more waiting then ensued as we queued
to get into the festival's camping grounds. By sheer chance we ended
up in the car behind Walshy, Cheese and Birchy (three of the guys from
SUANFC) as we waited to be searched. Meanwhile, an entire field full
of cars embarked upon a 2 hour long can and hot-box session, boding
well for that which was to come.
2am, and we had our camping spot. Wrapped in a thin blanket and
wearing every other item of clothing I owned, the desert chill and my
lack of anything resembling a mattress resulted in a restorative and
refreshing night.
750 miles in two days.
Thus began, however, three truly amazing days. There is little way to
describe the sprawling, decadent magnificence of Coachella, except by
viewing it within the rarefied perspect of an American. Indeed, only
an American could offer recycling bins, thinner plastic bottles, and
recycled water here and there and claim that a festival in the middle
of the desert with ice trucks driving in, generators blasting all day,
endless food and plastic scraps, millions of cigarette butts,
discarded tents and other camping items, and myriad more offenses
against sustainable life, as 'green'.
Oh well, such outrages cannot temper the delight of 3 days of
hedonistic music engorgement. Indeed, despite the searing midday heat
- one which could all-too-readily be escaped by hitting up the tent
where everyone was sprayed with hoses (another particularly
eco-friendly activity), by eventide and a few refreshing cans, all was
well in the world and the darkness alive with pulsating tunes.
Despite our humble campsite consisting of a $50 Target tent and, a $4
tarp rigged between the tent and the car's back windows for a small
awning, things were just as incredibly uncomfortable as you might
imagine. Ice-cold refreshment was all one had to battle the
unrelenting desert sun, and much was it needed.
Coachella was also a time of revelation, as I discovered the subtle
pleasures of repetitive beats, booming bass, and warped dub tracks on
the open mind. In the unique setting of a giant tent in the middle of
a polo field with lights flashing everywhere and thousands upon
thousands of screaming, drugged up humans, the heat-addled,
sleep-deprived, and variously otherwise influenced mind has little
recourse than to succumb to the mentality of the time and place. Not
that I'm complaining. Other notable acts numbered Gogol Bordello,
Titus Andronicus, DFA1979, Shpongle, and of course, Kanye.
Much the worse for wear, Monday saw us leaving Indio and heading for
some R&R in Vegas. 300 miles along desert highway with a stop off in
feisty Baker, Nevada, and blasting Kyuss all the way, it was a
surprisingly fun bit of highway driving, once again reaffirming my
life belief that anything can be made delightful with the correct
soundtrack. Thus it was that we found ourselves in Vegas, but I'll
attempt to put that into words in a later missive.
Maybe it was the glazed, feverish look in my eyes. Maybe the fact that
like another assorted 80,000 rich white kids, ageing hippies, scantily
clad women and of course, bros, I was heading south through California
swarming every store along the highway. Maybe it was the four cases of
Bud I hoisted onto the counter top - but most likely it was all of
these factors that led the bored looking man behind the counter, like
so many before him, to utter and wryly chuckle, "so you're going to
Coachella?"
More statement than question.
This was day 4 of our road trip after landing in sunny San Francisco
on the 11th of April and Otto, Kip and myself were on the way to Indio
California for one of the world's biggest festivals. To begin however,
San Francisco.
Arriving early in the morning, it was never going to be an easy day as
we battled jet lag while vainly trying to make the most of our time in
San Francisco by exploring the city. Given Kip and I were in charge,
first point of call and an early lunch was the Swan Oyster Bar for
what is apparently the best New England Clam Chowder. Given my not
quite encyclopaedic knowledge of all things chowder I can merely
affirm its tastiness and delicious, if suspicious, chewy chunks. Would
bag again.
The next morning saw the sun's rays wash over a shame-filled Ryan as I
beheld the world through the sordid eyes of someone who had the night
previously supped from the dish known merely as pulled pork in a Blues
bar. Shame and pig-sweats abounded, and in search of absolution we
went questing bikes to cross the Golden Gate Bridge.
As my severely bruised pereneum would later attest, this was an idea
of mixed blessings, as with the delight of fresh air, exercise and
spectacular views came hand in hand the crippling of my ability to
comfortably sit for some period of time. On the plus side, this trip
also forced us to climb aboard the trams of San Fran which, although
dear to the tight-fisted student, were filled with amiable conductors
and helpful advice. This was sorely needed as this afternoon it was
time to pick up our car.
A small, red, Ford Focus that wobbles at highway cruising speeds and
would later become known as gruel - mainly for its ability to sustain
our travel, but provide little else - was awaiting us in sunny down
town San Fran. Worrying signs first appeared when we arrived at our
train stop only to realize we did not have the car rental firm's
address. Moreover, there was no wi-fi, useful map, or any means of
ascertaining where it was. At this point, two warring tribes of what I
can only assume were corner boys began a brutal game of fisticuffs
about fifty metres away. Scared in the way only white-kids from the
other side of the world can be, we huddled for safety in numbers with
other white people. One of these kind souls had a laptop and wi-fi, so
we found our address and were on our way again.
The next problem arose when 'Adventures on wheels', while the name of
the website, was not the name of the actual rental place, which turned
out to have a lot full of RVs and then one small red Ford. Highly
suspicious, and having detailed the million scuffs 100,000 miles wears
on a tiny shit-box such as ours, we hit the road for the first time.
Perilous and guided by the cheapest sat-nav Radioshack had to offer -
and a significantly better deal than that offered by the seedy
middle-eastern man Otto befriended and insisted we buy from - our
first trip, while a trial on the nerves, was successful as we made it
safely back to San Fran, picking out drug dealers on the way through
downtown.
The next day, however, proved somewhat more troublesome.
With a plan to cruise down Highway-1 while enjoying the coastal views
en route to Los Angeles, we started the day in driving rain such that
death seemed surely upon us in the ignominious trappings of a red tin
coffin. Unwilling to succumb to such a fate and in defiance of all
those hurling spite upon our craft we made it Monteray and the
sunshine. After this cheese-filled interlude we continued making good
time down the highway only to discover a land slide and no-detour made
the closed road a 2 hour (but breathtakingly picturesque) time sink,
thus putting us significantly behind schedule.
Fast forward 8 hours, and after 550 miles and 13 hours on the road, we
coasted into Santa Monica, LA. Lurching into the hostel we managed to
sort out all our mess in time to catch Kareoke at the local, with Otto
sending the crowd into throes of rapturous delight with a Miley Cyrus
ballad, and Kip, myself and a passing German tri-eting Queen's Don't
Stop Me Now. The Hostel's pub crawl then found us, and things kicked
on.
After putt-putting around LA in search of sites, Hollywood signs and
plastic-looking people, we hit the road to Indio in anticipation of
Coachella. Gridlocked in LA traffic, the 2-3 hour trip spiralled into
a 10 hour slug fest along the highway. Having finally reached the
grounds and claimed our tickets, more waiting then ensued as we queued
to get into the festival's camping grounds. By sheer chance we ended
up in the car behind Walshy, Cheese and Birchy (three of the guys from
SUANFC) as we waited to be searched. Meanwhile, an entire field full
of cars embarked upon a 2 hour long can and hot-box session, boding
well for that which was to come.
2am, and we had our camping spot. Wrapped in a thin blanket and
wearing every other item of clothing I owned, the desert chill and my
lack of anything resembling a mattress resulted in a restorative and
refreshing night.
750 miles in two days.
Thus began, however, three truly amazing days. There is little way to
describe the sprawling, decadent magnificence of Coachella, except by
viewing it within the rarefied perspect of an American. Indeed, only
an American could offer recycling bins, thinner plastic bottles, and
recycled water here and there and claim that a festival in the middle
of the desert with ice trucks driving in, generators blasting all day,
endless food and plastic scraps, millions of cigarette butts,
discarded tents and other camping items, and myriad more offenses
against sustainable life, as 'green'.
Oh well, such outrages cannot temper the delight of 3 days of
hedonistic music engorgement. Indeed, despite the searing midday heat
- one which could all-too-readily be escaped by hitting up the tent
where everyone was sprayed with hoses (another particularly
eco-friendly activity), by eventide and a few refreshing cans, all was
well in the world and the darkness alive with pulsating tunes.
Despite our humble campsite consisting of a $50 Target tent and, a $4
tarp rigged between the tent and the car's back windows for a small
awning, things were just as incredibly uncomfortable as you might
imagine. Ice-cold refreshment was all one had to battle the
unrelenting desert sun, and much was it needed.
Coachella was also a time of revelation, as I discovered the subtle
pleasures of repetitive beats, booming bass, and warped dub tracks on
the open mind. In the unique setting of a giant tent in the middle of
a polo field with lights flashing everywhere and thousands upon
thousands of screaming, drugged up humans, the heat-addled,
sleep-deprived, and variously otherwise influenced mind has little
recourse than to succumb to the mentality of the time and place. Not
that I'm complaining. Other notable acts numbered Gogol Bordello,
Titus Andronicus, DFA1979, Shpongle, and of course, Kanye.
Much the worse for wear, Monday saw us leaving Indio and heading for
some R&R in Vegas. 300 miles along desert highway with a stop off in
feisty Baker, Nevada, and blasting Kyuss all the way, it was a
surprisingly fun bit of highway driving, once again reaffirming my
life belief that anything can be made delightful with the correct
soundtrack. Thus it was that we found ourselves in Vegas, but I'll
attempt to put that into words in a later missive.
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