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.