San Luis Obispo to San Diego

Booking a ticket out of town is hard enough when your hostels WiFi keeps disconnecting, but it's positively frustrating when you have to navigate ridiculous state laws. Amtrak run a number of coaches between different destinations, but apparently state law means that you can only book an Amtrak coach with a train ticket. Despite the fact that they have a five hour coach ride between San Francisco and San Luis Obispo showing on their website, I'm not permitted to book it. So our choices were either a more expensive and longer coach/train combination, or an even longer Greyhound bus. We opted for the former, seduced by the glitzy name "The Coast Starlight".

In the dawn light we made our way to the Ferry Building and jumped on the coach to Oakland. Fifty minutes later we were queueing to board the train. A rather brusque conductor grabbed our tickets and demanded to know why we had not signed them. He then manually assigned us seats and harried us up the stairs. I was starting to feel like a rodeo cow.

This guy was Amtrak's equivalent of Seinfeld's soup Nazi. He marched up and down the aisle barking petty orders at people and writing in his little black book, I presume he was adding names to his book of "people I really hate". In one exchange he watched a lady put her heavy bag in the overhead luggage rack, then demanded to see her ticket stub. She told him it was in the bag, so he gave her a lecture on why she must have it on her person at all times. She got the bag down again, and began searching for the stub. When she produced it he said "I didn't need to see it right now, I just wanted you to know you must have it on you in case I want to see it".

The train ride was uneventful, we both slept for a while. One big positive about Amtrak's trains is that they have reclining seats and extra legroom, so I was able to grab forty winks. I woke up about half an hour from our destination, so I have no idea if the coast starlight was as scenic as the name suggests, but I did get to see a lake with about 30 egrets milling about it's edges.

We arrived in San Luis Obispo around 3pm and made our way to the hostel, which was just one block away. Unfortunately the hostel wasn't open but an old man sat on a swing chair in the porch told us we could leave our bags propped on the wall, that they'd be perfectly safe (sure enough when we returned 2 hours later they were still there), so we walked into town to get a late lunch.

San Luis Obispo is a very peculiar place. It's obviously pretty wealthy, the streets are clean, the houses well kept and the people well groomed. The presence of many independent shops, as well as upmarket brands like Abercrombie & Fitch hints at this wealth. It feels a bit like we have entered a twilight zone, not only because it is so different from San Francisco, but it almost feels like the town is hiding a big secret by outwardly trying to be too perfect.

We decided to spend our first day in the town centre. Our hostel had advised us to stay an extra night (we had planned for 2) because there was so much to do, but when Gemma asked for ideas they were pretty clueless ("erm ... Oh you could look around the shops") so we walked over to the Tourist Information Centre. Unfortunately about 90% of activities required a car.

Instead we took a look around the old town museum, where we saw an exhibit about a French winemaker whom made San Luis Obispo his home after serving in the French army in Tahiti. From there we went to the town art gallery, which had about 30 exhibits at most, and then on to the Mission, with it's large church and accommodation for the priests. Inside the mission there was a little museum full of faded photographs of former priests and woodworm bitten furniture from the missions history.

We started to head back to the hostel but had to sit in a shaded park for a while, unfortunately the hostel closed between 11am and 4.30pm for "cleaning". I'm aware I spent half of the last blog moaning about the poor hygiene standards of our last hostel, this time we found the opposite end of the spectrum. It's really frustrating being locked out of your hostel for five and a half hours of the day, not able to have a shower, do your washing or just to relax and make some lunch.

At least this one is clean though, close to the town, and a bit more mature than previous hostels. We've met some interesting people here, been able to spend evenings in chatting with the other guests in the lounge and spending some time on the internet updating the blog.

On our second day we decided to spread our wings, catching a bus to Pismo Beach. Somehow we managed to spend half a day in a place with "beach" in the name without seeing sand or sea! The bus thoughtfully dropped us off at the factory outlet shopping centre and before long we were heading in and out of designer shops, amazed at the prices! Having just spent fifty dollars posting excess luggage back home to England, we ended up buying more clothes!

Back in San Luis Obispo we walked downtown to the famous farmers market where all the local wares were on display. The stalls took over 4 blocks, and the mission plaza was full of giant pumpkins - evidently for a competition as the labels indicated: Largest Pumpkin; Heaviest Pumpkin; Most unusually shaped pumpkin; and the curiously titled "most beautiful pumpkin". Of all the fruit and vegetables I've ever come across I don't think I've ever looked at a pumpkin and thought "wow, that's beautiful" but they do things differently here! When we later suggested to another hostel guest that she could walk to the market, she exclaimed "7 blocks, are you guys kidding me!"

We wandered past the food stalls sampling as we went, Gemma had a pork tamales and sushi, I tried a pulled pork sandwich and a Cornish pasty, which was surprisingly similar to the real thing! As we walked and ate, various musicians serenaded us: a man in a pseudo Viking outfit played an electronic cello; a blues band further down the street followed by a mad old lady dancing by herself in the style of the mid-eighties rave culture. Like many of the things we have seen in America, it was an eclectic mix of people, foods, styles and cultures.

The following morning we had to get up at the crack of dawn to catch the imaginatively named "pacific surfliner" to San Diego. Unlike the previous train we did at least travel someway along the coast, but at 6am (and having slept on a bed at least foot too short for me) it was hard to get too excited, and it was a bit too hazy for a good view. The train ran pretty smoothly , the staff were surprisingly pleasant and we nodded off for a few hours.

We awoke shortly before arriving in Chatsworth, a destination only notable because we spent 2 hours sat at the platform. Unfortunately an incident had occurred further up the line that required the attention of the LAPD and a coroner. There was a great deal of speculation but no-one really knew what had happened. At one point we were told buses would be arriving to pick us up, so everyone left the train. Then we were told to get back on the train. When the train did set off the passengers all crowded to the side to see the police taking photo's, but it seemed like they had already removed the body.

We arrived in LA central late, so Amtrak decided to make us even later by holding our train for an additional hour and fifteen minutes, effectively making us the later train. At least we were able to stretch our legs, returning to the station foyer to grab some sushi from the same shop that we visited about 9 days earlier. Unlike England, everyone on the train was very friendly, it's unusual for me to see strangers talk to one another but here it seems second nature. Two people are conversing, someone else overhears and shouts out a question, a fourth person answers and before you know it the whole carriage is engaged. There are a lot of things you can identify in American society as unhealthy, but perhaps this is one thing they have over us.

By the time we arrived in San Diego, over 4 hours late, night had descended on the city. I prefer to arrive in a new town during the daylight, you can't help but make a target for the waifs and strays of a city carrying a huge backpack and looking out for street signs, but San Diego felt quite safe. We walked the 8 blocks to our hostel, the entrance for which is located between a row of 3 Italian restaurants in the Gaslamp district. I've renamed it Garlic Alley, for obvious reasons.

That night we found ourselves alone in our room, so after a quick but expensive meal nearby (lobster ravioli - the smallest portion I have seen in Americai) we passed out and slept for 12 blissful hours. When we eventually awoke the next day we decided to have a relaxing one, so we did nothing more adventurous than walk to the supermarket and put some washing on. Not quite the glamorous globetrotting you might think, but some days it's great to do nothing!

We also managed to watch some (American) football on TV in a downtown bar called The Tipsy Crow. We were just walking past and tried to check the score from the game taking place in London this weekend, but the bars patrons invited us inside and even made room for us at the bar, finding us a couple of spare stools. The Chargers (the local team) were playing away from home, but everyone made us feel so welcome that I tried to hide the Redskins shirt I had bought literally minutes before! Unfortunately we weren't the lucky charm they needed, as the Chargers managed to throw away an eleven point lead to lose 21-27. Still we both enjoyed it, and I was able to clarify a few of the rules I wasn't sure about.

On our second day we didn't get any further than Balboa Park, although in fairness we did walk there from downtown. There seemed to be an Indian cultural event talking place, local families looked on with amazement at the traditional clothes, dancing and singing. Given how multicultural London is, we both found it more interesting watching the Americans watching the Indians. Huge guys in San Diego Chargers shirts staring open-jawed at fragile looking Rajasthan girls as they whirled with delight to the beat of drums.

We made our way back to town via a bus. Whilst we waited we met Abel, a San Diego resident of Indian origin with MS. He was waiting for the bus also, and took great delight in telling us about his family including showing us a picture book from his sisters wedding (at which he was the proud ringbearer). A curious thing we have noticed is how willing everyone is to talk about their family, sometimes to the detriment of the conversation. Not so with Abel, who was a very sweet man and it was a shame we couldn't continue our chat on the bus.

Unfortunately the ride was a lesson in stereotypes, with some very loud, obnoxious people onboard. Despite there being several free seats, people went out of their way to cover the spares so we couldn't sit down, and the general conversation was punctuated by repeated use of words which I have no intention of writing here. One person offered assistance to a lady and was promptly put down (because she thought he was trying to mess with her head). Another woman loudly complained that she was bored of waiting at the bus-stop (for Able's ramp to deploy so he could board in his wheelchair). We both got off feeling a lot less positive about San Diego than previously, it is such a shame when you meet someone as genial and hospitable as Able, and then your mood is ruined by cretins. Thankfully the ride back into town was short.

We decided to book a further 2 nights in our hostel, not quite feeling like we were ready to hit Mexico, and having been recommended the USS Midway tour. The following day we walked about 5 minutes to the port and boarded this amazing aircraft carrier. The Midway was ordered in 1941, building began in 1943 and it was completed a few weeks before the end of WWII. Although she missed out on most of that war, she did see active service in Vietnam, and in particular the first Gulf War.

For anyone interested in military history, and especially in naval aviation, the USS Midway is a must-see attraction. Not only is the ship fascinating in herself, but her hangars and deck are littered with assorted aeroplanes and helicopters which at one point or another landed onboard her runway. From a 2nd World War F4U Corsair, via a Bell UH-1 "Huey", right through to the famous F-14 Tomcat of Top Gun fame. There are a huge number of aircraft to see, and each one marks a point on the self-guided audio-tour which is included in the surprisingly reasonable $18 entry fee.

What really stands this floating museum apart from other attractions, however, is the presence of volunteer veteran guides and their free talks and tours. On the runway we were given a great demonstration of how various planes would land (day and night) and in the tower we were taken on a tour of the control room, the chart room and the bridge. All of these guides, and several of the tourists, had served on the Midway, and consequently were extremely passionate about her, which made the talks so interesting.

We spent 3 hours onboard, and I reluctantly left in order to find some lunch. After some advice from one of our room-mates we signed up for a store card at our local grocery, and managed to save a few dollars on our lunch and dinner. If we'd known earlier we could have saved quite a lot by now. Unfortunately America is just becoming too expensive for us if we want to peg this adventure out for much longer, so when we returned to the hostel we decided to book our next leg. We'll be crossing into Mexico on Wednesday morning, and rather than stay in the border town of Tijuana we're going to board a coach down to Mazatlan, 27 hours away! I've been told that coaches in Mexico are superior to US or European models, so we're keeping our fingers crossed on that one.

San Francisco

We made our way north via a metro train to Union station, a bus to Bakersfield, a Train to Emeryville, and then another bus to San Francisco. The journey took over 12 hours in all, with competition like this it's no wonder so many Americans drive everywhere. I have read that the US is considering investing $600bn in a high speed rail network to offer a viable alternative to the car. It would make sense from the perspective of oil supplies, but maybe the economics wouldn't work, it's a lot to invest with no guarantee of a return.

Nevertheless the train ride was interesting, particularly when compared to our other journeys. The train left on time, had plenty of space with wide seats and large ceilings. We actually sat on the higher deck, in coach, which meant we got some really good views of not much in particular, the odd farm or backwater town. The train driver got a little trigger happy with his horn (because we crossed so many roads), the deafening noise really irritated Gemma, and the two German passengers who insisted on shouting their conversation didn't help either. And the conductors had presumably been to the Russian school of etiquette, it was a shame Korea hadn't exported some carriage attendants instead.

It was around 9pm by the time we arrived downtown, so we went straight to the hostel to check in. When we arrived we were asked to sign a form (by the receptionists own admission the gist of which was "no refunds"), we should have refused but we'd been travelling all day and wanted to rest our weary bodies. Rather than re-invent the wheel I'm just going to copy and paste the review I have written for the hostel website, every word for sordid word:

"Unfortunately this place is a hovel. But you get a free beer. The room was incredibly dirty, stains of various shapes and sizes on the bed linen and walls, the toilet didn't work, the shower just a trickle, and nothing fixed despite 4 days of asking, but you get a free beer. Don't even look at the carpet on the stairs. The WiFi was the worst I've ever known in a hostel. This could have been a good hostel in a great city, but instead of hiring a cleaner, a painter and a plumber, they prefer to provide a free beer. Sleep on the street and cuddle a tramp, it'll be cleaner and more comfortable. Tell him where you might have been staying and maybe he'll give you a free beer."
 
I normally try to look for the positives in difficult situations when travelling, because at the end of the day it's only your mood you can control, and only your experience. So why not be positive. But seriously, this place was an utter dump. Places like this give hostelling a bad name and can really knock public perception far harder than 10 great hostels can raise it. Which is why we've tried to be outdoors as much a possible. Soapbox over.

Fortunately San Francisco is a great place to be outdoors. We arrived in a mini-heatwave, and barring one very cold ride over the Golden Gate Bridge in an open top bus, it's been hot and humid throughout. On our first day we visited Fisherman's Wharf and Pier 39, very touristy but still fun. We ate a fish-which, which was basically a breaded fish fillet in a bun, smothered in coleslaw. It was humongous, but not very good - it was slimy and covered in olive oil. If you're going to serve breaded fish to an Englishman you need to make it better than that.

We've been catching cable cars back and forth across the city. Normally they are six dollars per ride, but if you buy a muni pass you can ride them as much as you like, as well as some other modes of transport. But it's the cable cars the city is most famous for, and not without good reason. The views are spectacular, crossing the undulating hills you can spot sights like Alcatraz or the Golden Gate Bridge, and of course you can hang off the side. Nothing ignites the dieing embers of childhood in a 30 year old man like the chance to hang off a cable car as you climb Nob Hill or descend down the steep slopes to Union Square.

We took another open top bus (did I mention I was addicted) because the tours were sold out at the weekend. We drove through the hippy district of Haight-Asbury, formerly home to the pharmaceutically inspired musicians like Janis Joplin, then on through the Golden Gate Park. As we came out of the tunnel and roared towards the bridge, someone switched the wind on and we froze. We kept our eyes peeled in case the Hanjin Miami was in the area but sadly didn't spot our former floating home. We jumped off the bus on the other side of the bridge for a few photos, as did nearly everyone else. It's quite lucky I'm tall enough to reach over other people's shoulders with my camera.

Back on board the bus we headed into town, driving towards but not onto Lombard Street. Our guide told us that a few years back someone tried to take a tour bus down its steep, winding street but got stuck. Apparently they had to saw the bus in half and helicopter the two halves out. We also saw the bullets holes in a wall above an atm which were the result of a failed assassination attempt on a US president, but I can't remember which one as the guides nasal tones caused me to switch off (although Gemma assures me it was Ford).

On Saturday night we went to a Rodeo! Catching a BART out from Powell street to Balboa Park, then a bus to Daly City, we were dropped off outside the beautifully named Cow Palace. Outside there was a small protest of animal rights campaigners with placards, unsuccessfully trying to explain to huge men with cowboy hats and massive belt buckles that the cows had rights. I guess they had a point, but I'd never been to a rodeo and really wanted to see what went on.

Inside there was a small market selling many of the things you might expect to find at a Rodeo: clothing and hats; leather; huge fizzy drinks and hotdogs; paintings of horses; and jerky. And I have to say, it was the best jerky I've ever eaten, much juicier than the dry South African style I'm more familiar with. We picked up a program and took our seats by the ringside and the show began.

The stadium announcer had the thickest Texan accent I've ever heard, we're sure he was putting it on, it was comical. His banter with the Rodeo Clown was amusing in a "I can't believe how bad this is" kind of way (fans of WWF wrestling will know what I mean). He introduced the acts as they came on, and he must have been distracting the participants as he was asked to shut up by an organiser at one point.

Bareback riding was the first event. These horses really jumped about and the riders did well to hang on for the whole 8 seconds. Once the buzzer went off to signal a rider had completed their time, they would attempt to leap onto the back of another horse being ridden by an assistant. Not all leaps were successful. The saddle Bronc riding was similar, only with saddles as the name would suggest. Both events were adrenaline packed spectacles. Hardly surprising given that the horses appeared to have a tightly tied rope around their nether-regions.

The steer wrestling was somewhat less exciting. Seeing a grown man jump off a horse and wrestle a calf to the ground felt a little unsporting, and we silently cheered on the junior cattle, to no avail. And the stock dog demonstration was laughable. The high octane commentator decried the event as amazing, wondrous and magical. But anyone who has ever seen a border collie herd forty sheep into a pen whilst the whistling farmer stood still would be less impressed by seeing a cowgirl on horseback do the same with 3 small cows, whilst riding around and virtually moving the cattle herself.

At least the team roping event was a bit better, as teams of 3 cowboys and cowgirls had to extract 3 similarly numbered cattle from a heard of 40, moving them into a pen without letting any others go across the halfway line. The early entrants looked like they'd only learnt to ride a horse that afternoon, I fancied I could do better on a pantomime steed, but they had saved the best until last, the final 5 teams managing to pen their cattle in around 30 seconds. Quite a feat.

Eventually we reached the last event, the bull riding. As you can probably imagine, these creatures were seriously annoyed at being prodded and pushed, and when the gates opened they really let fly. Only a very few riders managed to stay for the 8 seconds, the rest were flung unceremoniously to the ground. Fortunately two extremely brave men stayed in the ring and would attempt to distract the bulls from seeking revenge. Without these two action men, I'm pretty sure we'd have had an early Halloween treat!'

After the rodeo we flew across town to Union Square to catch the start of the Korean Grand Prix. We ran into the sports bar and the bouncer changed the channel just in time for the green light. The Grand Prix itself wasn't brilliant, but the Sports Bar was pretty interesting. Of course we have sports bars at home, but out here there are several different games and sports being played at the same time, so whilst we watched the racing other patrons watched one of three different college football games, the NASCAR, or ice hockey. All without soundtracks, as the pumping hip-hop music blared out of the speakers and assorted fans cheered a touchdown.

No visit to San Francisco is complete without a trip to Alcatraz island, so on our final day in town we wandered down to pier 33 for the boat. Despite it being a Monday morning outside of holiday season the queues were still pretty big, but it was a beautiful day. The bay looked amazing when seen from the water, and the little boat whizzed across the water to the island in about 15 minutes. As everyone disembarked a Park Ranger began a speech about avoiding dangerous objects (like steps, seriously!) so in the true spirit of Frank Morris we legged it up the hill whilst everyone else was warned to avoid poking themselves in the eye with their fingers.

We went straight up to the main penitentiary building, which looked exactly as I remembered it from 15 years ago. The paint peeling and the cement crumbling, it's a nostalgic place to visit. The audio tour was pretty good, and we wandered past the cells, canteen, library and control room whilst the voice of a former prison guard told you about the history of the prison, and it's more infamous inmates, like Al Capone, Robert "the Birdman" Stroud, and of course Frank Morris (who looked nothing like Clint Eastwood, incidentally).

Like the other tourists we posed for photos in the cells, before heading back down the hill to the now empty theatre, to watch a brief video about the islands other history. Originally a military fort before becoming a federal prison for the most desperate criminals, after the prison was closed it was occupied by Native Americans for 15 months, in an effort to draw attention to their fight for their native lands. For many Americans Alcatraz is not just a tourist spot to buy novelty clothes styled like prison issued rags, but has played an integral part of their history. Despite the decrepit state of the island, or perhaps because of it, I like Alcatraz. It has a "well-used" feel to it, a genuine article amongst all the more glitzy but less substantial attractions in California.

However the native Americans aren't the only people fighting for their rights. Just the other day we caught the tail end of a protest march heading through Union Square and Powell Street. In this case it was a peaceful march, led by people demanding the bankers pay to set American straight again. But without suggesting that they didn't have a point most of the people marching looked well fed, well clothed like they had somewhere to return to after the march. I really can't write about San Francisco without mentioning another group of people, the homeless.

I came to San Francisco a couple of times in the nineties, during my teens, so my memories of the city are sketchy. But I honestly cannot remember seeing so many people on the street. The other day we passed a mission church which provides a free meal to homeless people, the queue went around the block, all the way up the next block. There was hundreds of people, a truly shocking sight.

Our hostel borders the rich area of Union Square and the poorer Tenderloin neighbourhood. At night, people can be seen rummaging through the hostel bins, and in the morning there's not a scrap left in them, everything having been taken or discarded on the floor. You cannot leave the building without being asked for spare change or a smoke. What is even worse, I'd estimate over half of the people I've spoken to had serious mental health issues. There just doesn't seem to be any help available them, nowhere for them to go. The problem I first noticed in LA feels like an epidemic up here in San Francisco. And it is genuinely depressing.

I never thought I'd say this, but I'm looking forward to leaving this town which held some fond memories for me. I've managed to swap my trans-Siberian handbook for a book on poverty in America, but I will be reading it on the train tomorrow as we head south to San Luis Obispo.