Oaxaca (Pronounced: The place near Monte Alban)

Oaxaca is that rarest of towns, a place which came highly recommended and managed to live up to expectations. We arrived in the late afternoon, took a quick taxi across town and entered the curiously named "El Quijote" hostel. I say curiously named because Cervantes protagonist was surely a little self delusional, but this home from home was anything but.

The owners have set up a lovely little retreat on the outskirts of central Oaxaca. The dorm room has 8 beds - which sounds bad, but there are partitions, and no bunks. The beds are large and comfortable, and the room is cleaned every day, with bed linen changed and fresh towels. Compared to some of the hostels we have stayed in, this place is a delight. The only difficult part is deciding when to leave.

After completing the checking in formalities we strolled the the central square, named the Zocalo like the square in Mexico City. At one end of the square is the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Assumption, a beautiful building with a stunning interior. Opposite, at the southern end is the former government office, now a museum. The east and west sides are full of restaurants and shops. In the centre, almost hidden by trees, there is a bandstand, which was full of musicians for our first evening in Oaxaca. We sat down for dinner and enjoyed the music, and the slight but pleasant breeze.

Oaxaca is the main stopping point for tourists wanting to visit the ruins of Monte Alban, the former Zapotec capital, just 7km away. The road curls it's way up the mountainside until you reach the car park, full of locals selling straw hats to increasingly red tourists. The site is high (1900 metres above sea level) and we had been warned thrice to cover up with sunblock, with good reason.

Our guide, Alberto, delivered an amusing spiel, his repertoire littered with the many curse words of the English language: "the Zapotec, those bastards knew about skin cancer!"; "this was a big fucking city, man!". But besides turning the air blue, his commentary was very good, he explained many interesting stories and legends of the Zapotec culture. He was at pains to sell the Zapotecs to us, conscious of their being overshadowed by their more internationally renowned neighbours, the Mayans.

As you climb the final steps of the mountain the plateau spreads out before you, the stunning temples of Monte Alban become visible and you are conscious of being at what was a very important site. There are temples at the north and south, and several more in between, alongside other buildings like a ball court and a hospital. Climbing over and amongst these relics I felt like a child in a sweet shop, and when Alberto gave us an hour of free time before we moved on, I dragged Gemma first up the steps of the South Temple, and the across the plateau and up the steps of the North.

We stopped at the top and gazed down, at the increasing mass of tourists arriving at the site, followed by the local salespeople selling their own attempts at Zapotec crafts: a little jaguar face or a man playing a ball game made of pottery; necklaces of threaded beads and stones. But a look in the other directions was more rewarding, as there are several other smaller temples located on nearby hillsides, and the sky around is filled with birds, swirling around on the currents.

One curious thing which I couldn't help but notice was the absence of any decoration, no stone carvings to adorn the temples or altars. Either the Zapotecs didn't care for art, or they weren't as developed as Alberto made out. In fact I was completely wrong, when we returned to the car park we discovered a small museum which contained several highly decorated stone tablets, alongside pottery and even some jewellery. They had obviously been removed for safe keeping, and we later discovered that there were also some exhibits from Monte Alban at the Anthropology Museum that we had missed out in Mexico City.

On the same tour we were also taken to a church which had been built by the famous conquistador Hernan Cortes for his Mexican lover. A beautiful building that has seen better days, there were still one or two of the original frescoes visible on portions of the stone, culturally valuable because they had been painted by locals who had never seen a representation of Christ, so the Angels had many of the indigenous peoples features.

By this time we were ready for lunch, so Alberto led us to a little restaurant in the middle of nowhere. The restaurant was set around a small courtyard, which was full of representations of skeletons. We had narrowly missed spending the day of the dead in Oaxaca, which was unfortunate as the guidebooks suggest it is one of the best places to be. However even after the big day the peoples efforts remained on show.

In the restaurant, an all you can eat buffet affair - slightly overpriced but with a huge range of options - we both grabbed a plate and began filling up. Of course we didn't quite know what we were trying, but that's part of the fun of travel! I did manage to locate some of the local mole (pronounced Moh-lay) a sort of thick sauce that smothered a piece of chicken like the after effects of a devastating oil spill. It tasted vaguely chocolatey, but not in a good way. Instead I filled up on mini spinach omelettes and sweetened breads.

The following day we decided to take a tour around the city's many churches. As already mentioned, the cathedral was beautiful, but in fact Oaxaca's most famous religious building was the Santo Domingo church. For a start it appears larger than the cathedral, and whereas the cathedral is surrounded by other important buildings on Oaxaca's central square, Santo Domingo is a little further away and occupies a block to itself.

The doors are huge, and the spires reach up to the heavens, but the biggest treat is inside. The cavernous interior looks resplendent, having been redecorated a few years ago at the cost of 16 million pesos, with more gold leaf than I have ever seen - 60,000 sheets of 23.5 karat leaf according to Wikipedia. But although I struggle with the concept of spending so much money on one building when millions of peasants struggle for existence, I must admit the interior is just incredible, every angle photogenic, every corner drawing a gasp.

We also took a stroll through Oaxaca's two covered markets. The first,the food market, was not as pleasant as one might imagine, the inside smelt worse than than any market I've been in before (I'm including Mombassa in that statement) and for Gemma, well, the local delicacies, if I may call them that, were a little off-putting. Fried grasshoppers in chilli. At least these were dead, but when we reached the other, less savoury market, we discovered the live grasshoppers at a pet stall, kept as food for the 20 or so lizards great were cramped inside a small tank.

Leaving Oaxaca was a hard decision to make, it's such a peaceful, relaxed place that it would be very easy to stay longer. If our hostel had had a pool we might have been swayed, but instead we booked our tickets on the night bus to Palenque. We arrived at the station in good time, long enough to enjoy an ice cream but not so long as to be boring, and at 5pm set off. The bus made a couple of stops, including a 30 minute midnight meal break for the drivers at a rundown cafe. I got off, eager to stretch my legs, and ended up drinking a cold cola whilst relaxing on a child's swing. Despite that we did eventually manage to drop off to sleep, and awoke just as we arrived in Palenque the next morning.

Mexico City: Vamos!

Mexico City, a place we had been warned about several times. Not just by people in the US, even Mexicans had warned us. Don't do this, don't do that, don't go there. The warnings didn't stop. But actually it felt far more civilised than we had expected. Perhaps that's because when someone warns you about a place you feel more inclined to give it fair chance. The opposite of when someone tells you how great a place is and it rarely lives up to expectations.

Arriving at the Northern bus station in the morning, we picked up our bags and made for the metro just outside. For 3 pesos (a few pence) we were able to get right across town. The only downside was the considerable distance between the different lines when we had to make our two changes. By the time we reached the hostel we were exhausted, our bags felt heavier than at any time in the last 2 months of travel, our legs felt like they were giving way. It wasn't until we had sat down that we remembered that Mexico City is over 2000 metres above sea level, our lungs had been deprived of oxygen!

Unfortunately the hostel had booked us into the wrong room, it wasn't the best news we could have had. But we dumped our bags and went back out to find some food. Just around the corner we found a lovely restaurant, overlooking a large fountain, so we rested our weary legs and had a good meal for the first time in 24 hours. Remembering that we had plans for the evening, we hurried back to the hostel and fell asleep.

We were awoken by one of the hostel staff, banging on the door to inform us that our taxi had arrived. I'd forgotten to change my watch overnight, so without showering we jumped out of bed, threw some clothes on and rushed downstairs. The taxi driver drove us across town to another hostel, from which we were picked up by a large minivan. We were then driven to another hostel, where we had a shot of tequila and the chance to try on some masks. Two hours after we had been woken up we finally reached the Arena Mexico, ready for the Lucha Libre wrestling.

Lucha Libre is a curious form of the sport. Clearly for entertainment purposes rather than a serious bout of wrestling, the acts veered between impressive aerial manoeuvres, comedy play acting of the sort that would make premier league players appear like Hollywood stars, and dubious social commentary. The protagonists bore names like Nitro; Electrico; and the Blue Demon. And several wore the masks for which Lucha Libre is famous. I might have liked to show you some photos, but for some reason cameras were banned in the arena.

The events usually featured two teams of three wrestlers, one team the "good guys", the others being "baddies". What I found particularly curious was that the baddies were almost universally more popular than the good guys. Indeed any acts which might have been considered "unsporting" seemed to generate the loudest cheers of all. The crowds were ecstatic when a ruffian delivered a supposedly illegal kick to Electrico's family jewels. Hardly surprising that after such a blow Electrico more closely resembled a low energy bulb.

Only one of the good guys seemed to have anything approaching a fan club to rival the baddies. I forget his name, but his act was essentially a gay man. Clad from head to toe in pink (they weren't holding back on the cliches), every time he got his opponent into a hold he would attempt either a kiss or a rub of the opponents, well, erm... , you don't need it spelling out. The crowd went wild with every stroke. Gemma and I looked at each other, absolutely stunned. There really isn't much more I can add to that, clearly gay rights have a long way to go in Mexico.

The following day we decided to go for a walk in chapultepec (grasshopper) park, 686 hectares of open space and forest in the middle of the city. There are several museums inside the boundary, most popular of which is the anthropology museum. We were heading in it's general direction when Gemma remembered that there was a free zoo, and it was a lot closer, so we popped inside.

When I hear the words "free" and "zoo"together my immediate reaction is to fear for the wellbeing of the animals, but this zoo clearly had some wealthy benefactors. It was both well stocked, and in the main the animals were obviously healthy and well cared for. We wandered through the cat section, stopping to admire the tigers, ocelot and panther. The monkey section was quite nice too, and I braved the snake house to see a huge anaconda, whilst Gemma waited outside for me.

Outside the zoo we wandered down several miles of small stalls, where you could pick up anything from a cold drink to a Manchester united shirt. Somehow I managed to resist any rash novelty purchases - quite the rarity for me, although I couldn't stop Gemma from making a new acquaintance, appropriately named Chapultepec the monkey. We also discovered a small sightseeing train, which for 15 pesos (80p) took us around the outskirts of the park, although with Spanish commentary we're still not quite sure what we saw!

We're both slowly growing more confident to try out the Spanish we have picked up. Even the briefest conversation feels like a huge victory. However the next day was a huge test, one which we were definitely not prepared for. Our mission was to post a box of excess clothes and random items back to England, and to buy two mosquito nets in preparation for Guatemala.

Thanks to the touchpad I managed to locate a post office, but it was over 3km away. Even with the address written down we couldn't find a taxi driver who knew where we wanted to go, so we ended up walking to it. Once inside our problems really began, we hadn't brought a passport, we couldn't read the disclaimer form, we didn't even have a box to put everything inside. Temperatures began to rise, whilst our mood began to fall. Somehow, after 30 minutes of faffing we managed to work everything out, thanks to the patience of the post office staff - not a sentence I ever thought I would write.

Outside, wandering past a rather beautiful monument to the republic, we flagged down a taxi. And what stopped in front of us? A Volkswagen Beetle, painted in the dull red and gold colours of the taxi service. I was delighted, and despite being cramped up in the back seat for 15 minutes fearing for my life as the old rust bucket raced through the traffic I was glad we had been inside one of these evocative vehicles. The ride cost us under £2, so I tipped the driver a few pesos and rushed outside to snatch a photo. Rodriguez the driver clearly found this most amusing.

At the Zocalo we had a wander about, the square was filled with bizarre paper mache models of various peculiar monsters called "Alebrijes". Not quite sure what these represented, it didn't stop us from enjoying them, and we took turns posing with the models. There was also a sculpture by the Mexican artist Rivelino which has been travelling around the world for 2 years. Apparently the Zocalo has become something of a mecca for various artworks in recent years, which we both thought was quite nice. Too often these huge squares lack any vitality, but that was one thing Mexico City was not missing.

We also managed to locate a couple of mosquito nets in a camping shop. We couldn't help but notice that the shops on each block have a theme, so one block might have musical instruments, the next religious icons. When we reached the sporting goods block things began to look up. We found some outdoors shops, but our attempts to mime a mosquito net were initially met with confusion, to be fair we looked like an interpretive dance troupe failing at an X Factor audition. One man did eventually manage to suggest, through stifled laughter, that six shops down they would have what we wanted. Kindly he told us the Spanish name, saving our blushes for our next attempt. And sure enough we got them.

We got up early the next morning a caught a taxi to the bus station in the east of the city. The station was called TAPO, but the driver couldn't understand us, so Gemma had to write it on her hand in biro! For the first time we hadn't booked online, so we wandered inside the terminal and approached the ADO service desk. With relative ease we managed to ask for two tickets to Oaxaca on the primera class service which was leaving in just one hours time. Inside the terminal I also managed to pick up a travel pillow, not so necessary for this 6 hour drive but something I should have brought for the overnight journeys.

The bus ride was smooth enough, although we were delayed by the traffic leaving Mexico City. It is such a sprawling city, we didn't see many high rise buildings, instead the houses and offices seem to stretch for miles in every direction. Once out of the city centre the place feels less colourful, so many of the buildings have been left their natural concrete gray that even the few open spaces seem to share this one dimensional palette.

We had to stop on route to pick up some passengers from another bus which had suffered a broken windscreen, but despite that the bus was less than half full, so once again we reclined our seats to the maximum and nodded off. I awoke some hours later when my head bounced off the window, not the most pleasant of alarm clocks. We had entered the mountains, the road twisting and turning through the most stunning scenery. Before long the town of Oaxaca spread out in the valley ahead of us, our shortest journey in Mexico at it's end.

Northern Mexico: Arriba!

Crossing the border between America and Mexico was a farce, but not in the way I had expected. Supposedly the busiest border in the world, but we didn't see a single American official. Instead our Greyhound bus just drove straight through to the Mexican officials, who waved us through. Normally I'd be relieved, crossing land borders around the world can be a real pain, and waste valuable time. But on this occasion we needed to hand in our entry forms to someone in US uniform (we'd been explicitly warned we'd have trouble getting back in to the country if we didn't hand them over). So we gave a Mexican baggage handler $10 to take our forms back to the Americans, and just have to hope he is as good as his word.

We arrived in Tijuana just a few minutes after crossing into Mexico. Having been there once before, I convinced Gemma we didn't want to spend any time in Tijuana, and recent news reports of illegal activity simply confirmed my thinking, so we stayed on the bus to it's final stop, Tijuana Central Bus Terminal (which is actually about 6km out of town). We didn't have long to wait for our connection, just enough time to enjoy a salad and spend a penny (or more accurately, 4 pesos). We were asked a number of questions as we bought our tickets, questions we couldn't answer because we didn't understand, which confirmed the need for us to pick up some working Spanish very quickly.

Nevertheless, through a combination of hand signals, grunts and much pointing we established the time and number of our bus, and at 3.20pm we boarded the TAP Comfort Service to Mazatlan. And I have to say, the bus was pretty impressive, considering we spent 26 hours onboard. The toilets were clean, the seats were large and comfortable, and the passengers friendly. And we were both given a goody bag containing a sandwich, cola, water, tea and coffee, chocolate and crisps. The bus stopped several times so we were able to get off to stretch our legs when we fancied it.

During the day several screens showed movies, obviously in badly dubbed Spanish, ranging from animations like Madagascar through to some horrors. The noise of which was quite disturbing as the evening got darker. However we amused ourselves by trying to spot holes or suitable places to climb over the border fence which separates American from Mexico, and snakes through the mountains like a miniature version of the great wall of China.

During the night we also hit one of many police checkpoints which seem to litter the route. Usually they target traffic heading north (presumably for the drugs trade) but for forms sake we were made to disembark at midnight, and carry our luggage through a brightly lit room. Every person had to press a button, those who generated a green light didn't get searched, but woe betide anyone with a red light! Fortunately we both got the green light, but we had to wait outside as one of our fellow passengers had their entire luggage thoroughly searched. By the time we got back on we were exhausted and fell asleep pretty soon afterwards, helped by the fact that the driver finally turned the movies off.

The following day continued much as the previous afternoon, we didn't get to see a huge amount of scenery from the road although there were a stunning amount of birds of prey to be seen circling overhead. Twice during the day the bus stopped, we were asked to get off, and then the bus was taken away for cleaning. Going from an air conditioned coach into the stifling Mexican heat was quite an experience, the temperature reaching over 30 degrees during the day.

In the late afternoon we finally reached Mazatlan, so we jumped into a taxi and made our way to our new hostel. The owner greeted us with the news that he was going away for a few days so he would be leaving his mum in charge, which worked out well for us. The hostel itself was absolutely lovely, not really a hostel in the true sense, we had a suite to ourselves, with air conditioning and ceiling fan, a well equipped kitchen including a fridge, and a seating area with TV. All for about $25 a night. There was also a large shaded atrium, and a computer/reading room. And it was just 3 blocks from the beach.

We asked the owner for a restaurant recommendation as we were starving and he suggested a seafood cafe on the waterfront 5 minutes away, so we dropped our heavy bags down and without even stopping for a shower we walked out into the night to find our dinner. The recommendation was a good one, and for about $10 we had shrimp tacos, nachos with salsa, and beer. Not without reason does Mazatlan claim to be the shrimp capital of the Mexico.

The following day we visited the local aquarium, a curious mix of local fish and more exotic exhibits. Whilst the tanks and museum (containing several complete skeletons of wales, seals and marlin) were interesting, we more curious about some of the displays in the aquariums gardens. One giant sea lion seemed intent on making a break for freedom, and had clambered on top of a flight of stairs used by the staff. They didn't seem too concerned, so we wandered in the opposite direction.

Gemma attempted to feed a sting ray, but may have been put off by my screaming "look out he's coming for you" and dropped the food. In fairness one of them did for Steve Irwin, proving that they have no respect for reputations, so I congratulated myself on saving my girlfriends life through my heroic early warning. I am still awaiting my commendation and invitation to meet Prince Charles, but I suspect it shouldn't be far away.

Elsewhere the gardens contained a couple of crocodile enclosures, an aviary and a disturbingly small cage with two of the most forlorn, depressed looking racoons I have ever seen, which rather took the edge of our enjoyment. Up until then we had been reasonably impressed with the state of the care these creatures had been kept in. The aviary wasn't much better, although we did see a large parrot manage to open a hole in the wire cage with his beak so he could fit through. But not for him a break for freedom, he was trying to get back inside. Maybe he'd been out on day release.

The following day we ventured to the old town. Catching a bus from our hostel, we paid a few pence to be driven at breakneck speed through the traffic towards our destination. Unfortunately there was no indication of where we wanted to go (to the cathedral) and my rudimentary attempts to ask directions failed to yield results. Given how close the word cathedral is in English and Spanish, and that my later attempts to say where is such and such (donde es) worked fine, I'm still a little aggrieved at not getting anywhere. So instead we found a nice little square and sat down in the shade as the midday sun tried to burn us to a crisp.

However, we did discover a baseball game being played in town. We both felt disappointed at not being able to catch one in the US, so we decided to make up for that. We walked across town as darkness fell, the humidity sapping our strength somewhat, but eventually found the stadium. We paid a little over £4 to get into the best section in the house and sat down with a cold drink to enjoy our first ever baseball game, Mexican style.

Mazatlan is apparently an indigenous word meaning "place of the deer", so the local side were named appropriately the Mazatlan Venados. But these guys weren't the meek little bambi variety, they were vicious stags, and they trampled all over their opponents, the Los Mochis Parrots. After the first innings (there were 9 in all) the score was 5-1 to the Venados, and despite a small fightback in the middle of the game the home side ran away with the game, finishing 13-5.

During the game we tried to work out some of the rules. The basics were fairly simple, but we didn't quite manage to figure out some of the finer points. But despite that we both had an enjoyable evening, watching a new sport, sampling some local cuisine (a strange chorizo that is diced up and smothered in lime juice and three different sauces, that all fight for your attention by stripping your tastebuds) and I even ended up with a new t-shirt adorned with the Venados logo. So despite sending several items of clothing home from California I've ended up refilling my bag.

The following day we returned to the coach station for overnight journey to Mexico City. Our hostel owners mother, furious that the taxi driver had charged us £3 to get to hostel, kindly drove us there instead. We said our farewells and hastily went to check in, desperate to get inside the air conditioned terminal. Unfortunately we found that our bus was delayed by 3 hours, so we made ourselves comfortable and picked up our books. At 8pm we went outside to check on the progress, but there was no sign of the bus. It finally turned up at 9pm, 4 hours late.

The journey was fairly uneventful, there were few stops and as the bus was more empty than full we spread out, reclined our seats back and fell asleep. Until the horror movie came on. Minutes passed in silence (the film was mercifully short of dialogue), suddenly punctuated by horrific blood curdling screams. I muttered a curse in the general direction of Hollywood, stuck my headphones in and fell asleep to the rather more pleasant sounds of Rodrigo y Gabriella, a pair of Mexican acoustic guitarists.

In the morning we made an unscheduled stop in the middle of the countryside so the driver could grab a coffee. There were a number of shabby children hanging around the stop, their parents selling used old clothing or bags of nuts. Gemma followed the other passengers lead, making a gift of some spare biscuits we had. We reboarded and eventually arrived in Mexico City only 3 hours behind schedule, so credit to the driver for making up a whole hour.

Gemma's Mini American Blog

We have been in America for just over two weeks now and plan to go to Mexico tomorrow. I have enjoyed California, particularly San Diego, and will be sad to say goodbye.

Constantly moving on was becoming tiring so when we arrived here in San Diego we just stopped for a while, we were on holiday from our holiday. It has been great to relax, the last two hostels were not great for different reasons but here we have had some space to unwind and catch up on a few chores and with friends and family.

California itself is very like how I had imagined it - hot, friendly and big, with very few exceptions. What I didn't imagine were the extremes - most people here are not obese, I think the problem is worse in London, however I have seen many chunkies so fat that they really struggle to walk. Apart from the fattest people I have ever met, I've also met the campest, the craziest, the loudest, the friendliest and the most desperate.

I thought everything here would seem very false but that has not been the case - people genuinely want you to "have a nice day!". I am really impressed by the respect people show one another. Passengers on public transport hold conversations with each other for the entire journey without having met each other before and unlikely to meet again. And what's more, they genuinely seem interested in each other. I have also seen so many examples people helping out strangers that I can't even begin to remember them all let alone write them down. I have also seen so many more beggars and destitute people than ever before. The irony is that you seem to need to be in a position where you can be the giver or receiver of aid before either of these things happen.

Mexico is just 17 miles away, but it feels as though we will be taking the biggest step in our journey so far as we leave behind the security of the western world that we know and begin to venture into the new - new language, new people, new culture.

Exciting!

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.