Howdy pardners. Wow, man, what a trip, as they used to say in Haight-Ashbury (which I visited - somewhat disappointing, but it was only 10 in the morning). I have taken 8 flights and racked up 13,500 miles of air travel in the space of 18 days. I can get my gear on and off at airport security faster than the Hockenheim pitstop team.
I toured the Hollywood homes of the stars, and now have the home addresses of Jack Nicholson, Julia Roberts, Meg Ryan, Eddie Murphy, George Clooney, and somebody called Lindsay Lohan. Our tour bus driver was a garrulous Italian called Marco who sounded like a cross between Frankie Dettori and Chico Marx, and practically wet himself every time he told us the value of a particular house, which went up by about $10m every time, punctuated with "No baddah?". I made the mistake of telling him I was from Brussels (only because he asked). We then had to make a detour via Jean-Claude Van Damme's house. I wish I'd told him I was from Bangla Desh. The most impressive home, I thought, was Mae West's tiny pink stucco villa right on Hollywood Boulevard. When I got home I looked her up. Google said she lived in an art-deco apartment building from 1930 until her death in 1980. I don't know whose pink stucco villa it was. By the time we had wound around Mulholland Drive, Benedict Canyon, Beverly Hills and Rodeo Drive (where Marco practically ejaculated as he pointed out a $600,000 Rolls-Royce) and Bel-Air, I was feeling rather sick. If you must do a tour of the homes of the stars, I suggest you hire a car and buy a map. He said Jack Nicholson could be very irascible if he bumped into any of the Star Homes tours. I hope he bumps into Marco one day, that would definitely be no baddah.
I tried all the local dishes - every kind of breakfast imaginable, from pancakes with maple syrup to eggs benedict, I had won ton soup in San Francisco's Chinatown, a pastrami on rye sandwich from Phil's Deli in Los Angeles, BBQ ribs and beans in Santa Fe, and a McDonald's in Vegas. I now know a tamale from a burrito, and a taco from an enchilada. As predicted, I didn't take much to mole.
It's a dude ranch, dude
I've met both cowboys and indians, and been photographed sandwiched between a Navajo and a Comanche.
Handsome Navajo - Rosbeef - Comanche Woman
I've been complimented four times on my 20 euro jade green plastic watch, been entertained by Russian rockabillies and sympathised with Homer Simpson while watching the Cirque du Soleil. I have seen the Glide Memorial Church in San Francisco ("The Pursuit of Happyness", anyone?), holy dirt in Chimayo, New Mexico, and chatted to the Glaswegian pastor of the famous San Francisco de Asis adobe church in Taos, as immortalized by Georgia O'Keeffe and now by me.
Georgia O'Keeffe's version
Mine
I had a stinking cold in San Francisco. My lips dried out in the desert and I trashed my feet in both LA and Vegas.
Trashed feet resting in Vegas
I agonized over the tipping culture. It was explained to me quite late into my stay that restaurant staff only make about $2.50 an hour so they rely on tips. I then met a bartender in Vegas who earned $10 an hour. Cassie, my San Francisco guru, advised me to tip anyone who was in a position to do me a service. But surely, if they're employed to open the doors of the hotel, it's not a service, it's their job? The standard tipping rate is a whopping 15-20% ! But they are so polite they smile and say thank you, even if you don't tip. So ultimately it came down to "Are they ever likely to see me again?"
Ditto buskers, beggars and homeless people, of which there were so many it was depressing. Charidee begins at home, after all, and I did not want to deprive McChe of his rightful inheritance. But I did notice that, just as big gas-guzzling cars are two-a-penny over there, even the American homeless drive the equivalent of a 4x4, moving their rags and rubbish about in outsize supermarket trolleys. The buskers were of such a high quality it was frightening. The tapdancer by the Powell Street cable car terminal probably makes more money than he would on Broadway.
I've shopped at Walgreen's and K-Mart, Barnes & Noble and Trader Joe's, and the City Lights bookstore in San Francisco. I've driven stick shift in New Mexico. I WALKED after sunset in Los Angeles, people. I have seen the Grand Canyon from a helicopter. I am quite fearless. I met two Canadian gels from British Columbia, a couple of Aussies from the Gold Coast, and an Ethiopian taxi driver - all in Vegas. Mighty friendly town.
I brought back a Chinese straw stetson (Walgreen's, $5.99), a pair of K-Mart granny's jeans, an peace pipe, some Indian silver earrings, a copy of Rolling Stone and two CD's of Igor and the Red Elvises.
Y'all can wish me a happy birthday tomorrow. I'm going (not flying) to Bruges to meet Madame Defarge and her Monsieur, for a celebratory lunch and some sightseeing.
Meanwhile I'll leave you with Igor and the Red Elvises, who played a stonking set in Taos. Watching the American kids jumping all over the dancefloor and the Russians obviously enjoying themselves enormously, I turned to Smoking Squaw McGraw and said:
"I think we can assume the Cold War is now definitively over."
(Get a load of the giant balalaika-bass guitar.)
I toured the Hollywood homes of the stars, and now have the home addresses of Jack Nicholson, Julia Roberts, Meg Ryan, Eddie Murphy, George Clooney, and somebody called Lindsay Lohan. Our tour bus driver was a garrulous Italian called Marco who sounded like a cross between Frankie Dettori and Chico Marx, and practically wet himself every time he told us the value of a particular house, which went up by about $10m every time, punctuated with "No baddah?". I made the mistake of telling him I was from Brussels (only because he asked). We then had to make a detour via Jean-Claude Van Damme's house. I wish I'd told him I was from Bangla Desh. The most impressive home, I thought, was Mae West's tiny pink stucco villa right on Hollywood Boulevard. When I got home I looked her up. Google said she lived in an art-deco apartment building from 1930 until her death in 1980. I don't know whose pink stucco villa it was. By the time we had wound around Mulholland Drive, Benedict Canyon, Beverly Hills and Rodeo Drive (where Marco practically ejaculated as he pointed out a $600,000 Rolls-Royce) and Bel-Air, I was feeling rather sick. If you must do a tour of the homes of the stars, I suggest you hire a car and buy a map. He said Jack Nicholson could be very irascible if he bumped into any of the Star Homes tours. I hope he bumps into Marco one day, that would definitely be no baddah.
I tried all the local dishes - every kind of breakfast imaginable, from pancakes with maple syrup to eggs benedict, I had won ton soup in San Francisco's Chinatown, a pastrami on rye sandwich from Phil's Deli in Los Angeles, BBQ ribs and beans in Santa Fe, and a McDonald's in Vegas. I now know a tamale from a burrito, and a taco from an enchilada. As predicted, I didn't take much to mole.
It's a dude ranch, dudeI've met both cowboys and indians, and been photographed sandwiched between a Navajo and a Comanche.
Handsome Navajo - Rosbeef - Comanche WomanI've been complimented four times on my 20 euro jade green plastic watch, been entertained by Russian rockabillies and sympathised with Homer Simpson while watching the Cirque du Soleil. I have seen the Glide Memorial Church in San Francisco ("The Pursuit of Happyness", anyone?), holy dirt in Chimayo, New Mexico, and chatted to the Glaswegian pastor of the famous San Francisco de Asis adobe church in Taos, as immortalized by Georgia O'Keeffe and now by me.
Georgia O'Keeffe's version
Mine
I had a stinking cold in San Francisco. My lips dried out in the desert and I trashed my feet in both LA and Vegas.
Trashed feet resting in VegasI agonized over the tipping culture. It was explained to me quite late into my stay that restaurant staff only make about $2.50 an hour so they rely on tips. I then met a bartender in Vegas who earned $10 an hour. Cassie, my San Francisco guru, advised me to tip anyone who was in a position to do me a service. But surely, if they're employed to open the doors of the hotel, it's not a service, it's their job? The standard tipping rate is a whopping 15-20% ! But they are so polite they smile and say thank you, even if you don't tip. So ultimately it came down to "Are they ever likely to see me again?"
Ditto buskers, beggars and homeless people, of which there were so many it was depressing. Charidee begins at home, after all, and I did not want to deprive McChe of his rightful inheritance. But I did notice that, just as big gas-guzzling cars are two-a-penny over there, even the American homeless drive the equivalent of a 4x4, moving their rags and rubbish about in outsize supermarket trolleys. The buskers were of such a high quality it was frightening. The tapdancer by the Powell Street cable car terminal probably makes more money than he would on Broadway.
I've shopped at Walgreen's and K-Mart, Barnes & Noble and Trader Joe's, and the City Lights bookstore in San Francisco. I've driven stick shift in New Mexico. I WALKED after sunset in Los Angeles, people. I have seen the Grand Canyon from a helicopter. I am quite fearless. I met two Canadian gels from British Columbia, a couple of Aussies from the Gold Coast, and an Ethiopian taxi driver - all in Vegas. Mighty friendly town.
I brought back a Chinese straw stetson (Walgreen's, $5.99), a pair of K-Mart granny's jeans, an peace pipe, some Indian silver earrings, a copy of Rolling Stone and two CD's of Igor and the Red Elvises.
Y'all can wish me a happy birthday tomorrow. I'm going (not flying) to Bruges to meet Madame Defarge and her Monsieur, for a celebratory lunch and some sightseeing.
Meanwhile I'll leave you with Igor and the Red Elvises, who played a stonking set in Taos. Watching the American kids jumping all over the dancefloor and the Russians obviously enjoying themselves enormously, I turned to Smoking Squaw McGraw and said:
"I think we can assume the Cold War is now definitively over."
(Get a load of the giant balalaika-bass guitar.)
