Aisle seat 29G, somewhere between LA and London time..

I have been upgraded to Economy Plus.

This has never happened to me before – probably something to do with the cheap airlines I frequent on which customers scramble to the boarding gate early to seat themselves as opposed to the composed seat assignment carried out by Virgin and Continental. Nothing is different in this compartment except for having a bit more leg room and a softer complementary blanket, but it still improved my mood no end to know that a system or a person someplace had found me worthy of promotion. Hell yeah!

I nibble on the last perishable trace of my dwindling Californian dream-life in the form of a moist slice of Starbucks marble cake. In each chocolate and vanilla mouthful the dark and dawn of future and past become a miscible mess I am forced to swallow. The taste of a mere five hours ago is already crumbling into memory, a bolus of bittersweet highs which will slowly be digested and dispersed to settle in the cells of my body, a layer of life like the rings in a tree trunk. If they cut me open in years to come, perhaps they’ll find a slice of my heart missing. I left a piece of it in California.

I had a bruise on my left thigh when I left the terminal; will it still be there when I land in England? I press it gingerly. The dull pain has not left me yet.

I’m utterly convinced that being 35,000 ft above the world makes you hungrier. Two weeks of alternating In-n-Out burgers with 28-hour periods of starvation saw me beg for leftovers from the flight attendant. Much to the indignation of the human mountain next to me, I was granted not only a stale bread roll, but a whole additional in-flight meal of soft beef and briny mash. Point being I polished this off barely two hours ago and felt saturated with food, and yet already my tummy is growling at me for more..

But with every pick at the remaining marble cake something tugs at my insides that is not hunger. I am slowly but surely sending the cake to navigate my inner self and confining it to the walls of my stomach, as intangible soon as my memories are to me now. Beyond my grasp, an inaccessible womb of shoots and flowers which never bore fruit.

I hope you are both asleep somewhere, anywhere, on your onward journey. I hope you will forget me with just as much difficulty as I will forget you.

In Vegas we saw the largest moon the modern world has known: as obscene in the sky as our pupils in our eager eyes. Slivers of brown and green. We wandered the dusty Strip where America’s oddities swarm together, arrogantly revelling in our own youth and beauty by comparison and recoiling from – while simultaneously indulging in – the intense falsity which saturates, indeed built and buttresses, this patch of the Nevada desert. At 04:45, the first alarming signs of pink appear above the mountain peaks (mountains we forgot were there, such is the Vegas bubble), and we scramble back into the dark mouth of the plastic city, having reached its outer edges. But the lights shine just as brightly in daytime; the music stays impossibly loud and positive, the promises of a big win boom from hotel fronts with identical conviction. People continue to gamble and gambol in absurd clothing where the dream would normally fade: heat creeps up and natural sunlight challenges the artificial glare to expose these maggots in full glory. The emerging horror of Vegas in daylight sent us running from this unpalatable parade, into the nearest newspaper taxi and back to the hotel (where we closed our curtains to the fake world and faked nighttime again for some peace and sleep). Vegas is a wonderfully hollow, shallow world of endless partying, but as a young person, it’s pretty depressing after a few days. The leopard print, the bridal gowns, the fake boobs, the call girls, the middle-aged and the fat, the impoverished old man at the street corner in a party hat, the rowdiness – it’s all too much to deal with if you allow yourself a single thought outside of this party box. The misery of realisation would be thick in the air, but it has long since been pushed away as its inhabitants replenish hope and high spirits through an endless cycle of artificiality. I look at the soles of my bare feet on which I foolishly walked around all night; they are rimmed with black dirt from the pavement. Our dreams are made of gold, but in the end it’s all dust.

Afternoon arrives like stale chocolate that sticks to our teeth. We call reception to plead checkout extra time and stumble through showers, packing and three chewing gums apiece. We spend the next 27 hours persuading E-Z (NB: far from it) to allow a broke, exhausted 19-year-old to man one of their cars, and eventually leave with keys to a white Land Rover type thing after spending half the night half asleep on the floor.

We cruise along to our next destination, Joshua Tree National Park, breathing a collective sigh of contentment as we munch on burgers and crunchy peanut butter and Pringles, the wind whistling through the holes Vegas punched in our chests. We camp overnight and wake up far too early but refreshed and somewhat recuperated. After a wash in the water taps we hike to a rocky point across rough terrain and deep sand, comfortable in just underwear in the epic silent surroundings and empty 40 degree C heat. I snapped my sunglasses by accident and we inscribed our names in the wooden wall of a disused hut. Your wolf cries echoed across miles and miles of stick plants and albino lizards and hot breath. We barely made it three miles. We did not see any Joshua Trees.

I don’t think what we’ve been living has been real. How can such an experience be anything but exactly that: a tangent from reality, an extended holiday, a sabbatical? We were living on borrowed time; we knew this from the beginning. Grains of sand granted to us with the omnipresent threat of the egg-timer, running through our very fingers to the sea. Such is the dilemma: reality and responsibility beckon and call from a distance while the bubble of impossible happiness pokes fun like Peter Pan’s naughty shadow. Eventually the chase loses momentum and the gap is closed; the two merge, but are irreconcilable for now.

I’ll think of you on this plane – all those I have met, whose tapestries wove with mine, whose footprints I stepped in as we hunted for crabs and stuck our fingers in the sea anemones on the shores of La Jolla. We are all just children really and you, my darling, are the softest of all. We are all just children in the sea, getting stung by jellyfish and glowing in phosphorescence and hardening ourselves to the world. Like hermit crabs we lived from homes we carried on our backs. We drank each other’s company and drank to our good fortune and consumed the pure hopeful vitality around us.

And now how to continue I just don’t know.

visit my fellow Chris McCandless: http://unapologeticfilth.tumblr.com/

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Spring breakaway

So here I am again: I find myself back in frisky Frisco, $35 and 5.5 hours later.

My driver is Stephanie, a petite, charmingly crude final year student with devilish blue eyes and a wicked sense of humour. We are taking another passenger, a guy who is silent half the time and has his phone glued to his ear the rest. We wait for someone else who fails to show, before setting our things in the boot and getting the hell out of SB. Stephanie apologises for her frequent outbursts towards other drivers as she folds one bare foot under her leg, putting the car into autocruise. ‘Fuck!’ she exclaims. Fuck: a dirty word that comes out clean. She’s brilliant.

I sleep for most of the journey, curled in the back with the sun on my face. I have been so restless to leave Santa Barbara; exams have been such a long time coming, and sleep has recently evaded me for these reasons and more besides. I feel myself physically relaxing as the small town streets give way to moorish, moreish mountains ahead. I am stretched across two seats like a loungeroom lizard, watching the road and the possibilities open out like a dusty map. It’s been too long!

I emerge from my doze some time later to find that we are already just south of the city and we arrive at my hostel soon afterwards. Stephanie sketches me a map and shades in an area called the Tenderloin – ‘for fuck’s sake don’t walk around here at night’ – and with a farewell I am left alone with my backpack once more. I head straight out, keen to catch what remains of the evening and on a total high just to be in the fairground that is San Francisco. I stroll along Geary St, buy a pack of cigarettes and some Famous Amos cookies and bask for a while outside a supermarket. I buy a cinema ticket to see some romantic comedy and kill the hour till its commencing reading The Dharma Bums; I watch the world go by from a diner window on the corner of Geary and Van Ness, content as content can be.

After the film I stay up talking to a girl in my dorm who happens to originate from a small English town very near where I grew up. Perfect time to say it’s a small world, and believe me, Gloucester’s that place where everybody knows everybody. Probably the only reason we don’t have mutual acquaintances is because she’s 26. Anyway, she has spent the past five years since graduating as a nurse roaming the lonely planet; she emigrated to Australia, found work easily and never looked back. She told me stories of Mardi Gras in Sao Paulo and New Orleans, of the friends she made in Indonesia, the annoying patients she gets in A&E. It was a sparky and inspiring exchange; we talked for nearly two hours before conking out on our adjacent beds. My pillow was so comfortable that even my right ear, still sore from the piercing, could be pressed to it.

I am hurled from a dream at 08:30 the next morning before stumbling down the hostel stairs to the basement kitchen for my complementary breakfast (no way I am missing out on that, since the price per night has already shot up from $23 to $33 since my previous stay – damn Spring Break prices). I gobble a few rounds of Nutella on toast and fruit salad, the Black Keys blaring from the communal radio and a news reporter cheerfully informing me from the telly that my weekend visit would be blessed with a perfect, clear-skied 70 degrees F (20 degrees C ish). Electrified, I dress and unleash myself on the streets.

Heading straight down Geary towards Union Square this time, I change my mind halfway after deciding it is much too sunny a day to waste in the Museum of Modern Art; that could wait until evening. Instead I hop the bus to Castro. Said ‘bus’ is a fat, nut-brown, 1930s caterpillar, emblazoned with sickening green lettering proudly declaring its years in service and juddery as anything. The driver, who also served as conductor, has a face like a smiling walnut and a uniform to match the bus’ colour scheme. He has probably been driving it since its birth, for all I know – he blends with it that well. Seeing that I don’t have the required exact change for the greedy ticket machine, he stuffs a ticket in my hand regardless, crinkling his eyes and telling me not to worry. This makes me feel disproportionately happy; I proceed to smile at everyone on the bus, the whole mismatched bunch of them. There are greying dreadlocked hippy bums (living anachronisms), wide-eyed toddlers, the odd gay couple, huge Spanish-speaking gaggles; a softly mewling baby strapped to its daddy’s chest. I worry I’ve missed my stop until I remember just how iconic the Castro district is. Rainbow flags adorn the store-fronts; everything is brilliantly coloured like someone tipped paint all over it, and people stroll around looking so happy and carefree. I visit Harvey Milk’s original shop, which now serves the interests of the Equal Rights Campaign. I buy a rubber wristband in support of the cause, send a postcard bearing a single ‘kiss from the Castro’ and explore the messy art shops – where I contemplate buying acrylic, a quill, some ink – I enjoy the incense floating from a Tibetan cafe and observe a corner house with pretty creepers weaving up its egg-blue walls. I finally settle on a sunny bench to eat yesterday’s leftover club sandwich and an apple.

The afternoon sees me back on that ole bus and wandering through Chinatown snapping away with my camera. I contemplate trading in my cheap digital for a bunch of disposables, the effects of which I much prefer, at a camera shop near 3rd St – but eventually I decide not to. I don’t remember why. I purchase student entry to the MOMA and browse Garry Winegrand, Tracey Emin, Damien Hirst and Matisse exhibitions, to name but a few. I have since had a sudden urge to lie in a white room and have someone fling colour and noise at me from all directions until I morph into the stuff. How else can one become part of San Francisco? How to merge with this place so as never to truly leave..?! Levels of ecstasy are skyscraper-high; eye-level a frantic picture of Starbucks and camera shops and galleries and wheelchairs, everything is so old and new at the same time, it’s brilliantly confusing to the brain as it tries to align itself chronologically. An impossible task in this place. And the people – is there anyone ‘ordinary’ in SF? I am yet to meet someone here who fits this description; it’s a big bizarre plate with something for every wacky palate out there, and it attracts and steals the hearts of them all.

Cream-crackered and brain-drained, I traipse back to Isadora Duncan Lane to the rhythms of Exile on Main St. and sprawl on the bed for a while. I strongly consider napping there and then, but hunger gnaws, and the craving for Mexican food kicks in. A chicken burrito and some salsa chips later, I am wandering south of Union Square and find my eye hooked by a busy Google stand in the shopping centre – FREEBIES! After selling my soul on a personal info spreadsheet, I am rewarded with a special pen and a Google+ sweatband (I’m already excited to try this out in the gym upon my return to Santa Barbara). Wahooooo, spreading capitalism one bead of sweat at a time.

But I am out of there soon enough, because browsing through the likes of H&M, Abercrombie and Aerie feels genuinely wrong in SF. It so favours the alternative, the niche; nothing like central London where Starbucks, Caffe Nero, Pret and Costa Coffees dominate every street. With this in mind, I decide that the next day will be dedicated to exploring my favourite Haight-Ashbury district.

the tram
the tram

the old bus to Castro
the old bus to Castro
a mural on Market St
a mural on Market St

Thus Saturday morning dawns warm over the sparkling city, and I am found taking a cautious accordion bus to Haight-Ashbury. I have to make do with observing the closed shops for half an hour – I should’ve guessed that those who work here appreciate their lie-ins. After much browsing around for a cheap ladies’ watch, unsuccessfully haggling for a nice one without a battery priced at a steep $38 and about to give up, I finally stumble across a little place which is so narrow it is easy to miss. The door is only about 3 feet wide. I ease down this skinny store to the counter and purchase an equally skinny $14.99 watch which seems to be ticking away. Happiness.

I spend the rest of the day enjoying the clear sunlight, ice lolly in one hand and The Dharma Bums in the other, on the small patch of grass by Union Square. I also take a wander through the Financial District, and realise there is little of interest there except for a rather cute street market. As I resist a tie-dye merchandise stall, I think about my increasing knowledge of the city’s layout and realise that what disorientates me about ole San Francisco is that you enter through the south of the city – at least when coming from SB. The great magnetic sea of the Bay pulls you upwards; you are constantly climbing impractical streets built on steep hills, and ‘downtown’ is quite literally a descent. The magical gateway to London which I usually take, by contrast, is from the north-west, and living north of the Thames carving its way through the centre means that I am mentally gravitated south. It’s just interesting how whenever exploring a new city, the brain has to come to terms with unfamiliar patterns, forging new neurological pathways over the old maps it has grown used to.

My final day in SF is a rizla-width short of disaster. After some major confusion on both ends regarding my Zimride lift back to SB, it dawns on me that I am not getting back today unless I  find someone else to drive me quick-sharp. I end up falling into the friendly hands of those manning a backpackers’ help spot, a wonderfully large, cool, softly-lit building where travellers can safely leave their luggage before check-in, use the free wifi and generally just seek advice. I collapse onto a sofa which hugs me and am offered tea and a pile of cakes which I am too stressed to eat; however, an hour or so and lots of messaging later and I have found myself another ride. $50 to Santa Barbara that very evening, and he turns out to be an awesome guy too.

Tristan, a 31-year-old law student with a face like my favourite primary school teacher, picks me up from Oakland where I eat the worst Burger King in history and make friends with an ex-Navy officer who takes my UK address to add me to his list of pen pals. We hit the 101 fast and are conversing easily for almost the entire 6-hour journey, with intermittent naps on my part. We share stories and tacos along the way and in the end I am happy that my other ride didn’t work out because Tristan is a really swell guy. He has a lot of dry humour up his sleeve and turns out to be extremely intelligent, having studied at Detroit, then Cambridge and now Berkeley. We talk politics and comedians and English mannerisms and the problems with affirmative action.

I arrive exhausted for the next leg of my journey, an overnight stay at a friend’s near campus. San Francisco has wrung me out, and I am now ready for my retreat into nature, which commences tomorrow.

Chinatown
Chinatown
Transamerica Pyramid
Transamerica Pyramid
Haight-Ashbury
Haight-Ashbury
moon rising above Union Square
moon rising above Union Square
a Union Square sculpture
a Union Square sculpture