Ahhh, Auckland airport. It's like a sixth home to me now (given that Vancouver is like a second, and so forth). I am sitting at the exact same internet terminal I used to write my Da Vinci machines blog many days ago. The trip down to Big Sur was great. Spectacular coastlines, about two hundred radio stations to choose from in the car and even a trip to Hearst family's San Simeon ranch, which was the 1920s version of Neverland, zoo and all.
Of course the return to the airport was another experience again. American roads are like science fiction - overpasses and flyways curl in intricate knots, linesof traffic seem tofly above you, criss crossing mid air, plus there are some of the largest and most absurd cars ever driven by human hand. The landscape of roadways, which on the outskirts of a city like San Fran goes for miles and miles and MILES, is pretty gross in terms of the amount of concrete and the sheer absence of nature but it's not entirely ugly. But it does feel more like the Jetsons than real life.
I had hoped to see my last sunset over the Pacific. Nuh uh, there was fog that evening. So my last California sunset was seen over the outer suburbs of San Francisco, on the airtrain from the hire car garage to the international terminal, gleaming off electricity pylons rather than ocean waves.
It's an interesting place, America. It has its mixture of beautiful and ugly, like anywhere, and I can see how if you ended up in the burbs without the money to go to the touristy areas I was visiting it could become a vision of Hell, like the illustrations to a modern translation of Dante's inferno I saw in City Lights bookstore, with the circles of Hell represented as an urban wasteland of strip malls, car wrecks and rampant advertising.
But then I've seen some of the most beautiful landscape I've seen anywhere - for me Mt Robson in Canada stands with Uluru as a sight so beautiful its effect is like an emotion. The west coast cities - San Fran, Seattle, Portland, Victoria, Vancouver - are as cool as it gets, really. Some things in America are like they leapt out of a TV screen or a movie, but on the other hand it is really quite different to the way we see it in Australia.
On the whole, I loved it over there. Mind you, there was an amazing feeling of relief to get on the plane last night and hear New Zealand and Aussie accents around me. When I got off in Auckland and heard Missie Higgins playing, then I knew I was coming home.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Sunday, October 08, 2006
A Grand Unveiling
In between hanging out in Portland and rushing down the coast to hang out in San Fran, I decided to do one last big "sight" one last big "attraction" to add to my photo collection. In 1980, local volcano Mt St Helens blew up, flattening the forest for miles, killing a number of people, spewing vast clouds of ash into the sky turning day to night and laying the seeds for bad movies like Pierce Brosnan's "Dante's Peak." For a long time there has been only half a mountain there, with a big crater where the top went boom, but recently the volcano has started to grow again inside the crater. I just had to see it.
I travelled up there in a minibus with a German goth called Marcel, a British backpacker called Rob, a guy called Larry from Florida and half a cruise boat of tourists from Illinois. As we drove the guide passed back photos of the devastation in 1980 and played recordings of 911 calls from the day of the disaster. Anticipation was building. We entered the "blast zone",about 15 km out from the mountain where everything had been flattened and shattered stumps and trees splintered like matchsticks remained among the regrowth. The ground was not dirt here but ash, with layers of pumice.
Unfortunately the higher we went, the worse the visibility became as what began as an atmospheric mist wreathing among the splintered trees turned into a full-grade pea-soup fog.
It still had its charms, as Marcel the goth pointed out, but for a mountain viewing tour the absence of a mountain kinda stood out. The tour got restless. The guide got apologetic and a bit depressed.
We conferred and decided to wait it out to see if the clouds would break up. Luckily they had a visitor centre up on the ridge that faces the crater, where normally the view would have been. For a while, we amused ourselves with stories of survivors, multimedia exhibits, shattered tree stumps and so forth. Pride of place was a cinema, which showed a movie using what looked like digital reconstructions of the blast based on photographs taken in 1980, followed by some SFX of the fiery wind tearing through trees and then some actual footage. For the finale, which being in America had a LOT of portentous leadup, the screen rolled into the roof and the curtains at the back of the cinema rolled open to reveal windows looking out onto the awe-inspiring sight of....
... nothing. Just pure fog. It was like the Nothing in the Neverending Story.
"It's all gone," someone said, "the whole thing blew up."
"There never was a mountain. It's a conspiracy!"
Eventually, defeated, we drove back down. I will never know how awe-inspiring that unveiling was meant to be. When it happened, I personally LMAO.
No more sights then, unless you include the people on the late night Greyhound down to San Francisco, who were admittedly almost as good value as a trip to the zoo. It was a long bus ride, and I was just on the short 17-hour leg from Portland. There were people who'd been on the bus for 2 days, even one lady the whole 4 days from New York City. This on a bus with no leg room to stretch out, no curtains on the windows so you could sleep at night and an onboard toilet that didn't appear to flush but just sloshed around in the back. I recalled the remark from the hotel clerk in Seattle who said that after four days to New York City, you debussed looking and smelling just like the locals.
San Fran, so cruisy when I came through, is now in the middle of "Fleet Week". That's right, it's when all the navy and the airforce and everyone come to town and are celebrated, and fighter jets roar back and forth over the city like some kind of friendly Operation Shock and Awe. Looking at some of the faces around me when the ear-splitting jets roar over, it might still be too soon for some, hearing low-flying planes in the city.
So much for a cruisy couple of days hanging out in San Fran. With the last of my dwindling resources I am setting off for one more, just one more sight, hiring a car for my last two days and taking it down to Big Sur. Wish me luck, the traffic is gnarly out there...
I travelled up there in a minibus with a German goth called Marcel, a British backpacker called Rob, a guy called Larry from Florida and half a cruise boat of tourists from Illinois. As we drove the guide passed back photos of the devastation in 1980 and played recordings of 911 calls from the day of the disaster. Anticipation was building. We entered the "blast zone",about 15 km out from the mountain where everything had been flattened and shattered stumps and trees splintered like matchsticks remained among the regrowth. The ground was not dirt here but ash, with layers of pumice.
Unfortunately the higher we went, the worse the visibility became as what began as an atmospheric mist wreathing among the splintered trees turned into a full-grade pea-soup fog.
It still had its charms, as Marcel the goth pointed out, but for a mountain viewing tour the absence of a mountain kinda stood out. The tour got restless. The guide got apologetic and a bit depressed.
We conferred and decided to wait it out to see if the clouds would break up. Luckily they had a visitor centre up on the ridge that faces the crater, where normally the view would have been. For a while, we amused ourselves with stories of survivors, multimedia exhibits, shattered tree stumps and so forth. Pride of place was a cinema, which showed a movie using what looked like digital reconstructions of the blast based on photographs taken in 1980, followed by some SFX of the fiery wind tearing through trees and then some actual footage. For the finale, which being in America had a LOT of portentous leadup, the screen rolled into the roof and the curtains at the back of the cinema rolled open to reveal windows looking out onto the awe-inspiring sight of....
... nothing. Just pure fog. It was like the Nothing in the Neverending Story.
"It's all gone," someone said, "the whole thing blew up."
"There never was a mountain. It's a conspiracy!"
Eventually, defeated, we drove back down. I will never know how awe-inspiring that unveiling was meant to be. When it happened, I personally LMAO.
No more sights then, unless you include the people on the late night Greyhound down to San Francisco, who were admittedly almost as good value as a trip to the zoo. It was a long bus ride, and I was just on the short 17-hour leg from Portland. There were people who'd been on the bus for 2 days, even one lady the whole 4 days from New York City. This on a bus with no leg room to stretch out, no curtains on the windows so you could sleep at night and an onboard toilet that didn't appear to flush but just sloshed around in the back. I recalled the remark from the hotel clerk in Seattle who said that after four days to New York City, you debussed looking and smelling just like the locals.
San Fran, so cruisy when I came through, is now in the middle of "Fleet Week". That's right, it's when all the navy and the airforce and everyone come to town and are celebrated, and fighter jets roar back and forth over the city like some kind of friendly Operation Shock and Awe. Looking at some of the faces around me when the ear-splitting jets roar over, it might still be too soon for some, hearing low-flying planes in the city.
So much for a cruisy couple of days hanging out in San Fran. With the last of my dwindling resources I am setting off for one more, just one more sight, hiring a car for my last two days and taking it down to Big Sur. Wish me luck, the traffic is gnarly out there...
Thursday, October 05, 2006
The Real America
After a couple of days in Seattle, I boarded a greyhound again. A packed one this time, for a really authentic American travel experience. South of Seattle, with its bookstores, wonders in blown glass and lively music scene, you hit Tacoma, with the steel greey Tacoma Dome, advertising "cage fights" and a bus-stop out the front of the Bullseye Pistol Range. Ahhh, now this is America.
Behind me I'm hearing these two guys have a conversation.
"So, do you know anyone who would be into like, buying illegal weapons? It's a traditional mace, it's really nice. I'd keep it, but I'm trying to get an apartment with my girlfriend and..."
"Yeah, movin' that kind of merchandise can be real hard, pal. Yer best bet is the internet."
And so on. Then I arrived in Portland, which at first appeared to be nothing but a complicated knot of elevated highways but on the inside turns out to be a classic American town with leafy streets and big old wooden houses like something from Lovecraft or Stephen King. Which is interesting, because starting this week is the HP Lovecraft film festival, which will be opened by a "Cthulhu prayer and blessing".
America is fun.
Behind me I'm hearing these two guys have a conversation.
"So, do you know anyone who would be into like, buying illegal weapons? It's a traditional mace, it's really nice. I'd keep it, but I'm trying to get an apartment with my girlfriend and..."
"Yeah, movin' that kind of merchandise can be real hard, pal. Yer best bet is the internet."
And so on. Then I arrived in Portland, which at first appeared to be nothing but a complicated knot of elevated highways but on the inside turns out to be a classic American town with leafy streets and big old wooden houses like something from Lovecraft or Stephen King. Which is interesting, because starting this week is the HP Lovecraft film festival, which will be opened by a "Cthulhu prayer and blessing".
America is fun.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Like Escape from LA... only not in LA... and with no escape...
It took me f'ing ages to get out of Vancouver! After my last entry, I missed my bus because I spent too long seeking out genuine Quebec poutine (chips with cheese curds and gravy basically, though there are variations), finding organic maple syrup for my sister, browsing in an SF bookstore and tasting different varieties of smoked salmon. So there I was on Granville Island (again!) it was dark and I had no bus ticket and no bed. So I did what any self-respecting Aussie does in this situation. Got pissed.
Anyway, to cut a long story (a three-pub trilogy in fact) short, I checked back in to my same hostel and planned to leave on Sunday. Then I made a mistake. "It would be a crime," thought I, "to leave town and not see a single movie at the International Film Festival. Just one movie... just one..."
Four movies later...
To cut a long story short, I checked back in again. Anyway, I am in Seattle now. I was just passing through but then I discovered the Elliot Bay Company bookstore. Imagine if the Minotaur decorated his maze with bookshelves and you can picture this place. So I am spending another night in Seattle I guess. What, me hurry? I've got a whole week to get to California.
An aside for anyone who was in Sydney for Caroline's birthday... I did finally see the plastinated bodies of German anatomical artist Gunther von Hagens. They were showing across the road from the Vancouver station, so while I was waiting for my bus I dropped in on them.
It was.... educational.
It was.... different.
But what kind of freakin' Frankensteinian mad genius is Von Hagens that he would even consider doing this???? Half dissected bodies preserved in plastic dancing and throwing javelins and riding skateboards? Whose imagination carries the seed for this? Who are you Von Hagens? What misty Gothic novel did you escape from?
It's... yeah, it's different. I asked the staff at the touch table (yes, you can touch kidneys and human cross-sections and so forth) what Gunther was like. "He's... German," the girl said. "Do you want to touch the liver? It feels just like plastic, I promise."
I got to Seattle but the creepy bodies of Von Hagens are following me. They are being advertised on buses here. In Canada, the exhibition was called "Bodyworks 3" (indicating it's already been there twice!) and mentions Von Hagens' name on the ads. Here, it is simply called, "Bodies, the Exhibition." That's... American.
Anyway, to cut a long story (a three-pub trilogy in fact) short, I checked back in to my same hostel and planned to leave on Sunday. Then I made a mistake. "It would be a crime," thought I, "to leave town and not see a single movie at the International Film Festival. Just one movie... just one..."
Four movies later...
To cut a long story short, I checked back in again. Anyway, I am in Seattle now. I was just passing through but then I discovered the Elliot Bay Company bookstore. Imagine if the Minotaur decorated his maze with bookshelves and you can picture this place. So I am spending another night in Seattle I guess. What, me hurry? I've got a whole week to get to California.
An aside for anyone who was in Sydney for Caroline's birthday... I did finally see the plastinated bodies of German anatomical artist Gunther von Hagens. They were showing across the road from the Vancouver station, so while I was waiting for my bus I dropped in on them.
It was.... educational.
It was.... different.
But what kind of freakin' Frankensteinian mad genius is Von Hagens that he would even consider doing this???? Half dissected bodies preserved in plastic dancing and throwing javelins and riding skateboards? Whose imagination carries the seed for this? Who are you Von Hagens? What misty Gothic novel did you escape from?
It's... yeah, it's different. I asked the staff at the touch table (yes, you can touch kidneys and human cross-sections and so forth) what Gunther was like. "He's... German," the girl said. "Do you want to touch the liver? It feels just like plastic, I promise."
I got to Seattle but the creepy bodies of Von Hagens are following me. They are being advertised on buses here. In Canada, the exhibition was called "Bodyworks 3" (indicating it's already been there twice!) and mentions Von Hagens' name on the ads. Here, it is simply called, "Bodies, the Exhibition." That's... American.
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