The Land of the Wild MacBook Pro

A few days in and the jet lag has worn off. Which is a shame, because I enjoy falling asleep in my steak dinner, waking at 3.45 the next morning and shuffling to the toilet with the dog watching me all the way down the hall: ‘Will you PLEASE be quiet. WTF are you doing anyway, can’t you see I’m trying to hump my bed in peace. It doesn’t like an audience. Pervert.’

We’re in Mountain View, a small town outside San Jose, staying with A’s brother. I shall call him M because I’m imaginative like that. Everything is clean, I couldn’t feel safer if I was in Switzerland, and this is obviously the natural habitat of the wild MacBook Pro, flocks of which can be glimpsed in every cafe and on every street corner. I am the only person in this place over the age of 11 without an iPhone; people are starting to look at me funny.

I’ve started a torrid affair with a local bookshop, BookBuyers, and can be found most mornings kneeling in the doorway, sobbing ‘Just five more minutes!’, while A prises my fingers one by one from the door frame. He is a most patient and understanding man.

Big, Big, Big Sur

After a day getting under M’s feet we decided to give him some space for a couple of days. 

And so to Big Sur, a vaguely-defined area of Californian coast south of San Francisco, lying between Carmel and somewhere South of Carmel. I said that this stretch was mind-bogglingly beautiful, but that really doesn’t do it justice. To call it beautiful is like calling an erupting volcano a bit hot and noisy. It is stupefying and staggering and awesome, in the real sense of the word. As in inspiring awe. I spent much of the drive down with my mouth hanging open. There may have been a tear or two. I may also have vowed never to leave. You’d have to ask A. About a terabyte of photographs were taken, also none of which will do the place justice. Exhibits no.s 1-5:

I’m not going to try and describe the scenery, because I’m only human and I’ve taken photos enough to feed a small nation. Go there yourself. I can guarantee you will not be disappointed.

Our first night was spent roughing it in our own cabin among the Redwoods by the river. It was like being in a Russian fairy story. Ray Mears would have been proud of the fire A built. And he would have been too polite to mention the large amount of recycled coffee fire lighters used.

We cracked the tent open at Kirk Creek the next day, basked in the sun, ate bloody steaks, drank beer and were in bed by 6.20, listening to the booming of the Pacific and the snuffling of the local raccoon ruffians, who made off with three bananas we’d left in the tent porch. Oh nothing will get to the bananas, they’ll be fine just there. They’re protected by virtually impenetrable flimsy, transparent material. Nothing could possibly get in there.

A neat pile of banana skins greeted us the next morning and the empty beer bottles had been rearranged in groups according to colour. They’d even left a thank you note. Polite, the raccoons around these parts.

A couple of hours hiking in Point Lobos State Reserve sorted out our exercise requirements and by this time my poor brain really couldn’t process any more incredible rock formations. An excited Park Ranger showed us a sea otter a way out to sea. The lovely thing was floating on the surface, all wrapped up in kelp, fast asleep despite the mayhem being caused by the argumentative sealions on the nearest rock. 

So today will mostly be spent pottering and trying to recombobulate my brain after the hugeness – in every sense – of Big Sur. This means a trip to Ikea to buy M a few necessaries. Fabulous. See, Big Sur? You with all your sublime awesomeness and sea otters and wild wildness and eagles and razor-sharp winds. Ikea. THAT’S what I call awesome.

Finally, we were very kindly invited by CalliCoop to have tea in Paso Robles but unfortunately couldn’t make it. For all she knows, I could be a black market dealer in human organs so, CalliCoop, thanks so much for the invite and this is for you:

It was very fine. A and M enjoyed what they could get of it, too.

In other news, I’m disappointed I missed Steve Lamacq’s national Wear Your Old Band T-Shirt To Work Day; being woken up by a Basset Beagle’s breath in your face is not all it’s cracked up to be; I still want an iPhone; and I firmly believe White Denim to be one of the greatest bands I’ve ever listened to.

*In case you were wondering – and being the intellectually curious people you are I’m sure you were – the unicorns refer to the ridiculous notion I’ve had that the US would be somehow different after the sensational victory of sense displayed by Obama’s election, that there would be an obvious and very tangible change. Choirs of angels singing, unicorns roaming the streets, that sort of thing. No choirs, no unicorns. Still, it’s enough of a wonderful fairy tale already, really, isn’t it? Let’s hope he lives up to it. And gets a Basenji for those little girls. You know it makes sense.

• Extra pantage?  Check (thanks eatfoss).
• Ticket?  Check.
• Suede chaps? Naturally.

I’m out of here.  Planning on updating via mobile, if I can figure it out, and Twittering when I’m not nose-deep in a burrito. See you guys on the other side.

• Me packing clothes I’ve not had time to wash (because I’ve been twittering obsessively and watching Buffy re-runs so busy), muttering all the while ‘Hell, they have launderettes/laundromats/whatever in the States’.
• Dinner chez AA Charcoal Grill, from whence I shall bring home the Shish Kebab with Garlic Mayonnaise and extra chilli sauce, to be eaten while pacing the front room throwing odd socks into my bag, dripping kebab juice down my front.
• Last minute frantic twittering in the following juicy flavours: how on earth do I tweet from abroad? Will I be able to update the blog using only my mobile phone? What’s my name?
• The moment of epiphany when I realise that all I really need is the Valium (for stopping in-flight freak outs which, while amusing for most people, tend to frigthen small children and nervous animals), underwear, a fleece, contact lenses and my cowboy hat.
• Trying to reassure my mother over the phone that I WILL BE BACK.

There will be much rushing about and the air will be thick with expletives. And then the thought that I’ll be in the US in two days will make my head explode, and I’ll have to clean up all the brains and stuff before I go or the smell will upset the neighbours. They’re funny like that.

But hey, look: time away from my desk!

So this bloggery thing will resemble, I suppose, the non-stop shitstorm that is going on in my mind. Better out than in, many people say.  Like farting, then.  We’ll see.  And expect me to run the OTHER WAY when they crack open the straightjacket.

Mum keeps calling, afraid I’m going to be murdered, raped or, at the very least, converted to Scientology while I’m in the US for three weeks. She’s all like “But dude, you’re not driving, are you?”. OK, maybe without the ‘dude’, but you get the general idea. I assure her I am not, in fact, driving.  I am instead going to pogo my way around the South Western states and their enormous deserts and canyons. This bout of facetiousness doesn’t go down well. So I try to reassure her by saying the worst that could happen is that I will end up having to eat in Taco Bell. What I don’t tell her is that this is the part I’m most looking forward to…