Vegas to LAX- VIA GLENVILLE!

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The Dive show in Las Vegas came to and end. Dan and Shelly Lee joined us for a few short days. We had made the decision to drive to Los Angeles, but could not not decide on a route. We held a Chinese parliament, and after much horse trading we headed north to Death Valley National Park. Now this was easier said than done. America may be the land of the free, and the freeway, but getting a hire car from Hertz a little close to hard work. We had to change office three times before finding someone who actually really worked for Hertz, who then had to find us a car. An hour or two later, we were presented with a ford focus. What made the experience much more pleasant was watching a horrendous Dutch Couple walk up and demand a cabriolet. (pronounced Cabreeeoollett).
“I am so sorry, I don’t have any convertible’s here, only at the airport” said the agent.
“No no, I don’t want a convertible” said the mini micro skirted platignum blond, I want a cabriolet”
While we waited, Dan paid for his hotel, hire car and drinks at the roulette table. Even Cisca made $27. Being a good Muslim, I lost $30. The good Lord was probably teaching me a lesson. Dan graciously gave me $30 of chips out of his hundreds to alleviate my stupidity.

Eventually we got our car, the Dutch got a cab to the airport, and we tried to leave las vegas. This took an hour, as we drove under, over, and around the exit motorway. We eventually got onto the , facing the wrong direction, and turned around at a junction. (called and exit in the US).

Within minutes the mad, ridiculous and iniquitous city of vegas was behind us. We were in the desert. I was not sad to be rid of the place, two more days and I would have lost everything. Dan on the other hand would be a millionaire. I suppose it pays to be a mathematician.

The road north was straight and sandy. Dark looking Rock Mountains rose up on either side of us. We drove and drove and drove. There was little traffic on the road. Just an airforce van and few trucks. After a few hours we turned left into some mountains, entered California and the death valley national park. This was an area similar to Namibia but slightly cheaper. The lodge was pleasant enough, but the temperature was a high 40’c. We stayed at the state park hotel ($60-120 depending upon how late you are) and had a mediocre dinner served by incompetents. I insisted that we should not tip our server, Dan decided that awful service meant 10% only.
“its an insult to the server” he assured me.
“They did their best” Shelley tried to mollify me.
“Hang on, this is the land of service” I blustered “ you pay through the nose for it, and you get what you pay for. The service was useless, so our tip should be useless too”

The next morning we ran on what has to have been one of the most stunning runs I have been on. We wound between and eventually onto the sand dunes before the heat of the day overtook us. I felt privileged to be able to run in such scenery with no other human being around.

As soon as we had run, we missed breakfast and so drove to a Belgian owned café. En route we saw the US Navy jet bombers flying extremely low up the valley. Cisca looked at them, and watched as the FA18’s roared proudly up the valley. Cisca looked at them and muttered:
“Bit high” aren’t they?
“Compared to what?” Someone asked.
“The Turks” she said simply. No one needed to hear again, the story of being “overtaken” by phantoms in Turkey.

There truckers mixed with young ladies and Gucci handbags. This was the main north south highway. We left the highway behind and headed into the hills looking for the sequoia national forest. We drove up past lakes into the trees and then down through the trees. Town on the map ended up being three houses and no shop, let alone a motel. Eventually we decided that we would have to stop in the flatland town of Bakersfield. But we pulled through a village called glenville, that happened to have a motel. The motel was run by a tough looking, but kind lady. It was $60 and ultra clean. The Motel turned out to be owned by an Iranian called Hassan O. The shop also turned out to be owned by Hassan, and surprisingly enough the bar was owned by him too.

But before we could meet Hassan, we met the sherrif, a shortish, chap, who was a natural policeman. He parked his rather tinny looking 4x4 next to the shop and stood outside drinking an energy drink. He was not fat, but his ballistic vest made him look like a body builder. He was interested in us, but not as much as we were in his job. It seemed that he had an area to cover the size of an English county. He did, however have some heavy back up if he got into trouble.

“So what’s the biggest problem?” I asked
“Bakersfield” He answered.
“What about up here in the mountains”
“very few murders, and lots of drug growing. Oh and the occasional DUI. Basically, its Bakersfield, we got it all down there. Up here its fine."


After half an hour we retired into Hassan's the bar cum pizza parlour. We were tired after our long drive and took our drinks out onto the balcony. We sat under the browning leaves and waited for the sun to set. Glenville may have been in the middle of no where, but at this moment, it was truly idylic. As it got colder we went inside and met three very interesting chaps. A driver, a handyman who used to have his own restarant and a young man who claimed to have worked: "on dem oil feeeelds" We asked the three resident drinkers what they throught of the sheriff.

“Man- he aint too bad- as long as you don’t like have too much drugs on you, he’s pretty fair” said the handy man. (name withheld)
“Yeah man, he’s fair” Said the Mexican truck Driver “I don’t like him, but he’s fair”
“NO way man, he did me for resisting arrest and having dope on me” said the young "oil worker".
“My goodness, how terrible” I said :What did you do?”
“Well man, I like was drunk and could not drive my truck too well- so he stopped me and found some dope. Well I didn’t like it, but I was drunk man, so we argued some”
“and?’
“and then I got myself arrested”
“What did he do”
“he destroyed the dope, forgot about the fighting and just did me for DUI”
“That sounds remarkably fair”
“yeah, well now that you mention it, he was kinda decent about it”

Hassan appeared and and smiled in a kindly manner at his drinkers. A one time chef from new york and Iranian refugee of some 30 years previous. We discussed the failure of the Islamic revolution in Iran. What amazed me at this point was that the hill billie engineers and farmers were not fazed by the conversation. They listened intently and asked intelligent unprejudiced questions. This was after all America, and if you are going to drink in a bar owned by an Iranian, then you might as well hear about why he left Iran.

The entire bar was also full of Biden voters. But that is another story.

We ate our food and went to bed.

The dawn saw us head off fairly quickly to Santa Barbara. We drove through the most indescribably boring flatlands until we hit the coast. Here we found a great $100 motel by the side of the sea. We sat on the pier watching the sun go down before heading off to a self service Mexican restaurant for dinner. We regretted the beans the following morning as we ran alongside the Pacific Ocean.

As I huffed and puffed along the seafront I watched the lithe young bodies play beach volleyball, while the tubby fire brigade jogged and walked near their parked machine. There was no poverty visible here, this was the west coast of America, this was the American dream, green hills, the sun shining, sandy beaches, beautiful young fit people and the pacific ocean. Only Dan and I ruined the horizon with our panting figures, and even Dan looked lithe and fast compared to me.

After a luxurious breakfast/brunch that undid all of our hard work, we cruised down the coast, and literally into the hertz car hire returns. Hertz were very understanding about our delayed departure from vegas that was not represented on our time card, and we unloaded the car into a courtesy car while Korean air, American, United and many others thundered, literally over our heads.

It was time to say goodbye to Dan and Shelley and also Time to say goodbye to America. The Tom Bradley Terminal may have made some huge improvements, but it is still s a depressing place with little to recommend it. Dan and Shelley were off to the south Pacific via New Orleans and Mexico, we were off to Birmingham on an aeging British Airways 747-400. We sat in the departure lounge, which reminded me very much of the immigration holding pen in New York. Our landing cards had been taken, it was dark, there was nothing to do, and we were about to fly to London.

We boarded the jumbo, taxied out to the head of the runway and the captain applied the throttles. We rumbled down the runway, carrying cargo, passengers and enough fuel for at last 13 hours. It took us a long time to rotate and then climb out. We crossed over the coast and began a lazy turn north that would take us over Santa Barbara. America was finished for another year for us. But what a great country this had been. We had seen freezing apple fields, burning deserts, white sandy beaches that Africa would have been proud of, enormous trees and high majestic mountains. We had been welcomed everywhere, and with the exception of some shoddy waitress in death valley, been treated like kings. This was the most powerful country in the world, and yet, when you were in it, it was like any other, or should I say, many others, in one.

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