Desert to mountain in one easy bound

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Two days in one. We last left our intrepid hero teetering on the precipice of the mighty, but what might seem to others as trifling, task of picking his car up from MGM Grand and driving back to his hotel. Stirring stuff, I hear you murmur resignedly to yourselves. As it turns out, it wasn't that hard at all. Who knew? It was impossible not to fall foul of the what I have decided must be called Casino-Designers Revenge, although what they have to be vengeful about I don't know. I'm sure they are paid handsomely for their efforts. Suffice it to say that I was meandering around for 30 mins in MGM Grand looking for the Dollar car rental desk, asking half a dozen people who had never heard of it. (It turns out it's right by the door in the main lobby). And that's the issue. John, our friendly limo driver, told me that the largest hotel in Vegas has 7000 rooms. 7000! An average of 2 per room, adding staffing in and that's about 20000 people - a small town. So Vegas is essentially comprised of 20 or so small towns, all in competition with each other, but bound by the common goal of fleecing everyone who comes within 50 yards of them. It does go some way to explaining the fragmented and alien nature of Vegas, and also how it is that people in one casino have never heard of another part of it. I heard the father of one family wearily saying 'right, we're going to have to ask someone how to get out of here.'

Anyway, have I told you about my car? Have I? Tentatively approaching it in the multi-story car park I let out a little giggle of glee. It turns out I am actually Jeremy Clarkson after all. I must buy a pair of loafers. Apparently, the only reason I haven't been a sad middle-aged man obsessed with brake horse-power and understeer (apart from not knowing what either of them is) is the succession of crap cars I have had. Put me in a Mustang convertible the colour of blood and my shirt automatically tucks itself into my jeans. Slamming the accelerator down on a deserted road near Goodsprings brought little gasps of excitement from both of us. Just wait til I get home - I've even started over accentuating every third syllable in a manner which some might say makes me sound like a wanker. Alright Paul, enough of the Clarkson bit, already.

Our tour of the more obscure locations in a computer game I've never played was surprisingly enjoyable. Bethany nearly died with excitement at about 7 points in the day. Chinook-spotting and drooling over Nellis Airfield turned out to be merely a precursor for the paroxysms of delight experienced by sitting in a crappy saloon in the middle of nowhere. Actually, that's unfair - the saloon was great. Several aged biker types hung around on the porch - I couldn't tell whether or not they were whittling some, or indeed any. The ancient, toothless, leather-clad proprietor of the shop welcomed us through his straggly grey beard and proceeded to tell us about Chicken-Shit Bingo (c). You get a cage, you floor it with a bingo card and, well you get the idea. My delight at sitting in a genuine American saloon was tempered by the provision of a beer in a plastic cup when I could clearly see some other punters with glass tankards. Still, we got to witness the barman swearing someone into the Asshole Club while were there.

We diverted off the I-15 freeway for the Mojave desert, where I had cleverly identified a small town which was perfectly placed for a night's stopover in the back-arse end of nowhere, allowing us to wander around the desert at night looking at the stars. Cima turned out to be 2 shacks, one of them burnt out, and a railway junction. Oh Paul, you clever thing. Ploughing on through the beautifully flat and unpunctured desert we were racing the sun as I would rather not be driving around those roads in the dark. We got to the I40 in time but I was still in search of the crappy motel in the back of beyond. Turned off at Langley and found exactly what I was looking for. The Bates motel, perfect in every detail. The fact that I had to go to the Chevron garage over the road and essentially book our accomodation in a petrol station did not sway me. The fact that the motel looked like the kind of place every seventh person is murdered did not sway me. The fact that on getting the key (and being promised free coffee from the petrol station in the morning), and opening the room it turned out to be skanky as hell did not sway me - well, it did actually. 10 minutes later some bemused looking gas station attendants were being apologised to by a clearly embarrassed Englishman with a look on his face like he'd just drunk an espresso. We got the money back and got the hell out of there, my crappy motel dream firmly replaced with a desperate desire for a nice, generic Holiday Inn with Wi-Fi, a showerhead and significantly fewer cockroaches. We found a compromise in Barstow, laid up and dined like kings on crappy confectionery from the garage opposite.

(Louise, I'm doing my best. It turns out that Twinkies are minging and Hershey bars taste of vomit. I know they weren't on your list but I'm improvising. Milk duds are pretty nice - nothing to do with milk. Just caramel covered with chocolate. I have just bought some S'mores - they seem to be something chocolatey when I was convinced they were some kind of bready sandwich, possibly involving fish. I'll let you know.)

Shooting through the desert at rapidly increasing altitude, we find ourselves at Big Bear City, and the attached town Big Bear Lake. We're at 6000 feet and it's still gorgeously hot but there's patches of snow everywhere. The town looks like they have had architectual competitions to out-quaint (outquaintify?) each other. Imagine if an extremely trendy, cutting-edge and high profile urban architect went on holiday to Switzerland, got hideously drunk on whatever Swiss people drink and finished the night, against his better judgement, polishing off the rest of that wheel of cheese. His resultant nighmare would be Big Bear City. It's absolutely wonderful. There's more wood than concrete and it fits, it just fits.

After our vitamin famine, a pointless diversion to K-mart which is not what I thought it was aside, I went directly to Von, a massive supermarket and I very nearly didn't leave. Everything you could want and more. The fresh produce section (PROE-DOOSE) looked as if it were designed by Disney. Piles of perfectly red apples, mounds of beautifully plump and regularly cylindrical oranges. Grabbing as many handfuls of broccoli and kale I could I was impressed by the fact that they seemed so fresh they were dripping with moisture. It seems the whole section is sprayed with sprinklers every 5 minutes. Even in this place, though, you have to fight your way past waffles, ready meals and pastry and barbecue sauce had its own aisle!

Well, we have a well-stocked fridge, Bethany's finished her revision so we're off to explore the lake. Having behaved like it for many years, I can now bid you adieu from a literally rarified atmosphere.

See y'all.

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