Long Beach, LA - A New Beginning ?!!

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10th December 2007.

Travel. The one word which spells the gateway to untold adventure, excitement and opportunity and yet which always fails wholeheartedly to get across the true horrors of it's main constituent ..... travelling.

It was at precisely 1:35am that the monotonous and nauseating chimes of my alarm first plucked me and then shook me from the depths of a slumber that had lasted all of forty five minutes and just a fraction of a minute later before my slowly awakening senses succeeded in reminding me fully of the pitfalls of what lay ahead. Outside the bitter wind and rain lashed against the glazing producing in me an unquenchable desire to pull the quillt up to the bottom of my purring nostrils and return from whence I had just arrived but such was the schedule that lay ahead of me that that was one dream that would have to wait for another day.

Thirty five minutes of check, check double checking later and the throaty rumble that emanated from the darkness outside indicated my chauffeur had arrived. Mr Bonney, alias Curly or uniquely to myself Billy was on his early Monday morning return to the capital and I was hitching a ride and although the wind and rains persisted for the duration of our drive less than three hours later we were pulling up, still in darkness, outside his Edgware abode. The temperature, unusually for a trip two hundred miles to the south, appeared to have plummetted and the rains continued as I gorged myself on a Curly special, black pudding and fried egg on toast (congealed blood and unborn chick !?) before bidding him adios, hauling my bags from his boot and heading off on the ten minute hike to Brent Cross Tube Station.

Shorts, irrespective of season, have always been my favoured travel attire. The need to feel free and unrestricted has always managed to brush aside any lingering fears of embarrassment over appearance but this ten minute walk was the first time that I had ever found myself querying the validity of my decisions. Walking up the hill into the teeth of the biting wind as the first of the Capital's worker ants silently populated the bus stops and pavements I felt like a lone Arctic pioneer wearily dragging his pack face contorted into the eye of the blizzard. How I longed for that quillt now.

Fortunately, the Capital awakens early and I had only to wait five minutes before the first seemingly heaterless train in my direction pulled into the station and one and a half hours later I was alighting in the midst of Heathrow's Terminal 2. I have always regarded London as a frosty and unfriendly town, the sort of place where you would consider yourself extremely lucky to happen across a genuinely affable face and the tube ride only served to reinforce that feeling. The seats that line the sides of the carriage face inwards as if included in the designers brief was the requirement to promote maximum passenger eye contact and with it the possibility of a resultant conversation as well as to ensure as much standing capacity as possible but it soon became patently clear that success had been achieved in only one of those goals and that eye contact simply must be avoided at all costs. Zombified passengers feign sleep or stare attentively at the floor, ceiling or free issue of The Metro newspaper in complete silence simply to avoid any unnecessary and unwanted communication. It felt like I was on a train en route to the gas chambers of Nazi ruled Europe, every soul existing in the depths of despair, misery etched into their faces as they contemplated another 'day at the office'. Fair enough, it was 6am on a bitterly cold and wet Monday morning in December, reason surely to allow a slight look of glumness but I silently found myself thanking the Lord that I didn't live here.

At 10:30 I left English soil bound for an equally cold and wet Paris and a quick dash and a short bus ride later found myself wedged into my seat for the main event, the ten and a half hour flight to LAX. On all long flights my natural mood always seems to be to drift into a deep sense of solitude, no eagerness to engage in conversation with anyone, just a silent desire to get it all over with. The fact that I was seated in a central row of three seats with a pretty French girl and an equally attractive Hawaiin made no difference to my feelings whatsoever, I just wanted off. After one leg stretching sojourn to the lavatory I returned to find the French girl had moved herself lock, stock and barrel to another seat and that the blonde American, obviously not being one to look a gift horse in the mouth had immediately manouevered herself across the two seats and covered herself head to toe in blanket. It felt as though I was accompanying a recently deceased corpse the only problem being that what I assumed to be the head was trapping my cushion against the arm that seperated our two seats. I silently reasoned that I could put up with her monopolising the spare seat without consultation or the toss of a coin but not with the albeit unintentional theft of my cushion. I'd only been gone for five minutes so if she was asleep it couldn't have been for long and I sat for a few moments pondering my next move before deducing that I had three choices; i) to gently wake her with a prod of the finger or quiet shake of the hand at the same time making sure that contact with any of her more sensitive areas which could force her to wake with a scream were avoided, ii) to slowly tug on the trapped cushion gently easing it from its snare or iii) as with ii) but with a quick, sharp and hopefully painless snatch.

After what seemed like an age I decided on option iii) and having nonchalantly checked all around me to make sure nobody was watching my plans take shape tightly gripped the corner of the cushion between thumb and forefinger and on the silent count of three pulled hard. The cushion freed itself with apparent effortless ease but in doing so sent the blanket and what was beneath it, what I could only assume to be her head, vertically six inches into the air. The point when it reached it's peak caused me to screw my face up and close my eyes as it hovered for a fraction of a second before gravity brought it down again onto the chair arm with a sickening thud.

As I waited for the screams and volley of vitriol to come my way images instantly flashed through my head of me being escorted off the aircraft in cuffs flanked by two of LAPD's finest and being taken under escort straight, sirens blazing, to the local courthouse to face charges of assault and battery before being incarcerated for life in a tiny cell shared with some of LA's most fearsome low life's. But God bless her she never woke and five seconds later I opened my eyes and breathed again.

One thing that puzzled me about the girl from Hawaii was her ability to foetally fit herself into two tiny seats and sleep and I also wondered why the campest of the male stewards kept enquiring as to her health each time he passed. He certainly wasn't asking me nor anyone else for that matter. All became clear when we finally touched down in Los Angeles where she was carefully lifted from her seat and gently deposited into a waiting wheelchair for removal from the aircraft. With my clock adjusted to local time it was twenty two hours since I'd left the UK, twenty two and a half since I'd slept and was just entering LA rush hour. US Immigration, despite all expectations to the contrary was a breeze and by 16:30 I was stood outside LAX drawing on a cigarette awaiting Phil's arrival who, when I called told me he was just three minutes away.

Phil's tale of his time in the States was, as he succinctly put it 'real rags to riches'. His twelve year stay had seen him rise to the position within his company of Vice President - West Coast, a position that had enabled him to make this trip possible for me on the grounds of an employment offer and by arranging and funding my flights with his air miles. His one bedroomed flat, my home for the next two and a half weeks affirmed his status. Situated on a quiet road across from the beach and water surrounding Naples Island it was just a short stroll to 2nd Street, the central strip of upmarket bars, restaurants and Chic Bazaar's in Belmont Shore which in turn is Long Beach's nicest neighbourhood or, as I was informed by a bar tender the following day 'where the hoighty toighty people live'. Not that Phil is one of those. Despite his success and the obvious accompanying benefits he remains as genuine, helpful and unspoillt as he ever was.

Brother Jon and old pal Moose had arrived in LA from Las Vegas earlier in the day having gracefully accepted the diosappointment of seeing Ricky Hatton fail in his bid for world supremacy and we headed straight to their hotel from the airport to say hello and take them back to Pip's place and a quick shower later and we were on our way out to nearby sports bar Legends for some Monday night football, some catching up and a few cold ones.

The following day Moose and I headed out on Phil's pushbikes in search of a bit of heritage in the form of The Queen Mary whose home is a few miles along the coast in downtown. The wide strip of sand that is Long Beach is bisected by a winding purpose made concrete cycle/jogger path perfect for building up a good head of steam and after 45 minutes what started as a dot on the horizon was now an imposing lump of steel. The Mary, who somehow gave me the impression of being held against her will by the Americans probably due to the complicated girder constructions that shackled her to the shore has now been transformed from the magnificent ocean going liner she once was into a floating hotel yet still she manages to retain an dignified air of regality. Like one of her majesty's prize geldings being put out to pasture. Such a shame.

The three stooges were nestled in front of the TV when Phil arrived home with his girls, Olivia 12 and Marisa 10, in tow. Although we hadn't met since they were mere babes in arms it wasn't long before I felt as though I'd known them, and them me, for a lifetime. No signs of awkwardness or shyness, just a confidence and maturity that belied their years and that evening Jon and Moose checked out of their hotel and became my room mates crashing on ingenious self inflating mattresses which Phil had somehow obtained.

Wednesday was J & M's last night before returning to the desert for their flight home and we marked the occasion by heading to The Yardhouse, a harbour side watering hole boasting the largest selection of draught beers in the world, 271 to be exact, where I felt more than a tinge of disappointment to find myself supping on a pint of Manchester cream.

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Photos

A New Beginning ?!
Sunset over Naples Island. The view from Phil's window.

A New Beginning ?!
Friends Re-United. First night in Belmont Shore.

A New Beginning ?!
Moosey and I en route to see Mary.

A New Beginning ?!
The Queen Mary. Long Beaches reminder of home.

A New Beginning ?!
Mary.

A New Beginning ?!
Hard work these push bikes.

A New Beginning ?!
The Birdman of Belmont Shore ! Note the Parrot on his table.

A New Beginning ?!
With Phil's girls, Marisa and Olivia.

A New Beginning ?!
The Doss House. Phil and I leave early for SF as Jerry and Moose rest up for their return to Vegas.

A New Beginning ?!
Sunset over Long Beach Harbour.