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Published: March 27th 2008
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It was 1:30pm when we finally arrived back in Long Beach and whilst I managed to find a very comfortable horizontal berth on the couch Phil immediately set off to LAX to pick up his next influx of visitors. An hour and a half later he returned proclaiming proudly as he burst into the flat 'look what I found' before being followed in by a weary looking Dave and a luggageless Jamie. It was just three months over twenty years since the four of us had explored Western America together for the first time and it was time for a reunion.
After twenty four hours of travel most people's intentions would involve a warm drink, a spot of unpacking and a spell of reclination aimed at easing the tensions that airports and their ilk can bring on. But not our two new housemates. No sooner had they made themselves at home than Waz was stripped for action and off to pound the beach path for a few miles which somehow prompted Phil, Jamie and to my amazement myself to adjourn to the local gym for half an hour's cardio vascular that put me close to the point of collapse. At
six we were joined in the gym bar by Phil's friend and colleague Dan, a huge bear of a man from Guisborough for the start of another night out that ended in what was by now affirmed to be our local, Legends.
In America everything is big. And I mean everything. Cars are big, trucks are big, asses are big but more noticeably than anything portions are big. The four amigos headed to Second street for a spot of lunch prior to our journey south to San Diego and wary of spending the rest of the day in the back of a car cupping a swollen belly I allowed logic to get the better of me and ordered a simple roast beef sandwich. I asked the waitress if it came wafer sliced or thicker and she confirmed the latter and returned ten minutes later cradling my plate in both arms. I should have known when she said thicker she meant just that. Sandwiched between two slices of ample bread were five or six thick chunks of pot roasted beef, cut so thick that the sandwich stood no chance of standing erect by it's own devices. I finished sat across
San Diego
She took our picture for a web site. We never got on but couldn't help smiling ! from a table of dining LAPD officers and wondered just how the hell they catch criminals around here.
By 3pm we'd collected Dan and were on our way, crammed like sardines in the back of Phil's BMW despite Jamie's lack of a bag, for the two hour drive south to San Diego. The original reasoning behind this short get together had been to witness a game of US football between Dave's Detroit Lions and Jamie's Diego Chargers and that was still what we were telling ourselves it was all about when we headed out into the Gaslamp District of the City for a spot of Saturday Night Fever. Dan had spent time in San Diego before and took us to 'The Bitter End', a wonderfully warm, dark wood boozer with a table in the window from where we spent the evening watching the world, or San Diego at least, go by.
The need to stand out in the chill for a smoke gave me the perfect opportunity to savour the atmosphere first hand. There was none of the sinister flavour that charges an English street on a Saturday night, no smell of tension in the air. Just people
San Diego
He stopped and asked me for a ciggie. Cool guy. out for a party. I chatted to a homeless guy who had stopped walking with his overladen bicycle to pester me for a cigarette and you would never have known from his amiable demeanor that he was about to spend an evening on a freezing cold pavement and when I returned indoors a long haired squat Eskimo looking guy was stood flexing his naked torso in a more than passable impression of Stretch Armstrong. It was at this stage about one degree celcius.
It appears quite plainly to the outsider that the Americans are determined, in more ways than one, to promote their own identity, something they achieve more often than not by changing the Queen's English to their own sometimes hard to comprehend interpretation. Footway becomes sidewalk (logical), toilet changes to rest room (less so) and nappy becomes daiper (? ). Little surprise then that after meeting in the lobby we found ourselves heading for the trolley.
The trolley I soon discovered is specifically the railed transport system that operates from the city centre to the far reaching suburb's, okay, a train, and as we approached the stadium the over flowing car parks oozed plumes of pure
San Diego
Stretch 'Eskimo' Armstrong. white barbeque fumes from the hundred's of tailgate parties that were underway. You have to admire their initiative. Why pay inflated beer and food prices inside the stadium confines when you can bring your own, park up the truck, set up your decks and party outside. Tailgating at sporting events in the US is tradition and a great way to savour the pre match atmosphere where opposing supporters engage in jovial banter. Imagine settiing up a tailgate party outside Anfield when Manchester United arrive. The consequences don't bear thinking about.
Despite paying a ludicrous two hundred dollars for the ticket the match was quite an experience, not for the game itself which ended in a riducously one sided 51-14 rout for San Diego but for the unique atmosphere generated by the whole occasion; the beautiful cheerleaders, the singing of the national anthem, in our case given more than a touch of fun by the bombed tailgater whose ramblings prompted the disgusted middle aged fat lady in front to turn, hand still firmly on heart and with a face of thunder to scream 'somebody wants to punch him' along with the general feeling of being safe. We came closest to
what could be 'hooliganism' when we left the stadium to cross the now rapidly vacating car parks. A group of San Diego fans spotted Dave's Lions T shirt and started meiaowing and calling 'pussycat' in high pitched voices but the situation was diffused with a very wise and timely smile.
Twenty years ago we had callled home for the duration of our stay in San Diego the Santa Clara Motel on Mission Beach, a roach infested shithole that holds nothing but good memories and after the game we cabbed it across to town to see if it had changed. It hadn't apart from the onset of twenty years of decay. Unfortunately the same couldn't be said for our local hostelry, Jose Murphy's, now known as the open bar. Gone were the stage, dancefloor and dimmed lighting to be replaced by bright lights, pool and table football games. I suppose they call it progress but we still felt the need to toast the memory.
On the drive back to Long Beach the following morning we pulled of the freeway into the seaside town of Santa Clemente and the thought properly occured to me for the first time that I
San Diego
Go on. Show us yer bum. could actually live here. We dined at the foot of the old wooden pier in a wonderful place that epitomises the phrase California Dreaming, surfers and joggers mingling freely with folk who just wanted to be in this spotless place.
We finally arrived back in Long Beach around three and whilst Phil nipped to the office and Dave went for a run Jamie and I headed off on the bikes to re-trace the route to Mary that I'd taken with his brother a few days earlier. Bit that's another story !
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Dave
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Happy memories - except the result!!
Talking of jogging - after taking the Glucosamine for three weeks for a slightly sore left knee I'm now hobbling along with both knees and ankles aching - don't think it suits all!! I won't be back home until July so I'll miss all your leaving do's Mat - so another reunion beckons in the near future. Emirates are flying direct to LA from September - its about time you and Baz checked out Dubai again, you may notice a change or three........