Breakfast on a snowy mountain, lunch and wine-tasting in sunny Sonoma, dinner in foggy San Francisco.
Enough to send you Sideways.
I was going to blog the comedy that is wine-tasting, but you all know the deal. Overtones of sophistry, a hint of embarassment and a long lingering after-taste of pretence.
That said, I've got a big nose and I'm pretty full bodied, so I must be doing something right.
Hmmm - I spoke too soon about the lack of snow. And I've angered the Gods.
Today's Plan A – Air & Nature:
Bounce out of bed early; cruise around the lake; gasp lungfuls of crisp mountain air; marvel at clear blue skies; retire to bed early, happily exhausted by Mother Nature.
RUINED by horizontal sleet and head-numbing gales.
Today's Revised Plan B – Meat & Boobs:
Watch mind-numbing TV in hotel room all day; drive across the mountain to South Tahoe for a meaty dinner and a fishy show – namely 'Lipstick', ‘a smokin' erotic rock extravaganza'. Retire to bed late, happily exhausted by Cheri, Mercedes, Angel, Juanita etc.
RUINED by…
Not Something I Would Plan At All:
Set off on Plan B, slightly freaked by orange flashing lights advocating ‘snow tyres or chains’. Get a flat at the State Line; spend two hours trying to call breakdown services before the cell runs out of batteries, having left one hopeful message with a man in Las Vegas called Bruce who sounds like a drunk 5 year old.
Wait two more hours shivering in the now snow-capped (leaking) convertible before curmudgeonly ‘rescue dude’ turns up and tries to pretend that we don’t have a flat tyre at all, preferring the warmth of his tow-truck to the polar conditions. Use dollars intended for Californian strippers to persuade him to get out his jack and crank it up. Crawl back to base on perilous roads at 5mph, Sandra mumbling all the way home about being eaten by a Yeti.
Retire to bed hungry and cold, two soggy ‘Lipstick’ tickets crumpled by the bed.
Inspired by my Go Car skills, I’ve hired a gleaming gold convertible and am now gazing over Lake Tahoe from the Cal Neva Lodge Casino Resort.
“Be part of history at this truly rustic spot (with a real log exterior and huge boulders in the lobby) that opened in the 1920s and was owned in the 1960s by Frank Sinatra" (Road Trip USA: California and the South West)
Who could resist? Well, boys and girls, I present Ole Blue Eye’s palace of fun in all it’s rustic glory:
This place is ‘undeniably one of North America’s most romantic honeymoon locations’ (Cal Neva Guest Welcome Pack) unless, that is, you have the rare gift of sight.
Actually, that’s not quite fair – the views are absolutely stunning but the décor is more Sealink Ferry than Schraeger.
Of course, Tahoe is designed for skiing and we should be knee deep in white stuff right now, but my exuberant use of Right Guard in the mid-1980s means it’s as warm and dry as Ghandi’s flip flop.
With the snow-no-show, not many people have made it up here. Well, not many normal people anyway. There’re plenty of razzmatazz gambling grannies but not many folks who could carve on the slopes as well as the dinner table.
Tahoe is a mini Vegas and I’ve already dropped a whole three bucks on the slot machines. I’ll try again tomorrow when I’m feeling sharper, less full of festive cheer.
If you've squeezed my thigh muscles lately, you'll know SF is all about the hills. At times, it's flabbergasting. Last night, a taxi dropped me a block from my destination and I realised I'd need crampons, a rope and Kendall Mint Cake to complete the journey.
Getting into work every day is traumatic. My office building is on a 45 degree hill, so getting through the door unscathed requires ski-lift dexterity and excellent timing. I've been there 15 days and fallen over three times on 're-entry' after lunch.
It's 'us and them' when it comes to living on the ups and downs: 'nonchalant locals' v 'hapless immigrants'.
The locals GLIDE down the hills. It's all very controlled, like a human slinky spring. I, however, slink for five steps...and then start slapping down my leading foot....before falling into a helicopter whirl of arms and legs. Readers, I come down Chestnut Street like a Special School Triple Jump Champion.
I plan to illustrate this blog with video footage.
On every single street corner in San Francisco there’s a well groomed dog (blow-dried, Versace collar, organic doggie biscuits) and a bedraggled homeless dude (one moon boot, old shopping trolley, howling at the moon). Both are a blight on the city, not least because they shit everywhere.
San Francisco LOVES dogs and the smaller and more absurd, the better – yesterday, my ankles were snuffled by a pooch that was half Yorkshire terrier, half pink leg warmer. As an 'Up Yours!' to the neo-Cons who want Intelligent Design taught in American schools, that’s pretty special – God did NOT design this dog…not unless he’d been out disco-ing with Freddie Mercury the night before.
There’re dogs in my street, my office and my bar, getting in the way, slobbering my hands, eating my food…
”America is like a large friendly dog in a very small room. Every time it wags its tail, it knocks over a chair”
...said Arnold Toynbee once. Give that man a bone.
San Francisco also LOVES homeless people. At least I assume they must, or else they’d have provided them with homes by now. Turfed out of mental hospitals under the Regan administration, the city is awash with unwashed vagabonds. They’re not especially threatening, but do seem considerably more bonkers than the average London tramp. You’ve got Imaginary-Traffic-Cop-Tramp, Fly-Like-A-Bird-Tramp and Singing-In-The-Rain-Dancing-Tramp (although I suspect this last one might be linked to the San Francisco School Of Performing Arts - his griminess is too perfect). Best of all is Ironic-Tramp who runs around screaming 'YOU USELESS CRAZY BUMS!' at all the other tramps. Give that man a home.
from Millenium People by J.G.Ballard:
"Tourism is the great soporific. It's a huge confidence trick and gives people the dangerous idea that there's something interesting in their lives. It's musical chairs in reverse. Every time the muzak stops people stand up and dance around the world, and more chairs are added to the circle, more marinas, more Marriott hotels, so everyone thinks they're winning.
It's a con. Today's tourist goes nowhere. All the upgrades in existence lead to the same airports and resort hotels, the same pina colada bullshit. The tourists smile at their tans and their shiny teeth and think they're happy. But the suntans hide who they really are - salary slaves, with heads full of American rubbish. Travel is the last fantasy the 20th Century left us, the delusion that going somewhere helps you reinvent yourself. There's nowhere to go. The planet is full. You might as well stay at home and spend the money on chocolate fudge."
Well Mr.Ballard hasn't reckoned on the GoCar, has he readers? I'm definitely planning to hire one, but only once i know people all over the city - afterall, I wouldn't want complete strangers pointing and laughing at me.
“It's a tour guide…a talking car…a trusty co-pilot…and a local on wheels. It’s like a ride at Disneyworld, except you are in control - and it’s not a theme park, it’s a city.” Actual tourist comment from BBC Radio Scotland interview
Ace. Come visit so we can share the joy.
wild blue yonder
Originally uploaded by prima momma.
Californians love to whoop. They whoop in cinemas, restaurants and when something exciting happens on public transport.
To be honest, I never thought I had one (a whoop) in me. But then I spent yesterday standing on the roof of my apartment, gazing out over San Francisco bay and being assaulted by the US Airforce.
I never thought I liked airshows but this was AWESOME! The sheer majesty of an F-16 fighter performing aerial ballet against one of the worlds most beautiful backdrops got the better of me. And as a fighter jet screamed down the highstreet, up and over my building and barrel-rolled over Golden Gate Bridge, something bubbled up in my stomach and I heard a familiar voice go:
WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP WHOOOOOOOOP WHOOOOOOOOOOOOP!
Best of all, noone batted an eyelid, even when I punched the air.
I'm going to have to work hard to maintain my cynical London outlook - all this sunshine is ruining me.
That said, I'm happy to report that the Blue Angels aren't quite as dandy as our Red Arrows. Our boys do the coloured smoke thing better...although that might have something to do with Californian anti-smoking laws. You wouldn't want a jogger getting a lungful of red smoke, even if it was once heart shaped.
As a display of military power, the airshow was awe-inspiring. I can only imagine how terrifying it is to have F-16s circling your city in anger - the noise alone could threaten a clean pair of white pants. Quite at odds with peace-loving San Francisco, then.....and I'm sure they burnt a lot of non-renewable fossil fuels....but a marvellous event nonetheless.
IMGP3888.JPG
Originally uploaded by jonnyeye.
So cheerio London and howdy San Francisco.
What a very strange thing it is to leave your family, your girlfriend, your friends, your job, your flat and everything you know, enjoy and understand to fly to an unknown job in an unknown city in a unknown country.
Hmmm.....anyway, I'm here now and this is the view from my bedroom window.
I've been thinking about blogging for ages, but Russell Davies (head of the Account Planning Group) has given me the final kick up the arse/ass that I needed.
"My first thought is that blogging (or whatever it evolves into) is going to be a core planning skill very soon. I think I'd be very reluctant to hire anyone who didn't have a blog. It teaches you all sorts of good stuff - precis, collaboration, generousity. And it's a really useful communications skill for the kind of distributed businesses we're all likely to be living in."
So there - this is a diary, a series of postcards home and a career move all in one go.
Now then, what to put?!
Londoner living and working in San Francisco....strategic planner at an ad agency... http://jonnyeye.typepad.com/maninapanic/
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