The first bit of sunshine in Brazil. - Paraty

A 5 hour bus journey was all it took to shake off the 'I'm definitely getting robbed' paranoia that had been hanging over us like a nosey aunty for the duration of our stay in Rio. As it turned out, I think the threat of robbery is made far too much of in Rio and in South America in general. We met a resident of Rio who had never had any trouble in Rio for 24 years only to be robbed when she visited Edinburgh for three weeks during the festival. To be fair, Edinburgh's the only place I've ever been robbed and I'm more than happy to wander around with a camera, I-pod and wallet full of money hanging half out of my back pocket whenever I'm there so it just goes to show how shreekingly hysterical the  Lonely Planet can be and also how the fear of the unknown can manifest itself. Our arrival in Paraty was uneventful. It's a small town with the roughest cobbling I've ever experienced. There is honestly a very real chance that you could break your leg just walking on its quaint, Portuguese colonial avenues. Many of which have remained unchanged for over 250 years.

Paraty itself, unless you are WELL into Portuguese colonial architecture, can be walked around in about 45 minutes but the real draw, for us at least was the incredible excess of natural beauty that surrounds it. Islands just off the Costa Verde (Green Coast) poke out of the Emerald sea like rotten teeth and, when it stopped raining, the temperature  rose to a very pleasant 28-29C, with sea being maybe 6 or 7 degrees below that. Something we learnt the day after our arrival when we went out for a day on a boat stopping at various islands, beaches and snorkelling spots.

Spare a thought for a moment for poor Hernan and the captain of the boat who have to endure this almost every day of their lives. Moving sedately from white sandy beach to white sandy beach, snorkelling amongst the seahorses and brightly coloured fish and, on top of all this, generally being two of the handsomest men I've ever seen. They were literally swatting two of the ozzy girls we were sharing the boat with away like persistent flies for the duration of the trip. To the visible dismay of the guys they were with. We moved across the bay, stopping from time to time to dive off the boat or swim onto a postcard style beach like this one.

It was our first bit of total relaxation since we'd left, I was heard to remark on at least 3 or 4 occasions that 'this is what travelling is all about' after a while Emma began to point at me and snore every time it looked like I was shaping up to say it. But in my defence it really is. So, after a day of really having a lovely time of it we returned to the hostel and had a significant number of beers to celebrate. We had heard reports of a natural waterslide as well as a rope swing hidden deep under the jungle canopy a little outside Paraty town and were determined to check it out the next day.

I had visions of one largeish boulder smooth enough to slide down into a small pool of water. As it turned out that couldn't have been further from the truth, the photo here will give you an idea of the scale. The area you have to aim for at the bottom is a little small for completely reckless abandon like head first dives, unless you don't particularly value your skull, but we did hear reports of locals sliding down in a standing position. Which by all accounts is pretty impressive to watch!

The waterfall was fun, but all it did was whet our appetites for some ropeswinging. We set out, badly prepared, with no water and a map drawn in crayon to find it. We walked for some 6km all the while becoming more and more disillusioned, until finally, just in the nick of time we came across a promising looking turn off. We took it and marched a further 2km into the jungle following a well worn path until we arrived to the end of the path where the canopy opened up a little and presented a pool that belonged in Jurassic Park. Vines hung down as thick as cables and the noise of birds and insects was nearl deafening. Streams of sunlight broke unevenly through the trees in an uneven light show, dappling the pool and making it look even more appealing than it aleady was after a 3 hour trek. We didn't need to be told twice. We swang and leapt and sent the birds scattering out of the trees overhead with whoops of pure fun.

I was again heard to exclaim what was rapidly becoming a mantra for me here in Paraty 'this is what travelling is all about'. What a couple of good sets of funs we had. Everyone was grinning from ear to ear as we set off to try and flag one of the sporadic buses to Paraty town.

There was some drinking after that, due to alcohol being freely available but that doesn't make for such a good story unless something really awful happens, which is exactly what happened to one of the guys we were with during the day. A few beers down and he told us all about the time in Sheffield when he was visiting his friends. There had been an ongoing feud with a couple of locals in the area and the house he was at was egged. Being more than a little absolutely reeking on strong spirits he thought it would be a good idea to go out with his friends air rifle and scream threats at the now long gone assailants waving what to all intents and purposes looked like a real gun. He awoke a little later staring down the barrels of Armed Response's not insignificant arsenal and hauled off to jail. The thing that stopped him getting a 5 year mandatory sentence? The fact that the gun was springloaded and not air loaded. He was spared jail, but due to a strict policy of no fire arms offences among teachers he can no longer follow his chosen career path. Perhaps the most surprising and ironic facet of his punishment is that he can no longer legally enter the US! You may feel sorry for this gent, apparently the victim of his own drunkenness, but I don't think being drunk is necessarily what the made the difference. A couple of weeks later we saw him in a club in Bolivia and by way of a greeting he whipped his trousers down to reveal his newly pierced scrotum. Make your own minds up.

Next stop, one of the modern wonders of the world Iguassu Falls that straddles the border between Argentina and Brazil quite beautifully.

Sambadromo Party

In Rio, they have dedicated about three city blocks to an ominous looking structure known locally as the Sambódromo - the 'Samba Drome'. It is a huge, roofless, stadium sized building about a mile in length that all the Samba Schools, parade down come Carnavale. Emma had procured tickets to the grand final, the champions parade. The week before had seen various heats, the winners of which would get a final chance to impress the judges and hopefully clinch victory for their particular Samba school.

 

Built in one of Rios less upmarket neighbourhoods, it didn't look particularly inviting the couple of times we'd passed previously but with sheer mass of people going to enjoy the final parade of Carnavale the atmosphere was electric.
The underground to get there was packed with performers in costume banging drums and blowing whistles and practicing their Samba for what is, for many, the most important day of the year. The floats had been under construction since last years parade and despite a fire that had destroyed several schools efforts, the turnout was truly spectacular. We had bought our own beers in a rucksack like true Brits abroad, as the talk was of a horrendously overpriced tourist trap on arrival. To be fair, the beers were fine and if there was anywhere worth paying the extra it was here. We arrived in our seats in between schools and we neared the end of the first Brahma there was still no sign. This was due to the fact that each school has between 5 and 10 thousand people in it with anywhere between 10 and 25 floats. When they did arrive it was worth the wait.

Unfortunately, we were still far too para about Rio to take our own camera out so I've dipped into Google to help us out, I will eventually go back to using our photos just as soon as I've covered the stuff we got up to here. These are just to give you an idea.

We stayed in the Sambadrome until long after we'd finished our beers as the flow of Samba schools doesn't let up until 3 or 4 in the morning. We have no idea who won and have no idea of the criteria for deciding what's a 9 out of 10 and what's an 8 but the sheer scale of them and the effort put in by every beautiful, semi-nude woman and every perfect male specimen dancing, girating and doing god knows what else in the thronging mass below us. The amount of energy in that place is on a par with the game of football we'd seen a day or two before. After about 5 hours we left, a little tipsy and absolutely blown away by the sheer scale of what we had witnessed. On our trip back to the underground, which luckily for us runs 24hrs a day during Carnavale, I felt a tug on the now empty rucksack we had used to transport our beer and turned round to face a less than perfect specimen of manhood behind me having a little rummage inside. I pulled the bag away and pushed him back, he was less than apologetic, leering at me and grabbing for the bag again. The guy must have been about 70 years old but he wouldn't have made it to the final audition for a Werthers Original ad let me tell you. Toothless and leering he turned away with a horrible cackle and disappeared into the crowd as we made our way home a little bemused but delighted with what has to be one of the best shows on earth.

Football Brazilian style.

There were of course many incidences of early afternoon beer and Capirinha sessions and I could devote about 4 pages to recounting them in list form but we did also do some other stuff. One of my personal favourites was going to see one of the many local derbies that take place between any of the 4 teams who play in Rio. Unfortunately we didn't get to sample the unbelievably spicy atmosphere stirred up in the cauldron-like Maracana as it was, and as I understand it, still is closed for renovations for Brazils hosting of the World cup in 2014. A tournament which promises to be one of the best yet in a country that is truly fanatical about football as we found out when witnessed the 0-0 draw between Flamengo and Fluminese. We sat with the Flamengo fans who are without doubt a set of the maddest, meanest looking boys I've ever seen in my life. The police who swarm within the stadium at every game I've ever been to back home, were no where to be seen, there were a couple with guns, but they seemed to be there only to open fire from the other side of the huge moat that seperated them from the pitch and opposing fans if things got even more out of hand then they seemed to be already and the game hadn't even kicked off yet.

Emma and I had consumed a couple of Brahma before the game and decided to use the facilities before kick off, I think the womens were alright but I'd never seen such a big group of muscular men standing together in a toilet before, much less a large group of muscular men standing together in a group openly taking cocaine in a football stadium, the worst I'd experienced is the smell of a crafty cigarette floating out from under one of the cubicle doors, this was something else altogether. I studied the floor as I relieved myself for what seemed like a tortuously long time before checking that the floor was still an inch deep in piss on the way out as it had been on the way in. It was and as I left what felt like a very real and immediate danger and re-entered the area underneath the stands a manic drumming began.

I met Emma and waited for the group of about 50 coked up drumers and fans dancing wildly and chanting with such fervour that they looked like their jugulars might start exploding at any given moment, to move out of the way politely and let us past. During a lull in the drumming Emma and I took our opportunity and tried to slip through the group. The timing couldn't have been worse if we'd planned it that way. The reason they'd stopped was to give themselves a chance turn around and make their big entrance into the stadium. As we entered the middle of the group the drummers resumed and we were almost lifted off our feet as the group which had by now swelled to number closer to one hundred and fifty bounced into the stadium screaming in heavily accented Portuguese something about the rape of the referee, not even a joke.

We got to our seats largely unscathed and with another beer to settle the nerves the game began. Not that the seat came to be any use to us at all. The game finished 0-0 but it could have been 4-3 for all the difference it would have made. We couldn't see a thing the whole game. Flags, the smoke from the flares and the height of the average Flamengo fan being roughly 6ft 5 conspired against us. To give you an idea, watch this video.



I've never experienced an atmosphere like it. If you stopped singing or clapping there was always a crazy looking guy with an enormous scar running the full length of his face on hand to remind you not to. The game was exhausting for us, but not as exhausting as it was for the guy standing directly in front of us waving the 20ft flag for the entire 90 minutes. The game was awful, but I don't think I'd have watched the game even if the flag infront of us hadn't reduced our visibilty to 0. The passion displayed by the fans, possibly aided by pharmaceuticals granted, was a spectacle in itself, one that may well have ruined european and the ever more sterile and subdued British game for me, for ever. The ticket to a Rio de Janeiro derby cost in the region of £1.50, there are some clubs who charge a minimum of £50 for a ticket in the UK, that to me is like a savage mugging. I'd rather run the risk of an actual savage mugging every week for £1.50 then get get a guaranteed one once or twice a season like the majority of fans of the top 4 EPL clubs personally, but that's just me.

It wasn't comfortable, at times I felt downright unsafe and the standard was probably the second worst I've seen after the SPL (Despite Ronaldinho having played for Flamengo for a season or two) but my god when you came out you felt like you'd experienced something. I wouldn't have minded seeing what happened when a goal was scored but something tells me we probably would have simply tumbled 15 rows over the barrier and fallen a further 20feet into the moat so maybe it was for the best that we didn't! Admitedly, it may have been frightening and at times, scary. as. shit, but if going to a game was like that in the UK, I'd be there every week.

South America and in particular, Rio.

 Rio is one of those places that everyone wants to go to. Its iconic topography, beaches and of course Carnavale makes it one of the top destinations to visit anywhere in the world. Tourists flood here during the moveable feast of Mardi Gras when the whole city erupts in a festival of debauchery unparrallelled anywhere else in the world. Unfortunately for us and our meagre, backpacking budgets this also means a 1000% increase in the price of what can only be described as filthy and in some cases gangster infested accommadation. But let me start at the begining, or at least the beginning of our trip to Rio.

We arrived after three flights and about 24 hours, from LA. This was the first country neither of us had visited, the first country where neither of us spoke the language and the first country neither of us had visited previously so we were apprehensive anyway, but when you add to this apprehension a terrifying propensity for violent crime, I'm not ashamed to say, we were downright paranoid.

We stepped out of the Terminal with our bags and the first thing that happened as we sat waiting for our bus to the Bota Fogo (Mouth of Fire) area was that an insect the size of a Golden Eagle flew directly into my face. OK so that was an exaggeration but I'm not exaggerating when I say it was actually the size of a sparrow and that vehicles actually swerved to avoid it when I saw it again later. I jumped up, wildly swatting the empty air around me to the unsympathetic laughter of Emma and about 5 or 6 locals. It would not be the last time that locals shook their heads and muttered 'Gringo' under their breaths in an apparent attempt at exacerbating my already keenly felt embarrassment.

The bus journey did little to put our over active imaginations at ease. The traffic was awful and the ride into the city was beset on both sides of the highways with sprawling Favellas, all housing, to our paranoid minds, armies of handgun toting armed robbers just yawning and stretching and looking forward to a lovely day of relieving us of our possessions whilst facing minimal resistance.

The bus dropped us off in Bota Fogo and we scuttled as fast as we could to our hostel. Which it turned out, as with the rest of Rio, was absolutely fine, if a little crowded. Its hard to write about long, irresponsible Capirinha sessions, but that is what we did for extended periods of our time there. Not our fault you understand, we were merely immersing ourselves in the culture, but in between liver punishment we also found the time to do a few 'activities' too. I'm in danger of making this post far, far too long to be read with any discernable level of enjoyment but boy did we enjoy them. We should really have gone to bed when we arrived in order to catch up on the sleep that we didn't get on all three of our flights, but the resident barman in our hostel was having none of it. What felt like hundreds of Capirinhas later and with the hours spent awake, or at least semi concious, standing at a respectable 50 hours, we felt that we had indeed not disgraced ourselves in the entering of the Carnival spirit and collapsed into bed to sleep for about 18 hours.

‘The paedophile used a parrot to lure children to a secluded spot, where he’d molest them.’ – American News Reader.

The drive to LA was largely uneventful until we arrived. Then it quickly became a series of jump outs to enquire whether or not that particular Motel had any rooms. They did not. Until we arrived at a pleasant little place which was also sorry to inform me that they didn’t have any rooms but that they did know a place that had a vacancy. One phone call and an efficient series of wrong turns later we arrived. At $70 dollars a night, it was the most expensive place we had stayed so far in the US, but, needs must and we gratefully accepted the keys from the man in the open dressing gown, the vest and the boxers before dragging our bags into the room. It wasn’t the nicest place. For one, it had a colony of Ants leading onto and off of a large brown stain which was half in and half out of the stinking bathroom. The sheets were a different shade of brown than the stain on the floor, but brown nonetheless and there was a pane of glass missing from the window. Emma and I scanned the room, seeing everything at exactly the same time before looking at each other with horrified expressions. Not only that, but there was a fucking parrot in the room next door and it was making a bloody racket all night.

The next day, the screeching of the parrot still ringing in our ears, we moved to a hostel on Venice Beach, which was a lot better. We dumped our bags and went for a walk along the promenade. Oh the humanity. Rollerblading cats being dragged by their owners as they skateboard along in a pair of stonewashed hotpants past the stall owners who proclaimed themselves to be ‘Kush Doctors’ – this being California, the same rules apply here as in San Francisco where cannabis is concerned – people dressed in every conceivable get up are parading their individuality up and down Venice beach. The place has a horribly fascinating aspect to it, as well as good bars, hustlers, players, the world famous ‘Muscle Beach’ and highly competitive games of Basketball, Handball and ‘guess where the ball is when I move these three cups around’. In a lot of ways it looks like the recreation yard at Pelican Bay. You’ll only get that reference if you have watched ‘America’s Hardest Prisons’ but I make no apology for it. We spent a lot of time there and, barring certain places in India, is my number one spot for people watching in any of the countries we’ve visited so far.

On our return to the hostel we got a couple of beers and went to the common area to drink them. We came in as the news was starting and in between the post Oscars chatter there was a story regarding a paedophile, now thought to be in the Los Angeles area, who was easily recognisable by the fact that he often walked along nearby Long Beach with a parrot on his shoulder. We both thought back to the previous night’s sleeplessness. The co-incidence was too great, surely not? The story continued and in rip roaring American broadcasting style ‘The paedophile used a parrot to lure children to a secluded spot, where he’d molest them.’ Should we call the police? Na, fuck it. We’re off to Rio in two days, what we should do, is get more beers before the shops shut. So we did.

The next day we took two buses, the car was parked in a non paying zone and we didn’t dare move it for fear of losing the spot, to Hollywood and walked along looking at the stars with people’s names written in them. That was pretty much that in Hollywood. I don’t know exactly what we were expecting, but whatever it was, we thought it would be better than that. So back to Venice Beach for some more gawping at the weirdos , a good old fashioned American bar meal and then bed. My cousin Marianne lives in LA with her husband Jose and their son Romain, possibly one of the cutest kids in the whole American continent, not too far from Venice Beach and we went round to hers for a delicious meal, probably the healthiest thing we ate during the entirety of our trip around the states and some excellent chat and insight into the LA way of life. A good evening was had by all and if you’re reading this Marianne, Emma and I would like to thank you once again!

The next day, our last in the US, was spent rollerblading from Venice to Santa Monica. I bought a silver banana hammock for the journey but Emma stopped me from pairing it with my rented rollerblades for an ensemble that really wouldn’t have looked that out of place next to some of the get up these uber cool LA hipsters were wearing without any hint of shame or irony. We had a nice blade around until we saw a bar offering some crazy deals on giant, American sized Margheritas. We met some characters in that place. One gay 40 something took a shine to Emma’s front boobs whilst we watched one of the cheesiest men in the United States chat up a girl. “Are you spiritual at all?” He asked. I involuntarily laughed at this toe curling attempt at painting himself as some kind of guru in the pursuit of ‘tail’ as the Americans charmingly refer to fanny. Even the flamboyant gay guy raised an eyebrow, but I think his face may have been permanently frozen in that position.

After returning the skates we inadvertently stumbled onto the set of the American Torchwood filming on the beach, we only realised when the director came round to tell people what position to sit in as the wind whistled around the goose pimpled extras. “Are you with us?” He shouted. “Na” I replied. “LOVE IIIIT!” he stated before carrying on back to the cameras for another take. It was about then that we took our leave. After all, we were heading to Rio de Janeiro the next day and the flight was by no means direct, so we headed on back and packed our bags in readiness for the next stage of the trip. South America and Carnivale.

‘California’s nice but I like seasons’ – ‘So do I, that’s why I live in a place that got rid of all the shitty ones’ – Daniel Tosh (Continued)

We left San Francisco in the rain and were able to drive over the Golden Gate Bridge to view the full majesty of SF as well as Alcatraz in the blazing sunshine about a mile and a half away. Evidently, SF has its own meteorological prerogative and just refuses to fall into line with the rest of California like some kind of non conforming, LSD quaffing poet. I should point out that the view’s pretty nice once you’re over there.

We drove down the coast and gradually the built up areas thinned out and we were soon catching our first glimpses of the Pacific, and SF’s suburbs eventually became distinct towns and then we took our first stop. Santa Cruz. We were nearing the end of February and as such the normally bustling, college town of Santa Cruz was lacking its usual party spirit. An old wooden rollercoaster dominated it’s skyline and loomed imperiously over a rubbish beach which we went and sat on, almost out of a sense of duty, before wandering around its almost closed theme park. I say almost closed because we did stumble upon the most elaborate crazy golf course I’ve ever seen. With its Pirate theme and animatronic figures popping out from boxes it looked more like a Disney ride. It beats the UK ones hands down, where a badly made windmill with blades that don’t even turn pass for an activity worth £4.

The next day we drove into Monterey Bay, an upmarket resort town which we arrived, ascertained that we couldn’t stay there (even the Super 6 Motel was over $100, little in joke for all the American travelling salesmen reading this) and walked along the boardwalk before getting back in the car and driving to Big Sur National Park. We didn’t stay there long, I have to be honest. Drove in, looked for somewhere to swim, saw that the river looked like it would certainly take both of our lives should we be stupid enough to get in it and left before hitting the Pacific Highway, where the views suddenly got excellent.

Now that I’ve worked out how to put photos on I no longer have to bother describing anything anymore. Needless to say, we drove and round each bend came yet more breathtaking views.

We, or I should say, Emma, drove a long time that day, so far, that we had to kind of make an emergency stop a nightfall in an unapologetic college town, where the barmen in every bar we visited that night, looked and behaved like Stiffler from American Pie. The drinks were not cheap and the people, despite their perfectly straight, white, plastic teeth, weren’t really my cup of tea. But then most people aren’t. The next day, we went to the public library to use their internet and after ascertaining that there weren’t any rooms available, we didn’t let that phase us and battered on straight through to LA regardless.  The lack of accommodation would be an inconvenience, but would also lead us to within a hairs breadth of catching a wanted, Long Beach paedophile in a Motel just off Sunset Boulevard. Well, kind of.

‘California’s nice but I like seasons’ – ‘So do I, that’s why I live in a place that got rid of all the shitty ones’. - Daniel Tosh

After picking up a new and much worse hire car from the MGM Grand it was a long drive to Shoshone, a tiny hamlet with one motel, some trailers and a bar/diner that seemed only to sell Hash Browns. We arrived late after stopping in numerous other hamlets, each with fewer amenities than the last. Shoshone was the last stop off before entering the Death Valley National Park, a fact it seemed to be almost arrogant about, judging by the cost of the petrol, water and sandwiches available at the only store for 50 miles.

Death Valley, if you aren’t acquainted with it, is the hottest place on earth. It has the highest year round average temperature and was pipped by Libya for the highest ever recorded temperature (57°C if you’re wondering) as well as this inhospitable claim to fame it is also the lowest point on earth, 287m below sea level to be exact and within this hellish basin is contained impressive salt flats, cacti and various scurrying rodents and carnivorous birds who pick clean the skulls of deer and other unfortunate beasts who wander unaccompanied into a very bad time indeed. The park itself was massive, despite looking like the much quicker route to Bakersfield on the map the 30mph speed limits and exceptionally law abiding New Jersey and New England tourists made for another long days driving and we gratefully pulled into a crap Motel for some rest in Bakersfield before Emma steeled herself for the drive to the first major city we’d been to since New Orleans – San Francisco.

San Francisco is notorious in the rest of the US for the lack of kerbside parking, as well as the sheer expense of it, with space at a premium the cost of a days parking can be upwards of $9 an hour, a cost we could not accommodate given our limited budget so we set out with gritted teeth to look for one of the rarer than a Golden Eagle free spaces the woman at the front desk of our hostel had told us about. Although she did say ‘There’s so few of them they might as well not exist’ That’s good then. She told us where there was one and we went to look for it. ‘It should be painted green.’ She told us. We found the right street but each parking bay was of a depressing uniformity. Standard grey. I asked someone who looked like he may own a shop on the street. ‘Do you know if it’s OK to park here?’ I asked. He looked at me, blinked twice and without saying a word started dragging a motorcycle out of the way and gesturing for Emma to pull into the space it had left. ‘Thank you, thank you so much’ I said, he had after all, saved us about $250 dollars in parking over the three days we planned to stay there. He gave me a huge smile and waved his hand at me before scurrying back into his shop. ‘I think I just met the best man in the whole of the United States’ I told Emma as we took our bags up to the hostel.

Now, we’ve all seen the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz and that twisty road that featured in Bullit (I think) but what you won’t have seen unless you’ve visited certain parts of California, is the extremely laid back view that Californians take towards Cannabis, The Chronic, Sweet Mary Jane, Ganja, The ‘Erb, Marijuana, Puff, Weed or whatever else you kids are calling it nowadays.

The thing that made it so surprising, was coming so recently from States like Texas and Nevada where possession results in instant chemical castration and over 500 years in prison. Everyone was smoking mad blunts -On the way to work, dropping off their kids at day care, bus drivers, hipsters, doctors and tourists all at it - So that’s an exaggeration, of course, and what, I hear you ask, can you expect from a place that basically spawned American counter culture – Ken Keasey, Jack Kerouack, the Merry Pranksters and LSD all originated here – but the smell of it permeates the city, it’s even more prevalent than Amsterdam. The reason for this is a legal grey area and a source of much debate for San Franciscans. It remains illegal at a Federal level, meaning the FBI could basically close San Francisco down should the need arise, but on a state level, it is absolutely legal as long as you can prove that you have Glaucoma or a bad back or bunions (that’s not even a joke) to a doctor who will then write you a legal, over the counter prescription to be filled at a state sanctioned Marijuana ‘facility’.

That there, is how they roll (pun) in San Fran. Apparently they hate it when you call it San Fran. A lesson I learned the hard way in a bar on South Progress Street, a bar with over 150 beers on tap, putting to bed once and for all the myth that Americans only drink Coors Light, Bud Light and in certain states (Alabama)exclusively a home brewed 96% distilled spirit called Hooch. The Micro Brewing scene is thriving, particularly on the West coast and we sampled a great deal of them whilst chatting to a restaurant manager and head chef about subjects ranging from gun control, the cannabis question and why it’s frowned upon to call their city ‘San Fran’.  Don’t ask me the reason, I’d forgotten a minute after they’d told me but the main thing is that I won’t make that mistake again. Even, if I don’t know why.

We spent a number of very enjoyable afternoon hours in that bar, due to the fact that San Francisco - once again bucking the trend set by the rest of California; 75°F and sunny, every, single, day – was under a slow moving sheet of grey drizzle, which, in one of the very few walking cities in the US, was a real pain. We persevered anyway trudging from landmark to landmark in the rain like arseholes until nightfall when we found ourselves in China Town.  There’s only so many Tsing Tao you can drink however and we eventually returned to our hostel, the Green Turtle, drunk as bastards and went to sleep. The next day was more of the same if I remember correctly except that we ended the evening listening to some pretty good live bands in a few bars with some people we’d met at our hostel. A good night was had by all and we slept soundly for the drive south, towards LA, via the spectacular Highway 1.