Hapless Travels

(I feel like this quote was coined by someone that never drove in LA during rush hour.)

 

CHAMPIONS LEAGUE FINAL DAY 

 

Up to this point, most of my thoughts on this trip have been spent on a seeming irrelevance to most of you.

Football/Soccer/that absurd game that doesn’t have 100 commercial breaks.

Liverpool football club is a major part of the rollercoaster I’m strapped to and we have somehow blasted our way to the final of the biggest game in world football (World Cup be damned).

I have been a plastic scouser since a young lad, when my dreams were a bit more extravagant than a please just get me through today, and yes, nothing says fragile personality more than relying on 11 overpaid men in shorts to give one emotional satisfaction but so be it. Today is the day. And I’m feeling almost relaxed. Most likely because I’ve spent the last month telling myself we don’t stand a chance against the richest and most successful club in the world: Real Madrid, who were notoriously bankrolled by Franco and I’m pretty sure Satan himself (or herself).

 

(3 ghastly hours later)

 

Well, that didn’t go according to plan, unless the plan was for everything that could go wrong to go wrong. I don’t think I need to say much here. Our German goalkeeper made some of the worst errors ever concocted in a football match, let alone in a professional game, and strongly pissed all over my ‘they’re efficient’ chips.

There’s always one isn’t there.

 

 

I actually feel pity for him, and some concern over the backlash he’s going to get, rather than any anger. The anger is solely directed to a certain Madrid player, called Sergio Ramos, who broke the wonderful Mo Salah’s shoulder. Ending his season, and ours, and most likely Egypt’s hopes at the world cup, with a judo move that [insert famous judo person] would have been proud of.

(edit: he apparently also concussed our hapless goalkeeper with a rather sly forearm smash which might have contributed to his child disowning performance. Germany, I’m sorry for doubting you.)

I don’t think he needed reminding, but I felt it was worth tweeting to him about it.

 

 

 

Special mention should go to the lady from the wedding party who showed up wasted at the bar in the final few minutes to tell me it’s just a game, and that having cancer is far worse.

 

 

THE WEDDING DAY

 

It was finally here.

The day of the wedding.

After months of deliberating as to whether it was a sensible thing to go half way round the world for a friend’s wedding, when the budget is on shoestring status, and having had my voicemail, in which I tested the waters for a possible no show not just rebuffed but apparently saved and replayed whenever the bride and groom felt like they needed a laugh (really can’t remember exactly what I said but I guess my despair wrapped in politeness didn’t elicit the response I was after), it was time to dust off my suit and get my face on (the I’m friendly and like social events one).

The groom, a particularly thoughtful fella, had booked a bus for those who had previously driven in Italy and thought, no thanks I’d rather eat my own foot than go through that hell again. Which was quite a few of us it seems.

His faith in the ability of my friends and I making the bus meant that we were given a departure time so premature the bus driver would probably still be at home enjoying his breakfast, and having his second argument of the day with his mother about when he’s finally going to move out.

We however knew that missing this bus was not really a suitable option, especially considering the millions of miles we had already travelled by this point and so we ignored our natural inclinations and showed up early. We expertly google mapped our way to the pick up spot, on the outskirts of Como, and began waiting patiently for the bus to arrive.

Other wedding attendees, who had spied our sharply dressed attire and decided we were one of them, slowly began to join us. Hands were shaken and instantly forgotten names exchanged.

After a good while of painfully sober introductory chatter, people slowly begun to utter some concerns about where this bus was, as we were now running a little behind.

When anxiety hit a level of defcon 2 and reached the point of “shit, are we even going to make this wedding?” some bright spark walked around the corner and discovered a bus, with a driver who was utterly bemused by a lack of people on board.

It wasn’t a time to point fingers and lay blame. We were going to make it. Maybe cutting it a little fine, but there wasn’t going to be a kick in the balls from the groom for ruining the biggest day of his life (he’s a Juventus fan and was too young to appreciate their victorious Champions League run in 1996).

However, it was legitimately the bus drivers first day on the job and he hadn’t come across a gear system like this before. At one point we stopped for full ten minutes while he tried to get it back into first gear. From then on he didn’t want to come to a halt again, so he became Sandra Bullock for the rest of the way there. Red lights were managed perfectly. And by perfectly, I mean completely ignored.

 

 

Eventually we reached our destination.

Just not the right destination.

We were dropped off at a cemetery no less, and a good mile or so from the venue. The bus driver was refusing to go any further as he felt the road was too narrow.

Judging from my experiences so far, he must be the only person in this country who has been daunted by such a dilemma.

 

 

At this point the ceremony has been delayed 45 minutes as the bus held pretty well much the entire wedding party, sans the sensible few who had rented a car. Taxis it had to be. What fun.

Upon arrival we were greeted by a collection of family members and rental car drivers who were red in the face and hot under the collar. It was a gloriously sunny day and there had been no shade for these punctual lot to sit under for the past hour. We tried to stem the tide of hatred towards us with apologetic facial grimaces and overly elaborate silent sorries, and found our seats.

The ceremony could finally begin.

It must have been the sound guy’s first day on the job too. He was obviously trying his best, but we crackled and popped our way through the proceedings. The speeches were lovely though. A lot wasn’t in english but judging by the tears of people who had learnt more than just sodding one language, they went down very well.

It was also a quick ceremony. None of this let’s spend an hour singing hymns and listening to creepy vicars talk about love. It was delightful, poignant and….err…efficient.

 

 

 

Weddings are a time for reflection. A time to evaluate one’s life choices. Or lack thereof. And then channel all that disappointment into drinking yourselves stupid. Which is what most of us did.

I’m far too old to take any pride in how much I might have drunk last night so I’m not going to detail it. But it was a lot, and it varied tremendously. If there are any hangover Gods out there, please let yourselves be known and what animal/child I have to sacrifice in your honour. I shall do your bidding.

Things I remember..

• Knocking over someone’s child by accidentally elbowing his head as I excitedly greeted a friend. He didn’t cry, to my astonishment, which I can’t thank the heavens enough for. Nothing declares you’re a shitty human more to a group of people than making a little child cry. Even if it’s a life lesson he needs to learn (stay away from the drunkards).

• Responding to someone telling me they were gay with an over-zealous fist pump and a cry to the heavens of how much I adore gay men. It sounded like a great thing to share in my head but it of course it came across as incredibly patronising. I did apologise later in the evening but couldn’t help myself and got back into it again.
• An album from a band that played every night for a number of years at the show Sleep No More, where I worked for a very long time, was the brides choice for the music. Post Modern Jukebox. I love them to bits and greatly enjoyed my time there, but memories of making cocktails to non tipping tourists certainly added fuel to the drink to forget protocol.
• Reaching an unsettling place of being too drunk to properly move my limbs but too paranoid not to dance. There’s a time and a place to be a miserable sod, and miss out on the collective fun by sitting on the sidelines, but a wedding is certainly not one.
• Finding a bakery that was strangely open at 3am and eating a lot of pizza and chocolate croissants. I thought this would prevent a hangover. I was wrong.

I have tried hair of the dog (an aperol spritz that made things worse), throwing up, deep breaths, and some charcoal tablets my friend has given me (edit: sometimes it’s worth listening to people. I ignored his advice to only have one and took 5 of them. It’s legitimately been over half a week and I still haven’t felt any urge to do a number 2) and nothing has improved things. My train ride later should be interesting.

The only bright spark is that my suffering is mine and mine alone. Unlike my friend, who pushed it too far last night and vomited over himself and quite a lot of the bus on the drive back from the wedding. Schadenfreude flowed happily through my veins when this happened but he’s now feeling right as rain. Lucky guy.

My rule of thumb with booze is that if you go to bed with it, you’re married to it.

No parting ways now. This isn’t Vegas, and you ain’t Britney bitch. Sadly.

 

Here endeth the lesson.

I could mention the plethora of ants, mosquitos, spiders and hornets larger my fist.

The pungent smell of sulphur that emits when you turn on the tap/faucet.

I could mention the things that have been broken – key to front door, a couple of plates, the dishwasher and a milk frother (all amazingly during times I had an alibi).

But all this does is highlight the simple fact that I’m in Italian countryside, in a villa that draws water from its own well and that has a flipping milk frother.

I’m even making friends here. I’ve not lived in a place with a garden for a very long time so perhaps I’m behind on the times, but when did these things come into use?! Robotic lawn mowers that come and go on a schedule of their own desire, and when a little tired return home to charge up to face another day. I must have spent half my waking hours watching this thing. It’s quite something to behold.

 

 

I’m sorry, this was meant to be a tale of humblebragging pitfalls and light hearted disasters. This place just doesn’t fit with the narrative.

That said, I’m living in the city of prepubescent dreams these days, and it just isn’t legal to have an ending that isn’t bright, happy and redemptive. So maybe this is ok and I don’t need to start apologising profusely for leading you down a garden path that doesn’t end at a cliff edge.

It does offer me an opportunity to go on a slight different journey, for when the outside world is all fine and dandy, I enjoy it for a brief second and then I realise there is a whole other battle still to be fought inside the old noggin. So in I go.

Here in the villa, I’m the youngest by a good epoch. The mental age of my acquaintances has risen from 13 years of age to a good 83. And this is way of out my comfort zone. I find myself sitting up right at meals, pretending to use a napkin and hoping that someone mentions a film from the 50’s that I have watched, so I can at least appear to be somewhat informed of the important things in life.

As I’ve now lived in the United States of What on Earth is Going On for 14 years now, whenever I return to a British social setting I’m very much afforded an outsider perspective. It does feel like I’m His Royal Highness David Attenborough in the undergrowth peeking out and being mesmerised by this merry dance of strange and peculiar, but very amiable, mammals we call Brits. If anything they are hilarious to listen to.

 

During the day they are completely and utterly fixated by the swimming pool (oh yes, there is one here I’m ashamed to admit) and one’s interactions with it.

 

“Have you been for a swim yet? Oh, you absolutely have to pop in.”

“Well, I dipped my toe in for a bit.”

“How about you, Geoffrey?”

“I did a few laps earlier. Bloody marvellous.”

“Well done. It’s a little bit chilly but wonderfully refreshing.”

“Quite.”

 

When the sun goes down and the pool chat is unfortunately no longer an option, they move onto more serious matters. Wine, wars and Lidl. (Lidl for those who haven’t yet had the pleasure of an introduction is a german (I know) supermarket that holds deals so good one is compelled to utter its name at every social gathering henceforth, regardless of occasion and whether there’s someone within earshot or not.)

There’s also a tremendous amount of nostalgia being shared around, and I don’t blame them at all for it. Their lives back then sounds truly lovely.

“I bought a 2 bedroom flat just off Sloane Square in 1971 for three months wages, half a bag of peanuts and a mars bar (they were much bigger back then).

Can’t tell you what it’s worth now (I can hazard a guess. Lots.)”

Of course, nostalgia is rosy cheeked and unashamedly forgiving of strife. When we dive back, we dare not shatter its warm illusions with any mention of unsavoury matters, most notably the racial and gender divides (I’ll have to give economic divides a pass, as we’re unforgivably in worse shape now). The eye of Sauron the Sentimental does not light up those areas. So a lot gets skipped over during middle-class story time, when we’re encouraged to sit back and envy their journeys through life.

Perhaps the youth of tomorrow will be the same and resent the fact they weren’t lucky enough to be born in the 80’s and 90’s when everything was cheap, life was more simple and the lawn mower robots hadn’t taken over, but I’d be very surprised if it’s as fervent as the ire we direct to the baby boomers. Those lucky sods.

They witnessed the greatest and speediest advancements in human history, and from their rememberings had a bloody amazing time during it. The music, cultural and sexual revolution of 60’s and 70’s is surely going to be the time travellers first pick for thrill inducement. Well, certainly at least for the white males amongst them.

Now the world is getting a bit shit, they’re like, alright time to bugger off. Good luck and good night.

(That said if there isn’t a Lidl in the afterlife, they’ll be back.)

Ok, that’s enough of any heaviness. This story is meant to be a fun romp and not an awkward one stand that ends with both parties faking orgasms.

 

 

I feel like it’s time to wind this down anyway. Surely everyone has given up reading by this point so it’s just me talking to myself and well, that should be reserved for my later years. It’s been a lot of fun this trip and i’m glad I was encouraged to document it a little.

The next part of my journey, for those who are passionate about the dollars spent, will appreciate the cheapness of the home legs.

PISA – LONDON – Ryan air (heaven help me) – $62.

LONDON – NYC – Primera Air – $200.

Which is astonishingly cheap. The taxes cost more than that, so I’m not quite sure what’s going on here. I never bothered reading the fine print, so perhaps I”m helping out with the washing up. That is if anyone has been stupid enough to buy the meal option. (edit: this company has now gone under. Coincidentally 2 days after I bought another flight with them. RIP Primera “how are they making money” Air).

 

 

NYC – LA

 

I’ve learned that hidden city flying makes you feel a pretty decent array of emotions. Mostly not fun ones.

You’re turning the airport experience, which is already bad enough as it is, and dialing it up a couple of notches.

Notches your uninsured heart and arse would prefer not to go.

If they force you to check your carry on bag, then you’re in all sorts of trouble. You certainly can pull a hissy fit and demand it back, but if you’re British then your DNA most likely does not offer this option so you just have to silently accept your fate.

If they don’t, then you’re golden. You’ve just saved yourself a bunch of cash and gained a modicum of triumph for beating the system. That is unless you have some weird emotional makeup that welcomes this activity with lashings of guilt.

Guilt which drives you to message the airline declaring that you have suddenly fallen ill, and that making the second leg isn’t a good idea until a doctor in LA gives you the go ahead. And then updating them saying you’re still in the waiting room but hoping to make an evening flight.

And then calling them because they haven’t returned your messages and being put on hold for thirty minutes, until you finally stop and think that maybe, just maybe, they don’t care.

Unlike the British politician, sitting pretty in the upper-class section on my flight, who cared so much about me and my relationship with Europe that he valiantly fought for Brexit. What a hero.

Having almost walked into it, I can verify that Michael Gove’s face doesn’t just look like one, it actually is a smacked arse.

 

I bet he didn’t bother to let the airline know that he was skipping the second leg.

 

 

LA

 

I’m back to where I started.

Back to the dreams.

Back to being around the beautiful people and sticking out like a pasty white thumb.

Back to strange places.

Back to…oh wait, there is something new.

I’m renting a room in a new neighbourhood.

And this time the host is much more present. And likes to share her thoughts.

And who feels it’s important to direct my delightfully polite introductory conversation, over a jet lagged 7 a.m. breakfast, towards immigration control.

And feels I should be warned that the Mexicans doing construction nearby might well be tempted to rob me.

And who doesn’t want the kitchen sink to be wet after I’ve washed and dried up my cereal bowl. Because Frank Sinatra’s mother told her off for it once and it stuck.

Ah, balls.

 

So much the journey ending here.

This story though I’ll put a fork in.

It’s worth noting that, rather fittingly, her house is situated right by a cliff edge.

–  (This is in reference to my earlier mention of stories that end dramatically, not me suggesting I’m thinking about pushing her off it. Not at all. What kind of person do you think I am?

She’s over 80, and certainly wouldn’t join me in a walk to there anyway.

Well, unless I rip up bits of racist paraphernalia and use them as a breadcrumb trail I suppose.

But that’s awful. I’m not the type to even entertain such a thing.

Plus it’s far too windy over there. She’d be scuttling about all over the place trying to pick them up. And I’d just get fined and become known as a fascist litterer.)

 

I guess it’s a good thing everyone stopped reading on page one.