36 hours - part one

We are never going to go to Las Vegas, let me make that clear. At some point in my life I want to visit a casino, I want to sit at a Blackjack table, I want to mutter the words: Hit me, I want to pump $40 dollars into a fruit machine, I want to throw a chip onto a roulette table, I want to stand beside a crap table and pretend I know what is happening. At some point in my life I want to go to a casino. However, it is at some point in my life, it is way, way down on my list of things to do before I die. The fact is, I'm not a gambler. I know that I will lose. Winning would be fun but I know, in my heart of hearts, that in the long run I would lose. Therefore a trip to a casino, and for it to be really worth while, would mean losing $150 and, to tell the truth, I'm not sure that the return (fun-to-money spent) would be totally worth it. At the moment I live a couple of hours from Las Vegas. Now, Las Vegas is a whole different story. It is not just gambling, it is the actual being in Las Vegas. It is the sights, the sounds, the casinos. However, Maria is convinced that if she ever goes to Las Vegas she will die. Therefore she is in no rush to go there and I am in no rush to take her there. We are never going to Las Vegas.

Slightly higher on my list of things to do before I die is visit Los Angeles. See Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Rodeo Drive, Venice Beach - all those places that I've seen on the tele/in philums. With L.A. (do you see how street I really am?) just three hours away you would have thought that I'd have visited before now but, because of one thing and another, I never have. Last month Comic-Con was held in San Diego, we didn't go, but in all the hype surrounding it (which we followed) we discovered that Dave McKean, the artist responsible for the covers of all The Sandman comics and the writer/producer/director of Mirror Mask, had an art exhibition in Los Angeles - a free exhibition. This was all the encouragement we needed to jump in the car and head up the road. We could do the whole thing in a day with the only expense being petrol! Neither of us had any bad vibes about L.A., neither of us had any premonitions, this was going to be a fast in-and-out, a road trip with no problems, no necessary planning. Eight, nine hours at the most.

Oh how wrong we were.

Not that we noticed, but it started to go wrong at the border crossing. Three days before I had a good crossing. Good in the fact that I encountered a border guard with a sense of humour - yeah, really! Who'd have thunked it. Unfortunately, this time I didn't meet just a humourless guard, I encountered a majorly-pissed-off guard. The special friendship that is supposed to exist between the UK and the USA means that I should pass through the border quite easily. However, this time I faced threats of having to go to secondary (which is a place that includes men who wear rubber gloves) or, worse in this case, refusal to even let me into the country. A long five minutes (which felt a lot longer) of arguing meant that by the time I got into the car on the other side, the good mood and feeling of excitement that I had started the journey with, had faded.

Three hours in a car with Maria is enjoyable. We chatted, we listened to NPR, we discussed/debated, we found radio stations that we would never listen to. We drove into L.A. and, quite easily (drove down Melrose - as in Melrose Place - and passed Paramount Studios) found La Brea, the street the gallery was on. We parked the car, got out, looked around and, from the street, could see the Hollywood sign on the hills behind us.

At this point it all went wrong again - it was my fault, I was reading the directions.

For some reason I decided that the number of the gallery was 710 - unfortunately there was no 710. There was a 708 and a 712 but 710 was an open lot. Back at the car (where we had left the directions) we discovered that the number we were looking for was 170. At this point the thermometer broke into the hundreds, it was hot, and we had to walk several blocks in another direction. I was hot, bothered, and feeling a little foolish - basically I was in a grumpy mood. Maria was happy, cheerful, glad to be out the car. We had an argument. It was my fault. I asked for a re-set, Maria agreed, and I did an emotional 180. Happiness prevailed until we arrived at 170 - which was an abandoned store. Determined not to let anything bring her down, Maria forced me into a shop, Fat Chance, to ask for directions/help/advice. Here, we were informed that my map reading skills were even worse than we knew. I was on La Brea North, the gallery was 170 La Brea South - and yes, there is a difference.

Another three blocks walk and we found the gallery. At which point, we turned around and walked back to the car. We had spent 56 minutes walking up and down La Brea and we were only allowed to park for an hour. We moved the car, re-parked it, entered the gallery, viewed the exhibition.

I don't know what I was expecting but I was slightly disappointed. Maria enjoyed it, finding many things that she wanted. Unfortunately I couldn't afford the $19,000 needed to acquire this.

Back outside the gallery, we decided to drive around town and play the tourists. An hour or so of driving later, we elected to, rather than go all the way out to Venice Beach, set off home - maybe stopping at San Clemente for oysters, shrimp and a take-away bucket of their hot wings (I would have to be home to eat them!).

The traffic, trying to get out of L.A. was hell. Eventually, as the road ahead of us cleared of cars, we decided that, with a clear shot at San Clemente, we'd pull off the freeway, grab a couple of drinks and use the facilities. With luck, we'd be home in a couple of hours, well fed, with a bucket of wings, sat in front of the television watching the final of SYTYCD. What could possibly go wrong?