I've found my home

36 hours - part six

part one here
part two here
part three here
part four here
part five here
maria's story here

The mall was in Mission Viejo, the town next door to Laguna Niguel. It was like any other mall in a small town except, rather than being full of shoe shops, it was full of restaurants.

This, at first seemed ideal, it was now midday on Friday and the last time we had eaten was 7pm on Wednesday. Unfortunately neither of us felt like eating. The threat to the Visa bill had taken away our appetites and the closeness to last night's fear had left a sicky feeling in our stomachs.

What we needed was a distraction - and there was a cinema! We decided to go see Pineapple Express but the next viewing was at 2pm, so we had a couple of hours to burn. This meant we found ourselves sat in Kelly's Coffee Shop, dawdling over a couple of cokes.

The hour and a half spent there was another example of how nice people really are. We shared our story with people, recommended places to visit in Mexico, basically had a great time, and we left as friends. Pineapple Express was brilliant. Exactly what we needed. It helps that we love Seth Rogen and the chance to see him with James Franco (both of them were in Freaks and Geeks), was a bonus. We laughed. We laughed a lot. For a couple of hours, we forgot everything and just laughed.

The film finished just after four and, with the walk back to the Laguna Niguel Auto Center taking twenty minutes, it meant we arrived just as the car was finished. They took the car off for a test drive and a wash while we had our last meeting with Sergio Turcutto. There was no arguing about the bill - it was less than we expected and we had been promised a much reduced bill. Oddly, as desperate as we had been to get home the night before, it was suddenly difficult to tear ourselves away from this place. We stood around talking/chatting/shooting the breeze until, finally, Sergio told us:

You'd better go - it's getting dark and you don't want to be stuck here when it is dark!

We shook hands, we offered to let him come live with us, we exchanged addresses, and promised to be BFFs.

The car ran perfectly. Traffic was a bitch - Friday night and everyone heading to the beach - and it took us nearly three hours to get home. But, we got home. Safe. Together. Thirty six hours after we had left the place. None of the plants had died. The fridge hadn't defrosted. Everything was just as we left it. We sat in front of the tele, watching the opening ceremony of the Olympics, eating smoked salmon. We showered, we went to bed, we slept.

All in all - as neil h. commented - blogging gold!

36 hours - part five

part one here
part two here
part three here
part four here
maria's story here

Let's get the cliché out of the way first: It is always darkest before the dawn.

I don't believe in a god, I believe in humanity. A god doesn't cause things to happen, people do. And those people have a choice - to do good or not. A god doesn't cause wars, people do. A god doesn't help you score a goal, people do. The cop out for religion is free will - if a god gives us free will then praying to a god ain't going to make things better. The only thing that makes the world better are the actions of people. As a teacher I have (I have to have) the firm belief that everyone is innately good. Every single person is redeemable, every single person has the ability to effect/affect my life and I have the ability to effect/affect theirs. There are times that I come across people who do me harm (mentally more often than physically), test my beliefs. And then there are days like Friday 8th August 2008, when I hit gold. When every single person I come into contact with adds to my general well-being, when I am shown kindness, friendship, and a desire to help me. Friday 8th August 2008 was one of those days that confirms by beliefs - I really like people, I trust people, people are good.

The walk back from the motel to the car wasn't scary - actually it was, but that was thanks to the embankment. It wasn't mentally scary, I should probably have said. Even though it was daylight, attempting to climb back up the embankment without the use of ropes, crampons, oxygen tanks, Sherpa Tensing was an ordeal. The fact that we could actually see what we were doing didn't help in any way, shape or form. It just emphasised how steep the damn thing was. At the top, as we lay there, gasping for air and tending the wounds inflicted upon us by the Abominable Snowman, whom we'd passed at 40,000 feet, Maria commented that she would never make a good illegal immigrant - she felt there was no way she could get across the border undetected. My feelings were that the border would be a piece of cake after the embankment.

The truck was still there. At one point, in the middle of the night, ignoring the fact that the truck wouldn't start, we'd discussed the possibilities of the it being stolen. This would have solved several problems. We had also toyed with just abandoning the truck, getting home and then reporting it stolen. Fortunately, it wasn't stolen and we did not resort to insurance fraud, because then we would never have visited the Lagua Niguel Auto Center and met Sergio Turcutto. I have already raved about this place and this man - but it doesn't hurt to mention again the kindness and helpfulness shown by Mr. Turcutto nor the fantastic job done in the workshop.

The truck started first time and we drove the (10m as the crow flies) 50m round the mall and parked it. Although the sign informed us that the place wasn't open for another 15 minutes, we were signalled into the reception, which is where we encountered Sergio (I'm going to call him that from now on. I realise that this might seem a little informal but, wtf, this happened in California! Informality rules!). Obviously, Sergio asked what had happened to the truck and how he could help. Unfortunately for him, his was the first kind face we had seen in ten hours, so instead of telling him about the truck, we recounted the whole of our story, the whole story! Including footnotes, subtitles, and a mime of our descent of the embankment. As we told our tale a look of bemusement and amusement crossed his face. We finished, there was a brief pause and then, dear, sweet Sergio burst out laughing:

You come from Tijuana? You live in Tijuana? You were scared? Here? Scared? Why?

We tried to explain about the darkness, the scariness, the fightningness, the...the...there were two people, stood over there, smoking! Sergio looked over to where we were pointing. It was a bar with a big sign in front of it reading: Come On In And Meet Our Friendly, Fun, Happy Staff. This is the friendliest bar in the world!! We hadn't been able to see the sign last night - it was dark!!!

Two guys? Smoking? Outside a bar? Yes, I could see how that would be scary to the citizens of Tijuana.

Eventually, Sergio made sense of our story. His written report reads:

Engine turned over but it would not catch. Customer was helped by a person who installed a new belt and removed the thermostat and left it on the open position (maybe). Engine restarted again but died at the light only 100 yards away from original breakdown place. After a while it started and customer brought it in here.

I argued that he seemed to have missed a few points out and "After a while" tended to miss out the whole scariness of the embankment. But, eventually, we agreed that, as far as the mechanics were concerned, he'd covered most of the important facts. The first thing to do was to replace the thermostat.

Maria: I'm Mexican. If you don't get this car fixed properly, I should warn you, I come from Tijuana. I know people in Tijuana. Those people will learn your name.

Sergio: I promise, it will be fixed.

Will: Yeah. And I'm English. If you don't get this car fixed properly, I should warn you, I come from England. I know people in England. They will happily invade your country.

Sergio: Really? And how did that work out for you last time?

Will: And she knows people in Tijuana.

Suitably chastened we went and sat in the waiting room, from where I wrote this post - making use of their free internet service (did you see what I did there?). As we sat in the waiting room, we were joined by two other customers who sang the praises of Laguna Niguel Auto Center and Sergio Turcutto. And then, as the conversation moved on to the non-scariness of Laguna Niguel, we watched the truck drive out of the workshop and disappear around the corner. Five minutes later we watched Sergio get in a car with two other mechanics and drive off after the truck. He returned, mechanic-less. The truck re-appeared ten minutes later, being pushed by the afore mentioned missing mechanics. Sergio then entered the waiting room:

Sergio: We've replaced the thermostat but that doesn't seem to be the only problem. You've mentioned the new belt but we've checked that and it is ok. It has been fitted properly. So, is there anything else you might have done to the truck? Something that might have some relevance to the problem we are facing?

Me: I emptied the ashtray.

Sergio: You emptied the ashtray?

Me: Yes. Just before the car refused to start the first time I emptied the ashtray.

Sergio: So that's it then. It is all your fault. All we have to do is refill the ashtray and you can be on your way.

Me: It might not be that.

Sergio: Well, we've give it a go. But I think we might have to look a bit further.

The bit further turned up a fuel pump failure - it appears it the empty ashtray had nothing to do with the problem. Who'd have thunked it? There were other problems with the truck, but Sergio was loathed to do them. He felt that it would just be more expense that wouldn't affect our ability to get home safely. But, after getting a promise that all the repairs could be completed by 5pm, we decided that, hang the expense - do the job. We had been mentally traumatised by the last twenty-four hours and were willing to do anything, pay anything, for peace of mind.

We now had to occupy another six hours before continuing our journey and Sergio offered to drive us to the nearest mall. In fact, I'm pretty sure that they also offered us a courtesy car if we wanted to go anywhere else. However, we were saving our next "car experience" for the journey home. We walked to the mall.

36 hours - part four

part one here
part two here
part three here
maria's story here

I know this now. Laguna Niguel is a nice place to live. Mission Viejo is a nice place to live. The people of both towns are wonderful people. The crime rate in both of these places is negligible (at one point we saw a newsflash that "the missing boy had turned up at his aunt's. He'd spent the night and forgotten to call!"). The majority of inhabitants of Mission Viejo and Laguna Niguel have never crossed the border, mainly because they have heard scary stories about Tijuana. None of the inhabitants of either town could understand what there was to be worried about in their towns. There is nothing scary, nothing frightening. Laguna Niguel and Mission Viejo are ideal places to live. Oh, and no-one carries a gun. The majority of citizens were shocked that we didn't knock on their door and ask for help: everyone is so nice here, they would have helped you out. This I know now.

I live in the 21st Century. I know what the people of this century are capable of doing. I watch Fox (Balanced) News. I know that people disappear into thin air. Most of these people disappear with the byline: We know they were going to L.A. but we have no record of them after they stopped off for drinks at a garage in Bumfuck, USA. We were in Bumfuck USA. It was late at night. Two people in a strange town, in a foreign country, in a darkened/empty mall that is just off a side street. The amount of times I have seen films that have started this way is innumerable. Very rarely have I watched those films to the end, I am normally sickened halfway through by the atrocities that are committed to those foolish, foolish people. And we were those foolish, foolish people. Unfortunately, Maria has seen the same films, and she has seen them to the end. Mentally she collapsed. She felt guilty for dragging me to an art exhibition, she felt guilty about the car failing, she felt guilty about her children, she stopped short of feeling guilty about global warming. However, everything else in the world became her fault. Within seven seconds she had plotted and detailed how the rest of the evening was going to go and how it would end. The only plot twist was whether they would rape us before killing us or kill us before raping us. The only light she could see, the only ray of hope, for her, was that it would be the latter.

We were convinced that we had seen a motel, opposite the garage where we had broken down. In fact, if you watch the first video in part two, you can hear Maria mention it. So we headed back to the garage. The bad news was that there was no motel there. However, there was another motel at the next turn-off on the freeway. We just had to cross over the freeway, go down the hill, walk along the railroad tracks, and we should be there in 20 minutes. We crossed the freeway, walked down a hill, and found ourselves in another deserted mall. We pulled out a map. We could see the road the motel was on, on the map. We could see the road the motel was on, by standing up and looking. We just couldn't see a possible way of getting onto the road. Unless, unless when we were told down the hill the guy actually meant down the sheer face of the embankment?

Yes, there was a path down the embankment. However it was the sort of path that a mountain goat would refuse to use. And s/he would refuse in the middle of the day. It was dark. There was no light. You could see where the path started, you could feel where the path ended - on hard concrete. You knew that you would feel that concrete quite hard, rushing up to smack you in the face when you slipped, while attempting to climb down, what was being to look like, the north face of the Eiger.

We got down the embankment.

We walked along the railroad tracks.

We arrived at the motel.

We booked a room for the night.

Four sentences that don't convey much. Suffice to say, there are times.  that I hate my imagination. There are times I regret being able to tell stories. This was one of those times. It was the longest forty minutes ever, in my mind!

The room was wonderful. We went to get some food but realised that neither of us could eat. We bought drinks, went back to the room and locked the door. Maria had a bath. I watched the last ten minutes of SYTYCD. We turned off the light and sat in the dark holding each other.

We were safe. We were together. In the morning the world would be alright. I was fully armed with a credit card that existed solely for emergencies. Everything was going to be fine. All we had to do was get through the night. The best way to get through the night would have been sleeping. However, this was not the option we took. We would sleep for ten minutes, then one of us would wake, disturbing the other. We would talk for an hour, comforting each other, telling each other how it would all pan out. Worse case scenario? We wouldn't get home until Saturday. Best case scenario? We'd be home tomorrow.

All we had to do was wait for the morning, which refused to come.

36 hours - part three

part one here
part two here
maria's story here

Get Mufasa!

Get fucking Mufasa  and get him NOW!

There was no point in arguing. No point in raising objections. No point in mentioning that we might just be in this predicament because of Mufasa. Maria was in a bad place. She was scared, she was worried, she wanted to get home, she was thinking about her kids. She wanted a solution, she thought that Mufasa would be the solution. My job was to do what she wanted at that moment. Once she had got past her initial reaction, then I could debate, but until that moment I had one task: Get Mufasa!

There are several things that I know, know as definite, incontrovertible facts about Americans and America. The first is that all Americans carry guns. All Americans like to shoot people (with a special preference for shooting me). All Americans are 30 seconds away from turning into Hannibal Lecter on a good day. Deep down I am utterly terrified of Americans. Another fact I know is that jay-walking is illegal. I don't know how illegal it is but it is definitely illegal. Theoretically it probably carries a five-to-ten year jail sentence. Practically, policemen probably just shoot jay-walkers for the fun of it and get medals: Good for you, you shot someone who was walking! How un-American is walking? How totally un-American is it to walk in a road? Didn't the perpetrator know that nothing, absolutely nothing, gets in the way of the automobile! Hell, for all I know there is probably a Special Congressional medal for shooting foreigners: He was a threat to Homeland Security! These were the thoughts that went through my mind as a stared across the five lanes of busy traffic I would have to negotiate before getting anywhere near to the (non-existent) pavement/sidewalk. But, faced with the choice of being shot/death/prison and failing Maria, I chose being shot/death/prison.

I crossed the five lanes and ran the 200m back to the garage where we had left Mufasa. I surprised myself - I actually ran, ran quickly, and didn't get out of breath. At one point, I remember noting this and thinking that it was good to know that when shit-and-fan come together, my body can still react positively. Mufasa was still at the garage, filling his car with petrol (probably paying with the money I had given him). I told him what had happened, how the car had stalled out, and pointed back along the road where I could see that the cars were building up behind Maria. He offered me a lift back to Maria but there was no way I was getting into his car. I had done what Maria had asked me to do, I had got Mufasa. From now on, I was in control. I turned from Mufasa and ran back to Maria. Sod the law. I ran back down the middle of the road. At one point a car ran along beside me and a woman inquired if everything was ok? and could I give you a lift somewhere? I pointed to where Maria was and then noticed that there was a man with her. Fuck! I'd left her abandoned in the middle of a busy road for two/three minutes and already Hannibal Lecter had crawled out of the woodwork.

Hannibal Lecter turned out to be, not a cannibalistic-rapist, but an AAA mechanic. He was trying to help. Together we pushed the truck to the side of the road. He informed me that it was illegal to leave the car there. What we had to do was get the truck rolling down the hill and then, at the bottom, turn right into a side street. He helped me to get the truck rolling again, I jumped in and we free-wheeled down the hill, turned right, and ended up in a darkened side street, parked outside a set of gates to a car wash. The AAA mechanic turned up, followed swiftly by Mufasa. He did a double-take when he saw Mufasa but asked us if we were AAA members. When we told him we weren't he apologised and pointed out that he couldn't help us. He could, though, give us one piece of advice: Don't trust that man. He's a bad man! he said, indicating Mufasa. Then he drove off into the night.

At this point Mufasa already had the bonnet up and was unscrewing something. Maria was shouting at him to stop, telling him we had no more money, pleading with him to get away from the car. I got her to sit in the car and at that point Mufasa asked her to try to start the car. It started. Then died.

Mufasa: It's the fuel pump.

Me: I don't care. I want you to go.

Mufasa: No. I fix it. It's the fuel pump. That man is a son-of-a-bitch. I'm a good man. I help you.

Me: Look, you've already helped us. Yes, you are a good man. But this isn't working Mufasa. I want you to go.

Mufasa: I help.

Me: We have no more money. I can't give you any more money. And, be honest, can you fix a fuel pump?

Mufasa: No.

Me: Then thank you for what you've done. Now just go.

Mufasa: I'll drive you home.

Me: Mufasa, we aren't getting in your car. We're going to leave our car here. Find a motel. Sort it all out in the morning. I just want you to go. Now.

Mufasa: I'll go. But I want you to know that it isn't my fault.

Me: I know. I'm not angry with you. I just want you to go. Go now. But, before you do, could you just help me push the car into this car park?

We pushed the truck off the road and into the car park for a mall - not a shopping mall, an industrial type area. It was even darker in there. Mufasa then led me further into the mall, to show me where there were two repair shops and then he got in his car and drove away. Maria was on the phone, with her insurance company, trying to find out if they did recovery in the States. She asked me where we were. I didn't know. Again (which surprised me again) I set off at a sprint. Around the corner I caught up with Mufasa, stopped at a red light.

Me: Where the fuck are we? Where's the nearest fucking motel?

Mufasa told me I was in Mission Viejo and he would drive me to a motel. I thanked him, informed him that we wouldn't be getting into his car and went back to Maria.

36 hours - part two

part one here
maria's story here

It was funny at first. We pulled off the freeway, into a garage, bought a couple of sodas, went back to the car. We were laughing and joking, in high spirits. We'd been to L.A., we'd seen an art exhibition, we'd driven round town, spotting familiar sights, we'd sung along with the radio, we were heading to our favourite place (the place I'd proposed marriage to Maria), we were going to eat some wonderful food (we hadn't eaten since last night), we were toying with catching a film. Life was good. I decided, as we were near a bin, that I'd empty the ashtray while Maria started the car. Except, when I got back to the car, it wouldn't start.

We were still laughing.

Maria noticed that the engine temperature gauge was a bit high, so she popped the bonnet and checked the coolant level. The reservoir was empty - there's the problem. She nipped back into the garage, bought some more coolant. We were still in fairly high spirits. I mean it was 6:30pm on a Thursday in nowhere-America, we knew what the problem was, what could go wrong?

The car wouldn't start after we'd put the coolant in. Maria tried. I tried. It wouldn't start. As I tried again a voice called out telling me to stop trying and we were approached by an oldish guy in flip-flops. And it was from this moment onwards that things suddenly took a turn for the worse. The problem is, I'm a bleeding-heart-liberal who is scared of committing the worst possible crime - racism. I also, because I am this big an idiot, believe that everyone has a certain amount of good in them. So, when I am approached by someone who says they want to do good, I believe them. Any chance that I might question their motivation is over-ruled if they are non-Caucasian and definitely not-middle-class. Inside, I know that if, for a split second, I was to question their intentions I would be a racist. I welcomed the opportunity to prove my basic belief in humanity. We were going to be fine.

Mufasa knew exactly what was wrong with the car, it was the thermostat. And, for only $60, he could fix it and have us on our way in 20 minutes. $60 dollars sounded a bit steep but, it was getting late, the workshop opposite was closing up, and Mufasa had come from that direction. In my mind I'd already worked out his story. He was an immigrant mechanic who had just finished a hard day's work earning money to send back to his estranged family. He'd seen two people in distress and, instead of going home for a bath and a beer, he'd offer a helping hand. Hell, $60 seemed cheap.

Mufasa was from Morocco. He'd fallen in love with an American tourist and she'd brought him back to the USA and they'd got married. That was 21 years ago. Life had been good to start off with but You see, it is the thermostat but don't worry, I can fix it she'd treated him badly, like chattel. Eventually he'd left, five years ago. Got a divorce and now Just a couple of snips, here and here, it'll be good was saving up money to go back to Morocco. He missed his country, missed his family and he Have you seen your belt? Mufasa doesn't want you to get half way home and have another breakdown has this dream of opening his own garage in Morocco. But it is difficult to save, get extra money to You give me $45 dollars, I go get you a new one. I come back, give you my phone number, hey, I drive behind you all the way to the border. Mufasa wants you to get home safely. You wonderful people. Maria very pretty. Wait here, I'll be back in twenty minutes with a new belt. It'll be all OK. Don't worry be able to afford his dream. So he likes to do this sort of thing, help people out, get a little extra money. The man was bleeding-heart-liberal's dream come true.

As we sat in the car, waiting for Mufasa'a return with the new belt, Maria's phone rang, it was her kids. It appears that their father was going out, for two days, could we stay with them? Of course. Except he was going out in an hour so we had to pick them up now! That was going to be impossible. But, what they could was, go to their aunt's house and we'd pick them up in a couple of hours. It was 7:30pm. Mufasa would be back soon (he'd been gone 30 minutes already) and then we'd be on our way. After the phone call a sense of disquiet fell upon us. It was starting to get dark, some strange man had driven off with our fan belt, we were in the middle of nowhere (where the fuck were we?), and we were already $105 dollars out of pocket. How stupid were we? How much danger were we in? How, exactly had everything suddenly got out of our control? We are two very intelligent people. Both of us are well travelled, experienced, human beings. How did we end up, sat in a car that wouldn't/couldn't work (Mufasa had taken the old belt with him), left at the mercy of some random stranger?

Ten minutes later Mufasa returned (he'd taken 40 minutes). It was dark, too dark to see without the use of his torch. It got worse. He couldn't fit the belt. He was confused. It didn't go as he expected. Maria elbowed him out of the way and fitted the belt - yes, I know this makes it sound like I was just stood around, acting helpless but, one of us is an engineer and the other is me. With the belt fitted, the car started. I offered Mufasa $80, the original $60 plus $20 dollars for his help with the fan belt. He was offended! Surely we understood that he wanted another $60 for the belt fixing? He'd used his car, gone to get it for us. It was dark, late, he'd given up all this time. It was dark, late, the look in Maria's eyes read "Get me the fuck home! Now!", and he was a total stranger who suddenly looked a lot more threatening than he had at any other point. I handed over the money.

Two hours after turning off the freeway we were sat, in the middle of a ten-lane road, waiting to turn back onto the freeway. We were heading south, heading to Mexico, with a story to tell. All was right and all was safe with the world.

And then the engine cut off. The car stalled. It wouldn't start again. We were fucked.

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?

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Laguna Niguel Auto Center

I realise that this is not going to be a useful post, nor useful information, to most of my readers (both of you). But I am not doing this post for you (either of you), I'm doing this post for me - for me, for Sergio Turcutto and for Laguna Niguel Auto Center.

The Laguna Niguel Auto Center is the single best garage that I have ever been to and the service manager at Laguna Niguel Auto Center, Sergio Turcutto, is one of the nicest men I have ever met. There is very little that I can do to thank either him (Sergio Turcutto) or the company he works for (Laguna Niguel Auto Center) enough for the kindness and generosity that they showed us. Probably, all I can do is to help bump up their Google ratings and hits. Welcome to a post that is totally about Sergio Turcutto and Laguna Niguel Auto Center in an attempt to boost their rating. I hope that this post will also inspire you to think about moving to Laguna Niguel - just so that you can meet Sergio Turcutto and get to use the Laguna Niguel Auto Center. Personally, at about 8pm last night, we made a decision that every time the car needs any work done on it, we will do our upmost to drive three hours north, just so that we can put it in the hands of Sergio Turcutto and his team of mechanics at Laguna Niguel Auto Center.

Sat, safely at home, 48 hours later, it is hard to understand how worried we were, how scared we were. 48 hours previously, we were stuck in, what we perceived to be the middle of nowhere, with a piece of metal (that used to be a car), in a foreign country, surrounded by (in our perception) muderers/rapists/conmen. We were at the mercy of strangers. Twelve hours later we met, for the first time, Sergio Turcutto who turned out to be probably definitely one of the nicest people on the planet.

After (what was for us) a horrowing journey to a find a motel - where we were also dealt with kindness and care, so big up to The Laguna Inn & Suites, a place we are now contemplating spending our honeymoon at - we spent a restless night, worrying that we would never get home. We returned to the car (a slightly less harrowing journey in the daylight hours) to find that it hadn't been stolen - obviously, the thing wouldn't move. However, the car started first time, so we drove it the 100m into Laguna Niguel Auto Center.

According to the sign on the door, Laguna Niguel Auto Center doesn't open until 8am, and it was only 7:43am. However, we were signaled into the reception area and that was where we first came into contact with Sergio Turcutto. He patiently listened to our mad ramblings (we were rambling by this point - we'd had nothing to eat for over 36 hours [too nervous to eat] and slept [if we were lucky] for two hours). At the end of our rant, noting that we were distressed, we were treated with great kindness and consideration - and also a great sense of humour.

Maria: I'm Mexican. If you don't get this car fixed properly, I should warn you, I come from Tijuana. I know people in Tijuana. Those people will learn your name.

Sergio: I promise, it will be fixed.

Will: Yeah. And I'm English. If you don't get this car fixed properly, I should warn you, I come from England. I know people in England. They will happily invade your country.

Sergio: Really? And how did that work out for you last time?

Will: And she knows people in Tijuana.

Sergio took the keys and sent us to the waiting room - internet access, directTV, free beverages - where we sat with two people. Eventually (although we weren't formally introduced) we fell into conversation. It appears that Laguna Niguel Auto Center is loved by all its customers. Forty minutes later we were told the bad news - it was the fuel pump (this is after they had fixed the thermostat that had been wrecked by Mustapha/Muphasa/Mufasa/Mustafa). There were also several other problems - it was misfiring, there was actual arcing in the engine, there was something wrong with the oxygen distribution, the rotor cap was destroyed, the list went on and on. But, and here's the moment that we fell in love with Sergio Turcutto, they didn't want to do the work. They didn't want to stick us with a huge bill for work that needed to be done but, in his opinion, didn't need to be done today. We had to have the thermostat done, we had to have the fuel pump changed, all of that was going to cost (and you could tell it hurt him to say it) the wrong side of $1000. All the rest was going to push the cost the other side of $2000. He wouldn't do the work. They wouldn't do that to us.

And this is where we broke Sergio Turcutto's heart. You see, I knew that if we just got home, Maria would never drive the car again, never leave home. She wouldn't trust the car. Actually, in my mind, there was a chance that she might not actually drive the car home - if it was a case of it'll get you home - and we would have to live in Laguna Niguel for the rest of our lives. So I argued with Sergio Turcutto. I demanded that he did the work, on the condition that it was done by 5pm that day. If he could guarantee that the work would be completed by 5pm, I would pay anything for peace of mind. This sent Sergio Turcutto into a frenzy. He crunched numbers, he deducted percentages, he sold his mum on eBay, and got his estimate down to $1700. We gave him the go-ahead. They offered us a lift to the mall, we elected to walk.

At 5:15pm we were given our car back - yes, I realise that this sounds like they were 15 minutes late on their promise but they weren't. The car was done by five but they took it for a test drive (or so they said). However, the test drive included a journey through a car wash - which was nice. Oh, and the bill? They lied about that as well. It wasn't $1700. It came in at under $1600 - there were a lot of zeroes under labo(u)r costs!

During the day we met many customers in the waiting room. All of them had something positive to say about Laguna Niguel Auto Center - there was not one negative statement. You know how someone always starts off with a their brilliant and then take on a but...? In this case their were no buts. Everyone was helpful, everything was explained (we even had a tour of the workshop so that we could be shown why the fuel pump on a Chevrolet Blazer is a bastard to replace. We spent a long time talking to Raul Hernandez (the service director) whose grandfather lived in Tijuana - he was a dealer in the casino and actually dealt to Al Capone! Everything was wonderful and we really cannot praise Laguna Niguel Auto Center and Sergio Turcutto enough. I hope that all this linkage does them some good.

24 hours after our E.T.A.

We are home, safe. Wiser, poorer.

Not funny now, funny later!

don't ask

I'm sat in the middle of nowhere, in a garage. The good news is that we are both safe. The bad news is last night the car exploded imploded and we were left, abandoned in Laguna Niguel, a place not big enough to have a motel/bed&breakfast/roomattheinn.

Yesterday (god, was it only yesterday? I'm sure it was a week ago) we set off from Tijuana to go to L.A. (that's Los Angeles for those who don't know the modern terms - like what I do, I know how to bring it) to see an art exhibition by Dave McKean. As always, in my life, there is a long story about that (border crossing wasn't good, confusion over the numbers the exhibit was at, and did you know there is a difference between North and South?) but I'll save that for another time - or maybe Maria made a video about it. After the viewing we drove around L.A. - well you would, wouldn't you?

We went to Hollywood, drove through. Went to Beverly Hills, drove through. Headed towards Venice Beach and decided that we would head to San Clemente instead, for shrimp, oysters, and clam chowder, sat on the pier, watching the sun set. The drive out of L.A. was horrendous. It was five lanes, locked solid. At about 6:30pm we decided to leave the freeway (405) and take a much needed toilet break.

The car wouldn't re-start.

The car wouldn't restart.

The car wouldn't restart.

We opened the bonnet (hood) and Maria noticed that the coolant reservoir is empty. We buy some coolant and fill it, but the car still wouldn't restart. The sun starts to set and out of the gloom steps Mustafa (or Mustapha - we didn't ask him to spell his name). He immediately took charge. It was the thermostat. He knew it was the thermostat. He could solve it! For $60, there and then, we could be sorted and on our way. We loved Mustafa/Mustapha. And he really did it. Bang, twist, snip, screw, thump (and other technical terms) and the thermostat was done, he said. We loved Mustafa/Mustapha. And we loved him so much that when he pointed out that the fan belt was about to go and needed replacing, we just let him do it. We gave him $45 to get a fan belt and sat around waiting for him to return. Yes, I know we sound like fools but we were stuck in a foreign country, with a fucked car, trying to get home, and then the phone rang. It was the kids. Their dad had decided to have a couple of days off/away and could we pick them up, NOW! 

Mustafa/Mustapha returned (HA! You didn't expect that, did you?), changed the fan belt, and charged us $120. We didn't care. We could get home. The car started. We were going home, we were going to get the kids, we were safe.

200m down the road, just before we turned back onto the freeway, there is a set of traffic lights. We stopped, the car stalled. The car wouldn't restart. Maria yelled at me to get Mustafa/Mustapha. I ran (yes ran) the 200m back to the garage, across six lanes of traffic (no, I didn't do the thing where you slide across the bonnet - but I wanted to). He was there! Hurray! We loved Mustafa/Mustapha - although that was starting to fade a bit. By the time I got back to Maria she had managed to get a mechanic under the car. Yes, a passing mechanic had stopped and was trying to help. Unfortunately, he worked for AAA and we weren't members (yet). And then he saw Mustafa/Mustapha. His shoulders dropped, he looked at the floor, he informed us that we were on our own, but left us with one bit of advice: Don't trust that man, he's a bad man.

I pushed the car off from the traffic lights and we rolled it down a hill. Maria started to freak. I'd just run 400m and pushed a truck and was on an adrenaline high. The car ended up on a side street, a dark side street with no houses - just a car wash and an industrial complex. And then Mustafa/Mustapha got out of his car. Suddenly everything went into slow-mo. We are two people, in the middle of nowhere, and there is this bad man.

The good news was, we had no money - no money left. The bad man had got it all. We pointed this out to him and asked him (fairly politely under the circumstances) to leave. He left. HE LEFT!

And there we were, stuck in a back street, lost, lonely, with a car that wouldn't start.

We locked the car. Walked back up the hill to the garage we'd stopped at for drinks/toilet. He informed us that the nearest motel was at the next turn-off on the freeway. Of course we couldn't walk down the freeway to the next turn-off. Instead, we had to walk down an embankment (a very steep embankment) in the dark and then travel along, beside the train tracks, for about 20 minutes. We should find a motel there.

We did. It took us thirty minutes to find the path down the embankment, another twenty minutes to find the motel, ten minutes to register, and bu 9:45pm we finally had a locked door behind us.

Last night was not a good night. We didn't sleep much. We worried about getting home, about the car, when would we get home, the car, if we would get home, the car.

Up and out the motel at 7am and headed back to the car. It was still there (there had been some discussion in the night about hoping it had been stolen so we could just run away to Mexico). Of course, it started first time. Of course. But we weren't heading home. We drove into the industrial complex, pulled up at the first workshop, and that is where we are now.

Sat in the workshop waiting room, with free internet access. They've promised to get the car fixed by the end of the day. We're (mentally) prepared for another night here, just in case. But I'm hoping that we are mentally prepared because we know how brilliant it will be when we get the car back later today.

Oh, and the exhibition? Was it worth it? Don't ask.

 

messing with the clock

Two weeks holiday. Two weeks to accomplish anything you want. Two weeks is enough time to fulfil most dreams. It is now two weeks exactly since I walked out at the end of a video presentation and I have done...well, very little.

When I talked to my brother I mentioned that I was on holiday. He asked me where I was going, on my holiday. We'd had plans. Maybe we'd drive down to Torreon and see Maria's family. Maybe we'd drive over to Phoenix and see a friend. Maybe we'd drive down the peninsular and see more of Baja. However, before we did any of those things we knew we'd have to get the car checked. We'd put aside $400 (USD) expecting to have change, maybe enough to buy a tyre or two. Three hours after dropping off the car we got a phone call. It was the workshop with a list of things wrong with the car. Of the fourteen things on the list we could only afford the first six. Worse, two of the things further down the list could well cost more than $500 (USD). It always amazes me how the roads seem to be full of cars that are more beat up, more in need of repair, than the car I am driving. And yet, it is always my car that is in the garage. Is it just because I'm a bit of a freak? Anyhoo, the point of the new truck was that we would have a beaten up car that we could drive around with warning lights on and not care. We got the first six things done and we'll worry about the differential later. Yes, we are driving a car around that isn't as good as yours! It is good enough for going to the beach, going for tacos, and going shopping. It isn't good enough for driving to Torreon, Phoenix, or down the peninsular. So, I answered my brother, why would I go anywhere? I'm in Mexico!

I have to take my driving test. At some point I needed to sit down and go through the written part of the test with Maria. No matter what Emilio says, I wouldn't even know how to start bribing an examiner nor, to be brutally honest, am I brave enough to actually do it. My fear of Mexican jails is a lot stronger than my fear of failing a test. It probably goes without saying, but that has never stopped me, we haven't sat down and studied yet (as if the yet means we will).

I am getting hellishly unfit. Since breaking my foot, at the end of last year, I have done no physical activity. Before this holiday started I thought that I might take up some sort of exercise regime. You know, start slow - bit of walking - and then build up to something a bit more strenuous - maybe running. Of course I didn't start at the beginning of the holiday because, well because I was on holiday! I needed a break! However, as the days have progressed I have managed to not start. And now, it is so near the end of my vacations, that it just doesn't seem worth it. I'm sure that once I get back into the classroom, I'll start walking around (instead of laying on the sofa eating crisps and drinking beer) and that will suffice.

I have managed to read - success. Reading is a joy that I always rediscover. This year I have already managed to read nine books and I am loving it. I have just started another book (having finished two books this holiday) and it is wonderful to start immersing yourself in another world. My problem is that the book (Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrel - if you're interested) is over 800 pages long and I am worried that I am just not going to get enough time to read it when school starts again. With only a couple of days left I should be spending time with Maria but all I want to do is read my book.

Time with Maria - success. It always amazes me how much I love her. Every day I think that's it, I've reached the point of how much I love her, there can't be anything more, I'll just sit on this plateau. And then something else happens and I learn to love her a little bit more. Life is wonderful and the spectre of returning to work just means that I will lose eight hours a day not with her. But, the important fact is, we are in a better place than we were two weeks ago - and where we were was wonderful.

My body clock - success! The first week of the holidays I was still waking up just after six, even though the alarm wasn't set. True, I would roll over and go back to sleep but, at the back of my mind, I was still thinking that when the holiday ended I would wake up, on the first day of work, ready for action. Somehow I've managed to screw that all up. The kids stayed with us until Tuesday. While they were here we went to bed at ten, the flat is small and once the kids are settled into their beds there are only two rooms left in the house - the bathroom and our bedroom. However, Tuesday night we were on our own and ended up watching tele until 2am. W*dnesd*y I still woke at 6am but fell back to sleep almost immediately. That night we again didn't go to bed until after 2. Thursday I woke at 7, rolled over and didn't get out of bed until midday. Thursday night we went out, after 10, to a friend's house. We stayed until after 3am. This morning I woke at 9am and didn't get out of bed until after 2pm. I already know that tonight will be another late night - hell, we've only just got up! This will continue through Saturday and Sunday. Because it is Benito Juárez's birthday on Monday (yes, I know he was born on March 21st but the Queen has an official birthday which is different to her real birthday, so I am not saying a word), I have the day off work! This means that at about 10pm on Monday night I will suggest that we go to bed because I have to get up and go to work on Tuesday morning. Of course, the act of going to bed will not mean I will go to sleep. I have screwed with my body clock. Monday night I will go to bed, read, talk, read, switch the light off, toss and turn, talk a bit more, put the light back on, read a bit more, switch the light off, hopefully fall asleep at about 3am. The alarm will go off at 6:15am. I will go into school and the first question will be:

Enjoyed your holiday?

Followed by the obvious question:

Are you well rested?

To which the answer is:

NO! I had such a good holiday I've managed to mess with my body clock. I've had three hours sleep and I really don't want to be here.

Gotta lurve going back to work!

[May 1st is Labour Day in Mexico. It is a Thursday. May 5th is the anniversary of the Battle of Puebla. It is a Monday. May 10th is Mother's Day. May 15th is Teacher's Day (it is also my birthday). For those of you who are now worried that I am not getting enough free time, I have the following days off:

May 1st to May 6th. May 10th is a half day. May 15th. Kids stop coming to school on June 27th. Teachers stop coming to school on July 4th.

Gotta lurve being a teacher in Mexico.]