Due to the fact that I write in quite a lot of detail and this is about an entire week, this is going to be a long post, so I'll give you a couple of minutes to go to the toilet now, get a cup of tea and find that comfy position in your Ikea desk chair.
Ready? No? Too bad.
After several fuck ups during various stages of Spring Break planning, I was off to a slow start to the week. I was going to go to San Francisco, which didn't work out, then camping in the Ozarks, which didn't work out, then after booking flights to San Diego I was going to spend the first weekend in Chicago, which also didn't work out. So I spent the first four days in deserted Champaign. I went out with The English girls on Thursday night - I had to celebrate the arrival of my fake ID and my successful visa application! A chunk of the night was spent telling me how awesome London is, which got me super excited. I spent most of Friday sleeping and then wrote an essay. I had a few quiet drinks with Grace and Mish on Saturday night, walked home and spotted a fat rabbit (or a squirrel which has really let itself go) near Sherman which only ever appears to me after I've had a few beers. The rest of the the four days were spent watching shitty movies and drinking beer on my own.
Finally, Tuesday came and I was pretty happy to be leaving Sherman the Shitbox. At the amtrak station I sat oposite a woman who reminded me of Wendy, the lollypop lady at my primary school and someone who had recently escaped from a psych ward.
When I got to Yuki's apartment in Chicago, she was dog sitting a big white husky, called Dante. I melted. We took him for a walk around the city, which was actually kind of depressing, although he seemed to love it, and then played tug of war with him. His original dog sitting owner picked him up and Yuki and I stayed up all night drinking Chicago beer and talking about true love (whatever the fuck that is). At about 5am I got the subway to the airport and was on my merry way to San Diego, via Phoenix.
Just before landing in Arizona I checked my connecting flight ticket and realised I had twenty minutes to get off this plane, find the gate and board before the plane took off. I ran from gate B6 to A23 as fast as I could with my heavy bag, no sleep and complete lack of fitness. Those two gates sound like they could be somewhat close-ish but I swear they were on opposite sides of the airport, which seemed to go on forever. Anyway I got there, sweating up a storm, and saw that a different flight was boarding - so I must have missed it. Swearing audibly and thinking about how much a new ticket would now cost, I approached the customer service desk to buy another. The woman said I had read my ticket incorrectly (I was looking at the boarding time, not the leaving time, so I still had time left) and that it had been relocated to gate B7. I ran back with as much enthusiasm as I could muster (not much) to board the plane just in time with a platoon/infantry/gaggle (?) of marines. I was intrigued by them at first, but I soon realised they were a bunch of uneducated twenty-somethings who acted like high school boys and were excited about the opportunity to shoot someone.
From what I could gather, by unwillingly eavesdropping as they yelled at each other across the plane, they had completed some form of boot camp and were now going to San Diego to finish the next level of training before being shipped off to Iraq, Libya or France. Most of them wanted to go to Libya because "there is nothing to do in Iraq and France." This was in between talking about which guns were their favourites, how to wear the uniform correctly (just like St Mary's!) and bitching about their sergeants. Someone behind me said "a civilian had the audacity to ask me if I was in the army..." and the guy was made fun of for about five minutes for using the word 'audacity'. They joked that the only words they knew were "uh," "what?" and "sir, yes, sir!"
I met Dave at the airport in San Diego and we got a bus to our hostel, Lucky D's, in the East Village. We found our room, sharing with two German guys, dumped our shit and met his friends a couple of blocks over. There was Jeremy (Aus), Verity (Aus), Hannah (Aus), Elise (Aus), Nicky (German), Dan (US) and Will (UK). They were all studying in Seattle at the University of Washington. Seattle sounds awesome and hearing about it made me wish I had more time to research places for exchange. Dave and I had a Californian Burrito which was amazing because it had beef, chips plus all the Mexican goodness you could ever want in a burrito. I also hadn't eaten since 4am when Yuki gave me a small bowl of rice and soy sauce with my 5th (ish?) beer.
Chipotle won't seem the same after eating these.
We explored the streets for a bit before heading to a bar called Dick's. A place where you tip them to be a dick to you. It was particularly annoying with my complete lack of sleep, but I can't imagine it would be something I would enjoy normally. Maybe when completely wasted, which I'm guessing is the point. San Diego has a relatively strict rule about travelers using passports as ID so I was bit worried mine wouldn't work. I think the fact that I was with eight 21 year olds with passports, and that the photo is actually me helped. She almost caught me out though. I'm so bad at lying at when people are expecting a lie. We played drinking games, moved to another bar before heading back to Lucky D's for a free dinner of Beef, Mac and Cheese (not as gross as it sounds) and then passed out at 8pm.
The next morning (Thursday) we had a few beers before heading to the zoo, which seems to be what San Diego is most famous for. As far as zoos go it was pretty impressive. We saw a huge range of animals including a jaguar and polar bears, but the whole day all I could think of was how sad it was that these amazing animals were locked up in tiny cages. I love zoos! But it was so depressing to see them just sleeping or sadly watching the kids with their faces pushed up against the glass.
Australia AND Tasmania.
That night we pre-drinked at the hostel to save money and headed out to the Gaslamp District which was three blocks from where we were staying. The first one didn't accept my ID and the second bar confiscated it. Due to the hefty pre-graming (including two Tequila Suicides - snort the salt, take the shot, squeeze the lemon in your eye) I reacted much the same way as a child would if you stole it's lollipop. With tears. Dave and Elise tried to argue with the bouncer for me, but to no avail. Dave and I went back the next day with a plan. We told the manager that I needed it back as I was flying out the next morning and that was the only form of photo ID I had on me. He asked me why I didn't have my passport and I said because I was renewing my visa so it was in New York at the consulate (which is partially true, I had only got my passport back just before I left Champaign). He didn't believe me and made fun of the fact that I wasn't a US citizen and was travelling without a passport which I'm pretty sure is the law. I said "Yeah I know I need, it but I need a visa too and this how you get one."
HE STILL DIDN'T BELIEVE ME. HOW THE HELL DOES HE THINK YOU GET VISAS?! Well, he's probably never left the country for longer than a week (if that) and has never needed one. I continued to try and argue my case but he wasn't having a bar of it. He was pretty much one of the most smug (and ignorant) guys I have ever met. He would smile like a bastard and then not look me in the eyes. I wanted to jump over the bar and kick him in the baby makers just for being a shit. I knew he had my ID even though he said he didn't. So I walked out, once again defeated, "underage" and hating America a little bit again. The worst bit was that he didn't believe my story about my visa, which was the most truthful thing I said.
It was nice while it lasted. For a week.
That day we went to lunch at a place that has a Big Burger Challenge. For $19.95 you get a two and half pound meal, including a burger the size of your head and half a plate of chips. If you finish it in half an hour you get the burger for free, a plaque on the wall and a t-shirt; if you do it in an hour get the plaque and shirt. Dan and Nicky accepted the challenge. It was huge. The patty alone was one kilo of meat. Dan chowed down and almost made it by thirty minutes but decided to redirect his goals, to avoid vomiting. Nicky gave up very early in the game despite a huge amount of enthusiasm and confidence. Dan had a handful of chips left to go with ten minutes to the hour before he got up, ran to the toilet and threw it all up. The waitress said someone had done it in sixteen minutes and a girl who weighed about 50kg had done it in an hour. I felt sick just watching them.
That night we played more drinking games in the hostel, the others went out, and Dave and I stayed in and a good D&M and made plans for the world's coolest bar before they came back completely wasted.
Friday we had a late start, eventually got out shit together and headed to Tijuana. It was half an hour trolley (tram) ride to the boarder where we just walked straight through. The town was amazing. I don't know what I was expecting but it was so different to everything else. The buildings were colourful, flat and smooth. The streets were busy, dirty and chaotic. It felt really summery, even though it was overcast. The streets were filled with pharmacies and dentists. Dave explained that Americans often cross the boarder to go to the dentist because it is so much cheaper. I can't imagine having a root canal (which was advertised on many of the windows) in dodgy, dirty Tijuana. Trying to find our way around, we stumbled across a street that felt more like 'the real Mexico' than the rest of the touristy town. We were all a bit taken back by the sketchiness at first. Fat, ugly prostitutes walked the streets; pregnant, mangy dogs followed and I half expected to see someone shitting on the corner. I love that kind of culture shock, although I'm sure if I was on my own I would have flipped out. We were constantly aware that we were the only tourists/white people there - I think we saw seven other Caucasians?
We enjoyed $1 tacos and $1 beers while people approached us with jewelry and souvenirs. The first bar we went to came complete with a man with a whistle and bottle of tequila. He poured the tequila into your mouth followed by your own beer and then shook your head and blew his whistle really loudly as you swallowed. If you were lucky enough to be the last person in the group (me) you got three times as much tequila complete with obscene hand gestures to the tequila bottle while he poured it into your mouth. Think: a thin bottle neck with liquid spurting out into a girl's mouth.
We left Tijuana at 7pm, spent over an hour in the queue at the boarder (after spending ten minutes in the wrong line) and then had to catch three different trolleys/buses to get home; we made it back to Lucky D's by 10:30. More pre-gaming ensued before everyone went out and I had no choice but to stay back.
I woke up the next morning with a cold. I was miserable, sick and didn't feel like doing anything. Everyone else was super keen to go to the beach so I reluctantly tagged along thinking the fresh air would do me good and I would only get bored if I stayed at the hostel on my own. We ate burgers on the pier at Pacific Beach and watched as dolphins swam passed.
A view of Pacific Beach from the pier.
Sitting on the beach I swang between regretting wearing jeans, wanting to sun bake properly and absolutely hating the sand and being outside. Then a seagull/pelican/pterodactyl thing shat on my Yeah Yeah Yeahs shirt and I really wanted to go home. By the time we did get back, I was exhausted. After going out for Phad Thai for dinner, I sat out on that night's pre-drinking and got an early night while I was drugged up on paracetamol and vitamin C.
Dave and his friends left really early Monday morning while I was still asleep. I got up about six and half hours later and started my solitary day of op shopping (something I have been looking forward to do doing in America). I asked a woman at the mall where I could find some thrift stores and she sent me in the direction of Carolyn's - a pre-sourced designer clothing store that sold items that were charging more than I spend on new clothes. I went home and googled. I walked an insane amount (had to go home and change into my Doc's because I was getting blisters from my new flats) in about a six block radius all around the hostel. I walked further south (I think?) than I had been on foot and became very aware of being a white girl on my own. I bought a blazer from Salvo's but didn't find much else at the three other thrift stores I went to. It wasn't a completely wasted day though; a homeless man did call me beautiful when I passed him on the street.
While reading a street magazine over pizza lunch/dinner at 4:30pm, I discovered the library had a free screening of A Fond Kiss. I wanted to see it ages ago, so I thought what the hell, I've got nothing else to do. I also wanted to avoid being harassed by the drunk black guy in the hostel's common room from the night before. He kept asking me if girls date "brothers" in Australia, while I was happily wallowing in my sickness and watching some of the worst television ever.
Walking into the auditorium I realised this was one of more depressing activities I could have chosen. I'm pretty sure I was the only person there without hearing aids and wearing clean clothes. Still, the movie was good, if a little dramatic at times and it kept me occupied and from spending money for ninety minutes.
The movie was set in Glasgow and as it was for an American audience it was subtitled. In English. People actually cheered when this was announced at the beginning. It made me think - no wonder some Americans can't understand my accent, as soon as they're given an opportunity to hear someone else speaking English they're TOLD what they're saying. Okay, so sometimes a Scottish accent can be challenging to decipher but when we watched 49Up in my psych class, it was subtitled too, which featured English accents. And an Australian accent, actually.
My last day, Tuesday, was pretty chilled. I finally decided to purchase some Vans (I need something to wear to Coachella since my volleys were destroyed after climbing Mt Fuji last year). The mall I bought them from was like a maze and it would have been really cool if it wasn't almost impossible to work out how to get to the next level/work out which level you were on. I then decided to go to the harbour and read my book (Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs - I bought it for $3 from a second hand bookshop at the mall) in the sun. Unfortunately I only made it to the grass outside the Hilton opposite the Convention Centre as my bag was stupendously heavy and lacked wheels. I soon realised that I was lying on a patch of grass where people bought their pedigree dogs to shit. I felt I should have been more bothered by this. But I was loving life in the sun.
I walked back to the main street of the East Village, had my fourth Californian Burrito for the week and got the bus to the airport. I sat in a rocking chair while I enjoyed my Jamba Juice (like Boost but with less options). More airports should have rocking chairs. I lost my suncream bottle at customs even though it was fine on the way over. I hate it when that happens. Be more consistent, damnit! The guy making the boarding calls at the gate made jokes with every sentence including "every passenger needs their own boarding pass, unless you have multiple personalities like my ex."
I really like San Diego even though I only saw a really small part of it over a short period of time. Before I left a lot of people said it was like Perth so I was naturally a bit reluctant. But I think they were referring to the laid back atmosphere, one of my favourite things about Perth. It still felt like an American city but without the over-the-top-ness of LA, as Dave said. Particularly where we stayed, the East Village, there were a lot of hipsters, hippies and alternative people. It was nice to know there are Americans who wear skinny jeans. And not getting stared at for having asymmetrical hair and wearing over sized woolen granny cardigans. In fact, I got strange looks when I wore my Illinois hoody. Although we possibly stood out because we were not covered in tattoos. I have never seen so many tattoo parlors in such a small area. There were often several on one block. Some of them you could see and hear people being inked from the street which I thought was a bit invasive but I got used it. As medical marijuana is legal in California, it was not uncommon to smell the unmistakable balm of weed while walking down the street. One day, a group of guys were talking to us while casually passing a joint between them. Dave said that even in Seattle, another liberal city, it's easier for underage people to get pot than alcohol.
I wouldn't be adverse to going back to San Diego, if only to actually catch up with my cousin and his family which didn't happen because we both got sick. Maybe also to go to Mission Beach, the one place a guy in my creative writing class told me to go to. The day Dave and his friends went, I was too sick and tired and went to the harbour on my own instead. I sat on the grass and hacked, coughed and sneezed with the other bums around me. I'd also like to go to Orange County and Newport, the setting of the show that took up the majority of my obsessions during high school. And actually I want to go to Mexico again. It was cheap, dodgy and I could drink. It was also another country, so that's obviously a plus.
I got back to Chicago at about midnight. I had been texting Yuki all afternoon, during various stages of my travel, letting her know how far away I was as I had organised to stay at her's that night before getting the first train back to Champaign. She didn't reply to any of my texts. I only got worried when I called her from outside her apartment building and her phone was off. Her doorman tried calling her too. And then tried her flatmate too, which I felt really guilty about. But there was no answer. I freaked out. I turned on the waterworks and got her doorman to let me up to her apartment even though he said he could lose his job for it. I banged on her door and yelled out her name before he dragged me back downstairs saying I was going to wake the neighbours. I kind of knew that would be pointless because she's the world's deepest sleeper. Now I was really scared. Yuki is the only person I know in Chicago. It was 2am. I decided to go to Union Station because I needed to be there in the morning anyway, and her doorman said it was open all night. He asked me if I was getting a taxi and expressed concern when I said I was going to walk the six blocks in the cold, on my own. I said if I could afford a taxi, I'd be staying in a hotel, wouldn't I? Union Station is not open all night. Eventually a taxi driver took me to the Greyhound Station where I hung out with the other homeless bums.
All night I felt like going up to people and going "I'm not actually homeless. I'm not like them. Please take me somewhere safe and warm." But I was homeless. Just for the night. I looked at my thrifted clothes, and thought about how much I probably smelt. My hair was dirty and messy, and eyes were red and puffy from crying (maybe I looked stoned). Walking to the station, I was talking to myself being super angry and upset. I probably fitted in more than I thought. I was seething that this had happened to me. Having spent the week in sunny San Diego, I wasn't dressed for the cold Chicago night, which was pretty awesome. Even though it was heated in the station, I was still cold in my tights and shorts and lack of Michelin Man coat.
At about 4am a homeless man came and sat at my table and started talking to me. I told him what had happened to me and he felt sorry for me. He said he would never do that to me if we were friends and he was pretty sure I would never do it to him. There's something particularly heartbreaking about a homeless bum feeling sorry for you. He said his sister had kicked him out for the night because she was drunk, so he had come here. He also said he knew most of the workers at this station because he had spent so much time here, so either he gets kicked out a lot or he is actually homeless. He told me a story about his best friend being shot by police and how his friend's son often says "you were with my Daddy when he died, weren't you?" He started crying.
This man seemed to be one of the nicest and most genuine people I have ever met. He said he would never hurt a woman and he hated violence of any kind. He smoked a bit of weed and drank every now and again (but doesn't everyone?). He kept saying I must be really clever and that he could just tell. He commented on the book I was reading and I said he could have it because I had finished it that night. He seemed taken aback my kindness (mostly I was too lazy to carry it anymore). Or maybe he couldn't actually read, I don't know. He was impressed with how much I had traveled and plan to travel and said he was going to come with me during summer because he hated this place. He then said he was going to come and visit me in Champaign so we could "just kick it" so I gave him a fake number and said I would meet him at the station, thinking he was joking. I don't think he was. He said I had to make sure my phone was charged so I didn't miss his call. I almost regretted giving him a fake number because he was so excited.
He asked my why I wasn't wearing a ring and I said because I'm not married. He asked why not and I said because I'm only twenty, which didn't seem to be a good enough reason for him. He asked me if when I see men and they see that I don't wear a ring am I "seeing him"? I had no idea what he meant. He brought up god after that, so maybe he meant "seeing Him." He asked me if my boyfriend knew I was out on my own, traveling on my own. I said I didn't have a boyfriend. He asked why not and I said because I don't want/need one. I'm being an independent woman (something he had previously said he liked). He laughed.
He said a bunch of other stuff too. A lot of it I couldn't understand because he mumbled with his hands in front of his mouth and I was too tired to care that much, so I nodded and smiled in response. It struck me how horrible it was that this man was so genuine and gentle yet his life was so shit. Bad things happen to good people and all that. He mentioned Karma when I told him I had also lost my fake ID. If that's true the universe is probably punishing me for the hundreds of dollars worth of stuff I stole from work, but I never asked him what he did. It seemed impossible that he could have ever done anything wrong. Although now that I think about it, if his friend was shot by a policeman when he was with him - something illegal must have been happening if the police were involved. Then again, illegal isn't always bad. Whatever.
After a while I just wanted him to go away so I could wallow in my misery, which seems so pathetic in retrospect. He got up to go to the toilet at about 6:30am and I left (I think I was kind of scared he would want me to hug him. What a bitch.) and walked back to Union Station. I felt rotten for just leaving him like that. Then again, maybe he was completely bat shit crazy and forgot I was ever there. Maybe I was so tired that I fell asleep and dreamed the whole thing. Waiting at the amtrak station I was so tired I was scared that if I fell asleep I would miss the boarding call. So I constantly shook my leg or rocked back and forth to stay conscious. I must have looked nuts. In fact, a police woman came and told me to take my hood off at one point.
When I eventually got back to Sherman I welcomed the overheated halls and my shitty private room with a bed that I could stretch out on and blast the heater. A room that I didn't have to share with a weird Turkish guy who went to bed at 3am and got up at 6am or a bald man from Miami who closed all the windows and got up at 7am and re-organised the contents of all his suitcases every morning. A room where I could dump my bags and not worry about a fellow homeless person stealing them, although I doubt that really would have happened. A bed that didn't creak every time I rolled over, and made me feel guilty for waking the others in the room. I crashed for a couple of hours, woke up just in time to shower and sit my Psych of Aging exam. I definitely failed it. Not so much because I hadn't studied but because I was so exhausted that I couldn't remember more than one sentence at a time. It's near impossible to do a multiple choice exam that way. I went home and passed out again.
So. I didn't have the greatest Spring Break ever but it was still fun (at times) and great to get out of Illinois and be in the sun. While I had fun with Dave's friends, crashing another group of friends' travels made me miss my Chambana friends. I know one day I'll be able to look at the whole homeless thing as a great character building adventure and maybe even laugh, but for now I'm still pretty angry and upset that it happened. Maybe I'm overreacting. Am I? Well, it's definitely a good story, regardless of how I feel about it, and I'm currently trying to work out how I can turn into an essay for my creative writing class.
So. Yeah. Peace out.
