Adventures in the desert

After three days in L.A., I was screaming to leave. To be fair, it has a few treats which the New Zealander in me was somewhat partial to. For one thing, the museums are epic palaces, where the curators chuck a few Picassos in a corner gallery on the fourth floor and smirk as the tourists climb over each other to snap photos of them. My favourite exhibition involved three basketballs floating in a tank of dishwashing liquid. There was no explanation. I considered asking the Chinese woman on gallery duty, but she gave me a weary look as if to say: "Don't even think about it." Still, she surely got the better end of the deal than the woman who had to guard the bottom gallery, which featured a large red lump of copper and nothing else. This piece was labelled 'Untitled'. I walked out in disgust.

The other highpoint of L.A. is the beaches. Santa Monica and Venice are both expanses of golden sand and crystal blue water which can make you fall to your knees after a year in small town Japan. Santa Monica has one of the piers featuring carnival rides and chilli cheese dogs and screaming kids in every direction. I lay on the sand and inadvertently burnt myself to a crisp, making the next week of my trip somewhat or a scarlet nightmare. Venice Beach is much more chilled out; hippies and hipsters rule the roost and medical marijuana shops nestle between tattoo parlours and t-shirt boutiques. There are psychics and and 60 year old men with dreadlocks crowding around ghetto blasters smoking joints the size of whiteboard markers. For ten dollars, you can have your face painted onto a grain of rice or buy a custom made magic wand. I am not kidding. A little further down, marathon men lift babels and do pilates, showing off their killer bods against the palm trees. Once again, the tourist stop and snap photos. The men flex and love it.

Post-Venice, I decided that L.A. was no longer the city for me. San Francisco beckoned and the thought of food that wasn't deep fried or served between two piece of white bread was too tempting to ignore. And then, Greyhound ticket in hand, I had a revelation. Vegas! Why not? San Fran could wait a day and so I hopped on the bus at the other end of the station and off we set into the desert. The woman sitting off me was probably 70 but looked about 150 and spend the first three hours telling me about all the Broadway shows she visited in New York. Her favourite phrase was 'Oh you have to go, you HAVE to go!' in a Jewish voice that haunted me for days to come. Her second favourite phrase was 'Whaaatt?' which she screeched out every time I asked her anything, screwing up her little face and pointed to her hearing aid. After about 10 minutes, I was ready to give up. Unfortunately, she wasn't.

Upon getting to Vegas, I was accosted by the bus driver. He told me his name was Jim and that he wondered if I could tell him about New Zealand over dinner. His shout. I was somewhat speechless but being adventurous and on a budget, I accepted. I guess in retrospect this might have been a mistake; he did look slightly like a serial killer (dyed blonde hair, semi-pot belly and large glasses), but he did have a soothing narration voice.

Before dinner, Jim wanted to show me something on the top story of of his hotel. It was at this point that I had my first moment of freak out, slipping a Biro into my pocket and wiping the sweat off my forehead and trying not to think about 'it rubs the lotion on its skin.' It turned out that Jim, a tour guide first and foremost, simply wanted to show me a view of the Vegas skyline at sunset. It was sweet, really. I took a couple of snaps and tried to make my stomach rumble on cue. We had an awkward slash enjoyable meal at the oldest casino in Vegas, in which the waitress asked if we were father and son. I ordered a country fried steak which involves a piece of crumbed meat covered in white sauce. Jim had the triple cheese burger and asked me about The Lord of the Rings in between bites. He told me has was a republican and made a semi-racist remark about Obama. I ordered dessert.

After Jim waved me off on the downtown bus, I had nine hours to explore before getting back on the Greyhound. Vegas lay spread out before me, like some kind of hooker with her knickers down. What I love about it is how if you take away the fancy (ridiculous) casino outer cases, the whole place is the same. In every building, people sit around blackjack tables in their cargo pants, nervously drumming their fingers on the table with one hand and sucking down a cigarette with the other. There are ATMs in the casinos, usually proceeded by lines of people with their credit cards out. There is bound to be more people looking sad than happy and there is always one person quietly sobbing by the door. You can even get your food delivered to your slot machine so you don't have to stop your losing streak to nourish your body with french fries.

There are limos everywhere in Vegas. They seem to be full of twenty-something boys on stag nights. They spill out onto the main street, yelling about strippers and 'winning big.' No one is very impressed. Every now and then, a truly glamorous couple can be spotting; a silver haired gentlemen in a tuxedo steering his diamond studded wife through the throng of rabble outside Cesar's Palace. They have clearly seen too many Rat Pack movies and will spend their next vacation in the Bahamas.

Inside all the big casinos lie the shows. Video screens show you what campy delights you are missing out on as you trek from one dire room to another. Cher's up there, somehow still belting out 'If I could turn back time' amidst a shower of glitter and screaming fans. At the Bellagio, you can see Bill Cosby, back from the entertainment dead with another wacky stand up show about 'those darned kids.' Worse still is Better Midler. Her concert, 'The Showgirl must go on," Is the sensation of Vegas, and you can't turn your head without seeing it flashing around somewhere. In the show, Bette (Sixty-three), runs around in her bra and knickers, dancing with a pink feather boa as a bunch of men in G-strings chase her with a massive butterfly net. The song she is singing is called "Big knockers."

By 3am, I was ready to leave Vegas forever. People were up way past their bedtime and all the 'all you can eat seafood' buffets were closed. As I boarded the bus, A tiny man with a grey beard danced almost perfectly to Creedance's 'Bad Moon Rising.' I watched him from the window and once again snapped my camera. Vegas was lucky to have him; he was about the only real thing I'd seen all night.