chapter two
Chapter Two. California here we come.
“California here we come, right back where we started from!” we all blurted out in unison like a Male Welsh voice choir gone horribly, horribly wrong. This was the third round and the novelty was already wearing thin. We were not yet out of Glenmoore, and already the song was already tearing at my nerves. Mr. T. took drastic action and made the bold move of hiding the song. Every further request for “that California one” over the course of the day was greeted by an oblivious look from Mr. T. and a feigned attempt to recover the “missing” object.
Luckily for us, the route we had chosen over the many nights of deliberation, cut through rural Pennsylvania, and the beautiful forest-lands of West Virginia. As far as you could look was how far the tree covered rolling hills and quasi-mountains stretched. It was clear which mountains were to be used for skiing come winter, each of them had a vast scar down one side, where trees once stood. Field after field of corn filled our vision as we moved on, perhaps rivaling those of Kansas or Nebraska. Grazing animals completed the idyllic scene, free roaming sheep and cows grazed on the pasture, while I laid back and released a sigh of satisfaction. This was just the beginning, and there were plenty more beautiful views where they came from. No road trip would be complete without funny photographs of poor defenseless, sleeping passengers. Mr. Pink had fallen asleep. Amateur. Mr. C proceeded to remove his big shiny digital camera from its sheath, while I stealthily reached for a handy copy of the Karma-Sutra. We managed to photograph his enjoyment of the 69 and the human crab, not to mention a delightful selection of instructions on the art of fellatio before he stirred from his costly slumber.
The bathroom logistics were an unknown factor before we began our oddessy. We did in fact have a toilet facility on-board, but this was sacrificed for storage space as we decided no-one would benefit from a chemical toilet in the back of the van. Besides, who wanted someone heaving and gurning with nothing but a small curtain to protect their modesty and the nasal integrity of the others. Mid-way through the first day, on a motorway, too far from any gas station or rest stop, we all needed to piss. I’m sure the sight of five men on the side of a, interstate, all neatly lined up, urinating in unison was quite a memorable one for any unfortunate observers, especially those with a heart condition. This was a sight that was going to be repeated on many occasions, and upon many roads throughout our journey. Oh how lucky those nameless Americans were.
French Rap Music. Is it the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard? Probably not. Did it sound awful? Of course it did. Yes, the French do produce rap music, and a testament to its quality is probably the fact that it has never left continental Europe, and, God willing, it never will. This was Mr. T’s interesting choice of music and, to be fair, if I understood a word of French, I probably would have appreciated it a lot more. No, sorry that was a lie, it still would have sounded diabolical. However, since I was brought up on roast beef and potatoes, and not escargot and frogs legs, it sounded like Barry Humphreys unclogging a drain, in a very, very shitty French toilet. Images of plastic Bertrand flashed up in my head, in sparkling eighties spandex, and awful French hairdos. I was scared.
5:00 p.m.
Occasionally I look out of the window to catch up on our progress. The problem with driving on a large inter-state in Pennsylvania is that everywhere looks pretty much the same until you come to a large city with a towering skyline and you can pin-point your position. The carpet of concrete stretched out ominously in front of us, dotted with SUV’s and trucks. Trucks owned the road. They knew it, and they made damned sure that everyone else knew it. Everybody saw the signs which requested that trucks drive no faster than 55 miles and hour, but the truckers laughed at such restrictions and continued on their merry way, overtaking everyone at 75 miles an hour, endangering all in their path. Fucking truckers.
10:46 p.m.
The end of the first day was fast approaching. We had made good progress, driving all the way from Philadelphia to Indianapolis, Indiana. Mr. T and myself decided we didn’t really wish to go into Indianapolis, and would prefer to find a service station to stop at, so we could eat and sleep. Alas, we were out-voted. All other members of the trip decided it would be a good idea to nip into the city and have a quick look around, in the dark, in a strange place. Did we get lost that night in Indianapolis? Does Saddam Hussein shit in a solid gold toilet? (yes.) We drove around for an hour, first looking for a pizza place, then a Burger joint, yes we were desperate! This thoroughly agitating situation lasted for well over an hour. We drove past countless fast food dispensaries and semi-posh restaurants, each time raising our hopes for a fleeting minute before neon signs permanently burned the word “closed” onto our retinas. At one point Mr. S, a notoriously poor driver, took the wheel, cueing the seatbelts around the vehicle with a flurry and a whir. After two near misses, Mr. T took back control of the vehicle with a mental note to all being filed, with the header “Mr. S is an even worse driver at night.” With some skilful navigation from myself and not a little luck, Mr. T managed to drive us out of Indianapolis.
12:00 p.m.
It was at this point in the journey, at the end of the first night, that we made an interesting and fruitful discovery. We were allowed to park up in gas stations, draw our curtains and sleep for the night. It was only after we nearly decided to park in a clearly populated area that we drove on a little further to the nearest gas stations and made inquiries. With this stroke of good fortune, we nestled down for the night, pulling down the benches to form the only bed, and selecting our uncomfortable positions for the night. Five men and their van on the outskirts of Indianapolis curling up at two o clock. Two louts, two krauts and a sprout.
“California here we come, right back where we started from!” we all blurted out in unison like a Male Welsh voice choir gone horribly, horribly wrong. This was the third round and the novelty was already wearing thin. We were not yet out of Glenmoore, and already the song was already tearing at my nerves. Mr. T. took drastic action and made the bold move of hiding the song. Every further request for “that California one” over the course of the day was greeted by an oblivious look from Mr. T. and a feigned attempt to recover the “missing” object.
Luckily for us, the route we had chosen over the many nights of deliberation, cut through rural Pennsylvania, and the beautiful forest-lands of West Virginia. As far as you could look was how far the tree covered rolling hills and quasi-mountains stretched. It was clear which mountains were to be used for skiing come winter, each of them had a vast scar down one side, where trees once stood. Field after field of corn filled our vision as we moved on, perhaps rivaling those of Kansas or Nebraska. Grazing animals completed the idyllic scene, free roaming sheep and cows grazed on the pasture, while I laid back and released a sigh of satisfaction. This was just the beginning, and there were plenty more beautiful views where they came from. No road trip would be complete without funny photographs of poor defenseless, sleeping passengers. Mr. Pink had fallen asleep. Amateur. Mr. C proceeded to remove his big shiny digital camera from its sheath, while I stealthily reached for a handy copy of the Karma-Sutra. We managed to photograph his enjoyment of the 69 and the human crab, not to mention a delightful selection of instructions on the art of fellatio before he stirred from his costly slumber.
The bathroom logistics were an unknown factor before we began our oddessy. We did in fact have a toilet facility on-board, but this was sacrificed for storage space as we decided no-one would benefit from a chemical toilet in the back of the van. Besides, who wanted someone heaving and gurning with nothing but a small curtain to protect their modesty and the nasal integrity of the others. Mid-way through the first day, on a motorway, too far from any gas station or rest stop, we all needed to piss. I’m sure the sight of five men on the side of a, interstate, all neatly lined up, urinating in unison was quite a memorable one for any unfortunate observers, especially those with a heart condition. This was a sight that was going to be repeated on many occasions, and upon many roads throughout our journey. Oh how lucky those nameless Americans were.
French Rap Music. Is it the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard? Probably not. Did it sound awful? Of course it did. Yes, the French do produce rap music, and a testament to its quality is probably the fact that it has never left continental Europe, and, God willing, it never will. This was Mr. T’s interesting choice of music and, to be fair, if I understood a word of French, I probably would have appreciated it a lot more. No, sorry that was a lie, it still would have sounded diabolical. However, since I was brought up on roast beef and potatoes, and not escargot and frogs legs, it sounded like Barry Humphreys unclogging a drain, in a very, very shitty French toilet. Images of plastic Bertrand flashed up in my head, in sparkling eighties spandex, and awful French hairdos. I was scared.
5:00 p.m.
Occasionally I look out of the window to catch up on our progress. The problem with driving on a large inter-state in Pennsylvania is that everywhere looks pretty much the same until you come to a large city with a towering skyline and you can pin-point your position. The carpet of concrete stretched out ominously in front of us, dotted with SUV’s and trucks. Trucks owned the road. They knew it, and they made damned sure that everyone else knew it. Everybody saw the signs which requested that trucks drive no faster than 55 miles and hour, but the truckers laughed at such restrictions and continued on their merry way, overtaking everyone at 75 miles an hour, endangering all in their path. Fucking truckers.
10:46 p.m.
The end of the first day was fast approaching. We had made good progress, driving all the way from Philadelphia to Indianapolis, Indiana. Mr. T and myself decided we didn’t really wish to go into Indianapolis, and would prefer to find a service station to stop at, so we could eat and sleep. Alas, we were out-voted. All other members of the trip decided it would be a good idea to nip into the city and have a quick look around, in the dark, in a strange place. Did we get lost that night in Indianapolis? Does Saddam Hussein shit in a solid gold toilet? (yes.) We drove around for an hour, first looking for a pizza place, then a Burger joint, yes we were desperate! This thoroughly agitating situation lasted for well over an hour. We drove past countless fast food dispensaries and semi-posh restaurants, each time raising our hopes for a fleeting minute before neon signs permanently burned the word “closed” onto our retinas. At one point Mr. S, a notoriously poor driver, took the wheel, cueing the seatbelts around the vehicle with a flurry and a whir. After two near misses, Mr. T took back control of the vehicle with a mental note to all being filed, with the header “Mr. S is an even worse driver at night.” With some skilful navigation from myself and not a little luck, Mr. T managed to drive us out of Indianapolis.
12:00 p.m.
It was at this point in the journey, at the end of the first night, that we made an interesting and fruitful discovery. We were allowed to park up in gas stations, draw our curtains and sleep for the night. It was only after we nearly decided to park in a clearly populated area that we drove on a little further to the nearest gas stations and made inquiries. With this stroke of good fortune, we nestled down for the night, pulling down the benches to form the only bed, and selecting our uncomfortable positions for the night. Five men and their van on the outskirts of Indianapolis curling up at two o clock. Two louts, two krauts and a sprout.
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