oxfordhacker | Entries tagged with burning man 2006

One final luxurious shower (each, obviously), and we were off. As we approached the site, the roads became narrower, more primitive, and more choked with hippies. It was like time-travel. Certainly the meal that we stopped for seemed to hale from a time before the concept of customer service, and possibly before that of cookery. At least it made us positively relish the prospect of a week of meals prepared in a tiny RV from disturbingly cheap ingredients.

The last outpost of civilisation was normally just a gas station and shop. For this week, however, that was merely the core of an eclectic temporary market, selling last-minute essentials such as bikes and fairy wings. We stopped for a look and seriously considered buying bikes, but thrift prevailed and we pushed on.

No matter how damn alternative it aspires to be, any popular festival will involve queuing to get in. The novelty of a queue consisting of an endless line of vehicles on a dirt track in the blazing desert sun wore off fairly fast. However, at least the organisers had anticipated this. The posts which served to define the otherwise arbitrary limits of the track were each decorated with a quotation, from luminaries ranging from Shelley to Buckminster Fuller to Gibson. This was a nice touch. Clearly some anonymous people had gone to a lot of time and effort simply to provide momentary amusement to random passers-by. This set the tone of the festival rather well.

We collected our tickets, only slightly unerved by the small-print informing us that we had accepted a risk of death or serious injury, and stopped to admire a marvelous car that had been covered, literally, with glued-on toys, knick-knacks and tchotches, like a mobile version of

cleanskies' shelves. Before long we ran a short gauntlet of friendly stewards offering sensible advice about drinking water and hand-washing, and we were at the entrance. Our tickets were checked, but there was one last barrier to overcome. As first-timers we were obliged to disembark by a pretty woman in a bikini, boots and shades. Each of us in turn had to hit a gong, bellow "My name is [name] and I am a virgin", and hug the pretty woman. Luckily, I had the perfect background for performing such tasks. While I was growing up, my Dad had thoroughly inoculated me against all but the most dire mortification, and living with

tinyjo provides constant hugging practice. I thus carried out the ritual gamely, and though my shout was criticised for poor projection, my hug drew an admiring "Ooh, you're good". An auspicious start.

We drove inside, and tooled around aimlessly until we realised that we had no idea what makes a 'good' site at Burning Man, so just parked somewhere with space.

bluedevi had inexplicably chosen to bring a tent rather than share a cramped RV with three men, so we ~~helped~~ watched her put that up. It became clear that banging rebar tent pegs into hard-baked ground would be a lot easier with a tool of some kind and, looking around, with this in mind, it was obvious that our nearest neighbours were our go-to guys. After all, nothing says "Yes, we have tools" more emphatically than two oldish guys rigging a shower system onto the side of their RV whilst clad only in sandals and toolbelts.

Bravely entering into the spirit of things,

bluedevi wandered over to the naked dudes and asked to borrow a mallet with a creditably casual air. As is so often the case, things did not pan out as pornography might lead one to expect. Instead she returned with the mallet and had her tent up in short order. The sun was falling, our shit was as together as it was going to get; it was clearly time to sally forth. First, of course, we had to dress up. Actually,

mr_snips had opted for his usual eminently practical jeans, t-shirt and sturdy shoes; by way of contrast, Dad had bought some gold lamé and leather but some assembly was required before he could actually wear it. I upgraded my usual look from indie-kid to road-warrior with the power of accessorising: namely a pair of goggles, a leather and duct-tape trenchcoat, blue rubber kneepads (one on the shoulder, one on the opposite knee) and a plastic baseball bat wrapped with 'CAUTION' tape.

bluedevi opted for a flowing skirt and goggles with trailing ribbons attached, for an effect that we later classified as 'post-apocalyptic Liz Bennet'. With a fistful of Dollar Tree glowsticks each, we set out in search of excitement, adventure, and really wild things.

For want of a better plan, we decided to head out to the eponymous Man. The pace was slow as in every direction there was something demanding the attention, and we ricocheted gawping, reading and smiling our way down the thoroughfare toward the centre. It soon became clear that necessity is not the only mother of invention. Many people had put enormous amounts of time, effort and ingenuity into projects with no purpose but to entertain, or inspire, or baffle. Art, then, I suppose, but atypical even by eclectic modern standards. We saw a car that had been accessorised and completely upholstered to look like a cat, like some unholy motorised Bagpuss. We saw a vast see-saw / roundabout which traced out a ten foot high standing wave with bouncing, spinning people. We saw an astonishing diversity of bikes: with three or four wheels, with two or more pilots, with chariots, with amplifiers, with duet recitals of T.S. Eliot, with plumes of flame from propane tanks; shiny, furry, luminescent and noisy bikes.

Eventually we left the inner circle of the festival and entered the enclosed central clearing in whose heart stood the Man, glowing cold blue on his plinth. We were drawn through the darkness, and through sudden surreal shoals of bikes, mutant vehicles, and other pedestrians. I felt like a deep sea diver, seeing creatures whose existance was hitherto unsuspected by man. As one would hope, we learned much from our pilgrimage into the interior. For example, judging distance is difficult in the desert twilight. As we advanced, we were forced to continually reassess our sense of the Man's scale. This induced an odd effect in which he remained the same apparent distance from us, but grew ever larger and brighter. It was a positive relief to get close enough to see people in front of the plinth, and thus fix his size before he filled the entire sky. By that time, it was clear that he bestrode a two-storey wooden complex, partly enclosed and filled, we found, with surprises: soundscapes, distorting mirrors, and a room that could freeze your shadow. In the centre was a dial with its pointer tracing the festival's mood-swings between Hope and Fear (this being the official theme of the week). Connected (at least ostensibly) were two buttons allowing the observer to register a vote in one direction or the other. Apparently the Man would raise his arms if the predominant mood was Hopeful, but at present Fear was slightly ahead and they remained slumped by his side.

From the spiritual (and literal) centre of festival, we decided to head to the logistical centre: Central Café. This is the one place on site where one can spend money (albeit only on ice or coffee), so we were able to indulge in conveniently combined shots of capitalism and caffeine. We sipped these as we explored the area, enjoying the sight of giant metal mesh sculptures of people posed by the entrance, and of a pretty lady striking Pilates postures in the centre. Having recovered our equilibria somewhat, we wandered back towards the RV.

Things were properly dark by this point, and we found to our surprise that we were in an environment in which glowsticks were no mere frivolity. When wandering down an unlit thoroughfare shared with cyclists, drivers and other pedestrians, it is essential to be as visible as possible. This is even more important if, for example, you keep stopping to stare in oblivious awe at the astonishingly multitudinous stars, the cyclist's night-vision is compromised by the sporadic gouts of flame emitting from the propane tank mounted on the back of her vehicle, the driver's sight is obscured by a mask and two people lounging on his bonnet, and some of your fellow pedestrians are so high they don't know which way is up.

Some of my other costuming elements that I had thought of as mere affectation also proved unexpectedly practical. My goggles were not just a Mad Max-esque accessory when the dust storms reduced visibility to a couple of metres; and even my knee and shoulder pads came in handy for holding torches, glowsticks and cups. This serendipitous convergence of frivolity and practicality set the tone for the festival rather nicely.

We successfully navigated the polar co-ordinate system back to our RV and discovered that we'd parked unnervingly close to the 'Department of Spontaneous Combustion', who looked to be responsible for at least some of the flame-belching hell-cycles which we had encountered earlier. At least the sporadic explosions made a convenient landmark. By common consensus, it was time for an early night. After all, if dreams are your brain's attempts to process the day's new experiences, we all had a lot of dreaming to do...

Current Mood: Nostalgic
Current Location: Downstairs on the sofa
Current Music: 'Standing in the Way of Control (Cover)', The Ting Tings (on blip.fm)

After a lie-in and much-appreciated showers all round, we ventured out to do a proper shop. The plan was to gather all the necessary supplies in the morning, then set out to somewhere nice (a nearby lake, perhaps) for the afternoon. As it happened, we spent all day shopping, but had fun while we were at it.

First stop was Dollar Tree. A longer visit deepened our initial astonishment. How could all these things possibly be a dollar? Why would you ever shop anywhere else? Is it actually safe to use a $1 steak knife, or eat $1 chili? Would a $1 hands-free kit for a mobile phone actually work, or is there a company which has realised that they could actually make a business model from lowered expectations, relying on the fact that while you can't make a working hands-free kit for a dollar, no-one would expect you to be able to. You'll sell a few to the curious or optimistic, and they won't return them because it would be more than a dollar's-worth of effort, and because in the back of their heads is the sense that it is ludicrous to say "I paid a dollar for this hands-free kit, and it doesn't work."

Anyway, we loaded up on everything for which the price held more promise than threat, a tricky assessment which varied from person to person. Dad risked big tins of chili and beef, the rest of us were unwilling to contemplate anything more processed than noodles and tinned fruit. We also filled the floor of the RV with many gallon bottles of dollar water. This proved a prescient move, as we left the drug store next door after a 20 minute booze 'n' pills (purchasing) spree to see some fellow burners loading all Dollar Tree's remaining water - hundreds of bottles - into a groaning van.

Our final stop was the very belly of The Beast itself: Walmart.

bluedevi and I loaded up on a carefully-judged mix of essential and frivolous foods,

mr_snips checked out the camping supplies, and Dad returned with a gun. My expression on seeing this (I imagine a mixture of horror, mortification, and fatalistic acceptance) engendered great hilarity in my companions. It was, of course, only a spring-powered rifle that fired metal shot, but nevertheless, our party was now that bit more American, i.e. we were packing heat.

Exhausted by our frenzy of consumerism (surely our last before we were to be embraced by Burning Man's 'gifting economy') we returned to our Hilton RV park for the evening. As we drove we amused ourselves by identifying the vehicles of likely fellow Burners, utilising characteristics as subtle as a discrete sticker or wacky sleeping-bag colour, or as blatant as being a knackered old bus full of goddamn hippies with 'Burning Man Or Bust' daubed across the tailgate. Our senses, honed thus, were drawn immediately to a nearby guest in the park: a bright yellow school bus. Wandering over we found our suspicions confirmed, as we were instantly invited in by Jeff and Tom, two stereotypical old truckers who had gutted the inside of the bus and converted into a spacious traveling living room and bar.

These guys were friendly and open enough to be a little unnerving to us, retaining, as we had, our British reserve. They plied us with beer, potato salad, Canadian whiskey, and rumours. They began by dispelling some misconceptions about Burning Man (machine guns are regularly used, the Hell's Angels run it, there were 77 deaths last year) none of which we actually held. They also showed us their photos of previous years, which were enlightening. I think we all developed a deeper insight into how a money-free 'gifting economy' might work, as a common feature emerged from said photos. That feature was, not to put too fine a point on it, tits. Lots of tits. The confident prediction that the souvenir shop dude had made yesterday was already fulfilled: I was seeing naked people, some of whom were showing every sign of being on drugs. It seemed that Jeff and Tom stocked a free bar throughout Burning Man, and in return enjoyed the opportunity to view, photo and hug (and who dared speculate what else?) a wide selection of naked breasts. From the expressions in the photos, all participants were happy with this exchange. This ameliorated, but failed to entirely dispel, our unease about these characters; but to give them their due they were friendly, jovial and generous, and in all probability neither perverts nor serial killers. We promised to come and find them at the festival, and headed out to the hotel for dinner.

We dined at Asiana, a perfectly-named generic oriental restaurant on the casino floor. As in all these restaurants, TVs in each corner of the room offered an incomprehensible bingo-esque game to ensure that one's need for food didn't interfere with one's opportunity to hemorrhage money. The demographic of casino and trailer parks was odd, the two main parties being Burners and The American Veterans Association. The groups didn't seem to interact much, perhaps lacking a common language.

After a pleasant meal and chat, we returned to the RV to find we had new next-door neighbours: more Burners, improbably named Rocky, Kandy (I incredulously confirmed the spelling with her), and another guy whose name was rather overshadowed by those two. None of us were at our most coherent, but I gather that they were together for the first time, having met in some manner of pagan on-line community. Again, they were pleasant open people who, perhaps for those very reasons, made me feel slightly uncomfortable. Their good humour seemed a little brittle and forced, but maybe that was simply due to the circumstances of their meeting. Or maybe I was simply being too uptight for cultural or personal reasons. If so, surely I should be making the most of such feelings, because in under 24 hours I would be at Burning Man where, I was confident, my mind would be blown, freed and at one with all. Not necessarily in that order.

Current Mood: Retrospective
Current Location: Downstairs on the sofa, next to tinyjo
Current Music: tinyjo cackling at her friends page

We were driving out of the RV park when we ran into something: a moral dilemma. As late arrivals we hadn't yet paid for our stay, and the site's rudimentary infrastructure had nothing to stop us from breezing out and away for free.

So we were faced with a choice: save much needed money (for (Dad and

bluedevi at least were on the skint side), or do The Right Thing? Needless to say(?), the outcome was never really in doubt, and we got out and wandered over to the ranger/receptionist's cabin/booth. Our good deed was rewarded by the gratifying revelation that our night had cost a total of six dollars, a sum that we couldn't possibly begrudge our life-saving sanctuary.

We retraced our steps to the diner that had provided us with succor and directions the previous night, and breakfasted on vast burittos and coffees. Thus fortified, we set course for Reno. It was a long day's drive, but at least these highways were worthy of the name. The scenery was breathtaking as we wound up through the mountains, looking down on tiny railways clinging to sheer slopes like steam-punk ivy.

Once again it was late and we were flagging by the time we arrived in Reno, and we feared a repeat of our previous epic quest for shelter. Indeed, many of the parks we passed on the route in seemed to stop taking admissions after dark. We found our way to our (arbitrarily chosen) choice in the shadow of the vast Hilton Hotel, but our hearts sank as we saw a sign announcing 'No Vacancies'. However, we optimistically investigated the reception area and found that, though it was closed, they had a self-check-in facility and a couple spaces apparently available. We grabbed one, left Dad to nap after his hard day's drive, and wandered towards the hotel intrigued by a sign proclaiming (ordering?) only 'Fun Quest'.

The first thing we saw on entering the building was a wedding chapel, discretely tucked in by the doors where one might expect to find a toilet. The second thing was the object of our quest: a misleadingly-named arcade area. This was a double disappointment, having been neither much of a quest, nor any fun. We passed by, rebuffed not so much by the metal detector and security guard at the entrance as by what we could see of the interior.

mr_snips and

bluedevi decided to stop for a meal, but I drifted on. The Fun Quest may have been at an end, but my quest for fun had only just begun.

The ground floor of the hotel was a bit like a mall from which any and all desirable items had been fastidiously deleted. The remaining shops sold nothing but ugly souvenirs: toxic-looking candy; golf-related flim-flam; and t-shirts and bumper stickers proclaiming allegiance to America in general, Reno specifically, gambling, fishing and/or Jesus. Everywhere was inexplicably open. Everywhere was all-too-explicably empty. Questing on, I drifted into Snowind, which looked initially as if it might be a useful outdoor-gear shop. In fact, in keeping with the theme of the other shops, it sold everything such a shop would sell except useful outdoor-gear: flimsy bags, impractical jackets and unpleasant hats.

Curiosity satisfied by the briefest of circumlocutory mooches, I was leaving when the in-store music finished creeping up behind my consciousness and starting a synchopated tapping on its shoulder. It was lo-fi, poetic rap; incongruously edgy in such a profoundly bland venue. My steps slowed, and my head started bobbing.

"It kicks in in a second", said the skinny teenager (an indie-kid, if Americaland has such a tribe) slouched behind the counter. I waited. It did. "Buck 65?" I asked. "Nope. He's a local guy, Sage Francis". We stood companionably either side of the counter, nodding along.
"You here on holiday?"
"Yep. Burning Man."
This was my first experience of the magic these words held, as he instantly perked up. "Have you been before?"
"First time."
"Oh, man, you are gonna have such a trip. I'm working this year but I've been before. It's just... incredible."
"Any advice on what to take?"
"Water. Lots of water. Seriously, if you're wondering whether to take another shirt or something, don't. Take more water instead."
"Cheers. I guess I just don't know what to expect to see there."
"It's so much fun. You'll see..." a pause as he selected the quintessential Burning Man experience, "...naked people. On drugs."
In this assertion he was absolutely correct. In fact, we were to see some before the festival even began...

Mulling this over, I strolled onwards and up an escalator into a disorientatingly different world. This floor was busy, and - holy shit - it was garish. I'd found the casino floor. I stood paralysed for a moment by sheer information density. So many flickering lights, flashing words, demanding chimes; attempts to entice that smeared together into an incapacitating interference pattern, redoubled from the mirrors in every wall and metal coating every surface.

Once I got my mental filters recalibrated I was able to think again, and began to suspect that this effect was deliberate. This would explain the astonishing dullness of the mall below: it was intended to be dull; sensory deprivation to lower your defenses so the casino could sucker-punch you right in the synapses. Having recovered, I took a turn across the floor. I weaved effortlessly between machines and through drifting shoals of the elderly like I was moving in bullet-time, surrounded but apart, inside the loop. Before this mood dissipated I let myself get sucked into the vortex of an escalator and floated back to the RV, quest fulfilled.

Rejuvenated by our various activities we felt up to a preliminary investigation of Reno, so piled back into the RV and set out. Our vestigial goals were two-fold:
1) Identify suitable shops for tomorrow's supply-gathering expedition
2) Discover the location of the casino whose billboards boasted 'A dog and a draft for a buck and a half'. This slogan - its faux-naif charm, Owenian para-rhyme or sheer transcendental shittiness - had taken inexplicable root in our brains, and even those of us who had already eaten would not feel truly satisfied until they had partaken of this worryingly excellent bargain.

As we set out we could see vast and garish lights in the distance, to which we were drawn like moths to a particularly glittery flame. Much like moths, our navigation was crap and we circled around for quite some time without actually getting nearer. We did, however, spot DollarTree, whose offer of 'everything for a dollar' proved irresistible.

The 10 minutes we spent there before it closed were more than enough to convince us that here was the answer, not only to all our needs, but to the needs of any reasonable human. Dollar energy drinks (containing 'horny goat weed')! Dollar Pringles (with jokes on each one in blue ink)! Dollar motivational stickers (offering bargain-basement encouragement such as 'Good try' and 'You did it')! Dollar glow sticks! They were even handing out lists of the Burning Man essentials that we could find in their store. Laden with impulse purchases too cheap to have engendered any manner of cost-benefit analysis, we headed back into the night.

It had been a long day. We were still jet-lagged yet over-excited. DollarTree was behind us, and bright lights, loose slots and a distressingly cheap meal lay before. None of this fully explains how we managed to get back in the RV, drive for a few miles, then pull over to case another strip mall; and only then realise that we'd left the fucking boot open. In retrospect it had been kind of noisy. And drafty. And... well... our minds boggled. Somehow we had neither lost any luggage nor gained any police attention. Taking this as a sign that Lady Luck was on our side (where a lesser (or less dazed and confused) party might have taken it as a demand for an early night) we struck back out towards downtown. This time we found it, and parked the RV so that we could head into the light.

bluedevi was particularly taken by the very shininess of every casino. I saw cold, cold neon in hot, hot pink; she clearly saw The Biggest Glowsticks Ever. She was, however, able to resist plunging head-first into the nearest light and instead joined us in Fun Quest II: Downtown. As we walked and talked, seeds germinated which were to later develop into Shiny Duality Theory: the recognition that shiny does not necessarily equal good, and that glowsticks and glitter have a sinister shadow (albeit an equally bright one). The prismatic hellscape that was downtown Reno was clearly Bad Shiny. We ventured in undaunted.

It's amazing how quickly the human mind adapts. After about 20 minutes, our horrified fascination had ablated, and we were looking for something actively entertaining. We found some:

The souvenir t-shirt depicting 3 cowboys with 'The Original Dept. Of Homeland Security' afforded some distraction. Are they seriously drawing an analogy between a trigger-happy lynch mob and their current government's anti-terrorism branch? Is this gormless patriotism, or dangerous satire?

The wedding chapel with matching 'bride' and 'groom' baseball caps in the window. Do people really exist who could wear such things without irony? Do we even have enough shared language to communicate with such people?

The vast array of slot machines, all basically identical but for their themes. Is that 'I Dream Of Jeannie' machine as new as it looks? Who is making these things and why? Is 'The Dark Side of the Force' too honest a theme?

Eventually, dogged (ho ho) persistence brought us to the hallowed hall that offered the meal that had haunted our dreams. We skipped eagerly over the threshold, each clutching our one hundred and fifty cents. The offer was, of course, a lie. The guy in the food booth downstairs sent us upstairs, where the kitchen was closed for an indefinite period. Disappointed but not - if we were to be honest - especially disillusioned, we choked down some merely quite cheap beer and fried food, and returned to the RV and thence the park.

Current Mood: retrospective
Current Location: Downstairs on the sofa
Current Music: 'Everlong', Foo Fighters (played by tinjyo on Guitar Hero)

So, I went to Burning Man, with

mr_snips,

bluedevi and my Dad. I reckon that more than enough time has passed to abrade the soft, boring detail; exposing the ridges of durable anecdote material. So here we go:

Flew in with Virgin Atlantic. I was twitchy about security, but the time of days-long delays seemed to have passed, leaving only bizarre strictures on bag sizes and drinks. Met up with Dad without trouble and checked in, a slightly unnerving process for Dad whose bulky lugguage (folding bicycle) and fragile lugguage (camera) were checked in separately, then casually shoved onto the same trolley. Still, we made it through the rules, restrictions and insanely long queues onto the plane on time.

I always like travelling on planes. You sit around with a book or two, some music, and a selection of entertainment at your literal finger-tips (on Virgin flights, anyway); and every so often, a pretty lady brings you some booze or food. Also you are an (admittedly passive) participant in the overcoming of nature by a combination of human ingenuity and sheer brute force. What's not to like?

Watched some films:
Brick - A classic noir story but set at a modern American college (though not, I suspect, a typical one). Comparisons to Veronica Mars are inevitable and justified, though the dialogue lighter on the sass, more hard-bitten and slang-strewn. Recommended.

16 Blocks - I thought this was going to be a palate-cleansingly dumb action flick given the premise: grizzled old cop has to get vital witness to court room, despite the best attempts of the corrupt cops he is to testify against. However, it featured surprisingly well-drawn characters, slick plot development, and an ending much more surprising and satisfying than my expected 'goodies dive in slow motion away from an enormous explosion which consumes all remaining baddies, plot holes, etc.' Again, if the premise appeals to you in the slightest, you should check it out.

Stay - Odd one, this. A psychiatrist has to deal with a colleague's patient, a suicidally depressed and bitter artist who can apparently predict the future. It's willfully strange and dreamy; and, like many such films, is good at layering on the mood and mystery, but when forced to reach a conclusion ends with 'oh, right' rather than 'oh, wow'. Still, worth watching.

Didn't watch RV, for fear that this family comedy about a man taking his children on an ill-fated road trip in an RV might:
a) shake my already slightly uncertain faith in the wisdom of this whole venture; and/or
b) contain toxic levels of Robin Williams.

Arrived in San Francisco unrested but happy. Once we'd had our finger-prints and photos taken and found Dad's stuff, we braved customs. For some reason, I always get stopped at customs. It didn't help that we tried to take a short-cut through some barriers which, in retrospect, would have bypassed the customs officers entirely. Once they'd bellowed and gestured us into the correct lane, we were bound to be in for a little scrutiny.

"Where are you folks going?"
"Burning Man, actually."
"Could you just step over here, guys, put your bags down, then stand back."
"Would you be doing this if we'd said 'Yosemite National Park'?"
"Just step over here, please."

Of course, we had nothing to hide, and hence nothing to fear. The officers did look askance at my tarot deck though, and spent a minute daring each other to pull a card before deciding against meddling with the occult and going back to meddling with our personal possessions.

Eventually we were free, and immensely relieved to meet

bluedevi,

mr_snips, and Dad's mate, O. This last is a San Francisco resident who Dad met at The Festival In The Desert in Mali. He was big, black, and fantastically friendly and willing to help. He gave us a lift in a big, black SUV that looked ludicrously over-sized until we'd piled 4 passengers and their stuff into it, at which point we realised what an eminently practical size it, in fact, was.

He dropped Dad at the RV hire place, and took us to vast camping store. An excellent idea in principle, it foundered in practice as we ended wandering, jet-lagged and confused, through the infinite isles of practical items, trying to remember what we might have forgotten to bring. We eventually shambled out, and rejoined Dad with the RV, a Winnebago Westphalia that seemed pretty pokey compared to O's mighty steed. After promising to meet up with O at the festival, we set off in search of a nearby RV park. Sure, strictly speaking it's illegal to drive your hire car on the day that you arrive in the country; but we weren't going too go far, and Dad had slept on the plane.

We cruised over the Golden Gate bridge and onwards, seeking Highway 1 and its promised RV havens. With the exception of Dad, we were all drifting gently in and out of lucidity. This did not aid our navigational abilities, particularly in combination with our inadequately detailed map and (apparently) foolish assumption that Highway 1 would be a classic Americalandian 6 lane monster, not a penny-ante, winding coastal road lacking lights, signs, and the odd chunk of tarmac or guard-rail.

The sea was beautiful, and the roadside foliage punctuated with the occasional, startling deer. However, the sun was setting and Dad was flagging more and more worryingly. The only RV place we'd seen was a) closed, b) called something like Chasm Park, and c) accessed by a road so steep as to suggest that it was not so much a refuge as a trap. Eventually we found a town which could supply much needed food and directions to a suitable, and allegedly nearby, park. We wound upwards into the forest, through a gathering mist which lent a distinctly Hammer Horror sensibility to the proceedings. We passed the point at which we expected the park. Then the point by which we must surely have found the park if it was there. Then further still.

By this point we were all on the verge of unconsciousness and, occasionally, of the road. We unilaterally decided to turn around, head back to the town, and find a motel, car park, or alley way in which to finally pass out. However, turning round proved harder than we'd hoped, as the RV's vast turning circle, the painfully narrow road and uncannily ill-timed fellow road-users conspired against us. Close to despair, we finally found a side road to use, only to notice that it lead to the park we had been heading for all along! After a listless attempt to find the correct place to park, and a surprisingly competent surge to convert the RV from vehicle to accommodation, we sank gratefully into unconsciousness.

Current Mood: Futuristic
Current Location: Downstairs on the sofa
Current Music: 'No Pain' - Dinosaur Jr.