Whilst still on the mend from the Bolivian Death road, Lucy’s knees have to fight over which one gets to wear the solitary knee support in our possession. Have you ever seen kneecaps fighting? They’re known to be kneedlessly aggressive. There really is no kneed for it and frankly, I kneeded to intervene before it got too ugly. (Sorry) (I kneed to stop) (AND AGAIN! GAH!)

More on Lucy’s knees in a future instalment of this blog…

We cross paths with our kickass snowboarding mate Vish who coincidentally is working and living in Fernie as an artist/designer and we hook up with him and his lovely lady wife Claire a few times for a number of extrava-curry-ganzas. Vish and Claire have travelled to many of the places we’ve been and many of the places we are destined to go. Inside the very aptly titled Curry Bowl Indian restaurant, we share an affinity for Saags and sagas and hang out lots over the next few weeks. Vish and Claire join our snowboarding gang and we enjoy their inspiring semi-spiritual quotes, life lessons and motivational videos which make us want to perpetuate our own travelling mission. ONWAAAARDS!!

There is a Canadian law that states that cars must stop to give way if pedestrians are attempting to cross the road. What we weren’t expecting was for this to apply to Motorways. On one insane occasion, four lanes of traffic stop to let us cross. We lift our jaws off the floor and slip-slide across the icy asphalt. This feels wrong, it feels too polite, too nice. It’s actually lovely.

That same evening, we end up tagging along on an evening social event to watch the local ice hockey team, the Fernie Ghostriders. One of the skiers from the Non-stop course is getting progressively merrier and wider motioned with his flapping beer arms and ends up dropping half of his beer on my head. After my recoil and horror from the spilt beer (a tragedy in itself), a profuse apology materialises which extinguishes the soggifying situation. He then buys me a beer of which I spill absolutely none at all. Except for if you count inside my mouth.

The entire Non-stop gang are there to witness the locals take a bit of a pasting. The funniest and most aggressive-polite hockey heckler sits in our vicinity making it his mission to troll the opposing team’s goalie (Mouseau).

“MOUUSSEEAAAUUU… MOUUSSEEAAAUUU… I USED TO DELIVER YOUR POST”

“MOUUSSEEAAAUUU… MOUUSSEEAAAUUU… DOES YOUR MUM STILL CUT YOUR HAIR?”

The man is relentless for the duration of the game and provides some comedic solace to the home crowd who go away with a loss from the local team.

Later on, keen to make more Fernie friends, I demonstrate my “Put a pint on yer ‘ead” party trick and with the aid of James, my spotter, I balance a multitude of configurations of pints on my head. The pint glasses are arranged from rim to rim, to base to base and a number of variations between. I manage a scary number of heavy glass tankards and stop the rest of the pub in their tracks (all secretly hoping they see a British idiot receive a face full of glass when it comes cascading down to earth). Thankfully I escape injury and leave the pub unscathed, on this occasion knowing when to quit while I’m ahead. We take a walk to a quiz night run by Goff for the Non-stop gang.

In a plot similar to Slumdog Millionaire in which life events just happen to fall in such a way as the main character happens to know all the answers to all the quiz questions, simply by serendipity or fate, history or experience, Goff sets a quiz which is based upon “Guess the intros”. Every song seems to be lifted from my musical noggin-box collection as I proceed to destroy all challengers that dare to take me on. I lift my team to victory and we quaff a mighty volume of Jagermeister saluting, cheersing and thanking the quiz gods for tonights magical, mystical, quizzical knowledgey power up.

Every morning we hit the slopes and shake off mammothian hangovers straight from the ice age. The base of Fernie mountain greets us with a 80s RAWK/hair metal soundtrack which gets the group motivated and ready to throw our mittened devil horns in the air. The tunes play over the Tannoy speaker system and we look forward to hearing Van Halen’s Jump and Kiss’s I was made for for lovin’ you every single morning. For four weeks we feel like we are living the Hot Tub time machine lifestyle and it feels like a bit of a dream really.

To the hilarity of her group, the only injury Lucy is afflicted by is one of groin strain. I offer to kiss it better, but of course Lucy declines. We spend nearly every day on the slopes and find ourselves improving a lot. I start to become attuned to my snowboard and we get on a lot better after our initial bust-up.

The instructor exams loom and as a group, we get through the slight monotony of the extreme repetition of the teaching sessions. The wear and tear of snowboarding everyday takes its toll and I start to develop something that matches the symptoms of tendonitis. The pain increases and by the time exam day rolls around, I am taking four ibuprofen every two hours to get through the day. I know this is a very bad thing and begin to feel empathy for sporty, athletic types that trash themselves in the name of their profession. My injury is slight in comparison to the stories you hear of fellow boarders/skiers knocking themselves out, breaking wrists, and of course stretching their groins. I soldier on and manage to get through the two days of exams with a certification of instructoryness at the end of the day. I celebrate by balancing a four pint pitcher on my head.

The weeks get boozier as the Non-stop numbers dwindle. People complete their courses and make the inevitable journey back to their homesteads. We hang on tooth and nail for another week of boarding and subject ourselves to the debacle of a Goff led Australia Day party night at The Royal in the centre of Fernie. By the end of the night my face has been the canvas for an abhorrent aboriginal/Vegemite finger painted mess. Lucy takes a bullet by volunteering to lick it off my visage. Ever had somebody treat your face like a gravy lollipop? It’s truly not as good as it sounds. We argued that we both individually had the worse deal in that competition but we won our round anyway.

Our time in Fernie comes to a close and we say goodbye to the jolly nice skiers and snowboarders left on the course. It’s sad to say goodbye, but we feel ready to leave as our stay in Fernie is the longest we’ve stayed rooted in one spot since the beginning of our trip. Sarah, Sarah, Sarah and Sarah (might have missed a sarah or two), Gav, Del, Josh, Matt, Zac, Michael, Rob, Steff, Bronte, Natalie, John, Rachel, we’ll miss you all. Our lovely new boarder mate James offers to take our new snowboards home and we wave at him, promising to meet him and all our new snowy mates next season.

Our shuttle bus driver to Calgary mumbles a number of stories at a volume which are only just audible and I am the one who unfortunately gets the shotgun passenger seat. To exacerbate things, a French Canadian lady talks endlessly into her phone in a callused tongue. This makes it a very difficult ear straining stretch to connect with the driver for the next five hours …

The house we stay in is eerily silent and empty with no other guests to be seen, heard or detected. Nobody meets us and we’re not even sure we are in the right house for the first couple of days. There is a weird lack of anyone about. Signs of life are present inside a fully stocked fridge situated in a swanky homely, slightly cluttered open plan kitchen/diner, but we still doubt wether we should be here. The view overlooks the centre of Calgary and we are pretty certain the four story house is worth some big Canadian Canuck bucks given its location and niceties. Yorkshire Tea and Scottish Shortbread offer themselves to us as treats placed invisibly. Ooh and theres’ a brilliant outdoor hot tub which unfortunately doesn’t double up as a an actual time machine to take us back to our brilliant time in Fernie.

Calgary looks like a cuter version of America. For a major city, it feels widely placed with so much space on offer (it has skyscrapers but really doesn’t need them). A tunnel connects all the adjacent shopping centers so the weather doesn’t affect spending in the city. As the weather turns bitterly cold and for the last time on this trip, we dig the thermals back out.

Our stay sees us witnessing snow leopards gnaw on rabbit skulls and female Gorillas puking up their lunch and then eating it.

We send our snowboarding gear home in perhaps the worlds tightest packed case (we both have to stand on the case which feels so heavy and dense, I wonder if it may actually be closer in physical characteristics to a black hole) and wonder if we’ll see it again. Our time in the snow comes to an end and we look forward to the actual near polar extremes of the Cook Islands, and the insanity of a temperature switcheroo of nearly fifty degrees…

Those people are us! Wahey!

We get our first taste of the famed Canadian politeness as the friendly cowboy hat’d help desk ladies point us to the vicinity of the Non-Stop travel, meet up point.

“How far is it to the meet up point?” I ask.

“It’s aboot five minutes” said the very helpful lady.

I look at Lucy and communicate a subtle air fist-clench as the stereotyped colloquialism actually rings true.

We are about to experience what is the dream snowboarding trip, a month of snowboarding in Fernie (the best kept snowboarding secret location in North America). I am booked onto an instructor course, while Lucy is on a three week improvement course and we can hardly wait to strap into our gear.

We meet our Non-Stop rep’s Mark and Goff. Both are fun and show off fresh lines on their faces, you can tell instantly these fellows have seen gnarly seasons in the powder. Indeed a friendly pair who meet and greet a lot of extremely jet lagged individuals looking haggard by their travels. In his introduction, Goff the guide sets the tone in what is to become his inimitable Aussie in Canada, snow bum tone. He’s kind of a rascally loveable swear-pot and becomes the warden for the duration of our stay. We notice the large proliferation of Australian accents and overhear stories of travel times exceeding forty hours. For once we feel sparky in comparison to our new snow buddies. Bzzzzt!

The scenery creaks and bows with heavily snowed upon characteristics and as the low sun arcs through the sky, the whiteness of the frosted landscape dazzles the noggin. The coach windows are tinted and curtained to prevent mass snow blindness (and coach crashes).

Recently purchased and taken over by Non-stop, the Red Tree Lodge is extremely well kitted out for the powder hounds we are. Everything at the Red Tree Lodge is geared towards skiing and snowboarding and the place has an incredibly easygoing vibe to it. Eating and drunkenness quickly ensues while we scope out who we want to hang with for the next few weeks. There is a massive divergence of characters and personalities. Most are really up for socialising heavily and we tend to gravitate to the ones that like to booze (total shocker).

Our next taste of the famous Canadian politeness prevails. Friendliness is inherent to the slightly old fashioned feel of Fernie, a lovely phrase: ”Hello” in the street is commonly uttered by actual strangers.

The day before our lessons start, we are insanely excited about buying new snowboards from the Edge of the World shop in the centre of Fernie. We spend a good couple of hours with James the instructor and Lars the shop manager. We listen to their advice and labour our purchase decision. I buy a Lib Tech Attack Banana with a sweet Japanese pre-manga early 80s Sci-fi/fantasy design. Lucy’s is a coral pink Nikita board made by Salomon. Importantly it matches Lucy’s snowboard trousers perfectly. This makes Lucy very happy.

Our first day of snowboarding means separating into our allocated groups. I join a pretty laddish group of lads that are leagues more laddie than me. Even the Lady (Natalie) is loads more laddish than me (I mean this in the best possible way, she shreds like an absolute demon and is one of the best boarders in the group). James is our uber cool instructor who is a snowboarding deity and I think has spent more time on snow than off it. We’re talking world class with an injury being the only barrier between him and a shot at the Olympics. An incredibly likeable chap with a ton of charm.

It is today I realise I absolutely suck at snowboarding. I am so far beyond ‘rusty’, I am corroded. I have been put into the top skill level snowboarding group and realise I am WAY out of my powdery depth. I spend the entire first day falling over and realise everybody else has been out snowboarding for weeks prior to the beginning of the course. I totally eat their powdery dust as they unleash a ridiculous pace which intensifies as the day goes on. I also realise having set up my new board in a hungover state, it is completely ruining my balance/stance hence the repeated eating snow over and over again. James our instructor tweaks the setup over lunch and I have a slightly better afternoon. The day obliterates my confidence and it takes a week to get over the setback on the slopes. Lucy meanwhile is having a brilliant time and making lots of ‘super’ friends in her group. Somehow she manages to sprinkle her magic dust and attracts great people to the now increasing circle. I realise I am physically and somehow mentally unfit at this point and struggle for the next couple of weeks to get into the swing of it all.

New years Eve gets ever so slightly lively and desperately trying to make an impact, I smash down 8 Jagermeisters in a row, finally making an impact on the Porcelain toilet (we became firm friends for about twenty minutes). Despite this performance, I could still not top one of our group’s paralytic efforts of urinating on the entire collective jackets of the bar staff of the pub we were in. This unfortunate fellow got a few death threats and was understandably forced to leave before the stroke of midnight. It is also on this night we begin to hook up properly with our now good board buddies James, Gavin and Sarah C, Sarah S and Michael. The absolute loveliest, friendly and up for it gang you could wish to meet on a snowboarding holiday.

Back at the Red Tree Lodge, during the early hours of New Years eve/New years day, the front reception desk has an embedded iPad that faces outwards to notify residents of the snow conditions for the mountain. This iPad is somehow rascally set to display pornographic websites unbeknownst to the reception staff due to it’s orientation towards the general public. This is extremely funny for everyone until the admin staff find out and threaten to block all ‘adult websites’ over the wifi unless it is rectified and/or happens again. 30 very scared looking chaps turn pale as they realise they may have to go without porn for the next 3 weeks. The iPad gets fixed very quickly.

Now if I can just get into this snowboarding malarkey…

The Grand canyon lives up to its name (it’s proper grand) with the massive expanse stretching further than we can comprehend. Vast and humbling, the rock formations are complemented by the glacial locomotion of cloud shadows projecting downwards, creating an even more captivating tableau. Snow has formed on the canyon top pathways triggered by the altitude rise and the onset of the biting winter. An attempted timelapse capture results in failure as the bitter temperatures sap the batteries of our cameras enfeebling their ability to go on. At its widest, there is twenty miles between the canyon walls and scale comprehension becomes futile. Our vantage point looks down, into the canyon allowing us to observe the incredibly rich red and orange rock on display. Our journey back home visits a very temporary stop at Hoover damn, which even in the dark looks intimidating in its presence. The tedious coach drop off to seemingly every hotel in Vegas before ours, finally completes and we spend our last night of Vegas in the Riviera hotel, having a few beers before bed.

The day of leaving arrives and we bid the fondest of farewells to Vegas, knowing we’ll be back one day. Our taxi ride to McCaran airport is short and for those who haven’t had nearly enough opportunity to gamble every last penny, the airport offers a casino floor full of fruit machines in the airport departure lounges. We have a punt and win on our first go. Cash out.

Shortly after takeoff, the plane banks, rotating the world into a prime viewing position for our exit out of shiny Vegas land. A moonstruck view of nighttime Vegas whirligigs below us inside a flared orangey hue. Light spews from one hundred million, billion trillion, vigintillion centillion light sockets, LED displays and lamps turning night temporarily day-like. The window seat is most definitely the place to be on a night flight out of Vegas. Light flare seers through the atmosphere taking on the atramentous canopy and stands oppugner to the night’s right to be dark. It is with the fondest memories that we leave Vegas, charmed by the madness, the excess and the downright gall of a settlers oasis to become one of the most notorious and ambitious cities in the world.

We are on our way to Denver Colorado, chasing the Conversed heels of my best man Glen, who flew back a few days earlier in potential anticipation of an early baby arrival. Our flight moves quick, and drops us in the snowy Denver clime, a marked decrease in temperature in the walk from the plane to the airport baggage retrieval area. We shiver in the minus 32 degree air, but used to the benumbing extremes of cold, it’s business as usual for the staff at Denver airport. There are few things better in this world than being met at the airport. The best hugs you will ever receive will be on the opposite side of a nothing to declare exit. Glen meets us exceptionally well and although it’s only been a few days, he gives us big, BIG hugs. If you get the opportunity, go and meet somebody at an airport, it’s truly lovely to be met.

Glen drives the icy freeways into the Denver suburbs and we tiptoe up their snowy steps, into the stillness of the sleeping house. All except for the inquisitive, Bernese mountain dog Kona, who is awake and losing her mind with the exotic new aromas of stink laden travellers entering the household. Through gritted, whispered tones Glen threatens the pooch with canicide and a somewhat deserved kick up the arse. Maintaining the toe tipping, we are shown around their basement, (our living quarters for the next few weeks) which is incredibly swish, homely and absolute luxury. We hear tall footsteps and down the stairs comes a sleepy eyed Jennifer Parkes with an even sleepier looking Poppy Parkes in her arms. Immediately Jenn’s bump appears accomplished, having been worked on for the last eight months or so. From the creators of Poppy Parkes, comes a virtuoso baby bump. Bump 2, the gurgling.

Gooey-warm hugs and kisses are shared and it feels awesome to know we can remain planted in Denver for a while. Our basement bedroom is extremely cozy, easily rivalling our own for home comforts. We collapse into freshly sheeted, crisp bedclothes and sleep a long deep sleep.

The very next morning, we awake to an empty house, Glen at work and Jenn at a baby appointment. Venturing upstairs to the kitchen, we go straight for the pre-stocked, specially garnered for us, bumper box of PG tips. Overdosing on the world beating, chimp beating (I mean endorsed…) brand of tea leaves, we begin to settle into a homely lifestyle, chain-drinking copious amounts of tea, interspersed with tall glasses of chocolate milk, enjoying a holiday from travelling and eventually hanging out with the Parkes’sss’sss’sss upon their arrival back home.

Jenn, Glen and Poppy are infinitely generous allowing us into their home and making us truly welcome for the entirety of our stay. We feel part of the family unit and feel insanely comfortable. We become honorary uncle Rynan and auntie Looocy for a short time as Poppy gets used to us being around. We get to know Poppy a bit better and are charmed by her already confident personality and developing vocabulary.
“Pweeeeeaasseee”, “Zooooooo” and “Hewlp!” amongst other phrases endear us completely to Poppy, whilst the calming experience of reading bedtime stories becomes a true delight to deliver. Soft gentle story voicing melds with the dimmer switch of tranquility, enabling a quietude of deep sleep.

As Jennifer gets closer to her due date, Lucy begins her work on Steven Joseph’s websites (payment for the photography session in Vegas), spending much of her time in the study/basement/luxury underground apartment. My duties are that of full time Poppy play pal. We play hard, actioning some serious ‘colouring in’, and an insistence on staying outside of the lines (Poppy is such a non-conformist) and gain an insight into the loveliest parts of parenting.

The weekend comes and with the gang all present, we trek out to a fabulous breakfast restaurant called Huckleberry’s. I was surprised to find people queue for breakfast in America, and we have to wait thirty minutes for a table. Once we are seated, we stuff masses of food into our pieholes easily filling the capacious caverns of hunger, but I am taken aback by Lucy and Jenn’s insistence on ordering breakfast pudding. The hungry pair demolish the sweet delights of French toast and roll around clutching their bulging selves.

In another feat of generosity, Jenn who is now scarily close to birthing, gifts me her seat at at an American football game between the Denver broncos and the Tennessee titans. In a rare occurrence, I witness what is known in fairly niche circles as a game of ‘sport’. Upon our arrival, I am surprised to see a number of other individuals who have also been invited to see ‘sport’. A veritable crowd of people inhabit a ‘stadium’ and clap politely upon the gains of each team’s successive points. Well done chaps!

The mile high stadium is electric with the excitement of the game. There is a sharp crispness in the air with the low temperatures occupying the very foundations of Denver’s home ground. The cold seeps into our feet but the sun warms our faces (our middles have been looked after by a large nip of whiskey consumed from a chrome hip flask prior to the game). Whilst having a slight wobble in the beginning of the game, Denver valiantly fight back to annihilate Tennessee. Every Denver touchdown results in the release of Thunder their equine mascot, galloping from one side of the field to the other. Denver score so many in this game, Thunder looks positively knackered by the end of the forth quarter. Having heard it was my first visit to an American football game, Denver kindly gift my presence with a delivery of a world record field goal. A Sixty four yard kick (just under 59 metres) demotivates the opposing team almost into submission. The stadium high fives itself. Well done sporty types. I enjoyed that. A great game of sport.

Christmas decorations, baby incubation, nappy changing demonstrations, sparkly pedicure application, Glen’s cot building frustration, National Lampoon’s vacation compilation of concatenation.

And still the arrival of the arrival date approaches. In a swish of misdirection, Glen and Jenn leave the house and their first born Poppy in our hands. They leave for the hospital to coerce number two out of Jenn’s insides and we are suddenly in charge of the wellbeing of a very small Poppy person. We step into the shoes of parents and for the next few days get used to full time Poppysitting. We have so much fun and become really attached. Serious play occupies Poppy as Jenn preps herself for birth. Later, we pick Poppy up from Daycare to eventually find she has picked up a bad Christmas cold which stops her in her tracks. Full of a nasty, chesty infectiony cold, she sits still through the entirety of Finding Nemo, weirdly not moving a muscle. Whilst picking her up, Poppy sneezes into my mouth and passes the malaise me-wards.

Morning becomes afternoon and we get the call. A Parkes is Born! Oliver Kai Parkes arrives in the world! G, J and O stay in hospital for a couple of nights to catch their breath. The next morning, we visit the new Parkes addition, and he is a super perfect little smasher. Poppy is incredibly gentle and superbly inquisitive in his appearance at the hospital. Jenn cries beautiful tears upon the meeting of her brood in an incredibly touching moment that has us all equally teary. Ollie cries like a tiny pterodactyl chick, his lungs too tiny to project a wailing blast, whilst mummy Jenn and daddy Glen are super proud and relieved Ollie’s intestines are on the insides of his body (apparently this can happen).

Christmas day arrives in a bleary ill stupor and we fall deep into an infected state. The hum(bugs) have their office christmas party inside our bodies, getting their germ-groove on to Slade’s “Well I wish it could be Christmas every day” and kiss under the microbial mistletoe.
We are unable to give little Oliver smooches for fear of passing on the nasty old illness and confine ourselves downstairs. We sleep for much of Christmas day keeping the contagion limited to our basement.

Our stay in Denver flies by in a click of a finger and before we know it we have to think about moving onwards. More than anywhere else, we had become rooted in Glen and Jennifer’s luxury apartment/basement and feel extremely wrenched in the upheaval of moving on. Friendships deepened and bonds strengthened, things become emotional upon leaving and we find it a real struggle. Our gratitude extends eternally and wish there was a lot less sea between us. We have to say goodbye and give our best Rynan and Looocy hugs on tiptoes. A tearful goodnight signifies the stopgap of staying is over. The adventure continues.

“Right Lucy, how do you snowboard again?…”

1. Get the marriage licence.

In Nevada, getting a licence for mawwiage is an incredibly easy task. It’s no more difficult than applying for a TV licence (Definitely not as hard as the rigmarole of getting a passport), Just line up, pay your money through an office window, wait for a few checks (the office clerk asks you if you spelt your name correctly – we both managed this on our first attempt) and voila, licence granted in no more than ten minutes. Both of our names lie next to each other on a piece of paper and we are officially qualified to get mawwied. (Weird, Really, really weird) As we walk away from the council building Lucy only very slightly starts to FREAK OUT.

To combat the mini-meltdown, we drink mimosas and eat in the swish 50s style diner at the base of the stratosphere hotel. As we sit in a red leather booth sipping from tall glasses, one of the serving waitresses grabs a microphone and breaks into the Motown Classic ‘Be my baby’. She works the floor and has a great voice.

“Lucy calm now”.

2. Get the venue/location, or where we ‘did it’

We check out venue options, which for us are incredibly not ‘us’. The choices don’t fit what we want to do (which is very little). And also we only have one guest, Glen (popping over all impromptu like from Colorado). An amazing array of awe-less options are available, all wedding-tastically-horrific and pander to the worst bits of mawwiage ceremonies. As we sit through sales assistants pitching their services, my skin begins to crawl. It seems we have entered extreme wedding land. Nothing is flexible or negotiable, everything is expensive, naff and demotivating and I feel a massive rush of empathy for people who plan big weddings (with more than one guest). We want none of it and decide we want a quick, super simple affair with some good photos to take home for the ‘rents and ‘riends.

We check out of Circus Circus leaving the haggard carpets behind and stay in the Stratosphere hotel at the end of the strip. The Strat’s USP is that it has a huge mega tall tower you can go to the top of which looks over the entire city of Vegas. This lofty location is also a possible wedding Ceremony place, but upon setting up a meeting, get put off when talking to the snobbish inflexible staff who want to charge us 300 dollars for Glen to ‘watch’. Nah.

After some research we find that there are ministers who will mawwy you wherever you like in Vegas. We find a lovely lady called Peachy Keen who agrees to mawwy us on Saturday the 30th of November. Our venue/location of choice? Why the Welcome to Las Vegas sign of course! It’s free to go there and has an iconic classic kitschy charm to it. Perfect in every detail.

3. Get the photographer

Our research goes online to find a good photographer in Vegas. After searching for a couple of days, we fire a few emails off to a number of photographers who either don’t get back to us or are scarily expensive. We chance upon the services of Steven Joseph, a local fellow who has some slick looking magazine style, super high quality photos on his website. We email him and within a day he responds to our query. We set up a meeting with his wife Chris, who we meet just outside of the South end of Vegas in a coffee shop. We get on really well with Chris who is instantly warm and entertains all of our ideas and requests. We fortuitously chance upon some broken links on his website whilst looking at some photos online. Sniffing an opportunity like a Dogshark smells blood, I pimp Lucy’s web design services in the hope we can bring the price down. This goes down well and within a couple of days we have organised a full service swap, photographs for websites. We get it all for free! (Kind of) We left the coffee shop punching the air and trying not to whoop too loud.

4. Organise the wedding dinner.

At the top of the Stratosphere hotel is a swish restaurant called The Top of the World that revolves, giving a 360 degree view of Vegas. It is perhaps one of the most expensive places to eat but is spectacular enough to warrant the price. Earlier on in the week we had been hawked to receive one hundred dollars off TOTW and all we had to do was to attend a ‘short’ presentation to receive the vouchers.

“Ok. Timeshare it is then”.

We arrive at a good quality Mayan theme resort twenty minutes to the North of the Las Vegas strip, register our names and wait to be met by a small Mexican chap called Cecil asking us questions about our income. We are ushered in to a small room with seats arranged in a congregation style format.
What follows is one of the most depressing “it’s not a timeshare” (it’s a timeshare) brainwashing presentations by a company called double diamond. The presenter is all American and delivers in a style that is one part evangelical, one part stand up comedian and eighty three parts cock end. Brimming with arrogance, he is the worst facets of mankind and when he thinks he is being funny pulls a duck face to let the audience know when to laugh. We rarely laugh and get sickened when see people falling under his spell.
He has a talent for unravelling people’s insecurities and ideals, often quoting spurious statistics that allude to a detriment of health unless they take more holidays, Aka BUY OUR TIMESHARE!

He tediously asks for amens over and over again.

“Can I get an amen?”
“AMEN” says everyone except us.

He persists and is gruelling in his rhetoric. The crowd are whipped up and ready to sign up to a lifetime of timeshare holidays (not a bad thing in itself, there are some sweet destinations in the catalogue) except for us.

We exit the presentation depleted and are then set upon by Cecil. He knows already he has a tough sell but is adamant to put us through the process. Wave after wave of offers, price cuts, and rate reductions hit us as we realise he is super keen to turn in a sale today. A short presentation becomes a three hour slog. All we can say is no. We don’t have the money. He goes away, to get a final offer from ‘his boss’. He presents a low price and we present a NO! One final guy lays the final low low fee and finally they give up. We walk away with the one hundred dollar vouchers, but by George did we work hard to earn it.

5. Organise the stag/hen do.

Organising your own stag do is great if you are in Vegas. Anything you want to partake in feels tantalisingly accessible and on this occasion, what happened in Vegas, is leaving Vegas.

Despite my pacifist leanings, there has always been something about shooting a real gun with live ammo that has appealed to me. Perhaps a residual effect of watching too many eighties action films, and wanting to grow up to be Robocop for about three years of my childhood. Glen and myself decide to try out Battlefield Vegas, a gun toting shooting gallery on the outskirts of the Vegas strip (I sense Glen is a bit reluctant, but I totally bully him into it). We get picked up from the Venetian hotel in a battle hardened humvee that has seen actual action in Iraq by a trainee doctor in full army fatigues working to fund her university education.

We arrive at the gallery and are offered a la carte or set meal style shooting options for our dollars. Any gun you have seen in any film or video game is available to shoot for a price. An actual arsenal of firearms adorn the walls with price tags reaching far into the thousands.

We take the call of duty package which includes an AK47, an UZI, an MP4 and another gun that I can’t remember the name of (a rifle style Remington?)

As we line up, we can hear the distant crack of gun fire travelling through walls in spite of layers of soundproofing doing its very best. We are briefed by an ex gulf war veteran who gives us protective goggles and ear defenders. A wave of nervousness manifests itself in giggles between Glen and myself and we are beckoned into the shooting gallery. War vet has to shout extremely loud to make himself heard over the gun fire and the effectiveness of the ear defenders.

War vet unlocks the guns from a padlocked cage and loads a clip into the gun. I start with the UZI which scarily becomes more addictive with each bullet shot. Starting with the one shot setting, the power is scary even with its relatively small size. I finally let rip as the gun sprays bullets down the shooting gallery at the paper target. The automatic spray is where the gun horrificly feels most fun. With an inner conflict raging I finally run out of bullets and hand the gun back over to War vet Shaking from the adrenaline flowing through my veins.

Glen takes his turn, fires the MP4 and winces from the power unleashed. His aim is truer, evidenced by the retrieval of the paper target. He reminds me of this constantly throughout the day.

The AK47 is relatively huge and looks instantly recognisable. War vet pushes in the clip and with a smile hands over the AK. The gun fits neatly into my shoulder, ergonomically sculpted. I pull it deep into me, look down the sights, hold my breath and tentatively pull the trigger.
The gun recoils with an insane amount of force. After the first shot my shoulder feels like it has been smashed by an angry sledgehammer on its period. I pull a face at Glen trying to convey the might of the gun in a single facial expression. It’s dually terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. Each shot compounds the shoulder pain and by the end of the clip is almost too much to take. The fury of the impact ripples through my ribcage and upper skeleton, making me really glad I’m not on the receiving end of the gun. The bullets of the AK create exciting sparks on the back wall as they collide with force. Onlookers watch as I get told exactly how it is by an automatic machine gun. The recoil bruises my shoulder for the next few days but leaves a longer lasting inner conflict. I couldn’t help but love every second of it.

The day chrysalises into night bringing the final part of our pre-mawwiage shenanigans to a near close. All three of us take a trip to the Olympic club just down the road from the Stratosphere. I’ll put my cards on the table right now and say the Olympic is a strip club, a club in which ladies take their very small clothes off and dance on poles, sometimes upside down. Music pumps loudly and girls line up to perform in the center of the club as a kind of showpiece for their goods. The girls shake their moneymakers to a surprisingly mixed gendered audience who can put money in their pants or order a private dance if they want. Lucy Glen and myself take a seat near the center to look at the near acrobatic feats of the dancers, and their jiggling boobies. One lady straddles the chrome pole, flips herself upside down and somehow manages to ascend to the top in a show of incredible strength and dexterity, head still pointing at the floor. This draws the attention of the crowd who go wild for her talents.

The next girl that appears, dances for a couple of minutes, then takes a keen interest in Lucy. She walks to the front of the stage kneels down and with her pointing finger beckons Lucy closer. Lucy complies and quickly the dancer pushes lucy’s head in-between her boobies. She then proceeds to perform what is commonly known in the business as “motorboating”. She Alternates boobie to cheek and other boobie to other cheek. Glen and myself burst into hysterics finding it hilarious. Post motorboating incident, Lucy recounts her disappointment that the performer was not more ample of bosom. Telling me:
“I would have liked a bigger pair, they were just a bit small and sweaty really”.

Glen goes to the bar to get us some Jagermeister shots and we start to notice the club filling up with dancers, a lot of dancers. At one point there seems to be an almost 2:1 ratio of dancers to customers. Dancers sprawl and perform all over the seated customers and there seems to be a surprising amount of touching going on. The dancers start to act a bit predatory, starting to approach us in small swarms. One has the audacity to pinch my bottom, even in the side by side presence of my betrothed (really the cheek of it all!).
Glen comes back from the bar with three $40 dollar Jagermeisters and a transsexual at his side. She introduces herself as ‘Mystery’ but it’s quite clear to us which gender she used to be.

In pursuit of balance we head upstairs to the male strippers so Lucy can have a look. Lucy is appalled by the performance and we head back downstairs. Chaos reigns supreme, with body parts writhing everywhere. The yard of Daquiri mixes with the Jagermeister and we make the right decision to leave.

We are after all, getting mawwied in the mornin’.

After a couple of hours of drive-time we reach the outskirts of the splendid Yosemite national park. Not too far from the entrance, our route is diverted by an epic rockfall landslide which has swallowed the road in front of us. Remnants of the upper mountain cascade greedily downwards, reclaiming the ground as its own.

Mine.

We follow our diversion and arrive at the mammoth spectacle of Yosemite. As you would imagine, the route flaunts a significant proportion of ‘EPIC’ with most corners revealing more spectacular rock formations and water carved valleys. The winding roads propel us deeper into the rugged beauty as the lofty vistas deliver a never ending assault of visual splendour. Permanent signs mandate the need for snow chains in the winter months but we are on the right side of November to shrug this off.

Yosemite is massive, making us feel exceptionally scant indeed. The peaks are imposing and cast long cold shadows onto the valley floor, making midday exploring a necessity to sun hungry tourists like us. There are multiple hikes through the immense park and we decide to take one of the shorter ones to Mirror lake. Fate dictates there will be absolutely no reflectioning of any kind today or tomorrow. The lake has long dried up due to a stifling drought meddling with this (usually) routinely ravishing tourist spot. Slow seeping waterfalls trickle like half-arsed tears, reducing the potential drama of the mountain location. Disappointed, but with chins skywards we take in the spectacular arches section of Yosemite. Everything feels a bit massive and is difficult to take in from our low perspective. We suspect a ride in a helicopter would be the best way to see the place, but stinge out due to an already overspent budget. We also know which wallet worrying destination is coming next.

Next stop Vegas.

Due to the time of year, the road to Death Valley is closed and we are frustratingly stopped in our tracks, forced to skirt around the scary titled mountain range. This route to Vegas spans a near four hundred mile journey of exceptionally straight desert roads. Of pure rubber on Tarmac, there is seven more hours of driving to do.

We watch an epic sunset do its business and after a relatively enjoyable slog we arrive at Circus Circus at the north end of the Las Vegas strip. A huge neon clown welcomes us and directs us to the car park. We get lost in the befuddling labyrinth of valet/RV/short stay/long stay/tower/low rise routes, but eventually find our way, park up and locate the entrance to the hotel lobby.

The neon of Las Vegas sizzles under the Nevadan skies. Emitting a hum from the spectacular bustle it generates, the mega city is crawling with life. A never ending sprawling mass circumnavigates the city, equal parts nocturnal and diurnal pound pathways. Wide oversized pavements channel foot traffic directly into the hotels and unless you want to contend with oncoming traffic (you really don’t) you are manoeuvred into the shopping mall sections of the hotels. Armani, Prada, Givenchy, and Chanel (to name a tiny few) jostle for the attention of your dollars. Lavish shop fronts dazzle with ornate window design. Expensive suits cater to the couture look. Like a David Copperfield illusion, money levitates magically towards the casinos, commerce and culture of the bright light city (New York, New York was reported to make twenty six million dollars in its first twelve hours of opening its casino doors).

Las Vegas hotels aren’t like any other hotels in the world. Due to the oversized scale involved, your frame of reference is way off meaning that a hotel which appears nearby and a short walk is actually a hefty distance away. Hotels connect to each other via foot bridges and monorails, and buses run constantly north and southwards in a bumper to bumper fashion. The city has an in flux population of over a million people every day (not including those who live there permanently). We are talking really REALLY big numbers here.

An incredibly busy journey on the Deuce bus takes over an hour to travel the 4.2 miles from the Stratosphere to the Mandalay bay mega hotels. For maximum appeal, each hotel has a strong exterior theme, from the slightly cheesy Excalibur (Medieval knights and castles) New York, New York (complete with a giant Statue of Liberty statue and other representations of iconic locations of the big apple) Paris (struts of the Eiffel Tower protrude into the casino floor) and the Bellagio (incredibly romantic Italian/French chic decor). Since I came here with my dad (circa 2001) a number of new mega hotels have popped up like The Wynn, Hard Rock Cafe and The Fashion Mall. All massive, all with the potential to bewilderise.

Our hotel is themed around a giant big top circus experience. It’s not the most expensive hotel on the strip (it’s the least expensive hotel on the strip) but has an appeal of its own, if you try not to look too closely at the heavily worn carpets. Throughout the lobbies, corridors and casino floors there is a constant noise of blooping slot machines rotating their drum wheels, flashing their screens and general attention seeking to attempt to corral your cash out of your pockets and into their slots. The absence of windows or clocks hides the time of day to encourage gamblers to keep on spending and by crikey they do. Gambling zombies sit for hours feeding the hungry machines.

As is the theme with our hotel, circus acts perform to the family audience in a special stage built into the centre of the gambling floor. On our first night there, we watch a slack wire performer and an incredibly muscley lady in a rubber skin tight costume (of Batman costume ilk) rolling through the air, somehow avoiding rope burns to the arms and legs. The rest of the entertainment section of our hotel consists of a theme park complete with two roller coasters, a 4D cinema, a bowling alley, carnival games and a giant Ferris wheel. Space is really not at a premium in Vegas.

At this point, Lucy looks a little bewildered by the insanity of Vegas so we take a break and eat at Vince Neill’s (Mötley Crüe vocalist) tatuado restaurant in Circus Circus. The restaurant is covered in memorabilia from Neill’s heady days in the Crüe, but verges on appearing as a teenage superfan’s fondle stash. In line with American appetites, the massive meal portions ensure we don’t go hungry for days.

The morning after we have to say goodbye to the Treehouse van. We return the van to the depot just off the main Vegas strip. In an emotional farewell, a Roxette piano ballad plays alongside a montage of photographs of our time together from LA to Vegas. Slow motion transitions play out scenes from the roads, the cities, the beaches, the petrol stations, cruising the pacific coast highway, camping underneath the stars and weeing out of the sliding doors. As we walk away, I take one last look back at Treehouse, who has a leaking windscreen washer. A soapy water tear trickles down the bonnet. It must have been love indeed.

In those next few days we get into the spirit of Vegas and have a proper go at gambling. We take lessons in blackjack and actually learn the percentages, terms and ways to play the game. Double down on eleven. We are pumped to win. In practicing, we actually see these methods working. Let’s win some money! With the minimum bet of 25 dollars we get a bit too scared to lose and chicken out of table play. We do however become coin slot, gambling zombies and have a successful run at video roulette playing odds or evens, black or red. Lady luck gives us a wink as we win a cool eighty six dollars in the process. That’s over fifty pounds in British sterling. Not bad. Not bad at all. Waitresses bring free drinks to those who gamble, tip well and the waitresses come back often. We order champagne and mimosas, which keep on coming.

Vegas has an individual madness that is all its own. It seems to be where all the crazy ideas go on holiday. You can buy a yard cocktail of piña colada and walk from hotel to hotel, watch a mammoth choreographed water fountain show, then travel around a canal system in a shopping mall, in a working gondola and be sung to by a Italian man wearing a boater and a stripey shirt. You can then watch a free pirate show with fire and explosions in front of Treasure island, an entire hotel themed around a swashbuckling, plank walking, timber shivering experience. Then if you want, you can go to see about a hundred different shows in any genre on any one night.

We get mega discounted tickets for a band called Recycled percussion who were runners up in a series of America’s got talent (they lost to a juggler). They impressively drum their way through their show and seem plucky and likeable sorts. They give the audience a multitude of pots, pans, metallic tubes and a drumstick each to join in with the noise. The wait for the show is agonisingly loud but it pays off when the show starts and you are encouraged to thump away to the beat.
I can’t help but compare Recycled Percussion to the Blue Man Group, who have more originality and a more focused visuality to their show. We still leave happy albeit with our ears ringing all the way back to our hotel room.

Monterrey appears a safe haven for the very rich and very old, complete with a perfectly pitched, restaurant franchise at the center of the harbour town. The sight of the overly-sentimental Bubba Gump Shrimp restaurants (from the film Forest Gump) are as frequent and popular as Mcdonalds in this region. Demographically speaking, I wonder if it is in fact possible to order a “grumpy” meal here?

After a thesaurus reference too far, we walk the excursionist edacious Cannery Row and return to an assault from the Monterrey parking Gestapo. We are criminalised for parking the wrong way on a two way street, incurring a fine for the “dangerous” 180 degree rotation of the parked (and very stationary indeed) Treehouse van.

Utter, utter, fascist bastards.

Even the sweet, sweet flavour of an impromptu curry lunch cannot quell our contempt for the over zealous traffic terrorists. May all your papercuts be wide and your penises stinkier than they are short. Goodbye Monterrey.

Despite our planned intentions we fortuitously bypass the town of Santa Cruz (we find out later we avoid a heated, city wide political protest that closes down the streets of Santa Cruz) and go straight to San Francisco.

The most accessible campsite to us is Candlestick Park, the home of the American football team, the 49ers (We um and ah wether to Van-camp underneath the Golden Gate Bridge but trip advisor reviews warn us of loud truck horns keeping sleepy peeps awake). Camping is not cheap in North America and we spend nearly sixty dollars a night to camp in the picturesque overflow of the American football stadium car park. The site is around seven miles out of the center of Fran San, which is notoriously heavy with car traffic, so we plan to take a shuttle into the center the following morning.

That night, the weather turns nasty and the long walk across the car park to the toilet becomes an entirely soddening experience. Subsequently I convert the van into an ensuite toilet by sliding the van door backwards, micturating outwardly onto the already puddle oppressed car park. Lucy is impressed, horrified and jealous (in equal parts) by the ingenuity of my laziness.

The next morning, our shuttlebus battles through a thickset of traffic that we had been warned not to attempt to penetrate by the lonely planet bible. The driver weaves through the heft of post rush hour traffic expertly working the grid system, getting us to our destination in under an hour. He drops us off in the centre of Chinatown, which is a short walk from union square.

As we walk to union square the concentration of seemingly overstocked shops flaunt their oriental wares. Some sell mysterious animal bits, (I’m guessing sternum of starfish, cankle of cat) whilst other vendors tout pointy ninja weapons that are very clearly marked “NOT FOR EXPORT”. Golden cats perpetually wave at us from shop windows and red lantern lines zigzag above our heads. Chinatown’s dense food markets are a bugger to walk past as the outflow of people clogs the pavement forcing us onto the streets, creating standoffs with oncoming traffic. We exit the giant China town gate and soon reach union square just in time for another rainstorm.

We escape into the safety of Macy’s department store, take the elevator up to Costa Coffee and order a bacon ‘n’ egg muffin and hot chocolate breakfast. From a sweet vantage point we gain a snipers eye view onto union square to see the Christmas preparations in full swing. A giant Christmas tree casts a festive shadow onto a pop up ice rink. Heavy rain prevents any ice skating today.

After our ketchup-less breakfast, (disgusted) we check out Macy’s Christmas lane department which fantastically glitters and gleams with festive adornments. The pinnacle of the collection is the fast food, Christmas tree decorations. A coruscation of sparkling donuts, burgers and fries dazzle the eyes. Ornamental Sugar canes and candies also contribute to the list of the diabetes inducing deification. An enticing glow of preparation for christmas is somewhat reassuring and it is hard not to get swept up by the festive proceedings. We feel all Christmassy.

The next morning we travel to Fisherman’s wharf and eat a hulking brunch on the restaurant strip. We hang out with the mass of stinky seals on pier 39 who pose for photos and frolic in the bright Californian sunshine. The story goes, after an earthquake hit San Francisco, the seals just moved onto the pier and like inconsiderate fishy-breathed house guests, they simply didn’t leave in the morning.

The steepest hills in the Windy City are absolutely fierce. Walking is simply not an option here. In what is annoyingly called a cable car (it’s a tram), we hop on the refurbished vehicle and get a free ride around the eminent streets of San Francisco. The dual drivers heave the large brass, clunky levers and are aggressive in its operation. A double ding on the bell starts the cable car (tram) in motion and takes us all the way from Fisherman’s wharf to the center of the city.

Over the next few days we begin the slightly odd but sort of essential preparations for a wedding.

Our wedding.
The one in which we plan to get married.
To each other.
Weird.

——————————————–

STOP the tape.
Press REWIND on tape now. Go back four years and press PLAY.

——————————————-

In a black and white bar in the city of Nottingham, Ryan and Lucy are relieving pint glasses of the burden of their contents. They are at a wedding reception for some of their good friends in which many drinks follow many drinks. Conversation naturally turns to marriage and the state of some point being in it.

“If we ever get married, there is only one place I want to do it, and that’s in Vegas. If we ever go to Vegas, we will get married.” Said Ryan.

“Ok, deal” said Lucy.

The conversation sticks in the memory and is remembered in the morning. The stickiness of the memory stays stuck all the way into plans to go on a round the world trip in 2013.

——————————————–

STOP the tape.
Press FAST FORWARD on tape now. Go forward four years and press PLAY.

———————————————

In terms of Vegas, the wedding event silently creeps closer. Just like a pretendedly modest iceberg creeping up on a luxury cruise liner, it seemed so far away but suddenly looms over us (MARRIAGE ICEBERG, DEAD AHEAD!). We have a few items to purchase (primarily Lucy’s wedding costume and some colour coordinated, red high-top converse pour moi). We take the number 71 bus to the Haights section of the city which is well known to be the origin of the American hippy movement. The shops alternate between expensive vintage clothing boutiques, weed smoking paraphernalia dens and hipster bars selling their own microhipstery beers. The Hippies have been replaced by Hipsters and homeless people who make the most of the overcrowded rush hour buses by sneaking on to the back entrance of the buses without paying.

It is on Haight street in which we go to a Bettie Paige Americana store which has potential dresses for Lucy to try on. Not wanting to wear something traditional, there is one in particular dress she has her eye on (a very cute, white Americana housewife style, 1950s dress). As Lucy tries alternative styles and sizes, I flick through a surprisingly racy picture book of Bettie page’s black and white, blush worthy ‘boudoir’ shots.

Lucy beckons me to the fitting room and it is at this point that it all becomes hyper-real.
Lucy pulls back the changing room curtain and my jaw hits the floor like a dog from a 1950s Warner Bros cartoon.

Lucy looks incredible.

Like a contra-zoom shot from Jaws, or a super slow bullet time rotation from the Matrix, the world’s gears grind to a standstill.

Absolutely Stunning.

For the sake of brevity in a blog which is already creaking in word count weight, I will save a full description of Lucy’s appearance until the wedding blog in Vegas. You’re just going to have to wait.

San Francisco’s pub and bar scene flourishes with a high ratio of tap rooms providing the wall paper for the bustling streets. On Haight street we frequent the recommended Magnolia bar which like frostbite, is painfully cool.

Our last night of camping in San Francisco is also the last time we sleep in our trusty Treehouse van. We leave the city taking the Golden Gate Bridge which looks mighty resplendent against the blue Californian skies. We point our wheels eastwards towards the mighty Yosemite and begin the journey inland, waving a fond farewell to the west coast, knowing we’ll be back someday.

Every day on the road seems to bring the sun a little lower as the season tips towards winter. We make the most of the continuing heat wave for as long as the temperature will let us. The west coast journey has us darting from campsite to RV park to motel and all iterations inbetween.

The coastal drive is incredibly beautiful, picturesque and the backdrop for many North American car commercials we subsequently view in the USA. Every winding corner seems to reveal a another breathtaking variation of shapely coastline, busting out of its land bra like a buxom supermodel. The elevation of Highway one allows us to look outwards and be enveloped by the copious levels of the colour blue emanating from the sky and sea. Fade to blue. None more blue. Blue is the colour. Blue levels reach an unacceptably high rate. Blue, da boo dee ba doo bai…

A stop at Ocean Mesa campsite has us soaking in the oversized swimming pools and hot tub, wrinkling our outward appendages and exceeding the recommended immersion time. A warning sign on the jacuzzi prohibits anyone that has experienced Leakybumitis within the last fourteen days from entering the pool. We gloss over this directive and luckily a bathe in the bubbling waters ends without a leakybum incident.

As we near the Big Sur area, the giant upstanding Redwood trees propel themselves into the sky, surging for the best spot in the forest canopy, roots elongating onto their highest tippy-toes. Necks are craned upwards to view the tops of the trees but their incredible height denies all this view. The Redwoods give off an almost sweet cinnamon-like scent and in dense areas the smell almost becomes thick, tickling the back of the throat. Lucy is in camping heaven, making no secret that this is her favourite part of the trip. She is also in charge of formulating music playlists and we rock out to a plethora of tracks on the road.

We stop for a huge breakfast burrito and eggs Benedict in the harbour sided town of Morro bay. My burrito is loaded with a central mass of potato that is so plentiful, it tests the elasticity of my stomach (I swear it gives me stretch marks). Lucy’s shiny new ipad sucks up an entire series of Community that we intend to consume on the road.

As we continue we happen to come across the directly titled Elephant Seal beach which is home to hundreds of basking Elephant seals catching plentiful rays on the beach. The males are particularly large and seem excessively fat even for something called an Elephant Seal. The mightiest seal has an impressive pod of lady seals at his disposal but is far too busy to be canoodling in the midday sun. We are delighted to witness millions of years of flipper evolution being harnessed to scratch the king of the Elephant seal’s bottom.

After reaching the gorgeous Big Sur area, we stay a couple of days at the Fern Wood campsite which is situated amongst a dense crop of Redwood trees. We dine in (Pot noodle? Excellent choice sir and madame) near a calm stream that flows peacefully a few metres away, offsetting the dappled rays of the sun creating perhaps the most perfect campsite location ever. The onsite bar serves a mean cold beer and the Denver broncos are kicking ass on the big screen HD TV. All is well. Lucy makes the most of the rare presence of draft cider and smashes down three pints pretty swiftly. She loses the feeling in her legs.

When we return to our van we are approached by a pair of near hysterical campers who had been pursued by a skunk that had sniffed out their campfire provisions. Terrorised by the harbinger of stink for two consecutive nights, the pair go speeding off looking for a non lethal, none noisome inducing deterrent.

The next day we make use of our guide sheet from the camper van company to locate a hidden beach in the area. The locals love Pfieffer beach so much they take down the entrance signs to confuse and evade visits from tourists in the area. We almost miss the semi-elusive entry point ourselves.

As we get to the car park we arrive to find an angry Russian man shouting at a group of people, arms full of what looks like film equipment. He barks Russian orders at his crew and gestures with sharp stabby hand movements. The gentle vibe of the place is dissected by his words, heavy with aciculate.

A friendly park ranger strikes up conversation and tells us a music video is being shot here today. A female Russian pop star named Bahktin (after a Russian dog that went into space) is dressed in short sultry pop star clothing and drapes herself over some scary looking rocks. The sea smashes angrily against the shore threatening to turn her bones into sand. Bahktin is diminutive (but bigger than an actual dog) and seems to take a lot of abuse from the tubby director. We root for her to fight back. She takes direction and does as she’s told. Probably a smart move.

The director uses a gopro camera mounted to an AR parrot drone over the choppy waters for a budget crane/chopper effect and he seems to be happy with what he has achieved with his devices. Personally I would have loved to see him lose control and crash the mini RC helicopter into the sea as karma for spoiling the peace of a perfect beach setting. Karma, where are ya?

We move round the corner to find the sand a pinky purple colour, a unique freak of nature owed to the makeup of the rocks in the region.

Then the park ranger returns and tells us a tale of how he recently saved Hollywood starlet, Scarlett Johansen’s life. She had been filming an advert on the part of the beach which was known for its notoriously high gusts and waves which hit the caves and rocks with extreme force. The morning of the shoot, the filming had been going well but the ranger had become increasingly concerned with how the weather was turning. Despite the directors protests the ranger moved the crew from their immediate location. Minutes later a large boulder was blown onto the spot in which the cast and crew had been filming. The most photographed spot on the west coast of America was nearly the spot for the demise of a Hollywood megastar. The ranger played his part down in the tale but i really hoped the yarn was true .

Back at the Fern Wood campsite we are just about to leave for San francisco when we witness an obscenely drunk couple drool and stumble their way around the car park. At first this is hilariously funny as the woman keeps on falling into our van. She can hardly stand but the situation changes when she attempts to get into the drivers seat of her vehicle to presumably drive home. Too drunk to speak she mumbles at her husband who removes her from the drivers seat. Unfortunately he is equally drunk and repeatedly speaks in slur telling her to shut up so as not to alert anybody watching (Anybody like us). The guy starts the car and wheelspins dangerously out of the car park, perhaps conscious they have been observed by us.

Feeling guilty about not intervening we note the licence plate and car colour, and report it to the police through the bartender, seriously hoping the couple hadn’t killed someone already. We drive off in the opposite direction towards the city of San Francisco. Looking forward to the urban sprawl, the shops, the nightlife of the city by the bay.

With less than forty thousand miles on the clock, our Treehouse van still has that sheen of new car newness about it. The leather seats of the interior still exude a calf like whiff which drug our senses, annexing dopamine, bringing smiles to our faces whenever we drive it.

We pass through a giant wind farm that utilises the heavy winds across the Southern Californian landscape, generating some electric provision for a power thirsty nation. Blustery gusts blow us about the lanes of the freeway, needing some work to maintain our orientation (any way the wind blows indeed). Treehouse’s 4.0 litre engine has enough oomph to get us away from danger and manoeuvres well at speed.

On the road we decide to replace the Ipad that was stolen from us in Peru.
We stop at a Walmart and ask a sales representative to point us towards their ipad section.

“Ipad section?” Replies Walmart lady looking extremely confused, as if we have asked her something infuriatingly
difficult to comprehend.
“We don’t have an ipad section”.
The lady clearly has never heard of iPads or iPad sections.
She clumsily points us in the direction of tech accessories swatting us and our ridiculous request away.

We trundle around the accessories for a while, pass an aisle and find THE IPAD SECTION (I deploy a tut to end all tuts. Seriously, you should have been there). Displaying only a slim variety we decide a better bet might be to get to a Best Buy store instead.

Upon arrival at Best Buy, we weigh up the many ipad flavours and decide on an ipad mini, opting for a 16 gigger with a retina screen. A perfect size and weight for travelling about and logging on where wifi is.

We get back on the road and for a couple of hours stop at Santa Monica pier (it’s in Santa Monica). The pier is large and replete with traditional and contemporary fairground rides. In effect is a big wheel, a roller coaster, bungie trampolines, the obligatory gaming arcades, a helter skelter, alongside many fairground games and booths designed to gobble our dollars. Overly talented buskers (X-factor finalist worthy) tout their vocal wares through portable mini PA systems, charming the seaside crowds and selling CDs. Other dishevelled (insane) looking buskers widdle and riff on electric guitars, performing to crowds of seagulls who are mean with their spare change.

A Zoltar machine (presumably licensed) from the movie Big, (starring Tom Hanks) draws our attention and we drop a coin into the slot. Through a tinny lo-fi speaker, Zoltar lays down an audible wisecrack but spits out a printed fortune telling ticket foretelling a vague and non-committal future. This is clearly a soothsaying relative of Zoltar rather than the wish granting one as seen in the big screen, film version.

Observing the signature lifeguard huts on the beach in Santa Monica feels like being in an episode of Baywatch. The ghosts of the red swimsuits pan in front of us as the sun sneaks towards the horizon whilst nobody is watching. Some Santa Monican men decide to invoke the groin fashions of the past and run up and down the beach in speedos, referring to lap times displayed on their body worn fitness trackers. Perfectly sculpted, ripped Californian body types traverse the sand, in full contraposition to the American stereotyped body shape. Santa Monica exudes wealth and an ideal of American seaside towns. You can’t help but want to stay forever. We leave after two hours.

We lay down the challenge and race the sunset up Highway One to the beaches of Northern Malibu. We pull the van into a majestic, sun drenched spot called Thornhill broome and drink it in. A boothed state patrol officer takes our thirty five dollars and allocates us a spot next to a large crowd of techno blasting peeps who are destroying the woofers in their cars at the party end of the beach.

We furtively sidle away from the angry Distort-O-Deathbass(TM) and get a spot next to a gang of super welcoming, super polite, super beer sharing peeps. The band Weezer is rocking on the car stereo.

“Beverly Hills, that’s where I wanna be”…

Michael, the first of the Adame brothers introduces himself, points at a beer cooler and says:

“Help yourself buddy”

I thank him for his generosity and congratulate him on his choice of music. We get chatting and as he takes an interest, we show him round the Treehouse van. He introduces his brother David who is equally sociable and brings a Mr. party edge to the evening. More friends, wives and girlfriends show up bring a veritable ensemble of cooking, camping and incredible hospitality to our stay in Northern Malibu. The gang take over a large section of the beach with multiple gas stoves, beer coolers and Gazebos, all present and correct. We watch the sunset and cook chicken and tortellini pasta in Treehouse’s kitchen area. A perfect sunset adorns the beach and allows us to see it at its very best. The gentle sound of waves smother the shore line, contributing as if in direct conversation, interspersing our chat.

As night falls, the gang are well prepared with fuel for the fire. Multiple oversized wooden palettes are ignited which keep us warm into the evening. (The fire is actually hot enough to melt glass, I lose a bet with David on this fact) Though we try to resist, good friend of the gang Ike, shares a giant bottle of tequila with us, deploying as many shots as we can handle (which is not many). Lucy is gifted a skirt steak taco which is apparently divine.

Through the light of orange flame, conversation trickles into the events of our trip which feel great to recount to people. The stories give us a traction which keeps the conversation flowing alongside beers and tequila. Eventually we move onto dissecting the existential multilayer linear semiotics of Sharknado and what has gone wrong with Tara Reid’s face?

The next day we rise to a beautiful summerlike morning (it’s November the 15th). I close my eyes and feel the warm on my cheeks as the sun reflects off the sea. We stumble off last night’s tequila and begin with a nice cup of tea on the beach. Sand between my toes, we go and drink the tea with our new Californian buddies. They invite us to stay another night and take a trek over the mountains behind Thornhill Broome, but we have to decline, needing to get northwards and some miles behind us, our days in the van already depleting.

We pack up our gear, shake and thank the owners of many hands for the incredible hospitality and badass company for our night on Thornhill broome beach, David and Michael Adame and co. lodged firmly in the memory banks.

As we leave Thornehill Broome I look seawards, see the crashing surf and say to Lucy:

“I would really like to see a seal swimming right now”.

Proving we are actually the center of the universe, a seal instantly pops its head out of the water, takes a few breaths, a nose at our brightly coloured van and goes about its morning business.

“Get in universe, we’ll take that! Suspicions confirmed.

“Ook ook”.
Head Gorrilady hands over the change with a begrudging soft leathery palm.

On the wall of the laundry room is a colourful poster for Escape camper vans. We planned to hire a camper van to travel the west coast of America taking in the Big Sur, Yosemite, Lake Tahoe and Las Vegas before taking a flight to meet up with Glen and Jen Parkes in Denver to spend a very merry Christmas in anticipation of their new wee sprogg.

We get a quote from the onsite Jucy camper vans who we barter with to throw in a Western America lonely planet guide to sweeten the deal. They agree but we decide to try escape camper vans just in case we can get a better price.

We take a walk down West Century Boulevard to the Escape camper van premises to find the coolest, most bad ass looking fleet of vans, campers and micro-campers this side of Banksy’s graffiti’d consciousness. The vans have custom paint jobs and an individual style that makes us want to rent them all. Inside what would be the boot are gas hobs, refrigerators (for beers, obviously…) a large water tank for cooking and cleaning, a sink, and multiple DC cigarette lighter style power sockets for charging our gadgets. The base of a bed folds out in the main section and is large enough for us both to sleep comfortably there. It is a miracle of customisation and toil of passionate campers creating the ultimate road trip vehicle. A road warrior. A fortress for camping.

Shaun and his Aussie business partner (Ed?) bend over backwards to get our business, offering to throw in a cornucopia of extras including local maps, guides of the west coast of America and highway one, an extra gas canister, a camping table and chairs, a Garmin sat nav, an extra duvet and a solar shower which we never use.

We are ultimately sold on the height of the van being lower than the rival company Jucy’s “penthouse” roof box, a real problem for the low height clearance required for parking garages, inner city. The penthouse is simply a roof container which has been converted for sleeping in. In full height mode it looks a bit like a spazzy space saving tent. Us being a two party and not a four party, we deem this surplus to our requirements. I still resist, wanting to have the inbuilt DVD player that the Jucy company vans come with.

Escape really want our business and it gives us some power to successfully haggle the price down (A rare thing in North America). Lucy tells a couple of fibs about the price of the Jucy camper vans and we manage to haggle a price we are very happy with. Shaun completely sells us on the journey back to the tradewinds in the van we eventually hire. The van named Treehouse.

The van has an incredibly detailed paintjob. Both sides of the van are unique, representing a sunset and a sunny blue day, spray painted with a woodland/campfire scene. As we drive around we get jealous looks from passers by and compliments when we stop in gas stations and supermarkets.

“Dude, nice paint job”
“Thanks!” We say!

We pull out of the Escape parking lot and avert near disaster when we soon realise the boot of the Dodge Caravan treehouse has flown open, narrowly escaping our load of pots and pans flying down the interstate. We quickly stop by the side of the road to lockdown the boot. A seated toothless lady congratulates us on the paintwork.

“Nissshhe chvan” she mumbles.
“Thank you!” we reply as we cram our gear back into the boot.

Our first destination is to make good on a promise I made to Lucy in our first month of meeting, ten years ago. I promised her that one day we would go and drink a strawberry Daiquiri in Palm Springs, south of LA. I had got the idea based upon an old song called The Springs by a band called “A”. The song talks about the singer “moving out for a moment in the springs” and finally we took the road trip to make it happen. We pick our bar, order a strawberry Daiquiri each and toast:

“To a promise kept…”

Palm Springs is largely a retirement destination that has begun to attract a new generation of hipsters. Believe it or not, the place is dense with Palm trees (we couldn’t find the springs – mattress or hot varieties). The grey dollar flows strongly here and most of the entertainment is geared towards a dreamy, perpetual autumn haze of electronic samba rhythms, performed by duos of keyboardists and bass players. “When marimba rhythm starts to play…”

We stay at the Happy Travellers RV park which has an insane amount of guest facilities. The large pool and hot tub areas are open twenty four hours and I make it a priority to crack open an ice cold beer from the Treehouse refrigerator and drink it in the hot bubbling water of the jacuzzi. Lucy chooses to satiate with a cold cider.

The Happy travellers is filled with American RV behemoths, some as big as modest houses. White picket fences surrounding the campers denote the static behaviour of some of the semi-permanent residents. The majority of the clientele are in their older years and it sometimes feels like being in the film Cocoon or perhaps Cocoon 2 (the one in which the gang come back from Anterea). I channel a cheeky Steve Guttenberg character charmfully wisecracking my way around the place whilst the residents do backflips and triple cork twists into the swimming pool with the submerged alien pod.

A giant LCD screen mounted to the exterior of one of the RVs impresses as we walk through the parking lot – a couple are watching the side of their Recreational Vehicle for televisual entertainment. Electric hook ups, cable and fresh water feeds connect the mega campers intravenously. A sweet setup for those with money and time to burn.

The next morning we clock up the miles, leaving Palm Springs and heading in the direction of Joshua tree state park. The park is huge, serene and silent, low season in full effect. Nobody is here in the dramatic sparse landscape of the Mojave desert. The temperature starts to creep upwards as road signs keep reminding us to check our temperature gauges to prevent an overheated engine.

The native Teddy Bear cactus appear supremely fluffy but are actually extremely sharp attempting to leave their dry spikes in all that come too close. Despite the warnings I can’t resist a poke of the cactus. True to form, the needles embed themselves in my skin.

Satisfyingly we reach a site called Camp Ryan (ooh matron, how apt!). The many camp sites inside Joshua tree are minimal but busy with the majority of designated pitches occupied. We take a drive to Skull rock (how very death metal) and at Arches rock we go off the beaten path as we hop rock to rock on a picnic mission, overlooking the spectacularly formed rock formations there. The naturally sculpted architecture and oversized rock shapes make us feel as if we are in an episode of the flintstones, flitting between boulders and brontosaurus ribcages.

We cook a light dinner in the back of Treehouse and sit in our camping chairs watching the sunset fall behind the mammoth Mojave rocks. We crack open two cold ciders and watch until the moon comes up. Despite being in the desert, Treehouse keeps us warm until morning.