Jul 12, 2010
Author: Alex Duckworth
May 11, 2010: Car is packed. My girl, Taryn Cowling, and I are about to go on the most ridiculous road trip of our lives. Sleeping bags, Dakine packs, bikinis and Tilley hats—all suited up. Hasta luego, Whistler. Hello, police officer.
Rolled the stop sign out of my driveway. Got nailed with a $121 ticket. Cool. It's a good thing I've fully accepted that I'm just one of those people who pays The Man. Not once a year, but quarter annually. And that doesn’t include my weekly parking infractions. I guess I'm living fast. But I've decided that in many other areas, my traffic fines are paying for my life to be more entertaining. So, Man, hit me with as many fines as you want. I'm having more fun than you are.
Just to set the pace of this trip, we were urban camping. Not couch surfing. Not staying in hostels. Definitely no hotels! Showers? Questionable. We were strictly relying on ourselves. We had our trunk rigged up with camper curtains that were soon to be the only things shielding us from the outside world. Here's what we were working with:
No, you can't have our hats.
First stop: Vegas for our pal Benny's 21st HBD. That night, we drove to Yakama, Oregon and stopped for the night in a Holiday Inn Express parking lot. We took a whiz on the adjacent car's tire, brushed our teeth out of the trunk, and called it a day. We got a 6 a.m. start the next morning and hammered out a mellow 17 hours behind the wheel, stopping in the middle of the desert in one of those isolated trailer pods that you drive by and wonder what the F these people are doing living here. No Country for Old Men. Needless to say, we got our foot on the gas as soon as we woke up.
Things started to look up from here. Palm trees grew denser and it only took an hour before we were welcomed by the large and in-charge Vegas strip. Nobody told me exactly how large we were talking. It takes 45 minutes to walk the length of the Bellagio.
The birthday party was held in the Hardwood Suite of the Palms Hotel, where only famous people are allowed. We fit the bill. There was a basketball court inside of this thing with Murphy beds folding out of the walls. Our crew barely made it to the club because the suite was so accommodating. Peep these photos. If you've never balled in heels, I'd recommend it. Taryn out-swooshed the entire male contingency. Thank you, Benny!
Cirque du Soleil Love. We forgot how good the Beatles are—emotionally overwhelming. These shows are beyond belief.
Look closely here, friends. This is a dog stroller. Vegas attracts only the most rational people.
Hardwood Suite, topless high-heel pool parties, Playboy Bunny party, Cirque du Soleil, dog strollers, zero retirement savings, and a ban from the Palms Hotel for sleeping in the parking garage. We had done the shit out of Vegas.
Ready for the beach, we drove directly west to Venice, California. As soon as we got off the highway, the car broke down. It was 10 p.m. We cruised into an upscale neighborhood, parked in front of the biggest mansion on the street and closed our curtains as we waited for the sun. The car managed to roll to Rony's Auto in the morning where we got a new wheel bearing and a hug goodbye. Thanks Ron.
Ron and the gals after washing our armpits in his garage.
People claim Venice is where the Crazies kick it, but I'd say it was one of our favorite zones. No doubt, there are some characters around, but we don't see enough of that in Canada so kudos to the Crazies. Make sure to visit Abbitt's Habbit on Abbitt Kinney Drive for breaky or lunch, or just to get a feel for what Venetians are all about.
Check this guy out. He's just doing his thing, not trying to make money. Just finding his Zen on a nice sunny afternoon in Venice Beach.
After a couple days in California, Taryn and I were starting to look pretty grimy. The only running water we'd seen in days was at gas stations. That night, we stumbled upon a free wine tasting in Venice where we met two fine young gentlemen that ran a medicinal marijuana shop. They got it. The true spirit of our trip, I mean.
Setting out we agreed that under no circumstances would we impose on anyone's personal space. So with kindness abounding, our new friends invited us to use the shower in their marijuana shop, The Green Dot. This was exactly what we were after. The next morning, after yet another delightful trunk sleep in an upscale neighborhood, we rolled into The Green Dot for an education. Taryn and I, neither pot smokers, got an intimate feel for the business—taking whiffs of all the different products. Turns out about 99 per cent of the California population has a scribe for medicinal marijuana. Maybe for all of the aches and pains inflicted by California living. Life's so rough on the beach.
Freshly shampooed and practically a licensed weed dealer. Thanks, Pat.
We were really getting a feel for urban camping culture. And who said Canadians were the nicest people on earth? We've never met such accommodating patriots. Thank you, California, for appreciating our greasy mops and lingering stench.
Stay tuned for Part 2: Southern California, the Frendly Gathering, and Hollywood.
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