Experience: Hitch-Hiker's Odyssey: Part II - "The Promised Land"

 

“‘Approach! thy soul shall into raptures rise!

  Approach! and learn new wisdom from the wise!"


(From the Sirens song to Odysseus)

Book XII, The Odyssey (Homer - translation of Alexander Pope)

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On December 27th, 1971, as 20-year-old University students, my friend "L" and I possessed that perfect storm of arrogance, inexperience and desire for adventure necessary to attempt a midwinter, 6,000 mile cross-country hitch-hiking road trip from Syracuse, NY; bound for anywhere in California where we could touch the Pacific Ocean; and then back to Buffalo in time to resume classes.

These are the tableaux from that event, with the facts (as accurate as I can recall) softened by the passage of nearly 40 years.  The experience blog is broken into 3 installments to entice readership.

 Part II of III; "The Promised Land"

     (Written in San Francisco; January, 2011)

Day 4:  12/30/1971; Flagstaff, Arizona to Los Angeles, California - 475 miles.

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"All roads lead to L.A."

"Get your kicks on Route 66!  You rednecked A__-hole!", jeered "L" as yet another truck barreled by our cold, bleak hitch-hiking station.  Ultimately, it was to be an authentic red-necked trucker who transported us through the scrub, rock, desert and small towns along the Route 66/40 highway system of western Arizona - crossing into California at the town of Needles.  The trucker informed us that he didn't usually stop for "long-haired hippies", but we had looked cold.  We thanked him for the ride.

From Needles, all rides West were leading to L.A.  We tolerated the next long desolate stretch of scrub and desert through to Barstow.  As we finally descended along the growing rivers of asphalt dissecting the suburban sprawl outside of Los Angeles, we were entranced.  Our widened eyes could only see dazzling sunshine, palm trees and blossoming flowers.

My first memory of L.A. (Is Hollywood a part of L.A.?) was the grinning face of "L" -- filthy blonde curls flying -- running toward me on Hollywood Boulevard -- pushing a "borrowed" shopping cart.  We were in front of Grauman's Chinese Theater.  I tossed my duffle into the cart and we wandered Hollywood.  Amidst winter flowers and greenery, we occupied ourselves in the study of lifeless cement bodypart impressions of such celebrities as Charleton Heston and Marilyn Monroe.  We ignored the palmtrees to inspect the Hollywood sign in the hills and kept off the grass as we strode Sunset Boulevard at sunset.

Sunset Boulevard was seedy, but we fit in well enough with our shopping cart, and after a while we got a ride with a clean-cut young man -- 35ish.  I don't recall his name, but in retrospect, he was a Ted Bundy look alike.  "Ted" claimed he picked us up thinking we might be Rockstars.  We could go to his place... he knew some "girls"...  This sounded agreeable, so we ended up going with him to his Westwood apartment.  Ted made some phone-calls, but the "girls" never materialized.  We figured that they doubted we were Rockstars, but in hindsight perhaps they thought "Ted" smacked a little of a serial murderer.  We didn't care -- we could smell the Pacific!


Day 5:  12/31/1971;  Westwood to Venice Beach to East LA to Pasadena, California - 30 miles

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"The Pacific"

We slept well at "Ted's" place and showered for the first time (on our trip).  We let ourselves out ("Ted" had to go in to work early at UCLA -- we could stay as long as we liked) and then we headed over to Venice Beach to see and touch the Pacific Ocean, completing our pilgrimage.  On contact with the water of the Pacific, “L” sank to his knees on the shoreline, arms outstretched, face to the Western horizon. I would like to claim a similar deep emotional moment, but I only remember thinking that I preferred the beaches of the Atlantic.

Venice beach was a funky people zoo.  We loitered and wandered the boardwalk, taking in the sights: the provocative women rollerskaters, the manly-men, the jugglers, art vendors and other various street characters.  It was cold by the ocean and although "L" was content, I was bored and anxious to move on.  With no plans where we were going next, we decided to explore more of California, on the premise it was better to linger where it was warm.

We meandered back into Hollywood -- nothing new there -- and then found our way into East L.A.  We didn't quite fit in with the locals.  We had a sidewalk discussion with some serious young men sporting berets over Afros who wanted to "Free Angela Davis".  As we were from New York, they tolerated our ignorance of Angela's plight and offered to take us with them to Pasadena to demonstrate. We took the ride in their van amidst an array of signage, but declined the demonstration part. They left us off on someone's front lawn saying it was OK to camp out there.  It was a warm still evening and there were numerous other people, citizen types, who already had sleeping bags spread out on the grass.

 

Day 6:  1/1/1972;  Passadena to Berkeley, California - 375 miles

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“Waking to Roses”

Streaming sunshine filtered by treetops; shrill brass and rythmic drums; intense floral aromas -- disoriented, I rolled over in my sleeping bag towards the sounds and smells.  A few yards away, moving slowly down the palm-tree lined road was a locomotive sized structure entirely covered in white roses and adorned with beautiful gowned and crowned women who were waving to me.  This was followed by a group of sombreroed men in silver festooned Spanish costumes, riding sleek Palomino horses in formation.  We had unknowingly procured choice spots among a huge crowd of people on the main Rose Parade route.  More and varied floral floats; equestrian groups; marching bands and the Grand Marshall, Lawrence Welk, all passed our review. I am not a parade or Welk fan, but this was an amazing spectacle (thank you, Black Panthers).

After the parade ended we were literally engulfed by a swarm of humanity who swept us off with them to the Rose Bowl. We waited outside the stadium, listening to the ebb and flow of roaring noises inside.  Near the end of the first quarter we were able to beg two tickets from scalpers.  We joined the other 100,000-plus fans and cheered on the teams from our end zone seats.  It was an exciting game, even for a neutral party; Stanford upset Michigan on a last-minute field goal; 13 to 12.  We departed with the swarm and caught a ride to the freeway with a car full of Michigan students who were celebratory despite the outcome.

Our next ride was in a retired yellow school bus driven by a graying Professor (Sociology) wearing blue jeans and a tie-dyed T- shirt, shepherding a handful of self-proclaimed student activists.  They were heading back to Berkeley from a demonstration -- It was a kind of "field trip". They were less cheerful than the Michigan students but friendly to us.  We were amiable in return and willing to concede that "the people" should have power and that politicians seemed untrustworthy.  As an aside -- SUNY Buffalo had its student riots when we were Freshman.  (I can still remember the sting of tear gas.)  Like most students of the era, we had wondered what the 40 year old guys with beards and head bands were doing around our campuses (picking up girls?).  Although mostly apolitical, we hung around the ubiquitous "student" demonstrations largely because of curiosity.  To the point, we were experienced in how to socially interract with "activists" of all types.

After a long, unscenic trip north to Berkeley through the center of the state, we stayed overnight with them in the gracious Professor’s home – up steep hills from the bayside highway, through a jungle of greenery and the fragrant tingle of eucalyptus.  The stylish house had elegant Oriental decorations, and was by far the nicest place we were to stay in.  It was very late in the evening when we arrived.  Exhausted, I fell asleep on one of the Professor's plush carpets.  I hope it wasn't tied by tiny hands.

 

Day 7:  1/2/1972:  Berkeley to San Francisco, California – 20 miles

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“Tourists for a day”

One of the student activists (I don't believe he was actually a student) was staying in San Francisco somewhere on or by Haight Street.  He took us into the city and let us stay at his place while we explored.  “L” and I considered ourselves somewhat experts on San Francisco, having just seen the movie “Dirty Harry” and were anxious to see the sights.  We ended up doing touristy stuff –- people watching on Haight and Ashbury -- "hanging out" in Buena Vista and Golden Gate Parks -- "hanging off" of cable cars on steep hills -- meandering around Fisherman’s Wharf. 

That night I fell asleep on a couch in the bay window of a blue Victorian walk-up, listening to a music system that occupied an entire wall of the room.  I was hypnotized watching the slowly turning reels of the large tape player in the near darkness.  Soft sounds came from the immense speakers.  It was Reginald Kenneth Dwight, (a.k.a. Elton John) singing “Tiny Dancer” (1971 bootleg copy?). 

     "Hold me closer, tiny dancer

      Count the headlights on the highway

      Lay me down in sheets of linen

      You had a busy day today"

On the floor near me I could see my friend “L” slipping away in reverie.  He had found his home.  (He eventually moved to and still lives in San Francisco.)


Next: Part III:  "What!  Me worry?"