The Daily Daniel

Washington: Strait of Juan de Fuca, Elwha River, Crescent Lake, Hurricane Ridge, Dungeness Spit

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Tue, 01 Sep 2009 04:37:00 +0000

Photos from my recent trip up north to northern Washington

It was actually a work trip this time - here's our field vehicle parked at the top of the beach we were surveying - a vintage suburban truck. It's shabby, but it has a bench seat and I want one more than I can express.

The field team - from left to right: me, Ian, and Dr Jon (looking very professional with his starbucks cup - well, it was about 6am and the 'boob shack' was shut). Taken with a camera on a 4m pole with a remote control. The wonders of modern technology.

The guys thought it would be funny to shrink me to the size of a pea. It was harsh navigating over those large pebbles, but gave me some nice perspective shots ...

Only Ian could find digging a hole in a beach just after dawn with hands so funny!

The beaches next to the mouth of the Elwha River are strewn with trees, which make them very beautiful (not to mention morphodynamically very interesting ...)

The sun sets over northern Washington - the boys are still trudgin'

Olympic National Park on a very foggy sunday morning

Crescent Lake

Hurricane Ridge (about 6000 ft). The stillness and fresh air was indescribably good, and the views were limited

Crescent Lake

On the way home I travelled in style, catching a tiny 9-seater plane from Port Angeles on the Olympic peninsula to south Seattle. Once the fog cleared the views were amazing - a perfect end to a wonderful trip with great company

Dungeness Spit. Now I've seen both of them (there's one in south England too)!

Santa Paula to Santa Cruz

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 15:58:00 +0000

... and here are photos from the way back. Includes: Santa Barbara Mission; the coastal hills around Lompoc, Vandenburg, and Jolon; and the agricultural towns of Guadalupe and Castroville. Music: well, any 80's film fan will know this one! Not quite Beverly Hills, I know ... but be a darling a turn those speakers up LOUD!

Santa Cruz to Santa Paula

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 02:41:00 +0000

This weekend I took a road trip south from where I live in Santa Cruz to Santa Paula, near Ventura just outside suburban Los Angeles. And very nice it was too! Having lived here for 9 months, and many trips north and east, I thought it was high time I ventured south (the furthest south I had been thus far was just south of Big Sur). Here are a few pics from the way down. And no, I wasn't tempted to go to Neverland. Nor was I tempted to hit the sprawling mess of Los Angeles - I'll save that for another trip - preferably one where I'm not behind the wheel! Instead I opted for the gentle hills of the low sierras, the arid valleys crammed with intensely irrigated farmland, the picturesque coastline, and the prosperous towns of San Luis Obispo and Santa Barbara.

As ever, turn up your speakers ...

Music: 'The Past and Pending' by The Shins

Bru ha ha

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 21:51:00 +0000

a study of evil on bike in beauty

Packing blankets and dirty sheets

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 04:49:00 +0000

More photos from my recent trip to Yosemite with Blues and Mike

Yosemite Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 03:55:00 +0000

Photos from the Hetch Hetchy region of Yosemite National Park

Poopenaut Valley, Tuolumne River

O'Shaughnessey Dam

Hetch Hetchy Reservoir

Yosemite Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 03:36:00 +0000

Photos from Yosemite National Park, and the vicinity. Utterly beautiful, and a heat in the mid to high 30s! Click on the panoramic photos to get much bigger versions.

Mariposa, Yosemite gateway town

Yosemite Valley

El Capitain

Merced River

Don Pedro Lake, Stanislaus National Forest

Overlooking Stanislaus National Forest

Editor's note

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Sun, 19 Jul 2009 02:59:00 +0000

I just submitted the third installment of my roadtrip with Maria back in March. For some reason it's been put in 'May' (I think Blogger is taking the piss - alright, alright - I know it's 4 months late!)

It may be found here

Ed.

Living In America

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Sun, 19 Jul 2009 01:45:00 +0000

Mainly because I want to play this song on my blog. A few photos from a 'photo laundry' I had today whilst trying to keep out of the sun. A miscellaneous taste of my life in the last couple of months ... enjoy!

South Wales in sunny June

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 05:00:00 +0000

Images from my recent trip back to the UK, on a sunny day in south Wales. Music by Clinic.

I AM Albania

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 22:29:00 +0000

... or proof that I should never be invited to fancy dress parties. This was my attempt to 'be albania'. Pitiful, I know.

Pikie Yayyayayaya

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 23:07:00 +0000

Whilst I'm in the slideshow mood, here's a compilation I put together of the road trip Maria and I took back in March - yes, the same trip I still haven't finished blogging about. Soon, my pretties ...

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you .... the Grand Canyon

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 03:48:00 +0000

Some pictures from my latest adventure - a 230 mile trip down the Colorado River with the good people of the Grand Canyon Monitoring and Research Centre, USGS in Flagstaff Arizona. Thanks to you guys for such a great time!

An experience that will NEVER wear off

Music: "Young and Holtful" by Rae and Christian. A couple of photos provided by Paul Alley (tanks Paul)

Day at the 'Dead

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Sun, 17 May 2009 05:32:00 +0000

On Thursday night I saw the Dead (formerly known as the Grateful Dead but who dropped the 'grateful' when former and founding member Jerry Garcia died) at the Shoreline Amphitheatre in Mountain View - the heart of Silicon Valley (just across the street from Google headquarters). The Dead have their origins in 1960s San Francisco, so this gig was like a homecoming. I went with my boss, a self-proclaimed 'Dead Head' who has been watching them perform since 1968. Of course, you will have heard of the Dead even if you haven't heard their music - famous for their incessant touring for 4 decades, their mammoth sets, their lack of studio albums, and their hippy fan base, amongst other things.

The crowd was a surprising mix of ages (having expected only 50+ year olds). All had leftist star-gazing tendencies and the vibe in the audience was really cool and chilled. There was a lot of pot-smoking but I couldn't detect any harder stuff being used, and there were very few really drunk people. The tickets were on the expensive side - well, they were after they add on all the hidden fees including parking which we didn't use but nonetheless had to pay for, and probably several charges which are designed to 'convenience' us in some way. Likewise, the beer was a shocking 12 dollars a pint! The amphitheatre consisted on seating and grass where we - and almost everyone else- sat. The sound was amazing for a live venue, and it was sheltered and clean and generally a very pleasant venue.

The Dead's music is quintessentially American - guitar heavy, folk-laden and ever-so slightly country-tinged. The songs are sprawling, winding, and long. Each drips with thumping drumming and fretwork. Lyrics are sparse, riffs are incessant. I cannot describe the sound - the closest I could come would be to say its almost atonally chaotic, but has just enough structure to keep it interesting. To be honest, it isn't my cup of tea. But then I didn't expect it to be, and I couldn't help but be impressed by the skill and stamina of the musicians. I was quietly impressed by how avant-garde it was. I would go as far as to say as it is the only avant garde thing I've seen since I got here. Self-indulgent, definitely, with guitar solos on guitar solos on guitar solos, but nontheless impressive.

The highlight for me was when the sun went down, in the second set out of three in a 4-hour concert. By this time, it was dark enough to not notice the 'hippies' (richest hippies I've ever seen) dance - let's face it, most white middle aged people have as much rhythm as an engaged telephone tone - and we could see the musicians on the big screen. Apparently, they've always kept the same format, which I liked. Set, break, set including 'drums' and 'space', then a huge encore (as long as the first set) with covers worked in. The drums and space sections were crazy. I think they must have evolved to give every audience member - no matter what drug they were on - fuel for their 'trip'. A cultural experience I'm glad I experienced.

Road Trip. Part 3: Washington

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Sat, 02 May 2009 22:27:00 +0000

(I'm determined to finish my travelog if it kills me! Sorry this is about 4 months late - the details are slowly fading now, but I will finish! Just 1 more installment to go after this)

Our experience of 'Washington' was limited to several hours on Interstate-5, a single night in Seattle, and a brief trip to Bainbridge Island. It wasn't enough. We arrived early in the evening, and again had the daunting task of trying to navigate from the freeway to the centre of a major US city, in the dark with empty bellies. We were old hats at this now, having done the same in San Francisco and, inadvertently, Portland. Again it wasn't bad - a few lucky guesses and a couple of educated turns saw us arrive at our hotel without going wrong once. I dumped the car, paid an extortionate fee to park it for 1 day, and checked in. We stayed at the Arctic Club Hotel in downtown Seattle - by far our most salubrious residence on our trip, it was our little treat for just over halfway through the journey. It was nicest hotel I've ever stayed in - oldy-worldy and smart, but with a young and hip clientèle. Perfect.

It was already late, mainly because of our unintended detour via Portland earlier on that day. We dumped our stuff and sat ourselves at the bar next to the hotel lobby. I started to unwind after my long drive, ordered a stiff gin, and sipped it happily whilst Maria made inquiries about somewhere nice to eat. The obliging young barman had created a list of the cool places to eat, drink and dance whilst in Seattle. Perfect - he recommended a restaurant called The Tamarind Tree - it was a fair walk in the cold, and hard to find, but cheap and worth it. He said it's a cool place only locals know about. In short, massive Kudos and there was no decision to make.

We drained our drinks and wandered happily through the streets of Seattle, oddly quiet but more European than anywhere I had been to in the states so far. The restaurant we happened across almost serendipitously (all I can tell you now is that it's in the international district near a supermarket, down an alley - sorry that'd all my memory will allow me to divulge). But my word it was worth it - highly recommended.

By the time we left we were the last in and they'd cleaned up and packed up around us. We were in no rush. We wandered back towards the railway station, and found a quiet looking bar to have a drink whilst we debated whether or not we'd go clubbing. It was small and empty except for a group of college-age students taking in turns to sing karaoke. We took a seat at the bar and started to sample the local beverages. It was hilarious to hear these guys and girls sing - they were a motley alternative bunch of rockers, punks and hippy-types, and were getting drunk and singing ridiculous songs to each other's - and are - amusement. I loved every second of it - I just love youthful piss-taking. Seriously, it's how the world moves on.

We stayed until closing time. From there we stumbled into an irish bar, mainly because it was the only place left open. The barmaid was Irish and very friendly. Even though she'd lived in Seattle for 25 or so years, her accent was one of the strongest I'd heard - amazing, really, and proof that if you don't want to lose your accent, you won't. We were a little tipsy by now, so started to make good and full use of nearby props.

The next day we awoke late, had a lazy breakfast, and decided to take the ferry over to nearby Bainbridge Island. We only had 1 day in Seattle since we had to be Vancouver that night, which was a shame because what we saw of it we liked. I made more than a mental note - more of a 'resolve' - to go back and check it out some more. One thing that I could say, and in no way a bad thing, it didnt surprise me in the slightest and in fact was everything I had imagined it to be. That's a rare thing in my world.

Bainbridge itself was a yuppy haven, so not our style at all. It was pleasant enough poking around the shops for a while, but it didnt really have anything to keep us there for long. It was well worth the trip, however, for the views from the boat. My word - first the downtown seattle skyline, then a sight of the space needle, then open water followed by, most spectacularly, the imposing majesty of Mount Rainier. Wow. The weather was cold but gloriously sunny and absolutely perfect

We reluctantly checked out and left for the open road once more. I could have stayed a week, but equally we had ground to cover, and I was excited about my first trip to Canada, only a couple of hours away! Well, a couple of hours, as it happens, turned into about 8 once we hit the traffic gridlock that is the seattle suburbs, and slow queues to cross the border, the monotonous details of which have happily faded. Onwards to Canada!

Half Moon Bay

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Sat, 02 May 2009 22:20:00 +0000

If you're ever visiting this part of the world, be sure to pay a visit to Half Moon Bay, equidistant from Santa Cruz and San Francisco on Route 1. In my opinion, if not as unique, it's just as good as its glamorous sister to the south, Big Sur. A big more rugged, a bit less well known and therefore less crowded. It also has a few great farms on the way where you can buy jam and eggs. Here are a few snaps I took on a recent visit.

Out and About

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Sat, 02 May 2009 02:22:00 +0000

The volleyballers of Front Beach

The boardwalk

Natural Bridges State Park

The 'Mystery Spot'

Downstairs in a bar, during a thrilling drunken tour of San Francisco

Take me down to the ball game

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 04:53:00 +0000

American sports are designed to raise blood pressure, through the means of fast food consumption, rivalry, and blatant yet pointless nationalism. The 3 big ones - nationalism, commercialism, and consumerism - are displayed with more to spare. It's disgusting.

Having said that, my first trip to a baseball game (Los Angeles Dodgers versus San Francisco Giants at AT&T Park - Giants won 3:1) was enjoyable. Like the ice hockey, however, once is enough.

Like the ice hockey, there was the junk food fest, the horrible commercialism, and the moronic chants. Unlike the hockey, the game was easy to follow and played at a nice pace (some 3 hours for the whole game); it was blistering hot; and people were there to chill out with their friends rather than shout and get red in the face. It was much more genteel than hockey, and loads better. At neither the baseball nor the hockey is the intention to get drunk and fights with the opposing fans - I can't even imagine that happening here. Rather, it's all about giving the kids a good time, eating, spending money, eating, and advertising. All of which are American Dreams.

California in the Spring

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 04:18:00 +0000

I interrupt my series on my road trip - now a whole month ago - to bring you a taste of my neck of the woods at this time of year. Yes, I am very lucky

Road Trip. Part 2: Oregon

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Sun, 05 Apr 2009 01:07:00 +0000

Southern Oregon is the sort of place that time has forgotten, but nature remembers frequently and vividly. There's not much to the areas habituated by humans: numerous towns in valleys or wood clearings whose populations number between a couple of hundred and a couple of thousand. Everyone's white and every adult owns at least 1 truck. I'd guess the population is ageing. Gratifying our prior expectations, we saw a lot of lumber trucks, with men wearing red and black checked thick cotton shirts and hats padded at the front and ventilated copiously at the back. Backs were sweaty, and necks were on the thick and red side, for the most part. The sheriffs wore shiny badges and trousers with a very linear geometry. The towns are refreshingly uncommercialised, with lots of small independent gas stations and restaurants. We drove several hours before seeing signs for Chevron and Denny's, etc. the drive was spectacular. I can still smell the pine, the sea salt, and Maria's lip balm. It was magical: sunny, but not hot. The waves were so big, they'd crash into the rocks turning straight into clouds and move up over the trees. When we rose up onto high ground and caught a glimpse of the coast below, we saw this process a thousand times over, exactly the same like it had been drawn by a cartoonist.

We stopped off at a few places when the road straightened out near the coast, not of particular note, just to take it all in. The drive was easier than the previous day because of the light, the lack of rain, and the conveyor belt of snacks from Maria's hand to my mouth. The drive was a similar mix of sea cliffs, beaches, and mountain forest. The only gross difference was the smaller and quainter towns, and the quieter roads. I couldn't help but think the trees, the climbs, and the cliffs, were slightly bigger. The sand dunes certainly were - the dunes near Florence were amongst the biggest I've seen, and gave everything a wonderful dusty feel, like only big dunes can. Southern Oregon is not as affluent or flashy as northern California, but not as diverse either, in people or scenery.

We stopped off about half way in Coos Bay for a bite to eat and some gas. An unremarkable place in a, by the standards of the trip so far, unremarkable setting. But friendly enough. We ate in a 'German and fish' restaurant, possibly just because of the weird combination. It was in a mock-Bavarian style building, and the man who ran it and served us was in his late 70s or 80s. After a quick mooch around the rather dilapidated downtown, and some scary antique stores (the sort, I half expected, to have a Nazi memorabilia section in the back for the locals and other freaks), we departed.

A feature of the whole trip was how mobile we were (relative to our easy-going, never-rushed personalities that is). I think that happened just because there was always something cool to see around the corner. Maria spent a lot of the day watching far out to sea, when she could, in the hope that she might spot a migrating grey whale. This was the time of year to do it, she said, because they were making their annual migration back north from Mexico. I wasn't really that bothered - not because I wouldn't like to see a whale tail a mile out, but because I knew I would never see one, even if it was painted bright pink. I was satisfied to Maria watch (she's so cute when she's excitedly looking for something - so much so last year she persuaded me to come shark spotting with her, which involved sitting on a cliff in the freezing cold for 3 days. It was worth it just for her delighted agitation every time she saw something).

We rolled into Newport, just north of central Oregon, around 6 or 7pm. Set in beautiful Yaquina Bay, Newport is by far the biggest urban centre on the Oregon coast. We had driven around for a good while in order for Maria to photograph the sunset, and we were feeling happy and content, our eyes full of epic scenery and our bellies ready to receive. We checked in (the hotel counter clerk reliably informing us that we were in North America now - Maria dryly informed him that we'd been in North America for days), threw our stuff in the room, suited and booted and went to the beach. It didn't take long, the hotel was on the beach and even provided us with floodlights so we could stroll without walking into pools or mammal carcasses. I amused myself by running in and out of the shadows, so Maria kept losing me. She retaliated by picking up long stalks of mouldy seaweed and chasing me with them.

I had printed a list of likely eateries for every stop we made. The selection in Newport offered us perhaps the scantiest choice out of everywhere we visited: it was either fish restaurant near the beach, or fish restaurant away from the beach. We chose the latter - Quimbys - probably for no reason at all. As soon as we wandered in, however, we both regretted the decision. Our waiter had a very strange demeanour, a cross between bumbling idiot, and martial arts instructor. He was big and brawny, and had evidently traded his brain for lots of protein powder as a youth. Everything came with long pauses and bows, and we were both 'weirded out' by him. We ordered wine, which he brought to the table and spent 2 minutes trying to balance the unpulled cork on its end upon the table. The food was dreadful. We shared a starter - beans and tomatoes on bruschetta, ruined by excessive amounts of oil and vinegar. My main course was, basically, a selection of battered fried fish. Everything had been battered and fried, including the lemon garnish. Maria had something equally as hideous. He was overly attentive whilst we ate, then completely absent when we wanted to pay. We ended up trying to find him so we could settle the bill, and we found him sitting at the empty bar watching a boxing match on tv. As we left, Maria quizzed him about the battered lemon - was that an Oregon speciality, she asked, her face a mixture of disgust and mirth. Yes, its very common he replied with the slow drawl of a man who had been punched too many times. He was totally incongruous with his setting, and also a complete (excuse me) a**hole.

The next day was just as bright and fresh as the previous. We breakfasted in Mo's Annex, a small seafood restaurant I had read about in my guide. It was inland a little way up the estuary, and was built over the water, so views were to be had from every side. I was attracted to it because it was meant to be a bit of an institution, serving up the same recipes for 30 years. The food was incredible and cheap, the views great, and the waitress very friendly. The place was busy but not overbearing. We left satisfied, both telling each other that's exactly how we'd run a restaurant if we owned one.

We said goodbye to the 101 now, and cut across via Corvallis, a small college town similar in size and demographic to santa cruz, but dissimilar in almost every other way. No one here cared more about their appearance than their abilities to string sentences together actually worth saying. The road had been another through beautiful wooded mountain - we saw men on horses (yes, men - a rare sight in the UK) and elks. The bright light made the glades and snow-capped mountains we could see to the east sparkle.

As we joined the interstate 5 (equivalent to our motorways, but busier but also bigger so you don't notice so much), we entered a different world. We would have liked to stay on the 101 all the way up to Seattle, but that would have involved travelling through Olympic National Park and unfortunately our itinerary just didn't allow for such a huge detour. So we found ourselves driving for a couple of hours up to Portland, through endless strips of chain stores and retail parks, drive in Burger Kings and the like. Awful, but necessary. Around Portland the road got a little complicated - five lanes turned into seven, and the freeway split into two versions of the same thing - one which bypassed the upcoming city Portland (the largest and capital of Oregon, separated from Washington state by the Columbia River), and the other which zipped one through it with lanes joining and leaving with alarming regularity. Absolutely the only tricky thing about driving in the usa - let's face it, its easy and large and infinitely accommodating for drivers - is that one can leave a freeway from either left or right, which sometimes forces to cross about 5 lanes of traffic with very little warning in order for you to make your exit. You guessed, I missed my exit and ending driving straight into the heart of Portland. I was developing a little bit of a habit of driving straight through big cities - something that I wouldn't do in the UK. After about, erm, 2 minutes of driving to search for the way back out again and on the road to Seattle, our destination that night (we know our limitations), we pulled over and parked and decided to go for a coffee. I had already put several hours of driving since leaving Newport and whilst Portland was a mistake, it turned out to be a well-timed one. We got directions and were soon on the road. We didn't see much of Portland, but we saw enough of it to get the impression that it was bigger, and more grown up (business-oriented) than I expected to be. That the whole of Oregon was a much more conservative place than California was my lasting impression. We eventually cleared the suburbs of Portland, driving in the carpool lane past 4 lanes of stationary traffic filled with single occupancy cars, all new, all containing white men in suits. I'm no hippy, by any stretch of the imagination, but I couldn't help but feel a little free against those ruddy-faced chaps; self-righteous and self-congratulatory that I didn't fall into the horrible trap of the suit, the boot, and the commute. We passed into Washington looking forward to arriving in Seattle.

Road Trip. Part 1: California

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Sat, 21 Mar 2009 01:50:00 +0000

#----------------------------------
Day 1
These days, I'm quite the man about town, and most of the time I don't even notice I'm living away from home, but on the first day of the trip I was feeling strangely incapable - I felt like tourist the moment I stepped out of the door - British and awkward and distantly familiar. I wanted more breakfast, you see, and i didn't know where to get it, so ended up walking around in circles until i recollected where to grab some grub. When i went to the coffee stall to buy a coffee and bun, i stupidly said 'to go'. It was all to go - it was a cart in the street. It drew my attention to my accent and my bag, and she gave me a kind knowingly sympathetic smile. She kept on calling me 'sir' and other polite and respectful utterances and i could tell she wasn't like that with everyone, which was as nice as it was horrible, I thought.

All I had to do today was to get to San Francisco airport by midday, and pick up a hire car, meet Maria, and drive us to a hotel I'd booked in Japantown, San Francisco.

As I sat and waited for bus, a strange woman with piercing unblinking brown eyes came up to me. She must have been in her 40s, long brown hair and yellow-stained teeth "I split apricot on my jeans" she said in a high drawl. I looked down at her skinny legs, and having seen no sign of (recent) stain, looked at her face for clarification. she obliged "... when I last sat on that bench", indicating to the other side of the bench. In the curious conversation which followed, most of the details of which escape me now, she ascertained from me that I was British geologist, from London, going to Vancouver, and had lived in Santa Cruz since November. I ascertained from her that she had once lived in 'west Essex' when she was a teenager as a traveling musician, and that she'd been to Vancouver working in a 'camp'. It hard been a 'hard summer' she said, a 'real hard summer'. She was very childlike and her short simple utterances slurred, I initially thought she was mentally disabled but the more we spoke, it dawned on me that it was probably because she'd taken a lot of hard drugs in her life. She was obviously intelligent and 'with it', but she had the cold stare and demeanor of someone who hadn't looked after themselves for long periods of time. She got me thinking about America and all its variety.

My awkwardness continued onto the bus - I hauled my case on and threw my 4 dollars worth of quarters into the counting machine - the machine told me $3.50. This had happened to me before and I found out that time that the bus drivers couldn't give a 'rats ass' (his words, not mine), so why I found myself, schoolboy-like, assuring the driver that I had put the correct amount in I don't know. The driver, who hadn't even been listening, looked up and said something like "alright already". I stalled for a second and waited for a ticket - i KNEW he didn't give out tickets - what was wrong with me? It was like my brain had repartionned itself in the night, locking all the lessons I had learned in the last few months, foetus in fetu, into a part unaccessible by my operating system. I hadn't been sleeping, through excitement, for a few days and i had woken, like the past few days, as if i had been roused from a coma.

The rain sheeted onto the bus and the thought of the email i had read that morning from my boss came back into my mind - it had been a fatherly reminder to bring plenty of warm clothing, sleeping bags in case of snow on mountain passes. I had acknowledged the advice in manly fashion, but inwardly i had thought how ill-prepared i was. I had packed a blanket and a spare towel, some waterproof trousers. I had bought some waterproof boots. But the email left me wondering whether i needed a knife, gun, tyre chains, and all the other features of a journey through the Great American Wilderness. We were only driving to Vancouver, after all. Vancouver - the very name sings of icy winds and trawlers frozen in place by a 10m thick surface layer of sea. A pretty middle-aged woman got on the bus at Scotts Valley and my attention turned to an old man opposite me who was beaming in an aroused fashion at her - he smiled and stared at her as she walked past. He was about 10-15 years older than her and had a kind face. It was obvious he had fallen head-over-heels in lust. I thought it was quite cute, until i realised that HE had obviously managed to connect to the internet (the bus had a free wireless service) whereas I had not, and continued to be unsuccessful. I liked him less for this, but he did have great corduroy, a libido, a healthy lascivious smile and a Macbook, I thought, so I allowed him to stay on the bus. Oh dear, i had slipped into 'super bus man' mode - whenever I sit on the bus, I eye up other passengers and invent characters and voices for them - I assess each in turn and imagine conversations with them. I have the power to eject those whom I do not like, or who give me the wrong fictitious answers to my fictitious questions. I can occupy my mind for hours like this. I put my computer away, and spent the rest of the journey to San Jose looking out the window through a hole I had made in the condensation.

The train was waiting for me at the platform in San Jose. I got on and settled in for an arduously slow and long journey - bugger, I was on the slow train which stopped at every station - roughly every 500m along between San Jose and San Francisco. I was relieved to alight at Milbrae, where I got the BART to SFO International Airport. I was regaining my travel savvy by now - I had even shown a native how to use the BART ticket machine, and people were asking me for directions in the airport. I have a genial face, I thought, and I was spot on with my directions which made me feel pretty cool. Maria's flight was 3 hours delayed, so I had enough time to have lunch, get the hire car, and drop off my bags. Oh, and change out of my damned boots into something more gentlemanly and urbane. They had to give me a car with Washington plates because it was a one-way rental and the car would stay up there. This couldn't have pleased more - Washington state plates! I took a photograph, did a merry skip, informed the guy that I wouldn't be back for a couple of hours - his response was petulant "couple of hours!" he said, and fell silent with my affirmative. I felt pretty good. Now the long wait for Maria to get in, and through customs etc.

She finally came through at 4pm. The preceding 2 hours was one of extreme excitement and agitation. I had to calm myself down by riding around the 'airtrain', which connects the terminals and parking lots, lots (see photo above). Waiting in airport arrival lounges isn't actually that bad, because of all the kissing and hugging people. It makes them about a quadrillion times better than departure lounges, which are just about the worst places on earth, except from UK motorway service station McDonalds. There was a good vibe coursing through the arrivals lounge in the airport, and lots of smily people. I waited dutifully. When she arrived it was like a bomb had gone off in my brain. I have never been so pleased to see anyone in my life. Her kiss was like what i imagine a shot of heroin to be like. We went straight onto the 'airtrain', jabbering all the way, into the car and out. The rain had cleared by now, and we had just a short journey into our hotel in Japantown.

The map showed that the route between airport and hotel was laughably linear. In practice, I managed to take a wrong turn, which forced me to exit the highway south of the city. What followed was a thrilling ride straight through the heart of San Francisco downtown. Steve McQueen would have been proud, but poor Maria must have wondered what hit her! I was trying to read the folded up piece of paper on her lap, which had a map with an unsuitable scale drawn onto it. I knew roughly where I was going. As we approached the hotel - literally, it would turn out later, feet away - I turned right, then turned left down a one-way street. I knew instantly something was amiss, but couldn't quite put my finger on it until a policeman was screaming at me "what are you doing!" - the nanosecond after seeing him, I realised what I had done. He ushered me over. He was there because there had been an accident there - there was no room, so I had to pull over halfway up the next street. He walked up the hill to me, all black uniform and gun and tazer and god-knows what else! After I apologised and informed him that I was British (i know - shut up!), he shone a torch in my eye and asked me if I was drunk. He was actually ok about it - quite paternal - he informed me that I had gone the wrong way up a one-way street, and to be more careful in future and look at the signs. A good indication, he added with no hint of sarcasm, was that all the cars were parked in the same direction. A couple of minutes later we arrived at our hotel, giggling and a little shocked. Hotel Tomo was pretty cool - we parked up in the hotel car park, checked in, and fell straight into bed on our anime-themed king sized room. Bliss.

Maria was very tired and fell asleep. She couldn't get up to go for dinner, so I ventured out to see if I could get a take-away bento box or something locally. No joy - there were only restaurants around full of convivial sophisticated people, and I didn't have the heart to bound in and ask for a packed lunch. So I came back and ordered a pizza. It was almost 9pm by now and I was absolutely starving. When the pizza arrived Maria woke instantly to help me enjoy it, and we fell into sleep. The journey hadn't started with a bang, but it was just nice to be together again. Oh, and the room with its murals was pretty cool too!

#----------------------------------
Day 2
The day didn't start well - I had reached over from bed to see what the time was, moving the alarm clock into, and through, the large bedside lamp, shattering it into many pieces. We flustered for a little - they, like everything else in the room, looked expensive. Oh, and the shattered lamp was one of a pair. We would later learn the hotel had commissioned an Oakland-based artist to make them. Bullshit if you ask me, unless 'Oakland-based artist' meant 'Ikea', but I'll get to that.

We had a little time - we only had to get to Arcata today - 4 hours up the coast, so we decided to come back to the 'little problem in the bedroom' after breakfast. We both wanted a real hearty, big American breakfast. I saw in my guide there was a cool looking place a maybe 10 blocks over, in the Tenderloin district, so we set out to find it. We were both in convivial mood - Maria had recovered from her jetlag, and my memory of the 'wrong way' epsiode I could now laugh off. The cafe was closed, but we found a cool looking place not far away, called David's. It was actually the first time I had been in that part of town since my first visit to SF in December 2007. I had stayed in Union Square Backpackers - it was still there, and just as seedy-looking as ever, which was good to know. It was also good to remind myself that we would be staying in hotels all the way on this trip, which meant no wannabe rappers, sheets, no audible bed springs, no bed bugs, no sex screams (well, ...), and the like. Anyway, David's was wonderful - we sat at the bar, got top-ups of water, juice and coffee at regular intervals (one of the truly wonderful things about the usa), ate very well for a reasonable price (another truly wonderful things about here, and this will be a consistent theme throughout my log). On the way back to the hotel we decided we'd try to fix the lamp with superglue (I know - what were we thinking!), and buy loads of japanese treats for the car - poki-poki sticks, pea flavoured crisps, aloe-flavoured drinks, and the like.

We managed to get the glue everywhere but between the pieces of glass - the table, the fingers, our clothes, the bed sheets and towels. We eventually gave up, packed up, 'fessed' up, and left. We decided honesty was the best policy - besides, I'd booked us into the same hotel for a night on the return leg! We through our stuff in the car, and after another thrilling ride through the really hilly part of the city in the north, we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge on Route 101 North out of San Francisco

I was feeling pretty darned pleased with myself - it felt wonderful, more wonderful than I can describe, to be finally united with Maria, in a sleek Chevvie coupe driving through and out of San Francisco into Marin County. I haven't done much driving since I came to the states - just a couple of day trips here and there. This time I actually felt the freedom of the open road, away from work in a new place with the woman I love. I won't dwell on this but, dude, it was awesome.

Just as soon as we left the hotel it started to rain, and it didn't stop until the moment we reached Arcata, 7 and a half hours later. The 3.5-4 hour trip turned into a 7.5 hour trip not so much because of the rain - although, having said that, it was lashing it down. No, it was probably more due to the fact that, half way up, we decided we'd go via Mendicino, and Highway 128 through Navarro River and Van Damme State Parks. The terrain was mountainous, the trees were tall and dense, the road winding, and the rain relentless. It took us a long time - about 4.5 hours - to get to Mendicino. It wasn't worth it for the destination, but it was definitely worth it for the drive - the most thrilling and various of the whole journey - for the first time I got the feeling of passing through a big, dangerous countryside.

We poked around in Mendicino - not much to see, expect spectacular waves, pick-up trucks, and 'new age' hippie crap that's everywhere in California (I'm not a fascist, but I don't suffer charlatans). We had a great home-made burger in 'Mendo burgers', served to us by a very kind a friendly lady. While we waited we played checkers and watch a surfing video - I would have gone there just for that! It smelt of pine wood and sea salt. Wonderful. Maria needed a rain jacket, so I prodded her to buy a 'really oversized one' from the hardware store - it was called 'Frank the Tank'. It enveloped her and made her look cute. I told her so but I was in the doghouse for having taken too many of the precipitous mountain bends a little too fast. I admit I got carried away, and would later apologise profusely over sushi.

The poki-poki and 'shrimp chips' were almost gone, so we stocked up on loads of bags of nuts and left towards Fort Bragg, in the direction of Eureka. My plan of a gentle jaunt to Arcata, arriving in daylight, had gone out the window. The rain intensified as daylight fell, and we rolled into Arcata about 8pm, a little tired and dazed. Eureka looked a bit of a dump, as I had been told - an endless strip of chain fast-food joints and gas stations, and little else.

Arcata was much cuter. It's a college town (Humboldt University - named after the Bay it sits above) and famous for it's 'crow left of the murder' attitudes. It's the marijuana growing capital of the US (we could smell it from the road as we passed the fields!), and everyone in the town seemed a little high on either that or alcohol. In fact, I won't lie - even though it was a week night, everyone we met was pissed. I had booked us into Hotel Arcata, on the main square. It's the oldest building for miles around, and was decidedly creepy. It was the sort of place you'd expect Igor to pick up your bags when you checked in, and the door had a weird mechanism, like battling with some supernatural force. The town was small and shabby, but everyone was friendly. We went into a bar, and sat at the bar, in a bar that I would never go into in the UK, but it was a wonderful place. It sold a cocktail called an 'irish car bomb', was full of veterans in wheelchairs, and the whole thing was like a scene from Forrest Gump. After a 7 hour drive, I needed a drink, a band, and some food, in that order. And that's exactly what I got. The band was playing in a tiny 'social club' type place across the street - they were an old dad-rock band doing Led Zep and Hendrix covers, and a few blues/swing numbers, at which the dancefloor would get livelier and spritely young people would start throwing each other around in a 50s 'old skool' way. It was great to watch. Maria managed to get the last bottle of 'hard cider' in the place, stolen by the barman from the chef for her. It was an awesome spot, and we enjoyed the music and dancing for over an hour before our stomachs told us to search for food.

The only place that looked open was the hotel restaurant. It was actually, weirdly, a rather hip looking sushi restaurant with a young and really drunk clientèle. The waitress told me that they'd actually stopped serving, but after I tried on my 'I'm British and starving' face routine (ask me - I'll show you some time), she melted, gave us a seat, and waited on us. The food was ok, the ambiance was convivial. We went to bed happy, even though the creepiness of the room probably meant we held onto our sheets a little tighter than normal that night.

#----------------------------------
Day 3
The third day started in California and finished in Oregon. A 6 hour drive lay between us in Arcata and our next port of call, Newport. Arcata was even smaller in daylight. There wasn't really much off of the main square (below) where we stayed and had prowled last night. But there was the Big Blue Cafe, which - you'll get used to this - served the perfect 'american style' breakfast, in exactly the right atmosphere. Well, a dope town's gotta have good eatin', right?

Maria will be talking about this place for some time. The portions were big and reasonably priced, the food was filling but not greasy and stodgy - oh, I won't bang on - it was good, and friendly and cheap and everything eating in this country epitomises. We soaked in the scenery and continued to chat and catch up on the way up north. We stopped off at nearby Trinidad Bay - the short walk to the beach revealed a stunning sight

The drive was much drier and more pleasant. The features of the day were spectacular seacliffs, sea-spray, massive sand dunes and waves, and awesome '1 horse town' type places. It was real America - the sort that has not been exported so doesn't exist anywhere else - it was old fashioned. We saw horse ranches and elks and old-style 'main event' style billboards (one said - I just love this - 'Tonight - Johnny Cash'), loggers and big trees, landslides, casinos - you name it, it was great.

Day 3 continues in Part 2: Oregon. Stay tuned!

Road Trip

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Mon, 02 Mar 2009 03:47:00 +0000

Well folks I'm going on 'vacation' with my lovely lady Maria. We're driving from San Francisco to Vancouver, and I'm wetting myself with excitement! Stories, photos and the like when we get back - promise.

The Blogging Dan

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 17:18:00 +0000

Offended
The thought that other people who are not me reading my blog (well, reading is probably not the operative word, as I'll elaborate) makes me feel guilty and ashamed. I guess it's a strange thing to say - of course, why else would I bother? But I don't think of it like that. I felt a little guilty because this blog is self-indulgent and uninformative. It made me question if I'm 'doing a good enough job' until I shelved those thoughts as ridiculous. I don't have to be meticulous.

Defensive
I struggle with this blog. That is to say, I struggle to write on this blog. That is to say, nowadays at least, I struggle to write coherent flowing sentences on this blog or anywhere else. I put it partly down to an extremely haphazard mind which allows me to burst utterances in snippets, but inhibits me to produce readable and interesting descriptions of what I do and think. Myself and my (blog-virtuoso sister) blues came from the same farm, but we must have been kept in different barns. I reason that it's why I take to twitter etc, also the reason why I like coding and links (I'm of the opinion that, nowadays at least, it is almost more important to keep an arsenal of hyperlinks in your brain to be able to retrieve information quickly than it is to store the information inside your brain). When I actually think about how I sound to other people, I often reach the conclusion that I must sound like a verbal scattergun, or random words caught by the listener on the other end of a very bad telephone line.

If this blog contained well-considered articles about my opinions on the events in the news, or well-constructed stories about my life, then it wouldn't be my blog. I'm good in other ways. I also know that my blogging 'ability' depends strongly on what I perceive as interesting for other people. Most of my time nowadays is taken up with my various 'projects', all of which involve computers:

1) learning Python, and recoding all my MATLAB image processing scripts
2) watching hours of underwater video of gravel moving around
3) developing a computer program to do face-detection and affine transformations (face warping - I know this has already been done, but its so much fun and a challenge to do an open-source one)
4) learning and using Canon Hackers Development Kit (CHDK)

Yes, America has turned me into a bigger geek than ever and, admit it, you're not interested in any of that, so what you get is pictures. All of which, as a parting shot to my perception of your flagrant and outrageous disinterest, are offshoots of my hobbies ;-). I'm a complicated guy. I'm also Kip from Napoleon Dynamite (and probably Napoleon Dynamite as well, come to think of it).

Offensive
Most of my blog posts are pictures and videos for a good reason - because I assume you, dear reader, are like me - you don't want to read words - you want instant gratification; a snapshot of my life. The eye can't help but look at a picture thrust under it, but it takes effort and time and a fresh mind to read (a statement which underlines the 'separate barns hypothesis' - see here). Also, images tell a much better story than I could ever tell.

The other thing is - man, this is sounding like one of my rambles, and a long sick note - my blogs (let's not forget Zesty) are a creative outlet for me. I need to create all the time. I constantly need to be doing something new. I finally got round to buying myself a guitar the other week - I've been playing for years, but ask me to play a song that you'll recognise and I'll struggle. That's not because I listen to or play obscure music, its because I spend hours and hours 'experimenting' with sounds. Don't get me wrong, I can play ok - I happen to think I'm a musical genius and I know that one day when I get bored of science, I can easily forge myself a career in entertainment. This blog is the write-up of an experiment which has no clearly-states objectives. However, I'm not sure if I'll change the way I blog, because this blog is about as me as I am.

Dumbledore's Pensieve

Well, I couldn't leave without a picture ;-) Also, a good illustration of knowing where your knowledge is, but keeping your thoughts outside your brain to your benefit.

Dan shaves off his beard in hirsute shocker ...

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Thu, 26 Feb 2009 06:46:00 +0000

... and it was so momentous he had to have a record of it.

Bedroom antics

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel Buscombe) — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 04:35:00 +0000

It's possible to program your point-and-shoot camera. I've uploaded a script onto mine so the camera takes a snap when the scene changes. It is so sensitive it can capture lightning strikes.

Here's me 'making shapes' in front of mine a couple of minutes ago. Loads to stuff is possible. I'll be posting the details on Zesty Blogisty soon.