So, Don't give up on me.

I'm finished, done, kaput. It was quite a journey, and I'm looking pretty damn cute.

I'm so sorry I didn't get around to writing about it...I was to busy living the adventure I suppose. Or perhaps I'm damn lazy.

Ether way, when I get back to cali, this blog is going full time. I'm going to put everything that happened in here, the good bad and ugly.

Check back sometime in Nov.

Then San Carlos Apache Reservation -Part 2-

Good lord, working up the self discipline to finish this one was time consuming. I have so much to say about Bylas...where to I begin? Well, at the beginning I suppose.

So there I was, exhausted and limping (a very common theme on this trip) into the little gas station-slash-market in town. I walked in, filled up my water, and walked out. The red sun was dipping into the horizon, and I wondered just how much daylight I had left before I would have to set up camp. (Setting up a tent in pitch black darkness is no fun for all you would be travelers out there). I knew I would have to make it a few more miles out of town before I could bed down somewhere, but at that moment I was content with sitting next to one of the gas pumps while chewing on some crackers and let my body vedge out for a few minutes.

Well low and behold, in my moment of veggitude a HUGE truck pulls up. Big ol rusty rambler pickup truck, and out steps the biggest Indian I’ve ever seen (meaning he was about as tall as me). As much as I would like to describe that guy from the crying Indian commercial in the 70’s (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m4ozVMxzNAA) his hair was short and his face round. But I could see a wise soul beneath that craggy face. Well, later I did, anyway. He strode over to me.

“whatchu doing here man?” He said in a strangely accented English slur. (he was of course drunk, but on the reservation this seemed to be the rule rather then the exception.)

He was a fair ways off on his truck, so I yelled back “I’m trying to walk across the US”

He started to approach, slowly stumbling along the asphalt of the gas station. I should mention that it was here I decided to play the badly accented German tourist. I wasn’t sure how much love these people here held for their American oppressors.

“Wha?” He said.

(really bad German accent here that sounds more like Russian) “I said I’m walking across the US, my name is Petyr by the way”

“oh no way? Ich kanne lust mag deutch sprechen, I used to live in Germany on a base there”

-Shit- I thought, because the German he just spoke to me was so badly slurred I couldn't make heads or tails of it, something about liking to speak deutch but so poorly worded it was meaningless. Was I so out of practice? Later I realized he was drunk and had the general knowledge of German that most American army troops stationed their do, that is to say: None. So luckily no one had a chance to call me out.

We struck up a conversation, nodded our heads, and I prepared to head back down the road.

“Wait” he said, “you can come stay at my place if your tired man”

And so that’s how I met Fish, local hero of the Byla’s Apaches. I wasn’t going to turn the man down, for Christ sakes I NEEDED a shower. So I jumped into the back of his pickup truck and it sprang into clunky life. We tore ass down the road at about 50 miles an hour. I should mention here that not only was he drunk, but this pickup truck had no back to it. So I hung onto the sides. Hard.

“Don’t be scared!” said his buddy, who looked like a fat version of George Lopez, and that is in fact what I ended up calling him.

“Don’t worry, I’ve been closer to death then this.” And I have, but not by much if I had realized how drunk that idiot was. The first stop of course was more beer from the mini mart just outside of town. “ICE” beer was apparently the national apache beer of the month, it was pretty much all I ever saw. He picked up two 36-packs for “that evening” and we whiplashed like a bat out of hell again to his house.




He lived on one of the nicer houses in the town, which wasn’t saying much. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and it sure beat my POS tent by about 300 points, starving feral dogs included.

As I jumped out of his truck and strode triumphantly towards his house, I halted at the scene in front of me. Sleeping, sitting and standing in front of his house were about 10 young native American dudes about my age. But unlike my usual black attire, they were all wearing red to the man. Blood red, from their bandanna down to their sneakers. *Grk*

Upon searching for a picture of Natural Ice Beer, I stumbled upon possibly the coolest picture on ever put on the internet "Natural Ice Man"


Fish got out of the truck and put his arm around my shoulders in a display of comradery. “This is Petyr from Germany, he’s with me”

And that, incredibly, seemed enough. The scowls from their faces disappeared, in 10 seconds I had become one of them. They walked up, shook my hand and slapped me on the back and peppered me with the usual “Your walking? NO WAY” and such. There was a rotted picnic table outside his house, we all settled down and proceeded to get rip roaring drunk.

I was then introduced to the rest of my abruptly inherited Indian family. There was Fish, the big man of the house. Renée his feisty girlfriend and their daughter…who’s name I can’t recall. I suppose I should just make names up in the future to maintain the illusion I have any kind of recelective powers when it comes to names…there was also George Lopez, Fish’s brother. And also Georges daughter…who bore a striking resemblance to George himself…but not in a good way. It soon became a running joke they I was going to hook up with her. Well, there was quite a bit of beer I suppose.

And so we sat back and drank away the afternoon. It was beautiful in a way, but maybe again that was just the first blush of a light buzz on my cheeks. I became quick friends with one of the Red boys (we'll call him Joe), who was talking about singing that night at the dance (what?). And it was soo, soo nice to rest for a bit, and not have to worry about setting up that accursed tent.

It was sometime that afternoon that I realized just how batshit volatile Fish and Renees relationship was, and in it’s own way it was a beautiful thing. Sometime after my 5th beer I decided to speak some Deutsch with Fish. Whoops.

“Ihre Freundin ist hübsch na?” (Your girlfriend is cute, no?)

Fish sat on this for a few seconds, took a deep breath, and said, “No”

I should have realized of course that this was that “no” That being the “no” you say when you have claimed to speak a language, got hit with a fast sentence, and decided to play it off like you understood. But I didn’t realize it was that “No” and I proceeded to laugh my ass off.

(To Renee while laughing) “He says your not beautiful.”

I expected maybe a playful slap from her to Fish, but she proceeded to take her full can of “Ice” beer and slam it in his face so hard I swear I thought she broke his nose. Then she preceded to poor the rest of the can on him while he cried out in pain. I was shocked, but everyone else started laughing with the casual grace that this was obviously just “going through the motions for them.” Fish looked a bit weepy eyed right after, and Renee quickly comforted and kissed him and told him she was sorry. 5 minutes later she was pointing to the white stain on her shirt and told everyone how much she regretted sucking him off so hard the night before.

Ahh, I’m finally among people on my level.

The afternoon wore on, and one of my more inebriated brothers in red (Joe) kept talking about the Dance that night. Apparently it wasn't a "Big one". That was coming tomorrow, this was more of a practice session. "Still," he slurred, "you should come down there tonight." And so I did.

The whole crew jumped into that big old pickup truck and launched into the nights blackness. If I was worried about catching my death before with these people I was doubly so now, as far as I could tell I was the sober"ist" (can you say that?) one there, and I could barely see my own hands. Luckily Fish seemed to be one of those drunk driving pros-you know the kind that drive drunk all the time and eventually crash into tree and kill everyone in the vehicle. Luckily I had my trusty complete-fucking-idiot mentality equipped and went with them.

We drove down an empty desert road for quite a ways, 15 miles at least. I began to entertain thoughts that they really were going to kill me after all, but these were easily crushed after we passed a few "Sacred tribal grounds, Keep Out and No Littering" signs. Damn this was exciting! Though slightly ironic and depressing to see discarded beer cans outlining the beautiful desert road.

And we arrived to a scene that brought me back to those nostalgic days of the Macedonian faires my parents would bring me to as a kid. There were about 50 or so of my native comrades circle dancing around a smaller group of men who were quite busy beating on drums and singing. To those of you who are unfamiliar with this phenomenon, Circle Dancing is a strange ritual that involves holding hands or locking arms, and then moving slowly in circles while kind of bobbing your body up and down like an Umpa Lumpa. Other variations include kicking your legs out in one direction or another while you rotate (think of burlesque shows). As Macedonia and ancient Apache Tribe America have been somewhat far apart for a while, I can only assume that circle dancing springs up from cultures who cannot dance worth shit, and so together the entire community can wallow in their talentless dancing skills by sharing the embarrassment in a large circle. Pirates, for instance, did not have circle dancing. And we all know why, because pirates are almost as cool as well, me.


I have to admit though that I can see the draw to this kind of circle dancing. You don't have to worry about the next move, because there isn't one. Far from my mind were thoughts of what move should I pull next-the Michael Jackson crouch grab? Saturday night live disco special? No my friends, there was only the circle. And the music-oh! I've been segwaying for a bit, lets get back to the story here.

So square in the middle of our local dancing troupe were the singers. It consisted of about 20 blokes sitting cross legged in an interesting kind of "square" formation. Can't really describe it, you just had to be there. Each one had a drum and each one was doing that Indian moaning thing. Like this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lbX4I8p9wJk that sounds pretty close to what I was hearing. But I'll tell you man, that youtube video does not compare to hearing such things in the reality of the moment and setting. It gets to you man, it gets to your soul. You can just feel the primal nature of it-and god help me-I wanted to join that circle dance.

Renees seemingly borderline esp kicked in and and pulled my arm towards the other villagers dancing. "Common," she said, "lets go dance!"

"But but.....is it even ok for me to be here?" A cursory glance had revealed the fact I was the only white guy within at least 50 miles.

"It's fine, fine! Your with us remember." And so I went, and so I danced.

Oh baby, I was intooo it! Once again, something to be said about that primal spirit when it comes to a fire and men beating on drums. I should explain that my feet at this point were basically squishy pink sausages covered in blisters-but I didn't care. I bobbed baby, bobbed up and down and rotated in a circle like there was no tomorrow. Once every few seconds someone who was really 'feeling it' would let loose with a Indian howl that I'm quite sure a white person is incapable of reproducing, or at least I was. But I was feeling it too baby, and I soon found myself letting loose with awkward white guy wolf howls that would have put the best of us to shame. But I didn't care, the spirit of the night was within me.

And as we danced, right at the apex of my spiritual howls to that great white moon in the sky, the night was pierced with it's own tragic irony. As we rotated past a corner of the square, one of the singers tipped over and sprawled on the ground like a dead thing. The merriment stopped, and we crowded around while his fellow singers and drum beaters shook his shoulder and tried to rouse him. Was he ok? "It's all right," someone said, "just had to much to drink." He was picked up by two of his companions and dragged off to a waiting car. I saw his face when they had turned him over-it was Joe-the one who kept telling me to come in the first place. I don't think I've ever felt a more acute sadness for anyone then I did for my Indian friends at that moment. What a sad, broken people. Their glory days so far lost, now stuck in this little desert reservation. Even in the midst of the one tradition that they had managed to maintain alcoholism and depression still invaded.

As we drove back, Fish said that the next few days would be amazing on the reservation, that the things happening tomorrow only took place there once a year. He asked me if I wanted to stay.
I said yes.


And so you know I am really tired now, and can't write anymore. But I promise you there is a "Part 3" and it is the best of them. Or at least my favorite anyway. However, I may skip strait to New Mexico, Texas and Oklahoma so I can catch up a bit to where I actually am on the road now.

Ok so, update to kill some suspense

No worries, I'm ok. Flagr.com doesn't seem to work anymore but I am just about to cross over the Kansas border into Missouri (misery). I was held up for 5 days in Tulsa with this nasty death-throat bacteria I get every year or so that ends up killing me if I don't get the right antibiotics. Once I hit Springfield I WILL catch this sucker up to at least Texas, if not Oakylahoma. Lots of writing but lots of fun I think if I can get the time to do it.

In more recent news I have been walking down tornado ally now for a few weeks and MAN, thunderstorms be scary.


Edit: By the flaming beard of Zeus, foiled again! It was memorial day the one day I had off in Springfield (all librarys and colleges closed).....one day.

Worldwide fame that has always eluded me is now at hand.

So someone sent me an article posted in my hometown paper about me. It makes me look and sound like more of a crazy hobo derelict then even I consider myself to be. Sweet.

On the serious upside, I give kudos to the man who wrote it for quoting me on “Lordsburg is a total shithole” Because indeed, it is.

Sorry for all those millions of fans I just know are waiting breathlessly for my “San Carlos Apache Part 2” It’s taking me so long to write…I might as well make it 4 parts.

The San Carlos Apache Reservation -Part 1-

So as I sat their in globe, eating those scrumptious hot pockets to my hearts content, my host took it upon himself to ask me where I was headed next. I told him I was headed down the 70 into New Mexico.

(my host)

“Oh man, your heading through the Indian reservation then? You better watch it man, they hatchet-murder white people out there. Your aloud to drive though and that’s it, your not even supposed to get out of your car”

I was a bit suspicious however, only if because I thought he might have made the term “hatchet murder” up. So I asked one of his neighbors as I left Globe what he thought about the Indian reservation on my route. He was a big ol’ farmer looking type who spoke with a long southern drawl.

"Oh it’s not as bad as he say’s I’m sure. I’ve heard tha’ there be people who come down from the mountains who skin cattle, and then throw the skins on the roofs of the white folk’s houses in the area –don’t ask me why- and if yah see them doing it the’ll kill yah sure.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of this ether, mainly because I didn’t understand a damn thing he was talking about. But I did get the gist of it, and the gist was the Indian reservation wasn’t good news.

Literally the minute I crossed over the border of Arizona into the San Carlos Reservation there was a casino to my left. I needed water so I went in and “restocked” my supplies as it were. My curiosity got the best of me though and I asked a guard there what he thought of my walking through.

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as people say. I will warn you though, watch out for the guys wearing all red. There’s been quite a few murders out there recently, it’s pretty bad. I live in San Carlos myself, but the town after it-Bylas-it gets pretty rough”

And so I started walking down that lonely desert road into Indian territory needless to say I was a bit nervous…having no idea what awaited me. I considered hitchhiking, simply because 3 out of the 3 people I had asked warned me of imminent and impending death. But fuck it, lets have some fun right?


The largest noticeable change upon entering the reservation was certainly not the landscape (it was the same endless/beautiful/endless desert) but the amount of gravestones on the highway increased by about 2000%. Up to that point I maybe passed by one sad monument a day, now there was literally one-sometimes two-every mile. I seriously began to wonder if this was some kind of crazy-drive-by shooting epidemic for idiots who decided to walk that stretch. But the realist in me decided it was probably due to drunk driving. Somewhere in my memory my father’s voice spoke of the ridiculous amount of alcoholism among the Indian reservations. Was my father right, and was this the product of their alcoholic labors?

I walked into San Carlos towards the end of my first day there. It was a stereotypical town as far as I could see. Proceeding to walk into the local supermarket there, I was greeted with my first culture shock. It was me….and 45 Indians (I would say Native Americans but later though local conversation it seemed most referred to themselves as Indians anyway.) Normally this wouldn’t bother my except for the fact that literally everyone-to the man-turned around and stared at me for a good 40 seconds as I walked though the store. I also noticed that everyone of them-to the man-was fat. And I mean Eddie Murphy in the Nutty Professor style fat.

I honestly wasn’t expecting this kind of sight until the very bowels of the south. I tipped-toed as carefully as I could to the bathroom, and then proceeded to make an ungraceful exit (knocking over a display). As a walked out of town I got some rocks thrown at me, but hell, I had it worse in high school.

I camped out about halfway across, in the sweetest camping spot on earth. I can’t recall now what made it so completely stirring, but whatever it was it inspired me enough to take pictures.

I woke up the next morning and set out for Bylas. A good 21 miles away, I arrived in town a limping, exhausted fool. I was to tired at that point to care if it might be dangerous. As soon as that sign appeared proclaiming “now entering Bylas” appeared however, things changed.

The first thing that would probably bother anyone upon entering Bylas is the fact you have to walk over about a half mile of broken glass. No, seriously, the route into town is paved with broken beer bottles. It took me a hour to get though it without cutting my feet, and needless to say the fact it was there didn’t exactly raise my spirits about what awaited me in Bylas. The town itself was like some kind of quasi-third world Bulgarian nightmare (for those of you who have been to the nastier parts of Bulgaria like myself) except minus all that eastern European charm, like a hooker with her front teeth missing. Stray and feral dogs were everywhere, and the average “house” as far as I could see was ether a broken and burnt out trailer or something that surmounted to a “chicken shed”. Regardless of the stares from the locals, I chugged on down the road towards what looked like the towns “center” in the distance –the gas station.

One of the nicer homes in Bylas

Arizona baby! Desert time

So here’s the deal. Just before I came to Palm Springs I had to decide my route out of Los Angeles. So what’s the deciding factor? Whatever route has more couchsurfers of course! Seeing that coming down route 70 out of Phoenix had precisely 2 couchsurfers in the whole 300 mile stretch, which was 2 more then Flagstaff had- I went that way! Scary, had the prophet been right, or was it just coincidence?

So back to Palm Springs….I had a dream dammit. And that dream was to walk across the Mojave Desert. Unfortunatly like most dreams this one ended up stuck up a pipe. I left Palm Springs with 3 days worth of water, a ridiculously heavy backpack and high hopes. A day and a half later my water was all gone, and the realization hit me that there was nothing, NOTHING out here. Except desert, endless desert.

So alas, if I had a team supporting me I could have walked it- but much like most of my life I was all on my own here. So I hitchhiked it out of there to Pheonix, a good 150 mile cheat. I will say considering I spent nearly a month going south down the California coast when I could have been going strait east more then makes up for it. So I consider my conscience clean.

And thus I arrived in Avondale (suburb of Phoenix) and partied it up with Larry Streech and his brood for a few days. The most memorable night by far being when he took me to this crazy bar. Remember when I mentioned Bob Hoskins? There’s this scene in Who Framed Roger Rabbit where Donald and Daffy Duck are playing pianos opposite each other in some kind of stage act. I’m sure there’s an official name for this, but god help me if I know what it is.

Anyway, these two guys sat opposite each other playing crazy jigs while doing shots, and I ate up every second of it. Also hilarious was they would not ever give up on trying to get someone to flash them, and when a woman finally up and did they wouldn’t let up on her for the rest of the night. I nearly coughed up my beer laughing when-mid song-both of them stopped playing with the suddenness of a car crash and demanded she sit back down (she had been getting up to go to the bathroom, or perhaps escape)

This was the only picture from the night, a good representation of my level of sobriety

But soon enough I had to leave Phoenix and begin what I call “the long desert haul”. This was it, hard core time. As I soon learned, the Arizona Desert consisted of nothing but rattlesnakes, road kill and the occasional passerby who felt so sorry for me they pulled over and offered me some water. Thankyee!

I camped out in the desert a good 3 or 4 days on my way to Globe, and it’s funny. I wouldn’t consider myself a very spiritual guy, but there are sights to be seen there that get into your soul. That sunsets especially, I can’t imagine many things more beautiful. It’s as if the sky is on fire and the clouds glow like embers. A nice prelude to the horror or the freezing desert night to come….my god it’s cold camping in the desert.

My host there were real “mining town folk” I.E covered in tattoos and riding dirt bikes. A true moment of gluttony occurred when-sitting on their couch- I think I consumed about 5 hot pockets in a row. Man, I was hungry though. Water and crackers for 5 days will do that to you. I sat there wallowing in the afterglow of those sweet, sweet hot pockets for about 30 minutes. Mmmm to be traveling again, only after crawling through the desert do they taste so sweet.

Southern California

So as I walked along a nowhere road somewhere between Thousand Oaks and Santa Monica, I ran into a very peculiar character. Walking the opposite direction, right in my way, was a hugggge black guy, wearing white pajamas. Looked just like Eddie Murphy in that movie “Holy Man” actually. He also had a large black horn curled around one of his arms. I just had to comment.

“That’s a great horn,” I said. He pulled it out from under his arm and played a long note. It sounded like something out the swiss alps. Then he spoke.

“What are you up to my friend?” Says he

“I’m trying to walk across the US,” Says I

“Do you know who I am?” He asked

“No”

“I am a prophet my friend.”

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this one. He went on.

“When you leave from Phoenix, I want you to make sure you go through the Indian reservation on that way. I see a great blessing for you there”

“Well Actually, I think I’m going to go up though the Flagstaff rou-“ He put up his hand and cut me off here.

“When you go though Phoenix, make sure you remember what I said.”

And he walked off. This was also the moment I decided I had to get a camera, which I did just before leaving LA.

LA was a gorgeous blast. I spent a good 2 or 3 days hanging in a crazy local artists house by the name of ZOSO, He toured me around LA and chatted about the local underground art theme. He had an extreamly unique style which I could only coin as “sleepy Quasimoto” Heres a little exaple, a “self portrait of his”

Check out his website here: http://zoso1.com/ Also talked about a great deal was his –and now my- art idol, a shy Japanese girl by the name of Audrey Kawasaki. She did these bizarre wispy anime-like girls drawn in wood. I’ll always laugh at the immortal words of Zoso: “I want to fuck her paintings”

Another highlight was him and his friends driving me out to that place where they filmed the race scene in “Grease” in the pitch black of 3am. I sat there on the concrete and looked up and the stars for a good hour, wallowing in that beautiful feeling that only comes from traveling again..ahh to travel. The Nomad spirit is in me!

So now we enter the dangers of Date Rape In Palm Springs!

Plam Springs, Beautiful aint it?

Well, no, not really, but it was a bizarre incident. So I arrived in Palm springs weary, limping and in general just strait up exhausted. But good news! I was getting hosted that night, so I was a happy man. Apparently my host was quite the world traveler himself, or at least his job took him all over the world. I’d talked to him several times by phone, he had quite the charming cockney little English accent but seemed harmless enough. Upon meeting him I was acutely reminded of one of my favorite English actors Bob Hoskins.

Within 5 minutes of meeting him 2 things became very apparent:

1. He was very gay*
2. For some reason he was attracted to me

*Now, I should explain here that I am not a crazy-anti-homo-gun-toting-religious-zealot. In fact, I’ve had many gay friends, one of my favorite uncles in gay. I live very close to San Fancisco, and I’ve attended at least 6 or 7 gay pride parades world wide (Go Madrid!) This does not, however, make me gay.

Now, I should explain here that my reasoning behind number 2 first started developing in his car when he started to do this little “oh you” and grab me somewhere every time I told a joke. Normally I wouldn’t take much notice to this except I realized I did the same thing back in the day with girls I liked. Actually, I can keenly remember the first time this happened to me on a train to Paris where the girl I was sitting across from leaned over and squeezed my hand after some joke I’d told. I remember thinking “good lord, she likes me!” And yes, turned out she did when she jumped me in the train bathroom later ;) A story for another time though.

Now then, as we drove back to his house so I could drop my bag off and take a shower, he suggested we hit the bars. It sounded like a good plan to me, he was my host after all and it’s not like he had crossed a line or anything. So we made our way to town down Palm Springs where according to him “the party was at”

It was sometime on the ride over there he started talking about why he lived in Palm Springs.

“There’s a Marine base here man, I love marines, they’ll do anything for a few bucks-I got some staying over tomorrow in fact”

I told him what a shame it was he was just stuck with me for the night. He laughed and pinched my cheek. I started wondering where I was going to have to draw the line. So far however I was committed to having a good time.

We arrived at the first bar, can’t remember the name. This was clearly not a middle Texas bar though by the site of a 6’3 “babe” as we walked in the entrance wearing a particularly cheesy blonde wig. I was already having a great time though, if you will remember I am no stranger to this kind of thing. We sat back at the bar and got drunk off White Russians and some kind of bland English ale. Then the Diva Denise Carter came on, the reason why he had taken me here in the first place. It was her birthday and she took over the place. Think Aretha Franklin. I actually got a picture of her from her website.

Man, was I into it. I sat back and sang along as loud as I could when she would break out with “Respect” and drunkenly mumbled to the verses I didn’t know to Fergies “Glamourous” only to come back screaming “IF YOU AINT GOT NO MONEY TAKE YOUR BROKE ASS HOME” during the melody.

We returned to his house some hours later, fairly good and liquored up. I decided the best solution here was a quit exit. I told him I was going to call it an early night. I’m not going to go into detail the next hour here, I’ll only say that I was sober enough to see though his kind of sad attempts at seduction, specifically because they reminded me so much of my own idiot drunken feats before I knew any better. But he just didn’t get it, sometime after the perhaps 5^th polite but clear statement that “you just need to let this go man” the straw that finally broke the camels back was when he started drunkenly offering to pay me to masturbate in front of him. I said a polite good night, walked over to my room, and locked the door.

I sat there in my room for a while, pondering if he was drunk enough to try to stumble into my room during the wee hours of the morning. I wasn’t worried about a fight, I was fairly sure I could physically overpower him if it came to it and his personality didn’t seem to be prone to violence. All in all I doubted he would try to come in even if he couldn’t seem to take a hint. Never the less I propped my bag up on the door to give me some warning, jumped into my night clothes and went to sleep.

In the morning all was well, he looked a bit sleepy and sorry and we said our farewells. As I walked out of Palm Springs I remember thinking: Man, even stupid stuff like this makes an entertaining memory. I love traveling.

Northern California

I limped into San Francisco a broken man. I was a wreck, a mess, and also quite tired. I remember I went into the tourist bathroom at the other end of the Golden gate bridge and hid there for about an hour. I sat on that dirty little toilet with my face in my hands-seriously close to tears-thinking what the hell have I gotten myself into? As I suspected. It wasn't the elements, crazy thieves or wild animals that were my biggest enemies on this trip, I was my own biggest enemy. Could I seriously push myself every day like this? I wanted to turn tail and run.

I spent the better part of that hour thinking of every excuse that would bring me back. I'd told everyone I was going, how could I pussy out here and save face? In the end I was pretty sure a broken leg was going to be the only thing I could do that would buy a bit of sympathy for failing. I wasn't quite ready to do that however. So I did the next best thing, called mommy and daddy and whined about how much my feet hurt. I guess sometimes having a totally irrational asshole for a father comes in handy here. He basically said if I didn't take the bus home I wasn't welcome back in his house. It was about an hour drive from Petaluma. So as I sat there, thinking, I realized that dragging my sorry ass to a bus stop was way, way to much work and I am really lazy. So I called the guy who said he would host me in San Francisco instead, the coolest guy in the world named Glen Loomis.

Glen and roomate, those crazy cards

Glen was totally down to earth, had a great car and a really nice apartment. This was the sweet life he was living. I mean, the guy cooks tri-tip for dinner. I almost cried, Tri-tip used to be a once a year thing to savor. And he made a suggestion, "Why not stay here another day and rest?" I took him up on it. And thats how I spent the next day shantying around San Francisco with slow, painful steps. It was a nice day though, my feet were recovering, and of course I had to hit China town for some of that authentic BBQ pork. You know the kind that hangs in the windows, lobster red and all glazed over? As you could tell food was on my mind quite a bit.

Mmm chinese food

And so that was the true beginning. Sure my feet hurt, and yes, I still am getting blisters 3 (now a month and a half) weeks later. I figured out the key though, I just have to get blisters on every part of my feet and can possibly get blisters, and then, finally, I shall be so calloused and scared up my feet will just say "enough" and stop giving me them.

So I hobbled down highway 1 from San Fran. There were tons of highlights that I simply can't be bothered to write down. I did indeed meet a whole host of crazy cards and normal ned's.

Some highlights here: I met a 36 year old flight attendant "couger" (kudos to those who knows what that means) who only jumped on boys who were left handed. Seriously you heard me there, her entire dating scheme was that they had to be left handed-and pretty much nothing else. I met a crazy girl who put rotten fishes in her roommates bed, caused their dorm room to be evacuated and eventually got kicked off the campus. I felt bad though, she had a sweet soul and deserves better. Just lay off the revenge ange!

I did indeed spend 4 days camping out going between Monterey and San Luis Obispo, which is virtually 80 miles of nothing but beautiful cost. It was a wonderful time that really did a bit for my spirits. However, I will add that late one night I hobbled out of my tent and squatted in the dirt like a caveman, intent on relieving myself. Little did I know this would all lead to poison oak on my bum about 2 days later. This gradually spread everywhere, not fun. It was one of the few instances where I was actually glad I didn't have a camera. No one needs to be exposed to my butt right now, especially not poison oak covered.

At last but not least, I did hitchhike the last 15 miles with some hippies to San Luis Obispo because MAN I NEEDED A SHOWER. This all came to disaster anyway as I ended up sleeping under the freeway that freezing night. But back to the hippies, the 3 of them lived in a van with as far as I can tell 20 dogs. Their first words to me upon pulling over were “you got any pot” and then shortly after “you want some then?” And as I sat back with them on smelly blankets and “talked about the good times” I realized somewhere between the 3^rd ganja brownie and the 10^th something hit from the hash pipe it had been a damn long time since I got this high, and man, I was high. They dropped me off in SLO town near the jack in the box, where I proceeded to spend the next 4 hours in some kind of drugged up stupor waiting for my head to clear. Yes, I became “that” crazy guy at the Jack in the box.

March 5th! The Begining! Sort of...

Ok, I’m going to put this in caps and bold it because people are naturally drawn to big bold letters since all the porn sites have them: I DARE you to read the first entry of the blog. If you do, then it’s too late, because you will be mine. And not mine in the sense that a teenage girl writing sweet nothings into a diary about me, but more of like an obsessive need to keep reading somewhere between cigarette addiction and masturbation.

Aya, where do I even begin? Well, I promise to keep this all short and sweet, entertaining as it were. I’ll tell you a secret though, I’ve always hated bloggers. But due to popular demand for me to write about my adventures and follies-mostly follies mind you- I’m writing this now.

Were going to start in the present here, which is quite frankly not very fun due to me being a chubby little bugger walking across the US. Last year I was getting banned from France for accidental terrorism and hitchhiking my way across Macedonia and Bulgaria. Much more intriguing, dangerous and sexy times-BUT I WILL HAVE THEM AGAIN! Don’t you worry.


Hotness ---------> New Fuglyness

I know you worry, I can see it in your eyes. Even in these first few beautiful paragraphs you feel a strong mother like bond to me-you want me to succeed. Don’t worry if you don’t feel it now (it’s all in your subconscious). And if you’re brave enough to keep reading those feelings you have for me will bloom into something like passionate fanaticism. Hopefully by the time I’m done writing this blog you will be willing to sacrifice your life for me, but most importantly before that you will give me all your money. So I can keep traveling.

So! We Begin on March 5th, 2008. A little background in necessary to set the story here. I returned last year from my travels abroad totally fit and sexy and an incredible dancer. Yes, I was on top of the world-for once-Don’t get me started about the vast majority of my life as an ex-nerd in my parents basement playing Phantasy Star Online and watching Star Trek. But old habits die hard you see, and just like that subconscious devotion your feeling for me even now, for some reason I had this hidden voice in the back of my head.

“So you’ve literally lived more in the last few months then you did your whole life,” it whispered so sweetly, “now that those crazy adventures are all over and done with, let’s take a vow of celibacy and eat a bunch of shit for the next year.”

And so, tragically, without knowing it I listened to that voice. And I sat on my ass and ate, didn’t call my friends, and had a short stint giving tours and pouring wine for America’s richest-yet-classless people. My god, you would think money would help folks develop a personality. But I’ve found in my short life it’s actually the other way around, lack of money is a wonderful creator of character. Just look at all those hobos at the Wal-Mart for instance, there’s almost enough bat-shit nuts personality in those guys for two people. There as close as you can get to being German other then actually being born there. But this is a story for another entry.

So there I was sitting there almost a year later and quite a bit heftier, and I’ll be dammed if all I thought about was just how awesome my time overseas had been. I literally kept my mental life going by clinging to these memories like paparazzi clings to a drunken celebrity whore. And so, as I sat there, wishing I was traveling again, I was struck with an incredible flash of inspiration! This flash of inspiration is as follows:

Let’s walk across the United States!

And why not? I’m finally traveling again, meeting new people and having adventures, which is what I really live for after all. And better yet, the 3 major costs of travel: Transportation, Accommodation, and Food are all taking care of! I’m walking, if I’m not camping I’m couchsurfing, and I happen to be quite an adept thief when it comes to supermarkets. And best of all, I can get back to being my sexy, cocky self again. Here's my couchsurfing account by the way, definitely check out the pictures if you’ve got the time, they probably say more about me then anything else.

So….lets retype that: So! We Begin on March 5th, 2008
Quite unfortunately, I didn’t have a camera for the first 3 weeks of this what I now deem “Torture Trek” To be honest with you though (and trust me, I’m rarely honest) even after the hardship of the first few days I’m already feeling alive again, like I’ve found some long lost friend I never knew I had. I can’t quite put it to words, but there’s just something special about being on the road and not knowing where your going to be by the end of the night, whether it be enjoying hot chocolate across from a fascinating stranger or camping out under a freezing freeway overpass and clutching a knife to your chest in fear of hobo rape.

So I started out that beautiful Wednesday just outside of my hometown of Petaluma. Man, was I stupid. I did 20 miles that day cold turkey, just to prove “all those” people (meaning my father) that I could do it. And boy, was that a mistake. My feet were like pink mush, as if I had a cotton candy transplant or something. I literally had a blister on one of my toes that almost resembled some kind of vestigial 6th toe I didn’t know I had. My host screamed =) It was the first time I wished I had brought a camera, it was real side show level awesomeness.

And so to keep this quick due to lack of pictures, I’m going to sum the next 3 weeks up pretty fast. My apologies to all the awesome hosts and people I met along the way that I’m not going to mention. You know who you are and you know I’m going to come back around that way after I’m done with all of this, so you’ll get your pictorial come uppins’.