The Getty

The Getty – a fabulous world class museum: free! Well kind of free. Getting in is free. Parking? That's fifteen bucks. But never mind. This really is a world class museum, and one that Katherine had wanted to see. Apparently she learned about it in her museum studies class.

The Getty has some fancy architecture that makes it a beautiful complex standing out, sparkling white, high about the freeway below. Everything about it is steeped in art. Whether you think that's good or bad is up to you.

We parked our car, and took the elevator up to the tram station. We were informed the tram would not be running for another half hour. We were early. There was, however, a sculpture garden that we could make our way through. It was in a sculpture garden, just outside Winnipeg, I believe, back in 2006 that I first decided I did not hate art.

This one? It evoked a different feeling. The only thing this had going for it was the unique set up. While still outdoors, there were 'corridors' of paved stone, connecting 'rooms' of grass, on which the statues stood. The unique layout was far more impressive than any of the pieces collected.

The tram is supposed to make one feel as if they are being whisked up, up, and away from their daily life to this other realm. Apparently the wheels which moved us were to the side, rather than below. The guide claimed that we were being whisked away on a cushion of air. If that's the case, we must have hit some heavy turbulence.

Once arrived, we were still too early for the museum, but comforted ourselves with some breakfast at the outdoors cafe. The man working the counter must not have expected any eager tourists quite so early, and as such we were rewarded with the 30% off employee discount. It's like getting a whole breakfast burrito for free! I do recommend the breakfast burritos at The Getty, as well. It was delicious and filling.

Eventually we got in, and watched the ten minute introductory video. Then we hung around the gift shop for a half an hour, waiting for the gallery highlights tour to begin. The one object that stood out, and which I'll probably regret not having bought as time wears on? A stuffed Van Gogh. He had an ear which, through the magic of Velcro, could be removed – to be given to a cherished friend.

As we wandered the gallery in our group, connected with wireless head sets which allowed for our guide to talk at a reasonable volume, we stopped at statues, and tapestries, and paintings. None of the pieces really made much of an impact to me, though one of the first flower paintings stood out.

Our guide reminded me of Buffy The Vampire Slayer's Cordelia Chase. Her look, mannerisms, the way she talked, and her curt nods after every point. What was most distressing was the way the head set changed the guides voice, making it an octave higher. For the most part I tried to keep it turned off. The jarring disconnect was slightly uneasing.

Our tour ended at a great big bed. It was all original, we were told, except for the fabric. Never you mind that the fabric is eighty percent of the bed. It's best not to question that.

After the tour we explored the photograph gallery where one exhibit detailed the Vietnam war, with captions describing the pictures. One of the most striking was a photo of a mother and baby seemingly hanging out with a solider. This shot was snapped only minutes before the two were killed by the same unit.

In another room was a gallery dedicated to the photographer behind Fast Forward and Girl Culture: Lauren Greenfield. These images are as striking now as they were when I considered buying the book years ago. Signed copies were available. The one thing that upset me was that the framing went over any signing and numbering on the print. I would like to have known how many were made, and if they were scarce. Perhaps photographers print up a new batch for the museum? I don't know.

Other wanderings took us past a picture of lilies by Van Gogh (I now regret not having visited his museum when I was in Amsterdam, although I doubt it would have meant as much as Doctor Who was yet to tell me why I should love him.) and out into the courtyard where the desert garden, and the central garden (mischievously placed off to the side, rather than in a central location) could be viewed.

We made our way to another tour – this time of the Jean-Leon Gerome gallery where his art was on display for the first time in thirty years. At the time, I was told, his work was considered pornographic. How this claim could be made when just about every painting every made with humans in it is a desperate attempt to hide the pornographic behind the veil of mythology is beyond me. But there it was. Critics hated his work because people liked it, and wanted prints. That sounds about right. The fact that it was so in demand must have made it terrible (though I should watch myself, normally mass appeal is a sure sign a novel isn't going to be good – I'm looking at you Dan Brown, Mr. Clancey.)

Some of the work? I dug. Others – m'eh. By this point my feet were hurting, and I was tired. Five hours in a gallery is far too long. We just had one more stop to make before heading back down to the real world on our cushion of air machine. The illuminated manuscripts.

These manuscripts were books for the fourteenth century and later. Each was hand written with illustrations complementing the text. Each tome must have been a life's work. There was great beauty, and understanding they were not simply mass produced made each quite the collection of ideas.

Though tired, and potentially cranky, these stood out to me. One was an instructional text teaching how to properly write the calligraphic characters. A reproduction could be found in the gift shop. Katherine quickly snatched it up.

Leaving I felt there was more to appreciate, but said appreciation would require more time that we did not have. Not without food. Fearing we would no longer be met as employees by the wait staff we headed out, grabbed a quick meal, and tried to find parking in Santa Monica. Easier said than done. Instead we just headed home, and watched terrible amounts of television. Star Wars: The Clone Wars (3-d cartoon.) It wasn't as awful as I thought it might be. I don't remember children shows dealing with the concept of war deserters when I was young.

Then there was Back to the Future – always a pleasure. Finally we threw in the DVD Clue. Why was I not informed of this movie earlier? Tim Curry looking younger, while looking younger, than when he was in Rocky Horror. made this a film to remember.

There are three endings to the film, a different one shown in each theater back in 1985. Now all three are played back to back. Just as I was ready to gush about how wonderful and fantastic this movie was I read a remake will soon be coming out. Lord why? Do these things ever work out (Dawn of the Dead? I'll give you that I actually did like the remake more, but that's because the first had pacing issues. Clue? It's damn near perfect.)

But we shall see. If they can pull off Monopoly: The movie, an Battleship The movie, well anything might be possible.

Twenty Miles to Santa Monica

Woke up in a haze. Groggy. Don't want to go anywhere. Exhausted.

Somehow that 'cold' that overtook me days ago is still present. Not yet defeated. So maybe it's not a cold – or maybe your mother was right, and the best way to deal with a cold is to relax and do absolutely nothing. Good luck finding a day where that's possible. Even getting some hot lemon tea seems an impossibility on the road.

So there I was, awake – but just barely – looking around our alcove. Couches had been turned to make the living room our room with a mattress in the middle, drapes blocking off the rest of the world all around as walls, and a spread of water bottles, green teas, and light snacks to rival any four star hotel.

Maybe it wasn't so much that I didn't want to leave because I was sick, as much as it was I didn't want to leave because this was the most amazing place I'd stayed in ages! We were with a host who went that one step beyond. Something to open my eyes; something which I'll have to strive for when people start shooting on up my way looking for a place to crash for a few nights.

I made my way to the shower, and then when all clean and squeaky started to pack up. Getting to and from the shower requires navigating the obsticle course that is the dogs. There's one small fuzzy weiner puppy, but then there are the two beasts. One, the mastiff/lab mix I called The Beast, from the Sandlot, the first moment I saw him. The other, nearly as big, is a mastiff/pit mix. Now you'd think these would be terrifying creatures, and in the beginning they were. But after a few moments, your brain registering that they're safe, and them wanting nothing more than attention, all was well. Now after a few days, I'd be sad to see them go.

My resolve to never have my own dog was weakening. Still – there's the fact that these monsters must cost thousands of dollars a year to feed. A great ferocious beast like the two big ones can't keep the scary people away without good full doggy tummies. Although, you wouldn't really know they were all that spooky had you seen the biggest in his “Top Gun” aviator costume, or dressed as Darth Vader.

Then there's the small one. This one, from the moment I saw him, looked like an alligator. I was reminded of Sparky from the old Sesame Street clip. More laid back than the others, this one was not free of the costuming. No, I'd seen him as a monkey, and a dragon/alligator, and a piggy.

Saying goodbye to these dogs before making my way out, packing the car, and locking the door behind me was a tragic moment.

Then we were off to the Flooring company to visit Jen and drop her keys off. Normal people have to work – it's what they do. So off we went. The second I stepped through the door the receptionist said, “you're for Jen – this way.” How was she described my looks, so as she knew right away, I wondered.

We said good-bye to Jen and her room mate, while I marveled at the size of their industrial sized printer which must have been six feet wide. If I worked there, I may have tried to sneak a few posters – or giant life sized picture of myself, specifically the one of me on the sand dune in Africa. But there are probably safe guards to prevent such misuse of company property. Probably.

With keys left behind, it was back to the car, and down the road to Santa Monica. All twenty miles of it. The transition didn't take long, and soon we were at another friend's place, grabbing keys from a mailbox, struggling to open a gate, and getting inside. A note and a cell phone I could use were waiting. We quickly dropped our bags then headed back out into L.A.

The last time I was here I went to the laundromat where Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog was filmed. I wanted to buy mini-Tide's for people, but the machine was busted. Katherine, also a fan of the musical, came this time. The machine? Still broken. But – there was, at least, a quarter machine which we fed bill after bill into trying to get the last few state quarters we need: Colorado, Texas, Iowa, and there's another that defeats my grasp. We ended up one closer to completion when I pulled Vermont out of the beast, but then as Katherine fed all her money the machine stopped. We had emptied all the change from it. Oops. Time to make a quick escape, and leave the locals with their clothes, probably wondering why we were taking a video of ourselves singing. Strange that, I'll admit.

Mission failed, and succeeded, more or less we headed out to the last stop. I wanted to find Echo Lake. I spent a day wandering last time, not finding it. Instead I climbed a hill, ended up on a police shooting range, and seeing Dodger's Stadium. This time I was prepared. The GPS showed me the location, right beside the laundromat, but the opposite way I'd walked last time. We drove down, parked, and then wandered around the lake – more of a small pond really.

Families were picnicking, other couples seemed to be mid-stride in the process of creating families, while others were just running around the path – what a crazy fad, this running is. It was here that Captain Hammer took his solo paddle boat ride. The paddle boats were locked away in the boat house today, but the pond was still a good excursion. A secret centre bird-island was padlocked away from public access, and no swimming signs cut off the only other entrance. What privileged lives these fowl must live.

Dinner was a french dip sandwich, potato salad, chili, and macaroni salad at a place called Phillppe's 1001 N Alameda St. (the N Alameda St. in LA, not the one in Compton. It's probably best not to make that mistake.) Delicious, delicious, delicious.

And then back, once more, to Santa Monica.

When our host got in, she told us about a meet up down on the beach. There was a Beatles cover band playing, and a bunch of people were headed out. When we got there, a basket of goodies in hand, and blanket to throw down, a number of her friends had arrived – and thousands of people filled the sandy space, not for the band (they were playing on the pier) but just to be out together on a Thursday night.

There is no analogous event like this where I'm from. No large coming together just because. The closest I could think was Cherry Blossom festival in Japan.

The night stretched on with conversation, cupcakes, bricks of cheese, and of course bands. When the beach cleared, and we started to head back home I was shocked that it was only ten thirty. I'm getting old. I was ready for bed. I don't remember there being a time when I was sleepy at such a foolish hour. But there I was, unable to keep my eyes open as we laid down on the pull out couch. Darkness first, then sleep.

Never Connect Through Mexico City: Welcome to LA

I have probably had worse transfers in my life, but right now, at 6:45 in the morning after zero hours of consecutive sleep, I can't think of any.

I'm sitting in Mexico City airport. If it can be, at all, avoided in the future I will never return to this airport. It's not that it isn't pretty, and it's not that it isn't clean, or safe, or blah blah blah – it's that here's how my last hour was spent:

I got off my plane from Buenos Aires, and wandered around following connecting flight signs that all of a sudden stopped showing up. Then I was told I had to go through immigration. There is nothing more terrible than immigration in order to grab a connecting flight. It's ridiculous. I don't want in to your country, I want out! I never wanted to be here in the first place! But no, now I must join the long line of slovenly people looking to spend their wonderful time in Mexico. Which isn't to say people going to Mexico are slovenly, but that after the flight from 11pm to 8.30am, with the magic of time zones transporting us back to 5.30am we are all a tad slovenly. It is most likely I still smell, though now so do others, and thus all is well.

So there I stood waiting to get stamped into the country. Finally I made it to the front of the line, and bam, stamped in. Did she stamp it on any of the pages with one stamp already? No. She stamped it on a blank page. Thanks. Thanks a bloody lot. No, let us not see that there are few blank pages left, and make an effort to preserve them. Let's just rub another possible visa out of existence. That's just wonderful. I'm ever so grateful that you took the three seconds to flip through my passport. The page one over? Would have been great.

So now I'm in Mexico. I could go visit my friend in Mexico City – who knew you had to actually enter the country? Oh and while I was told in BA that my luggage was checked through, I am not trusting. And with good reason – my pack was one of the first out. I then had to have it scanned, opened, and checked through (welcome back to North America) and then placed on a new conveyor belt, which I am hoping will send it to its proper destination. Time will tell. About six hours time.

So now having been searched and cleared into the country, I must follow non-existent signs to M. Not that I've been told what M is, or that there are signs for it. I follow the signs to L, and it gets me there eventually.

Time to have my bags checked again, and get cleared out of the country. I'm so glad I had this thirty second stay.

Once more Scott Wilson your theory of “once you have the passport stamp, you've been there” falls flat on its face. I would not say I visited Mexico in these few moments, but stamp I have. Many countries I spent a long time in? No stamp.

So time to find out what gate my flight is. It is not yet listed. That's fine, I'll just plug in my laptop and hang out for a bit until it shows. Oh, but wait, the plug sockets in this airport are specially designed that you need a strange bonus prong, that all airport items have – but not you – to trip a breaker thing to allow the power to flow. So now, I sit, watching the battery drain on my laptop. Here's the thing – they have pay-wifi here. Who is going to pay for the three hour package of wifi when their battery won't hold out that long?! Mexico!

I can not tell you how excited I am to get to an English-speaking country. I didn't think I would care all that much, but after this long failing to communicate thoroughly, or having to accept being taken advantage of, because there is no way to express what you mean, I'm very excited to get to something that feels like home.

Yes, I may have a fun time at the American border – but once I'm in...

Plus, I'll be clearing through LAX this time, not Fort Meyers. I'm sure the guys a LAX are used to backpackers, yeah?

Wha – so close. So close.

So why have I not slept for more than an hour? Oh it has to do with two terrible monstrous things: Babies. They screamed. The whole flight. All nine hours of it. And the half hour we taxied around the ground. They would give ten minute breaks of silence before screaming again.

At first people started to shush them, this lasted hours. Then they gave up.

Look – here's the thing – if I screamed for ten hours, I would probably get shut down by the flight crew. So these babies should have to operate on the same level. I'm sure everyone coming off that flight is a lot more agitated and ready to snap then they were getting on. This is an in flight risk, even more so than a – shock – water bottle!

So what do we do? I propose sound-proof baby chambers, or head masks, or even a needle to put them to sleep for a few hours. Or, you know, a needle to put the rest of us to sleep. Why not give them some sort of sleepy time drug? Why not tell parents that if their baby screams for more than forty five minutes then these things will come to pass – then they can think if they want to take their child or not. Or, hey, baby flights. Get them all together and have them all suffer hell, leaving me to sleep.

Or just not let them on overnight flights. I can deal with a baby screaming in the afternoon, but from 11pm to 8am, I am less gracious.

And then, when I got off the plane, and walked by the two monsters, I discovered they were 2 to 3 years old. This is the age a parents can deal with their child, and communicate. I thought I heard real words in the screams... but no, no teacup-human would possibly scream for that many bloody hours. And yet they did.

At this age we can totally throw them in the soundproof cage near the back of the plane. And if the parents want to stay with the child, fine, they can go in too. But if they want peace, well lesson learned wee one.

Something must be done! Now lets turn off the lappy, save battery, read some more Ian Rankin – Doors Open, and find my gate!

8:20 – I have been alerted to the gate I need to board at. Gate 59 – the farthest from where I was sitting. But that's ok, because now I'm there and can read and waste time until I get on my flight taking me to America – and something I feel that I understand. And people I know. People I know is a key thing.

Then in a few days I'll by flying into San Francisco to meet up with Katherine, and perhaps use more rusty pilers to remove more earrings. But probably not. Which makes me sad. And her, happy, I'm sure.

It should be noted for the record, and back dating purposes, that today is March the 16th. Rarely do these get posted correctly, and I've given up on proper back dating. But as I write one a day, it shouldn't be too hard to figure out what day is what. Or which is which.

Also – I am almost through my Malaria pills. Still taking them, since Africa, then South East Asia, then Peru. Only a small handful left. It was brought to my attention by a medic that I would be relieved to know I couldn't possibly have chlamydia whilst I was still taking them, as doxy is used to cure such things. I'm pretty sure I wasn't looking to pick up chlamydia, but – you know – good to know, I guess.

One more hour, and I'll be off again. I hope my baggage will be on board. Seriously, I'm quite looking forward to clean clothes. It's gonna be great.

As I sat in the plane headed to The States I was both excited, and apprehensive. Apprehensive because America hates letting me into their country, and they always do new and strange things that I don't quite understand. Landing, though, I was just stoked to know that when I ran into problems I could get out of them using my words, and be understood. And that? That was really exciting.

Of course, then I landed, and quickly made my way through immigration. For the first time I had an expiration date stamped into my visa with the American stamp. The girl at the desk also told me I was Argentinian. I assured her I was not. She asked if I had two passports, and I told her that there was no way that I was from Argentina. She questioned this again, but then I told her I'd not have had to pay for the 70USD entrance visa to Argentina were I from there. Seeing this in my passport, she agreed. Points for not peeling that out yet. (Can anything bad happen if you peel out old visa to free up pages?)

And then the baggage claim. Out come the bags, away walk people with their bags, and then the belts stop moving. I have no bag. But, neither do eight other people. Who connected. Twenty minutes pass, and I go from calm, to forlorn. I love my stuff, and I'm so close to offloading a bunch of it. To lose it all now? That would be a real kick in the undesired kicking place.

The man tells me he will check to see if there is more luggage. He comes back and says there is not. He wonders if it might have come on another flight. Time passes, and he says – ahh, it was on another Air Mexico flight, and out it came. And I hugged and kissed my pack, and told it that we had a pact that it would never do that again! But I forgave it. What else could I do? I'd also need to soon tend to its wounds with duct tape bandages, before its booboos got any worse.

Leaving the luggage claim area I silently wondered how my pack leaving Mexico city had ended up on a flight from half a country away. I did not believe this mysterious tale, and wondered what really happened to it in the in-between time.

Exiting, I was of course stopped and told that my bags would need to be searched. Of course they would.

I am becoming an expert at being searched. An absolute expert. I know when to smile, how to answer their questions, and how to laugh appropriately at each repeated joke. Ai ya. I almost broke form. Today the guy going through my pack in his snazzy black gloves, told me how cold it's been lately. “I bet it was colder where I was,” I said under my breath. Where was that, he wanted to know. But I held my tongue, and didn't say the truth – oh, just in South America. Not that warm. Please, continue to unpack my bags.

And he did. He unpacked all the sub bags from my bags, and then unpacked those. And then went through all the pockets. Now I almost have a respect for a good search – all those quasi-searches just feel like a waste of time, they're not doing anything, just pushing things around. But this guy was pretty on the ball. Of course, he left – unsearched – the same three pockets that everyone misses.

Like I said, I'm becoming good at being searched, and I bet I could get things across borders that shouldn't pass. Not that I would be such a damned fool – but, still.

I also thought about the “you packed this bag yourself? It hasn't been out of your sight?” question. I no longer answer it as, yes – no. I am more truthful. Yes, I packed it myself, and yes it was in my sight until I put it on the conveyor belt for the plane.

If you get caught with drugs in your bag, it's crap that you get charged even if they were put in your bag when you had no access to it. I refuse to shrink wrap my pack – they're just going to cut it open and search anyway. But to assume everything in a bag is the travellers is ridiculous. If I left my backpack in a movie theatre, and ten hours later, I go to pick it up with a police officer, there's no way he could prove in court that what was in that bag was placed there by me. But when you get off a flight, you are granted no immunity. Which is stupid. Because this scam is well known.

But the more I thought about it, the people who traffic drugs probably want their merchandise to get through, so they can claim it at the other end. And as such, they would probably put it in nice cases that look like they won't be searched – unlike the big duct taped knapsacks, which get hit up all the time. So I no longer worry. Still, I answer the question differently in hopes that it might help some day. Probably not.

Eventually I was told that I could repack my belongings. Great, the precarious packing doesn't take twenty minutes, go off on a coffee break and leave me to it. I love that.

But then I was through, and just had to figure out how to get from the magical LAX, with what looks like a spaceship control tower outside of it, to Santa Monica. I feared for a moment and then asked at the information booth – two women with green antenna on their heads (presumably for St. Patty's day tomorrow). They preened over my beard for a few moments, and told me that I wasn't orthodox. Then they set me up with all sorts of information, such as how to take a shuttle to parking lot C, grab the Big Blue Bus from bus bay 12, once I'm there, and how to simply ride BBB3 all the way to my hostel. Price to get from LAX to my hostel? 75 cents. I paid a whole buck. Man, really? TTC! Curse you!

So easily enough I ended up in my room, checked in, and after discovering that while wi-fi is everywhere here, and while no one else has a problem connecting to it, my computer requires me to stand in a corner, on a book shelf, in order for data transfer to work. So be it.

A few messages to a girl I travelled with in Africa, and I have perhaps set up some plans for the future. We shall see.

Out to explore.

I want to point out that this is by no means an exaggeration. This is not me embellishing. This is not me wanting to make America look weirder or wackier than it is. This is just what I saw in my one and a half hours wandering the Santa Monica Pier. Oh America, sometimes (often) I really do love you.

I turned left and saw, in front of me, the ocean. I had no idea where this hostel was located, but it couldn't be in a better spot. Ten minutes had me walking on the sand, where my mind was overcome with thoughts of everything that the last three months had brought me. I was reminded of walking the beach in Florida, but then I was transported to Dune 45 in Namibia, before being swept away to the blowing dunes of Peru. These thoughts will accompany my actions for the rest of ever. And it will be strange to discover when they pop up. Vodka and snowballs will most likely bring me to Antarctica, next winter.

I dragged myself to the present, attempting to experience it for all it was worth. A sixteen year old, with a girl in her early thirties, was dragging along a little girl. All of them were dressed in what I believe to be the national outfit for this beach – bikini top, and jean shorts, buttons undone, and opened. I wondered for a moment – was I seeing three generations together?

On the pier, I walked to the end, watching as lifeguards attempted to save a rather obese woman, collapsed on the ground. The officers with them walked up to us and said – word for word - “Move along folks, nothing to see here.” Then he swaggled towards us, hands on his hips. Television could not have set it any better.

On my way back, I heard the sound of children singing. No less than thirteen six year old girls, with faces painted like those I saw in certain colour and luminescence related districts of greater Holland, wearing green and black mini dresses, danced in line, bumping and gyrating, while singing about how they weren't girls anymore, and needed to be treated that way. The fifteen seconds I spent videoing this, as proof that such a thing did occur, was the most awkward and creepiest moment I'd experienced in some time. The fact that others were there simply enjoying the spectacle distressed me nearly as much.

On my way to escape from that nonsense I came across a man wearing a speedo, holding live snakes, while preaching about how He, not he the snake holder, but He the capital H He will save us from our rapture, if only we look and listen. For added impressiveness he did this while balancing on a rubber dodge ball.

Hardly able to process anymore, I headed back to the hostel along the pedestrian street, where I was nearly lost in a flock of breasts, topped with giant lips, which must have had bodies somewhere – I'm sure. My only solace was in the dinosaurs that offered a reprieve. They were made from bushes, and brass, and whatever else dinosaurs could be made from. There, by one, I saw another potential triple generation, where i would be older than the eldest in the lot.

With much work, I made my way through a side street and back to the hostel.

There, I was gifted with three dollar all you can eat pasta, garlic bread, and lemonaid. Lemonaid? Please. I made it for you. You are my best friend.

A donut on the pier ran more than this.

Over food I heard about the American health care issue from the Americans (I did not bring this up – but had been wondering of it for so long.) You know – when they talk, you really can see the problems with the Canadian system. Still, I told him – as his argument started to persuade me – I prefer to have a system that will sew all my fingers back on, rather than making me pick and choose which to save.

However, without that, we never would have had The Ringer.