I arrived in Vegas and met up with the guys. I must admit that previous visits to Las Vegas had left me somewhat less than enamoured with the place. However this time Las Vegas appeared to be showing vastly more promise.
Unfortunately a quick visit established that I had perhaps misinterpreted the nature of the service being offered. After a brief argument regarding the virtue of what turned out to be the proprietor's sister I hastily exited the premises and there, I'm afraid to say, any brief feelings I may have been developing for Las Vegas were once again squashed. I just don't think the place is for me. Perhaps it is the forced friendliness of the casino staff compared with the genuine politeness you get from everyone else in the country. Perhaps it was because Sunday and Monday nights are probably the two worst nights to visit a weekend paradise like Las Vegas. Perhaps it is the fact that everyone else seems to come back with stories of amazing free offers, dirt cheap drinks and accommodation, whereas I always seem to encounter the sort of employees who have just broken up with the father of their 5th child and are straight back to work after a 6-day bender, interrupted only, it seems, for the reapplication of makeup at regular intervals, and I am the first person they encounter as they begrudgingly drag themselves back to work. Their overall feeling with their life as I attempt to coax free beers out of them at this time could charitably be described as "unsatisfied". All I know is that as I lay in my hostel dorm bed at 3am, trying to sleep as the local crack whore and her pimp conducted a lengthy argument right below the open window, having been earlier in the night attacked out of nowhere by a fire hydrant which destroyed my bionic knee & left me limping all over the city (OK fine I had managed to score a couple of drinks but they soon dried up once the girl realised she wasn't getting a tip as large as the cost of the drink anyway), I was overcome with the feeling that Vegas & I just don't click. And so when the next day the tour operator failed to pick me up for the only thing I was actually looking forward to doing in Las Vegas – a tour of the impressive Hoover Dam – I have to admit that I was happy once again to see the back of the place.
After Las Vegas the boys and I flew back to San Francisco for a few days. Now this was more like it: wonderful climate, friendly locals, beautiful location. The hostel had a rooftop bar which provided a fantastic backdrop over the San Francisco skyline as we sat with a beer contemplating how much better than work this was. Even the TV news article in the corner indicating that the Australian dollar was now down to US 78c could not dampen our enthusiasm (how much worse could it actually get now?). We later found ourselves at the ubiquitous neighbourhood Irish bar complete with attractive Irish barmaid who, upon discovering us for Australians, clearly thought she had just made her next month's rent in tips and proceeded to chat and flirt her way into our evening. Unfortunately when she felt we had become sufficiently inebriated to start foolishly throwing our money around, and insisted that it must be time for us to start on the shots, we still retained enough of our wits to suggest that if she thought so, then surely the bar should buy them for us?
Well, that was a mistake. The bar did buy them for us, after which we were of course obligated to buy some for us, then the barmaid bought some, then we bought some more, then the bar again, then us again, and eventually we were kicked out at closing time to make our way back to our hostel in a somewhat unsteady fashion. The next morning we had wasted half of one of our 3 days in San Francisco by the time we surfaced, and the Very Loud Precision Stunt Flying Team were practicing for the weekend's air show seemingly directly overhead. After the Vegas crack whore I'd become used to being woken by someone turning tricks outside the window but with a significant hangover and without the snarling unsatisfied waitress-mother, it just wasn't the same. After a few more days in San Francisco, the boys flew back to Australia and I was flying to Houston to catch up with an American friend from Africa.
I had actually been to Houston before, some 10 years ago after summer camp. At that time we stayed at a motel on an interstate exit on the outskirts of the city, which was, looking back, not the most luxurious choice. None of the rooms were kept strictly non-smoking and there were cigarette burns everywhere - on the bedspread, the vanity unit, the TV and, disturbingly, the toilet seat. I know that the bathroom can be a place for zoning out while taking care of business, but the level of distraction required to leave a cigarette smouldering on the seat right between your legs, to the point where it melts through the plastic and leaves an unsightly and very scorched permanent hole, disturbed me. However even this was a minor issue compared with undoubtedly the most bizarre feature of American hospitality: Americans simply cannot - cannot - decide on a single system of taps for a shower. In Australia, you have two tap handles in a shower: one for hot, and one for cold. If you turn one or both of these handles, water will come out. Simple. But in the States, there are knobs and handles and wheels and levers which you have to push, pull, move, twist, turn, adjust or slide in combination to get any water at all. The temperature of the resultant water seems to be random, as does the location from which the water finally appears. It will usually be from the bath tap, and then there will be another secret switch to divert the water up to the shower head. Having spent the previous 4 months dealing with these acknowledgements to American ingenuity and individuality, on this occasion the secret proved beyond me and I ended up just soaking my head under the sink and leaving so my travelling companion did not know that I was defeated once again by the plumbing. So you can understand that I was excited to be going back to Houston, to actually see some of the city, to catch up with my friend, and to have time to learn how to operate the faucet.
With the plane descending into Houston and hopeful visions of non-spicy chicken and cashew net Tex-Mex cuisine strong in my mind, it seems a good time to once again sign off. The US will probably not provide the rich opportunity for updates and stories that Africa did, but I'll keep you guys up to date when there's something to know. As the great Jerry Springer says: 'til next time, take care of yourselves…..and each other.
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