My trip to San Diego is to visit the AUM friends that I mentioned in my Christmas letter last year. Some of them live in America so those are the ones I am visiting, but some of the Australians will be here too. A nice feature of Americans is that they have a very accepting nature and don't seem to mind hosting Australians. I flew Air New Zealand as I was away so much last year, this trip puts me in silver status which means a free upgrade (see my blog about when I got a free upgrade) and a visit to the Koru lounge with free chocolate fish. I hope my hair doesn't turn silver.
The plane was full. A bunch (note use of local lingo) of Rotary exchange students were in front and a 36 strong barber shop group (I thought they were usually quartets - my how things have changed) were to my right, all under 18 and apparently on their first trip out of town. One young island boy was clutching a large oak and metal crucifix, about 15 inches high. I guess it gave him some comfort to know that he was being looked after while away from his whanau. I watched a movie about Zuckerberg or whatever his name is and felt much better afterwards, as I now know I could not have invented Facebook as I am far too nice and as it happens, also not smart enough. I sat in seat 65B, right at the back, because I booked my seat only 4 weeks ago, straight after the Barber shop 36tet and the Rotarians, so I had to listen to the conversations of the people hanging out at the back of the plane all night, and I can tell you now that people don't talk about very interesting things while they are getting exercise on a plane. I guess they are too busy flexing and extending their calves. The best thing about the flight was that I got plenty of Lindauer with my evening meal (see photo), but the coffee was awful. I must write and tell Mr Air New Zealand to get some decent coffee. I didn't really get much sleep but it was okay.
Since my last visit to LAX they have smartened things up a bit. Perhaps they heard back that I have been avoiding America because the airport staff were so rude on my last visit. One of the barber shop boys took a photo and was hustled out the back and told that if he took another one they would confiscate his camera and send him back to NZ. Of course that made him instantly famous with the rest of his party but I did mention to them they should take the airport staff seriously because they can be quite mean. However, this time they weren't. They took my photo (my PR manager said it would be okay so long as they didn't sell it) and finger prints and I sailed through without having to tell them why I was visiting America or what my real job was, which was lucky, because I might have got one of them wrong.
If you want to go to San Diego by train from LAX, here's what you do. You ask someone what to do like this: 'How do I get to San Diego by train?. Don't be put off by the answer, which is 'There ain't no train to San Diego'. This just means your question has to be asked again. So try this: 'How do I get to the train station from here, so I can catch a train to San Diego?' The answer will be this: 'Go outside and look for a Flyaway bus - probably green. Catch it to Union Street Station - that's where the train to San Diego leaves from'. So that's what I did. The bus runs every half hour and costs $7. You don't pay the driver, but pay at the other end. When I got to the other end, the driver gave me a red ticket and told me to give it to the man in the ticket box, who would sell me a ticket, which could be used to get my bags back, which would be held as a kind of ransom. He told everyone this on his microphone because it applied to everyone - not just me.
Before I left New Zealand I had gone through my coin collection and gathered up a bunch (local lingo again) of American coins, which I felt should be returned to their rightful home. After all, what right do we have to hoard other people's property? However, the ticket box man was not terribly impressed when I emptied out a wallet full of quarters, but in due course he correctly identified 28 of them as American property, and gave me a ticket in exchange for them, which turned out to be the same value as my luggage, as I was able to exchange the ticket for my luggage. Americans love exchange games. Personally I think I got the better deal.
I was sorry my luggage had bad wheels, as I had to walk around the station, then underground to the ticket office. My red bag was in an Auckland bag hospital having its wheels looked at after its trip to the UK last year (which quite tired it out), so I had a boring blue bag from the luggage shop. Everything is very big here, including the walk at the station. At the ticket office I was asked for $21 and made the decision not to pay in coins which was probably quite wise. The woman asked me for ID and I made another good decision, which was not to lecture her about the freedom to walk around without ID as it probably wasn't her idea, but I did make a diary not talk to Obama about it some time. He really needs to attend to some of this stuff. She looked at my ID and gasped, then looked back at me. By this time I had noted that I was the only person in LA with grey hair, and was beginning to wonder if I looked a bit odd to everyone else. Hopefully my leopard skin harem pants helped me blend in. She said 'you're not a senior, you're under 62', and I confirmed that she was correct, but pointed out that I had not claimed to be anything I wasn't. Sort of. Then she charged me another $4 which I think was for being underage, but for all I know, it was for being a foreigner, or was perhaps a tax for having grey hair. My silver status was imminent.
Union Street Station is
very beautiful - looks like a sort of 1930s art deco design, and well worth a visit which is good, as I had plenty of time to admire it, having arrived at the same time as a train was leaving for San Diego, but without me. I bought a postcard for my mother and enjoyed the station. In due course a lady with an important looking hat and driving a sort of indoor train thing arrived, and called for passengers for San Diego, so I fronted up, alongside a young man also heading in the same direction. The nice lady told him to wait in line, as she was just collecting people with disabilities, and then picked up my suitcase and told me to get up on to a seat. Grey hair was making a comeback. She drove four of us (and our luggage) to the platform, which was deserted, being far too dangerous a place for people to loiter on while waiting for trains. The others were old and infirm, just like me. Then (this gets better) she got my suitcase and told me not to go upstairs (double decker trains like in Sydney) but to follow her, found me a seat marked 'reserved for people with disabilities' and said 'sit there', and then she put my suitcase away. I tried to look disabled but wasn't sure what to do, so I just smiled happily at her. She put a green card in the slot above my seat. I this this meant I could work in America now.The train took two hours, mostly going through city, with a bit of deserty looking country just north of San Diego. Sit on the right if you want to look at the sea and don't mind the sun, and get off at Solana Beach if you want to visit my AUM friends.
