Auckland, July 2012

Pic of my Quantas Entertainment screen featuring a giant plane that isn't quite to scale on the map.


So after a very long time (I wasn't counting, I wasn't in any fit state to count the numbers beyond my fingers and toes) it came to pass that I landed in Auckland. I had a paranoid moment when I spotted several posters warning instant incarceration / potential death by firing squad if I should bring so much as a seed into the country, so I threw away my pricey nut granola bars before putting my belongings through an X-Ray. It turns out I probably could have just declared them and carried on, but I don't think I was capable of salient thought or speech at the time.

Sailing through immigration with some friendly advice from the officer regarding where I should find jobs, I met Justine Ross, who is a friend of my cousins' side of the family, in the arrivals hall. We had emailed a few months previously and she had been kind enough to offer me a bed for as long as I needed one, and to pick me up from the airport, something I think I will be eternally grateful for! Despite said arrivals hall being about two foot square and containing about 20 people, I failed to spot her until I had looked around the room twice, hauling my beloved backpack on one of those airport trolleys that have a mind of their own (so that's pretty much every trolley, ever).

As Justine drove us along the highway to their home in Coatesville, a small village in the Albany district of Auckland, I got to see some of the 'City of Sails'. Although the wind was up high and it was about to chuck it down, the multitude of sailboats sitting in the harbour looked very pretty, bobbing up and down a little too fiercely in the water for any actual sailing to take place, but pretty all the same. Driving on the left again was somewhat of a novelty, and I was amused to notice that at first glance, New Zealand was as green as the UK, with the same sort of roads, but with American style advertising and signs everywhere. It seems we Brits are about the only Western lot that doesn't go for big, garish signs, which although preferable in an aesthetic sense, is actually less useful as finding things is more difficult. Anyway, that's a jetlagged observation I had, so let's move on.

I couldn't quite believe my eyes when I got to Justine and Al's house - it was enormous, with lovely spacious rooms, beautifully decorated, incredibly clean and tidy - after spending so much time in hostels and tents, it was rather luxurious. I was to stay in their guest room, which had underfloor heating, a walk in wardrobe and an ensuite bathroom! I seem to remember after a delicious cup of tea, which made me feel like I was back at home in Blighty, we chatted about my trip so far in front of a roaring fire in their living room, and I met their son Jamie. We had roast beef, one of many delicious dinners to follow, and I had an early night. Happy not to be surrounded by mental druggies and the clattering din of people playing pool and getting roaringly drunk in the room below me, I slept like a proverbial log.

The next day Justine dropped me off at the shopping complex in Albany. The drizzle persisted, and after a month of gorgeous American sunshine I felt a looming sense of dread that my 'tan' would fade within about three days. Just in case you were wondering, it did. I did some necessary administration including opening a bank account and acquiring an NZ simcard, and then decided to potter down to Auckland CBD on the bus to have a look around and meet up with Bree, who happened to be back in NZ momentarily before going off to China for the forseeable future. Having done little in the way of research before reaching NZ, I was surprised to note that Auckland wasn't a city easily negotiated without a car, and was in fact sprawling and made up of a multitude of districts, all miles apart. After some initial confusion involving a bus map which didn't correspond to any of the stops I was at, I was eventually shepherded onto the right bus by a nice ex-pat British lady and a Maori gent and reached Britomart (aka Auckland CBD) without much more in the way of mishap. It wasn't the most enjoyable afternoon I have ever spent. I wandered about in the drizzle, still a little the worse for wear due to the jetlag, and settled down to have a bowl of pumpkin soup about a five minute walk from the bus stop. I managed to grab some wireless time and get in touch with Bree to agree a meeting place. WiFi in NZ is not a free commodity - pretty much everywhere charges for it and it is slow and prone to lag and cut out during a really important conversation on Skype or when you really want to check your email.

Anyway, after wandering like a wet, lost soul along Queen Street, I happened upon Whitcoulls, which I believe is the NZ equivalent of WHSmiths. In fact, I noted that they sold WHSmiths branded stationery, the really cheapo stuff you can pick up on a 3 for 2 offer all year round, as a premium brand. More well-travelled souls than I, who have been this way down the Southern Hemisphere before, have told tales of NZ being incredibly expensive, much like Australia is at the moment. With almost $2 to 1GBP I didn't find it too horrendous that far, but then I saw how much they were selling books for. Just your average paperback, something that has been in the charts for a few months - prices started at $30. $30! For a book! I decided there and then to look around for a second hand bookshop, and in the meantime I settled myself in a quiet corner and read some dreadful self help book on... well, I can't remember what now. Anyway, it killed time while the rain beat down outside and I was rain jacket-less and waiting for Bree to show up.

She eventually did, after some traffic issues, and I met her boyfriend Hayden and friends Ankit and Sarah, and we headed to a Japanese restaurant to have some warm sake. As it was getting pretty late and I had agreed to head home for dinner with the family, Hayden kindly offered to drop me home and I managed to forget which house they lived at as it was dark by that time, I had only been there once and, let's face it, I am a total dolt.

Guessing the house next door, I rang on the doorbell and started chatting away to the occupant, who asked me if I had got the right house by the time I was midway through a cheerful but vague explanation of my day. Woops. "Justine's house is the next driveway." Oh.

Anyway, I got there eventually, wished Bree all the best with the move, and had another piece of culinary wizardry in the form of fish pie for dinner. I met Jo, Justine and Al's daughter, and we played several rounds of the delightfully named card game 'Shithead' which I'm sure you're all familiar with. As with most card games, it involves trying to pull the rug out from under the feet of your opponent(s).

The next day I spent the morning applying for jobs - I hadn't really thought this bit out. I was planning to be more organised and spend some time in America researching where to look for jobs, what to do etc, but the frenetic pace of the U.S portion of the trip meant that I actually spent all my time just enjoying being there, but I suppose that was the whole point really.

I applied for about ten jobs in Auckland through temp agencies and TradeMe, which is the NZ equivalent of Gumtree and EBay mashed together. I didn't really know when to expect replies, so I left it at that. Justine had mentioned the day before that she was to visit her mother, Mary, in Mount Manganui in the Bay of Plenty area, and would I like to come, to which of course I said yes, so off we went.

I was surprised by how long it took to get there, but NZ isn't so much a network of roads as a couple of major through roads with little ones leading off of it. It's also pretty mountainous, so it takes a while to negotiate your way round. It turned out that I had asked at the right time to be let out for a loo stop, as there wasn't another one for a few hundred miles down the road. There's not much in the way of service stations here, which is a good and bad thing I suppose.

We reached Mary's home at around teatime, and settled in to watch telly for the night. Being the rock'n'roll sort I am, I fell asleep on the sofa at around 8.30pm in front of Masterchef Australia. As the Kiwis say: BOOM.

The next day Justine and I took a day trip to the Rotorua area which is known for its natural thermal pools and hot springs. As you drive over the hill, you can immediately smell a strong eggy, sulphuric whiff which pervades throughout the area. We visited Hell's Gate where we inspected several of the pools, made some traditional Maori carvings (mine a kiwi bird, representing determination and Justine's a hammerhead shark, representing strength) and stuck our feet in some mud which made for much entertainment and skin softening fun. We then visited the Hidden Village which is a village where a pesky nearby volcano exploded over Lake Tarawera and surrounds in the 1800s, killing many people and destroying homes and hotels. We stopped by the lake to see some friendly ducks and swans and then headed back via the shops, where I was able to purchase a Lemon and Paeroa (or 'L&P'), the national soft drink of NZ. As someone who doesn't enjoy fizzy lemon-based drinks it didn't appeal much, but it was worth a go.

We headed back to Mary's and watched some more NZ TV. The TV here is pretty terrible. As the Olympics were on at the time, we were treated to several thousand repeats of Mark Todd's equestrian success, and the joy of news anchors cocking up every five minutes. Each time the weather report came on they would say something wrong or randomly correct themselves, and whenever it came to a reporter interviewing someone in the name of investigative journalism, there would be a stream of invasive and bullying questioning that Paxman himself would be proud of. Bit like Channel 5 really. But what really put the icing on the journalistic cake was the news anchor muttering about the Korean Olympic fencer who got booted out of the semi final: "She should just bugger off really". Stirring stuff.

'Animal Rescue' was another gem, a programme which, yes, was about rescuing animals in distress. An unintentionally hilarious clip featured a drugged up Australian driving his car 100km/h down the emergency lane on the freeway with his parrot attached to the windscreen wipers, accompanied with dramatic string music. The parrot was fine, in case you were wondering, but for some inexplicable reason was handed back to his obviously mentally-incapacitated owner. Aussies eh?

We bid our goodbyes to Mary and headed over to walk up Mount Managnui, grab some fish for lunch and continue on our way back to Coatesville. We drove through Paeroa on our way home, which is the home of Lemon and er... Paeroa. A giant lemon and a lot of yellow banners later, we were out the other side and soon enough, home in time for me to begin an epic sort through of my America snaps and reply to an email offering me an interview in a call centre the next day in Auckland CBD.

I went to the interview, but my heart wasn't really in it. I am so not call centre material. As I read through the script all I could think about were the hundreds of elderly people I would be asked to scam into donating to various Australian charities. However, at the interview I met a nice girl called Kiekie who hailed from Tonga and seemed like fun, and so we hung out for the rest of the day, eating Nandos, drinking coffee and wandering into the modern art gallery to ooh and aah at some very bizarre, toilet themed pieces. It turned out she had never been into an art gallery before and I wasn't sure this was the best one to start with, although it did have some pretty good crazy metalwork piece that I took a crummy photo of on my phone. As I am not really cut out to Brian Sewell-like standards of art criticism, and my cheap K-Mart pumps were cutting into my feet, I decided to call it a day and hopped on the bus back to Coatesville.

I got an email later that day offering me the job, so I guess my script reading must have been... well... accurate. Although, obviously, it's always a nice feeling when you get picked for a job, I had the distinct notion I would probably manage to get myself fired within the week, and, more importantly, I hadn't come all the way to the other side of the world to sit in an office in midwinter and persuade people to part with money they didn't have. Instead, I got online and booked myself a flight to Queenstown in the South Island & three nights' accommodation at a hostel for the following Monday. I had heard murmurings of good chances of employment there, as well as gorgeous mountain ranges and general magnificent scenery, and I really didn't want to impose on the Rosses any longer (though it was hard to leave the luxury room and food behind!).

We spent a leisurely weekend celebrating Al's birthday with a walk on the beach and an excellent lunch up the Skytower, which is the highest building in the Southern Hemisphere, fact fans.

Monday morning rolled round, and Justine dropped me off at the airport with assurances that there was always room for me if it didn't work out in Queenstown, which, when you're zillions of miles from home, is always a comfort. The flight was fortunately uneventful and I found myself in what seemed like a completely different country. I reached the arrivals lounge and saw enormous, craggy, snow-capped mountains looming above a turquoise skyline and a brilliant winter sun, the like of which you really only get in ski resorts, shining with a surprisingly fierce heat. It was also the tiniest airport I have ever been to. I went in one door, almost left without my backpack, and then lugged it out of the exit towards a diminutive stop at which a bus into central Queenstown would hopefully arrive. After a few minutes of mole-like squinting at my bright surrounds, a bus trundled up and I paid my $6 to get into the CBD. The views of Lake Wakatipu and the surrounds on the way in really were magnificent, and I felt a bit more lighthearted at the prospect of randomly wandering about trying to find employment.

I got dropped off outside McDonald's (sigh) and used my guidebook to navigate to the backpacker's hostel where I would be spending every day in Queenstown to date. My initial thoughts upon arriving in Queenstown were 'I'm hungry' and 'Bloody hell, this place is small' in that order. The 'CBD' is about four streets that run parallel to each other and are lined with souvenir shops, restaurants, bars, cafes, and tourist information bureaus that will happily gobble all your cash in return for 30 seconds of sheer hell as you jump from a bridge on a piece of elastic. I have never got the bungy jumping 'thing', and I'm not sure if there's anything to get. I am still trying to work up my nerve to do a skydive, but looking at the prices ($500 odd!) I might leave it until I get to Asia.

Anyway, here I was, and I huffed my way to Bumbles Backpackers, backpack aptly in tow, hoping I'd find somewhere clean, tidy and relatively quiet in which to pass a few nights before I got my really well-paid job and luxury flat (ha!). I was pleasantly surprised when a friendly Irish girl called Fiona checked me in and, after hearing me moan a bit about how I was here to find a job, mentioned that one of the cleaners at the hostel was moving out, and asked if would I like to take their place in return for free accommodation at Bumbles. I agreed pretty much straight away - not knowing when I might make an income again and facing the prospect of paying out around $26-$29 a night for a bed in Queenstown meant money for the next few months was looking tight, and besides, my obsessive tendencies naturally lead towards constantly cleaning and tidying things anyway. I may as well get something out of it. I headed off to Fresh Choice, which appeared to be less expensive and bigger of the two supermarkets in the area, with a light heart and a spring in my step. This was soon dampened by having to carry five shopping bags full of tins all the way back to the hostel, a 15 minute walk away. Doh. I don't know why I didn't just empty my backpack and put it all in there, I don't have these ideas until it's way past the point of being any use. As I was rounding the corner, about 30 seconds away from the front door, one of the bags split and tins rolled all over the pavement. Bollocks.

Then a bizarre thing happened. As I was cursing under my breath, picking up tins and scrabbling about in the gutter, two men with snowboards stopped by to ask if I needed help. Before I could answer, they were swiftly followed by one of the staff in a nearby hotel popping their head out of the door to see if I was ok. A woman appeared ten seconds later waving a spare plastic bag in my face. I was quite taken aback by this display of goodwill - where I come from, I would have probably been stepped over, ignored and my misfortune heartily laughed at. I decided I quite like New Zealand, and managed to drag my shopping into the kitchen and shove it all in the fridge before anything else broke. It was about $70 worth of food. Oh yes, I forgot to mention, food is ridiculously expensive. Even if it's grown in New Zealand. A pepper (or 'capsicum' as they call it in these parts) is about $5. That's over 2.50GBP. For a pepper. Madness! So you can take it as read that I don't eat a whole lot of peppers.

So I was staying in a lovely room facing the lake, with fantastic views of the Remarkables mountain range, but after the initial euphoria at finding I would be able to save a few bob wore off, I sank into a bit of a low. This may have been due, in part, to spending four days getting up early, spending money printing CV after CV, tweaking my CV when I found nobody was interested, writing cover letters, writing more cover letters and wandering from door to door with the following responses:

"We just hired 1 / 2 / 1,800 people" (even in a small corner shop that was clearly run by only one person, ever)
"No, we're trying to find customers" (rookie mistake on my part number 1 - I had turned up when all the jobs ad pretty much been filled or roles were being reduced, as the ski season was trailing off)
"It's a bad time of year to look for work" (in today's economic climate, when is it a good time to look for work?)

Additionally, people in the hostel were always coming and going. I met several cool people, all of whom were only there for a few days and were then booked to move on via some backpackers' bus to Wanaka or Milford Sound or elsewhere. I realised that when you're having a downer, some social stability is always handy, and relied heavily on family and friends back home to be a sounding board to my moans and gripes (thankyou, family and friends back home, as always!). I needed a job in order to meet people that were going to be around for longer than a few days or a week, but I couldn't get one. It was all pretty frustrating.
(N.B: I learned later that four days is an incredibly short time to secure a job in Queenstown, and I was actually very lucky, but at the time it felt like forever and I was miserable).

Things started to look up though. One day, after applying for my 80,000th-odd job, I got an email from a girl called Jodie about being a massage maid at 'Maid to Massage', a company that, like 'Urban Angels' in the UK and Oz, do shoulder massages for people in bars on weekend nights. Yes, initially, I was slightly concerned about the nature of the massage, but Jodie seemed very normal and friendly, and as I had no other money coming in I decided to give it a shot. More on this later...

On my first day's cleaning, at which I was incredibly slow, Fiona called me into Reception as I was walking past, waving a piece of paper. 'Laura! Someone just dropped this off. You should give them a call.' It was an ad for an F&B Attendant (aka a 'Food and Beverage Attendant', aka a waitress) at a hotel up the hill. I ran for my phone and left a message right away, trying to maintain a balance between desperate and enthusiastic and forwarded them one of my many CVs. I got a call back to attend an interview later that day. I scrambled about, attempted to comb my mane into some sort of presentable fashion and jumped into Fiona's car just in time to wheeze into the reception area and announce myself.

It seemed to go well, at any rate, and I was impressed with the place. There was a nice log fire and lots of wood in the bar and restaurant area, which gave the impression of a posh but cosy ski lodge. I didn't think I'd pull it off in a million years with my lack of waitressing experience, but I was over the moon to get an email from the lady who interviewed me saying she was very interested and asked if would I start on Saturday. Wahoooo! There was only a minor ripple of fear at the fact that I have never pulled a pint, couldn't carry three plates and am generally a clumsy git but I decided I would attempt to figure it out later.

So that brings us up to the employment stages of my travel. I have since done slightly more exciting stuff than look for a job, but as my hands are now at the beginning stages of Carpal Tunnel Syndrome from constant bad typing, I will give it a rest here.

San Francisco to Auckland

We were pleasantly surprised by the USA Hostels in San Francisco. I had heard good things about it, so when I booked myself into their 'Economy' room I didn't worry too much about what it might be like, though I suspected it probably wasn't as nice as Brianna's ensuite, girls-only dorm.

I was half right - the room was situated on the ground floor, above the lounge, which was pretty noisy at night (this isn't a problem if you've packed earplugs, which I luckily had), but was really close to the kitchen, where they made pancake batter for guests to use in the morning, and provided breads, fruit and cereal for a semi-decent breakfast. The thing that really bothered me about the room was the stench as I opened the door; the smell of weed was pretty overpowering. The source of this was to become apparent later that day when a greasy, thin man who was probably about my age lumbered in. I attempted a cheerful 'hello' to be met with a grunt, and when I turned around he was gone. Ah, well. The joys of hostelling. You never know who is going to be chucked in with you. My roommates seemed to change every day, and there was only one other girl, Danielle, who I clicked with straight away. She seemed to be doing a similar thing to me, travelling solo before pushing hard with the whole career thing - and she was veering down the path of journalism, so naturally, she also wrote a blog, which I have to say is superior to mine in just about every way.

Anyway, I was in San Francisco, and I'd be damned if I was going to hang around a hostel all day, so Brie and I took off for our semi-planned breakfast (now to be brunch) with some of the girls from our tour. After an abortive attempt to hit Mama's in Washington Square (the prospect of an hour wait in line...) we ended up trudging a fair distance to Boulette's Larder, as Gordon had told me it was good, and if there's one thing that Gordon knows besides how to fix my computer, it's good food. There was a bit of a wait (I had to practically beg them for a table) but it was worth it.

I wasn't disappointed. I spent a hideous amount of money on some very good toast and apricot jam, a coffee and a berry / shortcake / yoghurt combination that was beyond delicious.

Brie and I meandered down the road back towards Union Square, popping into various shops and taking in the sights along the way. We wandered, taking snaps until about 6ish, then headed back to the hostel and enquired about where to buy food for dinner. Unsurprisingly, were directed to the shop across the road which was a) the nearest by a bus ride b) was clearly taking commission as it was a total rip off. We bought the ingredients for the world's most basic pasta dish in order to save money and invited Danielle to join us, which helped with the costs and the enormous amount of food that I had accidentally made.

The next day, I had Alcatraz booked, so I decided to hit the sack early. Weed man wasn't there, but he slipped in at about 7am, and shouted at Danielle for turning on the light at 8.30. He was a total prick, for lack of a better, more polite way of description.

I wolfed down a quick bit of fruit toast and tea for breakfast, and missioned up to Alcatraz, where I enjoyed a pleasant boat ride across the bay, and a brilliant audio tour of the prison itself. There were some informative talks by the National Park rangers who run the place about the Anglin brothers and Frank Morris' escape in 1962 by means of digging a tunnel using spoons, climbing up a ventilation shaft and sailing away on a makeshift raft.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/June_1962_Alcatraz_escape

Evidence released only recently suggests that they were the only prisoners to actually make it away from there the whole time it was a functional prison.

Anyway, I indulged in the full experience and wandered into the solitary confinement cells, took lots of snaps, and a short walk outside to look at the birds and flowers that call Alcatraz their home. It was great - but book a long time ahead if you want to go - quite a few people attempted to get tickets on the day, hoping for cancellations, but I didn't hear of anyone that managed it. At the time, it was sold out until mid August, and this was 23rd July.

The next few days I explored the city on foot and on the buses, which were reasonable and pretty regular. I walked to Lombard Street (the wibbly-wobbly road) and cycled on a tandem bike across the Golden Gate to Sausalito with Brie. I wouldn't rush back onto a tandem - negotiating the slack-jawed tourists walking on the Golden Gate while trying to keep the bike upright was beyond annoying.

Having heard from various people that Haight-Ashbury was my cup of tea, I visited twice during my stay. I absolutely loved it - in fact it was like temptation was sent to me to throw away all my money before I hit New Zealand. Vintage shops, tattoo parlours with rockabilly / pinup clothes and books in them, cafes, bars... I kept uncharacteristically cool about it and didn't buy anything. Mainly because it, like everything else in SF, was all incredibly expensive. I hit the Musee Mechanique, a motley collection of coin operated games and musical instruments. I tried a few of the machines out with the remains of my spare change and enjoyed it all immensely. It was like someone had crammed all the dodgy entertainment of seaside piers across the world into a warehouse. They even had one of those terrifying puppets that predicts the future, like the wizard from the 'Big' film with Tom Hanks. It was creepy, fascinating and really cool in equal measure. I checked out Castro, the gay district, and the Mission too, where I was ripped off by a second hand bookseller. Hey, ho, the trials of the foreigner who is slow with mental arithmetic, eh.

After some excellent Mexican food with Danielle and a beer or two round the corner from our hostel, I spent my last night in San Francisco before bussing it down to Santa Monica. I had planned to drive down the coast to L.A, but I had well overspent my budget by this point, and the bus was only $30 plus 'optional' tip. This was secreted from us almost by force by the unfriendly, Hitler-esque bus driver, Eddy. I wasn't going to miss this rip-off-the-tourists tipping culture, that was for sure.

I sat next to Carmel, a girl from Oakland which is the next city across from SF, and is considerably poorer. She was an LGBT / political activist, and we got chatting about Couchsurfing. She told me her experience of a Couchsurf in Washington, where she walked in on a bunch of naked people scraping wax off of each other. With nowhere else to go, she had to sit in the kitchen with her headphones on until it was all over. I can't say it endeared me to the Couchsurfing community, but I am sure this was a one off bad experience...

The bus journey was dull, so I won't go on about it. I said goodbye to Carmel in downtown L.A and the bus dropped us off in Santa Monica at about 8.30pm. I checked into the Hostels International and had an unsatisfying, but cheap, meal of microwave noodles and went to bed. I forgot I had to check in to my flight to New Zealand, and woke up at about midnight, cursing my idiocy. I couldn't check in for some reason, so I went back to sleep. The next morning, I woke up to the news that my flight had been cancelled. I called STA Travel with a sinking feeling. They assured me they'd sort it out, and to their credit, and after chasing them with a few incredibly expensive phonecalls, they did. I was back on the flight. Feeling cheered by this news, I walked down to Santa Monica Pier and to Venice Beach, where I met a random man called Michael at a cafe. It turned that out he worked in VFX and knew the place where my Mum works, and he invited me to see the Olympic opening ceremony at a nearby bar with his almost-girlfriend Roxanne. We drank beer and chatted in the strong Californian sunshine. It turned out the opening ceremony wasn't going to be on until about 9pm, annoyingly. However, it was amusing watching their clumsy flirting, especially as they were both about 15 years older than me. Roxanne confessed to me after her fourth beer that Michael didn't wine and dine her enough for her to be truely interested in him - I decided to remain neutral and after much 'mmm's and 'aaah's of understanding, decided I probably ought to head back to the hostel, pack my gear and be off to the airport.

I was glad I left when I did. It took over an hour and a half to cross from my hostel to LAX airport, which is only about 22kms. L.A traffic is appalling.

When I eventually got to the airport, I was met with the reality of waiting. I bought an overpriced sandwich and drink from a bar near the gate and watched the opening ceremony. I think I must have been the only Brit in the bar. Me being me, I got a bit tearful and felt a stab of homesickness. I think it was probably because my cousin was dancing in the ceremony and I was in possibly the worst place I could be for such an occasion, in a crap airport bar, by myself. I stopped watching after a while and had a look for somewhere to charge my phone so I could listen to some music on the plane. As every other person at the gate seemed to be Chinese, there were no plug sockets left. This is because every Chinese person I have met travelling appears to have about 5000 gadgets with them that require constant charging. My patience and emotions stretched to a limit, I managed to find a free plug socket in the hallway of the toilet, so I sat there using the free wifi, tramplike, until my phone was charged and my back was sore. Fortunately this took so long that my flight was called and I was able to board the plane and bed down on a window seat for the next ten or so hours. I watched The Godfather and slept a lot. I had to have the subtitles turned on because I couldn't understand Marlon Brando over the hum of the engines. As far as I remember, it was a good film. There was an awkward moment about five hours into the flight when everyone was asleep and I needed to pee, but luckily the couple next to me were kind and didn't mind me poking them in the shoulders and stage whispering in what I hoped was an apologetic fashion that I needed the loo.

I transferred in Sydney in a zombielike state, and waited at a considerably smaller gate for my connecting flight to New Zealand. The truths of economy travel were slowly revealed as the gate filled with people. A screaming baby, probably as sick of flying as I was, a coughing elderly woman, sounding on the verge of croaking it entirely, my complete confusion at crossing the international dateline. For example, which day's pill should I take? There was nothing on the biblical-sized leaflet that is enclosed in every packet to suggest advice in this situation. I decided it was probably best to just sleep on the flight and sort it all out when I landed in Auckland. This was what I did - waking briefly for food and to hear the fifty-odd woman next to me listening to the Spice Girls' Greatest Hits. This wasn't just the jetlag, a quick look at her entertainment screen revealed that I was hearing correctly and wasn't going mad.

After flying over 14,000 km over what was technically two days, I landed in Auckland. And from here, the New Zealand adventure began.

Camp America... Grand Canyon to San Francisco: The End of the Road

I can't really describe the feeling that welled up inside me (apart from an overwhelming urge to visit the loo after the standard few hours of bus journey) when I first saw the Grand Canyon. It was utterly incredible and pretty overwhelming - the literal definition of 'awesome'. It's so vast and so beautiful, it looks like a mocked up backdrop for a fantasy epic film. The photos I got don't do it any justice at all.

As keener members of the group, Julieanne and I wandered along the South Rim of the Canyon to see if we could find a walking track. We came across the trailhead for the Bright Angel track and walked down for about 3/4 of a mile (which doesn't sound much but we had walked for a fair few miles to find the flipping trailhead in the first place). As we were meant to be meeting the others at 6.30 or so to watch the sunset over the Canyon, it seemed prudent to start heading back uphill as soon as possible. Puffed out and sweaty at the top, we rather enjoyed the exercise after all the sitting in a van and pizza eating. Ironically, we were to have pizza (again) for dinner that night, which actually suited us fine as we didn't fancy doing the washing up in our pretty basic campsite. During dinner, Brandon asked us who wanted to join him for a 4.45am start in order to watch the sunrise. Everyone looked at him blankly. Who was he kidding? We had all been getting up at ungodly hours in the morning for about four days on the trot, and fancied a lie in. He looked at us like we were all mad.

'I do this every year. You have to come, it's a once in a lifetime experience!'

Well, I'll give the man his due, he sure knows how to sell a sunrise. So Julie and I decided we would appease him. What was one more early start, eh?

At 4.45am the next day, my alarm went off and I woke with a groan. The tent was wet (as was customary) inside, it was cold outside my extreme 5000 tog nylon sleeping bag and, more to the point, it was still pitch black outside. I heard Julie call for me outside the tent, and with about as much enthusiasm as Droopy, hauled myself out of bed and hustled myself into the van, where Brandon was awake, fresh and bizarrely chipper. Urgh.

I didn't regret my decision. The sunrise really was impressive, even if the cloud cover did spoil the effect slightly. We took a few photos with Julie's 'Stafford's Bar Navan' Irish flag and I got a cheeky shot of our Mormon friend John-Paul, who creepily just happened to turn up at the same time (again).

Brandon took us for breakfast at a nearby restaurant and I experienced biscuits and gravy for the first time. It's a bit like eating undercooked floury scones with creamy meat and herb-flavoured gravy. I wasn't convinced, and consuming it made me feel like an obese trucker, but I was glad for the experience.

After a few of the others did their flight across the Grand Canyon in a helicopter, Brandon picked me, Scott and Kirsty up - it was time for VEGAS. 'Bright lights... big city...' etc.

We had a fair slog of a drive ahead of us, but took in a stop at Delgadillo's Snow Cap along Route 66, one of my favourite snack stops ever. With 'humorous' service involving rubber chickens and fake mustard amongst many other classics, and pretty good burgers to boot, it's worth a visit if you're ever that way with time to spare:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Delgadillo%27s_Snow_Cap_Drive-In

We passed a couple of other un-noteworthy stops, including the world's worst merchandise shop, complete with a snake chalice that was so bad I was tempted to buy it. We had a quick look at the Hoover Dam, but everyone was more interested in what lay ahead. We hurried on to Vegas, all of us (especially those who had never been before) keen to see what it was really like, and wondering what crazy antics were in store that evening.

Well, what a place... hot, desert surround with a giant adult theme park plonked in the middle. A billboard called out 'E-Z Snip - speedy vasectomy service', amongst others which advertised bail bonds, casinos (natch) and online gambling. It wasn't pretty, but it was magnificent.

We arrived at our home for two nights, the Stratosphere, and bought some 'supplies' for the limo, which mainly involved copious amounts of alcohol. Once we'd applied enough makeup to keep Lily Savage in showbiz for a about a decade, we hit the town. As we were busy taking pictures of ourselves before we ended up in a gutter somewhere, someone called out 'Oh my God, that's Too Short!'. I am ashamed to say I think I was the only person who knew who that was (a pretty Z list rapper, in case you were wondering).

We toured around in the limo, which was possibly the most fun ever. Music pounded and lights twinkled in the ceiling - the only downside was that we weren't allowed to stick our heads out of the top like they do in the movies. We consumed large quantities of dodgy fizzy wine, vodka and rum (I think), which resulted in me having to dash off from the 'Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas' sign to pee behind a bush at a busy intersection. Dignified, me.

A slight schoolboy error on my behalf occurred, which involved thinking a UK driver's license would be sufficient enough I.D. for alcohol. It wasn't, and there were no exceptions, they only accepted passports. This probably saved my liver a few cells, so I decided not to worry too much about it, and after seeing the fountains at the Belagio, went off to have a nose at the other hotels and generally marvel at the crassness of it all.

At about 2.30am I found myself back at the Stratosphere with no idea where anyone was, but managed to ascertain that Camilla was on her way back. At about 3am, we decided to hit the local IHOP (International House of Pancakes) which was next to our hotel. It was happily open for the traditional American opening hours of 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, so I wolfed down blueberry pancakes as an early breakfast.

The post-IHOP sleep was long and satisfying, and I woke at 9.30am with a mysterious lack of hangover. This is me though, and as I arrive at all things a bit more slowly than most people, by 2pm I was feeling like death. I also had an unfortunate situation with my left eye - an apparent allergy to American sun cream meant it was swollen to tomato-sized proportions and was pouring with tears. Still, this didn't diminish my visit to Hooters, which is something I have always wanted to do. Thanks to the eye incident, I didn't get a photo with any of the waitresses, which is something I regret, but I do have a natty top from there and a memory of a very reasonable Caesar salad. I then decided to call it all a day and hit the sack, hoping my eye would reduce in size, which it thankfully did.

Dinner that night was courtesy of Buca Di Beppo, which isn't a character from Eastenders' Di Marco family sadly, rather a semi decent chain of Italian restaurants, where they serve you giant bowls on a Lazy Susan. We sat at the best place table in the house, upon which was a large wax bust of the Pope. You can't get more 'Vegas' than that.

After a long and half arsed effort to find Camilla, who had disappeared to the 'New York, New York' hotel to ride the rollercoaster, we gratefully slept one more night in a big double bed each, and then packed up and were off to Death Valley, CA.

Death Valley was very hot, and very dusty. We ponced about on salt flats and took lots of pictures, and I went to the worst long drop in the world, ever (except for the one I was about to experience in Yosemite). The heat had stirred up smells in there that I find it hard to believe could have come from any human being.

Anyway, let's press on. We stayed overnight in 'Brown's Town' campsite in Bishop, where we visited some natural springs after we'd had dinner. The water was lovely, and when a local fireman called Charlie turned up to get in with us, it only got slightly awkward. Daddy B sensed it was time to drag us away, so we went.

This was really only an interim stop before Yosemite, which was as magnificent as we had hoped. Gorgeous redwoods, giant rock formations and twinkling waterfalls met us as we set up camp for the last time(!). We relaxed at the campsite for the night, but got up early to drive across to the Mariposa Grove (giant redwoods), Glacier Point (highest point in Yosemite), and then were left to our own devices for an hour or so. Julieanne decided to keep our energetic reputation intact, and we headed over to Lower Yosemite Fall to climb the rocks and take some pictures.

And then, it was our last night's camping. And what a night. To celebrate our release from the wonderful world of moist tents, smelly rollmats and tripping over rogue guy ropes, we got horrendously drunk on our remaining booze and did iPhone karaoke for the evening. This involves putting an iPhone (or any mp3 player device really, we're not fussy) into a plastic cup and singing along to whatever comes out of it. There was a rap off between myself and Daddy B which was hugely fun and embarrassing, and a general round of high-jinks and merriment.

The next morning, I had promised to provide a fry up, which I only slightly regretted when I crawled out of my sleeping bag at about 7am. As promised, a full English was delivered, and as we were now fully versed with the realities of camp life, nobody really minded when it was served on slightly greasy plastic plates, with crusty cutlery and plastic cups that probably ought to have been incinerated a few days ago. As this was our last day using the equipment, Daddy B set us to washing it all thoroughly. This would have been fine, had our washing facilities been a little less rudimentary than a cold tap set at a height ideal for a small dog to drink from.

However, we soldiered on, hardened against this sort of obstacle, and with much hungover laughing and groaning in equal measure, we managed to wash and dry everything to an adequate standard.

Anyway, enough dull anecdotes about washing, we're headed to San Francisco!

I managed to snag the front seat for the journey, which was an excellent place from which to view Daddy B spilling his entire litre of root beer all over his lap while driving. To his credit, he didn't veer from the road once. This was fortunate, as we were travelling down winding mountain roads with steep crevasses on one side for most of the way. I managed to lose Caitlin's phone down a crack between the dashboard of the car and a plinth in the middle designed for holding miscellaneous items, and only when we took the plinth away from the dashboard did I find it. Luckily it didn't slip any further, or we'd have had to take the entire car apart.

We drove on for a while, I showed everyone some 'hilarious' YouTube videos to keep the spirits up (or to keep myself from feeling quietly nauseous) and soon enough, we were driving over the Bay Bridge into sunny San Francisco. What a sight - I have literally waited years to see it for real. Afternoon sunlight twinkled invitingly over the bay, and I could see all the things I had heard of from Gordon and other friends who had been here before: Alcatraz Island, home of the notorious prison, the Golden Gate bridge (magnificent), the gorgeous, European style buildings lining each street, the trams... I took it in and drank it all up. We drove on to the Golden Gate, and got a few snaps from a hill up the top, including that rather lovely one of me and Ellen pratting about.

There was an air of melancholy about this part - we had come to the end of our journey together - 22 pretty intense days of driving and visiting, all packed together in a baking hot tour van with no choice but to get on. What was nice about the end of the trip was that we did all get on. As we sat in House of Nanking (an excellent Chinese if you're ever in Chinatown by the way) eating our last meal together, laughing at the Jamie Oliver snap that was placed ostentatiously on the wall, we reminisced about the last few weeks with our rose-tinted spectacles on; forgetting all the rancid camping mats, the long drops, the showers with weeks of forgotten hair clogging up the plugholes. It really was sad to say goodbye. We gathered in the lobby of our last hotel, the dodgily-located America's Best Value Inn in the Tenderloin, and took a few pictures with Daddy B. A couple of us agreed to go to breakfast the next day, but this was the moment when we had to say goodbye to the group as a whole, to Dad and Ellen and Camilla, who all had to be off early the next day on the next part of their adventure, which is always rubbish when you've really got on and you know you have to move on somewhere else and start all over again. We tried not to drag it out, and after a few of us took a small interlude at a Shisha lounge, we went to bed. As was traditional, I roomed with Brianna, and fortunately as we had both booked into the same hostel we still had a few days in each other's company.

And seeing as I liked San Francisco so much, I'm going to give it it's own blog post...