'Overcast' is the only word that encapsulates just how San Francisco appeared, as I and the city apportioned this morning. The sky scene transmitted a monotonous wash of grey; paler in places and more defined in others, and perhaps the worst thing, it looked like it was here for the long haul. I say the Greyhound was vacant, but almost immediately post my boarding, a young looking guy came and sat in the aisle adjacent to me. I knew instantly that he was one of these travelling conversationalists, who would neglect any seat on offer if it wasn't beside another already taken. I caught eye contact, saluted a friendly "Good Morning" and then in a blink we had shot off, on a shuttle of varying topics, exchanging our own personal viewpoints and eventually finding our many mutualities. In the time it took us to cross the Bay Bridge, we had shared sentiments on city culture, the forever impending doom of the homeless, and were gradually wading deeper into philosophical arguments, ending with him observing that the clouds were always changing, and comparing this to life. I was tired and somewhat still amazed as to how rapidly the conversation had become so abstract, and not desiring a whole journey discussing the similarities between weather phenomena and existence, I uttered a simple "yes, that's quite something". It wasn't that I didn't want to have a conversation with him, but just that I didn't feel inspired enough to contemplate at such a high level, and the depressing weather wasn't helping with that.
Our journey's route never really left the city, or if it did, it only strayed half a mile out, before crossing the borders of another. And what was perhaps most interesting of all, is that we seemed to be commuting through the most disagreeable cities that California is unfortunate to have on the map. They all lacked an arguably pertinent aspect that every city should aspire to have: life. San Jose, for example; our hurried parade through its avenues seemed out of place with what seemed a lifeless city. Pavements appeared- from my angle anyway- deserted, and every building no matter how large and enterprising it looked, had not a single light on, and I don't think it's got anything to do with being environmentally green. It was as if the city was under curfew, and then to ensure the scene only grew more disheartening, it began to rain.
I'm not for one moment suggesting these cities have nothing to offer the visitor, and perhaps on a sunny weekday morning, they manifest into a thriving urban hive of entrepreneurial action; maybe life is so frantic here that the population entitle themselves to having these occasional weekends under the duvet, or at the very least, within the confines of their own home.
Columns of darting rain drops slashed my window, and the Greyhound suddenly took an appearance of a large transitory steam room, with every pane of glass gradually forming a film of condensation, limiting my view to only the basic shapes, but as we made our southerly journey, I could tell we weren't off into the depths of the countryside at any time soon. At Santa Cruz, the gentleman beside me bid a farewell greeting and I watched as he was engulfed into the mist. In replacement, on came a couple wearing more metal than you would generally find in any key-cutters; with each step they made up the aisle, there would be this annoying clang where two or more of these metallic embellishments would crash like cymbals. I took a good look; both were adorning more metal in their face than any cutlery drawer would be likely to contain, and if one patch of skin was without a stud or a ring, then the most ghastly of tattoo would fill the gap. I can honestly say that they looked more wrapped in chains than the Jacob Marley's ghost.
It was after our brief visit of Santa Cruz, that I detected through a wall of mist the presence of the countryside. A refreshing change I thought. Yet despite this great expanse of potential fruitfulness, nothing seemed to be growing, nor was there a single cow or sheep, which for land conducive to productivity, seemed a bit of a wasted opportunity.
I arrived promptly after skirting the borders of these natural open spaces (and that seems the most accurate way of describing them) in Salinas, and if San Jose brushed the boundaries of gloom, then Salinas protruded deeply into them. I offered up a couple of dollars in exchange for two cinnamon pastries and hauled my bags out the Greyhound Station- the epitome of cheerlessness- into the now more persistent fall of dreary rain. From Salinas, I would have to take a local bus to Monterey, boarding from Salinas Transit Centre. Don't imagine this place to be a heated lounge, with a friendly arrangement of maps and timetables, and a pleasantly staffed enquiries desk, because it was quite the opposite. Only enhancing the despondency were several evidently homeless men, each muttering their own sermon of curses to the world, and one of them asked me for monetary help to get on the Monterey bus; his bottom lip appearing dissolved. Now, call me what you wish for considering this, but if you haven't enough money to board a bus, what on earth are you going to do when you finally reach the destination, other than find yourself in exactly the same hopeless mess you started off in? It was a thought that I chewed my pastries over. Soon, and to great relief, the bus arrived, and I lugged my baggage to the nearest accessible seat and persisted through a 45 minutes journey.
Once again, no view apart from a various selection of dark oppressive shades so my first view of Monterey only really occurred when I stepped off the bus and into a rather large puddle. From quickly using a nearby map, I realised I was far from being anywhere near the hostel, so scurried around the transit plaza and onto another bus which would take me as near to the hostel as any form of cheap automobile could possibly get to. A short and invigorating hike from the bus stop and I had finally arrived; I let out a short cry of joy and proceeded in to experience the comforts and dramas of yet another American hostel.
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