SCHOLARSHIP DAY 115: My Last Greyhound Trip- Monterey to L.A

John Steinbeck once wrote, and I quote from Travels with Charley: in Search of America (my latest inspiring reading material) that "we do not take a trip; a trip takes us". And after much contemplation, I have come to agree with that. This whizz around the United States, my four month Gap Scholarship from the Royal Geographical Society, was pondered, proposed, and planned in student common rooms, under the comforts of my own duvet, on long and tedious bus journeys, and in various cafes and restaurant establishments. But 115 days ago, my life and luggage were taken from the comforts of the United Kingdom, and the 'trip' has led the way ever since. I've been escorted by taxis, directed by maps, conducted by trains, piloted by planes, convoyed by buses; all of which, may I add, have took me into the unknown. The trip has taken me far and wide, below ground, above ground, on water, and in the air. Today it would take me to one of the most prolific cities in the world; the epitome of art and fashion, a centrality for business and enterprise, the second most populous city in the United States, and the first in the state of California. And yet, with all this prestige, it's commonly recalled not by it's full name, but its applauded initials: L.A.

I was led to Santa Barbara's Greyhound Station by way of a typically enduring stretch of sidewalk, under an uncharacteristic blanket of cloud. It was still early and yet street activity suggested otherwise; recycling factories were filtering and processing, community skate-boarders were proceeding smoothly over the pavements, and the local community centre looked almost at rush hour although after their mention on last night's news bulletin, who can blame them? Traffic lights were employed in directing early morning cruisers and their automobiles to their desired destinations, and local police were engaged in a series of dutiful round trips of the city.

This theme of morningtide commotion was only enhanced at the Greyhound Station, as crowds exercised their maximum efforts to board whatever coach would lead them to their families for the Christmas period. What's more, this hub of Greyhound passengers were slowly amalgamating with the Amtrak Train travellers, which made my approach to the coach desk all the more frustrating. I hurled my baggage to the end of the queue and awaited my turn with the gentleman on reception. In front, a man swivelled to face me, and my still half-asleep eyes. Nonetheless, he decided to embark on a scrutiny: "Where ya come frum?" (it's always an assured conversation starter.) "Norfolk, in the UK" I admitted, but this only manifested a flummoxed expression. He paused, and then proceeded with another line of enquiry: "I'm prett' gud a rock bans- what's...Norfolk....what's Norfolk produced?" How quickly a gentleman I confused with a place name, can come back and baffle me too?! I honestly- and even now as I type- cannot think of a single famous band Norfolk has churned, but upholding a look of authority, I replied: "Know David Bowie? He once wrote 'Norfolk Broads' in one of his songs...I think it's 'Life on Mars'!" (I was right.) This seemed to close up that avenue of the conversation, so he delved into his own recent history, namely announcing today was his first day out of a seven month prison sentence. "A changed man?" I enquired. "I hop so....I sur hop so..." And with that, it was his turn at the desk, and I re-immersed myself with solitary travel.

My consultation with the reception desk went smoothly, which was surprising considering the fact this was the man who refused to accept my 'Discovery Pass' the other day, and had just overbooked another coach, which led to a cohort of agitated passengers now filing through into the station, protesting their anger, and wondering as to who was going to have to give up their seat. Feeling fortunate not to be in such early morning anxiety, I boarded my coach; it wasn't vacant by any means, but I had a few window seats to select from. Before long, we were off, and I signalled a farewell to Santa Barbara.

We passed through Oxnard and North Hollywood, dispatching a few travellers and in exchange gained a few new faces. Our journey ventured once more through a labyrinth of landscapes and I applaud the Greyhound for managing to do this on each and every journey I've executed with the company. There's always something to see out of the window; we cruised a coastal road for a stretch, then abruptly negotiated an inward turning and soon we found ourselves in a valley, enclosed amongst two steep lightly vegetated hill side flanks. Our route continued to stir the imagination, as we departed from the undulations and voyaged across flat farmland terrain. And all within a couple of hours! Oxnard didn't harvest much excitement, I have to admit. I don't know whether it was just too much road, or row upon row of similarly designed buildings; I can't place my finger on it.

Eventually, and eagerly anticipated, we were coasting through Los Angeles. I turned my eyes from Steinbeck to skyline, and immediately I was presented with some of the most iconic names in history. A street sign to Sunset Boulevard. Directions to Beverley Hills. And the infamous Hollywood sign on the hillside. All of which I savoured without photography; that will come later. We made a few unmemorable turnings, weaved our way through the cars parked in the middle of the road (known by optimists as a steadily building queue) and without further ado, we were at the Greyhound station. And there, my last Greyhound trip, had made an immediate termination. Up to my own devices again.

It seems odd to think that I have come all the way from Seattle- a total distance of about 1100 miles over the last four weeks- to reach Los Angeles, and then almost immediately escape it. However, such is the case that my hostel is in Santa Monica; a coastal district west of downtown, southwest of Hollywood and a truly unfavourable bus ride from pretty much anywhere, as I would now find out. Google directed me to take Bus 60, and from my map, it seemed a pleasurable journey. I left the Greyhound complex, and immediately coming into view was Bus 60, so I made an instinctive decision to board it. And the problems only erupted from then on. My first issue was one with my own Geography skills; yes I had boarded Bus 60 as recommended, but the wrong Bus 60, which was now transporting me in the opposite direction, east rather than my desired westerly route. Slowly, yet surely, what had once seemed to be a most agreeable looking form of public service, was now transporting me into the depths of a bewildering urban territory; L.A. was one place I didn't want to get lost in. Upon this choleric realisation, I rose to my weary feet, and shifted my way through a party of other travellers, towards the exit, and cursing my way out of the doors, I touched down on more unfamiliar concrete. This was an uncharted area of the city in my perspective as I had no maps to associate it with. Fortunately, I spied upon a 'Bus 60' sign on the opposite side of the street, and negotiated a crossing. After all this time travelling, it felt like I hadn't learnt a thing.

Bus 60- the desirable one- approached almost as soon as I found the other stretch of pavement, and before I long, I was being shuttled up and down streets; all of which, needless to say, were equally dynamic. This was a very engaged city, and Bus 60 began to feel the very essence, as more and more passengers came aboard, and few left. I was now being thrusted and throttled, wedged and wringed; my face being compressed upon the bus timetables, so hard that I expected the route maps to be imprinted across my profile. With my torso now employed in the most uncomfortable contortions, I decided that, although it was taking me in an entirely undesirable direction, the first bus I boarded was much better.

With much delight, (and I think my blood vessels were relieved too) I was released to exit the bus, and ahead of me, I could spot the hostel. After a brief interchange with the reception- including the turning down of two offers to help the receptionist with the consumption of chocolate coated popcorn- I located my room and made an eager pursuit of the shower. What Steinbeck so clearly excluded from his doctrine, was that although "the trip takes us", it does so with an unpredictable degree of discomfort.