L.A. Story

I’d visited Los Angeles once before, a couple of weeks earlier when I’d arrived fresh off the plane from Hong Kong. Well actually, nobody’s really all that fresh after they’ve been sat on a plane for eighteen hours, but the point is, while I was still comparatively new to the United States, I was already an old hand at negotiating my way around the City of Angels. OK, that’s not really true either – my experience so far was limited to the shuttle bus ride from the airport to the backpackers’ hostel, the area around Hollywood Boulevard and a day trip to Venice beach. There’s only so much you can do in L.A. in three days when you don’t have a car.

This time however, I was just paying a flying visit, arriving on the Greyhound bus in the early morning hours, leaving by the same method late that night. I would have been quite happy not to return at all except me dear ol’ Mum had sent a birthday present to the central post office there and as I’d been out of touch with my family for some weeks, I figured it was worth a side trip to pick it up.

When you tour the United States by Greyhound bus you get to see a side of America of most residents don’t. Most residents are probably unaware this side of America even exists and it’s worth noting that most residents are perfectly OK with that. Greyhound doesn’t run buses to Yosemite, the Grand Canyon or Yellowstone. They do however; service the grottiest, seediest and most dangerous areas of the country’s major cities. Homeless people, alcoholics, the mentally deranged and other colorful characters tend to hang out in the waiting rooms and the sad thing is; those are still much nicer than the neighborhoods immediately outside.

I had three hours to kill before the post office opened and as I knew it wasn’t too far from the bus station, I partook of breakfast while perusing my guide book.

"Upon leaving the station" it read, "be sure to turn left. Turning right will take you into deepest skid row."

That sounded like good advice so turning smartly left, I strode out towards the post office. What the birthday present actually was, has I’m afraid been lost to the mists of time. However, I’m sure I appreciated it on the day. Thanks Mum. Either way, once it had been collected, I had some fourteen hours to kill before my bus out of town. There were two reasons for the late departure; both of them sound. For one, it would allow me to arrive at my next destination in daylight, when it’s far easier to search for accommodation. Secondly, even though I’ve never been great at sleeping while sitting up, it would save me the cost of a room for the night. I had however, decided that roaming the streets after dark wouldn’t be a good idea; even if I stayed to the left of East L.A. so decided to be sure I was back at the Greyhound Station well before sundown.

Downtown Los Angeles doesn’t see too many tourists itself these days and while I learned later that I wasn’t too far from the La Brea tar pits, I had never heard of them at the time and wouldn’t have noticed until I was up to my waist. I killed an hour on the free tour of the Los Angeles Times’ offices which was pretty interesting but other than that, the day passed slowly. Even so, I dawdled somewhat and it was with more than a little alarm I noticed the sun heading swiftly towards where I assumed the Pacific Ocean must be. Time to head back.

I knew the street I needed and had scouted it out earlier in the day. According to my guidebook it was only a little over a mile so I figured twenty minutes, thirty tops. Of course, I didn’t know at the time that the Greyhound Bus station had moved since my guidebook was written. It was still on the same street but a good two miles further along. Never mind "turning right will take you deepest skid row" the bus station was already up to it’s armpits in the ghetto. A fact that became painfully obvious the further I walked and the darker it got.

As evening stole across the streets the hustlers, pimps, dealers and low-lifes materialized around me, presumably from cracks in the walls, all pumped and ready to begin their day.

"Hey white boy! Gringo! Whacha doin’ here?" came the catcalls from the doorways as I strode purposefully down the center of the sidewalk, trying to make it look as if I wasn’t totally lost. Pulling out my guide book didn’t seem like a good idea, nor was asking directions. My money belt dug uncomfortably into my stomach below my T-shirt and I was only too aware just how vulnerable I would be if I didn’t find the bus station soon. Where the hell was it?

Fortunately, I came across a police cruiser. A muscular young guy was spread over its hood and I waited ‘till the cops had finished cuffing him before calling out.

"Is the Greyhound Station this way?"

"Yes," they yelled back "About 1/2 a mile – but hurry!"

They didn’t have to tell me twice and I kicked it up a notch to cover the distance before the atmosphere got even worse.

Finally up ahead, I saw the familiar electric sign of the skinny dog and stepped into the sanctuary. Except it wasn’t much better inside. People screaming, running, fighting and openly dealing drugs. It was like an 18th century insane asylum but without the charm. I sat on one of the hard plastic chairs and buried my head in my book, not making eye contact with anyone. Not even when a chair went sailing past my head. Not even when I had to step around the paramedics treating a stabbing victim on my way to the restroom.

Finally it was boarding time and I took my place on the bus out of that hell hole. A couple of nights later I sat with a bunch of other backpackers watching a movie on a tiny television. It was the usual cliché, about a small town girl desperate to escape and "go to Hollywood".

I couldn’t help thinking, "You know hon, with $60 and a packet of sandwiches, you could be there by tomorrow morning. Go ahead, do it – I dare ya!"