аЯрЁБс>ўџ MOўџџџLџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџьЅС7 №ПQObjbjUU &`7|7|QKџџџџџџlАААААААФ    * $ФqЖZ Z Z Z Z Z Z Z №ђђђђђђ$' GRАZ Z Z Z Z > ААZ Z +> > > Z фАZ АZ №> Z №> В> №АА№Z N  †быПСФZ > №№A0q№™> ™№> ФФААААйSan Simeon. I was supposed to go yesterday, Saturday, but you know how these things turn out, what with one thing and another, so much to do, to get ready. So Sunday it would be. I had risen reasonably early, put my apartment in order and headed off towards the parking lot. I decided not to take my camera. This was not, as it turns out a smart move, although, like a lot of my decisions, it seemed to be so at the time. Like most Southern California mornings it was a warm and sunny day, despite being in mid November, as I traipsed down the steps of the former hotel. Built during the boom times of California’s early days, the timber framed complex had initially been a winter retreat for affluent East Coast magnets, before being commandeered during the 2nd World War by the military for officers to convalesce after the trauma of Pacific combat. My landlady still earns a decent drink out of the spooky tales of room 225. Opposite, the airport bus was just pulling out from the Hilton, a reminder that in three weeks time my entry visa was up and I’d have to head off back home. My car was parked in the underground car park of another nearby hotel, just around the corner from Los Robles and she started first time, an ominous beginning. She’d be playing up for the past month, first the brakes had failed on me twice in recent weeks and the radiator leek was getting worse, but all seemed smooth turned on the radio and drove out into the LA haze. Still I’d had almost six months out of her, not bad I suppose for a $500 dollar car, I mused. She must have heard me. As I cut across Raymond to take the 210 west, she started to cut out. Like a 60 a day smoker on the day before her 90th birthday she began to splutter to a halt. The on ramp saved me. The downhill coast onto the freeway injected some new life into her and she picked up the pace. Soon we were heading west past the edge city of Glendale, skirting the outer perimeter of Hollywood’s Studio City and out into the boondocks they call ‘The Valley’ via a bumpy concrete waveguide called the Ventura freeway. One of my dreams was about to come true. Ever since I first heard it, way back in the hippie afterglow the early seventies, I had always wanted to drive along this stretch of freeway listening to Ventura Highway by America. Of course the song is wrongly named, twice. It should be Freeway not Highway, and it actually refers to Highway 1, the Coast Highway, which this road eventually blends into. My radio obliged and the luscious George Martin produced sound percolated through the dashboard. One toilet break and several hours later, the concrete barriers and suburban prefabrication gave way to rolling hills and ranches. Still no sign of the ocean, but the map, or as much of it as I could make out without completely blocking the windscreen, reassured me I was on the right track. Eventually she was coaxed (although with much grunting and groaning) to the top of a long mountainous stretch, and there, at the end of the valley below, lay our first sight of the sea, shimmering like a transporter beam in the morning light. We made good speed from here on up the western side of America, helped again, no doubt, by the steep downhill ride to the valley floor. An average of about 70 mph and the old gal really seemed to be enjoying it. No temper tantrums from the temperature gauge and, well I didn’t need brakes just yet. Probably not a good idea to try them at this moment, I might lose the downhill momentum. The straight inland power track, criss-crossed by staccato transmission lines and cheap low structures started to give way to greener, user-friendly pastures and pastimes and soon, by mid-morning Santa Barbara had snuck up. I’d been here before for a day out, so I knew where to park and pee, and was in and out of the town before she knew I’d put her into ‘Park’. Sneaky, but she’s never been quick. At 200 miles (return), this had been the outer limit of my roaming to date. The previous owner had warned me never to dare take her over 300, but, with only a few weeks left here I thought I’d push on. Now the Coast road really started to become more imaginative from here on: Knolls poked their inquisitive heads up thousands of feet through the valley floor, hang gliders hung over the ocean, the old coast railway, perched on wooden trestles above, struggled to stay with us, and the ocean rocks below began to live up to their sea spray reputation. America is full of weird and wonderful contradictions and absurdities. One such was upon us. Right in the middle of our thrust up the coast, the highway comes to a juddering halt and in a matter of yards we slow down to walking pace for what can best be described as a country crossroad bisecting our progress. I half expected to see a farmer and a flock of sheep waddling across our way. A few yards further on, it then starts up again, as though nothing untoward had occurred. The twilight zone atmosphere was highlighted by the radio’s insistence on losing it’s music in the ether and replacing it with either static or the latest album from Radiohead. But we came through and a swift retuning of reality on the other side allowed us to make good time. To drive the 400 odd miles to San Francisco had been my goal, but that had meant starting out yesterday to do the round trip in two days, so now I was just driving for the fun of it, pushing the envelope and soaking in the sights. Lunch loomed, and as the view settled into beach hamlets, long sandy stretches and gentle slopes, an unexpected sign caught my eye: San Simeon, next right. Perfect. I’d heard about the castle of course, although my view of it was coloured by European prejudices against non-inherited grandeur. Built by the newspaper magnate Randolph Hearst over several decades San Simeon was never finished, but still found immortality in the classic movie ‘Citizen Kane’, Orson Wells’ unequalled masterpiece. Like a demob suit, the film was loosely fitted around his power based life, his excess’s and the tempestuous relationship with his mistress, and Hearst had threatened to have every print of the far from flattering biog burnt. Luckily the course of cinema history ran over those rocks and Wells’ innovative direction, stunning use of camera and original narrative style unleashed a torrent of innovation and imagination into the mainstream of this most popular of entertainments. The castle itself, or a least a distorted facsimile of it, had dominated the film’s mise en scene. So there it was, a destination for me. Plus it was by now well past midday. There had been a restaurant area about half a mile back, overlooking the beach, so I did a u-turn and headed back for a meal break. There was plenty of parking so I gave the old gal a rest and headed first for the beach. It is always my intention ‘to touch the water’ whenever I’m near the sea, and so I was determined to dip my toe in the ocean, a habit I’d not been cured of ever since, as a child and against my mother’s advice, I braved the icy seas off Blackpool and came out blue. And so, boots socks off and jeans rolled up to the knee I spent a few minutes paddling around, fulfilling my obligations. Inside, and replete with the required ice blocks for feet, the smoked glass windows lent to a spectacular view of the sun over the Pacific and I ordered my usual of chile burger and fries. The sun arced slowly down across the sky, and, heavier and sated, I headed off to storm the castle. The road wound up from the beach and came to rest about halfway up the hillside to a staging area. There were not too many cars where I parked, so I left her to sit and admire the view, and rose up the stairs to pay my fee. There was a museum, a cinema, the obligatory trinket shops and a viewing platform from where you can view the castle, it’s grounds et al through a telescope. There were three types of tours, each covering a different aspect of the house, all reasonably priced, so I took pot luck and plumbed for tour number one. Although it felt like queuing up at the zoo, the wait was short and I soon we were off on the winding, four mile drive to the top. The road up was winding and dangerous, with sharp turns and steep drops, but our driver reassured us that she had done this a thousand times before and her running commentary, if a little dry, gave us a fascinating historical background to the estate: the species of imported animals still roaming free, the guests who took wrong turns on the way up, and the inevitable consequences of both. The house itself was magnificent. Our tour guide entertaining, without being too Disney over the top, entertained us and kept us moving at a reasonable pace. We started out in the sumptuous guest houses, very rich, and the colonial elegance on display was a taste of things to come. As we round the corner I had to suppress the urge to reach for my camera The main house itself is stunning. Reminiscent of an Italian church, the faчade in itself is overpowering, and our guide elaborated on the unfinished history of the place. Hearst constantly embroidered added and to his masterpiece and never lived to see it completed. Eventually, after his death, the estate was passed over to the State as a heritage monument, although as part of the agreement his descendants do still have prime access to the site, for parties and recreation. Inside the opulence is almost overwhelming. A real eclectic blend of cultures from across the globe, the interior is very old money stately home but way way excessive in a beautiful blend, like a dark rich cake. The movie short-changes you by using the sparseness and vastness of the building’s interior to overpower you. But the real thing floods your senses with dark imagery and colourful imagination. The ceiling alone was imported whole from Europe and then extended to fit the room. The long dining room had an typical dinner service laid out and the castle has it’s own cinema playing, naturally, a brief history of Hearst in his modest home. Outside we come upon the magnificent Greco/Roman pool. With strict instructions not to go near the perfectly smooth surface we gaze in awe at the marble columns lining the edge. As perfect as a computer animation. The beautiful blue sky day begins to close and the sunset beckons. As the sun starts to dip into the Pacific it’s blood red rays filter through the colonnade and melt over the pool. Spectacular and our guide lets us linger a little longer than usual, before ushering us off to see the final pool. My regrets at not having my camera with me rose to the surface, before floundering in the deep end. This is an indoor one, below the tennis courts, less ornate than the others but heated for the winter months. It’s crowning glory is the mosaic tiles adorning the bottom, which, combined with the water’s lensing effect gives a stunning triomph de l’oie. We leave, a couple of hours older, and a few generations younger. Our bus driver continues to entertain as we wind our way down. Past the now empty zoo, highlighted in the movie, past the old airstrip and finally to disembarkation. Now completely dark, I struggle with my one purchase (a large postcard of the Greco/Roman pool) to find my ride home, although with hindsight this would turn out to be a wholly inaccurate turn of phrase. Taking the coast highway back south I studied the map and decided to make the journey more interesting and hopefully shorter by going back down i5. It certainly looked more direct, so I pulled in at a ribbon town to fill up with gas. I also checked to see if my car was doing all right for water. The half inch hole in the radiator seemed to be holding up ok, and I topped up the level just to be sure. I grabbed a Hershey bar when paying and, bumping into the bus driver from San Simeon on my way out, I set off in search of the cross road to the interstate. This part of the coast road has little illumination and I easily missed the unsignposted and under lit turning by about a mile. I turned back and headed inland to pick up the main San Francisco to LA freeway southbound. This not so short cross link wound up and down dale and at times seemed more like a country track. The odd town intersected the route and I kept swapping places with the trucks to keep myself amused but, eventually, the road struggled up and up over the California coast hills, the air cleared and, far from the polluting lights of civilization, the stars came out. Fittingly, the radio had long gone static as I pulled off to one side and got out, just to stare up into space and gaze at the work of the universe’s greatest painter. Years ago, when I first came out to California, I had hitch-hiked across the Rockies. My last ride had come all the way from Oklahoma City some 900 miles, and we had stopped on the interstate for a pee, not too far from here in the mountains above Bakersfield. The view of the heavens was, naturally, of the same magnificence, like someone had dipped a brush in white paint and hurled it against the night sky. I resumed my journey, the old gal still purring away but getting low on gas. I passed a junction and then spotted a filling station ahead. A one horse affair if ever I saw one. I pulled in. The single pump was manual and looked unchanged from the fifties. Eventually I figured it out, filled her up, and then went inside to pay. There was a diner off to the left (closed) and a small convenience store to the right. I picked up some soda and handed over my credit card. My accent giving me away, the gruff old-timer behind the desk asked if I was on vacation. I said no, I was studying film at USC in LA. He nodded and said that he’d had some of my colleagues from USC in here last week, this place being famous an’ all. I looked deliberately around. I gave in. “Famous?”. “Sure,” he said, “look in there.” He pointed to the diner. “OK”, I said, “it’s a diner.”.”No,” he gesticulated, “the poster”. It was a James Dean picture. In fact all the diner was Dean related. I still didn’t get it. I rebuffed. “OK, so it’s James Dean. I have a poster of him on my wall back home.” The old guy leaned over. “You passed a fork in the road a mile or so back?” I nodded in the affirmative. “Well that’s where he died. And this was the last place that he stopped off at to fill her up.” I got it. A holy place. As shrine to one of the icons of my youth. I was honoured. I stepped outside and took a long lingering look back the way I’d come to His final resting place, and noted with irony how I’d just sailed straight through it unawares, just like the other driver so many years before. i5 was not too far away. We coasted down the hills and started to cut through ribbon towns and small industrial hamlets. Eventuaally, the lights of the massive intersection ahead flooded out the last vestige of stars and I picked up the torrent of traffic heading to LA. Rapidly picking up speed, we slotted into the southbound streams and relaxed. At this rate I should make Pasadena before closing time. More fool I. I’d heard about the Grapevine. Only a few weeks prior I’d read a newspaper article describing in detail how drivers underestimate it’s power, forgetting to turnoff their air conditioning and overheat on the long, five mile haul uphill. Had I been paying more attention I would have realised it’s exact location. Sadly I just didn’t realise that it would loom large in my vision: I was about to become it’s latest victim. There I was cruising along at a steadish seventy to eighty or so. I’d been smoothly coasting up this long, straight section, minding my own business and starting to pick up the LA stations again, when, with just ninety miles to go, bang! All my power went. No engine power at all. She began to freewheel and slow down. The electrics were still there but nothing else. No drive and, I was soon to discover, no power steering. There was a turn off to the right: a service area. Pretty rare out here, but my saving grace. Still moving at a liesurely 40mph I wrenched the steering and curved off and up the rise, mercifully hitting all the lights at green, and down the hill before coming to a rest, in a bay in the parking lot. I took stock and vainly retried to start her up. Nothing. For half an hour I tried, mindful of draining the battery, before I decided to let her cool down whilst I went inside to seek help. Inside one of the many customer stores, I delicately explained what had happened. I’m not too sure if it was sarcasm or sympathy, but as “Ahhh, the Grapevine”, pursed from the lips of the staff, the customers demuring in agreement. I now realised where I was, and the foolishness of my attempt hit me smack in the proverbial radiator. The service attendant let me use the phone for free, and gave me the number of a couple of local tow companies. They were not as generous with their resources, and a minimum of $300, just to tow me back to Pasadena, seemed to be the norm. I could buy a new one for that, and for only a few weeks it didn’t seem like good economic sense. After 30 minutes I went back to my car, determined for one last go. Like a long dead corpse wired to the mains, she reluctantly screeched into life. First gear only, she coughed and spluttered her way uphill to the five. It wasn’t to be. The remaining mile or so of the slow Grapevine gradient reeled her in, smoke began to pour from beneath the hood, and she finally gave up the ghost, thankfully, next to an emergency phone and I pulled over onto the hard shoulder. I stepped out and raised the hood. Thick, black smoke ballooned out and, switching on the hazard lights, I picked up the adjacent phone. The highway partol officer was sympathetic, but no help. She said I needed to get off the interstate as soon as possible but she’d notify the relevant patrol. Before I had had time to thank her, a car screeched to a halt. “Hi, do you need a lift?” I thanked the operator for the speed of service, replaced the receiver, said a final farewell to a good friend, and hopped in. “I can drop you off at the next exit.” she said. I thanked her. She was a large lady, perhaps an ex-biker chic, of native American persuasion. We got to talk, and it transpired she was from near to Pasadena. “I can drop you off on Los Robles if you like.” Oh such sweetness and providence, I was still going to make the pub. One car lighter, but what the heck, an experience richer. We made good time. Faster, sleeker and a lot newer than mine we ghosted down the five, past Magic Mountain, past my cousin’s place in La Crescenta and, arriving even sooner than my ex-auto would have, we smoothly pulled into Pasadena. Once home, I made a quick call to the State Troopers, to confirm that I had abandoned the vehicle, that I was OK, and that there would be no problems with the inevitable tow company. They would, I was assured, sell the car at auction and reclaim whatever they could of the tow charge from the sale. She had good tyres and a smart radio, so I reassured them that there was some money in it for them there and retired to the pub to toast a good friend and a sad loss. 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