Having tracked us down to our Venice Beach digs, The Cadillac Hotel, Alisha chirpily told us that it was in an area frequented by crackheads and was infamous for its prostitution and bed-bug problem (the two may not be unrelated). Luckily, the place appears to have been renovated since it picked up that unsavoury reputation, and was pleasant enough. The part of the Venice Beach boardwalk the hotel sits on is a bit grotty though, with hobos emerging from their sleeping bags under palm trees each morning. The boardwalk in general is a bit like a sunny and tanned Camden market, except with more medicinal marijuana clinics, and one stroll along it on our first morning was enough for me.

Luckily Charlie and Alisha were there to rescue us from the beach, and we had our first home cooked meal for months at their place in Marina Del Rey. We were also taken to some great restaurants, including one for lunch in Los Feliz, where I ate a "Hearty Texas Omelette" that stayed with me for some time to follow, took a good few years off my life whilst giving inches to my waistline. But, with its double cheese, avocado, chili and cream, it had to be ordered.



One morning I drove The Beast around to Charlie and Alisha's and then had to follow Alisha in her Lexus as we headed for the Hollywood sign. I cautiously maneuvered The Beast onto the freeway, which was screaming with traffic, as Alisha phoned Charlie (who was sitting next to me) and told him to tell me to stop driving like a pensioner. But the freeway was a piece of cake compared to the narrow winding streets leading up to the Hollywood Hills. By the time we had reached the sign I decided that The Beast was just too wide to properly enjoy driving. I didn't want to be forever worrying about knocking off wing mirrors. So Charlie and I headed back to LAX and I traded The Beast in for a Gold Ford Escape with a tan leather interior.

Other highlights of LA included watching dolphins playing around off Manhattan Beach, and a Clippers v Oklahoma City Thunder basketball game (National Anthem, Cheeleaders, Beer, Hotdog), which I was lucky enough to go to with Charlie, while George got drunk with Alisha in Venice. And then, very quickly it was time to board our new gold car and head out of town. A final breakfast helping Milla eat her pancake shaped like a bear's head (banana nose, grape eyes, orange slice mouth), and then out onto the Pacific Coast Highway, with no real idea of where we were going to spend the night.

We landed that afternoon in a town called Cambria, full of antique shops, and stayed in a very pretty independent motel on the edge of town. It was here when it struck us: we were suddenly on our own, on the road, struggling with American petrol stations (effectively you can't start pumping until the attendant is satisfied you're not going to scarper without paying) and how much to tip in restaurants (in LA C&A had guided us through this minefield).

Cambria is at the south end of the Big Sur stretch of coastal highway. Before setting off the morning after we left LA, we grabbed coffee in town. Unfortunately, the barista hadn't put the lid on mine properly, and as I drank I became aware of a growing hot damp sensation in my lap (no tip for her). Meanwhile George, who has been for the last few weeks exclaiming at random moments how she was looking forward to using her new thermos to drink hot coffee from during long car journeys, carefully filled up the thermos for the first time, only to discover an hour down the road that it had gone stone cold. We decided that it probably wasn't a thermos, but a canteen for keeping drinks cold. In the shadow of such inauspicious coffee based omens, we set off up the pretty ocean road. It is a spectacular drive, taking in windy hill passes, an elephant seal colony, inaccessible beaches and blankets of wild flowers. We noted the "Road Closed" signs every 50 miles or so, cheefully preparing for the imminent detour. Unfortunately, 200 miles north of Cambria, for the first time one of the signs also bluntly informed us "No Detour". And 9 miles later, sure enough, there was the end of the road, with no detour in sight. In fact the only way to get to San Franscisco was drive 200 miles all the way back to Cambria and find an alternative route. So, not a flawless start to a road trip, but at least the 400 superfluous miles we drove were through beautiful country.