We're not in Berkeley anymore.

Yesterday I woke up far too early with a little more tequila in me than I would have wanted. The fog had rolled into Berkeley and everything was grey. The Oakland Greyhound station is in a beautiful old building with a round atrium and two very friendly security guards. The sight of the hills disappearing in the grey morning made me want to cry. I would have wept buckets if I had known that the quality of coffee outside Berkeley just does not match up.

The little tin can bus we were traveling through the California plains in was also a little sub-par, and the AC was not quite up to scratch. As we toddled along I was reminded of lobsters in a pot, heat slowly rising until they are boiled alive. LA was oddly lovely. I guess they wrote the (metaphorical) book on urban beauty, right? The bus smashed into the back of a car in front as we were leaving LA, so we spent an hour and a half sitting, waiting, while police, ambulance, firemen came and went. Our names and addresses were taken by a very good looking poilceman. I finished my book, and spent the rest of the journey gazing out as dusk turned into night, watching the lights of the cars. I love California.