Leaving Los Angeles

There's a man in the corner of Los Angeles Greyhound bus station whose entire face is bleeding. I don't know which is scarier: that a man's entire face is bleeding, or that he's playing a slot machine, trying to pick up some kind of stuffed animal with a metal claw. You know, the one that you never, ever win on, no matter how many coins you put in. It's like Shaun of the Dead in here tonight; just us and a handful of zombies shuffling around in the flourescent light.

Which do you prefer, I ask Wies. Downtown LA's Greyhound station or the luxury penthouse suite we had in Santa Monica last night?

Wies just gives me a look. How long until our bus leaves?

Another three hours. Turns out LA isn't all palm trees and cocktails, after all. Not like last night at the Georgian Hotel, where we were shown wide-eyed like a pair of ragamuffins into the suite on the 8th floor, overlooking the beach and Malibu's golden sunset. The room was donated to us by another blogger, Suzanne, whose husband owns hotels across southern California. Bloggers take note! Spilling your guts all over the internet could be worth it, after all.

We tried to be cool in the hotel, really, we tried to be posh, but I think we gave it away when we asked for directions to the Greyhound. Don't you fall asleep on that night-bus! warned the bellman. Great. Which do I prefer? Spending eight hours awake on a night-bus or falling asleep and getting my head sawn off?

Don't worry about that, says Wies. That man is in jail now. And anyway, you can sit beside the window. I'll protect you.

Which do I prefer? Getting my head sawn off on a Greyhound bus or waking up and seeing one of my best friends getting his head sawn off on a Greyhound bus? Eventually I decide on the latter and let Wies sit next to the aisle. When I wake up, some hours later, I see he's moved to the empty seat across the way, stretched out and sleeping. But I don't care. We're arriving into San Francisco, crossing the bay just as the sun is coming up behind the skyscrapers. The man with the bleeding face is two seats behind me, snoring gently, his wound stitched up and a pink stuffed animal tucked underneath his arm.