Pistol-twiddling and drinking gin

The last thing Wies said before we left Los Angeles was fuck Los Angeles. That's just the kind of city it is. And now that we're 400 miles north, we're being invited back down that way again by Sam, who says if we make it to Ventura she'll teach us how to pistol-twiddle and drink gin.

A woman on the internet is inviting us down to Ventura, I tell Wies. I don't tell him how close we'll be to LA again. She says she'll teach us how to pistol-twiddle and drink gin.

Okay, says Wies, who is of a temperate nature and really likes drinking gin. Let the pistol-twiddling begin.

Turns out America is a big country. It takes us two days to get to Ventura in the Hopemobile, along the Big Sur coast, and by the time we arrive it's long past sunset; the moon lighting up the night sky behind Sam's big house on the hill.

Are you sure we have the right place? asks Wies, shining the flashlight on the mail-box at the bottom of the drive. Yes, it's the right place. But the house is dark and silent, everything closed up and nobody home. We sneak around the back, shine the flashlight through a window into an empty room. I scream and jump back as a black-widow spider drops down from its web and creeps off across the yard.

I met a man from Texas last night who supposed that staying with people off the internet must surely be the most dangerous way to travel. Do I think it's dangerous? No, people are just people. Maybe you're going to meet some of your best new friends. He'd looked dubious. Okay, or maybe you're going to find yourself creeping around someone's yard with a flashlight and a black-widow spider late at night. But maybe that's exactly what you always wanted out of a trip to America, hey.

Annie? says Wies. I don't think this is their house. I think this is just the garden shed.