Next step forward

It's all so close but so far away: The blues in Clarksdale Mississippi, the natural wonders of the South and Southwest, the countless friendly people who opened their doors to us, micro-brewed beer and taking overpriced, sugary shots at bars across the country.

That's been replaced with watching VHS videos in the van while throwing back 40s of Olde English and Country Club just to pass the time.

Somehow the epic journey that was Tangents & Tollbooths has dissolved into me being homeless in Berkeley, California. I sleep in a -- though it's not really cute anymore now that the road trip is over -- and just wait for someone to buy this road trip machine and take it on a new adventure. When the van is sold, I'll finally be able to take my next step forward.

You'd think that the mounting bills that I can't afford to pay, or even just the fact that I live in a van, might make me reconsider the path I took to get to this point. But I don't.

Life is a beautiful thing. And yes, I occasionally long for the comfort of a bed or a toilet, but I recognize that I traded it in for something greater. I've met hundreds of people who have all changed me in some way. If I'm lucky I may have changed a person or two. I imagine I have.

If the world is looking out for me the van will sell for enough money to keep me out here in California forever. If not, I suppose I'll be able to put new tires on my car and afford gas to take the humbling drive across country back to my parents house where I will start widdling away my debt and planning my next move.

I've been trying to think of something profound to say during our silence, but I can't really. All I can say is that I've never truly felt alive until I said goodbye to a world of comfort. Seek situations that make you feel out of place, awkward, scared or even just different. It doesn't have to be shucking your whole life for a cross-country tour; start small if you must. Start a conversation with a girl who is too good looking for you (we all know there's no such thing). Host a couchsurfer. Sign up for an open mic. Whatever. It might hurt a little bit, but those are just growing pains.

To put it simply, thank you for reading. I hope we entertained you, informed you, shared the beauty of the country with you, or otherwise... even if only for a second.

If you ever decide to have your own adventure or want to crash at my van in Berkeley, California just e-mail me: andrewwarner2@gmail.com.

Good lucky and happy travels... and always remember who you wanted to be.

Mixing with the locals... and Berkeley's finest

Andy almost had to register as a sex offender last night. Well that's a bit misleading, the officer didn't push the issue so he was lucky. But let's just say he put the penal in California Penal Code Section 314.

The locals here are friendly... Real friendly...

Props to the BPD for being understanding, it would be a sad day if Andy had to go door to door the next time he settled somewhere.

I got the story after the fact as I was exiled to the bitter cold of late night Berkeley. I simply can't believe that a town as progressive as this one doesn't have one coffee house or bar that stays open later than 12:30 a.m. on a Sunday. I was forced to come to this realization during a three hour aimless walk that culminated in Andy calling me to say he had almost been arrested.

The details may be too much for this blog, but let's just say last night was one of the more fun and interesting we've had.

The Bay Area has been love hate for me. For one it's impossible to park here. We literally have spent hours searching for any kind of place to put the van legal or otherwise. Driving is hell. The San Fran driver easily wins the award for most daring cut offs and best use of excessive horn.

That being said there are a lot of good things. We have met a ton of people. One aging metal musician with stringy brown hair and faded tattoos told me about his days doing heroin and meth over strong pints of Titanium Ale at Triple Rock Brewery and then proceeded to take us on a tour of the warehouse he used to live in in Oakland. It was filled with drunken long haired rocker types. One girl with a face full of spiked metal decided we didn't look tough enough and tried to get everyone there to fight us. Luckily no one took the bait. Maybe it was even luckier for us that she didn't try herself. I think she could have taken me.

Two other young college coeds struck up conversation with us after passing the van and seeing us in the middle of White Trash Night*. Andy showed them some magic and they showed him a phone number. The next night we were eating grilled vegetables and sipping wine in their apartment.

While the Bay hasn't been the mecca I imagined it would be (few things ever are) it is still a pretty wonderful place. I'm excited to move on but I know I'll be sad to see the Golden Gate fading in the rearview.



*With our finances running thin instead of hitting the bars we have taken to hitting 40s of Miller High Life in the van and running through our VHS collection. Pure class I know.

Another Picture Post

Hoover Dam and the desert sky

The Getty Museum, Santa Monica and the Pacific Coast Highway

Wine Tasting at Bonny Doon and some randomness

Next big thing?

In Santa Cruz we couchsurfed with an awesome guy named Jeremy. He had 5 roommates in a 3 bedroom house. One of them was Johanna Lefever, a singer/songwriter with a sweet voice. Thanks to couchsurfing we'll be able to say we knew her when.

Check her out:

Explosive six packs and chirping mysteries

My voice on the blog has been quiet for awhile. I was about to remedy that when Andy decided to take a roundabout turn at 60. The suggested speed was 20. Disaster ensued.

The bikes dislodged, the change cup toppled in a swash of pennies and our mixed six pack of beers collected from various states careened off into the sideboard.

We stopped to check the damage. Andy opened the side door and the six pack came tumbling out sending explosions of foamy lager into the blue California sky and across the front of my pants.

We're a four beers short, but most of the spillage has been dealt with.

Now we're back on the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) heading north to Hearst Castle. The sun is shining, the weather is cool and the countryside is a beautiful postcard sprawled out in front of us.

The low beach lands of Santa Monica gave way to rocky shores and crashing white caps and now to rolling green hills and craggy cliffs. The PCH took a turn inland so we are getting a taste of what the interior of central California looks like. It's perfect. And there is a bike lane the whole way for those who want to try it on two wheels.

One would be stupid to take I-10 north to San Francisco. There is just to much natural beauty out here.

The van has developed some more interesting noises. Namely a chirping squeal. I hope we don't literally have to ride her until the wheels fall off. The finish line is in sight. I think We'll make it. At least I hope we do.

Home stretch

Tristan and I can now feel the trip coming to a close. By the end of February, which is a very short month, our lives will take different turns to new adventures.

Tristan's planning a trip to India, assuming he can get the proper vaccinations, and I'm trying to figure out how to get my two cats and the rest of my stuff out to Los Angeles without having to go back to Ohio.

But in the meantime we are finishing the trip in style, with a semi-rushed tour of the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH). Yesterday we put LA in the rearview and moved on to the swankier, almost livelier Santa Monica. We watched the Super Bowl at the legendary Big Dean's Muscle-In Cafe. It was a New York Giants bar that was packed front to back with hordes of New York transplants. We cheered for the Patriots. Girls dressed in NY red and blue taunted us and made fun of Tom Brady. We taunted back since victory was a sure thing for the Patriots. The bar and all its customers had the last laugh. As we tried to cash out our tabs and take the walk of shame out of the place, a girl ran up to the bar, no doubt a regular customer, and told the bartender not to let us leave so we would have to watch them celebrate.

Frank Sinatra's New York, New York played as the Giants fans soaked each other with $4 bottles of Bud Light.

We're in Ventura, California right now about to head further up the coast, probably crashing in Big Sur for the night before tackling San Francisco for a few days. Couchsurfing in San Francisco looks like it will be more of a pain than it's worth -- big cities usually are -- so we'll have to find another way to shower and hope it's not too cold in the van.

Trying to get out of Vegas

One thing I've noticed about Vegas is that its luster tends to wear off after a couple days. Unless you're a millionaire you're going to run out of money or run out of things to do.

Us, we're mostly just running out of things to do as we cling tightly to our money. The shows are expensive and we can't afford to sit at the gaming tables all day.

So we're trying to move on. We've spent the last two days dealing with mechanics trying to figure out a vibration in our van. Two mechanics and $300 dollars later we still have a seats that feel like massage chairs with a dying battery -- not as nice as it sounds. And like most things in Vegas tend to give us, we have the taste of being swindled in our mouths.

Right now we're trying to decide whether we should go back to LA and experience it with the sun shining and the residents not hiding from the unfamiliar rain, or go take our chances with the snowy freezing weather of Salt Lake City.

Let us know if you have an opinion.