Grand Canyon
Heading to the populated locality of Grand Canyon City, almost on the border of Arizona and Nevada, we started with U.S. Route 89, and in Cameron City switched to local road 64. Along the way we examined the canyon of the Little Colorado River. For a warm-up, so to speak. To be honest, we looked into this yawning abyss, at the bottom of which nothing can be discerned, and it became a bit uneasy. What kind of monster, we think, is this Grand Canyon, if what we saw is considered a pygmy in comparison with it? We finally got to see it! The Grand Canyon is something unimaginable: it is so wide that its many-hundred-meter depth does not frighten you, and the opposite bank is barely discernible in the hazy shimmer. Alas, even after flying over it in a helicopter, it is impossible to tell what the Grand Canyon is. You have to see it. I felt a similar sensation when I first saw Lake Baikal. In essence, the Grand Canyon is the same Baikal, only without water.
Being under the impression, we almost missed the turn from Interstate Route 40 (onto which we had returned via road 64) to U.S. Route 93, leading to Las Vegas. We had to brake sharply and, spraying gravel from the roadside like a fountain, fit into the turn. Oh, how I do not recommend you to make mistakes with turns on American highways! At minimum, you will have to drive to the next populated locality. The driver of the truck following us - a multi-ton machine with a braking distance of about two hundred meters - was so frightened that he literally hung on the siren pull and did not let it go for about ten minutes. To our "joy" was added the fact that at that very turn there was a police car. Moreover, the police officer in it was a woman. Couldn't be worse. But additionally, she was also an African American. We were warned that they are distinguished by particular zeal and fierceness. Well, what a coincidence! We drove through six states - not a single policeman, and at the most inopportune moment - she appears like a jack-in-the-box. I looked in the rearview mirror - she was following us. There was nothing to do; I set the speed allowed on this type of road - 60 miles per hour - and rolled along, waiting for her to signal me to stop with her flasher. I look, the police car began to lag behind little by little and disappeared from sight. Only upon arriving in Los Angeles did they explain to me that a sharp turn in itself is not a violation of traffic rules, and the policewoman, after thinking it over, decided not to "get at" me, so as not to be accused herself of violating my civil rights. If only it were like that with us.
Las Vegas
The road to Las Vegas runs through the Nevada desert. Not the coziest place, I'll tell you. Particularly unpleasant is Death Valley - the heat pole of the USA. On all sides, as far as the eye can see, is violet-red earth. There are some scrawny plants, like sea urchins, like tumbleweed, or withered cacti, and no living creatures. No birds, no animals. No cars either. Of course, the Pontiac is reliable, but you never know... I remembered how in Pueblo (Colorado) the airbag deployment indicator lit up in it. Worried by this circumstance, I turned to a local driver for advice, and he laughs. Don't take it to heart, he says, it's an American car; it will settle down. A fine thing. What if something happens right here and it doesn't "settle down"? Thank God, it worked out, and we reached the sea without incident on the outskirts of the world's gambling capital. The sea is artificial. It was formed by a grandiose, enormous-height dam of a hydroelectric power station, squeezed in a mountain gorge. From the power station stretches a high-voltage line, located on horizontal poles attached to sheer cliffs. Unusual.
And here at last is the point of attraction for fortune hunters - Las Vegas. A typical nouveau riche: rich and tasteless. We couldn't find a decent motel right away. Along the road there were some that were absent from the ranking recommended to us. We drove on and almost in the very center found a familiar "seven". Only in Las Vegas did we come across a motel inside the city. The city is small, approximately 14 by 14 miles, and the central part, where the gambling establishments are mainly located, is quite tiny. But everywhere neon, sparkling and shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow. And wherever you look, casinos flaunt themselves. A bit to the side are palace hotels. No, not even palaces, but fairy-tale castles with their own parks, fountains and waterfalls. We visited one of them. More precisely, its sushi bar. Since the trip by taxi took five minutes, on the way back we decided to walk and got lost, which is practically impossible to do in Las Vegas. More precisely, we clearly imagined that we needed to turn right, and in a hundred meters there would be the main street. However, we could not do so because of a continuous fence four human heights tall, with no end or edge to it. Later it turned out that this was a sound barrier along the highway.
After wandering for a couple of hours, we surrendered to the mercy of a young merry fellow at some shabby gas station, and he gave us a ride to the motel. The ride was unforgettable. The car rattled with all its gouty joints, the door had to be held so it wouldn't open in the most inappropriate place, the engine, lacking a muffler, roared and belched clouds of smoke, the steering wheel had to be turned constantly, keeping the vehicle from threatening swerving. Only the powerful speakers functioned properly, easily drowning out all sounds.
Having finally arrived at the motel and caught our breath, we headed to the gambling establishments. In the roulette hall, hearing Russian speech, an old lady approached us. She turned out to be an emigrant who had left her homeland with her aristocratic parents in 1918. Having asked whether perestroika gave hope for the return of ancestral lands and estates, she told us that she plays roulette eight hours a day, five times a week. "With an iron backside," this relic of autocracy declared to us, "you can add a couple of hundred bucks a week to your pension. You just have to limit yourself to bets on color, the probability of which can be predicted." I tried online poker, and it works. Only the winnings are measly. To achieve a result with this method of play, you really need a lot of time.
After a general introduction to the gaming amusements, we rested and, closer to lunch, set out on Interstate Route No. 15 to head to Los Angeles.
Los Angeles
Hot — about 40 degrees Celsius in the shade. Five minutes outside the car, and it’s as if you’ve been in a microwave oven. Without climate control, it would be tough. On the approach to Los Angeles, we hit a traffic jam for the first time. It was Sunday, people were returning from the weekend. Everywhere there were trailers, with boats, launches, jet skis, and even a light aircraft in tow. One guy managed to load a convertible, two motorcycles, and bicycles onto a wheeled platform attached to a motorized trailer. Clearly, a lover of diverse recreation. But there, quite out of place, was a trailer, and on it an ancient Ford.
In America there is generally a cult of automobiles; as for very old and classic models from the 1950s, there is simply silent adoration here. Years are spent on restoration, only to later take your darling for a ride on a cart like that. To air it out and show it to people.
Because of the traffic jam, we missed the exit onto Interstate No. 10 and ended up in a Latin American neighborhood. We tried to ask directions from clearly stoned guys. They demanded (for the information) 50 cents and waved their hand in a direction that, it seemed to me, was completely useless to us. I listened to my intuition and turned out to be right. Two minutes later we were already moving in the right direction. In Los Angeles, this episode was explained to us as follows: it turns out that we were given the wrong direction, most likely deliberately. Soon we would have been intercepted and... Who would go looking for foreigners?
Interstate Route No. 10 runs almost through the center of downtown Los Angeles, and soon we find ourselves in the Santa Monica area to drop anchor at the Georgia Hotel. The hotel is old and famous for having been stayed at by Al Capone.
I called Santa Monica a district and should be subjected to ostracism and auto-da-fé for sacrilege. For Americans, it’s a city. Just like Pasadena, Glendale, or Hollywood. Greater Los Angeles consists of such cities, which are in essence cottage settlements. True, you can’t call Santa Monica a settlement. Still, it’s an urban area. But Hollywood clearly measures up to a city. It has something like a high-rise downtown and a wealthy suburb — Beverly Hills, a world-famous habitat of show business stars.
Having refreshed ourselves in the Pacific Ocean, on the shore of which (Pacific Av.) stands the Georgia Hotel, we headed there. Accustomed to feeling like free Cossacks, we did not buy a guidebook. Therefore, visiting Beverly Hills turned from an excursion into an ordinary walk. After admiring the wealth and beauty of the villas, we never learned who lives in which. But is it really important?
From Beverly Hills we headed to the very heart of Hollywood — to the Chinese Theatre. We trampled along the Walk of Fame, tried our hands against the handprints. We checked in at the wax museum. Dolls are dolls. The sculptor who made Schwarzenegger as Conan the Barbarian had little familiarity with anatomy. Clint Eastwood has a hole in his mouth intended for a cigar. Someone swiped the cigar. The composition 'The Last Supper' is done well, but the entire table before Christ and his apostles is strewn with one-cent coins. Why such sacrilege, one might ask. In general, not impressive. But I liked the Holliwood Galary cinema. A good specimen of technical design.
We spent the evening on Third Street in Santa Monica; after dinner, we strolled along the promenade and went to bed. In the morning we were to visit Malibu and Disneyland. But we visited neither Malibu (is our beach any worse?) nor Disneyland (what would we do there without kids?). We decided to relax on our own beach. And we didn’t regret it. Actually, why look for another place if we’re here for the first time too? Meanwhile, there are magnificent rides, arcade machines; you can rent a boat, a jet ski, or go water skiing. Santa Monica Beach has the largest Ferris wheel. In the evening at the hotel — a tasting of California wines.
In the morning — a buffet breakfast. I asked for a boiled egg. For half an hour I tried to explain to a Latin American what I meant. I got through... after the maître d' arrived. The egg was brought along with a bill for $15. Special order! A dollar each to the bellhop who delivered the luggage and to the valet who brought the car around, and five minutes later we were on our way.
San Francisco
The road is stunning. On the left is a picturesque ocean shore, on the right are endless vineyards, orchards, vegetable plantations, and melon fields. All of this is constantly watered. Now it became clear why berries, vegetables, and fruits in the USA are unbearably sour. The only thing that excessive watering could not spoil is oranges. Their juice is excellent. I strongly recommend.
So, we are driving along a luxurious road, admiring the ocean, the delightful diversity of the coastline, and ahead is San Francisco - the final point of our route. We arrived late in the evening and checked into a motel. We decided not to go to a restaurant. We sit, drinking, snacking on a giant pizza received as a reward for ordering the same for lunch. Suddenly my gaze falls on the advertising brochures taken from the porter, and uneasy suspicions creep into my soul. I call the reception - and indeed, it is not San Francisco at all, but San Jose, located 32 km from the destination.
Since the motel was paid for until the evening of the next day, we decided to look around first. We left early in the morning and arrived in San Francisco twenty minutes later, which stunned us to the core. This is undoubtedly the most beautiful city in the USA and one of the most beautiful cities in the world. And it is not the unique multi-kilometer cable bridge Golden Gate spanning the bay, nor the prison island Alcatraz, nor the charming old trams (cable cars) moving by means of movable cables located underground that determine the face of this city. Rather, it is the magnificent architecture of houses, which in a completely amazing way are lined up in ensembles along streets of unimaginable steepness. The angle of their inclination is sometimes so great that the road, like a skier, is forced to descend in zigzags. And flowers, a sea of living flowers. In parks and gardens, on balconies, fences and walls of houses. If there are cities in paradise, they must look like San Francisco.
The two days spent here are among the happiest in my life. Carefreeness, contemplation of a city of unearthly beauty - what else is needed for complete happiness?! For this alone it was worth making a journey of 10,000 km.
The next morning we returned the rental car, paid for it, and in a car kindly provided by the rental agency, arrived at the airport to fly to Amsterdam on a KLM Dutch Airlines flight, and from there - to our homeland.