From wild party to wild party via LA

Hello again,

I left you a few weeks ago, on a Thursday, the day I test drove that wide range of cars. Much has happened since then, so read on if you are interested.
The following day, Thomas and I drove to Concord, Jimmy's hometown, where Jimmy's mother took care of us for a couple of nights. Concord stands half an hour away from San Francisco. Going there was a way to save accommodation and food expenses. On the Saturday we went to San Francisco, where we walked around the tourist circuit: SF is a very enjoyable town. It sits on a peninsula sandwiched between the bay and the ocean. Its location brings a frequent fog, that even in the worst of Summer, mellows the temperatures. Its two bridges, the bay and the golden gate are both understandably very famous: they are massive, and from an engineering point of view, they are avant-garde, if obsolete. The bay bridge spans several miles; it takes ten minutes to drive through it, and there is an island in its middle. The golden gate rises out of the fog, majestic in its stature. High-rises are concentrated in the financial district, a typical city centre. Around it though, San Fran sports townhouses lining steep streets. The neutral colours coupled with the homely look and the mild population density makes SF a very humane town. SF can be likened to a townhouse Paris (for the looks and the street feel), with a better weather and a better location, and, of course, better people. Ah its people. Yes, SF is a gay town, and so proud of it. But it's not just that; it's the town of the young and rich, the artists escaping LA, the writers seeking inspiration, the hippies keeping their tradition alive, and the others: the ones who put lifestyle over success. Opportunists, go to LA. Live in constant pollution, in swelling traffic, and dream on, while your body succumbs to frustration. But you who enjoy life, and see it as more of a celebration than a struggle, join your Franciscan community; they're waiting for you.
And all this from a day in the town? The place smells fresh, looks good, and feels energetic; hence the million or so tourists that come every week-end. I actually spent two days in SF. The second was at Dave Matthews Band concert for charity in golden gate park. DMB is a band whose success is hard to believe; their sound, while pleasant, is nothing exceptional; my neighbour in Perth played just as well. But they have embodied a whiplash movement; DMB came through at a time when only rap was made. They fulfilled the need for change and they have ridden the wave of their popularity, making more pleasant songs for ten years now.
I left Concord with a group of about twelve people, and with the rest of the bay area we converged onto SF. That day, there was a bicycle race (Lance Armstrong pulled out at the last moment), a baseball game, a football game and a concert. Trains were packed, roads became gigantic parking lots, occasionally moving, cable cars barely struggled up hills, and we made our way towards the park, slowly. People streamed towards the polo field; we walked past centenarian trees, down a wide grass clearing, us twelve, and the rest in their thousands. We entered the polo field, and made our way, a hundred meters or more from the stage, but only a third of the way down the field. The field and the stands surrounding it filled up. We sat down, laying our blankets, marking our territory, and joining the gigantic picnic/concert. A bit later, a group of exuberant gays sat next to us, and for the rest of the concert, they stripped, danced, and squealed like little girls.
Soon beer flowed, and weed invaded the stadium. 80,000 hippies waiting for the band to come out, basking in the sun, eating, getting drunk, getting stoned, laughing, relaxing, sleeping. The band came out three and a half hours after its schedule time, but no one cared; people stood, clapped, dance, enjoyed the music. The band jammed for almost three hours; Santana joined them, and he added his electric guitar to the violin and the rest. They jammed together. We cheered, we stood, we slept; mainly we enjoyed the whole feel, and let the atmosphere, more than the drugs, loosen our minds.
It took a long time to leave after the band finished. Buses were full, and we missed most of them. But we got back. Exhausted, Thomas and I drove back to Davis. This was on Sunday. On the Tuesday, international orientation started. I socialised for two days, before, bored with it, I stopped attending. Internationals come from all over to study here; some hope to transfer to Berkeley or UCLA, others do their PhD here. I have become a little bit more familiar with the place. Campus is huge, dwarfing any I have been to previously. And the buildings follow the trend. The ARC, activities and recreation centre, is a new building that stretches over 14000 square meters; it was recently finished and cost USD46.5 million dollars. All that money to sport. The civil engineering building is another example; four floors with four meter high ceilings. And brand new.
This was two weeks ago now. Last week, from Monday to Friday, I went to LA, to visit Lucien, a friend who had helped me last time I came to the States. I caught the train there; trains here are much more pleasant than the greyhound bus system. They're roomy and the people don't seem so ganglike. A couple of guys came up to me and we had long chats. The train doesn't go all the way into LA; I had to catch a bus from about two hours outside downtown LA. It took three quarter of an hour to go from the outskirts of LA to downtown LA, and that was travelling mostly on highways. Downtown LA is a fair way from the coast and LA's famous beaches.
LA looks like suburbia gone wrong; nice suburbs are heavily patrolled, the middle class gathers onto the thin fringe, and the rest, well it's better that they not know what they're living in: disguised poverty waving the flag proudly. A tourist here sees Hollywood and Beverly Hills and Bel Air and Malibu; that tourist is stunned, so stunned that, commuting between these points, he does not look to the side of the highways. That tourist leaves LA and spreads the word; go there, you'll love it, he says. Disneyland was hectic but so much fun, he might add. He might tell you about Venice beach, and its open gym, there right in front of everyone. What he won't tell you, is that a street removed from the beach, sandwiched between million-of-dollars home, there exists streets in which I felt like I was back in India; cables dangled from concrete boxes to concrete box, over dimly lit stinking streets. He won't know that, because the dream doesn't mention that.
The all-destroying dream. It is not the typical American dream. It is the dream of fame, that wicked dream. Ambition, I welcome. But that which happens there is wrong; it is the sacrifice of the self to ideal. Over ten million people live in the LA area. I wonder how many, of these, aspire to be writers, actors, directors and producers. No wonder the porn industry is centred around LA; girls failing in normal movies can still "make it" if they take their clothes off. Lucien, the man I was staying with, is a prime example: a bright man from the Ivory Coast who got a scholarship to study in the US, he is now 41 and still pursuing Music. I honestly believe he has talent. But is talent enough to make it in LA? And the strength of the dream is such that Music remains paramount; he is swimming upstream, along with the rest. And there is no one waiting at the top. A long road for a lonely stage.
Since then, I have come back and moved in to an American dorm. This is suitstyle accommodation. 3 rooms, five people, two bathrooms and a lounge. Apartments repeated around a pool in my case, and courts in others. A dining common in the middle, where all three meals are served, with a wide variety of food. This style is not typical: what you usually see on TV is hall-style dorms: people share a room and use a community bathroom at the end of the corridor on their floor. The latter type is a bit more social, and leads to crazy parties. Where I live is a bit more like Dead Man On Campus. Crazy parties happen in fraternities. A frat is a brotherhood set up for some bogus reason, intent on setting drinking records, and getting as many girls as they can. To do that, they live in run-down houses, buy a lot of alcohol and invite girls, the innocent ones, to share their drinks. The girls that stay don't remain innocent. To hide their real purpose, frat brothers invite "everybody". That is how I went to two of those parties.
I can safely say that they were the easiest place to get a girl that I have ever been to. They jump on everybody. And on people with accent, they swarm. A little bit sickening actually. All I have to do is say something, anything. Hello. You're ignorant. And I get the same response. Oh, I love your accent, ohhh (moan). And then it's a snowball effect. Girl after girl after girl.
If you think that is a good thing, think again. Imagine yourself in the same situation. You are in a noisy and dirty place; and they act so happy to see you, all of them. Even the ones you could never care for. It's a bit like the evening after Easter lunch; chocolate lost its appeal.
Classes have started. I am taking two managerial economics classes, mainly because I can. The campus have finally come to life; here roundabouts are a foreign concept, but the civil engineer in charge of Davis' roads is from Hungary, and she imported them. They replace all-way stops on campus, but since no one knows the rules, they are absolute chaos. I've seen a bus half-way through one stop, and let people to its right through.
Chaos happily replaces emptiness. The courses I take seem interesting enough so far; they are far more general than their Australian counterpart.
I think I have finally caught up. Today was my second day of class. I don't have many hours but I already have a few assignments.

Awaiting some news,

Albert