There are bikers outside my window. And here in America, it seems that all bikers are of the bandana-wearing, heavily bearded variety. Thank god I’m on the second floor of the hostel.
It’s 3am here in San Diego, and about 7pm in Australia. The seventeen or so hour time difference has made sleep almost impossible. To pass the time, I’m looking down on the patrons of Sloppy Joe’s Pizza and Pasta Joint, Nicky Rotten’s Bar and Grill and The Whiskey Girl nightclub.
And, because I am frustratingly, painfully underage, I’m not out there enjoying a casual drink, I’m sitting up here watching them and listening to my two Welsh roommates exclaim over the size of the large Cokes they bought at Burger King (which honestly look like they’d hold more Coke than I could drink in a week). And losing half my body weight in sweat at the same time. For $35 per night, it was a major oversight for me to expect air conditioning.
So I’m boiling to death and down to the bare minimum of clothes you can wear when sharing a room with six strangers who don’t all speak your language. It seems I’ve flown right into the middle of a dry, sweltering southern Californian summer, where even walking the two blocks from here to Wal-Mart causes serious sunburn—something that I learnt the hard way yesterday.
I’m sunburnt, jetlagged, exhausted and just completely amazed at the sheer volume of this country. And this is just the first three days. Tomorrow I’m moving to my dormitory on campus—which I was told today is on frat row. We’ll see how that turns out.
My plan after finishing this was to make a fifth attempt at getting some sleep. But now, inexplicably, someone has started playing the guitar on the street below. And apparently I’m not the only one who’s unhappy about it. The bikers are yelling and swearing, gunning their Harley Davidsons under my window.