Through the Mojave Desert

I spend the night in bed with two cats. When you wake up and don’t know where you are, a purr like that is really nice. In the morning I almost look like a cat myself, I’m so full of hair. But it was worth it. I drive off to Gregg’s sound selection on the local radio station KCPR.

I still don’t have any stays for the whole week. I only have two cancellations from hostels for Las Vegas. So I have to organise it in the evening when I arrive. I hate that. Always stressful. It’s gone wrong a few times and usually makes everything even more expensive.

I drive through the hills behind the coast of central California. First forest, then savannah, then steppe, followed by pure desert. I see four cars in 80 miles. At lunchtime I close the top of the convertible again, my head is boiling. It was stupid to set off without water. Correct the mistake in a nameless desert town. I treat myself to a corn dog. Also a mistake, as I realise three hours later. I’ve had more stomach cramps from petrol station food in the USA than from all the food hazards in the Dominican Republic put together.

From Bakersfield onwards, it’s all Interstates. It’s getting hotter and hotter. The top score is 109° F (43° C) at Death Valley in the Mojave Desert. I don’t care about the convertible now, but good air conditioning is worth its weight in gold. Up to Las Vegas, the road climbs to over 1500 metres several times. Every few hundred metres there are hot cars on the side of the road. The gaps get smaller with every climb. At the end, I see tow trucks with two cars on the hook.

There have already been several traffic jams in the opposite lane towards LA. 20 miles before Las Vegas, I get caught out too. I’m stuck in a traffic jam in the Mojave Desert. Even Rammstein on full blast doesn’t help. Glowing frustration. I wish I had Hunter S. Thompson as my passenger. Right next to the interstate runs the completely free old highway. Funnily enough, not marked on any map. Tip: leave the interstate at Primm. At least when travelling on a Friday. I congratulate myself on my decision to drive back from Salt Lake City to Los Angeles in a rush on the 17th. 13 hours without traffic jams. More like 18. Meal time.

After an hour I’m off again. Arriving in Las Vegas, I look for an open WiFi spot. Over an hour and a half. Everything closed, secured, logins. Even in the otherwise free residential areas. I don’t find an open spot until eight o’clock. Cheapest stay: USAhostel far away from the Strip for $28. No matter. Can’t do any more. I book a day.

I get myself a pizza and join a couple of French guys by the pool. They don’t need a rideshare tomorrow, they have a car for three. Much cheaper than mine and with GPS. I’m really frustrated and feel pretty alone. Water is sprayed at the pool. Drops in the air, which is still 37° at 10pm. I’m cold. Time for Death Valley.

Addendum. 5:00 in the morning. I’ve picked up a few habits over the last few years. I’m happy about the first flatmate in my four-bedroom at 0:30. Not at all about the next two at 4.30am. They quietly open the door, then quietly open their zips, quietly rummage through rustling plastic bags. They quietly make up their squeaky beds, quietly switch on the noisy shower vent. Shower quietly, fart quietly, talk quietly. Everything so considerately slow that they are ready for bed after half an hour. Then they try (very quietly) to understand how their lock on the steel locker works.

Finally awake. I’m fuming inside. Go outside. Smoke. I get an email from a host in Las Vegas. Yes, I’ve found another place to stay. Thank you. In a few hours at nine, I’ll switch off my alarm clock very quietly. It’s set for eight.