After googling starfishing in bed in order to add a link explaining the term I was astounded to find it means something entirely different. I must be clear, for me, starfishing is an elaborate pastime. It's a cross between lolling around and having the best morning stretch possible. According to Google it means freezing in said position during another popular bedroom pastime. Mad.
Moving on, I enjoyed my belated morning ritual but winced as I knew it would be a while until I could do it again. The closest I come to stretching out in bed is when I reach for the nearest heavy object to lob at the token dorm-room-snorer. Starfish would not be a very apt sea creature to compare myself to at those moments. Perhaps a sole sea cucumber rolling from side to side, searching tirelessly for a comfortable resting position.
Happy times! No I mean that sincerely. When I look back on my travels I may laugh at some of my sleeping situations but they won't be my strongest memories. Although I must say that this conclusion wasn't something that came instantly. Moving from place to place is disorientating. With each day comes a different bed, a different dorm and a different city to contend with. For some strange reason, the one thing I found difficult to attune to has become the very thing I miss the most.
There are plenty of pros and cons to travel but I would say to people, never let something that small hold you back. I've had plenty of people tell me that they couldn't travel the way I have for reasons ranging from not wanting to stay in a hostel to not wanting to travel alone. I do offer my point of view for reassurance but there are times where I feel like my breath has been wasted.
Staying in hotels and only mixing with people from your own country sounds comforting to some put pointless to others. We each make our own happiness but I do believe that the best experiences come from mixing with locals and making friends with people you would never meet at home. It's so enriching and I will cherish my adventures and serendipitous encounters for years to come.
As much as I wanted to starfish in bed and daydream about my past adventures, it was time to get up and get moving. From Las Vegas we would travel on to Bishop via Death Valley.
A knock on the door startled me. Ken was having a lie-in and gave us vouchers for breakfast. I wasn't expecting anyone to come round.
One of the tour passengers smiled as I opened the door. For a brief moment, I thought she'd come over for a chat but that idea was soon dashed. Straight to the point, the girl asked if she could use my notebook to go on Facebook. Wow. No, "Hi, how are you? Did you sleep well?" Just straight to the point, I want something, can you give it to me? Am I wrong for thinking this was all a bit rude?
There was no point in kicking up a fuss as it will only make things worse for me in the long run. I reluctantly handed her my laptop and sat in agitation as my sole connection to the world perched precariously on the girl's lap. Silence. A rare moment in my life where I could not think of anything to say. I'm the queen of waffle, surely I could muster up some weak small talk.
Thankfully only a brief internet visit was needed. I packed my things away and made my way down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast.
Ken's donated vouchers were shared out but part of me wished I hadn't bothered as the service was terrible and the water had a strange aftertaste. They'd put on a compulsory gratuity for added bite. Paying the bill caused more problems as two members of our group only had $100 bills. Alright for some!
As I tried to imagine what a $100 bill looks like, we boarded the bus and headed out to our next stop, Bishop. I tried to find an impressive fact about Bishop but, for us, it was just a place to crash before we ventured further to Yosemite National Park.
Looking out the window, there was nothing separating the sandy landscape and milky-blue sky. Dust clouds danced outside the windows as our bus tore through the gritty terrain. I gazed out at the vacant scenery in hope of a distraction to the bubbling boredom that was rising with the heat. It felt like I was in mirage territory when I saw something which made me jolt upright.
"Stop the bus!!!" The words bellowed out of my mouth before I actually considered the consequences. Everyone on the bus was half asleep, even Ken was startled at my sudden outburst. As we were in the middle of nowhere with no traffic in sight, it wasn't like anyone was going to get hurt as Ken slammed on the brakes obediently.
Lunging for the door, I had no plans on waiting for the dust to settle as I sprang out of the bus. By this time everyone on the bus had woken up a bit more and wondered what the hell was going on. Seeing me run out with my camera made them all the more curious. Cue their disappointment as they saw me take a photo of this...
Come on!
My fellow Brits will understand the hilarity of that surname. You would not be able to walk down any street in Britain with a name like that, and not be jeered. Nobody else saw the humour in this but that didn't stop me. Something as simple as seeing a sign with a ridiculous name on it can make me smile.
The surprises didn't stop there. Our first roadside break came at Death Valley Junction. That statement alone sounds like I'm stood at Devil's crossroads questioning whether I should sell my soul for greater powers. Nothing that exciting, but still worthy of a mention.
Amargosa Opera House can be found here and is a building that holds a mesmerising history. Marta Becket took a camping break in Death Valley back in 1967 with her husband. After finding a flat tire on their trailer, they were directed to Death Valley Junction to get help. It was here where Marta discovered an abandoned theatre.
It was love at first sight, so much so that the next day Marta and her husband organised to rent the place. Marta is a trained dancer and was taking a break from her solo-show tour when she discovered the isolated theatre. Marta gave her first performance at Amargosa on February 10th 1968. Marta performed show after show, whether it was to curious tourists and locals or to nobody at all. It was at this moment where Marta became inspired and decided to paint her very own audience around her. The murals took her four years to complete and a further two years for the ceiling work.
Unfortunately we arrived a little late as Marta had stopped performing a few months earlier. Instead we were shown through to the theatre by a worker from an adjacent hotel. We had free reign, within reason of course.
At first we took photos of the murals and the stage. The room screamed theatre despite the beaten up building exterior. From the red velvet cushioned pull-down seats to the long billowing stage curtains. The murals reminded me of panto season back home. It was more animated than portraiture.
Once we had our photos we descended onto the stage. There was a large black piano at the base of the stage but nobody could play a tune which was a shame. I could attempt chopsticks but felt that I'd probably get a few odd looks. Instead we picked up the props we could find and had a little game of dress-up. The only guy of the group took a particular shine to the feather boa and tiara crown. We all had a go at being theatre royalty until the novelty wore off and the spooky silence and distant echos brought a hint of awkwardness to proceedings.
Before we left, we entered the hotel and the gift shop (naturally). It was here that we realised it was a haunted building. No we didn't see a ghost, well I don't think we did. There was information about it dotted about and something about how a ghost hunt TV show filmed an episode there. We heard stories about a ghost cat, a ghost child and phantom smells (whatever they are). Part of me was interested in the history but I was more fascinated with how everyone who worked there truly believed that the place was haunted and was so passionate about the building's heritage.
It provided a welcome break from the road and the biting heat. We later stopped off at Zabriskie Point. By this point, each sandy mountain looked the same as the next. I got out, took a few photos and went back inside.
Ironically, the billowing landscape was created by water and earthquakes. Pity there's none of that around now, the water, not the earthquakes. I'm parched!
After taking photos purely to say that I was there, I rested in the bus and waited for everyone else. I felt like such a wimp as the endless blanket of heat engulfed me.
Our bus crawled up to Death Valley. We weren't the only ones 'keen' to have a stroll along the pathway that holds the record for the hottest place on earth (134°F/54°C recorded at Furnace Creek on 10th July 1913). A team of cars were already parked up and a few stray passengers could be found craftily fanning themselves in the shade. I felt no temperature difference so the shade came as no saviour to me.
We all hastily applied our sunscreen and donned our hats. I managed to pick up an embarrassing bucket hat from our stop at Route 66. It was only a few dollars and I knew I'd need it for this precise moment. If it's a choice between looking like a wally or catching sunstroke, I opted for the former. I didn't want to try my luck. Looking ridiculous actually comes quite naturally to me, it's somewhat of a talent of mine so the hat only acted as an added flourish.
As we made our way to the platform, a giant gauge informed us that we were standing in a scorching temperature of 110°F (43°C). I'm pretty sure I could hear the crackle of my feet burning it was that hot. My sunscreen was doing nothing for me. I was pretty sure I could fry an egg on the pebbled wall, maybe a few rashers of bacon...I miss good food!
My behaviour saw a marked improvement from Zabriskie Point as I took my time to take in my surroundings. Looking up towards the mountains behind us I could see a small sign that simply read 'Sea Level'. I'd been to many that boasted great heights above sea level but never anywhere below it, as far as I'm aware. I saw another sign that informed me that I was standing in Badwater Basin which sounds like another place where water wreaked havoc at one point. It also read that I was standing 282 feet below sea level. That sounds about right.
You should also make a note that the highest summit in the contiguous 48 states is Mount Whitney which is also located in California. It might come up in a pub quiz one day, you never know.
Before we took our triumphant photos, Ken told the story of where the name Death Valley came from. A group of explorers got lost in the winter of 1849-50. All but one survived and as they were leaving the hellish hot-spot, one of them said, "Goodbye Death Valley" and the name stuck. Some might find that story impressive but I get lost all the time and shout stuff out dramatically as I leave. Next time I'll remember to be a bit more poetic.
We made our way down onto a wooden path which curved to one side and then trailed off. To me this was a hint that you should only go so far out. There were others who agreed, walked up and around, took a few photos then went back to their cars. Then there were some nut jobs that decided that wasn't enough and started walking further and further out into the valley of death. I've had my fair share of challenges that I've conquered on my trip but this wasn't going to be one of them.
In disbelief I stood on the platform and looked out to see a trail of people tackling the walk. Some with hats or some form of protection from the sun and others decided they didn't need it and shorts, flip-flops and a flimsy vest top would suffice. I wasn't prepared to put my bucket hat to the test and opted for the easy route.
I can see Death Valley just fine from here. I don't need to walk through it thanks.
So it came to that moment where I best have a photo taken so family and friends know that I've been here. Of course I could just Photoshop myself onto an image from Google but said family and friends know that I could never be arsed to do that.
We do tend to splash a smile across our faces no matter where we are or what we're doing. You could be in the bitter cold with someone you absolutely hate but when someone points a camera at you your face transforms into artificial glee. It seems that nobody wants to be seen as a grumpy sod. Sometimes a bit of indifference would be better suited. The amount of times I've seen people pose outside memorial plaques, charred buildings or any place synonymous with death and grieving, with massive cheesy grins on their faces is mental. This photo sums up how I'm really feeling at Death Valley.
I was getting frustrated as sweat kept pouring into my eyes whilst I was posing for this photo. Lovely.
Once our baking session was over we headed out of there as quickly as possible. I was thankful that nobody wanted to venture out further into the scorching abyss.
Someone had the grand idea of splitting the cooking duties. Oh dear. Despite being the senior member of the group, there were a couple of the girls who loved cooking and were really good at it. I was an embarrassment. I wish I could have been on dishes duty throughout. I'm good at that, washing dishes, drying dishes, putting them away, you get the idea.
Bishop was not my night for cooking, phew! Instead, the Austrian girls cooked a traditional dish from their home country. When I first heard the dish I thought they were doing a poor Jamaican accent. Kaiserschmarrn is a pancake based dish that can be dressed up or down to taste. The girls did a fantastic job and I went back for seconds without hesitation.
It may not look that much but after a sprinkle of icing sugar and a dollop of apple sauce, I was happy
My journey through California is almost complete. The next day we'd be visiting the mammoth Yosemite National Park. I'd heard great things from the group we met in Las Vegas and Google images brought up some astounding results. It'd be great to end the tour on a high.
