Guess I'll keep on ramblin'

August 1, 2001
Los Angeles, California
"Guess I'll keep on ramblin'"
The last stop on my journey was a Metropolis called Los Angeles. I puddle-jumped from London to Amsterdam, and then sat in something called 'Tourist Class' for fourteen hours. Tourist Class is the Newspeak word for 'Steerage'. We were given a tour of bad American movies (Chris Rock's "Down to Earth" and "SpyKids") and single serving food items -what Chuck Palahiuk (author of Fight Club) would call plastic 'cordon bleu hobby kits.'
I sat next to group of Italian backpackers. After speaking to them in a weird, half-english, half sign-language, I discovered they weren't backpacking at all; they were emigrating. They said they had heard so much about the opportunities in America, especially from their relatives in Los Angeles. They were coming out to start a new life.
Before landing the flight attendants passed out the American customs forms. Thankfully the forms were available in English. In fact, English was the only language available. Thank God! It had been so long since I'd read any instructions in my mother tongue.
I started filling out the forms, but I hit a snag. I couldn't decipher the instructions! I studied a little English in school, so I could pronounce most of the words, but the sentences didn't make any sense. The forms threatened me with heavy fines or jail time if I didn't complete them correctly. I began to sweat. I was carrying tulip bulbs from Holland and I wasn't sure if they were defined as Section 5C "No plant or dairy products": or can they be declared as Agricultural by-products for non-commercial use of value under $100?
My friends told me later that the forms are written in Newspeak. Apparently, in America, all instructions from the government are hard to understand, and if you complete them incorrectly you pay a fine or go to jail. Even if you do the forms correctly, the government takes money from you. Apparently this happens a lot, usually around Easter.
Well, the plane finally landed and I was very excited! Fourteen hours is a long time to sit, and I was happy be on my feet and backpacking again. Thankfully the signs were all in English and I didn't have to pay to use the toilet. I didn't have any local currency. That would have been a problem.
At customs, the officer clicked her hot-pink fingernails on the formica and spoke to me in English, but once again I couldn't understand. I learned later from watching Jerry Springer that this woman was speaking a dialect called "Ghetto." Basically she was telling me that if I had any Marijuana, I should throw it out now. Apparently, tons of backpackers flying in from Amsterdam think they can hide weed in their socks and nobody will find it. But customs doesn't need sniffing dogs to find you, they just know from looking at your filthy new dreadlocks, your "I got High in the Low Countries" T-Shirt, and the odd assortment of hookahs and pipes "for tobacco use only" showing up under X-ray in your rucksack.
"I've got Tulip Bulbs," I say, "Do I need to declare this?"
She wobbles her head back and forth like a Jack-in-the-Box and says she doesn't know what custom section qualifies and tells me to go see the Agricultural officer.
The Agricultural officer has no legs and doesn't speak. Before I can ask him about the tulips he just stamps my card and suddenly I'm clear of customs.
I realized I'd just encountered my first bit of American Bureaucracy! I felt let down. After all that customs paperwork I wanted to see drug sniffing dogs and guys in clean suits geiger-counting my stuff. The only person stopping me from carting half of Amsterdam into L.A. was a bored guy in a wheelchair.
My buddy James picked me up. We jumped in his raised Toyota truck, rolled down Century Boulevard in the hot California sun, pumped some petrol at 1.70 a gallon, and then jumped on the 405 Freeway and sweated our way through summertime bumper-to-bumper traffic. If James hadn't picked me up, I was gonna try and take the Metro line, or maybe a bus. If I had, I would have discovered that the Metro doesn't come to the LAX, and the nearest bus station is an expensive taxi ride away. Clearly Los Angeles is not made for backpackers.
After about an hour I was home. I went inside, grabbed a Pepsi and some chips, plopped down on the sofa and got acquainted with my old friend Television. I am happy to report that Brandon, Dillon, Steve, Donna and Kelly are still my friends and forever will be in syndication.