I was worried that New York would be disappointing. So hyped, so in your face, even Dylan had loved his 24hours there, how could it live up to expectation? But it did, i felt it not at the blinding lights of times square and its droves of tourists , but on our first late night walk along Madison avenue. Gorgeous old buildings rising in elaborate white arches, decoration down to the tiny lights hanging over the doors.

We had Dylan’s promised 2nd best pizza in NYC and for the first time in my life i finished the meal not stuffed with dough, but taste buds tingling, wanting but not needing more of that delicious Buffalo mozzarella. He came good, that Dylan and he was right, the Santa Barbara pizza was the perfect precursor to this delight. All the better the staff were lovely Italians who made us feel welcome our first night exploring NYC.

We awoke in the attic of an old Santa Barbara house turned hostel, all angled ceilings and timber paneling. The night before we had wandered the waterfront, a promenade in music. In the parking lot a stereo was blaring fat beats to the night sky, I turned the corner and a wedding reception was bursting with an interesting mix of Spanish songs and hits of the 90s, dancers spelling onto the grass, then metres away so their rhythms mashed into a new beast altogether a group of drum players about twenty in total, little girl dancing joyously at their feet.Our dinner consisted of what Dylan referred to a reminder of what good pizza is, not because it was exceptional unless you qualify it with the word bad. Bread thick dough, pasta sauce and a few mozzarella slices all for $20! Santa Barbara redeemed herself however when we found the James Joyce. Jazz was filtering through the cracks as we approached, the doors swung open to what can only be described as a kicking good atmosphere. Drinks clinking and a band consisting of seniors with a dame in a black wig and a killer set of pipes. A swing dancing class took to the floor demoralising all other dancers to the sidelines. The instructor took each lady by the hand and jaw dropped as they cut up the rug. Two of the male students gave up, but the eldest of the group, a mob of about 80 took the girls for a slower shuffle. Then if the free entertainment was not enough, the dame at the mic began handing out cake for one of the band member’s retirement. “I guess his wife finally convinced him to buy an rv” Dylan suggested. What a night.

The next morning we lingered a while, saw an Easter bunny dancing on the streets waving at cars, got free lemonade and biscuits in a clothing store then hit the road.

The contrast between the poverty of the Mexicans in the field of the other day and the luxury on the mansions on the Malibu hills was stark, washing off the gloss and leaving a bad taste in the mouth. This exists everywhere, but a we passed the golden beaches of the California coast we started feeling excited to soon be moving on to Europe. California was beautiful, but it had lost the shine er had felt when we first arrived what seemed an age ago, it wasn’t us.

Our Airbnb by the airport was nestled under a line of power pylons, buzzing in the wind. After hours in the car we finally got the chance to go to the beach. A beach with a backdrop of a powerplant puffing out steam. It seemed so right, a dropping of pretence. Sand between toes, airplane overhead, we felt free and delighted in the small things: tiny birds running with the waves, children playing I the sand, catching the sun hanging on the horizon.

We packed, and went to sleep to the buzz of electricity.

It was amazing to see flowers thriving in tiny rock crevices and further up even a tree taking root in a crack. Small and exposed at the top the wind was gentle. In the distance a snow storm raged on the navy mountains. Ravens called mournfully and span in slow circles over the miniature trees below.

This was our last glimpse of the american wilderness before our journey to civilisation: lax then jfk.

We took the only section of highway 1 I imagine everyone skips. It skirts inland through the food bowl of California. Fields ripped by tractors and when you reach a town it feels like you’ve Ben teleports to mexico. Every sign in Spanish, poverty and tired eyes. Then we passed through a farm where, like machines on a production line, fifteen or more median labourers processed cabbages crammed into beaten up truck. A thought that when labels read made in the USA the workers nay be no better off than in a third world country. How much would these men be paid? How many were illegal immigrants. Perhaps this is a kind of modern day slavery, desperation taken advantage of. This image would burn in out minds as we passed the mansions of the super rich that line the hills of the coast, the contrast taking the gloss off the scene.

As we neared the coast our plans of camping began to waver. The campgrounds we passed were packed, bursting with weekenders. Full, full, full…would web have anywhere to sleep? Frantically searching for a hostel in Santa Barbara, we received an email that dwarfed our concerns to trivial, it was from Mount Tamalpais Mark, another woman’s body had been found on the mountain. Were the minor tracks so dangerous, or was something more sinister afoot. We drove on in solemn silence, appreciating how lucky we were to be safe. There was the Santa Barbara beach, blue skies and a hostel room.