Catalina/San Diego

We had four days on Catalina, which is just about time to get completely chilled after the nightmare that is LA.  

After this idyllic soujourn, Caro had booked us on a flight from the island direct to San Diego.  What neither of us realised was that Catalina Air was something of a mom and pop business, and mom passed away some time ago.  We got to the airport, which was something of a mission.  

The Catalinans, rather confusingly kept asking us WHICH airport.  "You mean the airport in the sky?" they kept saying.  Like it was some sort of Celestial Airport for Dead Pilots, as in: "Gad!  Ginger bought it yesterday when he was shot down by the Jerries!  He's gone to the airport in the sky!"  

Let me put you all straight.  There IS only one airport on Catalina and YES, it's called the Airport in the Sky.  

It should really be called The Airport Up a Huge Fucking Hill, as Catalina away from the cute little town of Avalon is very rugged and hilly, pushed up from the ocean by Opposing Plates, don'tcha know.  

(Hey – when I pay to visit a museum I DAMN WELL pay attention to all the Boring Facts that my $5 bought me.)

At the Airport in the Sky, I made the mistake of leaving my hat on the bus.  

In itself, this wasn't such a big deal, except that Caro ran back to fetch it, and then was in such a hurry to catch up to me that she walked into a plane.  It is quite a feat not to notice a whole fucking aeroplane one would think – it’s not like it was a Stealth Bomber or anything, but she managed it.  

All I knew was that one minute she was stood right next to me and the next minute – WHAM! - she was lying flat on her back on the runway, saying an extensive collection of bad words.

On picking Caro up off the tarmac, we were greeted by an old man with a VERY small plane and an extremely LARGE disgusting and pussy sore on his cheek that I couldn't help but talk to the entire time we were together.

"I expected you half an hour ago," he said.

"Yes, the bus was late," I explained to the huge pussy sore.

"Who wants to sit up from with me?" he asked.

I volunteered because I thought Caroline might be scared.  Not of the altitude, but that his pustule might explode all over her at any time.

He was quite a bad-tempered little man who thrust a meaningless map at me while Caro settled herself into the back seat.  He explained that we would be heading away from San Diego at first, as FAA rules insist that he head straight for the coast on leaving Catalina.  

"This is so the coast is always in gliding distance," his weeping sore added reassuringly.  Then he fiddled with nobs and dials for a long time.  I think he was just trying to impress me.  He was probably just adjusting his seat and tuning his radio to the country channel.

Finally, his little plane with its lawn-mower engine taxied on down the runway and took off.  It was a really fun experience travelling in a light plane.  The day was sunny and calm, so we weren't tossed about as I had expected.  It was extremely noisy, but I have to say I enjoyed it even though I was sad to see our rocky little haven of peace shrink into the distance.  

The only downside was that Open Sore Guy kept talking to me and pointing things out.  And since he couldn't hear me above his engine all I could do was nod inanely and make idiotic gestures to convey the message: "Really!",  "How interesting!" and "Would you like a maggot for that weeping, bacteria-ridden hole in your F*CKING head?"

We coasted into San Diego, where our pilot charged us an extra $30 for being late, which I hope he spent on antibiotics and then we were picked up by Max the Comedy Taxi Driver.  

He greeted us by hefting our backpacks into his taxi and saying, "What the hell ya got in there???  No, don't tell me I don't wanna know."  This was just the start of a ten-minute  routine, in which he accused Caro of having a Arkansas accent, "Little bit of Bill Clinton there, I reckon," and then launched into the subject of Somalian Taxi Drivers.  

"Make the most'a me - I'm 8th generation American.  The rest of the taxi divers you'll get are all Somalian or Algerian.  All comin' over here - no idea where they're goin' and all tellin' me how much they hate America.  Now your hotel is just around here - unless they hid that son-of-a-gun..."  

Caroline was laughing heartily by the time we got to the Super 8 Motel - I think it was Max's views on the Welsh that did it, "You can't trust those guys".  Max noted Caro's hilarity and added, "See?  You're having a great time in San Diego and you're not even naked yet.  Which reminds me - they got a pool in this hotel, but no nude bathing, we don't go for that kind of funny stuff over here."

And with that, he dropped our bags and was gone, leaving Caro and myself still open-mouthed.