As is likely to be the case for the majority of this trip, Mark and I changed our plans at the last minute and booked into a different hostel than we'd originally intended. Free shuttle, free breakfast, free champagne, it all seemed too good to be true, but unbelievably it was. Adventure Hostel, nestled in the concrete jungle that is Inglewood certainly has its charm. From the free shuttle that picked us up at the airport, things started off suspiciously well. Californians, we have found, are a particularly amicable people and within twenty minutes we had our first offer of dinner from a charming couple from New Jersey. Carmine Calluzzo (or something equally Italian) and his wife were kind enough to offer us a buffet dinner when we reach Vegas, so in his shaky hand he jotted down his number and left us with the promise of "better odds off the strip" when we eventually got to Vegas.
Our shuttle driver (and MC), who bared a striking resemblance to a large white penis, was a loud and friendly fellow, a Californian trait it seems and he wasted no time in heckling us about our nationalities. Jocular though he was, we were quite tired from our journey and were pleased to reach the hostel when we arrive only twenty minutes later from LAX. The front desk left little to be desired with three overweight surly lasses who were too engrossed in their own conversation to even look up as we approached. None the less the price was right and for $15 each a night we could hardly complain. We booked into our twenty man dorm and dropped off our bags. It seemed I had bumbled on my first tipping experience and may well have inadvertently tipped $20 to our shuttle driver, even after being assured by Carmine that $1 was sufficient. But you live and you learn.
The Adventure Hostel seemed to have had its heyday twenty years prior, as attested by the late 30's early forty somethings lingering around the bar, raising their mucussy*** eyes at the prospect of new female arrivals. Faded paint, cracked concrete and musty rooms comprised most of establishment, but we did meet some friendly French-Canadians upon arrival, who recounted a near miss with the cops, driving without a license in San Diego, which instilled both caution and abandonment with their lucky break.
We headed out, determined to get a SIM card and start hitting up the sights. Inglewood, despite it's seedy reputation proved to be a rather welcoming place, with every store attendant and passer by offering helpful directions and a smile. We got our SIM cards organised, after a glassy eyed Hogg almost signed us up to an absurdly expensive plan suggested by the attractive Hispanic shop assistant Sarah, we were all of sudden mobile and off to see LA.
Once again we boarded the free shuttle, the penis had since departed and been replaced with Tall Ray. A friendly fellow if ever I've met one and headed straight to Venice Beach.
Venice Beach was a night to remember, but more to come soon.
