Amtrak

No point renting a car just yet. Following Paul's advice to the letter, I managed (with some difficulty) to get the Amtrak website to work for me, booking myself on the 5pm train from Irvine to San Diego. It's a two hour ride that follows coastline all the way to the bottom. For future reference, if you are going south, try and get a seat on the right, with views of the pacific sunset, as opposed to brick wall.

From what I noticed (and been told by die-hard motorists), the type of people who take the train in America are either travelers from overseas (like myself) or old retired couples. No one between the ages of 25 and 55 will usually consider this mode of transport, which surprises me because it's rather good. First and foremost, it's quiet, so you can enjoy the Californian coastal scenery while being immersed in your own thoughts. This state of bliss lasted for one stop, when a group of rowdy twenty-somethings invaded my carriage and turned the volume up to level 42. I've been on Brutish Rail before when yobs have walked on midway. The sort of experience that explains why I left the country. Thankfully this is America where yobs are unheard of. They were a good mix of guys and girls, Orange County kids, which also means university educated and affluent. Weekend reunion bender in San Diego, it turns out, heavy drinking ahead hence the need to stoop to train travel. One of them offered me some of their beer. Well, if you can't beat them, join them.

They were quite intrigued to hear about my journey, and for me it was refreshing to be found immediately interesting by strangers. This is the thing about ordinary North Americans; they don't leave their continent, country, or even city that much. Just by saying 'actually, I've been doing a bit of traveling all round south America' with a sort of James Hunt public schoolboy accent really made their eyes light up. 

Perhaps all this sudden attention (and booze) had gone to my head, because getting off the train, i managed to forget my big suitcase which was tucked behind the end seat. Slick, John So, really slick. The dash from the station, across the railway and tram lines, back onto the train was probably the fastest I have ever run. I searched every carriage, and was still on the train when the doors closed as it started rolling back in the direction of Los Angeles. I asked the security guy if this was the same train that came in from Irvine. No, that's the one on platform 5.

"Officer, please stop the train, my luggage is on that one over there," I said to the 6 ft 7 African American security official. You have to hand it to them. They're cool under pressure. They're really cool. 

"Sir, don't panic. This happens all the time. You can get off at the next stop and catch the next train back. It's likely they'll have picked up your bag and taken it in."

Half an hour later, back at San Diego station. By then, the 50/50 prospect of my friend turning up had materialized, and the 20/80 (against) chance of recovering my luggage also fulfilled itself as the station master individually opening every carriage of the train which, thank God, was still there.

14 years since our last road trip, 21 years since we were at school together, it was good to finally see Brooks, who found the suitcase heart attack much funnier than I did.