THE ADVENTURES OF A ROCK CHICK IN AMERICA: dazed, confused, broke and clueless (part 2 of the ROCK CHICK series)

But the stories I lived to tell!

Photo by Alec Favale on Unsplash

(This is the next instalment to the piece I published just over a week ago titled From Trad Wife to Rock Chick: how I moved from KitchenAid territory to the underground Geneva music scene in the early Eighties).

I didn’t know it was such a long way from Montreal to Santa Cruz. Obviously, I knew how far it was from a geographical point of view. But to actually travel there non-stop in a bus? The sheer endlessness of it didn’t register until my bum went numb after the umpteenth pitstop in the middle of nowhere. Were we nearly there yet?

Well…

In early March 1985, at the age of 23, I spent four days on a Greyhound bus chasing the American dream. I’m not sure I knew what my American dream was, in fact I don’t think I really had one. But Blaze (not his real name), my boyfriend, did. Frontrunner of a rock band in Geneva, Switzerland, Blaze dreamt of making it big.

Initially he’d picked Montreal as his celebrity launchpad, which sort of made sense if you sang in French and English like he did. But the icy temperatures combined with the horrendous windchill factor messed with his vocal cords and his hair. As for me, every time I looked in the mirror I saw a Smurf. So, after spending all our money on renting an apartment that we never even moved in to, we decided to make our way to Santa Cruz, California with our few remaining bank notes.

And a phone number.

During the summer of 1984, Blaze had  met an American woman - let’s call her Shandy - who was visiting Geneva from California. I don’t recall hearing a single thing about her until Blaze mentioned having her number when we were in Montreal. Shandy was in her late thirties, which to me sounded old. Blaze himself was five years older than me and far more streetwise than I have ever been. I attended a private school, went on to study translation at Geneva university, and had never ventured anywhere remotely dubious until Blaze whisked me off into Geneva’s nocturnal underground scene.

Apart from a handful of private parties held under parental supervision, all the social gatherings I’d ever attended were school dances. So, when my new edgy friends threw a full-on dodgy-do for my 21^st in a squat, and post-punk gothic/metal rock group Killing Joke turned up, and all the girls lost their minds as well as - in some cases - their knickers, I knew I no longer was doing the bump to Boney M in Cologny (Cologny could be viewed as Geneva’s Park Avenue, but with villas, not buildings). Not that I ever lived in Cologny, but you get the idea. I remember wearing mat-silver lamé skin-tight trousers and a black tee-shirt, accessorized with the requisite low-slung, helter-skelter studded belts. My younger brother DJ-ed, letting loose with all the best New Wave stuff: Simple Minds, Depeche Mode, A Flock of Seagulls, The Cure, REM, Howard Jones, Nik Kershaw, Billy Idol, you name it and chances are he played it because my little brother was seriously into his music back then. Sadly, the party ended relatively early by antiestablishment standards because one of the Killing Joke dudes fiddled with the squat’s decrepit electric board which promptly shorted, plunging us all into darkness. Also, there apparently was no more alcohol, either, which was crazy because we certainly hadn’t skimped on attempting to get everyone cross-eyed. Personally, I don’t remember being particularly trolleyed; I just remember having a wonderful time dancing my butt off to all my favourite music.

Anyhow, back to1985, the Greyhound Bus and a lady called Shandy.

I have never experienced anything like crossing America in a bus, and if possible, I’d prefer to never need to again. I’ve always been incapable of sleeping in any position other than lying down, unlike my husband who can get on a plane, rest his head against the Kleenex, close his eyes and sleep like a baby for hours. But I’m hypermobile, so as soon as I nod off, I end up with my head resting on my own shoulder and wake up feeling like I’ve narrowly escaped decapitation.

The bus. The bus. Right. I just have so many stories I want to tell!

The first day was pretty much ok. I felt excited, like some sort of New Wave rock chick pioneer. However, by nighttime I was desperate to sleep, but Blaze was a bony, wiry guy and didn’t offer much in terms of padding for me to lay my weary head. Also, emotionally speaking, he wasn’t the “lay your head on my shoulder” kind of guy. In fact, sometimes, he even went and sat in a totally different part of the bus from me, just to be awkward, leaving me to deal with a number of weirdos who were delighted to sit next to an anxious, exhausted young girl from Switzerland who was clearly out of her element. One night I was so scared of the drunk man sitting next to me who had clearly lost several of his key marbles, that I didn’t dare attempt to fall asleep at all. Nor did I dare squeeze past him to visit the lurching cesspit right at the back that splashed your butt if the bus happened to hit a particularly big pothole. It happened to me once and was so revolting I almost threw up.

What I remember most about the middle of America is that there was an awful lot of open space and loads of those dusty twirly things rolling around that I’d only ever seen in cartoons or maybe in old Westerns. When, after four days, we finally reached San Francisco and had to switch to yet another bus for Santa Cruz, I was so so exhausted I could barely keep my eyes open. I also felt filthy, smelly and so disgusting that I wished I’d stayed in Geneva.

It was quite late when we staggered off the bus in Santa Cruz. Blaze found a phone booth, pulled out the crumpled piece of paper with Shandy’s number on it and put some of our precious remaining coins in the slot. Shandy didn’t answer. I burst into tears. We had twenty dollars between us, no credit cards, nada. I just wanted to go to go home to Geneva and sleep for a month.

Instead, we boarded another bus, one of Santa Cruz’s metropolitan lines, without knowing where to go. The bus was full, there were no seats available, and anyway, my bottom had turned into a pancake. I hung onto one of the poles, sweating under the sheepskin jacket my mother had bought me to get me through the harsh Canadian winter. My hair was greasy, my face was blotchy, and I felt so ashamed. An elderly woman made eye-contact with me. She smiled and I smiled back. I plucked up some courage and asked her whether she knew of anywhere very cheap where we could sleep, explaining where we’d come from and how we’d travelled. To my surprise she said “you look like a couple of good kids; if you like you can sleep in my old camper van. I live in an old people’s home, and not allowed night guest, but my old van is parked in the back, and I could sneak you in. We’d have to be careful as I could get in trouble, but if you were my daughter I’d hope someone would be kind enough to do the same.”

So, this angel took us under her wing, snuck us into her room so that we could brush our teeth and wash our faces, then took us out back and smuggled us into her camper. She apologized for the lack of electricity, pulled out the bed, found some blankets and told us she’d come and find us as soon as she could in the morning. We were not to come out until she reappeared as she could get into big trouble.

We followed instructions, and sure enough she reappeared the next morning and snuck us back into her room to brush our teeth again, and then we were back on the streets with our suitcases, looking for a phone booth to try Shandy’s number again.

No answer.

At that point I was seriously debating calling my parents by reversing the charges and begging them to please get me out of here, but I knew Blaze would be livid, and I’d feel like an idiot and a failure and get zapped with a million I-told-you-so’s for forever and a day, so I did my best to keep it together. Eventually, late in the afternoon, Shandy finally answered the phone.

It turned out she didn’t even live in Santa Cruz, but in the foothills of San Jose! Nevertheless, she drove over, picked us up in her big old silver Cadillac Seville, and took us back to her amazing wooden house overlooking San José where she lived with several lodgers from different corners of the world.

There were two young Scandinavian boys, and a boy from Geneva and his Columbian girlfriend. All these boys were doing their pilot licenses in San José. Then there was Shandy’s eldest son who was 16 and lived in her trailer in the garden with his girlfriend. There was a Mexican fireman and his wife in the basement flat. And then there was us. It was quite a big house, but all the room were taken, so Blaze and I slept on a blow-up mattress on the mezzanine above the living room until we went with Shandy to a garage sale one Saturday where she picked up a cheap mattress.

Shandy was in real estate, but had a side-business doing music video, and was really into music. She was a lovely person, and incredibly generous to both of us. She and I became close, and soon were going off camping in Big Sur together, meeting sexy hippies who worshipped the Grateful Dead and lived by the creek in what I called Fuck Trucks and who invited us to campfire dinners where someone would play guitar and we’d all sing along. I became very familiar with Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb which was clearly a firm favourite!

Shandy and I slept in her trailer, heading over to the River Inn café for breakfast, and often returning there again for Happy Hour where we’d order huge pitchers of Margaritas on the rocks and where dinner would be their free Nachos with guacamole. Afterwards we’d go back to the campfires for more Comfortably Numb. Sometimes, after midnight, if Shandy wasn’t too tired, we’d drive over to the Esalen Institute where we’d sit in the outdoor hot tubs overlooking the Pacific Ocean along with all sorts of spiritually inspired late-night philosophers. Everyone happily partook in passing fat doobies while listening to the waves crashing below and counting shooting stars. To this day I swear that I actually once heard a shooting star, although I may have been a little over doobee-dooed. Then again, maybe I did. I like to think so, anyway.

Meanwhile, Blaze was networking like mad, trying to kickstart his rockstar career in the land of opportunity. He met a couple of musicians, including an older woman who sang in a band. She was mega smooth and rather creepy and, looking back, I’m pretty sure Blaze was enjoying amorous encounters with her. She was married, but her husband didn’t seem too miffed over her wanton behaviour around my boyfriend. One night, while out with Shandy at a club called The Catalyst in Santa Cruz, I met a nice, very cute guitar player who lived in Fenton or Boulder Creek, who then got in contact with Blaze and began to drive over to San Jose for regular jam sessions along with the wanton singer and her easy-going husband. I think there was another guitar player too, but I only really remember the cute one because he flirted with me. Pretty soon Blaze started going to spend time over at the wanton singer’s place, leaving me alone with Shandy and her gang of lodgers. The two Scandinavian pilots moved out soon after Blaze and I arrived, presumably fed up with the constant racket of all-night jam sessions. The Swiss pilot stayed around; he was quite a character and even managed to pass his pilot license stoned off his head because Shandy had baked Brownie Space Cakes late at night, and left them on the kitchen counter to cool when she went to bed. Our Swiss friend woke up early to go to his exams, helped himself to a couple of magic Brownies, and drove to the airfield. I like to believe he sealed the deal by looping the loop and buzzing the tower.

As for making money, Blaze did some odd construction jobs for one of Shandy’s friend’s up in Marin County. I got a couple of gardening jobs, and once weeded an entire field on a slope so steep I could barely keep my balance. I worked as a cleaner in an old people’s home but got fired within a few weeks got fired for using an abrasive product on the beautiful old wooden floors. Blaze played gigs, but I doubt they paid anything. Basically, we were living off Shandy’s incredible generosity.

After nine months of living on next to nothing, I flew back to Geneva to earn some proper money. I returned to the law firm where I’d worked part time as a secretary prior to going off to Canada and was promptly hired again, this time to work for four young lawyers doing their internships, three of which I already knew. One of them, Patrick, super nice, accompanied me to meet the latest intern. He knocked on the door.

“Come in,” said a male voice.

“This is Cedric. Cedric Bossert,” Patrick said.

Cedric Bossert was sitting behind his desk with a tin of coloured pencils. He looked up from his colouring and smiled. And my heart did a series of somersaults.

Reader, I married him, but not before returning to America for many more adventures!

(TO BE CONTINUED!)

You might enjoy my adventurous, hilarious romcom, Just Like A Movie. A screenwriter in LA liked it enough to develop it as a screenplay.