So in true gentlemanly fashion the Americano offered to drive me down from SF to LA. And not just on the 405, but on the PCH. And in a convertible too. That's class.
The Yank and I solidified our burgeoning friendship doing the reverse journey many moons ago but on the 405. For the Euros amongst you, this is the highway that cuts through the heart of the face of California you will never see on the cover of a Beach Boy's album, namely, cow country. And it stinks, literally. It's just hours and hours of cow's in fields and truck stops, that's it. You don't even get radio reception and of course the particular vehicle we had only had a tape deck. The Yank and I were reduced to buying Country Classics Volume III and Tom Jones' Greatest Hits. Country Classics ate shit on the first play-round, so that was it, four hours of Tom Jones. I now know all the words to every song just on hearing the opening bars. That's a skill (that is only useful if you are ever in a lock in in the Welsh Vallies, which, you'll be astonished to learn, is not what I pray to God for when I go to bed at night...).
Anyway, tales from road trips past aside, here are the pictures that speak a thousand words. It was a phenomenal drive.