Inglewood always up to no good/Santa Barbara hell

So it was time to leave LA. But firstly we had to pick up a hire car in order to do so. By now my traveling team of one was bolstered by another two. One of which could drive. This made things easier. That was until we noticed the address of the car rental firm: Inglewood Terrace!!! For anyone unfamiliar with West Coast gangster rap, this is a place that brings together raging African-American and Hispanic gangs to pitch battle over drugs, bad attitudes and turf shootings. The colour of your handkerchief can even get you killed in South Central.

Anyway, a few wrong turns found us in the middle of this ghetto. People marauded the streets and hung menacingly on corners. Every time the car stopped at traffic lights my heart sunk a little further. Hooded figures bobbed in between the gridlocked cars. Trying doors, tapping on windows. Basically making it fairly obvious you were about to be jacked. Fortunately we had a relatively un-pimped Japanese motor so drew a cool reception from the would-be car jackers. Before long I spotted a sign for the Pacific Coast Highway and we were screeching towards safety. The smell of burning tyres the only thing left behind for our gangbanger friends back in Inglewood.

The drive was impressive. The highway shot past a number of LA's fine beaches - Santa Monica, Venice and Malibu. Cock rock blazed out of the car radio and I took long sips from a small bottle of Jim Beam. It was soon empty. The rental company's no smoking policy was abruptly scrapped and we headed north towards San Francisco, fags in mouth, as the sun began to set.

After a few hours drive it was apparent we would get nowhere near the Big Sur, let alone Frisco, that night. So we decided to stop off at Santa Barbara along the way. The place had a good enough reputation to drop by, and after calling around I managed to find us a room for the night.

This is where things started to go slightly wrong, after such an ideal drive. We stopped off in Ventura to pick up some inedible Mexican food. My burrito was dripping in plastic cheese and had stuck to the paper plate when reheated in the microwave. That was not a problem we were only a few miles away from Santa Barbara, which would offer us a respectable respite and somewhere wholesome to buy proper food. Or so I thought!

Upon arrival we discovered it was Spring break. Rioting teenagers ran pitched battles with each other along the seafront. While uptown things were no better. Our hotel was hell. Drunken kids charged down the corridors screaming. While others fucked as noisily as they could in the room next door - and above.

When I left the room to find someone to scream at, I was put off by a guy sat in a dark Internet booth wearing Oakley sunglasses and talking to himself. It seemed to exemplify everything that's wrong with American culture. Right there before my very own eyes. He slurped from a milkshake while his LSD-battered brain tried to make use of a computer.

I was no longer angry but more surprised, shaking my head in disbelief. This is a part of the Orange County where everyone's father is a judge, lawyer or banker. But you couldn't have guessed that from what I'd seen. I guess the invasion of university freshmen did its bit to spice things up a little on the annoying factor. But still, Santa Barbara was not what we had been led to believe. But then this is what happens when you don't let kids drink until they're 21! I finally did fall asleep only to be woken by a train passing by at 6am. It was time to get out of there.