The California Suites Crash Diet

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As mentioned in a previous post, part of the allure of this ‘hotel’ was its complimentary breakfast. As with many things Suites, my imagination had really set itself up for a smack in the face.

List of California Suites breakfast options:

1. Cereal (Raisin Bran/Cheerios/Frosted Flakes)

2. Bananas/oranges

3. Packet bagels

4. Unidentified cakey muffiny pancakey things

5. Coffee

6. Orange juice (very definitely made with concentrate)

So, in dietary essence:

1. Some sugar

2. Fruit sugar

3. Sugar and refined flour

4. Sh*tloads of sugar

5. Weak caffeine. Sugar optional

6. Who knows, but it’s very orange

If you want, you can jack up your intake with some sugary jam/jelly, topped off with a scraping of mysterious ‘Churned Spread’.

Taking the "best choice under the circumstances" approach, we opt to go down the bran, bagel and banana route. Andy gave it his best shot with the cakey muffiney pancakey affair, but was forced to abort. I have tried to talk to him about the experience, but he just rocks back and forwards muttering the words "so vile" to himself. I think he feels dirty.

Around day four, there was a cunning ‘Lord of the Flies’ style twist. It seems the Suites stock up on breakfast on a Tuesday, and let supplies run down for the rest of the week. Bananas are a hot commodity, followed by bagels, which means you can quickly end up with a child’s size portion of Raisin Bran as fuel for your training regime.

We still wake up at 6am for breakfast, only now it’s less inspired by culinary excellence, and more by the idea that we have to beat all the other hotel dwellers to the final banana. The day the buffet monitor told me they didn’t have any cold water to wet my cereal (I don’t like milk) was a new low though.

We eat looking at a sort of pseudo-lounge with the TV at the end bringing us right up to speed with the news and advertisements. If the latter are to believed, we are in constant danger of identity theft. It’s a depressing thought, as demonstrated by the man in front of me. There’s also a sort of piano-accordion-organ in the corner, should anyone fancy lifting the mood with a jazz waltz.

Home Suite Home

First, the backstory. Though we have diligently budgeted circa £1300 a month for accommodation, at the pre-trip research stage we hit upon a couple of problems. Namely "managers" asking for around £6,000 to be wired to Western Union accounts in advance, for apartments that may or may not actually exist.

So we struck upon a backup plan. Carlos at Atos (the Brazilian Jiu Jitsu gym we will be training at) had suggested a budget hotel nearby, the ‘California Suites Hotel’. Browsing the prices online, it came up at just £472 for a two-week stay, giving us a base from which to start looking for our new abode.

From the pictures, it looked clean, fresh and relatively modern, plus it had a pool, a spa, high-speed internet, complimentary breakfast and on-site laundry facilities (pretty essential given the high-sweat, high-contact nature of BJJ). Heck, we pondered, if it was that darn good, we might even stay there for the duration, and save some spondoolicks. Being as I’m in a ‘spiritual growth’ kinda mood, I’ll say the reality has given us a chance to readdress our relationships with commercial branding, comfort, and other human beings. Also food (more about that later).

Fountain = classy establishment. Fact. This one has two layers, which makes it double classy. Just outside the shot is a sign advertising conference hosting facilities, which is great if you want your clients to associate you with faded sofas, chintz and an idiosyncratic bird lamp.

On the subject of charisma, this reception area is home to two ladies, neither of which I have photos of as I’m a bit scared of them. One has a boyfriend called London (I foolishly, and mistakenly, assumed this would put us in line for an upgrade) and the other’s concierge service extended as far as repeating “Bike hire? Bike hire? What do you mean?” back at me on the third day.

This is the internal courtyard. Another fountain, even more class.

Look, a pretty flower. Savour it, that’s as good as it gets.

Room 1802, home for the next fourteen nights.

The bedspread and soft furnishings – put it this way, that oversexed dude behind American Apparel would splurge within seconds.

Here is our top-of-the-range TV, along with an adjoining door to facilitate any inter-room drug dealing, wife-swapping or just general escaping from the feds. And let’s take a closer look at those signs on top of the telly…

50 times faster than the phone line indeed. California Suites appears to be the only place in the world that measures internet connectivity in relation to 1980s dial-up.

I don’t smoke anymore, but if I did, a fine that costs almost as much a week’s stay here might put me off.

The Suites has also plastered these signs on most walls to deter anyone who feels glib with their cash.

Despite the state-specific warnings, most walkways, stairs and balconies boast at least one smoker. This is our neighbour, a man who I suspect lives here and who spends pretty much all day every day inhaling nicotine like he’s hoping he’ll drop down dead and get away from the bedspreads.
The activities on the other side of 1802’s walls are no less ‘My Name Is Earl’. The inhabitant of 1804 kindly shared his all-night televisual experience with us for the first two evenings, and in my mind acquired the physical and psychopathic tendencies of Anton Chigurgh in ‘No Country For Old Men’. When he finally packed up the body parts/shotgun/sports bag full of bank notes and skipped town, he was replaced by some new lodgers, who, from the sounds emanating through the adjoining door, I would guess to be three Mexicans and a high-pitched transsexual prostitute.

Making the most of the current lack of shopping trolley in the pool (and for my part, ignoring the nagging suspicion of flesh-eating bacteria) we retired to our ‘spa’ area, and a whirlpool that runs hotter than the showers.

18 hours in just ten paragraphs

So, last Friday was the Day Of Travel. Post binning, bagging, boxing and baying, this is what I’m left with.

Suitcase number one is holiday clothes. We are banking on California living up to its ‘Sunshine State’ reputation. On the upside, vest tops and cut downs don’t take up a heap of space.

The drawback is that since we stashed our winter garbs up in the Warminster loft, London has decided to get all autumnal on our asses, which lead to me going out in Havaianas whilst this was happening.

Here’s hoping the desert air can cure another bout of snottiness.

Suitcase number two is Brazilian Jiu Jitsu apparel. Whilst the boyfriend’s primary motivation for picking the US of A is to worship, correction, *train* at Multiple World Champion Andre Galvao’s Atos academy, my own dalliance with the sport has been touch and go of late. Still, I’d hate to have an epiphany and then find I have nothing to wear.

The mini suitcase is full of camera equipment, leads, computer harddrives etc. It’s breaking the two bag rule a bit, but it’s hand luggage and we’re hoping to wear and ditch some of the other stuff on the way back.

Onto Heathrow airport, and flight BA 273. By some strange twist of fate, the Worst Possible Idea’s launch day was accompanied by The Day I Was Picked As The Security Control Passenger. Or so they told me anyway. Between online check-in and boarding the vehicle, I was stopped and sent back twice, had my belongings unpacked twice, and was patted down twice. After five separate incidents where staff surreptitiously flicked over their paperwork to confirm my name was on their secret list, even I was questioning my connections and wondering if I’d accidentally joined an extremist sect. After all, I do like talking to strangers and I’m not the best at concentrating.

Boyfriend and I took up residence on the plane, which was kindly chilled to match the outside air temperature (at 30,000 feet). I bravely battled on by stealing every blanket in the vicinity, doing my best ET impression and tucking into the free wine.

Ten and a half hours later (three of which were spent unconscious on my part) we landed, and were greeted by Homeland Security, and an hour-long queue. If anyone is thinking about illegally hopping into San Diego, I’d say skip it, those guys have a talent for analysis that would shame Sigmund Freud.

This is what people look like after half a day in the air travel system. The rings under my eyes could be exhaustion or a migration of mascara, by this point I was past caring. It was time for a taxi to the illustrious-sounding ‘California Suites,’ our home for the next two weeks…