Holiday by horoscope? Turns out psychics don’t make good travel agents
I went on a month-long trip to California on the advice of an astrologer, to ‘find myself’ after a break-up. I hadn’t specifically sought out the astrologer, I was gifted a reading by a friend, and that random quirk of the stars made the advice — that a certain triangulation of planets indicated my destiny would be found in California — seem all the more legitimate. The break-up hadn’t been quick, and months of petty betrayals and screaming arguments on Tube platforms had left me particularly porous to messages from the universe. I felt hollowed out and unhappy — if the universe was saying I’d find something to be optimistic about in California, who was I to argue?
The astrologer suggested I head to Chateau Marmont, the buzzy Hollywood hotel where stars go to retox after rehab. Unfortunately I wanted something more ‘authentic’ — and perhaps this is where I went wrong. Maybe what the stars were saying was that I’d find my destiny among Hollywood’s dilettante elite and not in an RV park outside Visalia, northern Cali, some 200 miles away.
The idea to make it a road trip must also have been divine providence because I can’t think now why I wanted to do it. The man who ran the RV rental place couldn’t understand it either. ‘You have this for 23 days,’ he asked, ‘by yourself.’ Yes, I said. ‘Don’t you have any friends?’ I didn’t have time to get into the whole thing about the ex, the astrologer, the existential crisis etc, so I just said I wanted to spend some time seeing California by myself. ‘Ma’am,’ he intoned, ‘have you ever driven a 19ft vehicle?’ I had not.
I spent the first few days in Yosemite National Park and then made my way up to Sequoia, land of the giant trees, which happened to be experiencing unseasonably bad weather. Here I found myself driving up a mountain road in a snowstorm. Visibility was zero so I was taking the hairpin bends at about 6mph, which is why I managed to not slide off the mountain to my death when I hit some black ice. It was close enough, though, for me to lose my nerve. Not wanting to freeze in my RV I decided to pack a bag and walk the rest of the way to a nearby lodge (‘nearby’ being a relative term; it took me almost two hours).
That night I sat at the bar drinking and crying quietly to myself. What kind of destiny was this? I felt lonely, stranded and skint. Then a man in his mid-70s asked if I wanted to have sex with him, which didn’t make anything better. The next day I hiked around but the fog was so thick that a ranger told me it wasn’t safe on my own. I found my RV and drove to Visalia to plan my next move — which is when I got a call from my mum to say that I’d have to fly home asap because ‘the world is literally ending’.
This was March 2020 and California was closing its borders; the UK was already in pandemic-induced special measures, I needed to come home immediately. Ten days into my adventure I felt no closer to my destiny but I was £2,500 poorer. I can’t say that I’ll never travel on the advice of a psychic (or psychic spectrum individual) again because where’s the fun in that? But what I did learn was that your destiny will probably find you wherever you are in the world, even in a flat in Tooting.
