United States > Across the International Date Line

I slept for a few hours. When I wake up, it’s already August 21. Last night, I crossed the International Date Line. Because I am traveling continuously eastward, I effectively gain an extra day on this trip. A strange idea. It’s Sunday morning again as I enter the Vancouver airport terminal. Travelers heading to the United States are directed separately. All passengers are already screened here by U.S. customs. Because I have a U.S. visa and not an electronic visa, I have to wait in the designated lounge. As soon as my name appears on the screen, I can proceed to customs. I’m surprised at how many people are in the waiting area. Even the group of Japanese ladies from yesterday are here, enthusiastically waving at me. The customs officer asks what I’m going to do in Los Angeles. When I explain the Route 66 trip, he’s satisfied, especially since I also have a return ticket. Although I’m still in Canada, I walk under the sign that says “Welcome to the USA.” A special area of the airport. All in all, the customs formalities take two hours. I had expected two hours, but in Los Angeles, not in Vancouver. During my second flight today, I realize how tired I am.

United States - The sky glowing red at sunset

I fall asleep but am quickly awakened by the surrounding noise. The three-hour flight isn’t really suitable for sleeping. The girl next to me is trying as well, but she’s not having much luck either. Kim, as she introduces herself, works in the film industry. She is currently involved in a film both in Canada and Los Angeles and flies back and forth regularly. She is impressed by my journey and offers some useful tips for Los Angeles. We discuss the U.S. elections, Brexit, and the situation in Iraq and Syria. Before I know it, the plane lands in L.A. Without any checks, I reach the baggage claim. My travel bag hasn’t completely survived the flight—one wheel is broken. It’s possible it was damaged before the flight. Saying goodbye to the bag, which has been my companion for twelve years, will be hard at the end of this trip. But the bag is simply worn out. I’ll need to find a new travel companion. Over an hour later, Angela arrives at the baggage claim. She flew from Amsterdam via Dublin to Los Angeles. Together, we go looking for the rental car. Outside the airport, there’s a pickup area where all rental companies bring their buses. For Alamo, our rental company, a coach arrives. To my surprise, the entire bus fills up. The car rental business must be big business. Although six counters are open, a long line has formed. When it’s our turn, we opt for an upgrade to a full-size car—perfect for a coast-to-coast journey. “Pick one from the parking lot,” they tell us. We get into a white Jeep Cherokee, a sturdy vehicle with 4x4 drive. We set the navigation to our hotel and enter the U.S. road network. Via the freeway, the main road, we soon reach the Sherman Oaks neighborhood where the hotel is located. We’re both quite tired from the flight. We quickly take a shower and then head out to eat somewhere near the hotel.