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Tuned in, turned on and freaked out in Biarritz and San Sebastián. A faux-hobo’s-eye view of Wheels and Waves Words & photos: Dave Bevan Illustrations: Steve Larder
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HE LAST TIME I was in San Francisco was a fast time in San Francisco. I was running from something and found myself running toward all the potential for vice and debauchery that that glorious, beautiful madhouse has in abundance, and at the time it just about worked out right. One particularly late and loose night, I ended up in receipt of a tab of genuine SF junkie acid in return for cranking open the sliding doors of the Bay Area Rapid Transport system for a legless Vietnam veteran in a wheelchair, which is the sort of trade that makes perfect sense at 3am in the depths of the 16th and Mission BART station. Having fried more than enough brain cells for that evening, I slipped the LSD inside my wallet and then forgot clean about it, inadvertently smuggling it back to the UK and through a few subsequent international borders as well. I guess a good way to get away with things is to not realise that you’re getting away with anything. Starting a tale meant to be about a fast time at Wheels and Waves in Biarritz with a tale about a fast
