Adventure #25 - Road Trip to LA and Martin Wheeler Systema Seminar Planned By - Both Heather and Marty
DAY SIX - From Catalina Island to Pasadena, CA
Description: Wherein Heather and Marty continue their VERY LONG road trip to LA (it takes 6 hours to drive LA, they are going to do it in 5 days!) and have finally arrived! They left the lonesome isle of Catalina and arrived in Pasadena to stay with Matt and Diemha and will begin their Systema seminar tomorrow!
(Marty's Report):
Duck at Pancake Cottage
Tourism is a very strange thing. Like I wrote about Big Sur, it’s like a signifier without a clear signified. It points at something desirable, consumable, life-enhancing, but when you arrive to desire, consume, and be enhanced by the supposed representation it points to, you can’t find that which is represented. The objects themselves are there; the trees and waterfall and beach town are all there, but the perspective, there in person, feels off, chalky compared to the image. Unlike the processed and packaged tourist signifier, the signified has to actually be lived. It doesn’t wrap you up in swaddling, feed you like a baby bird with nutritional and tasty morsels. Instead, you have to do your life tasks within an environment which keeps trying to be a reproduction of the image.
I had strong dreams, which I haven’t had on this trip. Unsettled, travel-confused dreams, lost. So I dozed again till about 10a, then rousted Heather and we deposited our bags with the office woman, who had that standard-issue demeanor of workers in areas laden with tourists, a little rough in their politeness. Still, she agreed to hold our bags for the day, till our boat later in the day (“Just make sure you’re back here by quarter till four.” “Yes, got it, quarter till four. Thanks.”) Then we headed out into the warm-to-hot morning, with its near perfectly clear blue sky (which still often strikes me as an absurd color for a sky, though I haven’t a good alternative), and landed at the Pancake Cottage. The sugar and simple starch breakfast pulled to me like a gaggle of sirens who specialize in carbo-loading, but I resisted and went for the oatmeal. Plus, when I start feeling dislocated, or displaced, I get more conservative, so I was aware of the money we are spending on food and “went small.” That said, it was the right choice because it’s so hot today that I would have been wiped out by a heavier meal. So, fear and neuroticism occasionally works.
Duck points out Casino.
Then, without plan or path, we decided on the glass bottom boat, which then morphed into a tip on the half-sub, a ship with windows in its hold to allow for fish viewing. We had time to kill (Thoreau would not be happy), so we walked down to the old Casino, now a movie theater and events site. It’s a beautiful old art deco or Beau Arts building, from back in the day here on the Island. Then we hustled back to the boat, where Captain Lorenzo and his genial sidekick Toni (I can’t remember his real name, so my default naming system will have to do) took us out to Lover’s Cove to watch the various cold water fishes swarm around the fish food impregnated environs around the ship. It was cool. Heather saw a turtle that’s been haunting the area, though I missed it.
Fish always feel old, at a certain level not alive or dead, existing in a different realm. Maybe there’s no sense of self, so it’s just the body that resists dying (mostly, as getting eaten). You get a sense of presence, but not of individuality, certainly not of self-reflectivity. So all this life was swarming outside, looking, perceiving, but at a certain level, neither-caring-nor-not-caring. Strange phenomenon for us mammals.
We had a shaved ice at the stand on the dock, “cherry” in name but “cancer red” in chemistry. Still, it tasted nice, and the coarse-grained ice (like Indian sugar) was fun to crunch. That finished, we were again left with time to kill before our boat, so Heather quietly, and passively, relented to a walk up-country, meaning away from the water up into the canyon. It quickly got “local”, with a Radio Shack and a mechanic, though the houses remained demonstrably cute. We walked up along the golf course, finding the old “Bird House,” which used to be the largest aviary in America, and now houses a preschool for humans. Heather wasn’t game for the push up to the Wrigley Botanical Garden, and instead agreed on collecting our bags and settling into a café for the duration. The woman at the hotel (let’s call her Toni) seemed a bit warmer, and we wished each other well, and she gave us recommendations for cafes. A few minutes walk and we settled our bags and computers at the Catalina Island Brew House, a beer and focaccia coffee house, where we’ve been for the last two hours.
This configuration is one of the most comfortable places for us, the café-ness, the working on our own business side-by-side, the caffeine, and the near-to-but-not-completely-engaged with humanity. Both our nervous systems are deeply soothed by access to our stuff, and our stuff these days is predominantly in the digital realm. Wandering around a strange town, especially a tourist town, impacts our systems with a heavily analog vibe.
We finished the day with a boat ride directly back to San Pedro, during which I played “Grim Fandango,” one of the early graphic point-and-click adventure games, which recently got remastered. It really is a brilliant mashup of satire, loving homage, and brilliant strangeness, following the adventures of Manny Calavera, a grim reaper who is on a quest to find a woman who he didn’t serve on her journey through the underworld. Where I am now, he’s a Bogart-like character who owns Calavera’s, and is trying to figure out how to get out of town on a boat, which requires a series of puzzle solutions, in good adventure game fashion. But the style with which it does it is the point, as the characters are wonderfully drawn in broad but richly human caricature. In other words, they are types, but they are very nuanced and individualized versions of that type. It’s delightful. And hard. I’m not sure what the hell I’m supposed to be doing at this point.
Heather drove us to Matt’s, leaving the dock about 6:30p and getting to their house in maybe an hour, driving the 710 through South Central, which is curious but meaningless from the vantage point of the freeway.
We hung with Matt and Diemha and the girls here for a few hours, though Matt had to run off to fetch Corey, who was at a soccer game. We caught up, and I lounged with Lola and Sam, the dogs. We all crashed rather early, me reading a little more in “The Scar” and Heather staying downstairs working on this blog.
Even though I’m only reading little sips of Miéville’s book, it remains so enveloping in its complex textures, like a fog whose temperatures and densities change as you move through it. It’s an immense act of world and culture building, and a rich topography of minds, some of which are in center focus, most of which are opaque.
We slept in the girls’ room, with Heather on the top bunk, me below. They are such sweet, well adjusted kids. Strange to be around the securely attached.
(Heather's Report):
Up we rose, at some point. I think Marty crawled back into bed at some point in his early rising, which is unusual so I snuggled in, which is my usual if he returns to bed. Then we eventually got up and packed. I was worried about our bags. Marty apparently was on top of that shit and had already found out that we could keep our bags in the front office while we wandered around doing stuff before the ferry boat came for us. I tend to get anxious around logistics. Oddly enough, during our travels through Egypt, Marty being the far more experienced traveler in third world settings, we found that he was far better at dealing with the logistics and amazingly enough, I was far better at dealing with the social interactions. Go figure. Of course, this might be my penchant for languages and basically butting my head straight into a language and man, the Egyptians practically fell all over me, eager to teach me and engage with me through that (plus, it's an incredibly beautiful language and they are pretty friendly people!) So, he does logistics usually.
Marty contemplates Duck Existence.
Marty gets Heather to smile.
I had seen the, literally named, Pancake Cottage when we arrived so I wanted french toast (my favorite carby thingie if gonna take the simple carb attack plunge). Off we went. Expensive, of course. Because, well, island with no internal resources. We used our Special Phones of Wonder to look up things to do in our immediate vicinity and off we went to find the glass bottom boat but ended up doing the semi-submersible. We did our morning check in videos and duck photos but for some reason Marty's Special Phone of Wonder was having trouble focusing so some of our vids were blurry. And of course, we couldn't use mine because... uhm, digital packrat. We killed some time by walking over to the huge casino building which was vaguely art deco and also apparently where the singular island movie theater resides. Then off into the cool interior of the "sub". Where I could swear the captain smelled faintly of alcohol. But we did not crash into the reef, so that all worked out. There were only two other people with us, an elderly couple who I could totally see us being in the future, taking our boat ride as a sweet old couple, only with more violence.
Sebastes, Garibaldi, Opaleye
We watched the fish and they swarmed around the windows due to the crew (all two of them) throwing food into the water. I think that's cheating but okay. They are probably so used to it, like the squirrels you're not supposed to feed in the botanical gardens but everyone does it anyway. We saw Garibaldi (the orange ones), all types of Sebastes (the genus name "rock fish"), Opaleye and others. No sheephead. I keep an eye out for the really ugly scorpionfish but they are really hard to spot due to their camouflaging abilities. The genial sidekick (The one Marty calls Toni) told us there was a turtle somewhere in "Lover's Cove" and I was keeping a very peeled eye out for that. And I did see him, I was the only one, so you know the scuba divers' thing "Pics or it didn't happen!" But really, I did see it, hanging out on the rocks at the bottom right under the boat as it passed over. The whole thing made me miss diving, although the not getting wet, cold and weighed down was a bonus.
The crazy expensive boats.
We returned to the dock and got some "shaved ice" with "cherry", or as Marty put it "cancer red". It was kind of like really granular, gritty chunks of ice, making me yearn for the really smooth "shave ice" we had in Hawaii. But we gamely crunched our ice and looked out over the probably insanely expensive water conveyances (boats) and then started our slog around Avalon. It was hot, my feet hurt (these shoes suck) and I tend to get quiet, tuck my head down and trudge when I get into "I don't want to do this physical thing." But I survived. Barely. And the barely existent fauna didn't eat us. But I drew the line at walking all the way up to the Botanical Gardens. And because we were here during off season, the apparently free trolley that serves as a bus was not running. We saw plenty of people zipping up the road in their little golf carts though. Finally I turned us around and we headed back to find comfort in a cafe. I took a photo of Marty next to the trolley pick up sign because it reminded me of a game I play called Borderlands where you can "Catch a ride!!!!" from the redneck mechanic, Scooter.
Catch a Riiiiiide!!!!
This is really really long, a string of Scooter dialogue, but the first few moments has his famous "Catch a Ride!!" clip.
Then we ensconced ourselves in a cafe until the boat came in and off we went to the mainland. I snoozed on the way back again rousing as we pulled back into San Pedro Harbor, marveling at the disgustingly huge "Star Princess", a monolithic luxury cruise liner. We both agreed that we would rather have burning bamboo splints shoved under our fingernails than "vacation" in one of these beasts. And we both agreed it looked a like a spaceship. I was reminded of the huge space cruise liner in the movie "The Fifth Element".
I drove us, fortunately a short drive up to Pasadena and we thought it would be a lot longer, because, Los Angeles. But it was only an hour. Plus we make sure to listen to the Goddess Waze, with whom we were first acquainted the last time we were in LA. We were so impressed at the time, it has made its way into our phones as a permanent structure. So Goddess Waze lead us safely and we arrived.
Adventure #25 - Road Trip to LA and Martin Wheeler Systema Seminar Planned By - Both Heather and Marty
DAY FIVE - From Ventura to Catalina Island, CA
Description: Wherein Heather and Marty continue their VERY LONG road trip to LA (it takes 6 hours to drive LA, they are going to do it in 5 days!) Leaving their spacious RV in near Ventura, they head towards San Pedro to catch a boat to Catalina Island for a night's stay.
(Marty's Report):
Ok, so out of the farm, saying goodbye to Toni the horse, who for some reason liked my knees (I’m guessing it was the salt). He seemed eager to see us, coming across the paddock to say hi, and then chuffed that we were leaving so soon. The two dogs with their head nets tried blocking the way out the gate, but Heather wooed them away, and we left. We got high marks, again, from the hostess for cleaning the place so thoroughly, though since it feels like someone’s home, it would feel rude to not do that. We also gave her high marks.
We took Hwy 101 down into LA, through mountainous coastal regions and towns that really started looking like LA. I had wanted to finish our path down Hwy 1, but neither of us caught that until deep into LA. C’est la vie. We listened a bit more to “The Essential Dogen” (pronounced by the narrator as DOE-gin, with an elongation of the “oe”—I’ll never be able to hear the name again except as that), but it’s such potent and dense writing that you quickly overdose. Then we listened to more music, and cruised through the mostly uncluttered LA highways.
I love LA. Every time I come down here, after my two years at UCLA 20 years ago, I fall for it more and more deeply. There’s consistently, in my experience, a deeply relaxed quality, no matter where I’ve gone in the region. It’s like the whole area moves around on a base coated with very fine, perfectly round grains. It doesn’t at all feel unstable or unrooted, just free moving. It shouldn’t feel this way, of course, given the problems with traffic, population, and just its incredible complexity. But it does to me, and there’s no way around it. Some part of me relaxes here in a way it never does in San Francisco. Thankfully, I not so in love that I can’t be away from it, as if it were a beloved. But it’s noticeable.
We passed through Calabassas, where the famous Topanga Canyon (and Mullholand Dr., apparently) are, something I never knew. That’s part of the ongoing charm of LA, I suppose, that when I was here for college, I knew nothing about the region. I kept my head down, went out to the beach once in a while, downtown once, up to Simi Valley with Mike for climbing, but never explored the area. I didn’t have a car, but more so, I was so overwhelmed that just staying close to home, and doing my school work to get out of there was a big enough project.
But coming back as an adult (adult-er), I get to see the whole region, which I’ve done in the past several years starting with my yearlong with Dan Siegel. Then the trip with Heather last year, to Las Vegas, then through the desert to LA, and now down the coast to LA. It’s a great exposure to such a complex region, with so much nuance and beauty I never guessed when it was written off as, “you know, LA.”
So we rolled into San Pedro, and had a couple hours before our boat left for Catalina Island at 3p. We walked along the waterfront along the Long Beach Harbor, on the SP side, and visited a number of, basically, the same down beat beach knick knack shops. One place had a mix of that stuff, and Santeria paraphernalia, and it had the most uncomfortable vibe on that walk. There was a Latina woman in the corner, shadowed, and the energy of the place felt too close and thick. I’ve never liked the feel of these more primitive religions, or their magical applications. I remember crossing the border back into Benin, and there being a merchant selling dog heads and animal parts, for ceremonies or magic of some kind. It doesn’t feel clean or pure-spirited, but rather based around power and manipulation. We left, both feeling the discomfort. I guess you could argue it’s the discomfort of culture clash, but it feels deeper than that, energetic.
From there, we ran some errands (Dramamine, luggage tags, and an attempt at a luggage strap, at Target), all in San Pedro. It’s a town that definitely feels rougher than Ventura, and the workers in the two stores had an immediate brusqueness when approached, as if the contact itself was chaffing and unwelcomed. I don’t know if it was my demographic (white, male, privileged), or something more about the town itself, but when I observed other workers from afar, they seemed to carry themselves with that kind of energetic toughness.
Two Harbors
We made it to the boat on time, and spent an hour and a half on the top deck, wind and sun burned, arriving at Two Harbors first, then east along the island to Avalon. Avalon is the main population center; out of 4000 permanent residents, 3700 live here. (Another ¾ million visitors come here each year.) It has a 100 year history of development as a tourist destination, most prominently by William Wrigley in the 1920’s (the gum magnate). It’s now about a square mile, with a squeaky clean waterfront walk, full of restaurants and beach shops. Like the other towns we’ve been to, it’s quiet, off season, though it apparently gets mobbed in summer (I saw a picture of the little beach swarmed with humanity).
We schlepped our bags off the boat and the few blocks to the Seacrest Inn. Heather had called it a hotel, so I was expecting some multi-storied concrete pink building off the main drag. But instead, it was a cute two-story building (they’re all low rise buildings here) a block away from the waterfront walk, for all of $95 a night. Juan showed up on a moped after we left a message, a sweet 30s-something man who checked us in and even carried a couple of our bags to the room. Then we settled our stuff, gawked at the Jacuzzi, and went out to find dinner.
The waterfront looked a bit like a bourgeois, stationary Burning Man, lit up with its various colored lights and storefront emanations. But different in that it was quiet, without interminable rave music. So points to Avalon for that.
Dinner at the meh Galleon, then a spot of gelato at the corner place, all windows and doors open to the ocean air, like we were in the Mediterranean. Visitors here tend to be white, late middle age, though some diversity of black and Asian folk. A lot of low-key money is represented here, because it’s not cheap getting out here, nor cheap living here. Heather did some research and the high water users here pay 18 times the mainland rate, and houses have the buttload of money feel (there’s no slummy houses here). There’s a couple boats here that probably cost more then I’d made in my whole life. But there’s not that horrific suffocating feeling of stratified money, carrying a complex chutney of defensiveness, entitlement, and implied violence.
We went back to the hotel afterwards and had a bath… which was a bath because we couldn’t figure out how to make the Jacuzzi jets work. I fell into a doze there, and must have been wiped out because I basically slept there, and then stumbling into bed, the whole night through. The symphony of golf carts, passing outside our window, lulled me to sleep.
(Heather's Report):
I dragged myself out of bed, noting that I was kinda wishing I was home and sort of wishing I had my blankey. Sigh. But I did noticed that I did feel more relaxed in terms of travel despite maybe being a little road weary. After this last night in AirBnBs, I realized that I really don’t like hotels. They are so sterile and stressful. It’s no wonder I don’t really like “vacations”. I’m not like Marty in that I feel like is just the same across the board and no “vacating” is necessary (although I think I sort of agree with him), but I also find “vacations” very stressful and not very relaxing and I usually dread going back to work. Maybe that’s true for most people? I don’t know. In any case, I got up a bit earlier than I wanted to so I could cook the yummy fresh duck eggs and have breakfast. Not a huge fan of breakfast in general, but I do note a high protein breakfast can keep me going, although often to the point that I miss lunch because it holds me so well. I went with Marty to say goodbye to Tony the Horse and off we went, finding coffee along the way.
The huge bridge right over our berth.
We apparently missed the rest of Highway 1 but I was okay with that because I get anxious around timing logistics and I didn't want to miss the boat ride over to Catalina Island especially since we had hotel reservation for tonight. But we made it there in good time, watching the building of LA start. This place is soooo huge. I mean, I feel like if you just ignored the rest of the world, you'd feel like you lived on Coruscant from Star Wars (the entire planet is one city). It just keeps going and going and going.... Anyway, we rolled into the dock area and went wandering around, including a jaunt to the nearest Rite Aid to pick up the all important drammamine (both Marty and I remember a horrible whale "watching" trip where we both got quite nauseous on the boat and threw up over the side) and we needed luggage tags in case we had to check bags.
Because Love Wins!
Before that we wandered around the weird little dock stores, all kitschy stuff and mostly closed. We've run into a lot of "Closed" on this trip being fairly off season, I think. But we popped into a couple with all the usual knickknacks, usual tourist trappings, sea creatures of the dried sort, shells, etc etc. We wandered into one of those stores that has all the bits of every.... uhm, I am not sure what to call it... religions, spiritualities, occult stuff. Crystals, angels, fortune telling stuff, incense, jewelry, etc etc. You totally know the kind and you totally know the smell. These stores all smell the same. That overwhelming mix of nasty synthetic incense oils and sticks to patchouli to whatever else crap they spray onto or incorporate into things. Yuck. And the energy in these places is always disjointed and unpleasant. Marty wondered why this was so as he felt it too. I made the point that these kinds of stores offer ALL different things for all different beliefs with no grounding or backup. I've been in stores dedicated entirely to Wicca or just spirituality oriented herbalism and they have very different feels, more grounded in its own thing. So, we left and wandered off, musing about this phenomenon.
Marty's looking grizzled and cute!
After snoozing.
We made our way to our boat's berth and boarded without issue. We didn't have to check luggage since apparently they had many seats open. So we hauled ourselves to the top and open deck and settled in. I watched for a little while, looking for any form of cetaceans but didn't see anything. Eventually, as with most forms of travel where I don't have to drive and I don't have to be awake for someone else driving, and there's that rhythmic motion (somewhat) and I napped for about half the way over, about an hour to Two Harbors and another 30 minutes to Avalon, the main "port". I got sprayed in the face a couple of times as the boat zipped along which would rouse me a little but then I'd nod off again.
Approaching Avalon.
Finally, after our trip, we pulled into Avalon and disembarked. We were immediately struck by how similar it felt and also looked, to Dahab, Egypt and parts of Hawaii. We checked into our hotel, the cute Seacrest Inn, which ended up being more of a large historical house broken up into rooms. Rather neat. There was a huge two person whirlpool tub that we eyed with half envy, half guilt (on my end, especially after learning that the island has no natural fresh water sources and is considered to be in an extreme/serious drought condition). Maybe I will sin later though. We left and wandered the cute street front along the water to find dinner.
Avalon's main street.
Everything is very expensive on the island, which makes sense as everything is shipped in. They don't have any local agriculture or livestock or water that we know of. And if you think about that, then this place really shouldn't even exist. But of course, in this modern day, we can ship out goods, food and whatnot to wherever. So pretty much everything was expensive for dinner, especially meats and fruits. Well, and dairy and everything else. But what the hell, I had a prime rib. I don't eat meat that often these days (red meat, or really much of anything) although I've been eating a lot of fish on this trip. I'm probably all mercury poisoned or something. But the prime rib was very good ("Not for the cow!" Marty says) and we took a photo of the little rubber duck the hotel leaves for its guests to take with them to keep but also to take photos of during their vacation. So here's our duck enjoying some prime rib at The Galleon restaurant.
Our ducky enjoys some horseradish sauce.
Then we did get some ice cream and wandered back to the hotel and took that sinful bath. We both fit in there side by side (wow) although not all that long enough for our tall bodies but still. We couldn't figure out to get the jets to work in the whirlpool and I wasn't going to call the lovely hotel assistant to show him our sinning ways just to get the jets on. So we just soaked. I ended up snoozing a bit but eventually woke up with my heart pounding and had to get out. Too hot! Marty stayed in to continue the soaking and napping process while I worked on the computer in bed, every now and then calling out to him to make sure he was still alive. Then eventually we both went to bed.
The USS Battleship Iowa that we saw going out of San Pedro Harbor.
Adventure #25 - Road Trip to LA and Martin Wheeler Systema Seminar Planned By - Both Heather and Marty DAY FOUR - Ventura, CA
Description: Wherein Heather and Marty continue their VERY LONG road trip to LA (it takes 6 hours to drive LA, they are going to do it in 5 days!) Heather and Marty, a little weary, plus running out of road (almost to LA) before Tuesday's jaunt to Catalina Island, decide to stay two whole nights in one place, so today... Ojai and Ventura.
Heather.... sort of. Ventura Harbor
(Marty's Report):
I’m usually up neurotically early, in general and on vacations, but this trip has been insanely late by my standards. I was sentient close to 9p, but then actually mobile in my higher intelligence at 10a. I left Heather snoozing, and walked around Love House Farm. I met the horse (which I named Toni, which is what I name most everything, like using the same password for all websites—it just makes things easier), which Heather tells me is maybe a skewball or pinto (coloring). There were some people on the other side of the paddock, seemingly an owner of the farm instructing workers (who seemed like a couple) on different duties. They seemed farm-hippy, and she seemed farm-weathered.
The whole land is maybe three acres, roughly a square in shape. It has a large-ish field out front with raised beds and two chicken tractors (A-frame wire mesh contraptions butted up against a movable chicken house) between the beds. They all seemed to be end of season, as there’s little growing. The same in field on the other side of the driveway, where the propagation quonset hut-like structures are stationed, next to the old tennis court that has been cut in strips to allow for planting. There’s a large farm house that seems to have been assembled with a two story cottage building, and a barn, as well as two other trailers, and a mashed up small house like a bloated tool shed. No one is much moving about, so maybe this is really the down season.
I rousted Heather at 10:30a, and we got going pretty quickly, heading up to Ojai, north of the farm by about 15 minutes. It reminded me more than anything of Calistoga, full of wine and spas, with the high street spread out over maybe a half-mile, full of knick-knack shops and restaurants. We had brunch at the Ojai Café Emporium, which had a serviceable breakfast and a nice older waiter. Heather and I talked about the issue of “privilege,” stemming off of a Facebook post from the Psyched in SF editor Traci, about her wanting to dialogue around criticism that Psyched has taken. I wrote something two nights ago that I wisely did not send, which started with something like, “This conversation has most often felt like engaging children who are juggling butcher knives.” It’s hard for me not to feel agitated and fuzzy around this issue, for reasons that feel nebulous and fuzzy, but I don’t buy that it’s because of my privileged status (i.e., straight white male). But maybe it is. But it hasn’t been proven as far as I can tell, and I feel so profoundly Buddhist in these realms, where I can see the natures of social oppression and stratification, but don’t see how that’s more than topically relevant when talking about essential freedom.
So, we talked about this realm, and were mostly in concord in our perspective, though Heather’s a bit more allowing of peoples’ stories about their lives. Me, I don’t feel beholden to anything people tell me is true about themselves. I don’t feel that I hold more authority then they about their lives, but I don’t feel I hold much authority about my own life. I hold that Spirit holds a lot of authority, and that the human nervous system also holds a lot of authority, and that at the end of the discussion, they trump. I gather that’s not a popular stance.
After clearing up that issue, we wandered through the feed and tackle store next door, checking out the fish and the chickens and the two turkeys (the male of whom strutted majestically around, puffed up and making “humph!” noises, and looking ridiculous in its trying to look regal), then we meandered down the main drag, stopping in the various shops, most of which had that sorta thematically organized quality, with the theme seemingly being, “items which are cute/nostalgic without being threatening in any way.” I don’t really understand the basic logic of such places, and always assume they are marked for a proximate death.
A dog Marty wanted to steal.
One place that was better was a gallery, with a couple beautiful mosaic pieces, some rich glass work, opal rings and pendants that Heather really liked. But we decided this was a couple levels of privilege above us; the glass sculpture was $25,000, and the rings were around $1500. The owner was maybe Italian or Greek, and talked about the artist who made the opal pieces. The man apparently introduced opals into this country, and is now in his 90’s, but still working. He had had pieces which were valued at several million dollars, but a house fire destroyed them and he returned to making commercial pieces. Heather said that working with opals is very difficult because they are full of water pockets, and will self-destruct if too much heat is applied. Like cutting them. Or a house fire. On the way out, Heather was saying that she wasn’t drawn to wearing jewelry, but could see buying such pieces for their beauty. The owner overheard and said, “Oh, a woman who doesn’t like to wear jewelry, I love that!”
We also went into an alley of shops, with a shrunken older woman sitting at a table in front of her store, while all the others were closed. She seemed to waft a slightly resigned anger, and was disappointed when we weren’t interested in the empty shop at the back. The stores seemed to be designed by people who needed an excuse to get away from spouses.
So, having tapped out Ojai, we drove down Hwy 33 to the town of Ventura (again), and parked on a back street. Heather made the point that on a fairly expensive trip, she was making a point of finding non-metered parking, but I approve. I hate paying for parking no matter what, which is probably the result of growing up in suburbs where parking is as plentiful as culture is not. We walked the same street as last night, though it is less charming during the day (which was hot, with a direct, pressurized sun). We checked out a few artsy-craftsy stores, similar to those in Ojai…and every other touristy high street in America…and then went into the Vom Fass olive oil/vinegar store.
What a cool store. It’s beautifully designed, spacious, light, with the same clay pots to hold the various liquids, with their spouts to drip out their samples (or later pour out their wares). A nice guy, probably in his 50’s, spent maybe 30 minutes with us, letting us taste test different oils and vinegars (they also had wines and cognacs, spirits of which we did not partake). We chatted about “The Walking Dead,” and a bit about his having considered going into psychotherapy at one point. He was warm and engaged, and seemed pleased enough to be there helping us. We ended up choosing seven different oils/vinegars at about $100 total, and he directed us to the Ventura Harbor.
Learning at the visitor center that the shuttle doesn’t run on Mondays, we drove down about 10 minutes to the harbor, and walked out on the beach. Heather dabbled her toes and I stood calf deep in the not-warm water (apparently that’s just summer down here), and gazed out at the boats out towards the Channel Islands. If I had a change of clothes, I would have went swimming, as I could feel that tug that most humans feel in the time-stopping qualities of the ocean. As it was, I got my pants a bit wet, a vague, uncomfortable feeling that does not feel time-stopping, but more a reminder of the aggravation of being a human with a physical body, in a world that doesn’t much care about the comfort of your physical body.
The Ventura Harbor.
We decided on Italian for early dinner, and ate at Milano’s, a tourist-friendly place that was off season, so mostly vacant. Several species of birds gawked and squawked at us, as we sat at the outdoor seats looking out at the harbor. Few walkers were around, and hardly any movement was happening on the boats (I have no understanding of fishing life, so don’t know what schedules they might keep). The harbor had small craft, and quite a few large commercial scale ships, with complex matrixes of booms and ropes and masts. It all looked complex, and as usual, a part of me was in awe of how much money was represented by all the ships moored in the harbor.
Harbor contemplation.
Our waitress was nice enough, but in that way of servers at primarily tourist spots. Formally competent, and energetically wary and reserved.
We drove back to the farm and walked around, visiting the horse, the chickens, and the two little dogs with mesh bags over their heads, presumable to keep bugs from infecting their tear ducts. Somehow I know that can be a problem. They barked at us initially, then settled down for petting.
I had a nice warm shower in the RV, and have been writing this, and will leave in a few minutes to go back to Ventura, to see “Sicario” and give Heather some alone time.
I’m back from the movie, a grim and heavy tale of the drug war turning into a real war, centered on the CIA’s use of a straight FBI agent to cover an operation using a ex-drug cartel’s assassin. It’s a simple, linear story whose power is its tone. It’s not artificially bleak like the loathable “No Country for Old Men”, nor redemptive like “Traffic”. Rather, it’s a statement of sadness, rather than a broad political position piece. Beautiful in its palate of greys and black.
I drove there and back listening to an audiobook of “The Essential Dogen,” read by a fellow who has an accent somewhere between Spanish and Japanese. I’m listening to the introductory essays, and finding it warm and rich, and can feel the Dogen they’re talking about. Dogen is the lineage father of the SF Zen Center, and I’m listening to this because a client is taking a course and I wanted to be informed.
I was reflecting on the strange quality of already, after two days, feeling so familiar with Ventura and the area. It seems like it just clicked into being in my head and now exists, full formed. Some part of my mind seems to be expecting a sense of dislocation and “otherness,” but it doesn’t come. The expectation is making little grabs for attention, which may be why I’m a little bit weary today, but it feels vestigial and historical, rather than current. Everything we’re encountering feels so categorically familiar that nothing is provoking some startle response from encountering difference.
Or more generally, there’s a trust that if shit happens, we’ll deal with it.
Rather than being some collapse in the romantic ideal of finding the Great Other, it’s a relief of seeking. More and more it just feels like all me, all home, so there’s both a relief of the injunction to do, and a sense of a capacious space to play in.
(Heather's Report):
So, as usual, I went to bed late and I was laying in bed having a hard time getting to sleep. Nothing new there. Road travel can be a bit hard on me. I already have an extremely hard time getting to sleep at home, but add in a new bed or environment and it gets even worse. But there it is. However, I dragged myself out of bed when Marty came in to get me since he's usually up way earlier than me on vacations, either to wander around or Sit on his own. I was in a somewhat grumpy mood due to sleep deprivation or whatever and mocha at the Ojai Emporium Cafe did not seem to do the trick. Like at all. But I munched at my "California Croissant", which was like eggs benedict with a croissant instead of english muffin. It was alright. Not lemony enough for me, although for me, most things can be made better with lemon, and vinegar (which I will get to later in this report!).
We wandered around the little main street of Ojai, which like Marty said, seemed to be filled with "vibrational healing spas" and those sort of wanna-be high brow stores of kitsch. Stuff that I wouldn't bother to spend any money on. There were some cute art pieces of the furniture style here and there, including a couple of Dr. Seusian looking type drawers, but in general, not really anything else. Excepting the gallery that Marty mentioned that had a much higher "quality" of art or at least that hit us in different ways. I noticed the textured art hanging which used stones and sort of mosaic style to create pictures and pointed it out to him. He did indeed like it and wondered how much it was. No pricing nearby. As we wandered through the rest of store, with me starting to feel like a frumpy, poor low-life, Marty noticed a price tag on a different piece and told me he bet the piece he would want to buy would be quite out of our price range. Since that tag was $25,000, I very much agreed with him. And then I saw the really gorgeous opal jewelry, also at too high a range for us ($1,500 to $6k or more!) and lamented to Marty, per our earlier conversation about privilege which we both see somewhat similarly, although I was making a bid that "culture" and "racism/privilege" are separate, since I know Marty's penchant around "Story" and "culture" is basically full of "story". But in any case, my take on privilege being the wealth gap, because really, a poor white person is going to see an affluent African-American as privileged, just as a poor African-American would see an affluent White American as privileged. Now, the discussion about who might have more opportunities than the other is a whole other can of worms. Which I won't get into, because, well, can of furious, flesh-eating worms. As we were walking out, I did mention that if I did have that kind of privilege to buy such items, I would buy the jewelry for the beauty, like a piece of art, but probably wouldn't wear it because I don't really like to wear jewelry. My wedding ring is an exception, and I designed it myself to be something I wanted to wear for the rest of my life (the ring is also is what prompted the discussion about opals since I had wanted to get a fire opal for the setting, but ended up doing a yellow, lab grown sapphire). But, opals are beautiful and these were exceptional pieces. The owner of the gallery seemed to be charmed by this statement and Marty and I thought it was an odd response to me saying I didn't like to wear jewelry.
Vinegar and oil "keggers" at Vom Fass.
So we popped out of Ojai after grabbing yet another espresso for me (which again didn't seem to do anything), and headed down to Ventura. It was a little bit more charming in the darkness with the lights as Marty said, but it still had a somewhat cute and sleepy quality to it. Almost the same level of kitschy stores, but we had the thought that we would go visit the olive and vinegar store we had seen before heading to the movie "Everest". And what a find! We were greeted by a very nice shop attendant who spent quite a bit of time with us and we felt like we made more of a personal connection, more than just the "hey, buy some olive oil" sort of thing. My zombie shirt "Zombies. They love you for what's on the inside." sparked the "Walking Dead" conversation and he and I definitely connected over love for vinegar (seriously, put that stuff on any and everything). I think my coffee was starting to finally kick in and I was getting a little manic. The store was called Vom Fass and apparently there is one in SF at Ghirardelli Square. The nice dude let us taste different olive oils, from regular oil to flavored oils like basil or garlic, as well as vinegars and Marty even liked some (he's not usually a fan), but one of the balsamic vinegars we tried, which was more like syrup in consistency, was really lovely and sweet and complemented a bunch of the oils. We ended up getting about 5 bottles, three oils and two vinegars. I bet the one in SF is way more expensive than this one in Ventura, but I'm very happy to learn that at least we have one. Also, it had a very fun set up, these cool ceramic kegs with drip nozzles and you buy the bottle and the liquid, whatever kind that is, because they offer spirits as well. The bottles were all ranges, some at $1.29 for really basic to really fancy at around $6.50. There was even a "high heel" shoe type bottle. Clever scheme but still cute. And you can bring your bottles back in for refills. So, after we use these, I'll go check out the SF version.
After this and following our olive oil dude's suggestion, we went to the Harbor Village and walked around. We went onto the beach during which I whined about sand. I know know, I am a supposed environmentalist and I don't like sand in my shoes, okay?! But Marty got me to take my shoes and socks off and make my way onto the beach. Which was fine. I sat for a little bit watching Marty get his shorts wet in the surf and watched shorebirds feeding in the swash zone (where the water sort of swishes up and back down, some whiteness of foam, but only an inch deep or so). Then I realized that I had some weird gunky black stuff stuck to my feet. I tried rubbing my feet in the sand but that didn't work. Then tried scraping it off with my fingers once I determined it wasn't poo of some sort, but all that accomplished was getting my fingers all black and sticky. Finally, I used my ridiculously cursed nose to identify it as tar. Disgusting sticky, black tar-like substance. And then I started realizing it was all over the beach in little blobs here and there. Yuck. Having seen the seven oil platforms off the coast of Santa Barbara, my mind immediately went there and my environmental rage sparked up, although admittedly briefly when I read online about how to get rid of the stuff, the author of a "how-to" article talked about this phenomenon being from natural seepage of oil, hence the offshore oil rigs. So my irritation was somewhat quelled (although I wouldn't be surprised to find out that a percentage comes from those platforms, too) and I managed to get most of the stuff off my hands before dinner. Feet still need some cooking oil and scrubbing.
We went to dinner at a serviceable Italian restaurant although I found the pasta to be too heavy. Really, my Norwegian underpants must be showing because I think I'm perfectly happy with fish, steamed veggies and a few tiny potatoes. I drank only part of my margarita because it was hitting me too fast and like a ton of bricks. My system seems far more sensitive these days to a lot of stuff. I wish alcoholic drinks (I especially like really sweet cocktails) could also come in little shot glasses. Not like a shot of whiskey or something, but just a little shot glass of a Grasshopper or Funky Monkey, or whatever the fancy names are. I usually just want a taste and just the barest of slight edge of alterated shift. So, shots. Yeah.
We headed "home" and Marty and I visited with the horse (whom he named Tony, of course, he names EVERYTHING Tony, so.....) and the ducks and chickens before he went back into Ventura to go see the movie "Sicario" which I didn't want to see and I think Marty was recognizing I might need a little bit of "alone time for the introvert" space. I sat outside and typed for our blog, uploaded and fixed formatting for finished blogs, watched some movie about climbers trying to summit K2 (some old 90's movie, and wow, the music, SOOO terrible!!) and reading about deaths on Everest. When my system gets sparked or rattled by something, I tend to dive into it somewhat obsessively for a little while. Trying to understand the drive, probably. "Because it is there." is indeed a human drive, but I think that answer is a cop out.
Marty came back and read for a little bit before going to bed. I of course, stayed up late, finishing my movieand
pokings around the Internets AND messing with the stupid cruise ship
photo to take branches out. It's one of my obsessions that I get
obsessed and it MUST work out. Eventually, I got the damn branches and
some boats and signs out of the picture. It was frustrating but I
learned a lot. I hope I remember it. Maybe I should just start
practicing with older photos…..
The original shot, through the rain.
Here is the final edit. Damn frustrating but kinda fun and I learned a lot.
Adventure #25 - Road Trip to LA and Martin Wheeler Systema Seminar Planned By - Both Heather and Marty
DAY THREE - From Atascadero to Ventura, CA
Description: Wherein Heather and Marty continue their VERY LONG road trip to LA (it takes 6 hours to drive LA, they are going to do it in 5 days!) Leaving their most recent tiny RV AirBnB stop and heading down the rest of the coast on SR-1, stopping by to eat at La Torita in the heavy rain (say wha?! Rain?!), before heading over to Ventura and somewhat inland above Ventura for our next AirBnB experience. Plus the movie “Everest".
(Marty's Report):
I set the alarm on the Phone of Wonder, so we got the circulation going around 9am, and rolled out of our vintage RV about 10a to keep heading down the road. We stopped at a Starbucks off the highway for morning ablutions, and a rail-but-not-methy young man served the drive-in, with a tattoo on his forearm that is the sign of the Deathly Hollows, from Harry Potter. Other than him, it was all women working the joint, and a lot of them, all under 25. (Another Starbucks down the road, also had all young women working there, who, as I sat there waiting for my next tea, looked like all variations on a theme.)
Morro Rock & old power plant.
There was some mist going on as we went back to the coast, coming to Hwy 1 at Morrow Bay again, with the massive Morrow Rock just placidly plunked down in the water. A power plant (which I learned was closed in 2014) sticks its three stacks into the air, its human geography juxtaposed with nature’s. We drove from there down into San Luis Obispo, which somehow magically landed us right where we were yesterday, on the collegiate high street. We found our way back to the highway, heading south on what felt like backroads, rather than a main highway. The towns were slightly rough, with a heavy Mexican feel. Coming through the town of Guadalupe, firefighters were collecting for muscular dystrophy, and Heather dropped a $10 in one cute guy’s boot. Later she said, “Stop, turn around, turn around!” A dog was dead in the weeds and she wanted to photograph the assembled vultures, each sitting on its own fence post.
There’s a lot of RVs in this area of the world. We don’t know why. But Pismo Beach, which I know as a golf town, had enough to supply the rest of the state, certainly the Bay Area. It was one of those beach towns you find down here, teetering between cute and seedy.
Then Heather wanted to take us to a back route, to get back to Hwy 1 after it ended, sort of, in Hwy 101. It was a beautiful scrubby hill land, and we opened the windows and turned on the heat, so our legs were warmed but our top halves were cool, a sweet sensation.
Today we drive according to the dictates of the blue dot, and the GPS voice, and it just failed us this time. Maybe. We drove towards the Marshallia Ranch Golf Course, and found a road closure. Well, it looked like the road might have gone through the golf course, so we drove into the parking area, then back through the maintenance area, then down a dirt road, then across the golf cart path, and I called it as Heather was saying that the seemingly unmaintained dirt road-ish thing heading up an incline, or the golf cart path going the other way, seemed to lead, according to the lines and blue dot, to a road that gets us to another road that gets us to the highway. “We’re turning around.” She relented, we drove out, and back a little ways was the proper turnoff. Weirdly, no one who was connected to the golf course shooed us off.
We passed by Vandenberg Air Force Base, which is connected with the space shuttle, and the shorn callow looking young man marked Lompoc as a military town.
Heather and I continued to get along, enjoying each other, not biting. This apparently was a music day, so she DJ’ed the trip with music we both more or less agreed on. Which carried us down the coast, into definitively SoCal architecture, with its neo-Spainish flavor, and then into Santa Barbara. We drove along the water, stopping at an El Torito for lunch, she letting me push her into eating Mexican food. We sat near a table of two young couples, one with a baby, and as is often our wont, analyzed them through the Sensorimotor Psychotherapy character system. The mother's need to bully the weaker father, who had given up on his own power very early and so drew from her a sense of strength, while she benefited from not having her power challenged. He got a relationship, against all beliefs, and she got hegemony.
From there, we drove to our next AirBnB, at Love House Farm in Ventura, up Hwy 33 towards Ojai. It’s a big RV parked off to a side of the flower farm, and as with the other two, feels like some Harry Potter tent that magically has more space inside than should be allowed for by its outside size. We were both beat, so I lay down while Heather wrote, and I was attacked and harassed by a single fly the whole time. I tried to swat it while not killing it, but honestly, my Buddhist no-kill policy was a little weak. Nonetheless, it survived and continues to harass me as I write.
We drove into downtown Ventura for a 7:15p showing of “Everest”, and both of us were charmed by the high street, strung up with lights (for no reason, as Heather pointed out) and the relaxed and cute vibe. The movie itself was essentially a disaster biopic, well made but more like a procedural or fictionalized documentary, with some wrenching scenes but not a grand sense of meaning. We both left a little rattled. The worst for me was the wife of the expedition leader talking to him right before he died. As a married man quite attached to his wife, that one is a knife between the ribs.
We got on 101 instead of 33 on the way out, so ended up doing a loop around Cassitas Lake, and got back to the RV around 11p. Heather took a shower after several days (she holds her stank well), and I’m about to go do the same.
(Heather's Report):
So we woke up and packed up for the day. My body was feeling a little cranky from the bed, which unfortunately wasn’t that great, and everything slumped down to where Marty was laying, so that I was basically on a hill, trying not to end up jammed up against him. Not that I mind that, just, I’m a restless sleeper and I do move a lot. But eventually I slept. We headed out and found a nearby Starbucks before hitting the same road we took inland, back out to the coast and to Highway 1, turning left in Morro Bay and continuing on. It was misty and seemed like a beachy town. I was pleased to hear that the power plant, splatted right next to the majestic Morro Rock had been closed down in 2014. Do they not clean up these things? Later in Ventura we saw working oil well machines and really abandoned refinery site that did seem like it was being torn down and cleaned up. So, it IS possible. Tear that thing down and have a clean coastline.
Somewhere after Morro Bay.
We kept following the coastline down although I saw at one point that it would drop onto 101 again at some and back to Highway 1. We drove through Pismo Beach and marveled at the seemingly excessive presence of RVs in this town, and truly, down along the coastline. Some lots seemed to be storage, but a great many more seemed to be active “camping” spaces. No idea why the prolific use of RVs. Are they permanent residences or temporary or temporarily permanent? We couldn't really tell what the whole deal was. But soon enough we zipped out of RVLand and seemed to be heading back in towards the water (still somewhat inland). I dropped some money in a fireman boot held by some cute youngish fire dude trying to raise money for muscular dystrophy. He seemed like fresh out of the box... probies, isn't that what new recruits are called?
So as we were swinging around a curve, I noticed a bunch of turkey vultures sitting on fence posts and bade Marty to turn back so I could take photographs. Still learning my camera, grrr. I think Marty was videoing me taking photos. The one I was taking photos of seem to regard me in return with a some what half "Should I take off now?" to half bewildered "What is that thing doing down there?" There was a dead dog on the road right below them, but none were actively eating. They all just seemed to be sitting there on their posts.... waiting. For what, I'm not sure. They weren't feeding as we passed by. Maybe it has to get riper? I didn't smell anything rank, so perhaps it was a fairly fresh kill and it just needed to, uhm, decompose some more in order to get more tasty? No idea. But in any case... turkey vultures or 'buzzards' as I grew up calling them. I was reminded of a funny comic from Bird & Moon Comics about Turkey Vultures so here it is. Plus a couple of photos of the one vulture I was photographing.
Turkey vulture!
My bewildered Turkey Vulture buddy.
From Bird & Moon Comics.
Then
"Deliverance" style, I got us lost on a really remote golf course. Golf courses raise my ire on any given day (in terms of habitat destruction and such) but in a severe drought, they get my goat really well. And let's be fair, *I* didn't lose us on a golf course, the stupid phone did. There were roads on that map that did NOT exist in reality and suddenly we're driving around the back lot of some golf course, maybe here for the military airforce base (Vandenberg)? Dunno. But in any case, I was sure we were going to end up in some shack somewhere, never to be heard from again. Golfers are far nastier creatures than you realize. Except they weren't. One set of golfers looked placidly at us as we crept by on what was probably a tiny dirt maintenance road but like Marty said, no one came chasing us away. Finally he called it, refusing to take any more of my "But, look, there's a road right up there, it shows it right there!!!" and turned around. We found the somewhat obvious turnoff we missed in the first place and continued on.
By the time we rolled into Santa Barbara, it was raining. Yes, actual water falling from the sky. And lots of it as there were almost tiny rivers in the streets of the town. I directed us along the waterfront and we marveled at a ginormous cruise ship out in the water. Marty made me get out in the rain to take a photo since the iPhone's great lack is pictures of a normal perspective, maybe depth of field and all that? I dunno, but things that are close to the eye are always far away to the phone. So I got out with my new DSLR and took a shot. Which later I drove myself crazy by trying to get branches out of the photo..... I'll talk about that later.
Marty managed to convince me to get Mexican food, which I don't like, too heavy and cheesy for me, and THEN accused me of racism! Some mate he is! It was okay, I guess. I got heavily meated items and gave my beans to Marty, ate the rice and felt somewhat heavy. Starting to realize that a modified Mediterranean diet may be the way to go for me, modified because I would take a lot of the grains out of the picture, more "Paleo", which drives me crazy. As I said to the olive oil vendor dude in Ventura (who's company had recipes for Mediterranean diets out on the counter), "There was no bacon in the cavemen days." He got a kick out of that. Erm, that's tomorrow that we meet that dude (sorry, missed a day and going back in time!!!)
We left Santa Barbara for Ventura and up a little for our next place, a large motorhome on an organic flower farm. So far this AirBnB thing has been great! Nice hosts, fun little spaces, cheap and way better than a dinky motel.
Then we went to Ventura to watch a movie, "Everest", and found ourselves a bit charmed by their downtown main street. We gazed around for a little bit and then went to see the movie.
It was not what I expected, the movie. "Everest" was exactly what Marty said, a disaster biopic sort of thing, which meant they were basically following an event that occurred. But I didn't know how that event ended so I was going in blind, thinking this was a movie of (spoilers!!) grand human courage, etc, etc and it really wasn't about that. No "Love Letter to Humanity" for this movie. I left kinda depressed and then obsessively looked up all sorts of stuff around Everest that I could find, including watching some old terrible 90's movie about climbing K2. I tend to get obsessed when hit with these things directly in the nervous system. I think I'm just trying to work it out of my system by overloading. Or something.
Some weird random photo of a cool steampunk gun, but I can't remember where this was.... I think in Ventura?
Adventure #25 - Road Trip to LA and Martin Wheeler Systema Seminar Planned By - Both Heather and Marty
DAY TWO - From Carmel to Atascadero, CA
Description: Wherein Heather and Marty continue their VERY LONG road trip to LA (it takes 6 hours to drive LA, they are going to do it in 5 days! Leaving their tiny RV AirBnB stop and heading down the long winding SR-1, stopping by to eat at Coast Gallery, taking a walk to see McWay Falls/Cove, stopping to see elephant seals, sort of looking at Hearst Castle and arriving in Atascadero for their next little AirBnB experience.
(Marty's Report):
Another late-ish rising, around 10a, and I rousted Heather and started the packing process, and then cleaning our trailer-of-the-night. We said goodbye to the lamas in the only language they understood (from the feed bag), and to the kittens (although they were in the neighbors yard), and texted Martin thank you, heading down the road. We found a local café for tea and a mocha, then started down Highway 1, with Heather up for this leg of driving. We passed a couple markers of our history with Marc Gafni, from a time where (we think) we attended a board meeting of the Center for World Spirituality (as it was called then), and another where we were touring an eating disorder clinic created by Marc’s girlfriend, called Monarch Grove (I can’t remember her name). Then down into Big Sur, which seemed particularly overrun by wealthy and foreign travelers. We stopped for lunch at Coast Gallery, which I seemed to have been at before, eating out on the café terrace. The counter guy was wearing a Parisian chef’s jacket, which struck me as fairly pretentious for a place that trucked overly-priced half-assed art and sculpture, and was built out of old water tanks, and served slightly upscale café food. (Interesting guy, too, big body, blustery, with a kind of “jowl-liness” of the soul.)
The people that accumulated as we ate were those wine culture characters that are tolerable in the singular, but in the excessively plural stop being funny. They became that plural, and as I began feeling like I’d gotten too many small gulps of greasy sea water, and they added up, my skin wanted to crawl off towards the car, carrying me with it. Heather tried to distract me by asking about the inner lives of migrating whales, but my Buddhist calm had eroded. We soon left.
We blew past Eselan and blew it a psychic kiss—I hadn’t been there since the EMDR training years ago—and continued on down the road, traveling further south than I’d ever been on Highway 1.
Heather points out the way.
We went to McWay Waterfall, at Julius Pfiefer State Park, one of our desired stopping points. It was packed with travelers, so we parked on the highway and walked in to the cove, a gorgeous example of California coastline, and then checked out the remains of the house that was owned by wealthy early 20th century folk, who had deeded the land to the State to create the park.
People. Lots of people. Lots of foreign travelers. At one point I got a deja vu experience of being in India. There’s something painful about humans trying to find something meaningful out of the bold-face tourist attractions, with their density of exposure, but their paucity of symbology. A trickle of water falling off a cliff onto a beach, and the foundations and steps of a rich person’s house, and none of us who had to stop there know what it really means, or maybe more deeply, are aware of its semiotic thinness and go through this ritual to avoid the truth of the emptiness of the place and phenomenon. Meaning as created by herd movement, rather than by substance of experience.
Ok, so that done, we headed down the road, having our first and cross fingers only fight on the trip. In a relationship somewhat aged like ours, all the dirt is scooped away from the core of metal, such that when we hit something, it’s clear what it is, and that it’s old, and that it’s not going to move by bashing it hard with our heads. Like a couple of balloons stoked upwards by a quickly heating fire, we ascended, and then, the result of seven years of psychotherapy and 15 years of steeping in each other, were able to draw in some cool air and come back to homeostasis. Heather cried out some of the underlying energy, the result of her being more sensitive than she knows what to do with, and then we were back on the road. Being safety conscious, we pulled off the road at the emergence of tears.
Randomly, a place along the windy coast, where were stopped to fortify with coffee and tea, and watch a band playing.
"Puppy" pile!
Tiny battle.
On from there, we stumbled upon an elephant seal haul-out, Piedras Blancas, where hundreds of the floppy beach worms lazed about, occasionally snuggling or mock-fighting each other, but mostly just scratching and sleeping. It’s a beautiful stretch of coast there, flattening out and drying after the windy and hilly Big Sur area. Frankly, I’m more attracted to this area than the Magestic Big Sur… wow, I’m having a hard time not being snarky. It’s the overly saturated quality that makes my soul cringe and look for the exit, especially when it’s of the tourist version. I feel suffocated easily, apparently, and this area (a few miles north of Cambria) has an openness and unpretentiousness in its unobstructed ocean and pastureland that my soul, like a prairie dog, can come out into.
Then a little further on is San Simeon, home of Hearst Castle, built by the publishing magnate William Randolph Hearst in the first half of the 20th century. He was the son of George Hearst, the mining magnate that David Milch’s “Deadwood” savaged. It sits up on the hill line, while the visitor center is down on the plane, just off the highway. It was too late to go on a tour, but neither of us was much interested. We mused a bit, walking through the huge building, on the confused purpose of the place. What was being memorialized? Or preserved? Or lauded? Or meant?
Was it about an architectural production by a famed California architect (Julia Morgan)? Or a symbol of crass wealth? Or a deification of a symbol of capitalism's successes and rewards? Or a protection of a part of California history? Or a monument kept alive because it, for liminal, watery reasons, draws millions of visitors a year? Like McWay Falls, it’s a place of confused meanings, and odd discordant semiotics, like a modern atonal piece of music. From a fat man with a melancholy tinted strength, I bought a chocolate muffin, tea, and for Heather a pretzel, and fortified, we continued.
Morro Bay, with its impressive lump of rock just offshore, seemed a quiet and open little town. Four young surfers ran across the road in front of us, while we stopped at a light, blond young gods with their worlds filled with waves and challenge, like lives in beautiful, ocean-themed snow globes.
Chai, the cat.
The road from there to Atascadero took maybe 25 minutes, to get to our next AirBnB, another little trailer on private property. Kim has just started hosting guests, feeling it out, but seemed to like us and was warm and welcoming in showing us the place and her other camper. We met and fell for Chai, the cat that her daughter tried to take with her when they moved out a while back, and who ran across the freeway to get back here. (He’s on my lap right now as I write and reminds me that, as rich as my life is, with work, wife and birds, he reminds me that companion mammals are one of the great deficits in my life.)
We went down the road about 15 minutes to San Luis Obispo, the home of California Polytechnic, and had dinner at a natural foods restaurant on the main drag. The place has a slightly edgy feel to it, at least as the night got later, and after the meal we went to a candy story so Heather could load up on pop rocks, fortifying her for our stay at Peets Coffee, where we sat for a few hours and wrote these entries. Our fellow patrons were introverts like us, except for a young collegiate man with a couple the age of his parents, but seemingly friends of. He seemed like one of those self-assured young men, somehow secure in himself and his place in the world without being either arrogant or neurotic. It’s always very strange to encounter the securely attached.
Now we’re back at the trailer, sitting for an hour around the fire that Heather is pilfering unsecured energy resources (i.e., the bark and leaves from the driveway) to feed the burning of a huge chunk of wood. We decided on and were granted stay at an RV in Ventura, on a flower farm, for tomorrow and Monday, and then Tuesday we’ll take the boat out to Catalina Island.
(Heather’s Report):
Sleeping in! But we got up in time to “check-out”, cleaning up the place carefully (it’s one of my things, leaving our AirBnB places spotless; I mean they are reviewing us as well!!). We got coffee and tea on Carmel Valley Road and headed out again onto Highway 1. My turn to drive this leg. And whew, I got the serious twisty bits. But I am a hardened mountain driver (no joke!) and I took it in stride. But after almost 6 hours, I was getting a little weary. Sure we stopped along the way, but still, it’s hard kind of driving.
So where did we stop? We stopped at a weird little gallery/cafe place called the Coast Gallery in Big Sur. Apparently made out of old wood water barrels (the really big kind), it is a fine art gallery with a “fancy” cafe. We had lunch, during which Marty was getting more and more irritable at the “Wine People” which I’m sure he’ll talk about more in his report. I tried to distract him from his Napa Valley Rage by asking him what he thought whales might be thinking as they move up and down the coastline. It didn’t work all that well and so I hurried my lunch and off we went.
McWay Falls and Cove
More coastline, more coastline….. it IS beautiful, very iconic. I couldn’t really look further for whales or other things since I was driving! Our next stop was McWay Falls/Cove at uhm… a Park with a long name. I think Marty named it above. Many peoples going in and out of this little area to view the cove and the little waterfall. Plus apparently there used to be a cool house with a funicular and one hell of a view at the end of the trail owned by the woman who wanted the park named after her friend. It's an odd thing, these sorts of historical areas, but I love them in some strange way. I've always loved "ruins" or historical sites. It's our history, you know? One day, I bet there will be ruins and historical sites from my own time that future people, humans or aliens, will look upon and wonder "What was life like here?" Yar.
Then winding down past Esalen (which we did not stop at although there had been an initial idea to spend a night here but whoof, how pricey!) and past areas of single road passage because the other lane of Highway 1 fell off the cliff. It must be so super expensive to keep this road maintained. And yet, they do. Not THAT much commerce on this road, or even that many people living here, but, well, iconic in its existence, I suppose. Yar. We had a brief spat along a plateau (haha!!) and it worked itself out pretty quickly, like many of our fights do these days. Lords, used to be that we wouldn't talk for hours after that and even not want to be near each other for days! But... much smoother in our decrepit years.
Napping on the beach.
Yoga Pose: Upward Seal.
Finally out of the mountains, whew! I could see the flatness of the highway from way above and just kept wondering if we'd ever get there. But lo, we did and as we closed in with the ocean again, flying by right next to the beach, I saw a sign for elephant seal viewing but no place to turn, but as we crested a smallish hill, there they were, stretched out along the beach. I'd never seen elephant seals, only harbor seals in Point Reyes and Bolinas and of course the sea lions at Pier 39 in SF. But you kinda get to know what a haul out looks like even from far away and sure enough. Elephant seals are more social than harbor seals (I helped count them for the Point Reyes monitoring program) and tend more touching touching but still less on the spectrum from sea lions who will flop all over each other. The elephant seals were mostly touching, side by side, a few heads laying over on flippers or the occasional juvenile males "jousting" and posturing at each other. We learned that at this stage it's not so serious and is more "fun" (or maybe practice!) but later in the season when they return to establish "alpha" maleness and hold beach territory for a harem of females, well, that's when it turns towards a more serious nature of "battle".
Hearst Castle from afar.
After the "floppy beach worms" as Marty always calls seals, pretty much of any sort, we stopped by Hearst Castle. It's way high up the hill and as we arrived somewhat late in the day and must buy a tour ticket to take a bus up there, we declined and instead talked about capitalism and the nature of, well, money and having money to build and preserve such a place.
Then in Morro Bay, turning inland to head up to Atascadero, CA for our next AirBnB stop
Our next little home.
with Kim and her little vintage trailers and Chai, the cat for some "Glamping amongst the oaks" (her listing). Apparently people have been doing the whole "moveable small homes" for a long while. I kinda thought it was a contemporary or at least somewhat recent phenomenon but it goes back for a long while! So this AirBnB hostess had two vintage RVs that she pulls behind a large pick up truck. I guess we were charmed enough by the last stay that we looked up John's (our Subaru Forester) towing capabilities but he couldn't take anything more than 1000 pounds without brakes and 2300 pounds with a braking system. And it seems everything is heavier than that. Or we'd need to get a beefier car. Which made us sad. Because we like John and don't want to trade him. Never mind where we would actually park the thing in San Francisco anyway!!!
After a jaunt out to San Luis Obispo, home of Cal Polytech, and definitely a college town, writing in a cafe for a while, we returned to our newest little RV and made a fire in the provided fire pit. And I played with the fire, oh yes. My preciousssss!!!!!
