Adventure #25 - Day Four - Ventura, CA

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 movie and 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.