California Fall Color

Moving somewhere new can be difficult. A lot of difficulties are obvious; learning to navigate in a new town; getting used to what times the stores shut in a small town compared to a big city; doing what you can to feel "at home."

Other things creep up on you, and are harder to deal with.

Fall has always been my favorite season. The cooling temperatures, the wind blowing, but above all... changing colors. It's been somewhat difficult to find fall hasn't really started yet here, and it's almost November. Leaves that change aren't indigenous to this state; you have to look in yards and subdivisions. Even so, "fall" is usually confined to a week in December; the briefest glimpse of color, until a gust of wind heralds winter and takes them away. My birthday falls in autumn; and all I wanted this year was those colors to come. Today I took a walk and got treated to some. I hope you enjoy them, too.

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Darling, I miss you - day 1

I love you, darling, I mouthed the words silently, as I zigzagged my way ever closer to the security checkpoint, cordoned off by the cloth rails. I can't help but remember the first time we queued like this; beside each other, waiting to board one rollercoaster after another, seeking thrills at the theme park, early last fall. The biggest thrills we experienced that day were the joy at how something as simple as queueing together was a sheer delight. I'm British. I know how to queue. But that day was something else entirely. We'd be lost in one another, and forget to move forward until an insistent harumph behind us reminded us exactly where we were. There's a picture of that day, packed in my suitcase. I'm wearing the shirt. Today, you're wearing it. Today is something different for both of us. We've each seen the other arrive at an airport. For the first time today, one of us gets to see the other leave.

I zigzagged away from you, looked over my shoulder, and saw you still there, still watching, still whispering sweet everythings, while the gap opened up in front of me again. I rounded the corner of the corral; facing you yet again. I love you so very much. I'll be home soon. This time, it wasn't just mouthing the words, I voiced them quietly, somehow expecting them to carry across the crowded airport. The lady in the couple in front turns to her companion. "What did you say?" she asked. He grunted noncommittally, seemingly they'd long abandoned saying that kind of thing to each other. You shuffled a little further down the arrivals lane, still able to watch me make my way, ever closer to the event horizon, beyond which you wouldn't be able to see me any more. We managed to stretch this part of the morning as much as we dared this way; a peculiar morning, one that saw us mutually rely on each other. You had managed to get me to this point, through focus, commitment to action, all those skills you've cultivated in your career, the half of you that everybody sees, expects, time and time again, while I virtually collapse under it all. Now it was up to me to do what has to be done, and, now I needed to act, I could be the strong one, and held you, comforted you, the half of you that I saw so long ago, the delicate, vulnerable side of you that I promised to treasure; the whole of you that I fell in love with.

The TSA member gestured to me to show my boarding pass and my ID; a cursory inspection, and he ushered me towards the plastic boxes, ready for the inspection. Jacket, shoes, laptop, baggie of toiletries, contents of pockets, emptied into the plastic box; shuffling, head down, ready to be frisked. The gentleman in front of me panicked a little as he approached the metal detector; he had an artificial hip. The female TSA staff member running the metal detector radioed for male assistance to perform the frisk the old-fashioned way; the pause was just long enough for me to glance over my shoulder and catch a glimpse of you; shirt stripey, hair fiery, evaporating into the crowd, out of sight. I walked through the portal, no turning back now, and hurriedly gathered up my belongings. The standby boarding pass, pocketbook, Blackberry, Nintendo DS, and the heart of gold. It felt warm to the touch, exceptionally warm, somehow embodying our connectedness, seeing you safely back to the car, seeing me heading towards the gate, where the board looks like it is summarizing odds for a race meet. There I was, in starting gate number 5 in the Standby Handicap; with three other runners, currently with six seats left open to claim. Better make that five; oh wait, the screen changes again, to those without seat allocations, those looking for an upgrade to Business class; names bounce and reorganize alphabetically from one display to the other; the free seats in first class dwindle down to zero; four remained in coach. The gate staff announced the inbound flight had only just landed; it would take a few more minutes to clean and prepare the flight to leave; a twenty minute delay, safe to take another potty stop, it seems I've been going more often than a five-year-old on a road trip. Nerves. Another sigh over the odds of getting a seat standby; if I missed out on this one, then I'd find myself having to find a spot around the gate to curl up and snooze for the next twelve hours and hopefully, nay, surely, clinch a spot on the red-eye. This is why standby isn't for everyone; these are the risks you have to take; it was a godsend for us. L, you are an absolute angel. It must run in the family. And then, I hear my name... there it is. 11B. Can you assist in the event of an emergency? Of course, just get me on that plane.

Flying. I don't enjoy it; I've been so out of practice at it; what's it been, eight years? Nine? I honestly can't remember. And yet, here I was, about to notch up another 5000-odd air miles in the space of a couple of days to add to those a little earlier in the year, and still outshone by a little stuffed animal who has managed one more jaunt than I have as she made her way to me on Valentine's Day, to sing I'll Be There. CB gets fussy; she has to travel in checked luggage, because I'm not keen on her facing all sorts of inappropriate examination at the gate, but she at least doesn't have to worry about occupying herself for the duration of the flight. For me, it's a matter of calculation; fidgeting, working out how much of the flight has gone, how much of it remains, and how agonizing the remaining time is going to be compared to what I've already had to put up with. At least there's legroom on an Airbus. Read some emails; write some responses, they'll send when the plane lands. Another potty stop, another. A bit of fidgety Nintendo. A quick nap. How much time has passed since I last looked? Just five minutes, it felt like an hour. There's the book I should be reading, the book C packed for me, it's in the overhead compartment. Traveling has always struck me like the famous quote about Wagner's music; some wonderful moments, and some dreadful hours. Best to skip the dreadful hours, and on to the frenzied activity on arrival.

And now the frenzy, the busy-ness of business, the getting all the ducks in a row. A rental car, first, no wait, that's not first at all; baggage claim, waiting, watching, wondering whether CB made it too. There she is, get her out, a quick photo op, Now, the rental car, follow the signs, follow the signs... wait, what's going on? I just left the airport, where's the kiosk? There isn't one. The rental car place is offsite, I have to wait for a shuttle bus; another passenger waits, I seem to recognize him, and he's carrying a laptop sack from a company very near where I used to work before I started telecommuting. Too much to do, too much to do, I think as I ride the bus. Have to get the car, have to find the hotel, have to get this all together, it's so humid, I can't breathe, I used to live near here, now it feels like I'm swimming in it, the sun is about to set and I'm unbearably hot. Secure the car, seem somehow to have charmed my way to an upgrade, it's a nice car, it's another photo op for CB. As I take the picture I catch sight of the sky; it's unusual for this area, clouds in mare's tails, it looks like I've brought a California sunset with me. Four more shots, north, east, south, west. More things to do; CB is getting impatient, wanting to navigate me to the hotel, but there's one more to-do on the list first. I need to eat. I haven't eaten all day, I've only just realized that; it's going to be junk food I'm afraid. It seems tasteless, not a patch on the food I've been used to at home. It should be the same, make the meat taste of nothing and standardize on the sauces, right? It isn't, I must quite simply be homesick. Devour it, take it for nutritional value alone, and move on, up the interstate, into the city. It's dark now, and it's still eighty degrees, still swimming in the humidity, still unbearable. I enjoy this part of the trip, it's been a while since I've done it. Cincinnati is peculiar, as you approach it from the interstate you see nothing, you see nothing, and then you round a corner at the top of the hill, and.... there it is, like the Emerald City, glowing on the opposite side of the river, worth a cheap blurry shot with the Blackberry through the windshield at 65 miles per hour. Our hotel is just off Pete Rose; the city forgives him, at least; past the ballpark where the Reds are playing the Marlins, the town is swarming with fans, what a time to arrive. Ironically, after crossing the bridge to enter the town, to leave Kentucky and enter Ohio, the GPS suggests a sharp right, and we're crossing another bridge, back out of Ohio, if the swarm of Reds fans will let us. There's the hotel, and check-in, it's a smoking room. Yuck. Reformed smokers are the worst, you know, but there's no other free option, here it is, our lodging for the next two nights. Two nights. Two nights away from home, away from you.

It just needs a few homely touches, right? I empty my bags; CB makes herself comfortable on the bed and begins to sing I'll Be There. All your memorabilia laid out on the bedside table; your cards, your words, the heart of gold. The picture of that day, the day that I was wearing the stripey shirt. I'm not busy any more; I made it here, well begun is half done, and in two days, I'll be home again. I take a moment and breathe, and realize for the first time in the past few hours, I have nothing to do right this moment. Nothing, that is, except burst into uncontrollable tears, for yet another of several times over the past few days.

Darling, I miss you. Even though I feel you right here, with me right now. Always and all ways.

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Antiques Fair In San Juan Bautista

Sunday afternoon, and our regular afternoon trip out to San Juan Bautista beckons; a long-standing date for an ice cream at Margot's ice cream parlor, every other Sunday, since C works one weekend off, one weekend on. We pick a new flavor every time we go; we'll see what we get to pick this week. First, however, it's time for a late lunch at JJ's Homemade Burgers. It's the Dino Burger for me this week; topped with guacamole, mushrooms, and onions; an absolute feast. San Juan Bautista is swarming today, busy with an antiques fair, perhaps all the more startling since pretty much every other store on the main street is an antiques store. Heaven only knows where the bikers will end up parking this week.

San Juan Bautista is curious; curiously recognizable. Pretty much everything lies on the main street; a collection of strange bars in aged buildings and antique stores. Chickens wander up and down the main street; clothing stores don't resist the opportunity to sell T-shirts emblazoned with inevitable cock jokes. The Mission of Saint John The Baptist, after whom the town is named, looks very familiar indeed; it's the scene where James Stewart and Kim Novak proceed towards the finale of Vertigo, possibly my favorite Hitchcock movie, but with one major exception. The bell tower that features so prominently in the movie is not there. It never was. That's a bit of movie magic, constructed on a Paramount studio lot. The mission itself is the largest in California, and, perhaps it's because of the movie connection, walking through the mission courtyard is bewitching. There's a huge cactus leering over the wall of the San Juan Bautista park; a sign announces movies in the part on the last Saturday of every month in summer 2010. I think it is Shane this month; the season finishes in September, almost predictably, with Vertigo.

The buildings along the main street are curious mixes of period wooden and brick buildings, redecorated, reconstructed, and, just as often, thoroughly re-envisioned. La Casa Rosa is painted bright pink; next door, Jardines has an upstairs balcony that would rival a Western saloon; further up the road, Mom and Pop's Saloon outdoes them both, with the strains of Woolly Bully pounding out from the inside, a bar that is already packed and throbbing at four o'clock in the afternoon. The antiques stands are set up in force; everyone today seemingly has everything possible to sell; movie collectibles, metal signs from a bygone era. One gentleman over here is selling a box of piano rolls. $15, he'd rather someone took the box with them than have to return home with it. They might be worth a fortune, or legally embroiled.

We made it to Margot's, and picked our flavors out. Hana Road for her today; rich chocolate ice cream, nuts, marshmallows; Rocky Road by another name, but forget what you have ever tasted at a Baskin Robbins. Mine is a blueberry cheesecake swirl, rich, fruity, tart, sweet, heavenly. Difficult to walk with and eat at the same time, so we continue to merely saunter. There's no hurry today, we don't have much money to spend, it's up to us to make it last. This gentleman here has a bizarre machine; seemingly, it's a John Deere tractor, resplendent in green and yellow. It looks like a sausage grinder. He explains how it's a lawn sprinkler. The little tractor follows the hosepipe round the lawn, while the spray rotates on the top. It's been a long day, apparently; he's unenthusiastic, no doubt because he has to pack all of this stuff into the back of his truck soon. The man in the next stand with the wooden birdhouses has already started packing; almost throwing his wares straight into the back of a Dodge Ram.

We reach the end of the street, marked by a pepper tree, gnarled, seemingly ancient. We could carry on, but from here it is pretty much like falling out of town, our tour ends here. We turn and notice something strange out of the corner of our eyes; the word London, in San Juan Bautista of all places. We take a closer look; a reproduction of a few pages of the Illustrated London News, dated February 5, 1863. Reports from the "war in America" from "our correspondent", accompanied with sketches and a handful of words to convey the story, in a nice but weathered frame, no glass, five bucks. C begins to haggle, and we acquire the item for two bucks plus some change, the lady takes whatever we have, we take the item. "It'll be just the thing to go in the front room, when that becomes your home office, someday".

Someday.

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Pictorial: A date at Rocky Point

It was a lovely evening out, for the best of reasons. C only had Thursday off before having to work this weekend, and it's the fourth of July, and she'd always thought of us going there, and... yes, absolutely plenty of reasons, but none that can contend with the best reason of all. Just because. What other reason does there need to be? On Thursday afternoon, we set off on a relaxing trip along the coast, down California's Highway 1, towards Big Sur to sample the Rocky Point Restaurant, offering a special price for locals; well, we have the right area code. We had called in a 6.30 reservation and had no intention of rushing ourselves; for some reason the GPS in the hovercraft had decided our destination was three hours away and we knew for certain it could be no more than half that, but nevertheless, we were going to take our time. A quick visit to the store in Seaside first; tempted by a gorgeous yellow silk shirt, my Californication continues. More artichokes. A stroll looking out onto Del Monte beach; a few photos taken for the folks; a bit of daydreaming about which beach house we'd like when we're independently wealthy. A drive through the town some more; checking out Laguna Grande Park, where we're planning to go see John Lee Hooker Jr play in three weeks from now for Sunday Blues. We had plenty of time to relax; the restaurant was not much further down the coast, only about fifteen minutes from Carmel.

 

It's a surprising fifteen minutes, with some of the most striking scenery the Pacific Coast Highway has to offer. You know you are in for something spectacular when a road sign tells you to expect hills and curves for the next 63 miles. To call what you'll see "hills" is quite an understatement, as the road takes a tortuous path winding along an impressively contoured coastline. As with much of the scenery in this area, the scale is hard to comprehend or even communicate in a photograph. But first, things begin to get more hilly leaving Carmel, as the road winds its way through the more bohemian outskirts of the town which, believe it or not, still forbids the wearing of heels greater than 2 inches in height or with a base of less than 1 square inch. the law almost appears to make sense on these winding, distorted pavements, which eventually leave the town behind us, but the road continues to wind, following the cliffside, sometimes cutting through them in sheer escarpments, bigger, deeper. The Pacific is on our right, and we snatch glances of it between the trees and rocks, and at scenic overlooks presenting spectacular vistas. "Do you want to stop here to take a picture?" C asks, and is amused as I wrestle with the new-fangled technology and attempt to send a copy of the photograph to my folks. "Keep an eye on the scenery, darling". It's growing in size, bigger, bigger, with each further mile we travel down the road. The Tickle Pink Inn amuses us; we wonder about reservations and rates. The web site doesn't tell you; if you have to ask, then well, you probably can't afford it anyway.

 

And then, on our right - yes, our right - is the restaurant, seemingly dug into the cliff, but precariously balanced there, clinging to the rocks. As if to emphasize the predicament, a sign tells you that yes, right where you're standing isn't necessarily the safest place in the world to be. We wander around outside, trying to get photo opportunities which demonstrate the scale that we're having to deal with here. Rocks jutting out of the ocean seem insignificant, the waves crash around them, but in reality they are huge, quite distant from where we stand. From the gazebo, looking out to the next promontory, there's Bixby Bridge, one of the most memorable images from any Travel Channel documentary that visits this area. It's dwarfed by the scenery around it, yet is a monumental engineering feat, surely? How far away is it? It's hard to tell, so we decide to drive down there after we eat; it's surely a great place to see a sunset from, too. The wind is blowing; no, it's beginning to howl a bit, and we're both starting to shiver - on the first of July, will I ever get used to that? I return to the car and retrieve our overshirt; just one between the two of us. Here's hoping I feel chivalrous.

 

We check in to the restaurant and look up our reservation, and are shown to our table; a tough choice awaits us, either the view down the coast towards Bixby Bridge and the lighthouse, or looking at the sun beginning to set behind us. We take our seats; another photo opportunity; I snicker as I realize the photo I've just taken is pretty much an exact match for the one on the restaurant's web page, We swap seating, trying out each other's views, grinning, pretending not to notice the $95 couple's surf and turf special on the menu. We try to get the waiter's attention, desperately needing to ask him about the local's special; this is rich fare indeed, perhaps a little too rich. Begrudgingly, it seems, he returns with the other menu, and tries to be oblivious to our enjoying ourselves on our evening out. We pick our way through the options so we can sample each other's selections. One of us will get the salad, one the chowder. One will get the strangely-named sour cream fries, one the rice pilaf. And the entrees? Catch of the day is Pacific rockfish. Rock Cod, delicately battered; meanwhile the ribs catch my eye. We place our orders and then onto more serious business, discussing whether we should bring my folks here when they visit, and how we'll manage to make sure they don't try to pick up the tab. It's gorgeous. I take another picture; that'll be Blackberry wallpaper later.

 

Our meals come, and we sample each others', as intended. The chowder and the salad are good, very good, not the best we've ever had, perhaps, but great appetizers, served alongside the restaurant's famous cheese bread, duly sampled and enjoyed. Our main courses come, and the obligatory nibble on the corner of each others' tells us; more excellent food, delicately seasoned. At this point I'm beginning to let the ambience and atmosphere take a hold of me somewhat; it's a highly-recommended place for romantic dining, and I don't take much to get doe-eyed at the best of times. Fortunately, these ribs are done to perfection, falling off the bone. I won't have to ruin the moment by making a mess of myself with finger food here. We enjoy our meals; a dessert seems an absolutely essential way to finish. We're both drawn to the bread pudding; a favorite of both our families, recipes remembered from Mommas and Grandmas. Bring two spoons, and we'll give it a try; it turns out to be decadently smooth and silky, a triumph, and we realize that we've just concluded an excellent meal in a beautiful location that has cost us no more than "ordinary" casual dining.

 

We would have hung around for the sunset, but we had other places to be, and the chill was definitely coming in. C puts on the overshirt; she looks better in it than I do, and we wander around outside the restaurant again; the delightful tables on the deck, ideal for whale-spotting, but not tonight, far too cold and windy. The promised drive down to cross the Bixby Bridge - the furthest south I've been in California to date. It's smaller than it looks. Everything here is small in comparison to the scenery. We turn around and begin the drive back, contented, after a great meal, after an all-too-rare date together which has to fit around our everyday-life schedules as opposed to our fairytale vacations. Back home, we take a late night stroll. The sound of motorcycles seems to be getting a little louder in the evenings; it sounds like the annual revelers are approaching for their good-natured celebrations. A beautiful clear evening, and stars abound, as we walk around the neighborhood and hear strains of mariachi music coming from a neighbor's house. We dance in the middle of the road for a while.

Just because.

 

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