REDNECKS AND LAUNDRY SOAP - July 16
I slept like a rock and was testing my theory that the fresh circulating air from the spinning windmills in this tacky little town was conducive to peaceful rest. But things went downhill quickly when the family arose, Isaac complaining that Aubrey had ruthlessly jabbed him with her sleeping fists during the night, and Aubrey, after viewing the disorderly appearance that was her brother’s bedhead, accusing him of concealing a hidden “Bumpit.” Siblings.
I think they are growing weary of my finely crafted itinerary and we are only halfway through the trip. A conversation overheard between my two favorite men this morning. Spoken by Isaac (who was trying unsuccessfully to drag himself from the sheets) “What are we doing today?” Jim (trying to find a clean shirt in his suitcase) “LORD ONLY KNOWS…” Critics.
We walked to Mortensen’s Danish Bakery where we sat down to eat some unreasonably flaky pastries. I chose a “slice of kringle” which was delicious with a mild almond and cheese flavor, embellished with raisins and cinnamon sugar.
Trying to depart our hotel room for Lompoc, we had to tear Jim’s attention away from the television which was showing an antiquated black and white program “The Rifleman.”
We noticed lots of ranches, cows and grapes on 246 west. A lavender farm, a field of outlandishly bright yellow flowers, an orchid nursery and an emu farm were some of the attention-grabbing marvels along the way. The sign in front of the emu farm boasted “emu oil available.” I am curiously fearful about why someone would want or need emu oil.
The land around Foley Estates Vineyard and Winery was gorgeous.
Our first official sojourn of the day was the Mission La Purisima State Park.
It was appealing in a very humble way but even more rundown and rustic than Santa Barbara’s mission. People were using the dirt trails surrounding the property to stretch their legs in a morning run.
There was a lot of dust and there were innumerable holes in the dirt where prairie dogs would lift their little heads to peer out at the tourists and runners.
We met an enormous ox with impressive curly horns and some bored mules. Aubrey also made friends with an inquisitive disheveled sheep.
We didn’t stay long and by 10:30 we pointed the Equinox in the direction of the coast and continued north past Vandenberg Air Force Base.
We passed numerous farms and ranches with irrigation systems pumping wildly. Some of the fields were speckled with migrant workers, loading produce into the crates that will end up at places like Landis Supermarket shortly. It looks like backbreaking work. We were not quite desperate enough to stop at the Laundromat in the tiny town of Guadalupe even with our dwindling supply of clean attire. An hour after leaving the mission, we were rewarded once more with beautiful views of the Pacific beyond the Pismo Beach dunes.
When I think of a beach, I think of something natural, relaxing, and invigorating. I do not think of rednecks. But my visit to Pismo Beach may have forever changed that view. There are portions of Pismo Beach (particularly the Oceano Recreation Area Dunes) which would be more aptly named Redneck Cove. There were recreational vehicles as far as the eye could see. You could rent one or park one just about anywhere in this little beach town. The town was actually named for the Pismo clam which used to be so plentiful, 45,000 could be harvested commercially in only one day. Because of unrestricted clamming and hungry sea otters, there are now some strict limitations.
Jim and Isaac decided to join the rednecks on the beach and rent some ATVs for a couple of hours. Aubrey accompanied them, but it was under great duress. After was clearly (and miserably) coerced to join them to the reckless area of duney abandon.
I walked down to the ocean and was nearly completely surrounded by big trucks and RVs parked hither and yon. Redneck families come from far and wide to stake out a wave front plot for a day of sunning, riding, drinking, and general disorderly conduct. The signs warned of soft sand and advised against attempting to drive “street cars” on the beach, but that didn’t stop a multicolored pastel VW Bug (with a turnkey propeller on top) from zipping by me on the sand. It was in good company with dune buggies and all manner of sand vehicle cruising along. I sat on a picnic bench with every lonely abandoned girl’s best friend, a double dip of rocky road ice cream, admiring the cliffs to the far right side of the beach.
The two hour rental was really more of a three hour block of solitude since dune-riding requires being shuttled to the off-site dunes. I spent the first 90 minutes doing laundry at the local coin-operated “MAT.” (It was the one and only time I drove the rental car on this trip.) Having experienced the Laundromat, I’d like to speak with the Nimrod who designed the detergent and fabric softener dispenser.
Holy Buckets! Let me tell you what happens. You drop 3 quarters into the slots. You are encouraged by the thud of your chosen miniature soap box against the metal dispenser. And then you try to reach into the mouth of the dispenser to free your detergent. But OH! The slot is barely wide enough to mail a stuffed envelope and you cannot (in spite of painful contortions of your hand and fingers) grab ahold of the elusive box. You look around to see if anyone is watching. Nobody is. In fact it seems an unwritten rule that strangers in Laundromats are forbidden any eye contact. So you try again, this time dropping your entire body so you can maintain constant eye contact with the soap box. You see one corner, barely visible within the slot. You try the one-finger approach and discover your longest finger is approximately 3 inches too short to cause any helpful directional change to the box. You imagine people are silently watching and laughing to themselves, and in fact when you look up at the elderly Mexican man to your left, he is caught mid-grin. But rather than come to the aid of a damsel in distress, he shrugs his shoulders apologetically and tries to steal a rolling laundry cart from the scary looking woman against the far wall. Gracias por nada mi amigo. After a third failed attempt, you make one more sweep of the room with your eyes and you pull out the big guns. That’s right. BIG GUNS. Since you are without a yardstick, wooden spoon or other box-jiggling device, you remove your right flip-flop. Then standing on one leg like a tasteless plastic flamingo in somebody’s front lawn you forcefully insert your flip-flop and begin thrusting it back and forth like a complete maniac. Then you somehow keep from breaking into Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus when your soap box comes free because you realize you will have to follow this procedure THREE MORE TIMES to wash two loads of laundry with fabric softener. It was at about this point I recalled an earlier conversation with my husband. “Honey, should I pick up a small detergent to take along on the trip?” “No”, answered my now ATV-riding spouse. “We’ll get some in CA if we need it….”
The sandbox trio returned at about 3:30 and I discovered that my daughter had not been riding at all and spent her time in pursuit of sand dollars instead of racing along the dunes. I should have taken her with me to the Laundromat. Her fingers are longer than mine and she would have been excellent company for ice cream on the beach.
We drove several blocks north and went for lunch to the famous Splash Café on the corner of Cypress and Pomeroy. On three of four corners sat restaurants touting clam chowder. But the line stretching out the door and around the building spoke louder than all of the competing signs. Splash Café had the most awesome clam chowder I’ve ever eaten. And the tacos were amazing.
Walked the lengthy Central Pier and tried (at Jim’s dare and promise of cash) without success to poke a seagull. (Don’t worry, Shellys poke gently.)
Ventured north to Shell Beach and climbed down the stairs to the cove. There were no shells, only huge rocks worn smooth like pebbles.
Amazing stone cliffs edged the cove and it was great fun watching a mischievous sea otter teasing a bird. He was very tricky floating on his back and cracking open clams with a rock. I guess he didn’t hear about the clamming restrictions.
As the sun began to drop toward the horizon at about 7 pm, the coastline north of Shell beach was just striking.
Isaac found it necessary to climb treacherous sea rocks in his Crocs. He is a lot like his father in that regard.
But we didn’t stick around until sunset because we were headed to San Luis Obispo and three of the four travelers (guess who) were planning a late night Harry Potter viewing. They have a lot of nerve complaining about our rigorous schedule!
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