WEST COAST ADVENTURE - DAY 5 of 9

BRAISED RED CABBAGE IS OVERRATED – July 15

We were on the elevator, going downstairs for a nice breakfast at our hotel when Isaac noticed our appearance and with not a little disdain, remarked, “The Ginger family is wearing GREEN today.” It was purely coincidental.  But we were, in fact, looking a bit Irish.

The drive was gorgeous in the mountains and through the vineyards between Agoura Hills and Malibu.  We parked in Malibu at the Point Dumes National Preserve and edged our way down the steep stairs over the cliff to a beach covered with large smooth stones in the cove. 

More bandana-tying was in order before hitting the beach.  Among our finds onthe beach at Point Dumes was a large long-legged crab, a tiny sand dollar, some uncommon rocks, a piece of white quartz worn smooth by the surf, some sea glass, and an unfortunately deceased pelican sitting askew on a rock (we’re surmising the cause of death was old age.) Thinking I had come upon a brightly colored orange yam, I found instead a deflated sea creature, maybe a collapsed sea cucumber or some other mysterious plant. 

Hope you are noticing the green apparel in these pictures….

We came upon a sunken boat, resting on its side as though tanning itself, but half buried in the sand.  It reminded me of the boat on Gilligan’s Island. 

Surfers were tackling waves about the size Jim was attempting to conquer during his “swim.”  Of note, there are some lovely beaches with waves appropriate for swimming.  But the stretch of Windansea that fateful day was not one of them. 

Isaac set my camera on a timer to capture the below photo in Malibu.  We do look good in green, don’t we?

I continue to hold on to my fabulous and ridiculous facial burn which gives me the appearance of a strange raccoon wearing a ghostly mask.  Such an attractive presentation for a place like Malibu.  I’m trying to wear my sunglasses. 

Togetherness has been absolutely wonderful and positively grating.  Most of us at moments have felt the need to distance ourselves from the collective or risk that unfortunate byproduct of family togetherness otherwise known as insanity.  But by and large we are managing brilliantly for an opinionated foursome bravely navigating one rental car, one hotel room, sunburn, seven-lane traffic, and the bane of complete familiarity.  We don’t have to impress each other, so we are free to be sporadically horrid. The good news is that we know each other (and the signs of impending eruption) well enough to realize the exact moment egg-shell walking, feeding, distracting, or allowing lots of space is warranted.  And in this way the crisis is almost always averted. 

Driving through Ventura County I have too much time to think and analyze. I am reminded that in spite of our obvious common appreciation for family, faith and friends, we are all drawn most keenly by something different on this journey we have undertaken together.  My husband can barely pass a cliff or jutting rock without an attempt to conquer it. This is almost always true when said cliff is adjacent to a crashing ocean (or other measurable threat which causes his wife, the frightened onlooker, to panic and pale.) My son never fails to notice a fine car. He can zero in on any parked or passing sports car or luxury automobile (most definitely all those priced over $80,000.00) as though he was created with some sort of homing device.   For my daughter the strongest point of connection is animals, from miniscule sand crabs to mammoth whales.  And all manner of creature in between.  Her now four month venture into vegetarianism is just one byproduct of this.  (A curiosity as the daughter of a loyal Hatfield Quality Meats man.)  And though I do love to watch and hear the sea, I think for me the pull of written words is still stronger.  The few minutes of reading I’ve achieved each night before bed are as cherished as the new and wonderful sights for me each day.  I guess I should have been a librarian. 

Oxnard was stop two for today.  Downtown was nothing special but I loved the sparkling Channel Islands Harbor. The sailboats bobbing in an organized row were just waiting for their chance at sea and it was a lovely sight. As we were driving along Harbor Boulevard, I couldn’t help but notice that some unknown resident had gone a little crazy with the craft glue.  There were enough pointy seashells on her mailbox to cause serious injury to a careless mail carrier. Unusual architecture and unique exterior home décor made the drive through the harbor front residential area a lot of fun. 

And we were off to Ojai.  This is an artsy, eclectic town tucked into the southern edge of the Sierra Madre Mountains.  Though the name of the town is derived from the Chumash Indian name for moon and is pronounced “Oh-hi”, Jim insisted on referring to it as “Ouija”, referencing the spine-tingling prophetic board game which creeped me out to the point of nightmares as a child.  On first impression, Aubrey fell in love with the town and by the time we departed several hours later, Aubrey had determined that she would move back there someday.  In fact, if it wasn’t too much trouble, she was just fine being left there immediately. 

We enjoyed a very delicious lunch on the back patio of the Feast Bistro.

We visited quaint shops, tasted ice cream and lemon sorbet, mailed postcards from the most gorgeous post office I have ever seen (see below) and sipped caffeine from the local coffee roaster. 

By about 2:30 we were back on the road and heading north to Santa Barbara.  After an hour of the maddening traffic on the freeway, we began to climb some amazing residential streets in Santa Barbara.  The zig-zagging roads skirted the mountain with breathtaking views of Santa Barbara below.  At the top of the mountain we found the Old Santa Barbara Mission.

 The place had charm but did not hold my attention as well as the mission we saw in San Juan.  The sight of Isaac the monk did manage to cheer me.

My favorite parts were the ginormous fig tree in the cemetery and the old fountain which had been used in the very early 1800s by the Chumash Indians for laundry purposes.  You can see just how gargantuan the fig tree actually is when you find me in the picture below to the right of the trunk.

“Laundry fountain” below

Downtown Santa Barbara was very upscale and attractive. Impossibly tall palm trees were lined up like soldiers along Cabrillo Boulevard.  It seemed almost surreal to have the shimmering sea with dipping sailboats to our right while the majestic mountains wore their misty shawls to our left.

Saw this odd shell-encrusted van parked near the wharf.  I think the owner was trying to make some kind of political statement, but what came through loud and clear instead was, “I am very creative, have entirely too much time on my hands, and am more than a bit unstable."  

  

We strolled the length of Stearns Wharf and we were back on the road, taking in more of the majestic mountains and winding our way through our first sightings of Los Padres National Forrest.  We climbed higher and higher with breathtaking views of Santa Barbara and the Pacific to our left.  I wish I could bottle this stuff and pop it open on some of the seemingly endless hours of day to day tedium.  I’d keep a bottle in my desk drawer at work, for sure.

Stopped for some pictures at a vista in Santa Ynez near the awe-inspiring Cachuma Lake area.  154 West is just a feast for the eyes and the soul.

We found the town of Solvang just after the Chumash Reservation and we checked into our delightfully tacky little inn, the King Frederik.  The village was a Danish settlement and is now a tiny tourist trap of a town which looks just like Denmark with its windmills and Danish architecture. 

We walked out onto our second floor patio, and sure enough, King Frederick (or some other white-haired long-bearded fellow) was floating in the Jacuzzi.  We ambled through the ridiculously marvelous little town (Aubrey and I joyously with arms linked, Jim and Isaac begrudgingly trailing behind…) and settled on supper at a restaurant called Bit O’Denmark.  Oh my! 

Did you know that if anyone ever offers you Danish braised red cabbage, you should run away quickly?  Warm clove-flavored pickled cabbage is seemingly a traditional Danish garnish which is unfortunately served with just about everything on the menu.  For dessert we ordered aebleskivers.  These are basically warm pancake balls with raspberry syrup.  They sound and look better than they taste.  (See below)

Stopped by the Book Loft and began paging through a little book entitled, “All My Friends are Dead” by Avery Monsen and Jory John.  If you need to laugh your head off and have about 5 minutes, you can read the entire book.  Aubrey and I started looking at it first and our laughter drew Jim to the “reading.”  When all three of us were panting for air with unappealing snorting sounds coming from our laughter, Isaac came over to see what new insanity has seized his family. 

Toy Story 3 was playing at an outdoor park with families bundled into blankets and sprawled out on chairs.  (Did I mention the nighttime breeze is downright chilly here?) We sat wrapped in our own blanket on a picnic bench to watch the second half of the film.  There were several children of Native American descent nearby, three of whom were telling ghost stories at the other end of our picnic bench.  We saw a small girl with her silky black hair splayed in tails standing riveted, her nose pressed closely to the clear plastic box in which her anticipated bag of popcorn was being prepared.  The kernels sputtered and flew.  Her chubby little cheeks and wide eyes were charismatic enough to pull the attention of many of the movie-watchers away from Buzz Lightyear and to her darling face lit up in the night.  I will always remember the way she looked with the light of the popcorn maker reflecting her joy. 

Walking back to our cheesy hotel, a restaurant on one side had a live band with music pouring out into the street.  They had some competition from the Beer Garden on the other side of the hotel from which loud choruses of drinking songs rang out by 10:00 pm.

It was a happening place, that Denmark in the hills of California. 

WEST COAST ADVENTURE - DAY 4 of 9

MODERN-DAY BEATNIKS – July 14

We awoke this morning to some lively mariachi music playing on our hotel alarm clock radio.  And we were off!  Aubrey may have preferred to stay behind in Chula Vista because not only did the sunburn on my face define a clear image of my sunglasses when I was not wearing them, but I’d chosen to don a blue Nike hat over clipped-back hair to protect my sun-seared part from further damage.  It is safe to say that Aubrey will be maintaining a wide distance between herself and her mother today, lest she is somehow associated with such a fashion disaster and forced to break one of her contract rules.

San Juan Capistrano Mission was the first stop on the agenda today.  It was beautifully landscaped with fountains, cactus and flowering plants tucked on every available surface around the old crumbling stone of the Mission. 

The audio tour was fascinating.  The mission’s great stone church was all but leveled by an 1812 earthquake. We were privileged to light a candle for a friend at Father Serra’s Church, the oldest building in California.  The 300 year old Baroque altar is from Spain. 

Though we were four months tardy for the return of the migrating swallows of Capistrano, we saw evidence of their mud nests awaiting their next return.  In one particular Mission garden, we were charmed by speedy hummingbirds zipping between flowers and citrus trees.  They moved too quickly for me to capture a photo.  There are less swallows returning to Capistrano every year.  They are now favoring less urbanized areas, like the San Bernardino Mountains. 

We headed north and drove a stretch on route 405, a highway made infamous by OJ Simpson during his pathetic attempt to flee from the law in his white SUV.  This highway was at points 7 lanes wide and too far from the coast to be any fun at all.  Jim was fairly white-knuckled behind the wheel, and not much rattles him when he is driving. In just two days, portions of route 405 will be closed for repair.  In Los Angeles, the media has started referring to this as “Carmageddon” and “The Carpocolypse.”  I’m glad we will be north of that mess by the 16^th.  I can’t imagine what they will do to reroute 7 lanes of speeding traffic.  It seems inconceivable that a traffic sign directing Santa Monica traffic to the “5 left lanes” is even factual.   

As we entered the Venice Beach area we were met by some crazy traffic.  And worse yet, we are beginning to believe we are a magnet for disturbing crime scenes.  When we stepped out of the car and onto the beach, we noticed a police helicopter flying pretty low.  Soon thereafter, a second police helicopter was sighted.  We realized that entire blocks, streets and alleys were sectioned off, staffed with officers carrying rather large guns.  Snipers were in position in several locations and by the time we left (quite a bit later) the loud announcement from the police chopper was saying things like, “We are searching for an armed perpetrator.  For your safety, please return to your homes and businesses.”  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

   

  

The actual beach portion of Venice Beach is not that much different than the Jersey shore at first glance.  But a few hundred feet from the movement of the waves on the shore, things are quite dissimilar.  There was a skate park and an area for organized graffiti.  I would have thought that was an oxymoron prior to my Venice Beach initiation.  Muscle beach also actually exists, where people pump iron in the sand.  But by far the most memorable section of Venice Beach is the street market running parallel with the beach.  Imagine “earthy-crunchy” meets “beach chic.”  Throw that into a pot with a paintbrush and some hemp.  If you add a side order of rollerblade and a large dash of attitude, you’ve got a pretty accurate picture of the dish being served. 

Several medical “Kush Doctors” were vying for the opportunity to diagnose passersby with a medical condition requiring marijuana therapy.

The scent of incense was hanging in the air.  I saw lots of dreadlocks and enough swirly patterns of tie-dye to make my eyes feel pretty psychedelic. 

My children have been amusing themselves by mercilessly teasing their parents. They have repeatedly made fun of Jim’s bag (or as they call it a man-purse, or “murse.”) Since I insisted on carrying mostly cash, he is not letting my little envelopes of green out of his sight, and for that I am thankful.  They also laughed at me when I was reading the travel literature and told them we might see some “modern day beatniks”, however~ we spotted many as promised. Isaac and Aubrey found it necessary to make fun of that term for the remainder of the trip.     

A ventriloquist doll tried to get Aubrey’s attention as we hurried by.  “Hey Redhead!”  Another interesting character tried to hand me his CD and when I wouldn’t take it, he accused me loudly.  “You’re judging me Mom!”  And to Jim, “You’re tripping me, Man!”  Aubrey must have appeared an easy target as she was approached by several unconventional personalities who tried to convince her that she needed to purchase their inventory.   

Huge umbrellas resting open against the sun provided fencing for the eclectic collection of sellers and their wares.  To a certain degree, it reminded me of the depravity of Bourbon Street. But most of the Venice Beach decadence was good (albeit ridiculous) fun.

Please note my unsightly hat above as I pose with the shark. (Even now Aubrey asks, "Are you sure you want to include that picture?!)

Leaving the area, we discovered a parking ticket on our window.  We were parked in a 2 hour spot and had been there only about 90 minutes.  Maybe they were trying to make a point with the tourists who refused to leave the crime scene area in a timely fashion.  I fear Jim will never follow through with a phone call to the LAPD to clear his name (or at least the name of our rental car.)

Ike and his very handy IPhone app (which saved us from several navigational debacles) found a restaurant which had been featured on Diners Drive-Ins and Dives.  We attempted to locate Don Chow’s Tacos only to discover that it is a food truck.  Alas, it had driven away before our late lunch arrival.  

We continued on to Santa Monica to attempt to have lunch at One Pico at the Shutters.  It was great in theory and we were hoping to do some star spotting but on arrival it was fairly apparent that without a quick run through Neiman Marcus for a makeover, we were distressingly underdressed for the occasion. We did not want to appear that we had just fallen off the turnip truck, so we chose not to stay.  (And it wasn’t just my hat.) Instead we found a Bubba Gump’s on Santa Monica Pier for our very late lunch. 

Pier highlights included unsuccessfully trying to coerce Aubrey to have her likeness depicted via caricature and purchasing a cheeseburger for a sweet homeless lady. 

Shameless ploy for cash above came with a surprisingly catchy rhythm on the drums.

And these guys made us feel, well, pretty flaccid in the muscle department. They attracted a lot of spectators, one of whom was watching with her very large pet gecko. 

We rented some bikes (or in Isaac’s case, a fun-cycle) and rode the bike path for an hour.  It was great to feel the cool ocean breeze while dodging pedestrians (who were not supposed to be utilizing the bike path….do I sound bitter?) while simultaneously staying erect on a bike which has skidded suddenly on the loose sand covering the path. 

Isaac took an entertaining little video while riding and I’m hoping I can insert that here.

This family is collecting freckles left and right.  We spent the night in Agoura Hills after some bumper to bumper traffic on 405 through Los Angeles.  Traffic was moving slowly enough that a woman in the lane to our right was reading a novel while driving. She probably endures this every day on her way home from work.  Aubrey passed the time playing paparazzi out the right rear window, aiming her camera at unsuspecting drivers in Jaguars (just in case they turned out to be someone famous.)  Isaac spent his time mocking his sister’s evil paparazzi laugh and singing tunes from one of his favorite movies of yesteryear, “Rockadoodle.”  We had no luck spotting the Hollywood Hills but we saw plenty of suicidal motorcyclists weaving between cars and trucks on all of the California highways.

Agoura Hills turned out to be a fabulous town, as was the Hampton Inn in which we stayed. It was one of our favorite hotels on this trip. We admired the mountains while soaking in the Jacuzzi. Watched Steven Colbert make fun of the impending 405 closure and discovered wonderful treats at a local Farmer’s Market for a late hotel room supper.  The full moon over the horizon in the Agoura Mountains was positively beautiful. 

  

WEST COAST ADVENTURE - DAY 3 of 9

JIM’S “SWIM”

We started our day at the Starbucks in Chula Vista and drove over the amazing San Diego-Coronado Bridge for our visit to Coronado Island. The bridge is five lanes, 200 feet, and just over two miles long. My old next door neighbor and childhood best friend Michelle lives somewhere on Coronado. Though I was given her phone number, I opted against bothering her on a Wednesday morning for tourist tips and a reunion.  It has, after all, been about 40 years since we made our last mud pie together.   The beach was really chilly and Aubrey tried to tie a bandana to her brother’s head to keep his long hair from whipping into his eyes. 

Jim is the heartiest of the beach walkers and while he and Aubrey continued up the freezing cold and windy beach, Isaac and I walked back to the street to find our way into town via a more civilized route. 

Civilized was what we expected, but not what we found. On our pleasant walk through this spectacular seaside town, we were stunned to come upon an actual crime scene.  A beautiful oceanfront mansion was completely sectioned off with police tape.  The property was teeming with over 20 law enforcement officers, walking back and forth, coming out with plastic evidence bags, and making notes.  Multiple police cars and SWAT vehicles were parked in front.  Within the next hour or so, news vans and helicopters from all the major networks were swarming the area.  People were snapping pictures and sitting on the rocks drawing charcoal scenes of the property. An Italian art dealer downtown told us he had never seen anything like this in his 12 years on the island.  Apparently a woman had been found dead around 6:30 that morning and the scene was suspicious.  A week later we saw an update on the incident in a national newspaper and it is still a bit of a mystery.  Link for news story is here. You may have to cut and paste if it doesn't open.

http://www.usatoday.com/news/nation/2011-07-19-deaths-boy-woman-hanging-coronado-california-mystery_n.htm

From the beach there were clear views to the coast of Mexico and to another island used for training Navy Seals. 

One of my favorite meals of the trip was our lunch on the patio of the historic Hotel Del Coronado (called the Hotel Del by locals.)  This property is a Victorian beachfront masterpiece and has been visited by many famous people.  Isaac caught a bit of the US women’s soccer finals from the beautiful hardwood bar area in the hotel.

A photo of Marilyn Monroe was taken in front of their gorgeous dragon tree, planted prior to the turn of the century.  (Note, that is not Marilyn in the picture below...)

We had just a little bit of trouble trying to position the umbrella above our patio table so that nobody was in the sun.  Isaac remarked, “The Gingers try to eat lunch on a sunny patio.”  Pitiful. 

   

Driving on to La Jolla cove, as we exited the car we were greeted by the sound of crashing surf and barking seals.

An entourage of pensive-looking pelicans and hopeful sea gulls surveyed the sand from their highly decorated rocky perch.

Sandstone made the perfect surface for walking and tide pool gazing.  Above the crashing waves, tiny caves and wave-hewn rocks framed the picturesque sunny cove. 

The occasional rogue wave tried to spoil our walk without success.  This was a wonderful seaside town. 

From the main cove in La Jolla, we drove to Windansea.  Coming down into the intersection at Nautilus and Neptuna, it looked for the world like we were driving our rental car (a wonderful Equinox SUV) directly into the Pacific.

We got out and I perched myself upon a rock and received some coral and sea glass from my daughter.  Isaac tested the waves because he and Jim thought they might “swim” in this treacherous area we had chosen for our little outing.  Soon Aubrey, trying to keep her dress dry, read some poetry from her new book by Billy Collins, including the poem “Quiet.”  Some of the lines he writes include, “out of a lifetime of running my mouth and leaning on the horn of ego, only a single afternoon of being truly quiet on a high cliff with the Pacific spread out below…”

Well, like the poem we were on a cliff by the Pacific. But not so much quiet was experienced.  Because you know the kind of belly laugh that causes complete strangers to stare and tears to roll unreserved down one’s cheeks?  I laughed like that this afternoon when Jim finally achieved his goal to “swim” in the Pacific.  Nine years ago, driving only as far south as Santa Clara, the ocean temperatures were far too chilly for our wetsuit-less skin.  So Jim determined he would not miss his chance THIS time.  With tenacity and optimism he ventured forth into the waves at Windansea.  But despite 6 months of vigorous P90x training, Jim was no match for the Pacific.  Most of the waves were about Jim’s size, but many were two or even three times his height. 

It was absolutely hilarious to watch him try to swim (or for that matter, remain vertical.)  One of the first such waves dunked him squarely and caused him to swallow roughly a pint of sea water.  The second took him under with the force of a ponytailed Sumo wrestler and tossed him toward the beach, complete with a fluorescent green shoulder garment of seaweed (which he was too disoriented to remove.)

As I tried to catch my breath between side-splitting guffaws, I watched my determined husband venture yet again toward the sea. 

The fourth or fifth wave resulted in a blender effect which successfully depleted Jim of any remaining sense of balance.  How this is considered fun for him, I have no idea…. Then, unbelievably opting to stagger yet again toward the surf, my crazy man too late felt the ocean suddenly sucking all of the water back to itself.  An ominous sign, as the next wave towered above him and neither diving into it nor running away from it were reasonable escapes.  The agony of defeat.  He finally gave up and stumbled toward the rocks upon which I sat, still laughing and wiping tears from my eyes. ( I am nothing if not supportive.) Implausibly, he managed to climb to me despite ears plugged with sand, seaweed in his shorts, and a body fully pummeled by the swim he so desired.

My eye-witness account of the assault was the best fun I had all day (and I’ve had a LOT of fun.)

After de-sanding at the hotel and noting that the part in my hair is now the color of a ripe heirloom tomato, we were off to Old City San Diego for the evening.  Never mind that my calf muscles have experienced more activity in the last 48 hours than they’ve seen in about the last year.  We’re on vacation! There will be no relaxing.

In Old Town San Diego, a mariachi band and cactus plants in every conceivable shape and size provided a wonderful backdrop for our experience.

It felt like we were in Mexico, the delicious scents of more Mexican restaurants than I can count were wafting through the pleasant evening air. 

The temperatures during our entire trip stayed somewhere between 75 and 80 degrees.  There was no bothersome humidity to ruin the feel of the refreshing breezes. (Though as the sun went down it became obvious we were all sunburned regardless of our best efforts and SPF 30.) Gingers.

After enjoying Old Town, we headed to the Gaslight District of downtown San Diego for some dinner.  I had arguably the best ice cream cone I’ve ever eaten at the San Diego Ghirardelli Ice Cream Shop on our way back to the parking garage.