WEST COAST ADVENTURE - DAY 6 of 9

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! 

  

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.