October 19-28, 2001
In 2001, we did not go to Silver Bay for the first time in many years, and I found myself with an extra week of vacation. Laurie had a new nephew in Los Angeles, and she had never been to Monterey. I yearned to be in Monterey, and San Francisco, I had always wanted to go to San Simeon. In July I said, "Would you like to go to California in the fall?" The timing seemed perfect. Until September 11th. But we persisted.
I don't remember "putting our affairs in order" as part of any previous vacation's preparations, but now it seemed appropriate. On Friday, I wrote a letter for Abbie (who was in Ecuador) to read in the event we did not return and put it in a place where someone would look. Laurie printed out all of our financial information and e-mailed it to her sister and mother. Then we set the alarm for 4 a.m.
We left Skaneateles at 5 a.m., stepped into airport security at 6 a.m. where we saw what had paradoxically become comforting: men with automatic weapons.
We flew to Pittsburgh, then on to Los Angeles. The airplane movie was "61*" about Roger Maris and his pursuit of Bath Ruth's home run record. During our breakfast, the actor playing Mickey Mantle vomited into a bucket. We were glad we had not rented headphones.
This might be a good place to say that we were not traveling alone. Tucked inside my Day Planner was "Flat Becky," a paper doll of a co-worker's daughter who was participating in the Flat Stanley project, in which school children mail their flattened images all over the world for "visits." Unfortunately, Becky's class had embarked on the project just as someone else was embarking on a project to mail anthrax spores, and thus the mail was suddenly not an option for school children. Becky's mom asked if we would carry Flat Becky to California and show her a good time, take a few photos of her in famous places, and we agreed. How much could she weigh?
We arrived in LAX at 12 noon and just 90 minutes later pulled onto the streets of LA in our spiffy blue rent-a-car. Jeff, Millie and Erik (our newly minted nephew) live in Long Beach on Senasac Avenue which is one street over from Gondar ("Gondar!") which is always good for a laugh and so we arrived in good humor.
Jeff and Millie were living in a trailer in their driveway while their house was being renovated. They threw aside the house's plastic tarp in welcome and were gracious in every way. Erik, who gave new meaning to the word "tiny," was being carried around by his mother in a little sling that looked empty, but was full of cuteness. In his Aunt Laurie's arms, he looked very much at home.
Dinner that evening was at the Caffe La Strada in Long Beach. I had the Scampi Sorrentina with a light tomato cream sauce and it was outstanding. On Sunday morning Jeff and I went to the Krispy Kreme donut shop just in time to get a free plain glazed classic as it came off the line. Watching the donuts pass under the smooth curtain of white frosting was one of the highlights of the journey for me. Jeff bought a dozen and I picked up a Krispy Kreme hat, my first wearable souvenir.
Not wanting to bed down between sawhorses, Laurie and I stayed at a round Holiday Inn with pie-slice shaped rooms. The bathroom was wedged into the point of the slice, where a clothes rack, ironing board and sink vied for space and resented our intrusion.
While in Long Beach we went to Tower Records where I picked up road music: Kate Rusby's Sleepless, Israel Kamakawiwo'ole's Alone in IZ World, banjo master Bela Fleck's classical Perpetual Motion and a recording of Brahms' piano pieces op.116-119 by Helene Grimaud. The piano was too up & down for the car, but the other three proved to be magnificent companions, with Bela providing an extraordinary soundtrack for Route One, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
As a part of doing L.A., we went to Naples, strolled around and looked at the houses lining the waterways. For dinner, we went to the Belmont Brewing Company in Long Beach where we were joined by our friends Melissa and Tim, who heroically drove in from Riverside. They admired Erik while Laurie and I flitted about her beer sampler of Long Beach Crude, Hefeweizen, Topsail, Marathon and Strawberry Blonde.
As always at Belmont Brewing, the beer, the food and the view of the Pacific were wonderful. The low point of the visit was a framed photo on the men's room wall, "Los Angeles Drunk Tank, 1947." Jeff said, "What's that stuff on the floor?" and I said, "I don't know, but I guarantee it's not rose water."
On the way home, we drove through some upscale neighborhoods to look at the Halloween decorations. An enormous bay window featuring a skeleton bride bathed in black light was my favorite.
Monday morning, after one more stop to hold Erik, we motored up the coast to San Simeon. In Santa Barbara, we caught lunch (excellent iced-tea and yummy salmon chowder) at the Paradise Cafe (how could we go wrong?), just across Anagapa Street from Iron Cross Tattoo, the Lost Horizon Bookstore and an antique store. The Santa Barbara parking garage was the nicest I've ever seen, disguised with ferns and archways to the point of being invisible.
Highlights of the morning's journey were sighting the Goodyear Blimp over Santa Maria, the signs for Buellton, "Home of Split Pea Soup," and a road sign that Laurie read as "SLOW, WORKERS ON POT." It actually read "SLOW, WORKERS ON FOOT" but she was close. In defense of her eyesight and acumen, I must inform you that at high speed she correctly identified a piece of inverted road kill as a coyote. After 21 years of marriage, she continues to reveal extraordinary abilities and powers.
In San Luis Obispo, we went to the tourist info storefront and inquired after a brewpub. Directed to the Slo Brewing Company, we climbed the stairs and walked past the pool tables, and settled in for a sampler. These were bold beers, unafraid to succeed or fail in a big way, with special marks going to the Central Coast EPA and IPA. If I lived within walking distance of a place like this, I'd never get anything done.
In San Simeon, we were booked into the Cavalier Best Western, on the ocean, complete with sunset. (In the wake of September 11th, all kinds of hotel rooms were available.) This was a lovely room, not pie-shaped, with an ocean view, and just three miles from Hearst Castle, Tuesday morning's destination. We had a lovely dinner. The waiters and waitresses conversed in Spanish. I thought of Abbie.
I love mansions, and San Simeon, the castle of William Randolph Hearst, is a corker. One of the first stops, after the five-minute "oh wow" winding-road bus ride up the mountain to the castle, is the outdoor pool, a fantasy in white marble with statuary and a 2000 year old Roman temple for visual interest. Heir to a silver fortune with a publishing fortune of his own, Hearst loved stuff and traveled often to Europe, bringing home paintings, statues, tapestries, stairways, mantels, choir stalls, et al, even whole rooms (ceilings included) to fill his palace.
The architect and master builder who was charged with turning all this into something that made sense was Julia Morgan, a remarkable woman who supervised the design and construction of San Simeon while maintaining an extraordinary architectural practice. She designed more than 800 buildings in California. Many have landmark status. Two, San Simeon and Asilomar Conference Center (another of our destinations), are California monuments.
Miss Morgan's capable hand is visible everywhere at San Simeon, but it was the spirit of another woman that called to me. Marion Davies was a Ziegfeld Girl who Hearst loved and sought, successfully, to make into a film star. A gifted comic actress, she has never received her just due, but is instead remembered as the fictionalized Suzanne Alexander in Citizen Kane. She was the mistress of San Simeon. A good hearted person with a slight stutter, I could hear her saying, "Are you all right? Can I get you anything?" as I walked through the halls of San Simeon. I confess that I have always wanted to stand in Marion Davies' bedroom, and that ambition has been fulfilled. Her room was small, but I guess there are trade-offs for living in a castle.
Laurie and I took two tours in the morning, the first to soak up the grounds and main rooms on the first floor, and the second to see the bedrooms and libraries. I loved the libraries. Both tours ended with the indoor pool, an Aladdin's cave glowing in blue and gold.
It was noon when the bus brought us back down to the real world, and the thought of a $5 turkey sandwich at the over-priced visitors' center was not attractive. So we headed north on an ever-narrowing Route One. I had plans.
Laurie usually drives, because I hate to drive and I especially hate traffic. But Laurie has a profound dislike of heights and when Route One began to show its stuff, hairpin turns with sweeping views of hundred foot drops to the sea, she went white from the knuckles up and I was happy to take over. With me at the wheel, Laurie could see all the views and hold on with both hands, while I could be Stirling Moss in the Mille Miglia, at 25 mph of course. Bela Fleck played the soundtrack for us, from Perpetual Motion. Bach. Scarlatti. Perfect.
By the time we got to our luncheon destination, Laurie was a noodle, but I had a restorative. Nepenthe sits 808 feet above the ocean and the view from its deck is as beautiful as any vista in the world. The mountains come down to meet the sea; the view stretches out to sea and across several coves. You can look up to the treetops, down to the waves. I think it is what heaven might look like, if it's subjective.
Nepenthe is a word from the Greek "Nepenthes" from which the 's' was dropped in the 16th century by Spencer in "The Fairie Queene." It refers to a potion that banishes all care and is pronounced Nepenthy, of which people never tire of reminding me. I find my own mispronunciation more pleasing. (If you want to order Creme de Menthe at Nepenthe, I'd advise just pointing at the bottle.)
I had been to Nepenthe once before, in 1969 while in the Air Force, and my twice monthly $25 paycheck meant that I could not order anything, but simply stand and stare for a few minutes before moving on. But in 2001, I could afford a meal. Laurie had a swordfish sandwich, and I had a chicken sandwich with chipotle mayo and a Carmel Wheat beer. Laurie had a look in her eye like nothing else in the world mattered but that view. Far out at sea, a destroyer made its way up the coast. After lunch, we walked down one level to the Phoenix, a gift shop existing in a sixties time warp.
It was great fun, but we had to leave. I wanted to arrive at Asilomar in time for the sunset. I had stayed at Asilomar, a YWCA conference center, in 1992 while on a junket, and wanted Laurie to see the sunset there, to see the deer among the dunes, the sandpipers on the beach. And we were in time for the sunset. I had forgotten how completely beautiful it is to watch the sun go down, hear the waves, smell the salt air and feel the sea breeze.
Wednesday morning, we walked on the beach before breakfast and Laurie got a hotfoot when a wave snuck up on her. "Never turn your back on the ocean," she said, her sneaker squishing audibly. After breakfast in the dining hall, we drove into Monterey where I wanted to show Laurie my old classroom at the Presidio, where I learned Serbo-Croatian in 1968 and '69 while in the USAF. But the base, which used to be a very relaxed kind of campus, was fenced, barricaded and locked up tight. And this time the men with automatic weapons were not smiling. "Have you got a DOD ID?" the Marine in fatigues asked. I had the wrong answer.
And so we drove back downhill to the Monterey Bay Aquarium and its towering kelp forest, its frolicking otters, its iridescent jellyfish, its manta ray petting pool (it was important to me that Laurie pet a manta ray) and the enchanting seahorse exhibit. And of course the gift shop, where we found a t-shirt and sweatshirt that were just made for us. (Laurie has been envying my earlier Monterey Bay Aquarium t-shirt since 1992, and now has her own item of MBA apparel.)
For lunch, I selected Peter B's Brewpub where I ordered the sampler, five beers that were all very nice in a polite way, but not as daring as those at the Slo Brewing. But lunching outside in the sun, while participants in The Fifth International Symposium on Micro Total Analysis Systems walked by with their new canvas totes, and two gentlemen from Turkey argued seriously about the merits of walking versus napping after lunch, was lovely.
We went out on the municipal pier and Fisherman's Wharf, watched and listened to the sea lions, and then back to Asilomar to change clothes before driving down to Point Lobos, a craggy, wave-crashing spot on the coast with paths all along the shore, sea lions, sea birds and extraordinary views. Robert Louis Stevenson, who lived for a time on the Monterey peninsula, called Point Lobos "the most beautiful meeting of land and sea on earth." As he wrote Treasure Island, he imagined Point Lobos as its setting.
Thursday we spent the morning on 17 Mile Drive, picking out Laurie's next dream home (too many choices), stopping the car at all the scenic overlooks, and gaining some welcome perspective. We ended up in Carmel, where we parked and set out on foot for a restaurant recommended by a friend. But before we got there, we happened upon the Hog's Breath Inn, formerly owned by Clint Eastwood, and I felt a pilgrimage was in order. Yielding to my carnivorous instincts, I ordered the Dirty Harry Bacon Cheeseburger and a Hog's Breath Pale Ale. The burger, with fried onions and peppers and a wonderful sauce, was the best I've ever had in my life. From there it was a short walk upstairs to a western wear shop where, in the thrall of two beers, I fell in love with a Barn Fly shirt, in muted evening greens with a tastefully repeated silhouette of a cowboy on horseback leading a second horse carrying a dead deer, that was my second clothing purchase of the day.
In the afternoon, we moved our fattening luggage into the Seven Gables Inn on Ocean Boulevard and reached the peak of the high life. Built in 1886, the house is wonderfully comfortable and beautiful. Our room, the Gables Room, was on the third floor under the gables, with windows facing in four directions, including two that offered a lovely view of the bay and the seals on the rocks and in the water. I was exhausted and reclined on the puffy bed under the Cupid lamp for a nap, while Laurie sat on a window cushion and looked at the seals. I awoke an hour later in the same position, and looked over to see Laurie still looking at the seals.
This may be a good time to admit that I have been boring Laurie with stories of Monterey for more than 20 years. She has heard the story of my first morning there in 1968 perhaps 100 times. It was important to me that she "get it," that she appreciate Monterey and believe that I was not crazy. And so at some point, I said, "Do you understand now how I feel?" and she said, "Why did you wait 22 years to bring me here?" She did get it, and I didn't have a good answer.
That evening, we had a dinner engagement that requires an explanation. Terry Johnson is the best friend I have who I've never met. We have been trading e-mails for many years, discovering a wealth of shared interests and similar backgrounds. Terry had introduced me to his "smarter sister," Leslie, via e-mail, and then we watched her on "Win Ben Stein's Money" where she did very well. We met for dinner at the Fishwife restaurant, close to Asilomar, a great local place. Leslie and her dashingly handsome husband Les were waiting for us when we arrived, and thanks to her TV appearance I recognized her immediately. We sat by an aquarium starring a bright blue fish and spent the evening talking about Terry, Rotary exchange programs, and the threads of our lives. One could not hope to dine with a lovelier couple.
Friday, we visited the monarch butterfly sanctuary, where thousands of butterflies clung to the trees, looking like leaves, and then drove up the coast toward San Francisco, stopping in Half Moon Bay at a brewpub. I had the sampler: Harbor Lager, Pillar Point Pale Ale, Mavericks Amber Ale, Sandy Beach Blonde, Seabright Stout and Old Princeton IPA. At the next table, a woman with control issues coddled her son, bullied her husband and the waitress ("Oh, no, we can't wait THAT long for something for him") and then put the bite on her mother for cash. We were happy to hit the road.
The directions to the hotel in San Francisco were flawless. Melissa and Tim had recommended the Cornell Hotel Francaise, and what a joy it was. Small, lovely, in the middle of the city, with a young Golden Retriever to greet us at the door. The dog's name was Noel ("Like Christmas," the owner said to us in her lovely French accent) and he carried himself with a dignity far beyond his nine months of age.
Melissa described the restaurant in the basement (Restaurant Jeanne d'Arc) as the best outside of Paris. I would not know, but I was not disappointed. We had signed up for the "meal with room" deal, and it was the buy of a lifetime. I am indebted to Laurie's notes for the menu: lobster bisque, endive salad with smoked salmon, roast breast of duck with a three-berry sauce, baby zucchini, carrots, Duchess potatoes, and a Gran Marnier souffle for dessert. Everything was better than anything I'd ever had before, and Laurie looked splendid by candlelight. We hated to finish.
Breakfast was free; we enjoyed that too. The other diners were first-class as well. At one meal, a young Chinese woman, probably the headwaiter's daughter, came in and conversed with him in Chinese. Then she sat at a table with some other women and spoke French. After half an hour, the conversation migrated into English. She was probably 19 or 20. At another table, two women conversed in some Scandinavian language, and we heard more French a little farther down the aisle.
Saturday morning, we returned the rental car to a garage just around the corner from the hotel, and were free of the beast. But not before a haggle over the price; by returning it early, we no longer qualified for the long-term rate. But the manager cut us some slack, and away we went to seek our friend Nancy from Buffalo; an admirer had brought her to San Francisco where he was lecturing on contagious diseases. While he did that, we met Nancy on a corner opposite Washington Square Park. You can't miss Nancy. She is not towering or possessed of any striking characteristics, but she has a vibe that says "Don't mess with me" and it opens comfortable spaces around her. We hopped a cable car and went to Fisherman's Wharf for trinkets.
We introduced Nancy to Penny Smashers; she bought three different pennies before realizing there were probably a dozen more waiting for her pennies and quarters. Laurie bought a bracelet from a sidewalk vendor. In a shop window, the political climate was captured by a t-shirt emblazoned with an F-16 and the caption "Hijack This, Assholes." We went to Ghirardelli Square and shopped for chocolate.
And then we took the cable car again, to Chinatown, one of Laurie's favorite places on earth. Laurie found a meat market that had live chickens, a glimpse into another world. We did some gift shopping as soon as I found a store that struck a balance between the cheap and the extravagant, and then asked a store owner for a restaurant recommendation. She said, "Cathay House." We heard "Cafe House," but found it anyway. And there we went for a fine meal overlooking Grant Street. At the Grant Street gate, we had Nancy hold Flat Becky by one of the stone lions for a photo op; it is my favorite Flat Becky photo of the trip.
After lunch, we bade Nancy farewell and moved on to North Beach to meet Adam and Abby. I found another Kate Rusby CD, "Little Lights," at another Tower Records, and then we sat in the park for a while until Adam and Abby arrived to take us to the Stella Pastry Caffe for sacripantina, layers of light cake with a cream filling. Adam was finishing up his PhD at Stanford, writing his thesis on how the Christian church evolved from a commune to the wealthiest institution on earth in just 400 years. I'll be interested to find out.
Then into Adam and Abby's car to travel to Tiburon and Sam's Anchor Cafe for dinner hostessed by my dear friend Mary, who I met at Syracuse University in the back row of Freshman English in 1965. Some of the friends at the table were friends of long-standing, and others were friends I was meeting for the first time in person. It was a wonderful meal, although I was getting a little tired of dining out. I nibbled at my crab cakes and wished for something simpler, and tried to make time to talk with everyone, which was difficult as everyone was interesting and delightful and someone I cared about.
Mary wanted to do a photo in the hallway. She said, "Let me find somebody with half a brain to take the picture." A busboy widened his eyes in fear as he passed. Mary rules.
After dinner, we returned to the Cornell for our last night of sleep on California time. The all-male revue next-door ("Sex with the Stars") tempted, but we decided to turn in early.
The next morning, a cab picked us up in the dark, at something like 5 a.m. and we were off to the airport, and home. I want to go back, tomorrow.