THIS is Big Sur!

Let me first start off by saying I’m sorry. I apologize for deserting you blog so coldly. It was me, my dear blog, all me, you had nothing to do with it, you’re perfect just the way you are. I just needed some time to think is all. I know, I should’ve called, or even sent a little comment, but I needed some space, you know, to find myself. You know how Jim Morrison was visited by that naked Indian who led him to the other side, well I had a similar experience. Except I was visited on the street in Haight Ashbury in San Francisco, you know, the summer of love, Grateful Dead and the Hells Angels, by a street person (“bum” if you must) who asked me for a slice of pizza. You’re not supposed to give the “streetpeople” money here, I guess it’s like feeding the bears in Yosemite, so I thought well, he’s not asking for money, the man’s just hungry. No harm done. Sure I will.

So I walk into the first pizza joint I see (and there are lots here you know) and order up two slices (one for me, one for him), walk out and give him one. Here’s the happiest guy in the world. He’s thanking me up and down, sending praises my way, blowing little butterfly kisses in my direction. No problem I say and head off towards Golden Gate park, scratchin’ my head wonderin’ why so much enthusiasm for that pizza. He must have been REALLY hungry I thought. Then I bit into my slice and poof (!), I saw the same light he saw, felt the same bliss he felt, and I turned and sent praises his way, even tried to blow little butterfly kisses back down the street towards him but mine weren’t quite as beautiful as his, mine were more like little grasshopper kisses that didn’t so much fly but bounced along haphazardly. Who knows if they ever made it to the right place. All I know is that eating that pizza awakened in me an old spirit who went to sleep years ago, which tried to stay awake after we left Baltimore, waking up every now and then with the anticipation of trying a new pizza joint in Seattle, maybe THIS one will be the place, and when it wasn’t that old spirit would lay back down, just for a nap he’d say, until finally he never woke again.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that there is real pizza here (no offense my beloved Seattle, I love ya as my own, but you need a pizza enema, everything else about you is just about perfect). There’s even a Little Italy here and I got this slice not even in Little Italy. I had forgotten what pizza was supposed to taste like. Now Little Italy in Baltimore is pretty little, but you could still get good pizza just about anywhere in Baltimore, and for cheap. And here I was, in the Haight (with a VW campervan no less!), with a slice of heaven picked from a random joint, and in three different directions I could see “Pizza Lucca,” Fazio’s,” and “Guzzi’s.” And Little Italy is not so little here. The promise for such good Italian food, the simplicity of walking up to a window and getting a real piece of pizza I guess woke up that old bloke inside, sent him waltzing across my gustatory dance floor, made me remember you dear blog. I hope you forgive me for being away for so long.

Now that we’ve made up I want to tell you about all that we’ve seen. I think Diana did a fine job of describing Mammoth/Bishop. I will just add that the southern Sierras are probably one of the most beautiful mountain chains I’ve seen. ‘Nough said. (Make sure you check out all of our photos here.)

From Bishop we went through June Lake, a little ski town just south of Yosemite, stayed for a night, then headed through Yosemite itself. Through the high country down to the valley and all of that granite. Thousands of vertical feet of granite on all sides, one of the most beautiful places on earth, and right down there in the center of it, high heels and gold grilled slammed Cadillac Escalades with low profile tires and four thousand dollar rims. “Like allmygod. This place is like sooooo beautiful, like rocks and stuff, like super green and like water thingies that go under bridges.” Do you think the person on the other end of that cell phone in Orange county (let me guess, L.A.?) is getting a clear image of this place? I hope so ‘cuz you almost just got run over by an RV called “Mountain Slayer” driven by a half-blind retiree from Albuquerque. That’s the valley. It’s a love hate thing.

You have to understand that I was deathly ill at this point, the details of which I will not go into. Just know that coming out of the valley heading towards the bay area I nearly filled up our trash can with the contents of my stomach while Di was behind the wheel trying not to pass out from nausea. Some of you may know she has a weak stomach for this sort of thing so she immediately pulled over on the side of the road. I tumble out, trash can in hand, and work my way over to the ditch to pour out the can. Just as I’m calculating how much that should have been ( ¾ of a gallon?) I notice I’m right beside a hog pen, and there’s one now, looking at me, his little curly tail back there wagging a bit then stopping abruptly. He throws his nose up into the air, turns around and waddles off towards the rest of the gang, who by now are all looking at me, some saying something to each other, all of them with this look of disgust. Like I was some sort of street person (okay, “bum”).

“Sorry,” I say, “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

We get back on the road, spend the night in Modesto, or Molesto I should say, at the Vagabond Inn with hookers and drug dealers, changing our room at about 11:00 p.m. because of the “special” party next door between Jose and his nice little paid date. Nothing says class like blaring gangster rap in such times of intimacy. Who am I to judge. To each his own, right? Yeah, whatever.

From there straight to the La Quinta (Spanish for “Cheaper than the Marriott”) at the airport so Di can fly out to Vermont for a meeting. I stayed there in San Fran with Edie and Bodhi and we had a good ole time. We pretty much just explored the city and the beaches around it. What a cool town. Nothing like being able to go to the Pacific Ocean within ten minutes of a major city. Grab some breakfast, wax the board, catch the 23 to Pacifica, hang out with the ocean all day and still be back in time to catch the opera, if you’re into that sort of thing, or maybe grab a bite at one of those Italian cafes off Colombo, or perhaps some eastern fare in Chinatown, want organic? Well then just look around, chances are there’s a restaurant serving organic food within eyesight.

Okay, who knows what song this is: “When the lights go down in the city, and the sun shines on the bay….I want to be there in my city…oh, oh, ohohoh.” That band was from San Fran. Did you know that? Amazing isn’t it.

So Di came back, we hopped in the van, went to Half Moon Bay (home to Mavericks, the legendary beast of a wave that is the Quicksilver Mavericks surf comp and death place of Hawaiian surfer Mark Foo), and from there to Santa Cruz. Do you know what’s in Santa Cruz? That’s right, Patagonia. And they have an outlet store. ChaChing! I’m sportin’ new Patagooch threads for more than half off. Di was getting sick of the two shirts I brought with me on this trip, I changed in the store’s bathroom, emerging to applause from the staff and Diana. Our marriage was saved for at least another year.

And here we are now in Big Sur in this cabin nestled in the Redwood forest. Yes, the weather is so nice here that the bathroom IS outdoors, flushing toilet, shower, tub and all. I’ve got to tell you, even though I run the risk of offense, that I’ve never had such a wonderful time going to the bathroom. Our cabin is in this canyon and down there in the bottom is a nice little bubbling stream. So you’re sittin’ there, in the forest, listening to the birds, listening to the stream, sun shining down, and you say to yourself, “Yes, this is the way it is supposed to be.” This place is so nice Di is gonna have to drag me outta here, me clawing the ground by my fingernails all the while yelling “No, you can’t make me!”

At night all you hear are the crickets chirping and the stream below. It’s almost as if this cabin were a tree house because it is perched on the steep slope of the valley wall looking over at the ridge across the way and up valley to the Ventana Wilderness. That’s why it is so quiet here, because of the wilderness. This place reminds me of the writings of the old Zen lunatics of ancient China and their meditation huts high up on Li Shan Mountain, how they would stare at the moon, listen to the warm wind through the bamboo, contemplate the crickets by the stream below. I just came in from doing that myself, still surprised at how warm the breeze is through these Redwood trees. This place is unique indeed.

So I hope that makes up for my time away. Always know that there wasn’t one day gone by that I didn’t think of you. I didn’t visit or post to any other blog while I was gone. There’s only room enough for one blog in my heart. And you’re the one sweetheart.

the green tube of infinitude, that's one big tree, beware the natives, another beautiful one, the serpent inside, other photos