4/3/15 Pacific Grove to San Luis Obispo
I got out of the room on foot, just before daylight, to watch the sun rise over the rim of the bay. Brenda had told me that when she was here several years ago, there were otters and seals at play in the water as she kayaked among them. None today, either the wrong time of year or wrong part of the bay. There were, however, young surfers in the water, and I hope they were early risers and hadn’t been out there all night. I walked a bit around the bay, but couldn’t go far. The “former me” would have walked for an hour or two.
Sunrise over Monterey bay
Lots of seagulls, of course, and people running, people walking, alone and with dogs. Very well tended people and well tended dogs all living the good life in this very good place to be.
I packed up and left, taking the shoreline drive again around the end of the point, then drove back into town to find a restaurant open for breakfast. There on Lighthouse Ave, I found one that offered a waffle special, for the bargain price (here in Monterey Bay) of only $10.99 (plus coffee). It was good, as it should have been.
I moseyed back through Monterey and
Monterey Bay
got on 1 south, through Carmel-by-the-Sea. Soon, the built-up areas were behind me and the road hugged the coast going to Big Sur. That’s one of those place names that everyone recognizes, even if they’ve never been within a thousand miles of it. As I take the curves that cling to the side of the mountain, with the ocean a straight drop far below, I know that I’ve seen every movie star I can think of driving or riding in a convertible on these same places. I can almost hear theme music playing in my head. Then I recall that in some of those movies, the car tumbles off these cliffs and catches fire in a twisted heap at the bottom, so I go back to paying attention to where I’m going and what I’m supposed to be doing.
At the Big Sur River Inn, I stop for gas and a thirty-ish couple comes up to the rig. They had been discussing it, as I filled up, and the wife wanted to know how the sidecar worked. She had assumed that the black tonneau cover on the sidecar was a seat and she thought the passenger would have to straddle it and somehow hang on. I unsnapped the cover and showed her the seat and the windshield. She was greatly relieved. Her husband had laughed at her assumption, but admitted that he didn’t really know how it worked either. This tells me that the newer generations have no experience with old British cars, for which a tonneau was almost standard equipment. As I was leaving another man came up to ask about the rig. He had tried one before on a Harley, but “couldn’t get the hang of it”. When he asked where I was going, I was surprised when he replied that he once worked for Bundy Company, which had a plant in Winchester and had visited there often. There’s that six degrees of separation thing again.
Just past Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park, there is a famous bakery and restaurant that Gary Griffin had recommended and I’ve been saving a place in my rapidly expanding belly for some of the delights to be had at this place. But I had not counted on this being Good Friday, with a lot of Californians being able to have a long weekend. I have to park the rig in a space that a car cannot fit, because there is no other. When I walk down to the cafe, there is a line snaking out the door, probably 30 people and that’s only the ones outside. Every outside table is filled. I stick my head in the door so see the rest of the line and see that the bakery case is all but empty. Sadly disappointed and still hungry, I move on. There are two more restaurants within the next few miles, both similarly packed.
I find one less mobbed at Lucia, a nice little place that looks on the outside like a country store, but once inside, is a quite nice restaurant with tables looking out over the ocean. The windows by the tables are open to the sea air and I can hear the waves and the gulls keeping up their eternal rhythms. I opt for the salad this time, since my wretched excess in eating on
The view from the window at Lucia
this trip must occasionally give way to sense. But even that choice becomes pleasurable when the salad turns out to be arugula with feta cheese, mission figs, cranberries, walnuts and a subtle vinaigrette dressing. It seems that I can’t be ascetic even when I try.
Finally the fabled highway comes down out of the mountains and runs along the flats so we, the other tourists and I, pick up some speed. The ocean is closer now, on the same level as the road all the time and not just in the “bites”. Still, it is that beautiful color, the waves keep crashing the shore and people at every “vista point” just stand there and stare out at the distance. I’ve seen the Pacific from both sides and everyone does the same thing.
At Morrow Bay, I turn my back on the sea and head up into the hills again. The temperature goes up dramatically as soon as the shoreline is out of sight and I have to stop to shed a layer or two and change gloves. The hills here are yellow, with scrub brush and the occasional avocado farm. Apparently they cut the trees down to stubs and the new growth comes back with fruit. Seeing acres of what looks like white plaster casts of severely trimmed trees, five feet high is discordant at first, until I realize that what is going on is agriculture and not some kind of modern art installation. (Well, it is California, after all, so you can’t blame me for considering the possibility.)
My intention is to find Rt. 58, recommended to me by Jay from his big trip last year, but when I reach the turnoff, it’s after 4 and the first town is Santa Margarita. The town has taken the secular meaning of its name to heart, since there are many bars where one could sample such cocktails, but no motels. The next town is over 70 miles away and doesn’t look like it’s big enough to have much either, so in deference to a Friday night, I take the safer bet and go back down to San Luis Obispo. The first motels I check are full, but I locate a Travelodge within walking distance of a restaurant and a bakery, so my needs are fully met. This is, I think, the old home town of Richard M. Nixon, but I don’t see any mention of that.