Last Weekend I Went to Heaven

Do you ever kick yourself for discovering something you should have found long ago? I did that this weekend. Los Angeles, as many of you don't know, can be a pressurized and distracting city. Sometimes it can inspire me with all the glitz and characters, and sometimes it can drive me crazy. And when I start to go crazy, I go where things are slower. Where people think slower. Where the wind blows more gently. Where life gets simpler. Last Saturday at five AM, I got in my Chevy Cavalier and headed for a coastal town called Big Sur. From the beginning it was a unique trip: for one, leaving so early meant no traffic, a rarity in LA. As I sped along the 101 freeway, I passed by city after city. Then I passed Ventura, the furthest north I'd been in California. And about the same time, the land began to change. The hills seemed to get hillier and the grass greener, and I knew I was away. Soon I was cutting through mountains along Highway 1, commonly known as the PCH(Pacific Coast Highway). Now I must preface by pointing out that I live in Los Angeles and I've lived in Santa Monica, so seeing the ocean is nothing new. But when I came around the bend of a towering green hill that wanted to be a mountain, on my left I saw the big blue ocean like I've never seen it before. White cresting waves drew minus signs all over the place while seagulls flocked by the hundreds. The ocean seemed bigger, wider, more untouched than ever before. On my right those green hills climbed higher and higher, streaked here and there by flourishes of yellow dandelions. It must have been really funny, because I couldn't stop laughing. I think I laughed on and off for two hours until I saw a sign:

Hearst Castle
5 miles

Well shoot! Why not? So I found myself taking a five mile bus ride up into the hillside where the late William Randolph Hearst once played host to Hollywood stars, powerful politicians, even a mistress during the earlier 20th century. The castle sits up in those green green hills, with a view even God must be proud of. The ocean now seemed bigger than all the land around me. The tour was probably two hours long, and I loved every second, despite repeated scoldings by the tour guide. I kept drifting from the walkways and onto ancient rugs and walls without meaning to. My eyes were just too glued to what I was surrounded by. Or maybe I'm just a clutz. Anyways! I got back in the car and started laughing again. A few hours later those green hills were mixed with redwood groves and deep gourges cut out by cascading waterfalls and crisp, clean rivers. Since the ocean was still on my left, and still beautiful, I was still laughing. Well, finally I came to a little Dutch-style inn called Deetjens. Since I hadn't eaten anything all day, I went inside. A cute little brunette told me they wouldn't be serving 'til dinner, so I sat down for a cup of coffee and started asking about the area. I knew this girl had lived here all her life from the moment I first looked at her. She had that wide-eyed, glazed over gaze that so many northern california/oregon girls have. She had a certain purity about her. She could look me in the eyes indefinitely. And she always seemed on the verge of a smile, but not completely. Almost immediately I made the mistake of confusing this for attraction. Or perhaps I was right and she was attracted, but as we talked she eventually began cleaning in the adjacent room where her boss and a man sipping wine over a local paper could not judge our conversation. At least that's the way I saw it. She told me I should camp at the Fernwood Campgrounds. She told me they had live music tonight and a bar that all the locals went to. She told me there would be a lot of "hot" waitresses there. Ah, but I had already found my hot waitress! "Well if you're not getting done too late here, you should meet me there later..." I throw out. You can always tell before they utter a word whether they're game or not. She starts with a "well..." and finishes with "I have a...(head cocked to one side)boyfriend, so I'm not sure how that'd look..." she says. "But thank you, I'm flattered" she tacks on for good measure. Hmm. How do I salvage my honor, "well, I don't think that'd look too good now would it?!" and then I just start laughing. She laughs a little so I assume I've melted the ice that was starting to freeze over our conversation. I asked a few more questions about the area, and with my confidence still decently intact, I headed for Fernwood.

Let me again preface what I'm about to tell you. At the Hearst Castle I stopped by the information desk on my way out. The elderly lady standing there told me that I should have no problem whatsoever getting a campsite this time of year. So I figured it'd be a piece of cake. Wrong. I pulled into Fernwood Campgrounds only to find out that everything was taken, and not only that but the neighboring campgrounds were full as well. So I went into survival mode. Where would be a good place to park my car and sleep without being bothered by a ranger in the middle of the night? This drew the sympathy of the park guy, and he "created" a campsite for me between two cabins. That was great. I payed the handsome fee of $35 and scooted past all my fellow campers, feeling like I was safe. Wrong. Not only did I have no pants to wear in the quickly cooling air, but I failed to bring tentpoles for my tent. So I cancelled the $35 charge on my card, and headed to get something to eat.

Atop a hill I sat drinking local beer and watching the sunset, couples all around hugging eachother close and whispering secrets that made both man and woman smile. It felt good to be alone, but I now became aware of my own desire to share such an experience with someone else. I love being alone, but I also sense this innate desire to be "with someone". Just to be with them. But for now the ocean and the redwoods are enough. And the beer. So I kept writing, until the man to my right asked:

"what's that you're writing there? Is it a book or-"

"Its a screenplay."

"Oh wow. That's great. What's it about, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Well, its basically a fantastical version of my family's life. Mark Twain plays a part in it."

"Oh cool. Honey you hear that?"

The man's girlfriend had been listening all the while, so I found it extremely funny he would ask such a question. "Yeah. Kinda like what? Like Big Fish?" she asks.

"Yeah. Yeah that's...that's about right" and then the conversation trails off. I turn back to the sun, and then back to my notebook, until a few moments later a man to my left leans in "Sorry. Excuse me. I couldn't help but overhearing you're a writer? That's...I'm Joe. This is my wife Setiva. She's a writer".

"Oh cool. Se- what? How do you spell it?"

"S.E.T.I.V.A"

"Oh Setiva. That's a great name. So you're a writer?"

"Well, I mean..." and I've already realized that she is intimidated by me. She has no idea that I've never been published, never completed a novel, but she is, because of her self-doubt, intimidated by me. I wonder how often I do that. How often I give up my confidence when there is no reason to. Setiva may be a fabulous writer, far more capable than me, but she definitely does not know it. There are a lot of areas where I don't "know" my own abilities. Where I don't trust those abilities. Why? Fear is useless. Its not a comfort to her to shrink back. What is the difference between boldly claiming her abilities and passively shrinking away from them? A mindset. And that mindset starts with a decision to believe in what she's been given. We choose how we view life. That is the one variable we can control. How we view our life and the world around us. Well eventually I found myself back to writing, the sun all but hidden behind the horizon. Hours later, with a latte and four cups of coffee absorbed, I headed for the Fernwood Bar and Grill.

The old wooden building could hardly contain the music inside. I ran my hands through my hair one last time, opened the door, and again began to smile. Here was Big Sur, all in one room. Well every twenty something and a few fifty year olds. Even a few of the waitresses from dinner were here. An all black band was playing funky jazz and the whole place was alive. I walked past the many locals, my steel-toed camping boots bending the redwood planks like a cowboy entering a saloon for vengeance, "Can I get a Firestone?" I ask in a noticeably high pitched voice. Dangit. Why can't I ever just sound cool for one moment? Well that thought is cut off when I realize that the bartender is the same guy that gave me the campsite earlier. And the girl to my right is the cashier at the gift shop I bought lime green hemp pants from($45) and immediately returned when I found my own pants stuffed in the trunk. I get my beer and start to scope the place out. A few pretty girls. A lot of guys that look like idiots(guys always look like idiots, especially when they're talking to the pretty girls we other guys want to be talking to). The band is roaring. There's a sax, a base, a lead, and a drummer. The tables are shakin'. I put down the beer and join in as the basist commands us to dance. We form a ring and somehow I find myself in the center awkwardly contorting my gangly legs in a bold attempt to win the respect of all Big Sur in one fell swoop. Maybe it happened. Maybe it didn't. But it was awesome! From time to time I would walk past a major hippie with dreads that probably hadn't been washed for years. We would look at eachother, smile, wink and move on. Not in a weird way. Just in a "we get life like nobody else does" kind of way. Eventually I'm on the back patio when this same guy comes out headed for the stairs toward the campsites. He sees me and smoothly extends his elbow, seemingly as a less exhausting alternative to the common handshake.


"Youuuu wannna smoke man?" he says with a laugh and a fake puff on an imaginary blunt.

"Aww, no thanks dude. Take it easy".

Back inside I'm smiling. This is it. This is life. So simple. So nice. Nobody is using the two arcades, so I gamble fifty cents on the chance of scoring a new high on Galactica...

The morning comes and I stick my head out from my sleeping bag. A few cars are still parked in the lot. I've made it through the night without any flashlights from rangers. Another reason to rejoice. Pancakes, bacon, and OJ at Deetjens and then I'm off for a hike along the Big Sur River. Flowers are everywhere. Red ones, orange ones, blue ones, yellow ones. The petals form a living color palette in my pocket. A gentle breeze is blowing and somewhere nearby cold mountain water is splashing over rocks. The dirt path turns into a myriad of stones and all of a sudden there it is, the ocean. This time I'm not laughing. This time I feel like I'm in a Hemingway novel. A father is helping his son hold onto a kite as the shifting winds try to steal it away.

"What do you call those blackbirds?" I ask a man steadying a camera at the edge of a small cliff. He tells me, but I'm still not sure what he said in that garbled british accent. So I just nod, smile, and head on my way.

Highway 1 winds for miles, dipping and rising, until you come to the town of Carmel. A sign passes by in a flash, "Historic Mission San Carlos". Well how can you pass up a mission on a sunday and not feel guilty? So I, in cut off khaki shorts and a white t, walk inside to the low tones of mass. We sing all four verses of a hymn, I shake hands with the priest, and then an old lady offers to lead me to Clint Eastwood's restaraunt known as Hog's Breath Inn. The burger was pretty good(the ciabatta was a nice twist), but I knew it was time to head home. So I found a highway cutting through the canyons to the 101 freeway, and started driving south. I hadn't gotten very far when my eyes got heavy. Apparently all the visual/sensoral stimulation the last two days had kept me running on adrenaline. So I pulled off at an exit, parked behind an abandoned semi trailer to hide from the sun, and slept for an hour. This turned out to be a great move, because within an hour of being back on the road I was in the heart of wine country and the sun was losing just enough brilliance to allow all the land to soften like a landscape pastel. For the last time, I started to laugh, and acted on my earlier impulse by calling every family member until finally dad answered. I wanted someone to know what I was seeing. Words are a poor represenation of such creation, but when that's all you've got, that's what you give. I hung up the phone as the sun was setting alongside the coast of Santa Barbara. Los Angeles was nearby, and while the cavalier sped into the twinkling city, I was somewhere on a horse in the green green hills with a breeze blowing on my back.