The fog and the mock Chinese

Here it is Sunday and the sun has rustled by in her long skirts, hastening to the evening performance at the horizon. The breeze is lifting the leaves lightly on the ornamental plum in my neighbor's yard, tickling them, teasing until they all turn, smiling prettily, flirting with the boys. This is when the day begins to shift to evening time. Twilight, the shy good-looking end of the day, is stretching its arms and preparing to dance with the moon.

We've been seeing a full arc of weather every day lately. Fog rolls in, picks his teeth absentmindedly and checks out the sports page, obscuring the sun for most of the morning. Eventually she tires of him, thinks him a boor and by midday sends him packing. When we get to day's end, we are feeling as if summer actually exists, but the experience is short-lived. Fog shuffles back and sits on the trees and park grass, lolling around, ignoring angry stares and muttered grumblings from us all. It's just the way it is here.

The sun has a better time of it over in Monterey. She has set a limit and holds her line at about the crest of hills that border Monterey and Pacific Grove. She puts her foot down, and the fog generally takes heed. But, over here, it's different. Here the peninsula sticks into the bay like a referee. The ocean currents wrestle one another and take down small boats, kick up spray and pound the shoreline. The victor hauls kelp up on the beach, spoiling the fine blond sand until high tide cleans the stinking strands away.

You'll need a jacket, good walking shoes and a plan if you're going to venture out. Your best bet is to get out at about 8 in the morning. Go get a real cappuccino at Juice 'N Java downtown or up on the hill (Forest Ave.) you can go to B's Coffee. Both will get your heart started and fortify you for our version of summer. Then, you'll be ready for a ride or a good walk where you can take a look around.

PG is gearing up for a weird but charming little festival - The Feast of Lanterns - that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever unless you've dealt with the elements in the summertime on our Peninsula. Over 100 years ago, the local assemblage of Protestant summer campers were bored and very cold. It was July and even though drinking and partying were not ever to be indulged in, something really had to change. Being fervently religious white folks, they decided to host a Chinese pageant and dress up like princesses. They floated a mock dragon in the little bay at Lovers Point and set off fireworks, all in an effort to divert attention from the penetrating chill of the fog. Further back in time there were actual Chinese people living in a rickety collection of shacks where Hopkins Marine Station is now, so perhaps in an odd tribute to the now-vanished community, the white folks invented an odd, quirky festival that continues to this day.

In a nutshell, the pageant includes belly dancers, samba drummers and little kids with big voices who sing the Star Spangled Banner. Princess Jasmine (always played by a hand-picked white girl on her way to sorority membership in college) and her Court escape the Evil Mandarin and eventually everyone lives happily ever after. Then someone turns into a Monarch Butterfly, and a huge display of fireworks turns the fog pink, blue, white and purple with loud percussive thumps. It's very grand, and everyone cheers wildly and cares not one whit about its silliness. It takes your mind off the clammy fog and absence of bikinis, off the raccoons throwing pine cones at you from the storm drains and deer chasing your dog off the lawn. It takes your mind off the wind that blasts down from the north and from the sun who's gone into hiding after her aria at midday. It reminds you that we are cornered over here and shoved up against the big cold Pacific but that we are living here, doing our thing in our specific but quirky little groove.