Summer Plums: Lebanon Long Ago

A friend of mine who emigrated here from Lebanon brought some fresh plums to me, straight from the tree in his garden.  They have an aroma of roses and sunlight.  When you bite into one, the juice runs down your arm and the flavors of sweet languid summer, songs sung on twilight porches, rope swings and glittering droplets on a morning stream arise in your mouth.  

My friend from Lebanon makes baba ghanouj.  So, I am giving him a gift of tahini for the recipe.  He will stir it up and remember the good things of his original home in the Middle East.  He used to play with his friends in dusty streets and carried a machine gun, heard guns often in his city, lived in spite of the war around him well loved by his family.  He loved them, too, but left the country years ago.  He finished school here in the States, became a US citizen, works smart and hard.  He loves his wife and kids and has a half acre where he grows stone fruit trees that groan under the burden of goodness and tender sweet juices.  He gives away the fruit he and his family cannot eat, which is generous, but he simply says he cannot stand to see it go to waste.

So I held a box of the fragrant plums as he gave them to me with a smile.  I'll make something out of them, several somethings because there are a lot of plums.  He will get the tahini that I bought for him and the trade will be satisfying on both hands.  He will make the baba ghanouj when his eggplants can be harvested and roasted, and will remember the beauty of Lebanon, a country filled with rugged beauty and beautiful people who love summer fruit as much as I do, who inhale the delicate fresh fragrance of plums and recall times spent laughing on verandas and beside streams in the summer.

Cold Swim With Braised Chicken

Heavy, dripping fog hid any sun around here for miles inland early this morning.  Swimming felt rough, a real challenge.  Lots of bodies in the lanes creating circling currents induces fatigue more quickly.  But, we were all in the same tub, so to speak, and felt an esprit de corps I like about sports.  After an hour and a half, the fun was done, so we wobbled indoors to the showers.  No hot water, again.  Definitely none at all.  

A long swim in "rough seas" and a cold shower will put your mind in search of warmth and comfort, which I found at Trader Joe's in Monterey.  A newish store to the downtown area, this market shares parking space with Peet's Coffee & Tea as well as RJ Burgers and Pharmaca pharmacy.  Parking sharks circle like the real denizens of the deep during prime-time shopping hours.  The TJ's in Monterey had to begin opening at 8 AM instead of 9 when people complained about congestion in the lot.

One day, when I had made the mistake of attempting to find a parking spot in the middle of a Saturday morning, it was very close to impossible to find a spot.  A woman had walked into the lot from somewhere else and was standing in an open spot waiting for her friend to arrive from somewhere else downtown.  She tried to stand me off when I was pulling in, but I got into it with her and she relented.  I am not usually confrontational, but the stakes were high that day, so I had to yell.

Today, it was much more peaceful.  Sharks were trolling somewhere else or not awake yet.  Still feeling the chill of the shower and my appetite waking up with a roar, I zeroed in on some organic chicken legs, spices and herbs and, of course, the free food samples.

Handouts are something I really treasure in life.  Why not?  I have gotten lots of good ideas through sampling.  I love altruistic behavior, especially when good free stuff ends up in my hand or stomach.

Hot Sumatra coffee was a fine cold-shower antidote.  Not so much the fresh peach cube-ettes and yogurt, but it took the roar in my stomach down a few decibels.  I said thank-you (remembering what my momma taught me) to the sample preparer, although she still looked half asleep and a little sketchy using a sharp knife on the peaches.

At home again, chicken braised in oil and onions with herbs coating all possible surfaces perfumed the air in no time.  Slow roasting brought flavors to a peak.  I enjoyed every morsel, and felt warmed through and through.

Recipe:

1 yellow onion
1 head garlic
parts of one chicken or enough pieces to fill 9 x 13 in pan
basil
fennel
salt & pepper
saffron if you have it.  Fine without it.

Dice onion into 1/4 " cubes, set aside.  Heat safflower and/or olive oil in pan until it wriggles around but doesn't smoke.  Wash and pat dry chicken pieces.  Brown on medium heat, turning to prevent sticking.  Sprinkle 3-4 Tbsp herbs over contents of pan as chicken cooks.  Add onions after chicken is half browned.  Braise until browned and onion is semi-soft.  Salt and pepper liberally to taste.  Lay chicken pieces in baking dish and pour juices and onion over it evenly.  Cut tips off garlic cloves, leaving head intact.  Coat with oil by pouring small amount over head of garlic while it sits in one corner of pan with chicken or put in garlic roaster if you have one (soak lid in water first for 10 minutes).  Bake all uncovered in oven for about an hour at 325.  Serve hot or cold.  Garlic will become soft and can be squeezed out and used in aioli (sorry, no recipe here today) or eaten with chicken and french bread baguette.

All In It Together

This morning's sun got us up before six, buckled into our snorting chariot, roaring back to Monterey County.  There were what seemed to be a pounding river of cars -- but that insults all great beautiful rivers -- nearly each carrying one single human being.  Hundreds of thousands of automobiles thundering along cement pathways laid down over thousands and thousands of acres of land.  All of us were driving in ease and comfort, listening to our radios, separated from dirt, cold and other humans, secure to the utmost within our individual encasements of steel, plastic and glass.  


How detached we all feel from the earth as we drive, leaving vaporous stinking trails of exhaust wherever we go.  We hear an announcer summarize the day's news in soundbites, and we have a vague sense of dismay and fleeting concern for what amounts to being the consequences of our gluttonous self-centered demand for comfort and high living:  Pollution everywhere.  


I am as guilty as you are; make no mistake we are all to blame.  There is very little that I do in my day that does not extract a toll on the environment.  Especially insidious and subtle is the invasion of plastics into my home and my community.  We lived just fine without so much plastic for all of human history.  It's really not necessary; it's very seductive stuff.

Our lives are so out of balance with the checks and balances of nature that only the word horrific pertains.  What a trade-off we have made.  An exquisite gem of a planet unequaled in all of creation in trade for humankind.  Is God weeping now?

San Francisco: Enjoying A Summer Day

Yesterday we checked into our room on the 17th floor at the Serrano Hotel.  Woo hoo! Penthouse!  Not really, but it is much quieter up high and we can see a lot of rooftops and things way down below us.  It's a fine smallish room with everything we need.  A slightly reduced rate we found on the internet landed us there.  Very ornate lobby, with exterior of the building currently undergoing refurbishment, was built in 1926.  It's about three to four easy blocks off Union Square with three very close-by parking garages that you can use yourself without having the valet do it, which will save you $15.  

We walked over to Max's Grill about three blocks away. There's comfort food, large portions, with a menu that covers all the bases.  Unfortunately, our waiter was young and foolish and had to be asked to fill my coffee cup, my water glass, bring a fork, bring a bread plate and our bill even though we were definitely done for a while.  He also brought the wrong salad with the entree and spent a lot of time in the kitchen yukking it up with his buddies.  The food was actually good, but the silly server put a blot on the experience.

Back to the hotel to change and then cab over to the Orpheum Theater to see Wicked, a musical stage play.   Theatergoers thronged the lobby before the show looking to see who was looking at them and also looking for cast members.  Turns out, this play is becoming a bit of a Rocky Horror Picture Show type cult experience.  When the main players made their first appearances on stage, the audience shrieked and applauded in delirium and loved every big scene exuberantly.  

Lots of fun, no catchy tunes really, not compared to the Phantom or Les Mis, but still very imaginative.  My favorite character was Glinda the Good by a mile.  Elphaba (the Wicked Witch of the West) was great, too, but Glinda was hilarious.

Took a while to get a cab back to the hotel.  Lots of barricades going up along Market Street were for the next day's Gay Pride parade.  Note to self:  Try to catch a glimpse of it some other year.

Luxuriant sleep in a king-sized bed was blessedly wonderful.  I plan on carrying the bed home on top of my car when we check out in the morning.

This morning, we walked over to the cool Italian-style espresso cafe on Union Square plaza.  We pretended we were back in Paris as we enjoyed a petite dejeuner (sweet roll, cappucino, OJ) and watched the city awaken.  The weather was spectacularly perfect.  No breeze, gentle warmth, blue skies and lots to see including a few shrieking schizophrenics and unfortunates tuning into their own time zones and scrambled wavelengths.  It's all part of the deal when you walk around downtown.  Beauty and ritz right next to the broken and blitzed.

We made our way along Geary across town in our car to meet friends at The Cliff House Restaurant (actually called Sutro's Cafe), listening to the incomparable KFOG radio.  The clear sky seemed to lend a finishing sparkle to city parks, brass railings, chrome handles and the thousands of windows in buildings all across the avenues we traversed.  The whole city gleamed and beckoned as great cities do when they are just stretching awake for the day.

The Cliff House is the third iteration of that building and was last remodeled in 2004.  The first two versions burned down, sadly, as they were much more elegant-looking buildings back then.  Nearby, the Sutro Baths (big indoor swimming pool where folks lounged around alluringly in baggy woolen swimming suits) lie in ruins, and the one-popular Playland that occupied a large area opposite the Pacific Coast Highway and Ocean Beach is now replaced by a large housing development.

The Cliff House is home to three dining spaces, and on Sundays you can also opt to have a buffet brunch in a fourth.  We snagged a table for the four of us on the airy and modern Terrace level right by a window and watched the restless ocean currents tugging and shoving against craggy rocks offshore.  My chicken cobb salad was light, well prepared and delicious.  The mimosa was very gentle, shall we say.

In contrast to last night's dinner, our waiter remembered everything and had one of those clever crumb scoopers to keep our table linen crisp and clean).  Replete, we organized ourselves and headed for the DeYoung Museum to see the Great Impressionists exhibit from Paris.

In a nutshell, the place was packed and everyone was tall.  We all noticed it.  Somehow, we got peeks of all the famous paintings on display done by Cezanne, Monet, Manet, and others.  There they were, Whistler's Mother, The Birth of Venus and The Dance Lesson.  Each piece was brilliant in its own right;  we saw about 100 works, I think, which was dazzling.  The viewers were all rapt and respectful, but there were lots of them.

Pooped by then, we left the museum display, sagged into cafe chairs on the wide veranda.  We refreshed with a glass of mineral water and a bowl of cherries.  Good-byes all around then, and we split up to head in our separate directions, satisfied with a fine afternoon spent with interesting friends.

Sunday in Golden Gate Park is unusually quiet and refreshing as one main avenue running the length of it is closed to cars.  The weather was still perfection itself, so walking back to our car parked a half mile away was a pleasure.  Bicycles, skaters, walkers, joggers and humans moving in lots of other ways formed a gentle stream along the route.  The park looks lushly green everywhere thanks to frequent and deep spring rain this year.  

Dinner at the Daily Grill on Geary was good but more expensive than we'd wanted.  It was stuffed full of people not too long after we arrived, proving again that getting places early in the city pays off well.

San Francisco For The Cuisinely Curious

Ever wonder how to braise an apricot or chiffonade some basil?  Hey, what's the difference between aioli and mayonnaise anyway?  

I drove to San Francisco's cool SoMo District today, curious to know the answers to that and more.  I'm a cooking show junkie, but even so, certain phrases never seem to get answered in the 30-minute formats the shows offer.

I'd signed up for a cooking class with Emily Dellas, head chef and teacher at First Class Cooking.  She welcomed me and four other students to her South of Market (SoMo) loft apartment where we encouraged to satisfy our curiosity.

Everything about the food, flavors and locale that Emily has to offer sings young modern San Francisco. She was raised in the city and has had a life-long personal curiosity about foods, cooking techniques and cooking tools. After being asked often by college friends to cook and share her knowledge, she decided to go pro and teach.  She's been at it for six years and just recently opened up her own self-designed kitchen, offering classes three or four days a week.

Emily shops locally at Farmer's Markets and stores that offer the best that the San Francisco bay region produces.  Today, her teaching space was prepped and ready for making braised chicken with apricots, herbed stuffed tomatoes, toast points with aioli and olive tapenade.  We had plum sorbet-stuffed profiteroles for dessert and some light conversation accompanied with a bottle or two of wine.

Her classes fill up very quickly; I'd been trying to land a reservation for a few months after a gift certificate was given to me for Christmas.  Compared to other classes that are more formal, this class felt a lot like being in a friend's kitchen, nibbling on samples and helping out.  Emily moves quickly from stove to sink to counter, multitasking and explaining recipes.  She keeps it light and easy with her guests; a style that is not so much pedantic as it is friendly and inclusive.

You're free to join in the preparations as it suits your mood.  I grated parmesan cheese, helped prepare the profiterole puffs and sliced the baguettes.  Other students seared apricots, whipped up aioli and tapenade and got the plum puree into a growling beast of an ice cream maker.

I was focusing on using tools I don't yet own to see how they felt in action.  I spotted a knife sharpener I'm hoping to buy once I get home again.  Actually, I wanted to take the entire kitchen with me; it has a wide-open fourth-story view of the city and was very dreamy.

I felt part of the youthful trendy vigor of the city and came away with new ideas for recipes and meals. I'll be going back in the future to join Emily again.  I left my heart and my appetite in the city today.  Seems to happen every time I go, too.  

Summer Hike - Part 6

Bonnie and I take a good drink of water from our bottles.  I'm feeling uneasy, but I have a resolve.  I need to ignore my misgivings and move on down the trail and find Vivie.

Vivie is a puzzle to me.  She's the sparkplug we need to move forward, put our ideas into action, but they've been our ideas, not hers.  When we lose faith in the reward of long effort, she stands smiling, cheering us from an inner source of joy we don't have in ourselves, a silent presence that reassures us.  She is a Kansan, direct from the heart of the heartland, and grew up taking her bearings on wheat silos standing tall above the small towns to the east and west of her family's farm.

She is earnest and naive and incredibly strong, with a bounce in her gait that I attributed to drinking a quart of coffee every day.  When I met her in college, she was busy reading a handbook on hikes in the Ventana Wilderness and said she wanted to stand on top of every high place she could find because she'd never had anything taller than the silos on the horizon all her life.  I imagine a hilltop view to her was like taking the first step to heaven.  At least it looked like that on her face when she finished a hike.  Hiking heightened her sense of introspection and gave her a feeling of possibility.  We were similar in that way, but I couldn't match her energy or strength.

I reach the bottom of the slope with Bonnie and we look to our left toward the steep dropoff we'd seen from above.  Its base is a bramble of scrub oak and broom.  It looks dense and a bad place to land.

"Vivie!" I call and pause to listen.  My heart leaps when I hear half cry/half sob.  "Bonnie!  She's over there in the thick stuff. "  I pat my pocket down for my knife, find it there, chuck my backpack to the trailside and set off in a trot to the brambles and scrub while Bonnie keeps calling.  We're yelling for Vivie to hang tight, we're coming, you're okay and our hopes are high that she's good and nothing's happened bad.

We reach the near edge of the brambles and begin to look for a way in, to find a way to get to the base of the cliff and find Vivie.  She's making a small whimpering sound now that makes my heart lump up in my throat.  I don't want to find her broken and hurt.  I fear the worst.  At least she's making a noise, I think.

"I see her!"  Shouts Bonnie and she begins a wild thrashing approach toward her glimpse of Vivie's form, half hidden in the brush and sticks.  Bonnie holds a branch back for me to get to Vivie.  I kneel down and crawl the last few yards.

Vivie's in a heap, face down in the dirt, one arm underneath her, legs bent up behind her and her other arm jammed in a crook of two saplings growing tightly near each other, crossing trunks at about 18 inches off the ground.  She looks like she cartwheeled into the brush from above; there are shreds of her shirt in trees up overhead.  I wonder when she had screamed, if she can breathe or move.

"Vivie, we're here, we're going to get you out and you're going to be okay," I say to reassure her, but I'm not coming up with a plan very quickly.  My heart is pounding and adrenaline is overwhelming me.  I have to keep calm, be smart, think this through.  I'm the one who's trained in first aid.  I check her pulse and see if she's breathing.  Miraculously, her heart rate is strong and steady.  More amazingly, she is breathing even with her face seemingly stuffed into the dirt floor of the ravine.

"Hey Viv, I think you bounced.  You are one tough cookie and you know what?  No crumbs!"  I groaned at my own stupid joke, but I had to keep talking.  I sent Bonnie back to my pack, to bring me the first aid kit and look for a clear spot to get Vivie to somehow.  I'm thinking about Viv's neck and how it might be broken, that I can't move it or it really would break.  It's awful to think about Viv paralyzed, but I torture myself with the prospect of it.  She needs to always move, to climb every hill and mountain, to beam us forward with her smile.  I need her to be whole and calm and capable.

I tell myself to just knock of the melodrama and get to work getting us out of this mess.  Vivie's body is essentially in a skydiver's pose with back arched, feet and one arm up and behind her with the one arm, her right, underneath her and her face down, a little to her left.  I scoop out the dirt from under her nose and mouth until just her right cheek is resting on the ground.  She can breathe a bit better.  I keep a running commentary whispering into her left ear, telling her what a tough cookie she is, not to crumble, be strong, think about how good she's going to feel once we get her out of here.

"Vivie, can you wiggle your fingers for me?"  I check her left hand and see a finger slowly curl and uncurl, a huge relief.  No paralysis.  Yet.

"Viv, Bonnie's gone for the first aid kit. I'm going to try to free your left arm from the crook of the tree it's stuck in."  I tell her what I want to do and how it's going to work, hoping it's a good plan, feeling like Bonnie's taking forever to get the kit back to me.  I worry about the right arm under Viv's body and the possibility of a break and Vivie going into shock.  Her pulse is still strong.  If it gets thready, it's a good sign she's going into shock and the stakes are going way up.  I can't lose Vivie, I can't lose her.

She's my blood sister, joined to me by a heroic act I'll be forever in debt for, one that saved my life three years ago.  Dear Vivie, look at you now, looking like a rag doll in the middle of nowhere with your clothes all ripped and your body all bent and twisted in the bushes.  My eyes close and I try to remember a quick prayer, but my mind's blank.

"Bonnie!"  I shout.  "Hurry up!"

Warm Inside

Summer has been cold in The Groove this week.  Birds are flying around wearing down booties and vests, and furry wildlife members of the community have not been willing to give up their winter coats just yet.  It's 55 degrees right now, the middle of the day, the middle of June.  I have an icicle hanging from my nose and my fingers are stiff.

Lucky I have this warm laptop to keep me warm.

After my swim this morning (yes! I'm sticking with it!), I showered in dismally tepid water and drove away from the college feeling shivery.  Is it summer?  Really?  Please send some heat, people!  I'll trade you some heat for this murky chill.  You can keep the mosquitoes though.

The cold in my core was crying for something warm and comforting.  I needed reviving, something just short of mamma. The Wild Plum is on the way home, and feels like home used to, full of comfort and peace.  I hadn't stopped in for a long time, but I remembered they have deep, rich lattes to snuggle up to.  

The Wild Plum Cafe has made its reputation on homemade-style baked goods that are very different from the French style available right around the corner at Parker-Lousseau (another post, another day).  Hearty, organic muffins and poofy "steamer-style" eggs are typical of their fare.  (A steamer is pretty much the kind of eggs you can make yourself in the microwave oven - very fluffy texture.)  I've been to a few seminars, meetings around town that have been catered by The Wild Plum.  Large "wraps" and burritos are huge favorites.  Portions are generous in size, colorful and healthy, good for what ails ya, like our icebox summer weather.

I ordered a health-neutral repast of bacon, eggs and a large bowl of fruit.  Latte please, please, please!  I had hardly knocked the frost off my shoulders when my food arrived.  I think that was about a three-minute wait.

A table of four women near me filled the air with laughter and smiles.  They were trading photos of kids and catching up on each others' lives.  I suddenly wanted to cry and felt a lump.  Emotions, my dear, emotions arising at the oddest times.  I laughed and chided myself for having wandered out of my own opera, but I saw the familiarity they had with each other, the companionship and loving regard for lives lived on bumpy roads.  Warmth and humor, set with mason jars of flowers and platters of real honest food.

Again, I felt grateful to be enjoying fine health in a bountiful region.  I saw the blessed faces of the women encircling the table, knew nothing about them except that they were filled up with love, so abundantly obvious in all their eyes.

The interior of the place is accented with plum-toned paint and art in the California organic hippie genre.  I'll call it that, but it's not meant as a disparagement.  Everything looks handmade, earnest, organic, comforting.  Wait staff are casual and friendly, smiling right into your eyes, and mean it when they call "Thank you!" as you leave.  

My latte did its work and I felt reinvigorated, but the day was no lighter outside than before, still 55 degrees.  The only difference between Monterey where The Wild Plum is and here in Pacific Grove is that here we have a stiff breeze, too.  Yes, summer is lovely, but warmth is here in our hearts, perhaps in defiance of the cold gray expanses of the Pacific skies.  

Puff! A Dragon Returns

I wandered in the backyard long ago, when I was very young, and I sang out loud, lost in the inner realm of magic, song and aimless play.  I was cast adrift, on the loose, at the mercy of my changing moods and ideas.  Happy usually, preoccupied with dreams, oblivious at first to the bigger world.  My world was simple and promised to be endless.

"PUFF! the magic dragon lived by the sea..."

I walked in deep powdery silt, fine as flour, stamping my bare feet to make it shoot up between my toes in puffs while I sang loudly as my voice could go.  "PUFF!"  I had my own large dragon when I sang.  Or, I was a dragon, too, and yelled my own name out loud.  "PUFF!"  We flew around of course, taking turns to ride or fly; we traded forms and places.  Magic dragons do that.  The one I imagined was beautiful, muscular and sinuous, could move like a flash of light.  His skin glittered like the shiniest thing I could imagine:  Tin foil Christmas tree light reflectors, all different colors, brilliant and true.

I danced on the rainbows of innocence, full of myself, certain I could live in the treetops, leap from mountain top to mountain top.  Napkins became sails that filled with a gusting golden wind, puddles were lakes with fantastic waterworks and furniture made fortresses on rainy days.

"PUFF! the magic dragon lived by the sea, and frolicked in the autumn mist..."

I created my universe, flew in my dreams as easily as a dandelion lifts on the wind.  It was all possible, without end, infinite in joy and sweetness.  All things were absolutely real and timelessly changeable.

I was seven years and had no idea about anything uncertain, devious, ugly or mean.  I was a little girl then and knew just enough about adult life to realize that I wanted no part of it, had no idea what I wanted to do when I grew up - on purpose.  Adults lived behind a curtain of mystery and strangeness, came and went, said things that made no sense in my world.

"Little Jackie Paper loved that rascal Puff..."  But his green scales fell like rain.  Doubt sifted into the corners of my reality.  Large things gradually became smaller, less magical, but I resisted it strongly, sadly, even angrily at times.

I yelled "PUFF! the magic dragon!" to counter the tears, give him courage and embolden his heart.  There were other kids besides Jackie for Puff to hang out with, kids who would not abandon their fantasies and magic friends.  Like me.  Puff, I'll play with you, I promised.  Forever.  I am not going to be a grownup.  Ever.  I will never do the things grownups do, will never be odd, or frightening or cruel.  I will always run, sing and dance.  I will always tell the truth, no matter what.

Something was gradually pulling me away from everything I loved and wanted to do, to know.  Criticism, judgement, my own imperfection was revealed to me in small nuances and hints.  Was this what adulthood was going to mean for me?

The song changed me.  I never wanted to hear the last part, only the first.  The realization that something was ahead for me, a sadness, melancholia, seemed so wrong, so upsetting that I was angry whenever I heard the ending verses.  I countered them by singing the first verse loudly with my own fearless roar, as a cheer for wild freedom and innocence, safety from ugliness and devious harms.  I'd loved my unlimited exploration of the world around me so much that limits I felt settling around my wrists and ankles, gossamer shackles placed by culture and expectation, gave me as much urge and need to escape as a wild horse does when first roped.

"PUFF! The magic dragon!"

Years later, when I was 30 or so, I was in an audience on the lawn on a summer night in San Diego.  Paul Stookey was singing the old song, just like he had when I was seven.  There was a roar coming from deep in the bones of every person standing, all rocking from left to right and back again, moving in a trance of nearly forgotten flight on the back of dragons they'd had in childhood.  Every time the song got to the magic word PUFF, we all yelled it and then paused, listening to it echo on the hills.  Tears flowed down every cheek, trails of memories begun in the early 60s when magic was not yet stolen from our hands.

I say puff very lightly now, but I hear the echoing shouts of a few thousand grown and aged children who had wandered far from their younger days, hardly aware of leaving them behind, sad that they'd had to.  Puff, and it's gone, just like morning mist on a warming summer day, turning the corner to autumn.

Whole Foods' Soul

Right next to the organic mayonnaise, here on Aisle 3 in the beautiful, chi chi, zen-and-now ambience of Whole Foods, the beat is funky.  I am boogie-ing to music written in the studios and nightclubs of Motor City, now the rust belt of the country, where suffering and pain reaches down into the guts of musicians who bare it to the world.  The cruel irony of that juxtaposed with the affluence surrounding me makes me want to celebrate the blue-collar soul music right there in the store.  So I dance down the aisle and think about Aretha Franklin instead of organic gluten-free blue corn tortillas.

They do a lot right at Whole Foods, in spite of the abundance of plastic containers and exquisitely high prices.  The lighting is softer and warmer than other supermarkets have.  Perfect produce is stacked at arm's height, and every imaginable food product seems to hum a mantra of serenity and mindfulness.  The store is lightly populated at 9 a.m., but shoppers I see look careful, have furrowed brows and at least one therapist apiece, probably a masseuse.

The effect of the lighting, merchandising and layout of the store as well as the quality of items serves to appeal to a very white upper-middle class shopper who brooks no nonsense when it comes to a premium lifestyle.  It is a marketing approach that is absolutely first class all the way.

Somehow, I feel inhibited by the environment.  Everything is just beautiful and truly luscious, faultlessly so.  Sort of George Hamilton meets Gwyneth Paltrow  - tanned, organic, slim and rich.  

As if from blue-collar heaven, I have been saved by an angel singing soulfully.  And she has cool backup singers. Motown!  Unbelievably, "Chain of Fools" is on the loudspeaker.  Aretha Franklin is singing in the most not-Motown store we've got in Monterey.  How did she get in here?  I feel redeemed in a way I hadn't known I needed redeeming.  Aretha Franklin singing real music in a pretend-zen Aisles of Might store.  I guess God is wearing cool sunglasses with a pale blue suit and a white fedora, and he is righting a wrong.

Everything changes in me when I hear the music.  I want to really dance and sing, "woo, woo, woooooo, chain of fools" with the girls.  I yearn for a sleeveless dress with sequins, a wig and a microphone to lip sync with.  "Chain, chain, chaaaaaaiiiin....."  Those backup singers have the woo, woo, woo part so down.  "My problem is, I thought you were my man..."  Ms. Franklin, I love you!  Come lay down your soul anytime and make it real for us all.

"You got me where you want me.  I ain't nothin' but your fool.  You treated me mean, you treated me cruel."  She's wailing her heart out.  I can see her with her eyes closed at the mic and the backup singers swaying, fingers snapping.

Aretha Franklin brings out the diva in a girl.  She oozes soul and talent.  Every sound and move she makes links her music to heaven and right back to my feet, and I am tappin' and movin' down the line, baby.  Shopping cart for a partner, bag rolled up for my mic.

Whole Foods is a niche market unique unto itself where safe, secure and successful people buy just what they want and enjoy the glories of modern gourmet living.  It's beautiful, wonderful, exclusive.  In spite of all that, I am having a good time in the store because the Queen of Soul is allowed in to wail and croon, if only for one song.

In my own recent past when I was a single mom making ends meet, just barely, shopping in Whole Foods was out of the question.  I'm not even close to saying I have lived a life of hardship and severe struggle, but I know what living from paycheck to paycheck is like.  My personal struggles didn't include unemployment and foreclosure, but I appreciate that there is a big, tough nation of pain represented by soul, R&B and rap.

The yin and yang comparison of Motown soul in Whole Foods seems like a pretty notable irony.  Soul Foods has taken on a new meaning for me.  I am obliged to Ms. Franklin for restoring a sense of perspective so easily lost in this exclusive and privileged area of the left coast.  Long live the Queen.

Coming to Grips With Cosmetics

I stood in  the aisle of the cosmetics aisle at the local pharmacy with a familiar sense of dismay and uncertainty creeping over me.  I just wanted an eyeliner pencil - my last one fell apart - but, the face of a whole industry was staring critically at me as I gazed at it in return.

I noticed that there are no cute bags to put over your head anywhere in the cosmetics aisle.  That's what I really need first thing in the morning with chenille marks on my face and my hair sticking up all over.  Real, true coverup.

There is no such thing as just an eyeliner pencil.  If there is, it's kept down on the floor in a corner where you have to stand on your head and grope to find it.  I found complicated mechanical pencils in sable, charcoal, sienna, tawny beige and tequila sunset.  There were also pencils with smudgers on them and others accompanied by sharpeners.  My eyes watered.  I sidled to my right to survey the choices.  I made a selection based on price (middle of the road) and ease of use (simple mechanical style without its own sharpener or theme song).  On to mascara.

Compared to mascara, eyeliner pencils are nothing at all.  I sometimes feel a little nauseated by commercials on TV that show young beautiful women - I'd say no older than 17 who have no idea about wrinkles or deep thinking - with CGI-enhanced lashes that grow into long black spaghetti noodles.  Thick, luscious lashes with three times the volume! says the confident sexy voice of the dazzling air-brushed celebrity, assuring me that I'll have more of everything once I use the mascara product.  More men, more money, thicker-longer eyelashes and the ever-popular defiance of age.  If I were a guy going in for a kiss, I'd strongly reconsider the idea once I got a close look at lashes covered with spackle and dye.  They look contagious.

Accompanied by mascara on its aisle are a vast array of small hand tools designed to shape, comb, pluck, clip and mold lashes and brows into thick, glossy perfect arcs.  I laugh because I need to wear glasses and find it difficult to use curlers and pluckers, molders and smudgers when everything's a blur.  I have a magnifying mirror, but that in itself is a tool of terror at 7 a.m.

I skipped the mascara and wandered into the lipstick displays.  Alluring colors were arrayed in displays in the shape of wheels, boxes, lines, fans, rocket ships.  I wondered where to start.  Every brand had a zillion choices.  It was daunting.  What did I want?  Where should I start?

Lipstick and lip liners present an infinity of choices, a plethora, an excess beyond imagining.  Colors are one thing:  Brown mauve, purple haze, pink horizon, luminous libido, swan dive.  Who knows.  But texture is another.  And the only texture worth having apparently is gloss.  Lips must be full, rounded, plump and glistening like a disco ball.

If you watch afternoon talk shows, guests and hosts alike have lips glittering incandescently as they speak.  Extreme gloss introduces a new element to eating and kissing:  No touching the lips at all or you have a serious slip-and-slide going on.  When eating, a forkful of food is presented to the face, the lips are pulled away and the teeth extract the food from the fork.  Chewing is done politely with the lips closed and they rotate back and forth, all around, throwing sparks from their chrome surfaces, dazzling viewers, blinding one another.

I had to leave.  I was feeling dizzy, but I was clutching an eyeliner pencil and two tubes of lipstick. L'Oreal won, but I couldn't tell you why.  Probably because the product was on my eye level.   I tend to approach cosmetics more like going to a dentist's office than something fun; a sort of don't-hurt-me attitude.  My mind goes to:  Well, I'll choose this one; it's not too ugly.  I always feel lucky to be out in the fresh air again, and I'm always hopeful I'll find a cute bag to wear instead of all that goop.

Father's Day Breakfast on Cannery Row

Summer is in high swing all around the Monterey area, with most attention currently being paid to the elite world of golf and the US Open.  Pebble Beach is giving the pros fits.  Thousands of fans are in town to cheer them on and marvel at their skill.  I, like most locals, am fitting into less-filled spaces and looking for a different vantage point from which to enjoy what the Peninsula has to offer.  Timing is everything; hiding out during peak tourist hours is a must.

Today was Father's Day, a good day to see about a brunch out on the town.  Problem was, all directions would be clogged with a few thousand visitors also out trying to make the most of the day.  We wracked our brains and considered the options.  There were a dozen places to pick and choose from, many of which we really love.  Mostly, we wanted to expand the list and find someplace new to us - not an easy task. The list of favorites had to be shortened as we took into account that we'd be travelling on golf-fan-clogged roads; some places would be just too awful to negotiate.  After some restaurant favorites dropped off the list and others didn't seem quite special enough, we finally chose the Intercontinental Monterey The Clement's C Restaurant and Bar on Cannery Row.  By far, it is the most awkwardly named place on the whole Peninsula.

We'd gotten very lucky with our parking spot being just in front of the hotel in a metered space.  Wow did that meter suck up quarters.  I think the rate is about 25 cents per 10 minutes, which rivals any slot machine in Vegas.  Hardly mattered, though, since we were in such a close-by spot.  Valet parking is one option, but that would be even more expensive.  No matter; we were looking forward to the meal and feeling good about a still-quiet Cannery Row at 10 AM.

The Clement is serene and cooly Pacific Rim indoors, much different than the boardwalk-style atmosphere outside.  There are outdoor spaces that take full advantage of the expansive view of the bay. Potentially, one might choose to eat small plates of tasty offerings by outdoor fire pits on the deck in the evening or late afternoon, an option I'll try someday.  

We had a window seat in an airy and open dining room.  We were distracted by sea lions, otters, and a flotilla of open-water swimmers with kayaks making their way past kelp beds about half a mile offshore.  It seemed like an awful lot of activity for a Sunday morning, but made for curious diversions as we ate.  Of course, we did have some fine food, omelets and eggs benedict that were filled with avocados and crab.  We took our time and relaxed for as long as we wanted.

All food complies with standards for sustainability set by the Monterey Bay Aquarium, and produce is organic.  Prices ranged from $8 to $15 for generously delectable, fresh and creative food.  Considering the size of portions, the creativity and quality of food products used in our meals, each dish was a top-notch winner.

When we were done with the meal, we strolled around the austerely peaceful interior spaces of the hotel. Then we went outside to find the car and encountered a bustling crush of mid-Sunday-in-summer tourist crowds.  The contrast was remarkable, to be sure.  Time to slip away and leave the out-of-towners to shuffle and shop.

We had local's luck on the Row this morning, and managed to feel relaxed, unhurried and pleasantly satisfied.  Timing the crowds is a skill locals the world over learn if they live in a destination spot like Monterey.  You realize that when you are out among folks seeing your hometown for perhaps the first time, their enthusiasm and sense of discovery can rub off on you in brief doses.  

Tarzan Where Are You?

I keep seeing golfers everywhere and hearing about soccer scores and listening to bad news about BP.  I sat down to my computer to begin writing, hoping something interesting would emerge but nothing has.  I've deleted everything.  I want to delete BP.

Writing words down today makes me feel like I'm sinking slowly into quicksand.  Where's Tarzan when I need him, swinging to the rescue, wearing that interesting leather loincloth?  (An aside:  If you recall, Dick Van Dyke on his self-named show was not allowed to look like he was in bed with his wife, played by Mary Tyler Moore - they had to wear full-lenth pajamas and sleep in twin beds and keep one foot on the floor.  On the other hand, Tarzan was swinging through treetops wearing a skimpy outfit that did not cover much of himself.  He was definitely a lusty individual, especially with Jane, who was not inhibited about revealing her lovely self either.)  Tarzan may not have been able to write, but if he were to come flying through my window on a vine right about now, I sure would have something to write about.

But, as it is, I have started paragraphs about a few dozen things, but they have all died, some more quickly than others.  I have tried automatic writing, putting down whatever came into my head, but my delete key went into action just as quickly.  I tried getting up to take a break, sipping something refreshing, cracking my knuckles.  I've tried chewing some spearmint gum that has sent a mind-clearing jolt into my sinuses, which sounds odd, but at this point I'll obviously try odd stuff.

I was even hoping something might come crashing down through the ceiling - Tarzan? - but so far nothing.  The truth is, I have to go to work now.  Time's up for the day.  Will keep an eye out for our man in the jungle.  Let me know if you see him, too.

Listening

There is nothing moving anywhere.  There are no crickets.

Have you heard bees, seen fireflies, watched a mirror become a lake when dawn's breath exhaled?

Where can I go to hear only the natural world?

When did cricket voices cease?

World Cup Football - What's Going On?

To the very casual soccer fan like me, who watches out of curiosity more than anything else, and then only once every four years when the World Cup competition coalesces in some country far away, the game is peculiar.

The rest of the world calls it football, so right away Americans become puzzled.  Just like translating centimeters to inches a la the metric system, the football that Europe enjoys is vaguely similar to American football.  The relationship is so vague that you'd really better squint your eyes almost shut after drinking a tall cold one before making the direct comparison.

I like both games in certain ways.  American football is fun because randomly the ball actually moves to another part of the field and there is a lot of leaping, and bodies sometimes go flying through the air.  That's fun.  I have watched games now and again for years and still get terms confused:  Blindside, offside, downside, onside, kickback, touchback, lots of backs.  The game stops and holds still almost all the time.  Big men line up and crash into each other time after time for hours.  Fans paint their faces and sit in the stadium and scream, even if nothing is going on down on the field.  Eventually, after one guy who is called the quarterback, although I have no idea why, and who has just been grabbing his teammate's crotch each time they line up, throws the little pointed ball to another teammate who is lucky to be alive after he catches it.  A score is made and everyone screams and then you get to watch a commercial break for 10 minutes.  The scores are 6 for catching, 1 for kicking and 3 for something else that is mysterious.  Other men in striped shirts throw flags up in the air and wave their hands around, so they create a diversion I guess for the fans when the game stops, which it does almost constantly.

World Cup football is similar in that a lot of fans paint their faces wild colors and scream while two teams play the game on a big grassy field.  There are a similar number of men on each team and there is a ball and there are goal areas.  In WC football, however, the game is played by kicking at or near the ball or the other guy with the ball, all the while everyone runs and runs and runs.  Bodies fly through the air and every player experiences near-death agonies when another player kicks or comes close to kicking him.  There is intense writhing and grimacing, but players don't score points for this, although it is very dramatic.

One player from each team wears really big Mickey Mouse gloves and tries to stop the ball from getting into the net area.  If he stops the ball, everyone screams and the players run around in circles.  Some of them fall on the ground and hold their heads or some other body part and they all seem to die a thousand deaths.  WC football is filled with alarming emotional outbursts.

The players in WC football are thin and they run all the time.  They sometimes try to kick the ball when it goes over their heads, and they do this by doing somersaults in midair and kicking their feet like they're riding a bicycle upside down, which is very entertaining.  If a player scores by kicking the ball past Mickey Mouse into the net, there is a frantic amount of screaming and running by every player and then they all make a pile and crush the guy who just kicked the ball in.  For the simple reason that players wish to avoid being killed in one of these giant pileups, the scores are very low.  A game can have a final score of 0-0, which is safest because no one has ended up at the bottom of a heap of sweating players screaming in a foreign language.  Ironically, the players all urge one another to kick the ball past Mickey so they can pile on, but they don't want to be the one to be crushed.

In American football, there are also large piles of men, and it happens much more often.  This is alarming because these men are so large.  There was one player who was called Refrigerator; he must have been very cold to have earned a name like that.  He was also larger than most of the other men.  He often would be sic'd on men from the other team and did one-man pile-ups, crushing little running backs all by himself.

The World Cup is a competition that is going to be going on for a few more weeks until at least every player has been crushed in a pile-up and has had a chance to show off his writhing and screaming act.  I was watching a game for a few minutes the other day and one player was so dramatic that he fell down in a show of intense pain after no one touched him and the ball was long gone.  It looked like he was deeply depressed that he'd missed a chance to kick it when it had been closer by.

I say watch the games to see all the antics and emotion.  Fans go to great lengths to look like their teams' jerseys, having bought buckets of colorful paint to achieve that look.  Often, that's the only way you can tell who's screaming for whom as they are all screaming in foreign languages.  It will be nearly impossible to follow the action as the play goes back and forth and all around for a long time and no one scores, but it's colorful and somehow you get caught up in it.  Further, if you watch a Spanish-language channel, you'll have even less idea of what's going on and you probably can make up your own rules.

Early Morning Swim - Ouch

One eye cracks open.  It appears to be dawn.  Coulda sworn I just went to sleep.  The eye closes again.  I hear coffee getting started in the kitchen.  I might have a chance at verticalness if only I can get both eyes open and move some part of my body.  Not happening.  Breathe and try again, I tell myself.

The same eye reopens.  Both eyes attempt focus, fail.  Need glasses, grope for glasses, find them.  Odds are against me being able to get arms and legs going; they are arguing hard against the idea.  They know deep in their bones what is ahead of me.  That is, day four of a new semester of competitive swim workouts at the local community college, and I am far from being fit.  Very far.  

You'd think the idea of jumping into a pool early in the morning would put me off, but no.  Somewhere inside of me is a kernel of determination. The difficulty lies in the summoning of energy, and trying to find enough of it in order to move from lying to standing.  It seems like a ridiculously huge task.  Oh my, am I sore and stiff.  It feels like I have to reach out all over the bed, gather up energy that leaked out of me during my sleep and stuff it back into my body so I can move again.  Like the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz groping around for his straw after the flying monkeys tore him to bits.  

I get myself to stand up out of bed.  It feels like a monumental achievement, standing up.  Before standing, I have to convince myself that it's going to be a better idea to heave up out of bed than it is to lie sprawled and comfortable, horizontal to the world.  This takes some real negotiation.  The deal is that if I will move really slowly now in exchange for a nap later, I can remain standing and get on with what's next.  Odd parts of my legs, shoulders and arms are popping, making funny little noises.  I am Rice Crispies in human form.  Just add milk? Coffee will be better.

I restarted swimming this week and have been working out harder than I have for a long time.  As a result, muscles and joints are saying no when my mind says go.  The wags say misery loves company, and I take solace in that.  At the pool, I find satisfaction in hearing about my friends' sore muscles and tired bodies.  At least it's not just me feeling tired and shot.  Knowing that they'll be at the pool again today helps.  We'll suffer together and compare stories about traffic getting to the pool, the cold weather, our knotted and tired muscles.  

The theory is that you get in better shape when you work out regularly.  Experience tells me it's going to be about three weeks before I feel human again.  Experience is a good thing, but you really ought to learn from it right from the start.  I knew that taking off a few weeks in May was going to cost me in lost fitness and aches and pains when I started back up again.   I'm about as trashed as I've ever been.  The coach is relentless, murderous, sick.  She laughs at our struggling bodies floundering in the pool every day, doles out no pity whatsoever.   

The coffee is a pleasure to sip.  I kind of stare at the morning paper, read and reread a couple of paragraphs five times, instantly forgetting what I've just read.  A little bit of granola; I'm trying to be good and not think about Pavel's cinnamon rolls, which on a good day I can smell from my front porch when I go outside in the morning.  I feel my body sagging in the chair, hoping to return to bed, feeling pathetic, beginning to whimper, but I also feel my memory stirring up images of being fit and capable.  

My gym bag is waiting for me by the door and the clock is saying go swim, go swim, go swim.  All right, all right, I'll go, my mind is made up.  It's more important to me to go than to stay, so I go.   

Tomorrow, day five.  I can do this.  I just need a massage really badly.  Owww.  

  

Rainbows: Images of the Universe

I've never heard anyone angry that they were seeing a rainbow.

Every color of light in the visible and invisible spectrums exist at once in a rainbow. Every light frequency, every wavelength that we perceive as light, is there.  It's sunlight shattered into bits by water droplets.

I was thinking about myself and what I'm doing right now, what I can hear, see, smell and feel at this exact minute.  I was also thinking that at the very instant that I'm experiencing all that I can, the whole universe exists all at once.  Every possible thing that can happen IS happening right now - somewhere.  Not only on our planet, but above it, in the universe, in all the universes.

If we could freeze this instant with the snap of our fingers, we'd see that every aspect of the human condition exists somewhere and is in play.  Every possible sound is being emitted.  Every single imaginable bit of matter that jiggles in the form of energy organized into shape or not even organized into any shape - exists.

I kind of like the idea that every bit of every thing or the nothing in between the things - not specific enough for you? - has always existed and always will.  We are breathing air molecules that could have been breathed by a monkey in New Guinea 20 years ago.  We eat food that grew in dirt that is made of plants and rocks that disintegrated hundreds of years ago.  Everything is trading bits and pieces of every other thing that ever existed or will exist on the planet for all time.

We are all big piles of minerals and a large sack of water that used to be somewhere else before - lots of other places many other times - but now we are using the stuff to be who we are at this point now.

If you are so proud to be unique and special, well you have a right to be.  You managed to organize the minerals that you have in a way that no one ever has before.  Then it will disperse and become many other things eventually.  Your exhaled breath will help become something else somewhere else, just like it always has.

A rainbow exists but it does not exist.  It is an explanation of light that is in no one place in particular, which is exactly what excites us to be the first to pin one to a spot and find the pot of gold underneath its end.  But, in truth the gold is in the exemplification of simultaneous existence of all things at all times.  And just when you get that, the rainbow disappears, as ethereal and intriguing as life itself.

Pacific Grove's Summer is Here

I was just thinking about summer, how much I miss summer weather living in Pacific Grove.  About one or two days every seven or eight, we get a sunny spell of weather and we all become very happy and come to realize that summer is not just a children's fairy tail like Santa Claus.  There really is a summer; it's just not visible here.

Virtually the one single difference between summer and winter is that there is more daylight in summer.  I wear the exact same clothes now that I did in winter.  It kind of makes you feel like you are existing in a state of suspended animation, ready to be awakened for your real life when the season finally changes for good.

The light outside right now looks just like when it was 7 AM this morning, six hours ago.  I suspect that fog fuzzes out linear time in the Groove, so we can make it any time we want.  So, I say it's 10 AM - a pretty nice time of day as hours go.  I'll stick with that for a while, maybe until September, October, who knows.  I think it has a sort of freeing quality to be unable to know what time it is.

A decision will be made by someone - God? - who will finally say:  Your ankles have been stiff and cold for long enough; you may have warmth for an entire summer once again.  Rise up and live joyfully.
I actually dream of that, sadly enough.

I wonder:  Is this for real?  Or am I in a weird box indoors where a bright light is turned on behind a screen of gray for a certain amount of time every day.  There could be a grumpy old man pulling levers and ropes, faking us all out with the idea that someday, if we are all hopeful enough, if we pray and light candles, supplicate before shrines, we will have a warm languid summer just like the rest of the country does.

Pagrovians give their dogs sweaters to wear in the summer.  They don't barbecue or lounge around on lawn chairs under shade trees drinking beer with their buddies while the kids play on Slip-N-Slides on big green lawns; the kids would freeze outside and die.  There are not porch swings to idle away sultry evenings.  Deer don't shed their winter coats; they steal ours.  Everyone's huddled around fireplaces in the summer, listening to stories about something called The Sun, a legendary bright orb in the sky.

Time for me to go look for my electric blanket and plug it in, wrap up in it.  I'll pretend I'm baking in the summer heat so I can drink a tall cool glass of something good.  It's a comforting thought.  

Carmel-by-the-Sea: One Piece of the Peninsula's Pie

Carmel is the most densely built city on the Monterey Peninsula.  Multi-million dollar homes stand nearly touching, and yet each one is uniquely quaint or charming or grand or spectacular in some definitive way.  Because there is so much attention paid to the esthetic appeal of homes by their owners, there are more tradesmen and workingmen's trucks parked along streets than in any other city on the Peninsula.  Everyone is busy, up to their ears in the effort to maintain the now elite but formerly bohemian community that was started by artists escaping conformity and restriction.  Whereas artists once felt unable to abide building codes imposed by cities where they'd come from, now Carmel has become ultra elite in its effort to maintain its status as perfect and precious.

If you live in the city proper's 93921 zip code area, you don't have a street address like 142 Lincoln Street;  you have a description of where your home is generally found.  For instance:  Lincoln, between 3rd and 4th, third house on the right.  Your home has a name like Eiderdown or Peek-A-Boo or Sea Breeze.  Your home was designed by an architect, possibly a nationally prominent one, and it somehow distinguishes itself by virtue of expensive features and elements that sometimes defy description or categorization.  Certainly, real estate asking prices are not for the financially faint of heart.  

If you are a Carmelite, as you call yourself, you probably have vehement discussions about the trees overhanging your yard, the fence lines of your property, the color of your house and the amount of space your cars may or may not be taking up on the street.  There are no sidewalks and there is no post office delivery so you pick up your mail at the post office in town, but you make it a social event and spend time chatting about your dog or your massage therapist or your psychiatrist while you sip a latte or chai tea drink.  You most likely have at least one pedigreed dog for which you have probably paid over $1,000, and if you don't, you are planning to. You drive a BMW or Mercedes or maybe a Prius. You know where your neighbors and friends went to college and where their children attended college and you mention the names of the colleges as if they are equivalent to a pedigree.  You are a little bit fussy, a little bit eccentric and you expect things to get done when you want them to be done and expect attention to be paid to you when you are not feeling well or happy.  

Outside of Carmel-by-the-Sea is the rest of the Peninsula.  Then there's Pebble Beach, which is a gated community that is not a city at all.  It is as unique as Carmel, shall we say, but mostly because there are a zillion golf courses and golf balls zinging in every direction.  Homes and residences range from enormous McMansions built to impress passers-by, or truly grand well-designed and nicely situated compounds, all the way to surprisingly modest and ordinary ranch-style homes and post adobes.  Clint Eastwood, Peter Ueberroth and Arnold Palmer joined financial forces a few years ago, along with a number of other partners and shelled out $840 million dollars to buy Del Monte Properties, and they are now keeping it running somehow or another, the poor slobs.

On the north side of Pebble Beach is Pacific Grove where we have our own proud homes - many too expensive for the vast majority of Americans to own, but PG has a small, old-fashioned looking downtown, so it seems more within reach.  It's slow and quiet and peaceful most of the time.  There is one golf course - the city's municipal course - that costs a tenth that of green fees at Pebble Beach.  There are dogs here, too.  Most of them are rescue dogs grateful to have anything at all, much less a pedigree.  We have wind that makes us a little crazy every day, and deer that chomp our flowers as soon as we plant them.  And we have termites chewing happily on all the old historic wooden Victorian houses. We are working or retired and we shrug when a few things go wrong, but if anyone messes with our butterfly trees (where the monarch butterflies winter over), we become incensed and raise cain about it.

We think folks in Carmel are silly and they think we're boring and having nothing to do here, and we are both right.  We're all pieces in the same pie, but we find differences between ourselves for some reason.  Most of the time though, everyone is outside admiring the ocean and renewing their sense of awe at the grandeur of nature and their lucky stars for living here, however that might have happened.  Very few Groovers take it for granted.  In that one way, we are exactly like nearly everyone in every other part of the Peninsula - grateful every day to be alive, right where we are.  

Summer Hike - Part 5

Bonnie and I are just reaching the edge of the darker forest.  It's much more dense, thick with trailing vines and grass thickets, downed branches tangled around the tree trunks.  The trail goes straight ahead and then disappears downhill to our left.

"Viv-veeeee!" Bonnie yells.  We stand listening.  A long way away is the rushing sound I think is the river.  Sometimes the wind in the pines sounds the same way, hollow and melancholy.

Bonnie and I look at each other and listen.  We hear faint insect noises, the wind, our hearts beating, and our low voices.  I wonder if Vivie is up to one of her pranks.  She's so full of herself today, maybe she's lying in wait.  "You think she's spying on us?" I ask.

"This isn't like her.  My spine's been prickling ever since I heard that sound. I don't like the way this feels.  It's just off.  I'll kill her if I find her.  She should just stop this now."  Bonnie is exasperated but I hear the unease in her voice.

We start into the cool dark shade of the pine forest, walking more slowly so we can pay attention to  sounds.  I look in the powdery dirt for Vivie's bootprints.  She would have just been there about 20 minutes before.  No prints.  Nothing but the dirt.

"Bonnie, I'm looking for Vivie's boot marks.  Can you see very well?  Will you look?"

Bonnie squats down for a minute to look closely at our trail, takes note of our own boot tracks and says, "I think all I'm seeing is ours.  Charm, this is so weird.  Did we miss something on the way?  Like, did she maybe trip and roll down the hill and way off the trail? Vivie is our mountain goat.  She wouldn't do that.  I would do that, but Vivie wouldn't."

There has been no sound other than our talking for the whole time we've been in the dark forest.  No jays, no woodpeckers drumming, no bees.  Dead silence all around.

I motion to Bonnie to follow, slip my hand into my pocket and feel for my knife.  Damn I wish I'd brought the larger hunting knife.  I just have my Swiss army knife.  I'd wanted to save weight, and it was lighter.  I feel spooked and angry all at once.  Vivie's not here, hasn't been here, may be down and hurt somewhere and we have no idea about where.  Damn you, Vivie, I think to myself.

My mind is reeling back to the day we'd met Bob Shorter and asked about the trail.  He had said it was an easy trail and the river would be pretty for a camp, told us about the area and some history, said good luck.  Since we were all fed up with our jobs and needed a weekend hike to get away from the humdrum of office life, we'd lit up about the idea of hiking here on the weekend and being free of everything.  Just us, Triple Threat, having another great hike on our own.  Easy as pie.  We had hiked half a dozen times before on weekend hikes and always been good with each other, never had any more trouble than a blister or two.

"Twobie, we need a plan.  I don't want to be one of those knuckleheads who walks around in circles and never figures out the obvious.  We're toast unless we figure this out first.  It looks like Vivie hasn't been here.  I don't see her footprints.  It doesn't make sense.  She was hiking strong and should have been here, but I have a feeling something else happened back a ways, right?"

"Like what?  She fell?  If she fell, we need to go for help, one of us anyway, and the other stay with her. But, where the heck is she?  When did you see her last?"  Bonnie wipes her forehead with her forearm and looks all around, back up the trail.  She's scanning the hillside for movement.  It's still quiet as a grave in the forest.  Bonnie curses and I see her hands clenching and unclenching.  She's shaking out her hands like she's trying shake off bugs.  It's what she does when she's nervous.

"When we were approaching the ridge, about a quarter mile back from her, and we mooned her, right? Wasn't that it?"  It seemed really long ago now, the fun and hollering.

"Yeah, I think so.  She could have fallen right after that, if she fell," Bonnie says.

"You sure you never saw her after that?" I ask.

"Pretty sure.  I thought I heard the scream down here where we are right now.  Charm, this is ridiculous. We're wasting time.  Let's go back up the trail and check for signs maybe she fell.  It was steep and she could have just gone down and we'd never know it.  We have to at least check."  Bonnie starts up the trail.  I follow.

It takes 15 minutes to get back up to the ridge and we stop.  We find Vivie's last footprint in deep powder but no other sign.  It's about 50 yards down the trail from the ridge crest and we see that the slope is very steep far below, after a steady grassy slope downhill that's studded with granite outcroppings and a few scrub oak.  If Vivie's down there, she's out of sight and we have no idea how far down the hill goes.  It's probably half a mile and looks like there's about a 70-foot drop straight down after the steep downhill.

I check my watch.  4 PM.  A few hours of daylight left.  I look at Bonnie and take off my pack.  She takes off hers and we stare downhill, then back down the trail.

"The best way to get down the hill is on the trail.  We can go down the trail as far as it goes and then double back and bushwhack until we find Vivie down there,"  I say.

"What if she's not down there?"

"Well, she's sure as hell not up here," I growl.  "Best bet is she tripped, fell and rolled.  We'll only find her if we go downhill, too.  Can't see her from up here, so we have to go down there."

We shoulder our packs and go back down the trail once again and head into the dark forest, hearts filled with dread.  Daylight is still strong, at least outside of this heavy woods, so we can possibly find Vivie before the sun goes down and then take care of her until the next day when one of us can go for help.

The trail is heading straight downhill, no switchbacks anymore, and the trail is very rocky.  We have to pick our way down more slowly than we wanted.  What we really wanted to do was pick up a phone and call the sheriff's office and ask for a rescue party to be sent up, but we've only been out here a few hours, so rescue would be highly unlikely.  Until we find Vivie, we are of no interest to the sheriff anyway.

I'm lost in thought for a moment and cease paying attention to little noises.  There haven't been any noises except for our boots scrabbling on the trail and our breathing as we descend the rough hill.

"Twobie, remember the story about this trail; Jim-Jim Trail, right?"  I ask.

"Something about an Indian.  A little kid can't say Indian, so he says Jim-Jim.  Was there a story, too?"

"Yeah.  Bob Shorter told me the story.  It's kind of a weird story.  Not sure if he was pulling my leg because he wants us to get freaked out about hiking or what, but there's this little kid who sees an Indian in the woods around here.  He's a little kid, about nine or so he told me, and he has a really big imagination.  He's playing down by the river where he's been told he should not be playing because it's dangerous. "  I stopped.  I'm thinking about the story and about Vivie and the silence and the river.  I get a chill that stands the hairs on my back up and chicken skin on my arms.

Fore! US Open Golf is Coming to the Monterey Peninsula

The Peninsula is buzzing with anticipation of the coming US Open Golf Championship, to be played at Pebble Beach.  Organizers have been fretting and bustling for the past year, and now with a palpable sense of urgency are putting the final equipment, processes and volunteers in place.  Play begins Thursday.  Lots of locals are planning to be out of town as the crush of oogling fans can be overwhelming.

I don't golf, but since I live here I am virtually required to know at least something about the game. I have lost track of the number of 18-hole courses that exist in the area.  I believe there are six major courses just within the confines of Del Monte Forest:  Pebble Beach, Spyglass Hill, Poppy Hills, Cypress, Del Monte Country Club, and Spanish Bay.  It's free to take a walk in The Forest as we call it.  If you go, always beware of the possibility of a golf ball whistling by no matter where you are, so practice ducking while you walk, which is almost the same as walking like a duck.

You have to be quiet, too.  Golfers like it very quiet so they can concentrate on hitting the ball into the water traps and sand traps.  They pay a lot of money for the privilege of playing, especially if it's Pebble or Spyglass.  Do not get in their way or pretend that you matter as much as their game does.  You don't, at least not while they're playing.  Green fees are upwards of $300 a round on the most famous courses.  Players are listening to the cha-ching of cash registers in their minds as they make their way around the course, and rightfully so.  But, the sacred ground of Pebble is worth it to many, so they pay up.

The US Open is one of the biggest tournaments in the universe of golf; Pebble had to bid on it what seemed like 18 years ago.  Bidders compete ferociously for the right to host the tournament.  The last time it was held here (2002?) Tiger Woods won by something like 13 strokes over the nearest golfer.  That's kind of the equivalent of winning the mile run by a whole lap.  He made the other golfers look like they'd been hitting their drives with the back of their clubs.  This year there will be other wonderful athletes in expensive clothes labeled with Nike swooshes who will be mobbed by quiet respectful golf fans.  

The golf course itself has been redesigned to make it even more challenging.  I think they've added an island offshore which is where the 19th hole will be located.  Otters trained to catch golf balls are forming little flotillas offshore, posted there by the Monterey Bay Aquarium, where they have been raised since puphood.  They'll be wearing specially designed golf caps with the Pebble Beach logo on them.  This is planned as a special feature of this course this year.  Tour organizers are hopeful that the trend will spread to other tournaments in other parts of the country in keeping with their attempt at education outreach to young golf fans.  "We hope the otters posted offshore will show that humans and wildlife can work together to improve understanding of our ecosystem and to lessen the impact of golfballs on the local marine environment."  I understand that the most skilled otters will be throwing balls back onshore once the balls are caught.

Hoteliers are happy that their rooms will be full for an entire week at least.  There have been some well-deserved complaints about rooms being sold for exorbitant rates.  I'm happy to also note that when locals have heard of room rates being horribly expensive they have offered rooms in their own homes.  We are friendly here and we understand that not everyone is wealthy and has money to throw around.  

Shuttles are being offered to fans, and that's mostly to relieve what is normally a pretty congested commute for locals; add about 40,000 extra people to the morning and evening crush and you'd have a lot of frustrated drivers.  Without shuttles, we'd experience an extra four hours on each commute.   It's going to feel like a phone booth with 20 people in it as it is; the Peninsula is actually a small area.

I'll keep you posted on the Groove and the impact of the tournament on it.  Next time:  Those dear deer.

Back on Track Mac

Resurrected from the dead, my Mac is back in action.  I can write again!  It feels like a long absence, but my computer has sprung back to life, happy once again.

I packed up the poor little thing in its carrying case yesterday and trundled it off to the Apple Store at Del Monte Center in Monterey where I had an appointment with a Genius.  I think that's a lot to have to live up to as a job description.  I would probably have to laugh a lot to bear up under the load.  This particular Genius was casually twitchy and intent on his work, friendly and well trained to help with what must be an infinite number of odd complaints from customers like me.  The service is free for all Apple owners.  Free.  Just wanted to emphasize that little detail.  As in no cost at all.  Amen.

I hauled my little Mac out of its carrying case and slid it across the counter to Ricky the Genius who asked a few questions and fetched a few devices out of discreetly placed drawers nearby and went to work.  He tried to get the Mac to understand the operating system device he hooked up, but the screen remained a blase and noncommittal silver gray with a question mark blinking in its center.

Ricky tried something else, asked another few quick questions and then made a decision.  He said something to the effect of "the hard drive is not behaving like I'd hoped it would," which is Genius-speak for "It's dead; you're screwed."  I had already resigned myself to this eventuality and was about to ask for a recommendation on what model to buy next when he said, "You have two options:  You can take the hard drive out and have the data that's on it pulled off by someone and transferred to another hard drive.  Or you can leave it here and I'll just replace the hard drive and you'll lose your data."

"What do those things cost?" I squeaked.

"The guys who take the data off are other computer business guys - we don't have the time to devote to that here - and they charge a lot.  About $1,500 or so.  I can replace your hard drive here if you want to leave it here for about three days.  Either way, your hard drive is basically not usable anymore."

"What's that cost?" I wondered.

"That's free.  I'll replace it."

"Oh."  I wondered if I'd heard right, if there was a catch, if I was on Candid Camera.  "What do you replace it with?"  Must be a mistake.  He might be offering to put in a dinky-doodle hard drive that only worked at hamster speed and had 256K memory, like the old days.

"We put in like for like.  You'll get the same hard drive.  It takes about an hour."  He excused himself and stepped into a back room and came back in a minute.  "Well, I'll have to put in a different hard drive because we don't have this kind right now.  So, you'll get one that's twice as fast and has more space on it."  Wow.  He named some numbers that kind of went in one ear and out the other; I was still stuck on the word "free" and felt giddy.

"Okay!  That's amazing!"  I was grinning like I'd won the lottery, which essentially I had since a new computer was threatening to cost at least $1,000, more like $1,400.

"Do you want to come back in an hour and I'll put in just the hard drive and you take the Operating System disc home and install it yourself, or do you want me to do that, too, and you come back in about three days?"

I asked Ricky the Amazingly Generous Genius to put in the hard drive and I'd do the rest.  He flicked through the wireless buying process that they use at their store, and in a matter of a minute I was on my way to a cafe to enjoy lunch and kill an hour before I could pick up my Mac.  The new OS (Snow Leopard, for you Mac users out there) disc cost $29.

In this world, for whatever varied reasons, customer service runs anywhere from "We're closed" to what I was treated to yesterday.  I'm happy, pleased, content, empowered, and telling all my friends.  Actually, I'm ecstatic.  My computer was done in an hour as promised, cleaned up and shiny like new, and installed with a much better hard drive. In truth, I have a new computer.  I was an Apple fan before, but now I'm a die-hard fan and may even be close to evangelical, but I'll try to hold back a bit for your sake.

I'm going to go buy an external hard drive next, get some good small traveling speakers to hook up to my Mac.  And I am back on track with my revitalized and trusty little Mac.  Long live Apple!

Mac Attack!

I blogged a whole entire post two nights ago, typing away for an hour, getting every word right (I always like to think so anyway) and hit the "publish post" button on my editing page.

The screen froze.  Nothing moved.

Then (if you have an Apple Mac Book or similar product you'll cringe now), I saw the Spinning Beachball of Death.  PC users are snickering; I can hear them.  The SPOD is the icon that means the program is frozen and you need to unfreeze it.  Usually, I can figure out what to do and I'm happy again.  This time, it's grim.  My MacBook has apparently been polluted.  If it were a boat, it would be dead in the water.  If it were a horse, it would be lying there with all four feet in the air.  It has not worked at all beyond the very basic on/off function since the SPOD appeared two nights ago.  No Operating System, no obvious sign that the hard drive is usable anymore, so no blog post.  Yet.  The site that I use (Blogger.com) saves my material every few seconds, so much of the work I did is postable, but I'll need to tweak it after I retrieve it.  Whew!

My post from two nights ago will appear here probably in two days' time.  I'm using a borrowed laptop (thank you, G!).  I'm going to supplicate before the Apple gods tomorrow, present my probably dead MacBook to a tech at the Genius Bar at the Apple store and see what they say.  I am not feeling optimistic.

Meanwhile, I have left Vivie screaming in the woods with Charm and Bonnie running to see what's become of her.  No worries!  I've got them in suspended animation.  I'll catch us up to them and keep on posting somehow.  

Travel is good. Much has happened, and nearly all of it was an excellent adventure.  But, the poor dear Mac is dead. She was a good one, that Mac was, and I do miss her very much.

Quick Hello From Boise

I arrived in Boise, Idaho, today and walked through the West End of town, a leafy beautiful area that sings of summer and quiet peaceful streets we dream of living along in America.

Late in the evening, I and my companions ate dinner at Casa Mexico Restaurant, enjoying fajitas, enchiladas and a mild salsa under the neon glow of the cafe's sign.

We had hoped to take in some live music in Hyde Park where the cafe is, but arrived just as the band decided to take an extended break, so we moved on.

More tomorrow.  Nice town so far.

Summer Hike - TBC

Hello Reader,
I'm on a quick vacation in Idaho and will get back to the story when I return to the Groove in four days.
Till then....

Summer Hike - Part 4

Vivie's gaining speed down the switchback trail that will soon swallow her up in the pines flanking the hill. Bonnie and I take a rest, with our packs off, to survey and figure out the terrain ahead of us.  My bandanna gets another soaking of water and I reknot it around my neck, feel its cool touch there.

"I think I can already hear the river.  Sounds like rapids are pretty big still.  This is August and it's still going strong.  Must be a fall, right?  Odd it's so strong with the drought and dry weather." I was puzzled.

"We'll see.  I think it's just beautiful here.  Feels like we have the whole world to ourselves," Bonnie is peaceful, happy to take a breather after the uphill five miles.  I hand her a piece of jerky and offer her a bite of my apple.  I like to pack fresh stuff like apples for the first night when I hike.  I have a collapsible pole to  cast for fish later at dusk.  She hands over a bagel chunk and raisins.  We sip our water and fall into silence.

Vivie is now out of sight in the pines.  She's got energy to burn today, the fittest of us.

"Let's go, Toob.  Viv's gotten away again.  I think she plugged into some nuclear energy plant."  I rise and shoulder my pack, adjust the hip belt.  "See those clouds over there?

"Yeah."

"Think we'll get rain?"

"Could."

"I think they've gotten bigger or more of them since we first started out.  Might just be rain up high there, but let's keep an eye on them.  Ready?"

"Yeah.  Ready.  That was a nice break.  Let's go find Vivie."

Bonnie set off ahead of me this time, her ponytail swinging gently with her strides.  Downhill felt good.  The dust and pebbles sounded dull underfoot.  The trail was gently winding back and forth on the downhill and we were striding along, lost in our own thoughts.  Suddenly Bonnie pulled up.  I nearly piled into her.

"I think I heard something.  It sounded like a scream.  Did you hear anything?"  Bonnie' head was tilted up, concentrating on any sound she could hear, intense in her focus, eyes closed.

"No.  Are you sure?  I was just thinking about..."  She cut me off with a wave of her hand.

"There.  I heard something.  I think Vivie's in trouble.  Hurry!"  She took off with a new energy she hadn't shown before.  I could barely keep up, but my mind began to race.  It looked like we had about a quarter mile to get to the pines where we'd last seen Vivie.  We moved quickly down, adrenaline giving us wings.  Bonnie began to call out.

"Vivie, you there?  Vivie!"  No answer.  No sound at all when we stopped to listen.  It was very quiet.

Summer Hike - Part 3

With Vivie taking the trail by storm up ahead, even in the wilting heat, Bonnie and I have our bar set high.  We both push ourselves harder because Vivie does that to us.  For her, moving is something you do quickly and without hesitation.  She checks back on us with quick glances, eyes that assess and gauge our pace and movements.  She's like having a trail dog with us but one with a quick mind and wit.

Vivie reaches the crest of the ridge and whoops down to us, gives a big window-washer wave with both hands above her head.  She's five feet tall and carries a 30 lb pack that seems just as big as she is.  We're both taller and also carry about 30 lb.  I'm already looking forward to taking it off at the crest, letting my back dry off again.  I sweat heroically under any hint of strain or even modest heat.  Today, midday at the height of summer, the sweat is beading up on body parts I had no idea could sweat.  Bonnie's looking comfortable still, with her Mona Lisa smile.  

Bonnie grew up wrestling with five brothers who jostled and fought for everything, even things that didn't need fighting over.  She learned how to throw a ball hard overhand and spit with deadly accuracy.  She was the youngest, kind of an afterthought, and an oddity in a home where girls were an unknown element in the universe. That is, until later when girls became fascinating to her brothers.  Until their hormones began to color their vision, Bonnie was both teased mercilessly and shielded from harm with an intensity only five older brothers can muster.  If anyone at school even looked at her sideways, they were dead meat.  Then, they'd shove her around at home, call her a sissy and mock her dolls, put frogs in her shoes to make her scream.

Bonnie learned to roll with the male energy because she has a natural patience to her.  She learned that if she waited long enough at the bottom of the scrum of brothers, eventually they'd let her up and she could get away and find a quiet place to be still and calm, sing to herself, dream of beautiful things.

One day when Bonnie was six and she's being stuffed in an old fridge whether she wants to be there or not she says, "Betcha two bucks you can't climb that tree," to her brother Samuel to get him distracted so he'll stop cramming her into the tight space.  She says it out of habit as if it were the first words she could speak as a baby.  He takes the bait and disappears up the tree and screams from the top of it, "Pay up, Toobie!"  But, she's gone.

Nicknames are all she and her brothers go by.  She's Two Bucks or Toobie.  Samuel is Whammy.  She made up my name Charm, and Vivianne is Vivie.

The three of us formed a bond a long time ago in grade school when we were free and young and happy, before we knew about trouble in the world and how men could break your heart so bad.  Something in each of us made us tough and soft at the same time, the toughness a shield for the softness at our core.  I worried about Bonnie's core when the toughness had to be so thick, but she knew how to hang onto it.  It was a cool spring within her.  She was very patient, had a quizzical way of looking at a situation and figuring out what was safe and when to get the heck out of a tight squeeze.

"Charm, this is the exact thing I need to be doing at this very minute, right now.  I could hike forever," Toobie says, "Look at Vivie up there.  Aw, look, she's waving at us.  I think that girl needs a full moon, don't you?"

We whip around, yank our shorts down and shine two moons at her.

"You girls are blinding me with your pale asses down there," Vivie yells.  We laugh and scream just for the sake of screaming, blowing off a few months of pent-up energy.  "What a sight to see." She moons us back.  

Twobie and I finally reach Vivie and we take a look at the valley below us, which stretches to the northeast.  It's about 1:30 and we figure we've got about six hours to get to our camp and get set up before dark really settles in.

Vivie takes off again, striding downhill, her boots stirring up little explosions of soft dirt.  On this side of the ridge, we feel a small breeze coming from the north, and far off to the east clouds are gathering in the cornflower blue sky.