Walk Like a Butterfly

Enticed by bright morning sun blazing in the eastern sky, we sprang into action and drank several cups of hot coffee.  That done, further springing into action got us out the front door where we were slapped bracing cold morning air.  Vigorous exclamations of doubt and surprise; whose idea was this anyway?  I was glad for the hot coffee.  Oh my, the frigid air that was penetrating my jacket.  But, it was just so pretty out... Ugh, why don't I live in Hawaii?

Off we tottered on a walk of uncertain destiny, but walk we did.  It would seem that our feet were determined to head due west.  We had the vague idea of finding the old railroad bed that wends its way through the forested reaches of The Grove.  After about a half mile, our stiff bodies gradually warmed and loosened up; and we hit a steady stride.  Walking a meandering route through the middle of town afforded us a tour of scores of well-kept homes, fine examples of fashionable home design in days gone by, ranging from very tiny one-story structures to enormous Victorian and Queen Anne mansions.  

Before we knew it, we were slowing down and looking skyward, not to see jets, but to search for  Monarch butterflies.  We'd reached the Monarch Sanctuary, a place of refuge for very small royal members of the insect world.

Pacific Grove calls itself "Butterfly Town, USA" because monarchs congregate in the tall trees at the west end of town, resting for a time before they flutter north or south on the migratory route.  There is a roped-off woods where you can spend any amount of time you wish rubbernecking and stumbling around, looking for them in the canopy overhead.  At peak migration, you'll see many thousands.  Then, the treetops seem to vibrate and shimmer with their jittering movements.

I looked at the hiccuping, doodley flight of a butterfly going by.  It looked about as purposeful as our walk had been; zig-zagging, undirected, meandering, rather drunken in its course.  Surely, it was as cold as we'd been.  I'll tell you, if a butterfly can migrate from mid-Mexico to Canada or Alaska, all other things are possible.

It was past 11 AM, nearly noon.  Finding food started to seem like an irrefutably important idea.  After approximately ten seconds of uncertainty, we set about getting over to the Red House Cafe post haste.  So much for doodling and meandering.  Off we strode.  You say "barn" to a cow in the evening, and away she goes.  You say "Red House Cafe" to us, and wild horses cannot keep us away.

By all accounts, it is nearly impossible to have a bad meal there.  It's a first-come-first-served cafe; getting a table at prime meal time requires a wait at times, especially on weekends. We arrived at the door just as they were opening up for the noon meal and got a table for two on the veranda, just before the rush.  We ordered and then watched the world go by, mostly small dogs leading their owners along the different sidewalks. Big, fat sandwiches, stuffed with as much as it is possible to stuff between two pieces of crusty slices of bread, disappeared as steadily as our appetites.  No complaints, by a mile.

Stuffed and content, we looked around for an oxcart to haul our carcasses back home, but, summoning some self-respect, we chugged under our own steam up to the Ketcham Barn -- on Laurel Street behind City Hall.  It houses the Pacific Grove Heritage Society's collection of photographs and memorabilia.  There's an impressive display of The Groove of yesteryear and a docent on hand every Saturday afternoon to answer questions.  We had a million, were satisfied with all the answers, and bought a slim book about the town.  

The cold wind, coming straight from the ice floes of the arctic north today carried songs of polar bears and seals.  We headed to the warm confines of home finally, but it had been a fine morning.  We'd seen more town residents out walking than we'd seen butterflies flying, but that will change later in the year.  Our walk had been serendipitous and very tasty, indeed.