In a Strange Land

Pacific Grove has a couple of gems in its boundaries.  Mainly, there's Asilomar Beach State Park, way out over west there, elbow to elbow with the exclusive ghetto called Del Monte Forest.  I think you could easily say about one fourth of the habitable Monterey area (Pebble Beach, Tehama, San Carlos Rancho, Pasadera, Carmel Valley Ranch) excludes the other three fourths of its inhabitants either totally or only admits them if they hand over a wad of cash. 

Pacific Grove doesn't exclude anyone from gazing at its prettiness.  Because of that, visitors find it peaceful and tranquil and make plans to move here.  If they hand over a very large wad of cash indeed, they commence life as we know it:  Very quiet -- hushed actually -- and a bit eccentric.  Consequently, it has evolved into yet another kind of exclusionary enclave. 

A man I once knew described the little towns on the Monterey Peninsula as fiefdoms, each pointing fingers at the others and each one filled with folks who felt comforted to know that all the bad apples lived in those other towns.  A case in point:  Another man  I spoke with once said he'd moved to Pebble Beach because it was beautiful.  (It is)  He had lived in Seaside, a town that grew up next to Ft Ord catering to the needs of the Army soldiers training there.  Seaside isn't very beautiful but it has the most beautiful view of the Monterey Peninsula you'll find anywhere around here, especially on a clear moonlit night.  This man lived in Pebble Beach and no one would talk to him.  Neighbors, if they ever inhabited their homes (they could be a second or third home), drove into their garages, the doors closed and no one emerged for long periods of time.  He felt alone, existing in a strange void of not-neighborliness.  He left in disguest and went back to Seaside.  There, neighbors offered each other help and gave out their surplus vegetables to each other.  Kids played outside and life had a happy rough-and-tumble feel that he said was "a million times better than being in the Forest." 

Pacific Grove is somewhere in between.  You'll find both kinds of neighborhoods here.  Mostly, people will help you out and consider themselves unique, special, above average.  They'll share vegetables with you, but they gotta know you first.  You are not welcome until you've found your own friends and established yourself somehow.  It takes a long time.  People new to the area complain that California is unfriendly, people don't say hello, and they feel lonely.  I can see that it's true here.  It's not an attitude of blatant, obvious rejection so much as it is a strong hesitancy to venture a greeting, an approach to life and strangers that stems from self-distraction and abhorrence of chaos.  Be careful! it says.  No loud talking! especially in loud foreign languages.  Hush!  My quietude and isolation are paramount to my success in the world, and I require you not to intrude into it! I have paid a lot for the right to remain silent!  Hush!  

Pacific Grove is a pretty town, beautiful even, depending on what view you're taking in.  There is a bucolic peace here.  But, it's deceptive.  It's a twilight zone, an expensive,  even a timid one.  It sits between a cold deep bay to its north and a wealthy exclusive neighbor to its south.  East is Monterey, and I'll get to that another time. 

Fall clouds, old memories

I live in a small quiet town where most people are very comfortable, sedate and generally unchallenged by the vicissitudes of nature or politics.  Killers do not stalk our town and gangs don't bother with us.  Well, the raccoons do, but they don't usually carry guns.  The wind blows every afternoon after 1 o'clock.  There is no summer and no winter.  Nothing changes.  It's ironic as hell that I live here.

When I was small and lived in Carmel Valley, I would come to Pacific Grove with my brother and sisters, all five of us stuffed into a green Chevy station wagon with fins and a punch-button radio, and visit my cousins here.  It's a 20-mile drive from there to here but it could have been a different planet, and we voyaged across some unseen chasm, a transmutation of life as I thought I knew it.  PG was as boring and dull a place to live as any kid could hope to avoid, even then.  They had sidewalks!  I could hardly imagine that and yet I saw it:  A life lived without hills, a river, trees; nowhere to run, sing out loud and hear the wind answer.  It was horrible.  Cement and a contained, restricted existence faced me, confined me.  I felt I was in a foolish place when I stepped out of the car.  Houses were suspiciously close together, claustrophobic.  Life seemed hidden, more uncertain; curtains were drawn; it was cold.

The feelings I had derived from a free-range childhood lived outdoors for the most part.  Carmel Valley -- in the village, as it's called -- is inland and much warmer than coastal towns are.  Seasons, moderate by mountain standards, are discernible by more intense temperature variations, and trees turn colors in time to them.  A river, beleaguered as it is, flows there and has shaped and formed the valley.  It roared, gurgled, whispered and shushed in turn, and I listened.   

 The warm fuzzy glow of a happy reminiscence is not what I am about here.  I developed a taste for knowing what grows wild because it was powerful and alluring.  I felt the weather changes and seasons. I explored everything out there, beyond the door, by pulling things up, tearing them apart, watching things live and die.  I learned, like kids do when they have been shoved out the door with no money, that what grows does just fine on its own.  All that I could get my hands on or watch day after day fascinated me and made an impression on me.  As far as I could grasp it, God was there in the dirt, up in the trees and flying around in the sky and I was running around in the middle of it all.  It was glorious and amazing and intoxicating.

When I returned to the valley after a visit in town, I was happy and knew I was home where I belonged.  I was very fortunate and am now grateful beyond measure to have a deep well of wild memories to draw on. 

Here in the Groove, we are a quiet, dull bunch.  The raccoons chittering and screeching at night remind me I need to stick my hands into dirt, turn rocks over, listen to rivers.  I growl about seagulls strafing my car outside, but they, too, remind me of what is real, and it ain't cars. 

I saw an unusual sky this morning.  Clouds looking like the fourth movement of Beethoven's Ninth were charging in from the north and the wind was gusting leaves across the roadway.  It's wild out there, thank you God, and I want to stay that way. 

Lunch at Zocalo

It's time to celebrate!  It's my last night shift tonight.  I was playing substitute all this month and now I'm done.  Back to evening shift and a much more normal sleep cycle.  Whew! 

Also, my daughter got herself a new job.  Just when things were looking too tight and too dismal to handle anymore.  Whew again!  

The weather forecast for today:  super hot - in the 90s at least - but as I'm sitting here at my keyboard, the sky looks gray, there's a chill in the air and not a bead of sweat anywhere in town.  So, it's Pacific Grove's version of hot.  You need a light jacket and a brisk walk to warm up, but that's okay.  I'm in a celebratin' kinda mood.  So, how about a nice zingy plate of Mexican fare to ward of the chill midday air and enjoy the good news?  Ah, Zocalo! 

We walked down to the Groove, past the Holman Building, and right on into Zocalo, our favorite Mexican restaurant around, by far.  They serve home-made tortillas, delicious ablondigas soup (meatballs floating in delicious broth), dark rich mole sauce and even have lobster tacos.  Something for everyone.  My choice today was a side order veggie burrito for $5.95.  Very tender tortilla wrapped around beans, cheese, steamed veggies, all seasoned lightly and steaming hot.  He had chipotle chicken tostada for $9.95 with tender local lettuce, whole pinto beans, queso (cheese) and fluffy rice.  As usual, we were licking our plates clean at the end of the meal and felt satisfied and happy. 

A Mexican friend of mine who waits tables at another local eatery says Zocalo is her favorite Mexican place, too, and believe me that's a pretty good recommendation.  Coco has told me her mother was from Old Mexico and "could cook anyone under the table.  I didn't even know what a pancake was until I was a teenager.  She always made old-school hand-made Mexican food."  So, go to Zocalo and enjoy a nice casual but authentic meal.  It's just right. 

A Rose, Hope and Love

I dug my hands into the big bag of potting soil and inhaled the scent of it. 

With both hands cupped and filled to overflowing, I piled my bucket up with the fragrant soil and walked over to my little climbing rose in its redwood planter.  They say the rose is the symbol of love, the divine feminine, the eternal mystery.  But, you have to keep the vine healthy first before there can be a bud or a blossom.  I have no buds on this little vine.  She is struggling to find her place in life.  I imagine in my mind's eye a vine loaded and heavy with blossoms, petals floating to the ground on the morning breeze.  She looks gloomy though, unhopeful, a little discouraged. 

I water her, I feed her, I look for things that may harm her:  Little green caterpillars that eat her tender leaves and little mites that sap her strength.  Still, in spite of my ministrations, she is struggling to hold her own.  I keep hoping, and I am still learning how to grow a rose. 

She's meant to be a climber, to send tendrils to the wires I've strung and beyond to the fence where she can spread her vining branches.  There is opportunity for her; she senses it is there at the tips of her tender growth tips.  

I spread the soil into the planter and tamp it down, patting it firmly. It feels good. I've added a special ingredient, too, that combines pest resistance and nourishment.  I water it in and let her know how much I want her to grow and flourish.  She hangs her leaves and looks wan and listless, stressed.  She nods and waves her pale leaves halfheartedly, but I feel encouraged for her.

My hope for this little rose has taken on a more symbolic tone.  In terms of reality and practicality, I know she will find the right time to bloom, will do well.  In terms of my vision for her, I see in my mind's eye a green vigorous vine thriving, successful, fulfilled.  My vision has to do with love and belief, my hope that an imagined reality can guide the expression of her potential. I see what can be, not what is. 

Isn't that what we do though?  Move in a world full of ugliness and tedium with a vision of some beauty and joy in mind - try to match something in our world to that vision and celebrate when even a small match is made? 

I could have given up on her, cut her back, criticized her failure as a vine, her difficulity coping with the stress of living, but that says more about me than it does her.  I'd rather hope for her beauty while I love her all the while, look forward to her strengthening vines and sturdy growth and then her beautiful flowering glory. 

If I hope, I can love.  If I love, I can hope.  The two things are indivisible and without them, the blossom never can come to fulfillment, and the mystery can never be expressed.  My vigilance is now allied with her own vigor and resilience, and the potential for beauty is undeniable.  The manifestation of her gifts and glories is yet to unfold.  I am eager to see it but willing to be patient and give her lots of time now. 

I wash my hands under the flow of cool water from the hose and stand back to see the little rose growing in its box.  I think she has already taken strength from the freshened soil and water.  She already looks more hopeful. 

The sun dashed a few diamonds amongst her leaves; droplets of water left by the watering hose began to dry in the midday warmth.  The moment lingered as I thought about what I had decided to do:  Allow for time to express the fulfillment of potential in a rose.  There's no rushing that sort of thing, you know.  Patience, now, patience.

Mrs. Delish's cupcakes and a new kind of Hero

Over to the Groove I went, off to the Farmer's Market, the first time in a while, having been prevented by my work schedule for a long while.  Before I knew it, I had loaded my bags with tomatoes, sweet basil, plums, crimini mushrooms, squash and tilapia.  Strawberries are still looking good, so I bought a three-pack of those.  Wow, are they fragrant.  And, as I had hoped, they are amazingly delicious. 

I reacquainted myself with Mrs. Delish's who sells cupcakes to hungry passersby.  I love that she packs up your cupcake for carrying in a smart little box to keep it from squishing.  I noticed she's selling more variety now.  The chocolate with green mint frosting is the top favorite of little kids, she says.  My new addiction is the dark chocolate with vanilla frosting with toasted coconut on top.  Taste reminds me of a Mounds bar - my childhood favorite candy bar.  It was rich with dark chocolate flavor and just enough sweetness for balance.  Three bucks and you've got a little bit of heaven in a cupcake paper. 

Next door to her was a young guy selling three kinds of gourmet sandwiches.  I bought a half of a Tuna Caper:  "A logical twist on a common offering.  The capers add a satisfying briny element that makes this comfort food even more comfortable.  Lettuce and tomato are standard." Italian ciabatta bread tops it off.  Not one to limit myself to just one flavor, I also bought a half of a Goat Basque Hero:  "Goat cheese mousse topped with red fire-roasted peppers, Spanish olives, Marcona almonds on sour dough." Two entirely different but equally tasty flavor sensations.  I prefer the Goat Cheese Hero - the almonds add a nice crunch and I am a sucker for fire-roasted red peppers.  He's working on a web page and just getting his business off the ground.