Day 18- June 6, 2006 - leaving San Francisco

At breakfast, the woman in the booth behind us talked nonstop to her three companions, who struggled to get a word in edgewise. Her tone sounded like bragging, but based on the content, I can't imagine that to be the case. She hopes her friends will tell her she is a good person, that she will be successful in whatever she decides to do. She hopes to find her impression of herself in the way her friends see her. She is struggling.

We get pie even though it's before noon, figuring we need the energy for our trip today. The rental car was waiting for us on Mason Street, and greatly underestimating the distance, we walked it- the hills getting steeper and steeper by the block and halfway there I realize that our destination is at the very top of Nob Hill, and this is something that our streetmap didn't tell us. Doug was furious with me when we got to the top, hot and exhausted, and sore from dragging our heavy suitcase so far.

The hotel we picked it up at was a thousand times nicer than any of the ones we'd stayed at and the woman behind the counter was surprised we'd walked so far to get there, considering we'd passed closer ones on the way. Doug called her Ma'am, and she scolded him, went on to say it made her feel old. He apologized- "it's a Southern thing"- and she told us how San Francisco was the happening place to be back in the day, how she saw Jimi Hendrix play when she was little and Doug and I both thought that for someone who didn't want to feel/seem old, she sure talked about the past a lot.

The car was a silver Pacifica, waiting for us in the garage downstairs. Not knowing what a Pacifica looked like and seeing only SUV-sized vehicles parked, we ask the attendant for help identifying it. Sure enough, one of the huge cars was ours and I kept saying over and over again how nice it was (and it was) until Doug told me that such talk would make him nervous about driving the thing.

We lapped the city, Doug complaining about how he hates driving in cities, and drove down Lombard Street, which was exciting, because unlike much of the things we'd done in the city, it was something I hadn't been able to do before. Afterwards, we went to the outskirts of the city to Ocean Beach and the Sutra Baths, the ruins of a bathhouse along the shore that'd been destroyed by tidal waves. I'd wanted to show Doug, but at this point he was mad at all the city driving he'd done. We parked and he smoked, refusing to walk uphill to the paths, but following my leave when I took off.

We worked our way down, taking photos and spending a good amount of time in a cave that leads out to rocks, and the Pacific a sharp drop below. I'm sure that if I were to live out here, this would be a place I frequented- peaceful and pretty, plain and unusual all at once. We sat for a bit, watching the water attack the rocks before heading for the car and the long drive ahead.

We get out of San Francisco, but there's construction on Highway 1 in the way of our path and we have to find an alternate route around. We drive for forever around San Pedro, a small town tucked into the mountains, that doesn't even get a dot on the map of California that the woman at the car rental place gave us.

Finally, we double back, searching for radio stations to help pass the time. Doug has a knack for finding Spanish polka stations, but there were some classic rock ones and we were set, or set enough given that Doug had some mix cds to help out along the way.

Back on 1, we drove through artichoke fields and "666" written in sticks on a sand dune. Following Doug's lead, I tell my sister that we'd seen a hobo devil along the side of the road, with a broken horn and a thumb out to passing cars. I finished telling her as we plunged into the mountains and lost the call. She didn't sleep that night.

Losing cell phone and radio reception, we enter the stretch that gave reason for this route of the trip- the road that hugs the coast, bending and curving through the mountains. There's no guardrail, and I , hanging halfway out the window with the camera in hand, realize that perhaps I have a fear of heights I was never aware of before. It is beautiful, the covers cut into the land, the isolation of each passing beach. It goes on for hours, with spots along the way to pull over and marvel at everything before you. We stop a couple times, but never for longer than a minute, never long enough to turn off the engine. I step out, keeping a hand on the door because I'm sure that Doug would see the humor in leaving me out here, with no reception, no nothing.

We passed through Big Sur, which Doug seems well informed about, Beat enthusiast that he is, but I know only from Brautigan poems. It was forest, all forest and mountains and I had vague flashbacks of Reggae on the River in a similar setting two summers ago.

After a couple hours of watching the coastline, we were ready to leave the wind-y roads, and truth be told, I was a little sick from all the twists and turns. We were aching for civilization- food and streetlights and radio stations. When you're staring at it long enough, the water, the cliffs, the patterns they make, it all starts looking the same.

We passed Hearst Castle which my father was excited about for some reason when I called home from a lookout point after spotting some sea lions coming out of the water. Doug pulled over at my squealing and went to take pictures while I talked on the phone.

The towns just past the scenic overlook were small, quaint beach towms carved into the sides of the mountains facing out. Doug said this is what Italy supposedly looks like and I do not know enough about Italy or the suppositions about its landscape to confirm or dispute his statement.

There are factories and farmlands and it is hard to believe that people live out here year round, and it shouldn't be that surprising since it feels like spring/summer constantly, except that it looks like the sort of place that could be covered in snow and forgotten.

We have to go another few towns until Highway 1 mysteriously disappears- transforming into the main street of a small town and ending in a train station parking lot (appropriately enough.) This is as good a place as any to stop for for food and gas- no it's better because it is young and the street signs are written in the font they use for Renaissance Fairs and there are statues of cats playing violins with inscriptions that read "Hey Diddle Diddle".

We go to a restaurant boasting the best burgers in town, which Doug tries and confirms without comparison. After the meal, we go searching for coffee and find a Starbucks a block down, feeling as though the whole town is watching us pass. There's a college nearby and this seems like the sort of place where everyone knows everyone and can notice the smallest stone overturned. (Yes, Starbucks has made it to such places.)

Sleepily full, we leave San Luis Obispo behind and locate the highway- now 101- and head through the darkness. There aren't sights to see along this way and we decide that when we get close to Santa Barbara we will stop for the night. We pick this mostly arbitrarily, because it is a dot bigger than the others, because it is a name I can recognize.

In Santa Barbara, sometime around 11, we drive the main strip twice and finally stop where we spend more than I'd wanted for a room and where the man behind the counter asks me what state New York is and I try not to chuckle, but can't help exploding once out of the lobby, out of earshot.

I fall asleep almost immediately after getting into one of the two beds in the room. There are other details that Doug would kill me for recording, that I have hand-written to remember the start of the inside jokes that formed that night.

The motel is nicer than many we've been to but we don't get to appreciate the room much, or the swimming pool outside because we have plans to leave early the next day. There are still miles to cover. There is no time to slow down.