A text from Bob, just as I was looking up his number to give him his wake-up call: I'm up. C U 3:45?
Soon he was in the drive, engine running, and by then my luggage was assembled on the front porch and the house was ready to lock up for the next two weeks. Anything I'd neglected to do ---- well, it would just have to wait. I was off to San Francisco and the unknowns of a solo camping trip in a rented camper van. Columbus airport is about an hour away and I usually drive there myself and park in one of the long term lots. This time Bob was kind enough to offer to ferry me despite the hour. Lovely!
He could see I was traveling light, and did not need help with the bags. It was a generous favor already: getting up in the middle of the night to drive me to CMH, and then doubling back home again. All this would be repeated in two weeks, though at a more civilized hour.
It was a nice ride and he had me laughing. We agreed TV makes people fearful. As he said, "No one who watches the local news on TV can escape without fear and dread. And then, horror scenes from distant parts of the world are inserted to jack up the alarm levels."
I think of my coworkers, one of whose habitual refrain is "Stranger Danger!" when the subject of Craigslist or her neighbors comes up. If I had grown up in different circumstances I expect I'd be different, but I am who I am. I am determined not to succumb to the fearful cringing I witness in others. Harboring unrelenting suspicion of strangers and unfamiliar settings is no way to live.
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The flights to California went as planned. My rollaway and loaded daypack passed for carry-on luggage and I was not forced to check anything. Good. It makes for a quicker getaway at the far end.
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The taxi ride from SFO to my van pick-up at Lost Campers was brief and breathless. I hoped I would not find SF traffic forcing me to such speeds. But the driver got me there, to an industrial looking block consisting of a line of old concrete buildings and loading docks, fronted by a large gravelled yard. It was enclosed in chain link fence, with a gate at one end and a colorful sign announcing Lost Campers. I asked the cab driver how I could get a taxi again at this same location at 6:00 am two weeks from now, and he gave me his company card with a phone number to call.
The door closest to the gate was unmarked so I started around the corner in search of the office. I must have been spotted through the window, for a man emerged from that door and asked if I was there for a camper. This was Sebastian Figueroa and despite appearances and name he spoke with a British accent and called me "love." He was born in NY, but grew up in England. We went through the paperwork and a brisk and mesmerizing demo of what was where in the van. The Tom-Tom GPS device was cranky, so we were in and out of the office seeking replacement parts. At one point he informed me that the device is illegal in CA, so I should not mount it up on the dash but should keep it down out of sight. On one of our passes through the door, I spotted a weed growing in the chain link fence nearby. It could have been the twin of a certain stunning yellow flower I always associate with lucky strokes of fate. I had to get a photo. This was a good omen.
Diversion to WV, 2007:
The story of that original yellow flower came about 8 years ago. I was traveling in the terrible white Taurus wagon Mark helped me buy from a ditzy and rather deceptive woman in Ashland, OH. I paid as much to repair that car in the two years I owned it as I originally paid to buy it. It was a delight to finally be free of it some months later. It was tainted, not just by its association with financial blight, but --- closer to the heart --- misplaced trust and love. But, back to the story. The good story.
I was enroute to a weekend of contra dancing in West Virginia. It was Friday evening. Right around Charleston things started to go wrong with the wagon. I came to a standstill on the shoulder of a busy highway with only my AT&T-issued cellphone "not for personal use." I rummaged around for the AAA number, made the illicit call, and a tow truck eventually arrived. I knew nothing of the area, of course, so I asked the tow truck driver for advice and he took me to a place nearby with a huge blue and white sign:
It took a few hours to get all the payment issues ironed out (they wanted cash), but they let me sleep in the car overnight in their yard rather than fork out for a motel across the highway. I remember feeling doubtful about one of the "boys," some of whom seemed to sleep on the property in trailers strewn among the dead car hulks. But I was tired, happy that the car was on track for recovery, and all in all it felt safe. I can't explain how I came to that calculation and final sum of all the vibes, but I did. Some might reject my calculations or doubt my sanity, but I slept fine, grateful things were in hand and I was heading for a solution.
Next morning one of the boys and his girlfriend drove me to a nearby branch of Wesbanco (which fortunately is headquartered in WV), and I got the cash needed for the transaction. We returned to the service center and my long wait began.
This gave me plenty of quiet hours in which to actually read the thick owner's manual that had come with my new digital camera. I'd barely even unpacked the box. It was something I bought with AT&T employee rewards points and was my first encounter with digital photography. I had put off learning to use it. Now was a good time.
I sat long in the International House of Pancakes next door to the repair yard, studying the book and the camera and getting used to the lingo and the settings. Finally I was ready to try it out. I walked back to the service center yard and took my very first photo: a yellow wildflower blooming bright and cheerful right up against the chain link fence. The wind from passing cars caused it to tremble, but by some luck I got the shot:
That image and the shot of the Good Old Boys' sign still give me pleasure when I see them at the top of my vast photo file. I frame the whole experience as a token of the kindness of strangers and the sweet kiss of luck in trying times.
When the repairs were done and paid for and I was ready to get back on the road, one of the boys said to call them when I got to my dance, just so they'd know I'd made it OK. I said I would, and I did so, some hours later after winding my way up mountain roads to the camp where the event was held.
It was Saturday night and I got there in time to dance. What more is needed?
Now here I was in San Francisco and a yellow flower was smiling up at me out of a chain link fence.
Sebastian asked casually where I planned to go and at that point my only plan was to see Monterey, so I told him that. I left the lot and just roamed around for a bit, getting used to the van. When Sebastian told me her name was "needy" I wondered, "Ugh! WHY?" However, it is spelled Neetie, and although it is still a strange name, it is at least palatable.
After a few minutes I saw signs for Highway 1 and that sounded promising, so I pursued it. At some point I made Half Moon Bay my target because of the lovely name, and we were off.
And then we were at a standstill. The traffic moved so slowly that I finally had to take seriously the light board that informed us that the 26 mile trip to HMB would take over an hour. What could be the hold-up? We never passed an accident or a "road work ahead" sign. What was it? In truth, I did not care. I was on an adventure with no set boundaries other than a 1300 mile quota for the duration of the trip. I did not HAVE to be anywhere for the next 2 weeks and this stop-and-go traffic gave me a chance to roll down the windows, smell the eucalyptus leaves and notice the dry dusty look of drought-struck grasses and trees. I enjoyed looking at unfamiliar vegetation, and bright colored flowers occasionally shouted, "You're not in Ohio any more!" I passed through a cloud of midges --- no, dust motes -- no, was this fog? It was water vapor, and I was surprised because the particles were airborne and yet were big enough to see distinctly in the sunlight.
We crept closer to Half Moon Bay and started to see pumpkins in fields and at roadside stands. And then more pumpkins and then signage indicating that this small town was hosting a festival of some kind and finally it dawned on me that this was a massive event and that it was the cause of the great back-up of traffic on Highway 1. The annual Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival is a huge celebration of orange. Gorgeous masses of pumpkins had been brought to the roadside edges of their fields and there were many invitations to stop and pick "the very best," even before we reached the town center.
HMB, it turns out, is also a big producer of flowering plants and I passed several big greenhouse operations and landscaping centers. Parking was impossible when I reached the grocery store I wanted, even when parts of the lot were roped off only for customers. I did manage to get into the Ace Hardware store for a bottle of propane, but for groceries I had to go another 1/4 mile to find a Safeway with sufficient room to park. It was a nice big store, well stocked with all the things I needed immediately, and I set in a supply. I had seen enough festival by this time and I drove away from the center and over toward HMB State Beach. My new California State Parks senior pass let me park for free.
The beach! Ocean waves! The sound of surf! I had arrived now. I traipsed along noticing odd little "beach carrots" scattered about on the wet sand. They must be some kelp flotation organ. They're tawny brown in color, wet and shiny in the late-day sun. Each is from 2 to 6" long, tapered like a carrot and there's a wormy-textured triangular flap sprouting from the top like the spread of a carrot's foliage. The top part is generally at least as long as the carrot so it doubles the total length.
In my delight at touching the Pacific once again I took video clips of the wash of waves on the beach, relishing the sound:
The woman running things was dismayed to know I had arrived at "Half Moon Bay RV Park --- the Friendly Park" without reservations on this, of all weekends of the year. However, she had 2 possible sites left, small ones kept for tent camping. I was happy to take one. By then I had been awake too many hours to calculate and it was good to know I had a place to bunk down. I was a bit fizzy as I handed over my cash, and she had to run out after me with the change I forgot to wait for.
I cooked carrots and parsnips and ate them with yogurt and soon crawled in to make up the bed. Even the yip-whining of a dog nearby whose owners were out celebrating pumpkins did not register, once I'd got flat. I slept. I was surprised to hear rain at some period of the night, but it did not last more than a few minutes.
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