It was supposed to be a mid-summer break from Midwestern reality. A return to the land of surf and traffic. Instead it became a world coated in soot and ash and a surreal exercise in ‘California Dreamin.’
It
was snowing the day we arrived in Palm Springs. In fact, it had been snowing soot
and ash for several days. Officials labeled the cause as the ‘mountain fire.’
At
its height, there were over 3000 hotshots fighting the conflagration just over the
mountains from Palm Springs. Local newscasters are all aflutter with hints of
doom and gloom descending on this tony enclave of absentee owners. Admittedly,
it was a little unsettling to watch the night flames moving high in the
mountains above us like a surreal basket of glowing orange in a bowl of black. But
realistically, it would be a stretch to say the fire was threatening our
community. But, of course, there were television ratings to grow and it made
for exciting, if not exaggerated, story-telling. The national news was even
more distorted.
A
friend wrote to ask if we were concerned about our home being consumed by the
fire. I answered “not so much. We’re heading behind the Orange Curtain
tomorrow.”
Now
it’s 6:00 am on the main drag heading through town. We’ve left the desert and
pasted through the Orange Curtain. I’m the only one up, meandering toward the
main beach. There is little traffic and only a few public works folks picking
up trash. This return to the ocean brings new meaning to the cliché ‘spending
the night together.’ It’s a romantic return to my first sojourn to the Pacific
Ocean in 1965. The beginning of a lifetime of romantic illusions of sea and
surf and sin.
It’s
the height of summer season along the West Coast with its art festivals, hordes
of bronze bodies on surf boards and women showing more skin than they would
ever dare show anyplace else on the planet. Traffic on the PCH (Pacific Coast
Highway) is unbelievable. It’s California at its best. A kind of cliché etched
in stone by advertisers and every Midwesterners distraction from winter.
First
there’s a necessary side track to Starbucks for my morning fix. The first thing
I see is a well-endowed, rail thin, leggy blond hugging a tall, muscular surfer
dude. They seem to be whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears. Only
she’s old enough to be his mother. ..but they certainly seem to be very
friendly.
Welcome
to Laguna Beach.
Starting
in the late 20’s, with the opening of a road to Laguna Beach, this town quickly
became a thriving magnet for artists, musicians and other creative types. I’m
told the difference between this town and Newport Beach, its neighboring community
to the north, is that they don’t all cut their hair the same down here and the
people aren’t plastic. The homes in Laguna Beach certainly aren’t the
ticky-tacky million dollar stucco beauties that line the ridgelines and
mountain sides of Newport.
In
Laguna Beach, houses range from expansive mansions on top of the mountains to
shacks lining the side streets (think ‘favela’ in Portuguese) to everything
in-between. Outside of the business district, few of the streets have
sidewalks. The houses come in all size, shapes and colors.
It’s
mid-summer so we’re past ‘May gray’ and ‘June gloom.’ Yet it’s still overcast
and hazy and a typical morning on the beach before the sun burns through the
haze and heats up the place.
What
I encounter is the early morning beach scene before the tourists, boarders,
surfers and bogie-boarders begin their assault on the ocean. The air is thick
with the smell of rotting seaweed which will soon be replaced by the odor of
suntan lotion, beer and kid’s drinks filling the vacuum. Thankfully, the air is still cool before the
salty breeze leaves the skin sticky to the touch.
There
is a group of homeless men gathered around a stone picnic table, some wrapped
in their old army blankets. I assume they’ve just crawled out from wherever
they were sleeping and now it’s time to gather in the park for morning BS and a
cheap cup of coffee. Not far away is a prayer group of men, probably all in
recovery.
I
catch a glimpse of the legendary crazy old lady who is always dressed like a
court jester and encourages people to take her picture. Then when they do, she
screams obscenities at them.
A
young man, dressed in all black and lugging two large satchels, walks by me
mumbling to himself. He looks over at me but I don’t dare return his stare.
Several men go by in long pants. Only tourists wear long pants even in the
winter time.
The
early morning beach worshippers are all there. Zen masters practicing their
beliefs in the sand, dog walkers, beach runners, a volleyball game going on,
someone searching for gold with his scooper and metal detector, a couple of
kayakers older than my grandpa and trash pickup truck being stalked by
seagulls. Even ‘Despicable Me’ was there in the form of a blimp.
Gradually
the early morning crowd gives way to the daily onslaught of tourists and
regulars.
It’s
the Beach Boys, Jan and Dean and all those other masterful painters of the
California surf scene practicing their craft. An old man’s favorite fantasy.
Further
up the coast, alongside the 405, sits a wonderful palace dedicated to the arts.
Paid for by a man who reveled in his moniker as an old curmudgeon. J. Paul
Getty, who at one time was the world’s richest man, has left a treasure for all
to see.
Welcome
to the Getty, a 750-acre mountaintop property in Brentwood, West Los Angeles.
All of the buildings are clad in travertine, a type of limestone, with glass
and metal in definitive con-trast to the rough stone. I’m not an art aficionado
by any means but there were some wonderful pieces there.
‘Sister Act’ was playing at the Pantages
Theater and while it wasn’t as good as the movie, the stage production was
great entertainment.
Before
the play, there was even time for garage-sales in West Hollywood. Old habits
die hard. Even on the West Coast, one person’s junk is another person’s
treasure.
Finally
a return to the desert. The fires are mostly out by now. The haze is gone and
returning blue skies mean intense sun and growing heat. 110 in the shade is
just a start. But it’s still nice to be back in the desert. It means coffee
with friends in the early morning hours before the sun begins to bake the air
and slow-burn any exposed skin.
During
the summer, Palm Springs is like a city of lost souls. There were two sickly
old men at Starbucks sharing their respective tales of illness and multiple
hospital visits. A crippled, bent-over old man who got into a Steve McQueen
(bullit) Mustang fastback and tore out of the McDonalds parking lot, going who
knows where? Welcome to Palm Springs in the middle of summer.
Despite
the heat, it’s good to be back home. I don’t own this town yet but my comfort
level here is growing with each visit.
Then
it’s back to the land of green grass, green plants and plenty of flowers. Cool
evenings and lakes all around. Trail running and swatting flies, mountain
biking while ducking branches, finishing up “A Shau” and getting to the core of
“Debris.”
My
trip to the land of milk and honey was brief, pleasant and a wonderful
distraction from the necessary
work at hand. Yet while I thought returning to Minnesota was a return to
normalcy, it really wasn’t. Granted, it was a different environment, great
friends and comfortable familiarity with the tried and true.
But
my heart was still back at the beach, penning my observations and fantasizing
about surfer dudes and California girls. Oh, the naïve life of a romantic…
I
can’t wait to get back home again.
No comments:
Post a Comment