Some road trips are more memorable
than others. One in particular still sticks prominently in my brain. An
excursion along the PCH (Pacific Coast Highway) to relive my youthful dreams of
‘California Living’ from the shelter of my midwestern upbringing. A taste of
the golden state, if you will, when my imagination ran rampant with ‘what ifs’
and ‘if only.’ The old lady with eyes the color of fog was my first
introduction to the West Coast Experience.
She was an old lady, dressed in
black, moving slowly along the overlook with her walker. Finding a spot to
rest, she slumps down in her chair and looks around. She had sad eyes the color
of fog yet brandished a weak smile which seemed to welcome inquiries. I wanted
to, at once; call her over to my picnic table and at the same time hoped
someone would appear to take care of her.
As she stared blankly across the
ocean, her eyes washed over mine several times but never stuck. She seemed lost
in her own thoughts…and perhaps dreams of times past. It didn’t seem right to
disturb her. Eventually the woman’s daughter came by to retrieve her and they
left. A hundred thousand stories and ‘what if’s’ just slowly shuffling away.
I was perched above a three-tiered
cluster of multi-million-dollar homes in Dana Point. The last time I visited
the overlook there was only one row of homes overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
Rumor had it that Arnold Schwarzenegger has/had a home whose front was all
glass and showcased his gym equipment. True or not, it made for a good story.
I’m told there was a fire sale back
in 2008 during the recession. One could steal an ocean-view lot for only eight
to ten million dollars; much less than their pre-recession prices of double
that amount. Now those homes were packed tighter than sardines with zero lot
lines and a perfectly magnificent view of their neighbor’s roofline. Welcome to
the sometimes foggy, always crazy, coast of California.
This coastal sojourn of mine was a
two-and-a-half-day meander through old Spanish ruins, art-filled streets of an
old Hippie hangout and cleansing my mind with a sunset at Crystal Cove.
Mission San Juan Capistrano has been
home to many indigenous and native peoples and now swallows for over 230 years
of its storied history. The mission was initially founded in 1775 by Father
Lasuen. He and his fellow padres left the mission for San Diego and it was
re-founded by Father Serra on All Saint’s Day, November 1st, 1776.
The mission became the seventh of
twenty-one missions to be founded in Alta California. Like the previous six
missions, San Juan Capistrano was established to expand the territorial
boundaries of Spain and to spread Christianity to the Native Peoples of
California.
For over the next 30 years, Mission
San Juan Capistrano grew in population, buildings, livestock, and
prominence. By 1806, the mission had a
population of over a 1000 people, over 10,000 head of cattle, and a completed
architectural gem, the Great Stone Church.
Like all great monuments to the
moment, the mission began to decline over the years. By 1821, Mexico had won
its independence from Spain and made Alta California a territory of Mexico.
There was yet another government takeover when the United States won the
Mexican American War in 1848.
Fast-forward a hundred years and the
Catholic Church got its mission back; wealthy donors began campaigns for
restoration and a clever priest decided to capitalize on a yearly phenomenon of
returning swallows to highlight the mission’s fund-raising efforts.
Long before long-limbed nymphs and
their bronze counterparts played volleyball on sun-kissed beaches, Laguna Beach
has attracted sun-worshipers and visitors as well as those seeking to expand
their consciousness.
In the early 1900s Laguna Beach was
a magnet for plein air painters, poets and artists interested in expanding
their realm of consciousness. In the early sixties LSD was openly manufactured
there. Café Frankenstein was a hangout for beat poets and artists. At night
after the tourists left, Hare Krishna dancers and chanters came out in force.
The air was thick with grass. There was a street scene alive with kaleidoscopic
light shows and abstract works which referenced social and political issues of
the time and environmental issues.
Some of the old artists are still
around although seldom seen on the crowded tourist-lined streets. Instead, they
sequester themselves high in the hills overlooking the clear blue pacific and
wonder what happened to their quiet little beach town of years past. Up the
road, Newport Beach sets the standard even higher.
Newport Pier is a prime spot for
watching the Southern California beach scene unfold. Beach Boy wannabes and
weekend surfers ride the waves of imagination and salt air. Young women and old
ones alike wear little for the imagination and old men with too much
imagination hang over the pier railing and wonder ‘what if…a long time ago…’
Crystal Cove State Park is a
wilderness wonderland that includes over 2,400 acres of undeveloped woodland
and three and a half miles of beaches. There are forty-six old style cottages
in the cove being restored to their 1930s – to – 1950s-era designs.
I rolled off the PCH and got there
just in time to watch the sun dropping its pedals along the shoreline. Sunsets
at Crystal Cove rival that of Malory Pier in Key West and are just as
breath-taking. It was quintessential California with all of its clichés and
sublime charms combined. A soul-satisfying place to share with someone else if
only for those brief moments in time.
And just like the lady with eyes the color of fog, it was a memory basin filled with the sounds of young children tempting the surf, old women wondering where their time had gone and one inquisitive writer looking for another tale to tell.
