Something is in the air, and I don’t like it

An advantage of being at the coast this time of year is the nightly fog latches onto pollen and takes it to the ground — and not into my sinuses and eyes.

But now I’m farther inland, separated from the ocean by hills and mountains. The air is drier and warmer, and I’m leaking from my eyes and nose. Ah, plant mating season.

But at least I’m not still living in North Carolina where pollen left a dense yellow dust on everything, and where hay fever would totally knock me down. The worst was when pollen would get in my eyes and cause the whites of my eyes to swell, making my irises look like they were sinking into marshmallows. My eyes would itch violently. Don’t touch them! Don’t touch them! You'll just make it worse!!! And, of course, my sinuses were clogged and my head throbbed. The only relief came from lying down with a cold wet cloth on my face, knocked out with antihistamines. How did I last 17 years there?

Two stars — would not recommend

I went to a brand new laundromat about a year ago. The Now Open banner was still up. It was such a fine laundromat that I decided to use it again yesterday.

There was a man about my age and two young men washing their clothes. I picked a washer and loaded it. Then I got some soap. I had to try twice because the coin slide was sticky on one of the choices. The other choice worked fine but the box fell in a very hard to reach spot. This was foreshadowing.

I poured the soap into the hatch and started feeding quarters into the washer. The amount owed counted down. Then it stopped counting down. I pushed the coin return button. Nothing. I pushed it again. Two quarters came out. I put a coin in the slot but it didn’t make the usual clacking sound and the readout didn’t change. I hit the coin return again. And again. The coin finally came out. I inserted a different coin, giving it a little extra shove. Same result.

To hell with this. I tested the coin slot on the next machine. It worked fine, so I transferred my things to that washer. Then I had to buy more soap and try to get it out of the dispenser again. But the wash started and I went out to the Rolling Steel Tent that was parked at the curb, because the parking lot was small and cramped.

When I walked back to the laundromat there was a car parked in the middle of the lot, blocking the other cars. Inside, a pair of women had some newly bought quilts and sheets they were unpacking and loading into washers. They had monopolized all the carts (there were only three in the place) and counter space as if they had never shared public spaces before. They were quite put out when I asked if I could use one of their hoarded carts. I realized later they were the ones parked in the middle of the lot.

I got my things transferred to a dryer and tried inserting coins. Something was wrong and I eventually realized the coin slot had been installed upside down. Ergh. So I transferred my wet clothes to another dryer. 

Fortunately, the women were gone by the time my clothes were dry, so I didn’t need to beg for a cart or counter space. As I folded my things I thought about my problems with the machines and how quickly things can slide downhill. And I thought about how the situation had been further degraded by the two women who had acted like the world exists solely for their convenience. Oh well, it’s a good thing I don’t need to do laundry very often.

Something has changed

Actually, the world keeps changing and this is just another shift in my life. And it changed some time ago but I’ve just started noticing it.

I rarely nap anymore. 

I love naps! I love sinking deeply from consciousness, being all mushy and floaty. I love rising part way to wakefulness, realizing there’s no reason to get up, then sinking back down again.

But these days, if I even remember to take a nap, I can’t fall asleep. My brain won’t turn off. The delicious drowsiness won’t come. Damn.

Today's botany lesson

As I was returning to the Rolling Steel Tent with the focaccia I had scored I saw this striking succulent and wondered what the hell it was called. A black succulent??? I hadn’t known such a thing existed. The omniscient internet brain informed me:

The succulent plant most commonly known for its dark purple-to-black leaves is the Aeonium arboreum ‘Zwartkop’, often referred to as the Black Rose, Black Tree Aeonium, or Purple Rose Aeonium. 

Then there were these interesting blossoms a little farther down the street:

Leucospermum cordifolium (commonly known as ornamental pincushion or bobbejaanklou) is a striking evergreen shrub native to the Western Cape of South Africa.

Next door were these Valeriana rubra, a.k.a red valerian, spur valerian, kiss-me-quick, fox’s brush, devil’s beard or Jupiter’s beard. I’m less curious about the flower than the thinking that led to it being called both kiss-me-quick and devil’s beard. Were there gardeners going about kissing the devil.

As a former Californian I had no trouble identifying these California poppies, the state flower.

Um, okay

Not a great beach day, but better than no beach day

Morning alarm

One of streedocking’s  anxiety-producing possibilities is The Knock — being rousted by law enforcement. 

On last year’s coastal sojourn I learned of several cities/towns that are at least tolerant of folks like me sleeping in vehicles on their streets. This trip I’m trying a few other places that word of mouth reports say are lenient. But I would still be wary until I had been there long enough to assess the vibe. Experience lessens fear.

I had been in last night’s town a few days and was feeling comfortable. Okay, no problem. But when I awoke this morning there were flashing lights outside. Uh-oh. I hurried to dress and stow some loose items incase I was about to be run off.

The view through the perforated vinyl covering my back windows, plus a bit of fog

Now that I was more awake I looked out the window again. Hmmm. It was just red lights, no blue ones. Oh and those are big trucks. Ah-ha! Ambulances. EMTs were working on someone collapsed on the sidewalk. I hope they were okay.

There was no going back to sleep now, so I headed off to my scenic daytime spot. And I might change towns rather than press my luck here.

Buona fortuna alla fine

One of the joys of traveling around the country is experiencing the differences among people and places. But sometimes the differences mean doing without some familiar—and possibly loved— things.

For example, when I lived in North Carolina it was impossible to get descent Mexican food until the construction boom brought Mexicans and their restaurants into the area.

When wandering in the parts of the west away from major urban centers, it’s hard to find good freshly made bagels.

Get too far inland and one’s choices of fresh fish become limited.

And so on.

Lately I’ve been jonesing for focaccia. I fell in love with it when I lived in San Francisco. I’ve been checking bakeries the past month or so. Lots of pastries and sourdough, or panaderias with Mexican baked goods, but where were the Italian-owned or at least Italian-influenced bread makers? I’m getting closer to San Francisco and it’s Italian heritage, so my chances should be greater, right?

Well, luck at last. A small bakery in downtown San Luis Obispo makes focaccia. I went there early in the morning only to learn it wouldn’t be available until the afternoon. They were busy with breakfast pastries in the mornings. Breads would be later. 

I hadn’t asked for a more specific time, so when I returned at about 2 PM I was worried the focaccia might be sold out. But yay! They had plenty.

Now I’m a happy boy. I want to eat the whole damn thing in one sitting. But I’m exercising extreme self-control. So far. My evil self is saying I can just buy more.

Dense, flavorful, soaked with olive oil. È delizioso.

Sun or shade?

I’m a big fan of sunshine, except when there’s too much of it. I prefer hiking where there’s shade, like from trees or cliffs. Yet sometimes, like today, it’s too chilly there. The colonnade of trees was like nature’s cathedral, however with less sunlight it was cool enough to make my nose run. I always get a runny nose when it’s below 50°F/10°C. So even though the open pastureland was visually boring, it was sufficiently warm. But not too warm, because it was overcast, with the clouds filtering out some of the sun’s rays. An adequate compromise, I guess.

A sticky situation

One of San Luis Obispo’s points of interest (or disgust) is Gum Alley. For who knows how long, and for who know what reasons, people have been sticking their chewed gum to the walls of this downtown passageway. SLO is a college town, so that probably has something to do with it. There are also a number of places along Higuera Street selling alcohol, which might also have something to do with it. And I imagine the newer layers were deposited by tourists making their pilgrimage to the oddity. I’m not a gum chewer, so I had nothing to add. However gross Gum Alley might be, at least it’s more original than padlocks on fences, shoes over power lines, or underwear trees.

But if moldy gum isn’t your thing, there’s this business nearby.

Things in tall slim bottles

When I want to fry something, and the heat required is higher than the smoke point of butter or olive oil, I prefer to use peanut oil. However, I’ve had trouble finding peanut oil in anything less than gallon jugs. Since I don’t have a deep fryer in the Rolling Steel Tent, a gallon is way too much. Even if I had room for it, a gallon would last for decades even if I had fried foods three times a day every day for the rest of my life. So I was delighted to find this 24-once bottle at Grocery Outlet:

As the internet explains, “Grocery Outlet specializes in opportunistic buying, acquiring surplus inventory, packaging changes, and product overruns from suppliers. This allows them to sell items at up to 60% off retail prices.”  That means you never know what they might have on the shelves. And it varies from store to store. So you need to exercise the Soviet Rule of Shopping: 

If you need something and they have it in stock, don’t hesitate, buy it. Because it probably won’t be there when you come back.

So I bought two.

I found myself needing some rubbing alcohol. I wouldn’t have trouble finding it in smaller bottles, but since it was a low priority item for me, I wanted to spend as little as possible for it. So I got it at Dollar Tree. A buck twenty-five? Good deal, even though it, too, is more than I would ever need.

As I was using the alcohol, the aroma zoomed me back to childhood when there seemed to be a constant need for the stuff (along with iodine and Mercurochrome). So maybe I should sniff rubbing alcohol when I want to feel young. With an owee.

Walking along the cliffs

If I were a kayaker I could have this beach to myself

This would not be the safest place to swim

The wrong turn was the correct turn

Something like this simulation

There was road construction at the freeway on-ramp. Barriers and cones and heavy equipment confused things. it wasn’t until I had turned onto what I thought was the on-ramp that I realized I was on a parallel surface street—and I didn’t know where it led. Rats.

But then I saw the freeway traffic next to me was creeping to a stop. And up ahead were flashing blue and red lights. Whew, dodged that mess. I figured I’d stay on the surface street until it became a problem, then work things out from there. Lo and behold, surprise surprise, the street went exactly where I needed to be.

This reminds me of Douglas Adam’s protagonist in Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency and the sequil The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul who says, “I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.”

Like Malibu, but without the fire devastation and stuff

Avila Beach is just up the coast from Pismo Beach. The way the road runs between a mountain and the shore reminds me of sections of Pacific Coast Highway through Malibu.

But unlike in Malibu, this highway doesn’t carry a constant flow of heavy traffic up and down California. There’s only one access road off US101 to the town of Avila Beach, and it’s a dead end. So it’s quieter here. Well, at least today, since it’s not the weekend. Too bad there’s this:

UPDATE: At about 4:30 there started to be a constant stream of traffic. Now it’s backed up to a crawl. Because it’s quitting time at the Diablo Canyon Power Plant that’s past the gate at the dead end I mentioned above. Ah, okay.

Duck duck goose

A fraction of the flock, Santa Maria, California

Denmark-ish

At the end of the 19th century, my paternal great-grandfather and his family, which included a toddler who would become my grandfather, immigrated from Denmark.

In the early 20th century, three Danish immigrants—two reverends and a professor—established Solvang, California with the intent to preserve and promote Danish culture. These Danes had no connection with my ancestors.

After the Second World War the citizens of Solvang decided to redesign the town's facade to resemble a traditional Danish village in order to add tourism to the town’s agricultural economy. Today less than 15% of Solvang’s residents claim Danish ancestry.

Now here I am, a guy who’s one-quarter Dane, with a Danish surname, hanging out in Hans Christian Andersen Park. Frankly, the center of town is too touristy for my tastes (though I’ll be stopping at a souvenir shop to get a sticker for my wall). The park is nice and neutral, with no faux old style Scandinavian architecture. Just the natural coastal hills and woodlands.

Since tomorrow is my 73rd birthday, I’ll celebrate with a hotel room, get myself all scrubbed and polished, and maybe have a dinner of Stegt Flæsk or Røget Laks.

Two fewer things to worry about. For now.

I stepped up to the counter and showed my ID to the Postal Service guy with waist-length silver hair. “General Delivery,” I said. He wrote my name on a piece of receipt paper then disappeared into the back.

I waited. And waited. It was technically five days since my replacement debit card had been mailed. Would it be here? Would I need to come back Monday? Or even Tuesday?

But before my anxiety got too high, Mr. Silverhair reappeared holding an envelope. Yup, from Wells Fargo. Yup, I could feel the card inside. Yay! I thanked the clerk and told him I envied his hair. (Any hair, actually.)

I drove to an ATM to activate the card and check my balance. Ah, my Social Security had been credited to my account. Double yay! I can go another three weeks or so before I start worrying whether the Social Security Administration has gone to hell.

Among my notices from the bank was a list of all my autopay recipients. So I’ll spend the afternoon updating account information—for some of them.

On today's stroll

Just some time by the sea

 

Well, that’s inconvenient

I was wrapping up an evening of video streaming when this arrived in my email:

Yeah nope, that wasn’t me. So I called the number and talked to a nice guy who had a slight Upper Midwest accent. We got everything sorted out and squared away. They’ll send me a new card. It will arrive in “five to seven days.” 

In the meantime, my current card is useless. I have 44 dollars of cash at the moment, a nearly full gas tank, and my stockpile of food, so I’ll be okay for the week. Or more.

Getting a new card number will be an annoyance and an opportunity. I’ll need to update my various auto-pay accounts. But I can also discontinue some subscriptions (including ones I’ve forgotten about) without jumping through their hoops. I just won’t give them my new number. Yay, savings!

However, something was still bugging me as I went to sleep. I had loosely planned on staying here in Pismo Beach for a week or more, but that was flexible, that was my free choice. Now I must stay. I feel trapped. I’m too accustomed to lack of restraints. But I’m a big boy, so…

Climate change

Lake Isabella (a reservoir, actually) is near the southern end of the Sierra Nevada range that divides the desert from the rest of California. After spending a couple of nights there I crossed the farming and oil country of the Central Valley and climbed into the Coastal Range. That’s where things were noticeably greener.

I don’t remember seeing this area so lush before. I guess I had always been here in the dry seasons when the dominant colors are brown and beige. But it’s spring and there has been a decent amount of rain. In fact, it rained last night here in Pismo Beach, and it’s misting this morning. We should get more tomorrow. It’s a welcomed change, even though it’s a bit chilly.

Loaded up

With inflation, deportation of farm and food processing labor, and uncertainty about Social Security, I’ve been stocking up on food. A section of my floor that used to contain only my quilt in a duffle bag is now filled with containers of nonperishable food. Plus there’s more in the cupboard. Rice, lentils, oatmeal, ramen, soup, chili, peanut butter, dried fruit, canned meats, canned veggies… 

Food, fuel, phone and insurance are my main expenses. I have some money in savings, and I have a little over a week to see whether April’s Social Security gets deposited. Once I get to the Pacific Northwest I won’t be doing much driving until late autumn. I might need to find some type of job.

Yes, anxiety is high, things are uncertain. I try (with some success) to stay calm and positive. And I wish the best for the rest of you.

Well, that’s something different

When my eyes are closed in the dark, I usually “see” blotches of dark color floating in blackness. (I was puzzled by a college friend who claimed to see no colors, only black, when his eyes were closed. Was that actually the case, or was he not fully observant?)

However, last night I “saw” something totally new to me. Somewhere around 2:00 AM I rose to consciousness but still had my eyes closed. At that moment, for about two seconds, in sharp detail, I perceived a dense cluster of carbonation bubbles swirling in a clear liquid against a pale gray background. Sort of like this image I created with artificial intelligence:

Now, I know my usual blotches are the product of the vision part of my brain, independent of light coming through my eyes. And I know our brains can create images in dreams, or when we’re imagining or remembering things while awake. But why carbonation bubbles, of all things? And why at that particular moment of transition from sleep? Was my brain saying, “Here’s something to occupy your mind for a while. Enjoy.” For whatever reason (or for no reason) I can still recall that image. And write about it.

A 350-mile slog across the desert

At sunrise I packed up the Rolling Steel Tent and rolled out of my campsite on Snowbird Mesa/Poverty Flats just outside Overton Moapa Valley, Nevada. 

Then I blasted south on I-15—until I hit commuter traffic in Las Vegas. A good chunk of the 1.7 million adults in the Las Vegas-Henderson-Paradise, NV Metropolitan Statistical Area, plus truckers passing through, plus me, were creeping along slower than the 35 MPH posted on the overhead digital speed limit signs controlled by someone or something somewhere. Sometimes we weren’t moving at all. But things opened up past Tropicana Boulevard, and the drive continued on. Past Jean. Past Primm. Into California.

I was more than ready for breakfast when I got to Baker. It had been about a decade since I had eaten at the Mad Greek. At that time it was a set up like a typical cafe. Sit at a table or at the counter, waitress takes your order, etc. Now the counter is gone, and so are the servers. Instead there are McDonald’s-style touch screens, with an interesting difference. Rather than numbered table tents, the Mad Greek has buzzing pagers. You pick up your order when it goes off. Well, when you’re in a tiny slowly-dying town with a very limited labor pool, businesses (and customers) need to adjust. 

The Bacon Scrambowl (a scramble in a bowl) was rather tasty, although the “bowl” was a pressed cardboard tray thing.

With my stomach happy, I continued on to Barstow where I took Highway 58 to its junction with US 395. I turned north. My “plan” was to get as far as Ridgecrest and then decide whether I wanted to go all the way to Lone Pine, or turn west to Lake Isabella. By the time I reached the decision point I had talked myself out of Lone Pine. First was the fact the BLM had made parts of Alabama Hills out of bounds for camping and had set up designated campsites. So I might not be able to get a spot. Second was that my favorite spot, where I could get a cell signal, was technically off BLM territory, and the owner (PG&E, or Los Angeles County, or some such thing) had started enforcing the no trespassing rules. There are a couple of small campgrounds in the area, but I figured they would be full because of decreased camping at Alabama Hills. I would miss the dramatic views, and the showers at the hostel, but, um, oh well. So onward to Lake Isabella.

There are a few Forest Service campgrounds around the lake. I decided to stay at Paradise Cove, a place  I had never seen occupied on my previous visits. I thought it might be abandoned. But there were a couple occupied spots today, so okay.

The camp hosts came around to collect the fee. One of them said,  “It’s kind of warm today but it cools down nicely after sunset.”  I explained I had come from the desert, so the 75-ish temperature they thought was warm was perfect for me.

I’m tempted to stay a few days, but the fee is kind of spendy. So it’s off to the coast tomorrow, a trip that’s only half as long as today’s journey.

Lots o’ rocks

It has been very warm, so I wanted to get to Valley of Fire State Park early enough to finish a hike before the heat of the day. I got there at 7:15 and the entry booth wasn’t open yet, so I did the iron ranger thing, paying five extra dollars because I didn’t have exact change. No big deal. The visitor center was also not open yet, so I would need to wait until I left to get a commemorative sticker for my wall.

There weren’t more than a handful of other visitors at that hour, with only two other vehicles at the Fire Wave trailhead when I got there. That’s nice. The hike was enjoyable.

As I sat at the end of the trail, enjoying the view, other hikers started showing up. I started wondering why most of them were families with school aged kids. It’s Tuesday. Didn’t they have school? And didn’t at least one of the parents need to be at work? Did they work night shifts? Or was there some holiday I didn’t know about? Oh well.

It was warm enough to induce sweat by the time I got back to the Rolling Steel Tent. And the parking lots and pullouts along the road back to the visitor center were full. Time to go. I got a sticker then headed back to camp, where a slight breeze kept the heat at bay.

Why do I do this?

Every now and then I realize something about myself I hadn’t previously noticed. I suppose that happens with most people, except those who are totally unself-aware. (I checked: unself-aware is an acceptable antonym of self-aware.)

So, I had settled into bed last night, gotten the pillows and bedding adjusted to my liking, and was positioned comfortably, when I noticed I was lightly pinching the bridge of my nose, like this:

I knew I had done this many times before. Why? My nose, sinuses, and eyes were fine. So this wasn’t about pain, itchiness, or whatever. 

I let go of my nose and moved my hand. That felt wrong. I wasn’t as comfortable. My hand was just… hanging there. 

I repositioned my arm. Not quite right.

I repositioned my head. Nope.

I repositioned my torso. Mmmm, not right.

I ended up rearranging my entire body.

I wondered if my nose touching was linked back to a childhood comforting technique. Was this something I did after giving up thumb sucking? When I do this is it a sign of stress, anxiety, or something? Or is it simply a way to signal to my system it’s time to go into sleep mode? I’ll have to sleep on that.

Not taking the short way

A few days ago I posted I was leaving the desert and going to the coast. Well, I’m still in the desert, just farther north, near Lake Havasu City. I’m going to do laundry and a little shopping, then probably continue north to Lake Mead and Valley of Fire State Park. Then maybe west through Death Valley to the Eastern Sierras. After some time at Alabama Hills I might jog south to Lake Isabella and Kernville for a bit, then finally cross the Central Valley from Bakersfield to Santa Maria.

Because, what’s the hurry? Why the destination fixation? I’m not my father with his Point-A-to-Point-B-in-minimal-time mentality. Or I try not to be when I feel that slipping into my thinking. No. I’ll get to the ocean when I get there.

Let the migration begin

The forecast says temperatures here in the low latitude/low elevation parts of the desert will be in the 90s in the next week. Time to move from my winter habitat. It’s still cold to the north. Meanwhile things look pretty good at the coast—at least in the lower part, like up to Pismo Beach/San Luis Obispo/Morro Bay. No sweltering days or freezing nights.

So I observed the Vernal Equinox today by hitting the road. I plan to bypass the San Diego-Los Angeles megalopolis this time by sneaking in the back way. From here to Barstow,  to Bakersfield, to Santa Maria. Or something like that. I’ll be missing some of my favorite beaches, but I’ll also be missing the traffic. 

The idea is to replicate last summer’s wanderings up the coast to the Pacific Northwest, minus the Canada part. Then I might go through Washington, Idaho and Montana in early autumn. I have a half year to figure that out.

Wet and wild

A storm blew in this afternoon. And by “blew” I mean 30-50 MPH wind hitting the Rolling Steel Tent broadside. Shake shake shake, shake shake shake. Shake my va-an. Shake my va-an.

There was some rain the other day, but it was a genteel drizzle that slightly dampened the ground and dried up shortly after sunrise. Today’s rain came down in hard diagonal bursts. The forecast is guessing a couple more hours of this. I slipped out during a calm moment to take photos.

I had planned on staying here a few more days. Now the storm is saying, “Yeah, you will definitely be staying put until the ground gets drier and firmer.” The way out isn’t all desert pavement, so it’s better to sit tight. No problem. I have plenty of supplies and nowhere I need to be.

Crank ‘er over

Yesterday I did some online price comparisons for the replacement battery. NAPA, the closest source, didn’t show the prices. Hmmm. So what about Walmart? That’s where the now-dead battery was from. The price had been very low, and it lasted longer than expected. How much had prices gone up in seven years? About double. 

For reference I checked O’Reilly. Whoo! Their cheapest battery was 250% higher than my old one. AutoZone, 200% higher. Interstate Batteries wanted 150% more.

All those alternatives would mean driving to Buckeye, Mariposa, or Casa Grande. So I figured I’d at least check at NAPA before burning a bunch of gasoline.

Small town service can be slow. There was one customer ahead of me, getting wiper blades and some type of fluid. And the solo clerk seemed s-o-o-o-o s-l-o-o-o-o. While waiting I wondered if they would even have the battery I needed in stock. But they did, and the price was low enough. So, tah-dah!