Clouds and cones

I spent most of April under overcast skies. Some days the clouds came down to ground level. This morning I’m above the clouds. Or maybe I’m upside down.

There are some pinecones about the size of cantaloupes on the ground here. This is the first time I’ve seen them with freshly crystalized sap on their tips. But not totally crystalized, as I learned when I picked one up and got sap on my fingers. Sticky stuff.

(When I saved the text file for this post I named it cloudscones. Though I meant clouds cones it also reads as cloud scones. The lightest of pastries, I guess.)

Crowd control

Yesterday my route happened to take me past the junior high school just as it had let out. I was at position A on the map, wanting to turn right, and a crossing guard had stopped traffic in all three directions. I waited patiently as dozens and dozens and dozens of students crossed (orange arrow), three and four abreast.

The crossing guard finally interrupted the flow of students so traffic could move not only through this intersection but also at the traffic light controlled intersection a block away, where I wanted to turn left (B on the map).  A mass of children was crossing to the south, and another mass waited to cross eastward.

When my light turned green I had to wait for all the kids and oncoming cars to cross. I managed to make my way through on the yellow. So it goes sometimes.

But what impressed me as I waited was the calm orderliness of the children. No spreading into the street as they waited, no jaywalking, no dilly-dallying, no cluelessness, just deliberate, disciplined, densely-packed troop-like movements. Impressive.

One slightly peculiar thing I noticed: about 90% for the students were wearing black shirts of various styles. Some wore black pants or shorts. Or black hats. Was it the school color? Mourning attire for Pope Francis? Just the prevailing local early teen fashion trend? Something to ponder as I drove out of town.

Out-of-towner

I like streetdocking, particularly in pleasant towns like San Luis Obispo and Paso Robles that still have nice old downtowns and parks to hang out at, along with the goods and services I might need. And chill residents, of course.

But I needed a break, partly so I don’t get too stuck in a routine, but also to be where I don’t need to worry about being chased off by law enforcement or random hateful people.

Also, it’s starting to warm up enough (for me) in destinations farther north. So I can head that way.

Between where I was and the next good streetdocking town is a free campground up on a ridge—a good place to get back to nature and quietude. That’s where I am now. I was here last year and was lucky enough to grab a site that was being vacated. This time there is only one other rig— a large motorcoach. I’ll see if the situation holds for the next couple of days. The chances are good because it’s not the weekend. 

However, I want to put this coming weekend to my advantage. The best time to get through San Francisco is early Sunday mornings (plus, I guess, the middle of the night any day, but I don’t want to drive at that hour).

In the meantime, I have quiet, shade, and a nice view. The weather is nice even though I’m a couple of thousand feet higher than I was. It’s a good time for some heavy-duty relaxing.

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