Public opinions regarding public art run from love to indifference to hatred. A work by San Francisco artist Brian Goggin has divided the citizens of Petaluma since it was installed last autumn. A Fine Balance is two clawfoot bathtubs atop steel stilts overlooking the Petaluma River.
By the time I was dressed and had things stowed away it was light enough outside to see without headlights. But I turned them on anyway so others could see me. Although I wasn’t the only one on US-101 there were very few others, and I sailed right along.
I expected more traffic as I neared Silicon Valley but there were no slowdowns because there were extra lanes. Cool.
Surely it would slow down in San Francisco because it was later in the morning. Nope.
I took the exit for Golden Gate Bridge, which put me on surface streets. Again traffic was light, and the traffic lights were timed so that I had to stop only a handful of times, and then only briefly.
I was soon at the bridge, which is a traffic choke point, but not at that time. Whee.
When I woke up to pee at about 4 AM I heard rain pattering on the roof of the Rolling Steel Tent. There were also occasional splats of water dripping for the trees overhead. I released some liquid of my own and returned to bed.
A couple of hours later the sky lightened enough to reveal very dense fog. I was inside the clouds. White out. This is what I get for commenting about clouds down in the valley. “Oh, you were feeling smug about having sunshine? Well take this, smart guy.”
The air cleared a little later—at my elevation, anyway. There was still fog in the valley until about noon. Once it was gone I packed up and headed to my next destination. Despite Nature’s chiding, the rain had done the favor of settling the dust on the seven miles of dirt road back to the highway. But not enough rain to wash the dust of the incoming trip from my bumper. Not that I was entitled to it.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
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.”
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.
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.
