Southern California

Southern California-

Wed. 9/18- Amherst, N.Y.

We were up very early to finish packing. It was still dark out, at 5:20 A.M. , as Mary dropped me off at Buffalo International Airport. I checked my bag at the U.S. Air counter, for flight number 1720 to Pittsburgh, and connecting service to San Diego.

I cleared the security gates rapidly and without incident. There were a surprising number of passengers, in the various gate areas, waiting for early morning flights. I walked back along the concourse and boarded my early flight for its 7:05 A.M. lift off and the short hop to Pittsburgh. The airport there was already crowded with passengers going hither and yon. I stopped for some coffee and watched the hurrying stream for a bit before walking to gate #35 for my 4 hr and 30 minute flight into San Diego.

For most of the trip, I read “Hit List” by Lawrence Block. After the flat Texas plains, I viewed with interest the vast expanse of desert passing beneath us. I even glimpsed the old London Bridge at Lake Havesau, with its distinctive profile. We had seen it in London, before they sold it to the yanks and shipped it over here brick by brick. As we neared California, I chatted with the woman two seats over. She was a sky Marshall, riding the skies covertly. She really didn’t volunteer the information. I inferred much of it between the lines of her comments. It must be pretty mind numbing to fly every day, pretending you are another passenger, yet wary of everyone and everything around you.

At 11:45 A.M. (PST) we touched down at San Diego Airport. I retrieved my bag, with no difficulty, and caught an Alamo bus to the offsite terminal for rental cars. A line of 20 people was ahead of me, probably taking advantage of the same $150 a week deal I was getting. Duly signed in, I found my Mitsubishi Lancer in the garage and stowed my gear. The car guys had provided directions to the Northbound San Diego freeway and I found and followed them without incident. The increase in the traffic was noticeable since my visit a few years back. It is the price for development and new homes and industries a community reluctantly pays.

About 63 miles North, I exited at “Pico Blvd” and followed it across Camino Real, and around a “U” to the top of the rise, and onto Buena Vista to my sister's condo.

After lunch, we set out for a walk. The beach access is across the street from Mary’s Condo. I could look out of the deep blue of the Pacific from the top of the four flights of stairs and stood momentarily to enjoy the deep Sapphire color of the water and the lighter, cloud studded blue of the ocean sky.

At the bottom of the landing, lies a railroad track for the passenger trains that run along the ocean shore from San Diego to San Francisco. They run at all hours and as I discovered later, they run so quietly that they could literally come up on you as you walked along the road, without your having heard them.

We crossed the tracks and scrambled down a boulder, wave break to the ocean shore below. This trek was not for those unsure of foot. It was nearing high tide, so we had to scramble some to make it around the rocky point before the waves swallowed the beach, as they did four times daily with the rising tide. The shoreline here is lined with high bluffs with homes perched atop them. All manner of winding staircases descended the cliffs, providing for beach access and strengthened calf muscles.

I wondered aloud at the differing types of rock strata high above us. A much deeper ocean had worn the tops of the rocks smooth many millions of years ago. About a mile down the beach, we came to San Clemente fishing Pier. It extends far out into the ocean. On it, sits a nice restaurant by the name of Fisherman’s Pier, of course. Surfers were sliding across the cresting waves around the pier. They looked like graceful aquatic ballet dancers as they skimmed across the white crested rollers. At the last moment, when you might think they would crash into a piling or the shore, a determined twist of the feet made the board “stop on a dime.” They then swam back out to deeper water, to wait in search of the next good wave.

We walked down the beach for another half mile or so, but the travel and time of day was weighing on me. We turned around and made our way back to the pier, where we bought some designer water and sat for a time in the beautiful park area that adjoins the beach and pier. It really is a visually attractive approach to the beach. A casual scan, of the geographical topography of the descending Del Mar Ave, that leads from the town center to the beach, is revealing. It appeared to me that this area was a giant spill-way many millions of years ago. The rushing waters had eroded the cliff face and carved out a gently sloping decline that ended in a beautiful beach area, that we now sat and enjoyed. It was sunny and warm out, at 78 degrees. I enjoyed the climate and the scenic venue.

At 4:30, we set out through the town for the walk back to Buena Vista. The high tide had precluded our going along the beach route. The homes in the crowded and intersecting streets, on the way were of eclectic construction, reflecting the differing times in which they had been built. Most were of modest, single-story, 1950’s and earlier bungalow style. Their inhabitants were mostly Mexican Americans of modest means. The wealthy Anglos lived a little bit further to the South or along the ridge lines on the North side of Town.

Back at the condo, we chilled out for a time, showered and recovered from the heat. Mary made a delicious Salmon plate for dinner. We talked of family and other matters over a relaxed dinner. I called my wife Mary, in Buffalo, and we talked for a time. By 7:15, the sun was setting over the vast expanse of the blue Pacific. I could see a pod of dolphins cavorting just off shore. The breeze from the ocean was cooling and pleasant, as I sipped a vodka martini and read my book. I was tiring with the day. I wrote up my notes, read for a time and then slept like a dead log in a swamp.

Thurs. 9/19 San Clemente, California

We were up early, had breakfast and scanned the local papers. It was 60 degrees and cool out, with a light ocean mist rolling in from the Pacific. At 8:30 A.M., we set out for the 20 minute drive, along the Pacific Coast Highway, to nearby Dana Point. Mary had made reservations for us aboard the 9:45 A.M. sailing of the Catalina Express for the 90-minute ride to Catalina, the fabled isle “26 miles across the sea.”

I hadn’t been to Dana Point in many years and was much impressed with the new boutique shops, restaurants, large marina and commerce in the area. The fabled “Quiet Cannon” restaurant sits on the headland high above us. Mary and I had been to lunch there with my sister Mary 25 years ago.

We checked in to the ticket kiosk and for $23 each (senior fare) we purchased our round trip tickets for the 9:45 A.M. sailing. The return voyage time of 5:45 P.M. was also specified. Options were not offered, other than to swim or hitch-hike aboard a cooperative Jet Ski. We parked the car in a long-term lot, at a 10-minute walk from the anchorage, and then walked back to get in line for the boat. She is a double decked ferry, with an open, top side, aft-deck. She seated almost 150 passengers. The voyage was SRO, with seniors and tourists (like us) out for a day’s excursion.

The seas were fairly calm. The ride over to Catalina was uneventful, much like riding a commuter bus. In rougher weather this ride would prove interesting. The sun was shining as we looked out on calm seas, devoid of anything except the monotonous rollers and a few gulls winging their way landward. The mist and haze obscured the island until we came right up upon it. Then, the 2,000 ft. heights seemed to rear up out of the ocean. The imposing bulk of rocky slopes shelter a small inlet harbor, in which the village of Avalon had been shoe-horned.

At first glance, it looks much like Positano, Amalfi or Sorrento, on the Amalfi coast of Southwestern Italy. A small crescent of flat harbor area, crammed full of hotels, shops and businesses, lies sheltered on three sides by surrounding slopes. The fourth, waterside, is an attractive marina, well populated by expensive watercraft from all over the Southern California coast. A large cruise ship, from the Viking line I think, sat at anchor in the ways. Her guests were tendered ashore to shop and explore. They much added to the hustle and bustle of the day’s crowds. We wondered aloud where all of these people came from? Does no one work during the week?

We disembarked at the Catalina express quayside and walked immediately into the busy oceanfront shopping area. We browsed a few shops, competing with the wandering gray-haired legions that populate these environs in the off seasons. Restaurants, boutiques, and all manner of shops vied for the attention of the visiting shoppers. We walked around the “U” of the harbor area to the “Grand Pavilion” that is the trademark of the small town. Its smooth, stucco walls rise up two stories into an imposing multi-sides conical structure. It had been a grand gambling casino in the 1920’s and the well heeled of Los Angeles had ferried out here to dance, gamble and mingle with others of their class. Now, the exterior structure had been well preserved. The interior served as a museum of sorts that chronicled the island’s colorful past.

Behind the pavilion, is a set of steps that descend to the rocky shore below. It is from here, where the local diving community wades into the ocean depths with their wet suits and scuba gear. We watched them come and go for a time, enjoying the novelty of their dress and gear. The sun was shining and it was in the 70’s with a cool ocean breeze. It was a perfect day. A whole bevy of expensive sloops, graceful ketches and power craft rocked at anchor in the marina just offshore. It was a nice place to sit and enjoy the beauty of the island around us.

Golf carts whirred by us, peopled by over-weight and aging tourists who chose that easier means of local transport. We walked back along the shore road, past the same shops, admiring the pricey commerce. In a small shopping lane, we found “Katie’s Kitchen” and bought some deli sandwiches and designer water to have for lunch. We sat under a shade tree, on a small bench, and dined al fresco, enjoying the sights and sounds around us.

The sight of several large and bronzed Buffalo, painted in many colored motifs, was amusing to me. I had seen a few dozen similar painted animals in Buffalo, New York, one year. Apparently Catalina had adopted the symbol to represent a herd of wild Buffalo that roamed the hills above Avalon. But, more about them later.

It was nearing 1:30 P.M. as we opted to take a 2-hour “skyline tour” of the surrounding mountains. For $27 each, we boarded a bus attached to a semi, tractor-trailer that looked like it came from the “mad max” movies. We hypothesized that the sturdy, semi-cab must be needed for the extra power necessary to haul so much weight up into the mountains. Ay caramba, we had no idea of what was in front of us. Freddie, our driver, was a non-stop comic, with a terrible array of puns and humor that made you groan at how awful they were. He was effervescent in tone and I think distracted us from the precarious hairpin turns that wound their way 2,000 feet into the sky.

The “sky line” road had been blasted out from the rock face by engineers. Its outward sides were lined with tall Eucalyptus trees, whose deep root systems helped to anchor the road and the hillsides from sliding down the mountain during heavy rains. The very long bus turned on an impossibly narrow axis to make the sharp “ess curves.” Those of us sitting up front had the continual sensation of ‘going over” the edge when we tuned so precipitously. By trips mid point, everyone had vacated the front seats except Mary and I.

Visually, the terrain is rocky and heat blasted. Ponderosa pine and prickly pear cacti attest to the dried out character of the soil. A covered reservoir, mid way up the mountains, provides much of the island’s water. The dried out caldera, of an extinct volcano that had erupted in ante-deluvian times, also served in that capacity during wetter periods. The black, volcanic soil, around the caldera, lay in stark contrast to the dry, burned out brown of the surrounding environs.

The entire island is a geographic anomaly. It had been created when two tectonic, pacific plates crashed together some 150 million years ago. It had then arisen from the sea, off the Baha peninsula, in Mexico. Over the last 30 million years, the island had floated 150 miles Northward and rotated some 76 degrees to its present location. Some of the original flora, like the Catalina ironwood trees are unique only to Catalina and the Baha peninsula in Mexico. It is hard to imagine an island this size “floating” 150 miles, but indeed it had. It is still “floating” over one inch a year. Someday, maybe tourists, standing where we stood, will be speaking Japanese or Inuit.

The drop-offs were getting steeper and the vistas more entrancing, as we rode higher into the island’s interior. At the 1600 ft. level, the bus drew us into the Catalina Airport. It has a small parking area, a restaurant and outdoor porch that over looks the ocean. Aloe plants and other colorful flora prospered here. It also has a small airfield, adjacent to the restaurant. The strip is capable of landing craft in size all of the way up to a D.C. 3, that fabled craft of 1930’s vintage. One of the venerable “goony birds” sat on the field, even now, in all of its aged majesty. William Wrigley, the owner and developer of most of the island, had ferried himself and family here in that craft often enough.

The Wrigley chewing gun family is the premier developer of the island. They had purchased the island from a pair of brothers, owners of the very Bus Company we rode on, whose business went bust. The Wrigley’s now own 12% of the island. They have donated the bulk of 87% of the land to the Catalina Trust and Wildlife Conservancy, who are trying to restore the local flora to its natural state. We had seen evidence of their careful plantings all along our tour’s route. The remaining 1-% of the island, consisting of most of the land that the village of Avalon sits upon, is also owned by the Wrigleys. They rent the land to the shop, hotel and home owners on a long term basis. If the bubble gum business ever goes belly up, the Wrigleys will do all right with their interests in Catalina.

We continued upward, enjoying the wide-open vistas of the Pacific through the gaps in the mountains. At one precipitous turn, named “Poison Point,” Freddie explained in a “yuk-yuk manner “ that a colleague of his had so named the turn area because “one drop will kill you.” It must be local humor I guess. The sweeping vistas are impressive. The turns could be un-nerving, as we started our descent down the mountainside. Occasionally oncoming vehicles would pull over to let us pass. Size makes right is the operative maxim here.

At one scenic turn in the road, we could far look out over the deep blue of the Pacific. On a shelf of land, a few hundred feet beneath, us grazed several Buffalo. They are a newly adopted symbol of the island. A few dozen had been imported in the 1920’s for a film production. Their descendants had prospered and were adopted as local mascots of a sort.

The non-stop narrative, from the driver, was informative, if gag laced. I hope he gets a gig someplace to vent his need to perform. Near the bottom, we came upon and passed a gracefully built bell tower provided by Ava Wrigley to the Village of Avalon. Then, we passed The “Zane Grey Adobe,” where that fabled writer had once lived. The rooms are all named for his Western Novels.

Finally, we reached the bottom of the hill and gratefully exited the mad max vehicle, for a stroll back along the waterfront. The gray foxes were still in abundance, as we walked along the sunny and sight-filled coastal path. We were headed for the man-made beach at an upscale condo complex, where Barbara Streisand owns a place. She wasn’t there, or at least we didn’t see her. We sat on the beach, listening to the music of a jazz trio. The late afternoon commandos were assembling in the waterfront bar as we took out leave of this idyllic refuge. We began walking back along the picturesque ocean front walkway, to the harbor-side quay of the Catalina express. The day was getting long and we with it. We got in line, with our fellow passengers, and waited for the express to allow us onboard for the 5:45 P.M. sailing to Dana Point. The sun was beginning to set and the ocean air was cooling. An ocean mist was already rising, preparing to cover the island once again from its mainland observers.

We boarded the sturdy vessel in short order and made ready to set off. As we sat along the quay, another Catalina Express motored into the harbor. We watched her dock and then bemusedly observed the chaotic, exit-swirl of weekend tourists dragging their bags and things up the steep gangway. They were chatty and alive with anticipation for their weekend stay in the fabled mists of Avalon. Some carted vegetables and fruits for the local eateries. We speculated on how much more things must cost here because of the huge charge of ferrying everything in from the mainland. The only thing that came with the place is the fish.

The ride back, across to Dana Point, was smooth and uneventful. The sun had set on our return trip. We could make out the far, dim lights of the shoreline in the distance. When we reached Dana Point, night had fallen. We motored into our anchorage amidst the inky black of a dawning night. The Captain maneuvered us to the quay and moored us to its side. Mary and I scurried off through the sheep-like throng of passengers, who were milling about to retrieve their luggage. The couple in front of us inadvertently heard me suggest in an Irish Whisper, that they should “take their head out of their ass and move it!” The wife politely suggested to her husband that they might “be in the way,” and moved aside. Sometimes, being direct has its benefits.

We walked along the lighted walkway, of the marina, to our car and then set out for San Clemente. The traffic was light on the darkened Pacific Coast Highway. We sailed on into Buena Vista Dr. in a brief few minutes time. Wine and cheese proved tasteful as we watched a new episode of “survivors.” The formula cast of characters were at work, playing out the psychological diorama that had proved so successful for three previous seasons. I wish we had rotten eggs and tomatoes to throw at them, as in days of yore.

I wrote up my notes, trying to catch the flavor of what we had seen this day, and then read for a time before surrendering gratefully to the sandman.

Friday, 9/20 San Clemente, California

We were up early at 6 A.M.. The municipal pavers were resurfacing Buena Vista today. I had to move my car or be locked in for the day. Afterwards, we had breakfast, scanned the papers and then set out by 7:45 A.M. for that fabled art mecca of the western United States, the John Paul Getty Museum, in Santa Monica.
The San Diego Freeway (5 North) fed us into the monster jam up of the 405 Freeway. It is the principal North-South conduit through the Los Angeles area. The traffic jams were considerable but we did proceed northward, however slowly. The massive crush of twelve lanes of moving steel projectiles, six each headed in opposing directions, can be unnerving to the uninitiated. Mary provided the directions and I the maneuvered as best I could manage through the crunch of traffic.
As we entered the Santa Monica environs, we came upon and exited at the J, P. Getty exit of the 405. It took us in a gradual circle to an entry gate, where our parking reservations were confirmed for 9:30. A.M. Mary had logged us in the week before. The Getty Museum has a free admissions policy, but controls the flow of entrants by issuing parking reservations in their four-story parking garage.
The elevator from the garage brought us to the concourse level. There, we boarded a hi-tech shuttle train for the gradually ascending, mile-long ride to the summit of the hill upon which the Getty museum stands, overlooking the surrounding area. If the planners sough to simulate the acropolis in Athens, they well succeeded in their task. It is an imposing architectural edifice that commands the surrounding environs from atop its elevated turrets.
A Grand marble entry way, with an open forecourt, leads one into a complex of white, exhibit buildings, with travertine stone facades, that are both airy and impressive. The curious architectural combination of white-marble facades, married to a rectangular 1950’s, retro-construction of glass blocks and exposed steel piping, works inexplicably. It is both aesthetically appealing, airy and curiously soft in appearance for a stone facade motif.
The campus, for lack of a better term, surrounds a marble courtyard that features a refreshment kiosk and several water fountains. A few storage and employee buildings give way to the central entrance foyer. It is through this portal, that all of the museum’s guests must pass. We stopped for the ten-minute, introductory film that explains the Getty Museum and its layout. It was helpful in planning our line of march..
We elected to first survey the Getty’s French Impressionist collection in the South Building. The exhibits here are laid out in four, two-story buildings, labeled N, S. E & West.
The collection features a wonderful mix of Impressionist paintings by Degas, Renoir, Monet and others, that mixed well with more traditional masters like Boucher, Van Gogh, and several Italian painters. The Getty has on display, at any one time, only 25 % of its collection. This always amazes me thinking of the many works not on display, but carefully tucked away in storage someplace. I think the Getty Museum has a Billion-dollar endowment and that it is mandated to spend 10% of the sum annually on acquisitions. Given time, this aggressive acquisition posture will outstrip the Metropolitan Museum in New York and maybe even the Louvre in Paris.
We wandered among the various halls displaying statuary from antiquity, appreciating the beauty of the pieces but unaware of their provenance or value. A guided tour some day would be interesting and informative. We found later that several different tours of the exterior grounds and architecture and the various exhibits are available with advance planning. Several return visits would be needed to fully take advantage of all that is offered at the museum.
On the top floor on the South building, we came upon an open balcony area, that looks the surrounding hills. On this sunny and gorgeous day, we sat for a time and appreciated the beauty around us, both natural and imported.
Noontime approached, so we headed for the garden café, one of three restaurants on the premises. A cafeteria-style array of nicely prepared food awaited us. I had a freshly prepared vegetarian fajita and Mary a linguini and clam sauce. Both were of good quality and moderate price.
After lunch, we wandered down amidst the exterior gardens that surround the exhibit halls. A sculpted waterway flows down the hillside to a central gathering area, much like a Greek outdoor theater. All manner of flowers and plantings are displayed here in attractive manner that much complimented the light and airy campus above us.
From the garden area, we wandered back through the remaining exhibits admiring the large collections of 18th century French furniture and the many other exhibits artfully displayed. The Getty, like the Metropolitan Museum in New York, is a place that you can return to many times and never really see everything. After three hours of pleasant meandering, the “glaze” was setting in. It was time to go. I had coffee in the airy courtyard as we watched the many school tours wander from building to building. The children were quiet and attentive. Either they were unusually precocious about art or more likely, they had been threatened sufficiently with full retribution, by their teachers, to act with decorum. In either case, they were interesting to watch as they walked by, in chain-link fashion, guided by their various parent and teacher escorts.
We took our leave of this beautiful facility and caught the high tech tram to the parking garage, where we saddled up for the ride home. The traffic was heavy all the way Southbound. We discovered the "“express lane" for cars with more than one person in them and followed its swift passage all the way South to the beach towns. It made a difference in ease of passage.
By 3:30 P.M. we had made our way back to San Clemente. The streets were still blocked off, so we parked a few blocks away and walked back to the condo, to chill out and relax. It was sunny and in the 70’s out, with a cool ocean breeze blowing in from the Pacific. A vodka martini and my book made for a pleasant unwinding from the day. I could look out at that sapphire-blue ocean forever.
We had que sedias and minestrone soup for a light dinner and talked of family and current affairs. It had been a long day and we were both tired. As I sat reading after dinner, I could see the pelicans diving on the schools of fish, just offshore. A T.V. news helicopter was flitting by just out over the water. I could hear the surf crashing on the shore below us. It was a visual and auditory banquet that many may take for granted daily. I was not among them. I finished reading “Hitman,” and then turned in early, tired with the day.

Saturday, 9/21 San Clemente, California

I was up early at 4:00 A.M., and settled in reading “The Weatherman,” by Steve Thayer. A heavy ocean mist had rolled in from the Pacific, giving the area an eerie connectivity with the water. It was cool and 60 degrees out.

We were out walking along the beach by 7:00 A.M. Daylight had just dawned and the ocean has a muted glow across it’s surface from the slanting rays of the rising sun burning through the misty cover.

The high cliffs along the shore told a story many millions of years in the making. The smooth, weathered and multi-layered surface, of some of the high bluffs, gives mute testimony to the ocean waves that had worn their surface smooth many millions of years past. A much deeper ocean had then crashed upon these shores. I struggled with memory to recall the geological terms for sandstone and sedimentary rock, and their various states of erosion and weathering, but it was a losing battle with an already crowded and faltering recall process.

The tide was ebbing, but the level of the sea was still high, perhaps due to the strong tidal pull of a nearly full moon. As we approached the San Clemente pier, we could see the small clumps of surfers paddling out to deeper water, or sliding athletically across the white combers as they rolled on into the shore. Music from several albums of the beach boys always runs through my head when I come upon this quintessentially Southern California scene.

We continued walking along the beach, watching the white caps crashing onto the shore and talking of the area and its history. About 1 and 1/2 miles beyond the pier, we came upon Richard Nixon’s old estate at San Clemente. It sits high on a bluff, in a well treed and shrubbed lot. Its two-story, white stucco-walled and red-tiled roof appearance is congruent with that of the neighboring homes. One could only imagine the security measures that secret service agents, who had populated this Western White House during Nixon’s tenure in the late 60’s and early 70’s, had taken. I can remember many television clips of the then President Nixon walking this stretch of beach and throwing sticks for his dog, King Timahoe to fetch. Who knew then what internal demons must have tormented the man?

Mary said the place had been offered on the market for a song some years back, in spite of its history. I guess disgrace in office, can tarnish the value of a place somewhat. It looks in good repair and will probably have one of those “Richard Nixon lived here” signs on it some day.

We continued on past the former Western White House, to a spit of land that the locals call “Trestle Point.” It is a spit of land that sticks out into the ocean in an area where the rollers crash more frequently and and are larger than any in the surrounding area. As a consequence, large clumps of surfers gather here daily, to ride the bucking surf, in pursuit of the endless summer and the golden youth that goes with it.

Nearby, the mouth of an ocean creek, and a flat marshy area, are crossed by a wooden trestle that holds the metal tracks for the passenger trains that roar up and down the coast with regularity. The Trestle had given the point its unofficial name.

Mary and I sat for a time watching these aquatic cowboys select then master the slippery rollers on their narrow wooden broncos. They were graceful and accomplished, the experience of many summers past showing in their gymnastic balancing routines.

The distance back to Mary’s was over three miles. I didn’t think my ankles would take the walk on the beach, so we headed inland to seek surer footing. A small state park and camping area occupies the bluff above this point. We walked along the oil and stone road, headed for El Camino Real, about one half mile out. We passed several walkers and a few cowboys on bikes all toting their surf boards, visions of the perfect wave dancing in their eyes. You could hear the whir of the traffic from the Camino Real just off in the distance. As we reached it, the path took a ninety degree turn and carried us parallel to the highway for a time, before looping back along Avenue Presidente, and on into the plush environs bordering a few gated communities near the water. We admired the white stucco facades and red tile roofs of these prosperous communities, as we walked along their periphery. A cycling club whizzed by us, its members clad in all manner of colorful silk and nylon riding clothes. We were tiring with the walk and would have much appreciated any manner of mechanized conveyance.

A mile or so along the road, we came upon the slower two lane portion of Camino Real as it enters the business section of San Clemente. We espied “Tommy’s,” a well know Mexican-American eatery and crossed the road to stop in for a late breakfast. The place is warm and inviting. Huge omelets, with fried potatoes and toast, made for a grand feast, as we chatted about any number of topics. The bill was an inexpensive $17 and we left reluctantly.

Getting up from our chairs proved to be more of a chore than normal. My joints were stiffening with the walk. They limbered up soon enough as we walked along the historic area of the Town. The original city hall, with its Spanish style façade is flanked by newer versions of Starbucks and the “coffee bean” cafés. A few shops are interspersed among several saloons and small restaurants.

We continued down Camino Real and then cut crossways, through the residential area, to Mary’s condo. It had been a seven and one half-mile trek and I was beginning to drag a bit. The mist from the ocean was till hanging over us at 12:30 P.M.. I slipped into a delicious two-hour conversation with Ozzie Nelson. (nap) Life is good sometimes.

The mist burned off later and the sun blazed high above the ocean. It was 78 degrees out and beautiful. We had pizza for dinner and sat watching the sea, sun and sky, while reading. I called Mary Martin in Buffalo and chatted for a time. Then, we set out for the nearby “Krikorian Theater” in San Clemente. We sat through and enjoyed the gritty reality of “City By the Sea” with Jack Nicholson.
The depressing scenes of Atlantic City, whom the movie loosely parodies, gave rise to much thought. A Dicken’s quote,”It was the best of times and the worst of times” wandered through my head.

I was tiring from the day as we returned to the condo. It was 60 degrees out, under a starry sky, with a slight ocean breeze. I sipped a vodka-rocks and read for a time, before succumbing to the call of the sandman. It had been another interesting day in the Land of the Lotus Eaters.

Sunday 9/22 San Clemente, California

I arose early. It was sunny and in the 60’s out. Mary had walked over to mass, at a nearby church, so I set out along Camino Real headed into downtown San Clemente. A few of the smaller restaurants were open and serving breakfast to the early risers. Most of the businesses were closed on this Sabbath morning.

The familiar green logo of Starbucks rose up before me and I settled in for a large cup of this delicious nectar. The conversation around me was “California” to the max. One guy was talking about his analyst’s advice to move and get a divorce, another was free-associating about his relationship with some femme fatale. These aren’t conversations you hear in the buttoned-up back east. I enjoyed the warm sunshine on my face and watched the parade of fellow caffeine devotees wander in and out. Several surfers dropped by for their morning pick me ups. The general age was late twenty, early thirtyish, dude.

From Starbucks I walked along Del Mar, browsing the windows of the many small boutiques. The San Clemente Inn looked interesting for visitors. The sidewalks were lined with small stalls hawking fruits, vegetables and all manner of other things you find in such places. It had a decidedly small town effect, somewhat out of character with the popular Southern California image.

As I walked down Del Mar, I could imagine the ante-deluvian spillway that must have roared through this narrow defile for eons. It ended in a broad expanse of beach. Centering this flat sandy area is the San Clemente pier. The sun was shining and the sky was an impossibly bright, cerulean blue. The deeper turquoise of the pacific ocean, capped with white breaking rollers, atop whom skimmed blonde haired beach boys, drew a portrait of Southern California that any one would recognize instantly. The Beach Boys music ran through my head as if on cue. I bought some coffee and sat watching the attractive tableau, trying to burn the image onto my retina for easy recall during the dreary tunnel of winter that lay just ahead back east.

The tide was coming in so a beach walk was out. I walked back through the crowded residential streets to Mary’s Condo. A shower and breakfast made me want to explore the day further. We set off for the one-hour ride South along the PCH, to La Jolla, Mary’s former place of residence. The sprawling expanse of Camp Pendleton stretches for several miles from San Clemente to Oceanside. We wondered what all of that enormous tract of land must be worth on the open market. Below Oceanside, the sea mist had come on shore and covered a small stretch of the coast near Torrey Pines Golf Course, on the ocean bluff. I wondered what vagary of geo-thermal currents had summoned up this opaque cloud of moisture in so narrow a band.

LaJolla was crowded with traffic and tourists. We found a place to park and then walked along the beachfront path, admiring the rocky shores and the crashing surf. The sea lions were gone from their small beach. I wonder what could have driven them off? The pigeons, gulls and Pelicans coasted above us in abundance. Great wings of them flew over head, perhaps in search of the illusive French fry held aloft by some piccolo mostro.

It was hot and the temperature was rising. We stopped at a Hagen Daaz store and ordered up some chocolate, ice cream concoctions. Then, we stood for a time under a shade tree and watched the hustle and bustle of trendy La Jolla. It is interesting an tableau in conspicuous consumption.

The day was lengthening and we were heating up with the temperature. We repaired to our car and headed North along 52 E, then onto 805 N and finally up the San Diego Freeway into San Clemente. At the condo, I wrote up my notes and chilled out, watching the calm rollers of the deep blue Pacific in front of us. We dined in. I finished “Weatherman” and started reading “Warlock,” by W. Smith. The Emmys were on Television, but I drew a by. I was comfortable enough reading and watching the ocean. I called Mary in Buffalo and then retired for the day. It was time to go home.

Monday, 9/23 San Clemente, California

We were up early. It was cloudy and gray out this morning. This time, we turned north and walked along the beach towards Capistrano. The surf was rough this morning. The rollers crashed upon the shore with a vengeance. We had to time a few of our sprints to coincide with the surges of the waves against the rocks. The high tide, of the new moon, had made the walk a bit more interesting.

A whole row of doublewide trailers faces out on the ocean along here. Mary said that even these flimsy structures could go for $250,000. Ay Caramba, for a beach house? A good wave would roll over all of these and carry them off in a morning. It was a roll of the dice I guess.

On the other side of the San Clemente Train station, the cost of the property spiraled through the roof. The first structure in the row, is the one used in the chilling movie “sleeping with the enemy.” It is of glass and block, 1950’s design. It is probably now worth two million for openers. The other houses, along the beach, are eclectic in design and value. The land that they sit on is worth more than any of the structures. We walked on for a bit, noting the heavy detritus that must have washed in with the last full tide. A beachcomber would love walking these shores, finding new treasures every morning..

The sand here is soft and difficult to traverse, so we reversed course and stepped out onto the PCH for the walk back. High above us on the cliffs, across the PCH, there is an actual stretch of empty cliff-face where the towns had forbidden development. I wonder how long that will last? The morning traffic whizzed by us in a hurry to get to work. The highway noises masked that of the approaching train. I did not hear a thing until it appeared ghost like at our sides. There is a story there someplace, about noiseless trains in the ocean mist.

Across from the San Clemente train station, an old gas station had been turned into a trendy coffee shop. We stopped and sipped some morning brew, watching the action fly around us. Then, we set out for that last mile up the road and over to Mary’s condo.

Coffee, bagels and a shower set us right for the day. I called work to make sure the vandals hadn’t carried the place away in my absence. Reassured, we saddled up for the short run up the PCH to Laguna Beach, that notable artist community South of Los Angeles.

The turn in the PCH, that spills into downtown Laguna Beach, is perhaps the most visually impressive of all the beach towns on this stretch of the Southern California Coast. An expanse of green park land, borders a beach cluttered with volleyball nets, surfers, sunbathers and all manner of strollers. We joined them and hiked along the ocean path, up and around the Laguna Inn to the parkway atop the knoll. The Inn at Laguna Beach looks like a very scenic and colorful place to stay. It is a portrait of well-trimmed hedges, flowers and pleasing scenery. We encountered several casual artists painting the ocean scapes or hawking their wares. The area has character, nes plus ultra.

From the sweeping ocean vistas of the ocean walk, we hiked back into town and stopped at Dietrick’s for coffee. As usual, the conversation and the interplay of those around you are priceless. We then ambled up and down a few business streets, looking in on some of the trendy boutiques. A little of that goes a long way. We saddled up and traversed Southward along the PCH to The Ritz Carlton, a five star hotel sitting right on the ocean bluff, near Newport Beach. We stopped and walked through this portrait of opulence, enjoying the elegant furnishings and décor. The exterior walkway unfolds a breathtaking panorama of the far pacific and the beach below. It was sunny, with a light blue sky hovering over a much deeper blue ocean, just picture, post-card perfect. We did our “Chevy Chase” observation for a bit and then decided to call it a day. We were tiring from our various walks.

Back at the condo, we chilled out for a bit. I caught up on my notes, read for a bit and then called Mary back in Buffalo, advising her of airport arrivals times for me on the morrow.

For dinner, Mary and I drove over to the San Clemente Pier. We had a lovely dinner of Calamari, Salmon and various array of accompaniments. It was enjoyable to sit above the crashing waves on the pier and enjoy a nice meal on a lovely afternoon. It also was a reasonable $36 for the “early bird special.” It is the reward for getting old and surviving, I guess.

After dinner we walked out to the end of the pier, enjoying the offshore breeze and the visual dance of the surfers on their narrow boards. It is as lovely a slice of earth as ever I have seen, but it was time for me to go home. We drove back to the condo, where I packed my bag, settled in with a vodka rocks and read, while watching the dying sun crash into the ocean just in front of me.

Tuesday 9/24 San Clemente, California

I was up very early. I don’t sleep much when I think about all of the travel ahead of me. I said my good byes to Mary, at 6:00 A.M., thanking her for her gracious hospitality these last few days. I don’t have many siblings with whom I can spend this kind of time. I appreciated the time I had spent with her.

From San Clemente, I drove through the heavy ocean mist on the Sand Diego Freeway Southbound. The traffic was already heavy, even at this early hour. I made the passage to San Diego uneventfully and found a gas station to fill up the chariot, before returning it to the Alamo car rental place, just out from the airport. It had served me well and been relatively inexpensive. The bus, from the rental facility to the terminal, was driven by “Sister Sue” a voluble and cheery songstress who was doing her best to infuse happiness in her passengers, welcome or not. God bless her.

I checked in at the U.S. Air terminal without incident and even got through the security screens without a blip. Some days you get lucky. I had coffee and then walked the concourse, stretching my legs, mindful of the long flight ahead. The 10:15 A.M. flight lifted off without incident. We winged our way eastwards across the great divide, the vast deserts and then the wide expanse of farmland that is the Midwest. I read my book and passed the time as best I could. As we approached Pennsylvania, the character of the land changes significantly. Rolling hills and great expanses of forest slipped beneath me, as we closed on the East Coast. Then, as Philadelphia rose on the horizon, the land flattened out into a series of small hills, followed by troughs of valleys. It looked to me like a molten spill way from an ancient lava flow had frozen the land beneath us in a series of ripples that earth and greenness had then grown over.

The Philadelphia air terminal was predictable busy, but I had no problems, finding my gate for Buffalo and checking in. Finally, the 8:00 P.M. U.S. Air flight off lifted for that far outpost on the shores of lake Erie that I call home, the “Big B,” Buffalo, New York. The flight was a quick, one-hour jaunt. We cruised in over the sparkling lights of Buffalo’s’ suburbs, for a smooth touchdown. Mary met me at the gate. It was good to see her again. We collected my bag and then drove home to the castle in Amherst, glad to be home.

Somewhere behind me, in the mists of time and memory, I had spent several days on a beautiful stretch of ocean coast with a sister I was well pleased to have. It had been a trip worth taking.

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Joseph Xavier Martin