Reclaimed

For a week now I have been trying to think of what to say about my recent trip to Crystal Cove Beach Cottages in Newport Beach, CA.

I'm still at a loss for words. Perhaps because this trip was never intended as a grand adventure.

Here's what it was: 

It was a soulful getaway.

It was a restful bit of relaxation and indulgence.

And it was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Four nights, five days of going to sleep when I felt like it. Napping when I cared to. Rolling out of bed and going directly to the deck that adjoined the room and lounging on an adironak chair while reading book after book after book... Soaking up hours of sunshine. Exisiting in a state of quasi-narcolepsy.

The most adventurous thing I did each day was to leave Crystal Cove and it's perfect 1940's-esque confines and go with my vacation-roommate to eat breakfast at a bakery, or lunch at Cafe Rio or Rubys. And one day I drove her to downtown Huntington beach so she could shop while I read a book (I hate shopping). But for the rest of each day, we lazed, and lounged and lunched on leftovers and loved every minute of the day!

At least once each day I padded barefoot down the paved street, down a steep staircase and onto the sand-lined street below, past the beachcomber restaurant and a line of freshly restored cottages (as in just opened the day before) to the golden sands, deep blue waters and deafening silence of the crashing waves on the beach.

There was a pattern to the day, in the life of the beach, I observed. In the mornings, the sounds of children playing and people laughing were king on the beach, over the gulls and waves. But around dinner time, the people faded away. Then the residents of the cottages could be seen walking solo, slowly down the stretches of sand. After dark, a flashlight here or there illuminated small patches of beach, their owners searching for sand crabs and sea-life. But mostly, after dark, all was peace and thunderous waves where the sea met the earth, trying to beat it back and reclaim it for it's own.

And I know now, again, why I was always meant to live by the ocean, for the peace it speaks to my soul. And I know now why I don't live now by the ocean, for nothing else matters when I'm there.


But someday.
Someday I'll walk the expanse, smooth, wet sand enveloping my feet, waves drowning out every care and I'll be there to stay.

The sea will have reclaimed me.

All Ease and Friendliness

I liked Malta immediately. Much like a certain Jane Austen character, It is "all ease and friendliness."

To have come from Egypt, with it's harsh, dry sandy climate and garbage-lined streets, to a warm island climate was a relief to my entire person. I was given a glass of fresh juice as I checked into a comfortable hotel amidst large and elegant bird cages, plush couches and green plants.

I walked by the pool and saw families playing happily. Different. Very different from the culture I'd just come from, where Women are covered from head to toe and wearing a swimsuit in a public pool (or possibly ever) would have been unthinkable. Not to say that Western culture is better than Middle Eastern. It's just what I'm used to, am comfortable with and LIKE.

My room was so starkly different from the Spy-Movie hotel room I'd just come from that I felt at once as though I was staying in the lap of luxury. (Not so, but it's all about perspective, isn't it?) I threw open the large sliding door to the balcony and looked out over a crescent shaped beach as the sun set in the sky and the trade winds blew the sheer curtains about gently. I wasn't long in that room before I found myself with my toes sunk into the sands and sea foam on that beach watching the sun set.

And for the first time in nearly two weeks, I slept soundly.

Remember the time...

The other day, while looking through some old personal video footage for a work project I stumbled across some old clips that I threw against a Beach Boys song just for fun:

Did I ever tell you about the day I spent laying on the beach in St. Lucia with a devastatingly handsome Italian man?

No?

*Shock!*

Hmmm... Sigh. Italians.
Actually, come to think about it, I think this is when my partiality to them began.

;)

And One Giant Dead Fish

Florida... Oh lovely Florida...
Seriously, if you haven't experienced the beautiful beaches and simple, coastal atmosphere of Northwestern Florida, you're missing out.

I mean really. Missing. Out.
You should go. And when you do, take a drive down the coast, between the gulf and the ocean on Highway 98. Stop off at the Santa Rosa Islands beach. Have a some Crawfish at Harry T's and go for a JetSki ride in Destin. Relax on Navarre beach all day and watch the moon rise over the water at night. See the small white crabs scuttle about in the sugar-white sand and watch the small mussels dig their watery homes in the waves. If you're lucky you'll swim with sea turtles and shuffle around in a school of Stingrays.

But that's only if you're very lucky.

This trip has been wonderful for me, but right now the local eco-system is suffering massively, due to BP's ginormous oil spill in the area.  Until this week, this area of Florida was tar-ball free. But the ocean is never still, and the little bits of greasy black death have spread out to the beautiful Pensacola coast. There is an unusual abundance of wildlife in the waters right now, due to the oil pushing it closer to shore than normal. It's fun for us tourists and locals alike to see dolphins, big fish, stingrays and turtles so readily, but the fact of the matter is that this is an upset to their way of life and will no doubt have some rather serious implications in the near future. Today I saw a massive, oil-covered fish washed up on the beach. Sure, the cycle of life would have claimed that fish eventually, but such an obviously unnatural death is a tragedy.

Right now, I'll do what I can to help the tourism industry by being here. And I'll hope that BP cleans up the ocean quickly so life can return to it's normal cycle around here.

It looks picturesque, but the black bits are actually tar balls - oil from the BP oil spill. Cleaning crews were out promptly to clean it all up.

Those shadows in the water are schools of stingrays.

Sand Dunes at Santa Rosa Islands beach

Crawfish! Those little suckers are mighty tasty!

The sugar sand minus the tar balls... what the beaches normally look like. Absolute heaven!

Perfect day.

Saturday Surprises and Swan Lake

It never ceases to surprise me that California surprises me. There are lovely things and places hidden everywhere!

I began Saturday by sleeping in. It was fantastic, relaxing and much needed. I've finally hit a bit of a lull at work with my current project and this weekend was the first proper weekend I've had in three weeks. (Minus the four hours I worked.)

After I'd lounged around enough to satisfy my weary bones, I decided I'd had entirely enough of sleeping, sitting in my office chair and working, so I jumped in my jeep and headed once again to Benicia State Park. BSP is nothing wonderous or fantastical. But it is a great substitute for going to the actual beach when I don't feel like investing all day into a beach trip. BSP lies on the edge of the bay and offers it's patrons a bit of solitude and a running/walking/biking trail by the water. I normally bike it. But lately I've been into rollerblading so I thought I'd give the BSP pavement a try. At first I hestitated, because BSP's trail is not as well maintained as the Iron horse trail and rollerblades are a bit harder to naviagate pavement cracks and generally rough conditions with. But in my glee to go outside, I decided to just go for it. I should have listened to my hesitation. I didn't get further than the parking lot before I knew it was a mistake. It was the worst, rough, pock-marked asphault I could have chosen to blade on. Ugh. I pressed on and up the trail. After blading through several puddles (It's been raining quite hard here lately) and stumbling over badly cracked pavement repeatedly, I headed back to my jeep to put my shoes on and have a go at running the trail. But before I could put my shoes on, I noticed that the street I'd parked my car on was blissfully smooth and took off down it. The street, like the park trail, ran along the bay amongst some beautiful bay homes. On my trip I spotted several fantastic little spots - park benches with bay views and some meandering trails.

After finishing a good 40-minute blading session, I took myself back to a spot of interest  - the ninth-street boat launch - via Jeep. I had no idea there was such a thing as the ninth-street boat launch! It was fantastic. A great little park with a big old ship's anchor and a memorial plaque.

Being the inquisitive soul that I am, I headed down to the old anchor, passing several trucks with older gentlemen sitting in them, facing the sea, looking for all the world as if sitting in their trucks in that parking lot was part of their normal, daily routine. One chatted on a CB radio and another sat eating his lunch. Perfect old sea dogs.

When I arrived at the flags and anchor I found something that defied everything I'd gleaned about growing up in this area: THERE WAS A BEACH THERE! A proper little bay beach, complete with sand and water. FANTASTIC! Who woulda thunk it? It rocked my world.

I finished up the afternoon with a trip to the best darned hot dog shop in the whole world: Sac's Tasty Dog.

Pretty good day, eh? I thought so too, but I was far from finished with my adventuresome Saturday. I cleaned myself up and hopped on BART into the city.  Not long after I was at the San Francisco War Memorial Opera House and in possession of one Orchestra section ticket to see Swan Lake on opening night.

At this point, the hot dog had worn off so I headed down to the basement of the Opera house, where a hungry soul can find all manner of sustenance! I picked a tasty looking turkey sandwich and a bottle of water, paid my $13 (That's right, the sandwich was TEN dollars! And you thought concession stands at movie theaters were expensive!) and then I couldn't find a place to sit and eat. The tables were full. Dilemma!

I spotted an empty seat at the far side of the room at a table with an older Woman. She seemed very kind, so I asked if I might join her. I must say this. I adore that woman! She was lovely. Her name was Maude (and still is). She confided in me that she was 94 years old. That shocked me because, truly, she looked as if she were in her seventies. We sachatted for a while, which those of you who know me, is something I just don't do out of the blue like that. I must have reverted back to cruise ship hostess mode. Or maybe I just liked her immediately. Here's Maude in a nutshell (or rather, from a 15 minute conversation): Her husband died nine years ago of cancer. Before he died, they traveled the world together and even had a sailboat! She was quite proud of her travels. (As well she should be!) She has at least one grandchild, who is a ballerina and the principal dancer in a ballet opening soon in Walnut Creek at Lesher, which she told me to see on a Friday, and afterward to go and knock on the stage door and ask to see her granddaughter and tell her Maude sent me to say hello. She said her granddaughter would probably say to that "Oh, she's found another one!" Ha! Apparently Maude is a serial people-picker-upper.

I determined that when I am 94 I should love to be just like Maude. Full of spunk and passion and quick to speak her mind.

The ballet was, in a word, magnificent! There were a few minor stumbles and missed steps, but altogether a brilliant, theatrical and captivating production of a classic.

As I watched those dancers soar across the stage like doves, I thought to myself: How, how in the world do they do that? Pardon me, but I have a body too and mine doesn't fly. I tried. I broke my arm. (This probably relates somehow to my liking those Sac's tasty dogs) ...I can't make my leg into an extension of my soul, reaching for the heavens.

What is it about a beautifully done ballet that speaks to the very core of one's being? It quite literally tears the emotion from your center and out through your pours. It ripples through you as it leaves, making the skin tingle and commanding tears to fall from their ducts.

Photo from sfballet.org

My Birthday, Bob Reily & FEMA Trailers

I've decided.

I received the A-OK on using my friend's beach house near Pensacola for my birthday, so that's where I'm headed. I am SO excited! Woo! Hawaii is nice, but truth be told, I prefer Florida. Is that weird? I don't care.

I booked my rental car and need to book my flight. But prices went up since I looked last, so I think I'll wait until mid-January to book. Prices go down then because people stop traveling after the holiday rush.

I can't wait for this. I've been before. Several times. For a brief period of time I lived in Ocean Springs, Mississippi. Truly. For about three months. I took a job down there that wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Ocean Springs is about 2 hours west of my destination. When I decided to move to Mississippi, I called up my old College roommate Bri (AKA, My ninja) and told her I was headed South. She was living in New Orleans with her Husband Chris (who was going to school at UNO). We were both ridiculously excited and I planned to stop at her place and visit on my way to Mississippi (I drove!)

It was nearly one year after Hurricane Katrina. Bri and Chris had lived in Student Housing in the heart of the city during the Hurricane. Luckily, they'd been in their car when the warning came through and decided that although Hurricane Warnings were routine and annoying, they'd heed it and headed to Chris' parent's place near Shreveport. They had the clothes on their back and whatever was in the trunk of their car (not much!). After the hurricane, Chris and his older brother ventured down into the flooded city, "borrowed" a boat and went to their flooded dorm house to get their birth certificates and other personal items. Chris' brother stood on the back of the boat with a loaded shot gun while Chris steered the boat. It was not a good time to be in New Orleans.

Crazy, eh?

So that brought me to staying with Bri and Chris in their gotten-with-much-difficulty-because-they-were-white-students FEMA trailer. What an adventure. What an exercise in government waste, corruption and horrific management. Wow. The trailer park was chalk-full of brand new, empty trailers. They sat, chugging electricity, completely unused. Amazing. The ones that were in use often had a brand-new Escalade or some other ostentatious luxury car parked outside. You see, the families that lived in the trailers also receive(d) a monthly stipend. Families that were rebuilding homes down in the disaster zone would park their FEMA trailers on their land while "rebuilding" so they'd get their stipend. I say rebuilding with quote marks because by the time I got there, many of the houses were completely rebuilt (many were NOT) minus one wall that was covered in plastic. So long as the house remained unfinished, the stipend checks kept coming. And what about those lovely government officials who were appointed to inspect the homes in-progress? They gladly accepted bribes and checked on their survey sheet "unfinished."

Yah.

I grew up in a city in Northern California that is notorious for gang violence and also for generally being a "rough" city. Vallejo. Maybe you've heard of it?  I've traveled the world and narowly missed riots in Caracas, shootings in Panama and gang violence in Poland. I've never in all of my life felt as uncomfortable as I did spending one night in New Orleans. Martial law had the run of sections of the city. Tanks rolled through the streets and soldiers marched around with very large guns. Mind you, this was a YEAR after the hurricane. One whole year.

So while I was chatting with Bri in the FEMA trailer, she mentioned that she and Chris were actually moving the following weekend. Chris was finished with UNO) and while he was waiting for his Dental school acceptance they would be living in Bri's Mom's beach house near Pensacola. What a life! I was so excited that they'd still be near enough to me to visit. It turns out that Bri and Chris and that beach house (so really, Bri's Mom was a lifesaver too!) gave me a place to go and clear my head, get away from my crumbling career and the utter directionless-ness of my life at the time. I went there on the weekends. We ate and played in the sand and played with their little chihuahua Lilly. We took their boat out on the sound and watched the Dolphins jump and held Lilly out over the water to see if an Alligator or big fish would snap her up. It was such a fun time amidst the chaos of my life! And when I eventually quit my awful job, I spent a week in that house (Bri and Chris were in Indiana for the week), working on my resume and demo reel, applying for jobs and every day I'd go and walk on the beach for hours. I'd watch the pink and green sunsets and see large white cranes, starfish, soft-shelled crabs and jellyfish and enjoy the solace of that place.
...

And how does Bob Reily fit into this story, you ask? Well, driving from Mississippi to Pensacola takes you right through Alabama. And on that two-hour drive, just before the 'Sippi/'Bama border, I'd call up my Mama. And as I crossed the border, I'd read the sign (in a verrrry exaggerated, mock-southern accent) "Alah-Bayumuh da Beeeauteeful, Gub-eh-naw Bahb Riiilee" (sound it out). And Mom and I would laugh and chat for most of the remaining hour of the drive. That's where Governor Bob Reily comes into play.

...
So now, I'm headed back. My life has turned around 180 degrees. I'm not directionless. I have a lovely career (for which I am so very grateful!) and enjoy my life immensely. I have been very blessed.

White sandy beaches, amazing sunsets, sea kayaking and warm weather here I come. And I've decided to go to Hemmingway's in Pensacola for my birthday dinner. Yum! Good food, great ambiance and an amazing Key Lime dessert.

Hemmingway's Island Grill

See you in June, lovely Florida!