I've never been much of a driver. Sure, I had to do it growing up in Maryland – I still have my Maryland driver's license, and here's a boast: perfect score on the driving test, first time out. Screwed up one question on the written exam: Do you accelerate a curve or once you're in it; apparently you accelerate before you get into the curve, which only seems to make sense when you're on the road itself. (Side note: My mom always told a story about my wacky Aunt Beatrice, who answered the question on her written test: "How fast do you go over railroad tracks" (answer: 15mph) with "As fast as possible so you don't get hit by the train.") Anyway, I can drive, I just don't do it much. Other than moving to New York from Boston post-Nor'Easter (another story altogether), the longest drive I'd ever done personally was from Boston to Newport, Rhode Island during college to interview Kristin Hersh. Halfway back I had to pull off for a soda because I was getting sleepy. (Hint: You need a break if you start thinking, as you tool down the highway at 60mph, "I could just close my eyes for a second, what could it hurt?") The drive was less than two hours. Clearly, I was not up for long distance.

 Yet I really got it in my head to drive the Pacific Coast Highway some time ago. I couldn't very well get lost – it was all Route One – it was supposed to be super scenic, and I could go see Shelter Cove, which was north of San Francisco, rhapsodized in one of my favorite songs, "The Lost Coast" by Grey Eye Glances. So that became the plan: I could visit some friends along the route, conquer Route One (which everyone warned me was very twisty and windy but beautiful) and get over my lack of driving stamina, all at the same time. Plus, I'd end up with some neato photos. Sure, it would have been fun to go with a main squeeze, but frankly over a 10 day period, there are very few people I would want to hang out with. I wouldn't want people to be subjected to me over a 10 day period, either. It made getting photos of myself a bit more challenging, but most people are fine with it when you ask. 

 I landed late on Friday night in Los Angeles, where initially I was going to stay overnight, then rent the car at the airport the next day, but my friend Joey (who I'd dated briefly in Boston and who was now working within the industry; his wife Jen does casting for kids) had insisted I couldn't possibly do that and invited me to stay over at his and Jen's place, then rent the car from nearby them in Burbank the next day. That made life a little easier and cheaper, and I was fine with it. Joey's a cool guy – a bit frenetic; I think he's still on Ritalin as an adult – and clearly there's still energy between us, but his being married is a big deal, so I leave that all alone. (He had come out with Jen to the upfronts in New York the previous week and sneaked me into the CBS ones, so we got to joke about how cosmopolitan we were – "see you on the Coast next week!" and as we wound through the groups of snacking and schmoozing marketing yo-yos and various B-list actors he would grab my hand and squeeze. I promised I'd be his second wife someday, and that was about all we said about any of that.) So I stayed there overnight, checked my email on his T-1 line the next morning and learned to my amazement that the show I cover, One Life To Live, had won the Emmy for Best Show. Naturally, I'd missed that, being already on vacation, and I was sorely disappointed. Still, it's not like I'd get any of that deflected spotlight, so they may as well have won it whether I was there or not. Still, I was inordinately pleased and emailed the Princess immediately.

 To my surprise and shock, all went well renting the car – I'd asked for the smallest one they had, because what do I care, so long as it had a CD player – and ended up with a 4-door Dodge Neon. Silver, even. CD player, indeed. Joey and Jen drove me out to the road which would lead towards Route One and we said our farewells. And then I was off. A little panicky at first – I mean, it all made sense, I would just get to Route One and turn right – north – and that'd be it, but the start of something new is always full of equal amounts anxiety and anticipation. The canyon road they put me on was very twisty and windy, just a preview of things to come, and I passed by lots of expensive homes, tried not to drive off the road and observe the fabulous view at the same time, noted a lot of interesting hippie-esque shops and stores that had sprung up just off the side of the road. When the canyon road ended, there it was – the ocean and Route One. I had to get out and take a look, just to see. Arrival at the ocean is always a big deal for me – there's something about that much water, that much empty space and that much power that deserves if not literal then at least mental genuflection. After a quick look at the antique furniture store at the corner I had pulled into, I hit reverse and nearly ran into someone. Idiot. Me, that is. I took it a bit easier, slipped into Route One and there I was, going on the Pacific Coast Highway. 

 The goal was San Luis Obispo, and while some had said it would take three hours, others said five, and that sounded like a lot to me. I was afraid after two hours or less I'd need a soda or something. Or my foot would be crampy. Or I'd be bored. Instead, it all went by fast and slow at the same time. Initially there was traffic as I made it through Malibu and Pacific Palisades – the towns hugged the road at that point – but once I got beyond that area the sun came out and the drive opened up and I could really make good speed. The road in most places was two lanes but eventually would squeeze into just one in each direction, which meant you either had to keep up speed with experienced locals or be prepared to hit the "turnouts" frequently. I decided to evolve, rather than constantly hang back. 
 

Santa Barbara loomed after not too long, and I'd heard so much about it – and it was the name of a soap, after all – I decided it was worth spending an hour or so, getting some lunch, what have you. I pulled off and headed towards whatever looked vaguely touristy, which ended me up on this long rickety pier. You drove on one side, and foot traffic had to keep to the sidewalk. As I trundled over the planks clearly were bobbling up and down underneath me; I had visions of Tom Cruise's car sinking in Risky Business. But I found a place where they valet parked, got a really nice lunch of fish and chips (there is no diet on a vacation) and ate outside while staring at the southern coastline.

The gulls were apparently very accustomed to customers sitting outside, eating, and one big fat one came up and perched next to me. I made him wait until I'd finished, then offered a fry; a few more came closer and I hand-fed a few more. When I looked up and around I was being observed and said, "I feel like Tippi Hedren." Then did a little shopping – magnets for mom and Buddie – took a few photos and headed down the pier towards an arts and crafts sidewalk sale that was going on. Didn't buy anything, but saw some lovely examples of creativity, including a few very nice vases. The weather was so beautiful and cool it was hard to decide to leave, but again, I didn't know how long San Luis Obispo would be, so I went back to the car.

On the way, I peered over the side of the pier and saw this guy tented out on the beach, making this elaborate design in the sand. He had a Batman symbol, a Spider Man symbol, a buried bucket with water which people had used as a wishing fountain, albums and Frank Sinatra record covers, shells and various other bits and pieces scattered in an artistic way. I passed by a homeless guy asking for money and got an idea. Although it's one of my "Ignorant But Seemingly Logical" theories, I've always thought if I lost everything and was homeless, I'd head straight for California. If you've got to live outside, Santa Barbara is not a bad place to do it, in my opinion. Anyway, en route I had made a brief turn on to the 101 when construction made things confusing, and I drove towards Oxnard, stopping on the side of the road to buy enormous oranges and a bunch of strawberries and cherries. It was the first time I'd bought fruit literally from the pickers – passing through Oxnard and its "Strawberry Festival" you could see the migrant workers in the fields. That's real work. My back ached with them. So now, here in Santa Barbara, I had more strawberries than I could possibly eat before they went bad, so I got a carton of them, put it in a brown paper bag with an extra candy bar and handed it to the homeless man, then headed out of town.

The rest of the drive wasn't too spectacular, but I made excellent time heading for SLO, then thanks to also wonderful directions, found the Madonna Inn without any effort at all – having an exit called Madonna Road helps tremendously. The Madonna Inn is a little pricey, but worth it: Every room is done up in some other form of kitsch. I was attracted to the idea of a waterfall shower, so I signed up for the Rocky Mountain Room. 

This may be the first and only time I've ever taken a picture of a toilet, but it gives a sense of the room. (The other picture is not mine; it's from the gratis postcard you get of your own room.) The whole place has a weird amusement park-meets 70s-swinger feel, but I liked it and it was a nice respite from a day of driving. Which, when I looked back on it, hadn't been so bad after all. Thanks to Jen's suggestion, I tracked down a truly excellent restaurant in SLO – the Apple Barn or some such – which had fabulous quiche and an amazing apple cobbler and cornbread. Best meal I think I ate while I was on the road. I tooled around SLO a bit, considered going to see the new Star Wars picture, but still felt a little skittish with the car, and parking, and getting back to the Inn later on, so I gave it up. Still, the reason I'd considered it was SLO had one of those great, old-fashioned movie theaters with the marquee and the box office standing in a solo booth right out front. That was reason enough to go, but I chickened out and went back to Madonna, where I watched the SoapNet recaps of who won the Emmys, wrote some postcards and crashed out. Initially at home I had considered that this would be a trip where I could always find a hotel bar and maybe go sit down there with a book and get a drink like a real adult, even listen to a bad piano player and get hit on if I was lucky, but that felt like too much effort. I wasn't in the mood to be a sleazy adult on the road. So I went to sleep.

a fur piece outside the rocky mountain room

outside the rocky mountain room

 
 
 
 

I didn't have far to drive the next day, but this was on purpose – I wanted to do Hearst Castle. William Randolph Hearst, while ruling the newspaper world at the turn of the century, he of the Citizen Kane fame (loosely based) built his "Xanadu" in San Simeon. It's not visible from the PCH, but after you turn into a big parking lot and get your tickets (there are four tours) and see a movie about the man's life and stand in line and get in a shuttle bus which drives you up a (long, windy) road five miles uphill, then it is quite visible. Enormous. Gorgeous and gaudy at the same time.  I sure wished I had been alive at the time and found a way to finagle an invite. Imagine that place being your weekend retreat. Apparently every time Cary Grant came to visit, he stayed in a different bedroom. They have several guest cottages, the main house, an indoor and outdoor pool -- all elaborately and ornately designed. He poached from all over Europe and brought it to his home, then built it all to fit. There's a Roman tiled front entrance you're not allowed to walk on; he's got Flemish here, Dutch here, French there. Tapestries covering walls, cheap department store furniture in the bedroom. "That's the cottage David Niven preferred when he visited," said the tour guide. No photos with flash inside or out. (That's why I have no inside photos.) And after we'd been there about fifteen minutes, the fog rolled in. Literally. You could stare at a tree and a few minutes later it'd be gone. I felt like I was in Stephen King's "The Mist." And it got cold, too – I was buttoning up my slight jeans jacket and enjoying the inside tour a lot more (hence the grim look on my face). But the pools! It was all I could do to keep from "falling" in – the chlorine smell begged me to come and take a dip, but no, that's not allowed. I was torn in my thoughts: Isn't it incredibly tacky to mix centuries and styles of European art? But more importantly, once you get beyond the enormity of it all, the cost keeps popping up. And I can't help but think: What a big old waste. I mean, it's nice to look at, but couldn't that money have been spent somewhere, anywhere else? Yeah, the Hearsts did do philanthropy ... but this house – all you can think of is how it could have enriched so many peoples' lives, and never will unless they pony up money to go visit.

one of the several entrances hairway to steven if you want your picture,  get it after the tour.  but you have to get your  picture taken: security.

 

indoor pool! diving balcony on r.

I doubled back a bit after Hearst to get to the Best Western hotel and pulled off to a marked Vista point. With all of the fog it wasn't much of a view, but the squirrels – or whatever they were – came right up to you. They seemed to live in the side of the cliff, like prairie dogs, but had slightly bushy, long tails like squirrels. Still don't know what they were. But that was my first real view of the raw coast, up close. It felt like England. I was going to be very upset if the weather was like this for the whole trip. The BW hotel was pretty neat, actually – they set up wood burning fires along the coast so you could sit down there and watch the sun set, but the fog made that impossible. Still, I got a wood burning fireplace in my room, all stoked up and ready to be lit, so I fired it up and watched the end of Survivor. Kathy lost! Still, my character lasted nearly everyone else out and should have won. I felt good about that. And yeah, my adult sleaze routine in the bar – again, decided that was dumb. Had to get up and drive in the morning!

What they say is true, whoever they are: the best stuff on any trip is the unplanned moments. I'm all for scheduling: Unless you have all the money and all the time in the world, playing things entirely by ear does not rock my world. But leaving time and curiosity for peeping around the corners of things can make up for being aware that you really need to get off this twisty, windy, endless brown road before dark hits because there are no streetlights and it's a long way down that cliff. So I hit the road relatively early – breakfast in both the Madonna Inn and at the BW in San Simeon consisted of my Oxnard fruit, washed and peeled and consumed in large quantities, such luxury! – which meant I could take off fast and easy. I regretted not using the pool or the hot tub (pool was heated) but every time I thought of going out in the cold to get in the warm, these doofy people were laughing it up and screaming at each other, which did not lend to a restful hot tub experience. So I held off. Plus, total strangers should not be subjected to my body in a swimsuit. But off I went, and the sun was clearly trying to cut through the horrid clouds, and I began to hope that things might improve. At a "vista point" – the rotten luck of driving north on Highway One is all of the places worth turning off into are on the left, precipitating a cross-lane turn, and some of those bends in the road make it challenging to consider the left you have to make to get back in the right lane – I decided to chance it and get some nice coastal shots, despite the iffy weather. 

I didn't want to wait for the sun, which might never come, and end up with no romantic coastal shots. So I pulled off into this cleared-out parking lot area, where a few people were admiring the view, and as I exited I heard this strange noise, somewhere between a major burp and water gurgling down the drain. So I took a peek and ... found down the cliff a bit and lining the beach as far as my eye could see these enormous mounds of blubber with eyes and whiskers – elephant seals. It's a little hard to get a grip on nature outside a zoo; sure, you see squirrels and fish and maybe deer, but this is like National Geographic nature, and the idea that they were right there and nobody was putting a glass wall between us killed me. I couldn't stop watching them. Most were clumped in a corner of the beach, lying on one another (presumably for warmth). The small sign posted nearby which warned us to keep away indicated that females molt in the spring; males in the fall, which explained the few seals who seemed to be peeling some kind of velvet skin off. They sometimes made that burp/gurgle throaty call to one another, but largely were quiet. Most slept, but a few ambitious ones were mock-fighting (see picture where two are rearing up against each other) and occasionally one would slowly, with great effort, hump his or her way to the sea. That was the best way to describe it: They'd roll their entire body in a great wave, then again, then again, then rest. Rest, rest rest. Hump, hump, hump. Rest, rest rest. It took ages. Eventually, they hit the water, where presumably they're all ballerinas. What a find! I regretted leaving, but other left-turning vistas and Big Sur – with Carmel-By-The-Sea called.

I seem to recall when Big Sur happened. Until this point, the road was pretty much awesomely similar, as Route One followed very closely along the coastline, never too far from the ocean, sometimes almost on top of it. But I came to a long, straight stretch right out of the opening of Thelma & Louise, where if you kept driving straight forever you'd run right into a mountain. Well, Route One didn't let you do that; eventually you began to hug the mountain, which meant alternating sections of trees, trees, trees and rock, rock rock. (The signs indicating "rock slide area" did not comfort me in the least.) I had been warned back at the BW to get gas in town there, since they charged a lot of money once you got more remote per gallon, and damned if they weren't right – when I pulled off for a pee in Gorda, CA, gas was about $3 a gallon. (The picture, by the way, is another stolen image from a postcard.) That's pretty much what Big Sur looked like, high green hills and a big drop-off to the ocean. And the sun was coming out, which made the drive that much more pleasant and lovely. I don't like driving with the A/C, so the window hung open and I got beautiful scents of pine and salt water and a little exhaust. Popped in my CDs – I brought Bryan Ferry, Madonna, Pet Shop Boys (for San Francisco, natch), Grey Eye Glances (for Shelter Cove) and one or two others; I think Bryan was carrying me through this part of the world. I picked up a map at a small arts and crafts (expensive stuff, not like popsicle sticks) store right off the road, and peeked in at the Henry Miller originals they had hanging on the walls. Who knew the author and general sex fiend was also a painter? They had his works hanging with Chagall prints, and I was tempted – yes I was – but I'm not in the market for art yet. Furniture, yes, art, no.

I didn't know at that point that Henry had spent his latter years in Big Sur, but I was about to find out a lot more about him, because after the quick stop at the art gallery (where I picked up a map that highlighted the local hot spots) I came across the Henry Miller Memorial Library, which as the photos make obvious, could do with a grant from the Smithsonian. 

Still, it was nice – after a walk through the gate and down a wooded path, I came across various artworks by other artists (sculptures, modern stuff) outside, and paused briefly inside. Lots of Miller books and etc. to purchase; the inside of the small house was lined with posters from movies made of his work, and a typewriter or two with missing keys sat on a few tables. According to the guy who runs the place, Miller used to dispose of his typewriters by hurling them off of a particular cliff; the hippies who moved to the area in the 60s found out about this and started retrieving them.

may the road rise to meet you,  'cause if it don't, kiss your dodge neon ass goodbye

And then on! I had been informed that a restaurant called Nepenthe was expensive but had great views, so I popped in there for lunch. It was gray again, and the views were mostly of trees and a little coastline, so I remained unimpressed, but the sandwich and fries  were good. The birds there had obviously gotten used to customers, too – there was one unusual one called a stellar jay which was particularly persistent; then I realized there were many of them. I'd seen a stellar jay – they're dark black and blue iridescent with a little crown like a woodpecker – in the Miller museum yard, too; totally tame and waiting to be fed. So were these; it was funnier, though, than the gulls – I'd set a fry or something on the corner of my outdoor bench and a few seconds later one would swoop in and – blam! It was gone. I did a little shopping in the attached store – mostly stuff I'd seen before, but a nice rest after lunch – and back on the road again.

I made excellent time getting to Carmel. Route One rather dips inland for a bit, passing by the Monterey penninsula, so if you want to see Carmel-By-The-Sea, which is the proper (if pretentious) name for it, you have to make a left at the Carmel Mission and start following signs. But it's an easy drive through streets lined with closely-packed houses, then you're in the main town itself. But before I did that, I checked into the Carmel Mission hotel across from the big intersection. This was both the best and the worst of the hotels – it had free Internet service, of which I availed myself the next morning – but it also came with a resident homeless guy, which made me a bit nervous. I was walking down the common staircase and smelled an odd, ripe odor which I figured was either a guest who'd been on the road too long or a service guy; didn't see anything. When I went back I discovered the source of the odor: A homeless guy was changing his shoes. He didn't growl at me, so I felt mean by letting the front desk know, but the thing is I'm a single chick alone in an unfamiliar city. It was a security thing. So, bad karma for the homeless thing, but good news in that I can go another day without fear of assault. There are trade offs. Anyway, I checked in and realized there was tons of time to do something else, so I tooled around a bit of Carmel. Walked into Doris Day's inn, a place which allows for pets (natch). Nice place, tasteful and has several small movie posters of her career up on the walls. (Who thought you'd ever put Henry Miller and Doris Day in the same thought pattern?) I also ended up in a store that sold upscale furniture, but upscale in a homemade, used look way – and found the entertainment center/armoire I'd been looking for. It was tremendous, a bit honking (at least seven feet) cabinet made of old barn wood; the double front doors came from some kind of Mexican barn or something and had little windows which were framed with metal hinges. There was tons of space for a TV and several components and the back had circles cut out for the wires. And it was less than a thousand bucks, which yes, is a lot, but for what I'm looking for – no, it wasn't. And they'd ship, too, for a couple hundred more. But as with any big purchase, I have to go away and think about it, but I felt fairly secure: She said it had been there for ages and was reduced; it was also tucked away down a side hall that wasn't immediately obvious. So I left. I checked out some of the rest of Carmel, walking the streets, adoring the small shops and cuteness of it – it really was a town made for me. If I could afford it, that's where I'd like to move. But I bet it's way expensive. 
 
 

I headed back out of town and stopped in the Carmel Mission for the last hour or so before it closed. I'd never been in a Mission before; California is very different from the Colonial East Coast, where everything tends to be veddy British/Irish/Anglo in theme and descent. Names like San Simeon and San Luis Obispo are so familir that you forget they're Spanish, and that these places were set up to create a safe harbor for the Spaniards. Apparently there's a school attached to the museum part of the mission, and I could only imagine going to school there. How cool would that be? The whole place was self-enclosed, with the church at one corner and the big plaza area dominating the center, a non-working fountain in the center. I felt as if I was in the desert all at once. Or a Depeche Mode video. The trees and plantlife were just this much wild, danging and swaying, giving it an abandoned feel, though recently so. The small graveyard featured a stone which insisted someone who rested under it had lived to the improbable age of 151.

I wandered all around, snapping photos everywhere, admiring the architecture as well as the place itself – the window photo I took really struck me as something gorgeous; I'm not sure why it's a little off-balance. If I still did pastel pictures, I'd want to draw it. The picture where I'm sitting on the bench leads down a long hallway and curves off to the right – the classrooms are behind doors down those halls. After a self-guided, largely solo tour (it was wonderfully uncrowded, so I could have a chance to think) I headed back to the hotel, dressed for dinner and drove into Carmel again, refusing to be denied another sunset. It was freezing, but I got it, then drove to an Italian place for some mediocre pasta. Went back to the hotel, again considered being a barfly, and again rejected it. There was Carmel, and Monterey in the morning, and I didn't want to miss a thing.