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Mystery at Avila Beach

25/4/2020

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In my last post we had just arrived in Avila Beach and made ourselves comfortable in the funky and characterful inn on the beach. Next day we set off in search of breakfast and a t-shirt.We strolled down the beachfront road beside a row of pretty pastel weatherboard buildings until we came to the Avila Grocery Store. There they advertised breakfast and real coffee – two things we’re very much in favour of. Munched on slightly leathery omelettes with toast and hash browns, refrained from buying the souvenir bags of ‘seal droppings’, and when finished, moved on to the next store to look for t-shirts.
The girl behind the counter chatted away in a friendly fashion, but answered our comments on what a lovely place Avila Beach was with a puzzling remark about how well the town was doing, considering. A middle-aged woman appeared from the back and gave the girl a stern look. We asked for more details, but the girl evaded our questions with a murmured comment. “Oh, there was something about the whole town being re-built recently – I don’t know why – I wasn’t here then.” The stern woman’s eyes narrowed as she watched us. Feeling slightly uncomfortable, we finished our purchasing and left. Now that we looked around more closely, the buildings did seem to be very well-presented, as if they had all been freshly painted quite recently. And there was quite a lot of building work going on a row or two back from the beach, with new motels and apartments going up in the centre of town.

We did a little research. Turns out Avila Beach had a very dirty secret. The petroleum company Unocal had a set of tanks atop a bluff above the town, and for many decades pumped fuel from there down through pipes beneath the town to the long pier jutting from the beach, where it was transferred to tankers and shipped away. In 1989, a resident digging in his basement struck oil where no oil should have been. Exploratory bores were drilled to find the extent of the leakage and found at least 400,000 gallons of gasoline, diesel, crude oil and other petrochemicals had soaked into the sandy soil beneath the town. The locals were much displeased and years of argument began. Nearly a decade later a group of environmentalists, along with the State Attorney General and San Luis Obispo County, sued Unocal on the relatively minor technicality that the waste oil threatened the water supply. In 1998 Unocal settled because the $200 million cost to clean up the spill was less than their $300 million liability.
The centre of town – CBD and six blocks of houses – was demolished and the contaminated soil was dug up and trucked away, replaced by clean sand. Houses and shops and hotels were all rebuilt, with 300 residents sharing in $18 million for the inconvenience and loss. Avila Beach became a shiny new holiday destination instead of the slightly shabby, funky village it had been before, and these days you’ll find no mention of the oil spill on the Visitor Information website. No wonder the woman in the shop had discouraged our curiosity.

After leaving her store we were distracted by the sight of a shiny red fire engine with a long red and white surfboard on top, parked outside a café where the guys from Engine 62 were grabbing a coffee.
“Those firemen must be real keen surfers,” Ed remarked.
“Yeah. I can just imagine. ‘Whoa, sorry about your house, dude, but there was a gnarly right point beach break out in the bay and we were carving in the corduroy, man. Your old lady got fried too? Bummer.’”
“Or perhaps it’s for rescue work.”
“Could be.”
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We went back to the hotel to pack up, having one last look around from the rooftop lounge area as the morning mist lifted from the town. Seeing the other two piers stretching invitingly in the distance, we drove along to investigate. The first one was closed off as private and commercial, owned by Unocal the oil company. The second had a fish market and restaurant, and was quite the tourist spot. Numerous RVs were set up in the car-park nearby, and the view of boats bobbing in the bay made it a great location. Even the chipmunks were friendly.

Our destination for the day was to aim north on the inland route to get a taste of the desert on our way back towards San Francisco. We retraced our steps to San Luis Obispo and struck out on relatively minor back roads past dry brown hills with the occasional field of oil derricks pecking like mechanical birds at the parched earth. The temperature rose steadily away from the coast, and before long we were almost missing the cool patches of fog from the previous day. Putting your hand above the windshield was like aiming a hairdryer at it, just a stream of hot dry air with no wind chill factor whatsoever. The sky was an empty, aching blue except for one defiant little rounded puff of cloud that seemed to keep station with us as we whizzed past miles of deep green grapevines. Right through this barren land, farmers were pumping enough water onto the soil to keep agriculture going in a place it had no business to be.

When thirst and hunger got the better of us, we took an exit that promised a small township with food, but we never found it. We drove along a side road that was signposted to the town, but it petered out in the distance ahead with no further sign of habitation. The only building we passed was a ramshackle box claiming to be “The Pit Stop”, with windows decorated with neon beer signs and a grubby white front door stained in a wide semicircle round the handle from the greasy hands of previous customers. You don’t get much closer to “the pits” than that, we decided, and scurried back to the highway.
Another exit took us to a Denny’s, not an establishment we would usually choose being averse to ‘family restaurants’, but this was a veritable haven of cool air and colder drinks. The condensation dripping down the tall glasses of cranberry juice seemed almost miraculous after the searing dryness outside.

Refreshed and refuelled, we pushed on up highway 25 towards Bitterwater and Pinnacles National Park. The guidebook had promised dramatic geological rock structures that sounded worth photographing, but apparently they were on the western side of the park, we were on the eastern side, and there was no connecting road. We drove to a passable viewpoint, took a few shots of distant pinnacles, and escaped again, saving the park entry fee. It was too hot to try walking anywhere. The viewing point did have a stainless steel drinking fountain, which boasted a label saying ‘non-freezing’. It was unimaginable to think of harsh winter temperatures on a day like that.

“It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity…no, it’s the heat,” joked Ed. I just sat in the car and panted.
Since we’d saved ourselves the time I’d allotted to tramping in the park, we decided to push on further north to give ourselves longer to explore Napa the next day. We launched ourselves back onto the main freeway at Gilroy and Ed put the foot down. Got as far as Fremont before the sun started to go down, and looked for the exit to get to a motel. A sign warning of the exit went by. “I’ll just get past these trucks first,” said Ed, sailing straight past the barely-marked exit ramp. He took the next turning instead hoping to get back, but instead we found ourselves circling round suburban streets that became increasingly scruffy and intimidating. After heading several miles away from the freeway we came to a better area, and I spied a Starbucks branch among a group of shops. We pulled in with as much relief as desert explorers at an oasis. With the help of large coffees and a free internet connection for the laptop, we figured out our position and located a place to stay at Pleasanton, just a little further down the road. Some of the motel options were interesting – the nearest Hyatt was located at the confluence of two freeways, three rail lines, and right next to an expanse of sewage ponds. Hmmm, tempting, but we settled for a cheaper Motel 6 instead.

It turned out to be a lucky choice, as the restaurant next door to it was also a comedy club, and we were able to enjoy a show along with our chicken salads. Dave Coulier (from the TV sitcom Full House) was headlining, and gave us an entertaining night. (For a mere $20 plus dinner.)
We made a calm, leisurely start the next morning at Pleasanton shopping mall, where another Starbucks branch provided the necessities of life. We found lots of entertaining stores, one with a stunning Halloween display taking up the size of a pool table where an entire model village whirred and flashed and moved and screamed. A green Frankenstein with an axe chased a fleeing princess, a skeleton rose from an open grave, Dracula mounted the steps of his castle, and ghostly white forms flitted among bare-branched trees. It was rather more tasteful than the dancing pig that sang the Macarena wearing pearls, sunglasses and a matching handbag.
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Ed’s favourite store was Brookstones, where he discovered a treasure trove of gadgets he’d never even dreamed of a need for, and wanted them all immediately. There was a TV remote the size of a shoebox lid that would never get lost. There was a handy dynamo torch that was also a radio, an emergency siren AND a phone charger. How could a guy go past that… unless to get to the barbecue accessories? Here the inventors had surpassed themselves. There was a revolving wire brush for clean-up, a clip-on light to see what you were cooking, and best of all, a pager device linked to a thermostat so that you could chat up a pretty girl anywhere at the party and your barbecue would page you when the food was ready. How cool was that? I dragged him away eventually with only a minor dent in our credit rating, and we hit the road.

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Our cool, calm start to the day was quickly wiped out by searing heat and frantic freeways, but we found our way north to Napa without problems. We even managed to find the right cash for the toll over the Benecia-Martinez bridge, which had come as a worrying surprise in the map’s very small print. 

Now we were ready for a spot of lunch in the ‘downtown historic buildings dating to the Gold Rush’ when we reached Napa town. We followed signs to ‘downtown’ for quite some time but then found ourselves leaving the place and heading out into the countryside again. Puzzled, we checked the rather vague map in the wine country guide and tried again, this time taking a left then another left to take us back the way we’d come. We saw a great deal of pleasant leafy suburbs, but nothing remotely like the town centre. So we took another left and found ourselves crossing a wide substantial river that wasn’t even marked on the utterly useless map. After more aimless wanderings, Ed had the intelligent thought that “First Street” might actually be in the original downtown area. Brilliant! Let’s try that! We retraced our steps past Fifth Street, Fourth street and so on, until we hit First, then drove along it, over the river, and found Main Street. Where there were indeed buildings of a picturesque and historic nature, many of which sold lunch. Hurrah!

We indulged in our favourite, an all-day breakfast, but with the added luxury of a glass of local wine. Well it would be rude not to, and after all that’s what we’d come to Napa for. Of course that left us slightly light-headed, so rather than drive straight off to a vineyard for more tastings we stopped off at a mall to sober up a bit. The Target store was well air-conditioned and very pleasant. While I was waiting for Ed to use the facilities, two guys came in and breathed in appreciatively. “Ooh, nice and cool – I’m staying here,” said one. “They don’t serve beer though,” said the other, and chided me when I laughed. “That’s not funny, that’s sad!”

We explored the store for their more unusual product lines, but both shuddered in horror at the mental picture invoked by the ‘3-pack of thongs, XXL size’.

A quick time check revealed that the day had gotten away from us and it was time to start heading back to San Francisco where the rental car was due for return at 5.30pm. We cheerfully bade farewell to the entire Napa Valley with a quick wave and drove the increasingly crowded highways back to the big city, through vineyards sparkling with silver foil bird-scarers. A sign flashed past saying something about a ‘glassy-winged sharpshooter’, which we’ve since found out is a leaf-hopper insect causing major problems in California’s citrus and viticulture industries. If I known that at the time I’d have been less likely to dive for cover when there was a tremendous bang in a field off to our left. Knowing it was just a bird-scarer and not a dangerous sharpshooter at large would have done much to improve my peace of mind.
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Suddenly we could see a glimpse of harbour with Alcatraz in the distance. Almost before we were ready for it, the tip of a red iron structure came into view behind a hill, and we scrambled for the exit to the Golden Gate Bridge park so we could stop for photos. Up on the exposed headland the wind was chilly, and we pulled on jackets that had been deeply packed away for the last few days. A few wisps of fog draped themselves artistically round the bridge pillars, then hurried out of the way so I could get a clear shot right across to the city as well. It was spectacular. I took a dozen shots until I was satisfied, then leaped to take still more as a red container ship obligingly sailed into shot on the rich blue water beneath the bridge. This was the view of San Francisco I’d been waiting for.


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Then we were driving over the bridge ourselves, and I snapped so many pictures it was practically a video. We paid the $5 toll at the city end, and successfully found our way back across the city exactly the way Ed had planned it on Google Earth.

With ten minutes to spare we arrived safely at the rental car office downtown and handed back the MX5. Later that night as we left the hotel for dinner, we passed the car parked all alone on the office forecourt, looking sad.

The hotel staff welcomed us back warmly and asked how our photography had gone. The concierge arranged a ride to the airport for us next morning, in between telling us how he planned to take his wife to Las Vegas for a birthday surprise. “She thinks we’re going to Monterey,” he confided. “She doesn’t like Monterey all that much so she’s not very excited – but she’s never been to Vegas and has always wanted to. It’s gonna be great!”

He recommended a couple of restaurants we could try for our last night in the city, and we chose Kuleto’s just a short walk away. The trip there was enlivened by some window shopping, particularly in a store selling netsuke items. An enormous oval piece in the centre of the window display drew our attention, featuring an elegant tracery of temples, trees, figures, and a cloud-laced moon. We gazed at it entranced for several minutes, then a shelf of miniature figurines in the front of the window caught my eye. “Are they doing what I think they’re doing?” They were indeed, in many varied positions and combinations that demonstrated extraordinary inventiveness and athleticism. It was with difficulty that we dragged ourselves away to find Kuleto’s.

It was a genuine Italian restaurant, so busy that the only seats were up at a bar overlooking the kitchen, but we were happy to be entertained by the cooking action especially when the chefs took a whole row of pans and flambéed them in series. The performance was more spectacular than the meals themselves, and for value for money it certainly didn’t beat Lori’s Diner where we had one last breakfast next morning before the very flash Lincoln town car took us out to the airport.
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So ended our brief flirtation with California, and haven’t times changed since then? I’d be happy to go back and explore further once the world settles down and there’s no longer a lunatic running the country there. I think next time we’ll go north, through Napa Valley again to do it more thoroughly, then up to the giant redwoods. Hey, Alaska’s on the same highway, isn’t it? Maybe we’ll just keep going.


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San Francisco and South - Part two

15/4/2020

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After the fun of Pier 39 and Sausalito, next morning it was time to leave the fleshpots of San Francisco to drive south along the coastal highway once we'd picked up our rental MX5. Ed meticulously worked out the best route from the rental car agency (which was conveniently just across the street) to get to the freeway out of the city, and as navigator I carefully noted the details. (This was before the days of Satnav and handy phones with Google Maps.)

We had a solid breakfast in Lori’s Diner next door – more lethal coffee, and oatmeal you could hang wallpaper with, served up with strawberries and raisins. Packed up our suitcases, which had been carefully checked for size against a friend’s MX5 to make sure they’d all fit into the boot, and strode confidently to the rental car agency, only to find a long queue stretching out of the door and down the street in a chilly wind. Waited for 45 minutes to reach the counter, only to be told that they didn’t have our car ready and would have to take us across town to pick it up, rendering our route plans obsolete in a stroke. Ed’s frown deepened and my stress levels went up accordingly. This wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped. Once we were taken to the car, Ed checked it grimly and loaded the cases into the boot. With some difficulty. The boot itself was the same size as the one we’d rehearsed with, but the opening to get stuff into it was much smaller. However with careful juggling and the cost of a broken watch-strap, he got it all in.

We set off with the rental guy’s instructions scrawled across the freeway map and threw ourselves into the maelstrom of traffic on the I-80 freeway.
“Where’s our exit?”
“Um, junction with I-280.”
“What? Speak louder, I can’t hear you!” snapped the driver.
“’K,” squeaked the navigator, clutching the grab handle for dear life as truck and trailer units hurtled past.

We have a code word for avoiding domestics while driving. If Ed’s speed or lane-changing makes me feel a little uncomfortable, I just flail my arms wildly and yell “Slow down you fool, you’ll kill us all!” But even that tactic failed us on the San Francisco freeway. With full concentration given to map-reading with my right eye (close-focus contact lens) and sign-reading with my left eye (long-distance contact lens), plus neck-swivelling to check for gaps in the traffic, I was too busy to remember to breathe, let alone scream.

Fortunately it wasn’t more than twenty minutes until the major freeways thundered off to the south and we were fired out like a cork from a bottle onto the exit for the coastal highway. Ed kept driving with grim intensity as pretty little towns flashed past with glimpses of pastel weatherboards and inviting cafes and rolling surf, but wouldn’t stop until there was a wide gravel area beside the highway where he could pull off with no distractions.

“Spectacular scenery,” I gasped, prising my numb fingers from the grab handle. We caught our respective breaths, took a few photos, and moved on in a slightly more relaxed state.

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From Pacifica onwards, highway 1 is a delightful drive very like NZ’s Kaikoura coast as the road runs along ridges and valleys while surf rolls in to the beaches below. California has the extra excitement of sea fog which can appear quite unexpectedly to add a misty romance to the harsh rocks and looming pines. Every few miles (yes, we’re in America here), the road dipped down into the billowy white fog for a while, then rose up to reveal sparkling vistas of sunlit hills and intensely blue ocean.
In another gravel area we pulled off for a photo-stop.
“Don’t Park. Don’t Hike. Don’t Climb,” said the signs. “Bollocks!” said the travellers, and plenty of other tourists were ignoring them too.

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We passed through several more quiet little coastal settlements – mostly low shacks, the occasional old car body in a yard, and once an actual genuine cur slinking at the side of the road.

At Half Moon Bay the level of civilisation jumped a bit – they had a Starbucks in the shopping centre. We sipped our beverages outside so we could keep an eye on the car, and a creepy-looking local kept an eye on us. Jest the one eye, mind, all he had.

Further on down the road a sign warned “Speed enforced by Aircraft.” Ed looked worried. He’d been reading about the Battle of Britain and feared imminent strafing.

We pulled into the outskirts of Monterey about 4pm, a little later than planned since the messing about at the rental agency had delayed our start till midday. The helpful lady at the information centre said it was lucky we hadn’t come last week as all the hotels had been very busy and expensive, but now there were vacancies and the rates were lower. Found a nice little motel up Munras Avenue where they’re pretty thick on the ground, and settled into a spacious room with two king-sized beds and a gas fireplace!
We should probably have visited the famous aquarium. Or at least an art gallery or two. But we didn’t. We sought comfort at the nearest mall, with the excuse that we needed to get Ed’s watch-strap fixed. Found a jewellery store straight away and were served by Murray, a delightful dark-eyed guy in a snappy suit who was very happy to chat to us.
“God it was SO hot here last week – bugs came in and everything, it was HORRIBLE!” He waved his arms in remembered panic. “You’re driving down the coast tomorrow? Oh I hope it’s great weather for you. Oh God if it’s foggy that road’s terrifying. You can’t go early, it’ll be foggy around 6, 7, 8 o’clock.”
We assured him that we don’t do 6am starts, more like 10am. He clasped his breast in joy. “Oh you’ll be fine! It’s such a fabulous drive – I go down to LA for my meetings and by the time I get there, wearing my sunglasses, I just feel SO cool!”
Such a lovely chap, he even waved away any offer of payment for fixing the watch-strap.
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Buoyed by such enthusiasm we ventured down to Cannery Row to find some dinner, despite the warnings in various guidebooks that the place is a real tourist trap and terribly busy and overpriced. Well chaps, the reason places are touristy is usually because they’re special, and the seafront restaurant we found on Cannery Row was definitely worth the gamble. Some so-called ‘water-front’ eateries just have a vague view towards a bit of ocean, but at The Fish Hopper, the waves were crashing onto rocks right below our table, practically splashing up at our feet. There was a clear acrylic screen from the railing to the floor to keep the breeze off, and a gas heater kept us cosy in the cooling evening air. The service was friendly, the food was good, and right on cue a huge golden moon slipped into the sky from behind a smoky range of hills across the bay. I was entranced. I hauled out the camera and attached the long lens, taking shot after shot as the lighting changed and sparkled across the silky water. 

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I looked back to the table in time to see Ed putting down a tall frosted glass and pulling a strange face.
“That tasted really awful,” he complained. “It was like vinegar.”
I looked harder at the table settings.
“Darling, you just drank from the candle holder.” Honestly, I can’t take him anywhere. Later, the waiter wondered why we laughed when he came along to light the damn thing.

Out in the bay a group of seals frolicked among the kelp, sinuously diving and rolling in the dusky pink water. A flock of small birds fluttered in to roost noisily in a palm tree nearby, chattering about their day.
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To round off the evening we found some dessert in the nearby Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory, where a vast array of goodies was displayed to tempt the sweet-toothed. We were lured in by the apples in the window. Not crisp green Granny Smiths – at least, not outwardly. These were chocolate-dipped, then dipped again, crusted with chopped nuts then drizzled with streams of dazzling white or golden caramel. Inside the store we found trays of chocolate-dipped pretzels, oreos, marshmallows, and graham crackers. There were skewers of chocolate-covered cherries, and fat golden caramel-coated pineapple rings. We managed to restrict ourselves to buying just a few choc-chip cookies, and escaped without adding too much to our body weights.
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Back at the hotel, we lit up the gas fire just for the romantic glow, but had to put it out when the room got too hot to breathe in. I used the remaining heat unromantically by drying the last of the laundry I’d done earlier.

Next morning we tracked down the dining room where a ‘free Continental breakfast’ was provided, and found a dazzling variety of morning nibbles. There were several families there eagerly tucking into cereals, fruit, juice, pastries, muffins, bagels, toast and waffles. It was self-service, though two women stood by behind the serving counter to assist patrons with any difficulties. It was an odd dynamic, as although the room was plainly a public space, people were making breakfast as if in their own kitchen at home – so there were no accepted rules of behaviour as in a normal restaurant. One harassed mother was talking to her husband on a cell phone, apparently being given instructions about what to bring him for breakfast. She apprised him of the options available and noted his choices, all the while dishing up food for herself and her little girl who was tagging along beside her. We all listened with varying degrees of disbelief as the demanding husband laid down his requirements, until the poor woman said “No, honey, I don’t think I can carry all that.” One of the serving ladies silently handed her a tray, to the relief of everyone in the room who had been imagining forming a human chain up to the woman’s motel room to pass along the supplies.

We made our 10am start, and found that the fog was indeed lifting in some areas, although we continued to plough through it at intervals along the highway. In between, we enjoyed the swooping curves of the road and glimpses of rugged coastline below us.
“Narrow bridge” warned a sign. “Narrow? That’s not narrow!” we scoffed.
Another sign flashed past. “Vista point.” I lifted the camera ready, and threw myself round in my seat to catch the view as Ed showed no sign of slowing down.
“Oh, did you want to stop?” he asked, a little too late.
“It did say ‘Vista point’, that could have been a clue,” I said mildly.
“Well I guess it’s ‘Hasta la Vista, baby’.”

Luckily hunger forced him to stop at Big Sur and we pulled eagerly into the car park of the River Inn – the first establishment we saw. This was another excellent find. There was a very attractive indoor dining room decorated with swathes of colourful material overhead, but beyond it was an even nicer area of sunlit outdoor dining. Several levels of decking were filled with tables and brightly-coloured sun umbrellas, overlooking a tree-lined river.
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We enjoyed a healthy salad each, and wondered how far the group of grey-haired Swedish bikers from ‘Old No 7’ club had ridden to get here. Down in the shallow river, groups of wooden chairs were set out in mid-stream offering refreshing relaxation amid the sparkling clear water while blue jays chattered in the branches overhead.

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Back on the road, we found ourselves driving along the edge of a new sea. A smooth layer of pure white mist stretched from just below the safety rail right across to the far horizon, broken only by an occasional tree or rocky headland on the shoreline. We turned off the highway to visit Julia Pfeiffer Burns Park, on the advice of the Lonely Planet Guide who said that the view of a waterfall onto the beach was worth the ten-minute walk. It was indeed, and I snapped away happily at the beautiful little cove with its utterly unspoiled beaches. The waterfall was more of a trickle, but perhaps it perks up after a bit of rain. One caveat though – watch out for stinging nettles and poison ivy which lurk in the undergrowth. I elbowed a plant aside to photograph a pretty little orange flower then realised my arm was stinging like crazy, and soon red nettle welts appeared that refused to die down even with the application of anti-histamine cream.
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My whining and moaning was silenced at last by a great cup of coffee at Ragged Point Espresso Bar, though I tried not to do the currency conversion to figure out it was costing me NZ $6.55. (Ha, we’ve paid more for less before! $12 for a tiny cup of cappuccino in Paris was probably the record.)
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Below, 
Julia Pfeiffer Burns Park
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We whizzed past the Hearst Mansion at San Simeon with no intention of visiting it. The Lonely Planet Guide and others had put us off with tales of long queues and guided tours, and besides, we’d seen dozens of photos of it before.

We passed through Cambria in the late afternoon. “Does this mean we’ve been pre-Cambrian up till now?” asked the navigator. The driver rolled his eyes.

The strip of coastal land widened out a little further on, and we stopped to look at a seal colony and some pelicans. Then the road took us inland and became a brief freeway again as we neared the city of San Luis Obispo set among dry hills and open valleys.
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San Luis Obispo was lovely in the late golden sun, though it didn’t quite match my expectations from descriptions in Sue Grafton’s books. We passed by, found the freeway exit for Avila Beach, and wound our way through gentle rolling hills dotted with trees until we reached the coast again, this time in a beautiful bay laced with long elegant piers. I had decided to visit Avila Beach solely because Avila is the middle name of most of the women in my family and I figured a t-shirt might be nice.

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We parked right beside the beach and had a look around, noting with some surprise the small yellow warning signs along the promenade that showed a picture of a shark and said that the last recorded shark fatality in the US had taken place right here at this very beach in 2003. The people frolicking in the waves didn’t seem to mind, but we did see a TV news crew setting up their gear from a mini-van across the car park. Had there been a sighting?
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From out on the main pier we could see the Inn at Avila Beach – the hotel I’d checked out online after reading rave reviews in the guide books. We headed straight there, liking the look of the smoky-pink three-storey building perched on a low cliff above the beach. Despite just walking in off the street we were able to get an ocean-front room for US$150, and the extra $50 over the cost of a standard room was worth the splurge for that view. Our eyes popped at the four-poster bed, the balcony with comfy sun-lounger, and the stunning expanse of rolling surf just a stone’s throw away across the road. Stacked on the bedside table were diaries of the room, with comments from everyone who had used it for the past few years. All the entries were glowing with satisfaction.

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We walked along the beach with the camera, photographing surfers and skim-boarders and a few hardy swimmers out on the waves, until the sun disappeared behind the hills and we went to find some dinner at the nearby Custom House restaurant. As there was a bit of a wait for a table, we were given a pager and invited to sit at the bar. Ed ducked back to the hotel to put on some warmer clothes while I waited at the sweep of polished wooden bar where locals were watching an array of wide-screen TVs. In a few minutes the pager went off, startling me as it buzzed loudly, flashed bright chase lights all around the edge, vibrated vigorously, then spoke to me! “Please return to the hostess as your table is now ready. Please return to the hostess as your table is now ready.” I sprang off my stool and hastened back to the desk so the noise could be shut off, and the hostess sighed. “Yeah honey, we get real sick of them too.” I asked her if the units could be programmed to say anything else, and left her looking thoughtful as she considered the possibilities. Our meals were excellent, both my chicken breast with baked potato and vegetables, and Ed’s chicken fettuccini. Even the half bottle of Avila Valley wine was perfect. We lolled back to the hotel, relaxed as newts, and let the ocean waves lull us to sleep.

Next morning the TV news revealed that there had been a serious shark attack on a swimmer the previous night at Monterey Bay, just up the coast where we’d stayed the night before. Now we understood the news crew’s presence – they’d probably been shooting footage of the site of the last fatal shark attack in the US, right here on this very beach. Gulp.

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Well hello, 2020. That escalated quickly!

8/4/2020

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Just when you think you have all your ducks in a row flying in a neat line up the rose-patterned wallpaper, along comes a wrecking ball and knocks most of the house down! Like the rest of the world we are reeling from the impact of Covid-19 and wondering how it will all shake out. While we wait to fnd out, I've been going through the archives and here's a little 'somethng I prepared earlier' to entertain you durng lockdown. It's the account of exploring San Francisco and our drive along the California coast back in 2007 in a Mazda MX5 convertible. Here's Part One.
Auckland to San Francisco
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​Sat 25th August 2007– leaving Auckland airport. Cheerful security people saying “I just have to pat you down with the wand, so if you’ll make like the happy starfish please… and I’ll take a look at that belt buckle, just to make sure it’s not a pot of honey.” I resist the urge to reply that I keep my honey pot a little further south.

Passport control guy wondered why we were taking such a circuitous route from San Francisco to London to Toronto. “Isn’t that a bit convoluted?” I sensibly refrain from telling him that the drug shipments were scheduled for pick-up in that order.

​In the departure lounge an elderly couple ask each other “How long does the flight take?”
“12 hours.”
“What are we going to do for 12 hours?”
I bite my tongue. Joining the Mile High Club might be the end of them.

Our travel companion in the aisle seat is a pleasant young guy heading home to the UK after a two week snowboarding holiday. He introduces himself and offers me his copy of the Guardian when he’s finished with it. He begins watching something weighty and artistic on his seatback entertainment screen, and I’m shamed into changing my choice from a no-brain American sitcom to something more slightly more erudite. The flight to San Francisco passes in a blur of eyeshades, ear-plugs, neck cushions, inflatable pillows, rugs and headphones.

US Customs officials seemed nicer than they used to be. There was hardly any shouting or barking – although one teenager had his camera taken away so that an official could delete all the shots he’d taken in the queue waiting for security clearance. Later a frazzled father wheeled a pushchair to the end of the line while his fractious two-year-old snapped random flash pictures on a digital camera. We could see dad would rather face security than risk taking the camera off the kid.

A pleasant official took our fingerprint scans and photographed us. “Got any food with you?”
“A couple of chocolate bars.”
“No beef jerky?”
Dude, we’re not American, we don’t travel with bits of dead cow to chew on.

Once we were shot out at the far end of the process, we looked around to find the BART station to get a train into the city. Figured out the ticket machine and fare zones and put in $5.10 each. Not too hard so far. The train pulled away with a sudden leap of speed, almost sending us in a screaming heap of legs and suitcases. They don’t call it the Bay Area Rapid Transit system for nothing. The station names are so discreet they’re almost invisible, but we figure out the sequence and are ready to alight at Powell, after an interesting ride through the suburbs. Even the poorest housing is painted in a variety of pastel shades, and has some attempt at individualisation in the design.
 
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Powell Station is a riot of light, colour and people. Coming up the steps to street level we found a kaleidoscope of flower sellers, flags, tourists and beggars under a brilliant sun. After the drabness of our New Zealand winter it was a welcome sight. We walked two blocks to the King George Hotel near Union Square and settled in. In our booking on Expedia I’d requested a room high up with a view as we’re keen photographers, and the friendly receptionist was happy to oblige. “If it’s too noisy for you at the front though you just let me know and we’ll put you at the back where it’s quieter.” She gave us maps to the city’s highlights and we went up to our room to rest and regroup.

​We walked to Union Square, passing beggars every few metres along the street and steadfastly ignoring them as we’d been told, though I did sneak a look at some of their grubby cardboard signs. “Need cash for alcohol research.” “Need $1, please help.” “From Minnesota, want to get home.” This last was from a fresh-faced youth quite unlike the rest of the shabby unkempt derelicts. He was sitting on a very flash-looking sleeping bag that might almost have paid for a bus ticket home.

Stepping from the crowded noisy street into the cool, calm interior of the Westfield San Francisco Centre was a dislocating cultural twist. Two steps from straggle-bearded men lying in the dust was a vast empire of a mall where giant spiral escalators carried shoppers past floors of designer boutiques to spacious mezzanines with pillars, palm trees and white leather couches. A soaring domed ceiling shed gentle light over the marble floors and shapely balustrades, though its calming influence didn’t work on a volatile Italian woman who was shouting and gesticulating at her pink-shirted partner right at the edge of the atrium. We waited a few minutes to see if either one pitched the other over the rail, but gave up when the tirade showed no sign of stopping.
The mall, aside from the fancy décor and escalators, seemed fairly standard. All the usual chain-stores were there, along with major department stores like Macy’s and Bloomingdales, but reactions from locals have been mixed since the centre opened in 2006. On yelp.com’s business site are comments like:
“The Westfield San Francisco Centre is the perfect icon of American culture. Everything is sparkling, new, glamorous. Inside, though, there is almost nothing I would want, nothing useful, nothing I need. I left empty-handed, and heavy-hearted.” (B.Kaye W)
 
“There is really no need for a mega-mall in San Francisco, is there? We're San Fran-f%#ing-cisco...small and quirky with an eccentric, eclectic, undefined fashion sense. SMALL AND QUIRKY, people! Yikes! I wore out my sneakers walking this friggin' place.” (Kristina R.)

 
We didn’t put much of a dent in our sneaker tread before escaping the rampant consumerism to wander round Union Square itself. There were artists displaying their wares, and Ed was very taken with some clever wire sculptures of naked figures. After perusing the rest of the display we decided to enjoy a quiet glass of wine at a café while the sun went down. As we approached the one vacant table after waiting a while, two American ladies pounced towards it from the other direction. ‘Are you from out-of-town?’ they asked, hoping that their visitor status would gain them the coveted space. We trumped them by announcing we’d just flown in from New Zealand that morning, so they graciously conceded and wished us a happy stay. Ed went to buy two glasses of wine but returned with an entire bottle, muttering ‘it just got too complicated.’ This was the man who was persuaded to pay US$10 for a shoe-shine on a previous trip and I suspect he emits some kind of ‘easy money’ signal to those prepared to take advantage of it.

The bottle was nestled in a swanky silver ice-bucket, but the extra chill wasn’t really needed as the wind picked up and the temperature dropped. One glass was enough, and we smuggled the bottle into the camera bag to take it past the ‘No alcohol past this point’ sign and back to the hotel.
We had dinner at the Café Mason next door to the hotel, where we sat in the window and tried to enjoy our meals while a beggar sat right outside holding his cup out for change. He didn’t do too badly, either, so we didn’t feel quite so guilty about ordering dessert. Just had to try the good old apple pie, being in the US of A and all. Wow, could they have made it any sweeter? Made from extra sweet apples (injected with sugar, perhaps?), a syrupy filling, sweet short pastry dusted with icing sugar, and then drizzled with a sticky caramel sauce. I looked around to see if an emergency dentist number was tacked up with the taxi cards by the payphone.

Later that night we watched from our hotel’s sixth-floor window as a woman in a wheelchair made quite good money opening the door to the multi-storey car-park opposite for late-night revellers going home.

Next morning was a Sunday, and the diner opposite the hotel was fairly jumping with early-morning patrons. A smiling waitress waved us in and seated us amid the bustle, but then spoiled the welcome by pouring us cups of American filter coffee. This is a curious substance bearing no resemblance to anything designed for ingestion by humans. Paint-stripper, perhaps. An all-purpose garden pest eliminator? A sheep and cattle drench? Even the addition of half a dozen tiny pots of ‘half and half’ and one of those pink sachets of sweetener that’s the equivalent of 14 teaspoons of sugar couldn’t make it pleasant to drink. No matter, the food was text-book ‘breakfast in America’ – eggs over easy, crispy bacon, whole-wheat toast and hash browns. With all the coffee you can(‘t) drink.

Well fortified for our day in the city, we strolled down to Powell Station and bought a Muni pass each for $11 that let us use any Muni transportation for the whole day, including the cable cars that cost $5 a trip. We joined the queue at the turnaround, and had a thoroughly entertaining ride down to Fisherman’s Wharf. The cable-car guy was a real character, passionate about his job and full of chatter all the way. “There are two rules”, he bellowed to embarking passengers. “Don’t lean out and don’t fall off!” Boisterous, strict, yet charming, he made sure his charges remained safe at all times. “LEFT SIDE, TUCK IT IN!” he shouted as another cable car passed by within touching distance. Then he was quietly chatting up a beautiful Italian girl beside him. “Where are you from? Italy?” He smiled into her eyes. “I have a room-mate from Milan… DON’T EVER GET ON A MOVING CAR!!!” Boy, this guy didn’t miss a thing. A chastened pedestrian scurried out of harm’s way to catch the next car.

​We rode through pretty streets of elegant houses, past shabbier areas with run-down stores, all the way down a steep hill with a brilliant view of the harbour with sailing boats and Alcatraz out in the distance. “Hold her hand, Sir! Take your elbow off the seat back!” Ed hurriedly complied, removing the arm that had snuck romantically around me. As we reached Fisherman’s Wharf the driver yelled “End of the line, folks. I love you all, now GET OFF!”

We did as we were told and joined the throngs of tourists wandering along the waterfront. Cheap souvenir shops jostled along one side while yachts and charter boats thronged the other, interspersed with cafés and restaurants selling mounds of crabs and other local seafood. Finally stumbling upon Pier 39, we sat down for a much-needed coffee and watched the people frequenting the hot dog stands, fruit barrows, bouncy trampolines and ice-cream stalls. Along the pier were numerous shops and restaurants (seafood, in every combination) and out towards the end a magician was entertaining the crowd with an act involving a pile of broken glass. Lured away by the sound of unusual barking, we found the famous seals who have taken over a number of the floating docks nearby. They are beloved by tourists who line up in their hundreds to photograph the brown slug-shaped animals, then reel back with cries of dismay as a gust of wind brings the stench along with the noise.
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At 2.15 we climbed aboard one of the little yellow and blue ferries that run to Sausalito ($9 each way) and zipped up our jackets against the chilly sea breeze. There were great views of the city and waterfront, and we passed close enough to Alcatraz and the Golden Gate bridge to get interesting photos. Sausalito was small and charming with just a couple of streets of shops and cafes, and an extensive yacht marina. We were struck by two signs, one greeting us with “Welcome to Sausalito, Nuclear-Free Zone” and the other with the less credible claim of “Cholesterol-Free Zone 1st US city.” The menus in the cafes and restaurants looked no healthier than over in the city, and there were the usual big piles of fries being consumed at all the tables around us when we had our lunch.

At 4.30 we queued for the ferry homewards, once the intrepid hordes of bridge cyclists had been loaded onboard ahead of us. I could only imagine the untangling that must happen at the other end when all the riders have to find their own bikes from among the carefully-piled ranks in the ferry saloon.

​The sun had burned away the last of the mist, and the views of the bridge and the city were spectacular. The Transamerica pyramid building stood out boldly, and we planned to take a closer look once back onshore. A quick trolley-bus ride along the Embarcadero took us along to Market Street where we hopped off near a pleasant green park. What I’d taken at first glance for picnicking families turned out to be vagrants, dotted in groups beneath the poplar trees with their sleeping bags, cardboard boxes, and ‘San Francisco Winnebagos’ – old shopping trolleys piled with nameless bundles of worldly goods.
The city’s commercial canyons were deserted on a Sunday, except for the ubiquitous Starbucks branches, two or three to a block. No traffic disturbed our neck-craning contemplation of the Pyramid building whose white apex speared a clear blue sky 260 metres above us. The architect, William Pereira, found his design wasn’t universally approved of when building started in 1969, and the growing erection was sometimes referred to as ‘Pereira’s Prick’. Now it’s an instantly-recognisable feature of the city skyline, its likeness proudly emblazoned on many a fridge magnet and tea-towel.

We found plenty such souvenirs at the brilliant 24-hour convenience and drugstore near the hotel. Where else could you find tartan luggage straps, imitation-cheese-flavoured soy nibbles or 4-day vaginal moisturisers any time of the day or night? We stocked up on cold drinks and camera batteries instead, but had the satisfaction of knowing their entire product range was there for the browsing any time we wanted.

We took another cable-car ride back to Pier 39 in search of a late dinner, hoping to find something by the waterfront that had a view of the city lights. A funky place called Wipeout Bar & Grill was still open, and served us with a great meal among all their surfing memorabilia. A classy joint – all their condiments were presented on the tables in 6-pack beer boxes. Ed had a juicy steak with prawns and I chose a huge salmon fillet on a crunchy salad. Not a French fry in sight.

A quick trolley-bus ride took us back to Fisherman’s Wharf to get the cable car home, though the driver wasn’t as entertaining this time. At least, not knowingly. I nudged Ed at one point to show him a sign for an all-nude male review, just as the driver called the next stop. “Nob Hill!” Oh, how we laughed. Our faces were still red as we reached our hotel room, but that was from sunburn. We’d forgotten, layered up as we were in jerseys and jackets for the day, that it was still mid-summer in San Francisco and we should have put on sunscreen. Oh well.

Next morning it was time to leave the fleshpots of San Francisco to drive south along the coastal highway in our rental MX5.

To be continued...
Call back next week!

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