A Moveable Target - Kit’s Version

I realize that I left you all with a giant, “But what happened?” after my recent post so let me try and fill you in.

When I last wrote, I was at El Capitan State Beach where the wind had just blown Wurzig’s door into the back of my legs causing me to spill drinking water down my shirt.  That, after my lovely morning in the campground shower.  I am happy to say, life has turned around nicely since then.

As usual, I came to enjoy my spot at El Capitan:  The pitch was at the top of a hill, Beagle’s nose faced south-west down the coastline and the front door opened to a grassy field drawing your eye out to the sparkling ocean.  It was delightful.  The campground was almost empty and so on Day 2 I cranked up the music while doing the dishes.  When Uptown Funk came on, I took my speaker outside and danced for the squirrels and dolphins atop the sun-filled grass, cooled by the ocean breeze.

Being gone only two nights I had plenty of water for a shower at the end of Day 2.  I heated up the hot water and, when finished with the dishes, climbed into Beagle’s shower.  After the campground showers, it is nice to climb into Beagle's; although small, it is perfectly clean and when I step out I am stepping onto my cute navy bathmat and not some barely-clean (if you are lucky) tile  floor.  So I was well prepared for an enjoyable experience.  Even enough water to shave my legs (and you know how important that is to me.)

So I hopped in, washed my hair and began to shave my legs.  Decided I should start with the opposite leg than the other day.  That proved wise as I had only completed one when, yep, I ran out of hot water.  (I had forgotten that I had run it while doing the dishes.)

And so, to answer your burning question, that is how my other leg came to be shaved.

***

After my nights in El Capitan, I pulled Beagle up to El Charro, a county park outside of San Luis Obispo, and into a full hook up site.  I took everything out of Beagle, vacuumed, washed, cleaned, felt like a new person, and then moved the following day back to my dry pitch (no hook ups) at Morro Bay State Park. 

Here Beagle sat alone for two nights while the noses and I enjoyed the Skyview Motel in Los Alamos where I took at least five token-free showers.  If you are ever in the area, make a trip to stay there:  You feel like a movie star walking around it is so low-profile elegant.  A delightful place to stay and, if in town, visit Bob’s Well Bread Bakery where you will likely meet Bob himself working the register.  I went there three times in one day; after the first time, with a twinkle in his eye, he refused to turn the terminal toward me, thwarting my ability to leave a tip.  People like that make life fun and a mere twenty-four hours later I met two more.

Two nights in a hotel was just what I needed and I was happy as can be driving back up into Morro Bay.  As I saw the Highway 1 sign directing me off the 101, I had an overwhelming feeling of coming home.  I drove to my favorite coffee place, and thought, “This could be my coffee place.”  Almond latte in hand, I headed to the dog park so Opus and River could run; they are great hotel dogs, but didn’t get a lot of exercise so I knew they needed some freedom to race.

While at the dog park I felt the calendar alarm buzz on my phone and looked down; a reminder of an open house.  About a week ago while hiking along the coast (picture above) I thought to myself, Who in their right mind wouldn't live here if they possibly could?  Maybe I should see what houses cost.  

That day, a week ago, I did a preliminary run through Zillow.  Knowing that I was headed out of town for a few days, I felt safe from any kind of impulsive purchase.  Surprisingly, Zillow showed a few houses that I could afford but one that jumped out at me:  Angular Frank Lloyd Wright-ish, cerulean blue, fenced yard, parking for Beagle, open house on the 18th; the event to which my calendar was directing me.

Gathering the noses, I drove the one mile and parked at the curb.  It started at 11:00, I drove up at 11:10 and knew it was my home before I walked in.   

The house was for sale by owner and, when I entered, there was one man talking to a lady; I had no idea who was who so just introduced myself to them both.  Turns out Kat was the owner’s daughter (and running the sale) and Tim was my competition.

Finally, finally, Tim left and it was just Kat and myself.  Then a cat walked through the room.

               “If you are Kat, then what is the cat’s name?”

               “Oh, that is Kiki”, Kat replied, then, pushing her palms up toward the ceiling (like the old-school raising the roof dance) she said, “Kit, Kat and Kiki in the house!”

I trusted her implicitly at that point, five minutes later we had negotiated a price.

During our earlier conversation she had learned of my travels in Beagle and, as we were working on dates for closing, she said, “Why don’t you just pull Beagle into the backyard and use the efficiency apartment while we are going through escrow?  The dogs will love the yard.”

I have said it before but my life reads better than any fiction I could write.  Plus, if this were fiction, my editor would draw a thin red line under that last paragraph, continuing the line out to a note in the margin:  Too obvious.  Unbelievable to the reader.

The reader would not be alone; it was unbelievable to me as well.  I had to pinch myself all day and walked through Morro with a shit-eating grin on my face.  We met at 4:30 for wine and document signing and I was able to meet Darlene, the owner, who is selling her precious home of thirty years so she can move closer to Kat in Oregon.  

When I walked into the house, Darlene said, “Welcome home.”

Excuse me, I am going to get a Kleenex.

The three of us shared wine and snacks then walked to the beach for the sunset.  Upon our return, Darlene and I sat on the front patio. 

               “Darlene, I promise I will take good care of your house.  I adore it.”

               “I know you will,” she replied with tears in her eyes, “I told Kat that price doesn’t matter, I want someone who will love the house like I do.”

It is a good thing price didn’t matter because they were offered more money all day long. 

The three of us met last night at a bar to hear a local band and, as they took turns telling me about all the places to visit, they would say, “Just go out your front door, turn left…”, or “It’s about two miles from your house.” 

Geez, I need another Kleenex. 

That really catches you up now:  Both legs shaved and house purchased.  I am headed to San Diego (with noses and without Beagle) for Christmas and then will move Beagle into my soon-to-be new backyard on December 28^th.     Full possession happens the end of January.

-K

PS:  Stay tuned for Opus’ version of A Moveable Target

The Violet Nebula

“I am the most popular person in California!” exclaimed a friend of mine upon returning from her trip and I know what she means.  If you are from Seattle where the default upon meeting someone in the street is to stare right past them, the welcoming smiles and hearty “Good Morning’s” of California are addictive.   I find myself opening up to people easier and, this past week, my social calendar was more full than it has been for months.  OK, maybe years. 

Common in these encounters is the nebula between Fate and Free Will.  I think of it as the Violet Nebula because everything should have a color.  I believe you have a giant rock of Fate on one side and a giant rock of Free Will on the other and what lies in between, colored in a beautiful violet, is your life. 

I have mentioned my favorite Sartre quote before but it wasn’t until this week that I thought of it differently; I had thought when he said, “Freedom is what you do with what’s been done to you”, that he was thinking of a negative thing happening to you.   Frankly, I find it odd that my first impression was to assume it was negative, being the generally positive person I am (you know, unless I am in a shower with one leg shaved and time running out.)  The thing being done to you could just as easily be a positive experience—you still have the same freedom to do.  If you choose.   

And so last week I chose.  Not just once, but twice in the last week, fate dropped pleasant experiences in my path and I chose to, as best I could, freely accept them.

The first occurred at a dog park:  I was heading out to find tennis people and, at the last minute, decided to bring the noses as the courts were adjacent to a dog park.  I was early for the tennis group so we entered the park and began the usual romp.

As luck would have it, there was a puppy there.  Always a delight to be able to play with a puppy, Opus and I were thrilled.  She is a sweet six-month Golden Doodle, but black so I assumed she was a Portuguese Water Dog.  Her nice owner corrected me and thus began the usual California social chat.

The first thing I noticed about the puppy's owner was his glasses:  Cool frame, transition lenses.  You know me, I like to be able to see people’s eyes and you can just make them out through transition lenses.   The second thing I noticed was no wedding ring but there was one on his friend’s hand.  They seemed quite close so I hung back a bit, assuming they were there together and trying to have a conversation.   From afar I noticed his big city, effortless kind of sophistication.  You just don’t see that in a dog park every day. 

Eventually it was time for me to leave and find my tennis people.  So I said my goodbyes (just like the hellos, goodbyes are the norm in California too), leashed up the noses and walked over to the courts.  Sadly there wasn’t the group I was anticipating.  I had read online that a group met Fridays from 1-3 and they welcomed people (of course) to participate.  I checked with a couple who were playing and they did not know of such a thing, perhaps I had the wrong courts.

Closing the tennis gate, I hesitated.  I was about to just walk to the car and head back to camp.  But I stopped.  Just stood still for a minute, debating. 

               Why go back to the Beagle where I would have to tie up the dogs?  It is a gorgeous day, why not go sit in the grass in the dog park and let them run free?

And, if I am totally honest, a thought much like a good friend of mine had thought while standing in a ditch:

               That guy looks like an interesting person; he looks like someone I would like to know.

I returned to the dog park, explained to the guys that there was no tennis and the three of us continued an easy conversation during which I learned the puppy owner had an affinity for design and architecture.  I decided to call him Renaissance Guy (RG) which, you have to admit, sounds better than Dog Park Guy.  I did consider Transition Man (due to the lenses) but that just seemed…wrong.  One thing led to another and RG and I decided to go have a beer and some French fries.

At a delightful, sun-dappled patio restaurant overlooking the marina, our dogs under the table, the easy conversation continued.  Being single, we were lamenting the bore of dining out alone and so decided that dinner in a restaurant was in order, we thought Sunday would be best, I typed his number into my phone and said I would text him and we could arrange the time/place.  This was on Friday.

Saturday morning I got up and, while walking the dogs, met Jane.  We began chatting and it turned out that she and her husband are on the same quest as I:  Searching for a winter home, wanting to escape the snows of Truckee.  They are staying at a house that I notice every day on my walks due to the Casita (small travel trailer) parked in the driveway.  It would be so nice to have a house where I could park the Beagle.  They use their trailer to move from town to town and then rent a house for a break (as was my plan until I realized how expensive everything was and how cheaply furnished—I would rather stay in Beagle.)  Anyway, she said, “This is so not like me, but would you like to come over tonight and watch the boat parade?  It’s just my husband, myself and another lady.  I’ll throw something on the grill.”  To which I replied, “This is so not like me, but yes, I’d love to join you.”

They are wonderful:  Seventy-years old, they met when they were fifty-five and just got married this past Thanksgiving.  Turns out George worked with SAP his entire career at Chevron so we had a lot in common.  They understood the demands of being on the road and continually offered their laundry facilities.  A charming, delightful, full of life couple.  We made plans to watch Monday Night Football and then go golfing on Tuesday.

See?  Doesn’t even come close to my life in Seattle.  These two encounters I put in the Fate category; at some point, life is going to give you what it gives you no matter what.

Sunday arrived and I texted RG but got no response.  I called the number and received an automated voice mail message with no indication that it was RG.

Hmmm.

So either RG intentionally gave me the wrong number or I typed it incorrectly; but even worse, I hated to have him think that I was one of those people who say they will text and then never do. 

And here lies the junction of fate and free will, jump into the Violet Nebula with me. 

Some people may stop at this point and say, “It wasn’t fated for us to meet again.”  But not me.  I believe life will give me what it gives me but I think it is imperative to do everything in my power to make life go the way I want.

So I had to find RG, if only to make sure he knew I wasn’t the flake.  Since I knew we were both in the software world, I decided to solve it like a software issue:  When you have a bug in the program, you go back to the last point at which everything was working.  I decided to have lunch where we had beer and fries.  What was there to lose?  At a minimum I would have fish and chips while sitting in the sun.  Hopefully RG would be thinking the same thing and appear. 

Nope.

I swung by the dog park. 

Nope. 

Deflated, I returned to Beagle for some afternoon reading.  I opened my book and thought, “Book inventory software, that’s what RG worked on.”  So I Googled (of course) RG’s name and book inventory software, did a bit of digging, figured I had found the company for which he had worked, took a deep breath because I knew this might be embarrassing (particularly if he was trying to ditch me) and emailed customer service. 

               Hi, I know this sounds weird but I think I met a guy who created your software and I wrote his number down wrong.  Would you do me a favor and, if you know RG, would you forward this note to him?   

Signed my name and left my phone number.  I felt good about doing everything in my power to make life turn in the direction I wanted.  It was now about 3:00 on the day we were to have dinner.  Fate would have to take over.

And it did.  Thanks to the company’s 24/7 customer service, RG called me in about an hour.  And, indeed, I had incorrectly entered his telephone number.

I think there is a reason people come into each other’s lives and clearly my reason for being in RG’s life was to provide him with fodder for his superb story telling ability.  (It’s really too bad you can’t hear these from him.)

First of all, the email I sent didn’t just go to one person.  It is a small company so many of the principals receive the customer service emails.  Lovely.  I am even more thankful he wasn’t trying to ditch me.

And then this:  The other day we were sitting in Beagle, just chatting, having a cocktail (and yes, KC, the second glass did come in handy, as you said) me trying my best to not appear like trailer trash.   We had walked the dogs and I put Opus and River into Wurzig so the puppy could experience hanging out inside Beagle.  She was thirsty and all the dog bowls were outside so I took one of my regular bowls and gave her a drink.

 I wasn’t expecting company that day (or ever) so, when we got hungry, all I could offer was a pre-mixed salad.   I divided the bag of salad into two bowls, tossed in the dressing, grabbed two forks and returned to the dining area.

Happily eating along, I began to notice that my salad was rather runny; there seemed to be an extra amount of water at the bottom.  I dropped my fork, it clattered against the plastic bowl, “Oh my god, I am eating out of the dog dish!” I exclaimed.

The absolute personification of grace and sophistication. 

-K

Not Every Day Smells of Roses

I often tell people it takes three times as long to do something when living in Beagle; first you have to take out whatever you are going to do, then do it, then put it away.  But today was a record.  Today my six minutes of shower time took me almost an hour.

If I do not have a sewer connection at my pitch, I will use the campground showers.  The showers vary greatly from the lovely stone and tile one found in an RV park in Amado, Arizona, to the rather, let’s just say, rustic version found in most state campgrounds.  Morro Bay was no exception in the rustic category and, because of the cold nights, you had to use one token (which equals 2 minutes of water) just to get it warm enough not to lose your breath.

This morning, with my next few nights completely unknown to me, I knew I had to take a long, hot shower before hitting the road; long enough to shave my legs despite having just done so the day before.  This, I knew, would take three tokens.

After our morning walk, I packed the dogs into the car, gathered my fresh, clean outfit, my towel and my shower supplies and headed over to the campground shower.

I began to get undressed, remembered that I might as well put in the first token while changing so the hot water might be ready when I was, dug into my shower bag, only found one token—this despite having purchased quite a few just two days ago from the camp host.  Big sigh.  I put my clothes back on, gathered my towel, clean clothes and shower bag and walked to Beagle for some quarters to buy some tokens from the machine.  (This is a good time to tell you that I had only four hours of sleep last night and, those of you who know me, know this is an issue.)

I return to the shower block with my quarters.  The machine does not take quarters, it only takes dollars.

I return to Beagle, drop all my shower things, take my four quarters and walk 200 yards to the ranger station.  Buy two tokens, walk back to Beagle, pick up my towel, clean clothes and shower gear, return to the shower block.

Begin to get undressed.  I hear Wurzig’s alarm go off.  Get dressed, abandon my gear to fate in the shower room while I return to Beagle, get Wurzig’s keys, turn off the alarm and return to the shower block.

I put in one token to warm the water.  Get undressed.  Shiver until the water warms, duck under the spray, lose my breath, wash my hair. 

Time runs out.  Water shuts off as expected, but it still frustrates me, I put in token #2.  Begin shaving legs.

Get to second leg, water shuts off again and I say, “Mother fucker!”

And then this in my head:

Really Kit?  Mother Fucker?  Over something that you knew was going to happen and for which you are prepared?  Mother fucker?  What are you going to do on the road today when something unexpected happens?  Something for which you are not prepared?  And really, is this how you want to spend your day?

Then, oddly, I laughed.  No, I didn’t want to spend my day that way. 

Why don’t you stop focusing so much on the minor issues and try to look at something outside of yourself? 

I immediately thought of a surprise I have planned for a friend.  It was fun to think of getting that in motion and of their reaction when they see it.  And just like that my day turned around.

It turned around so well that I wasn’t even upset at the guy who tried to talk to me while I was dumping my tanks.  (Please people, I know Beagle is adorable but no one No One wants to shoot the shit while they are literally shooting the shit.  Please.)

And my mood stayed appreciative of my precious day in my one precious life right through the Bagel Scramble that was missing the scramble.  The sandwich made up for it by having avocado, tomato and sprouts; something uniquely Californian.

So now you find me camped at El Capitan State Beach, wondering why on earth I ever left Morro Bay.  But the campground is almost empty and, since I have to remain out of the Morro Bay Campground for 48 hours before being allowed back in, will likely spend two nights here despite the lack of cute town, dog friendly beaches and almond milk lattes.  After all, I had a great welcome:  I was standing at Wurzig’s open passenger door, taking a drink from my canteen when a gust of wind slammed the door back into me, thrusting me forward and spilling water all down my front.

I am very appreciative of that piece of chocolate cake in my refrigerator.   And, later, my gin.

It will be nice to spend two days in this unplanned environment.  There might be no dog park or almond milk lattes, but there is also no pressure to take advantage of those experiences; a good time to further contemplate the area between fate and free will.

-K

PS:  As bad as this morning’s shower experience was, it was not the worst:  That happened six weeks ago when I came out of a shower and realized I had forgotten my towel.  So my choice was to dry myself with my dirty clothes or my clean clothes.  Do me a favor, if you have access to a hot shower, take a long one for me. 

Wet Eucalyptus

How do you continue a day that was perfect by 9:30 AM?  I am hoping by writing a thoroughly entertaining blog post while sipping Orange Spice Tea and listening to the rain fall on Beagle.

You know you are in California when you are looking forward to a rain storm and, for me, there is nothing better than being snuggled inside an Airstream when one is occurring.  Except for once:  For those of you who read my posts while Alan and I were in Europe (sltandppr.blogspot.com—it is still up, use the archive to by-pass a year or two of chicken travels if you want Europe) you may remember this, feel free to skip ahead.

For the month of August 2012, Alan and I had parked ourselves at Camping Brunner Am See in Austria.   A delightful campground, packed full as all European campgrounds are in August, nestled on the lake shore with miles of hiking, clay court tennis, and the wonderful town of Dobriarch just a few kilometers away. 

We had been on the road for over a year and in Europe for six months by then and we were quite used to being the cool kids in town.  Hardly anyone had seen an Airstream in person and we were inundated with requests for tours and pictures of Salt’s rear with her collection of European country stickers and California license plate. 

Then the rain came.  It rained solidly for three days.  On day two Salt began to leak.  We sat inside with our two pots and one large bowl quickly gathering water. 

               “Loml, we have a tarp for this purpose, we have to go out and cover the top of Salt.  Clearly we have a leak—or three.”

               “I can’t do it, we will look ridiculous.  Everyone thinks we are so cool,” was Alan’s reply.

               “But we are flooding.”   No response from Alan so I continued, “OK, I will go out and put it on myself.”

The wind was howling, rain so thick I could hardly see as I unloaded the back of Pepper (our Cayenne back then) to locate the tarp.  By the time I found it, Alan had joined me having borrowed a ladder from the campground office.  With incredible speed and efficiency we attached the tarp and hurriedly dashed back inside.

               “We went from The Cool Kids to White Trash in five seconds”, that, of course, from Alan.  My god how that man could make me laugh.

***

It was water of two kinds that drove me away from my delightful ocean-front pitch in Ventura.  I knew a rain storm was coming and, although Beagle can support me on solar most of the time, two days of rain would be tough on the batteries, particularly if I used the heater.  And unbelievably, Beagle was out of water after only one night.  

When I left Palm Desert I intentionally filled the fresh tank only half full.  I don’t like to tow with it full and a half tank can easily last me for two nights.  Alas, when I checked after only one night in Ventura, the meter was down to 7%.  That’s not good.  That is maybe two gallons.  Here’s the only explanation that makes me look even half intelligent; that, while filling up, the water still contained a lot of air thus the higher meter mark than actual water.  It’s either that or I left the tap on while towing…you can see where I land.

My lovely Ventura beach-front campground had neither water nor electricity so my option was to hook up and drive to the next one for water, or drive to Vons and buy some water to get me through one more day.

I really didn’t want to leave so opted to purchase three gallons of water and proceeded to live like you do when backpacking:  You fill a canteen and know that’s what you have to wash your face, brush your teeth and maybe do a bit of sink bathing.  And by all means, save some to boil for coffee in the morning.

It wasn’t at all difficult but I was ready for a shower by the time I made it to Morro Bay the next day.

What a driving day it was!  I used the last bit of water to wash my hair in the sink (and discovered that it is much easier to do this with a canteen than trying to fit my head under the faucet—see?  A reason for everything) and so was feeling an extra bit of Kitness setting out.  Back on the 101, the soft rolling hills to my right, their curves defined by an occasional tree, and the immense blue ocean to my left kept my spirits soaring.

But I did have to make it through Santa Barbara.  I know most people love Santa Barbara; I have been there three times in my life and each time has been a very trying experience.  Hence I was apprehensive even though I knew all I had to do was find gas for Wurzig.

My first time in Santa Barbara, my second husband and I (OK, Alan was #3 to which Alan would always respond, “It hurts to be #3” – but three is, clearly, a charm) had stopped for the first night of a long road trip (to hell, I’d say but that’s another story.)  We checked into a small hotel and proceeded to have a huge fight.  It was so bad that I leashed up my dog, grabbed my purse, and walked out.  I walked for about an hour before checking myself into another hotel.  (This before cell phones not that I would have entertained answering it anyway.)   I was determined to return home on the bus and file for a divorce.   Unfortunately, unbeknownst to me the jerk followed me so he knew where to find me the next morning.  And so it continued.  You will have to buy my book to hear the rest of that tale.

The second time was work related, not interesting enough to relay the story but it was a time when I learned the depth of my integrity (happily, deep indeed.)  The third time I was with Alan when Pepper broke down on the 101 while towing Salt and we limped into the Porsche dealer.  We ended up spending the night in the Porsche parking lot—some people choose Walmart, this seemed the better option.

And so yesterday there I was, almond latte in hand, searching for gas.  I took an exit, and headed to a Mobil station.  Forgetting that I was towing Beagle, I turned the corner too tightly around the pump.  Thankfully I noticed before Beagle rammed into the guard post.  After a bit of maneuvering, I was able to pull forward again, missing the post by millimeters.  You know how Beagle gets stared at so, yes, that was fun.

Santa Barbara is not my place.

Back on the road, I enjoyed the interior landscape of Highway 154 through Los Olivos, watching the cows and their calves frolic on the hillsides (feeling quite proud of my bellow-less almond latte) before rejoining Highway 101 and then the delightful Highway 1 to Morro Bay.  

Along the way I sang love songs to myself (like substituting your name for God or Jesus in gospel, singing love songs to yourself is incredibly satisfying) via Serious XM’s 70’s Light Rock Channel.  My favorite was “My Eyes Adored You” followed by, I am not kidding, “You’re So Vain.”

Morro Bay is where you find me today.  The Morro Bay State Park Campground in a pitch with electricity and water and two days of stormy weather ahead; last night I fell asleep to the sound of rain on Beagle’s top—thankful that it stayed up there.  Opus didn’t much care for the storm—it was rather raucous with the wind buffeting Beagle around and the strips of eucalyptus bark flying into her sides—he asked to come under the comforter.  That has never happened before so of course I let him; those of you who know him realize that it might be another three years before he wants to cuddle again.

Today we woke to the fresh morning air and a two hour respite from the rain.  Enough time to leash up and walk two miles to town for coffee.  The trek begins on a dirt path through a eucalyptus grove with the marina on the left and a golf course on the right.  We were treated to smells of the trees and sea water and freshly mowed grass.  Heaven. 

I stopped along the way to smell some roses—something I do every morning on our walks in Seattle—before taking a coffee break at Top Dog Bistro, sitting at a sidewalk table enjoying the wet streets and the early quiet of town.

Heading back we looped through the marina where we discovered an enormous male stork of some kind (pictured in the Beagle Album) and my dream cottage nestled on the bank.  The walk ended back at Beagle with my pitch being available for two more nights and so we settled in for a bit.  That, to me, is a perfect morning.

Tomorrow I plan on playing How Wet Can You Get with the noses.  We will drive up to Cayucos, where the entire beach is dog friendly, to do some sprinting.  Rain or shine, we will all need a good, fast run.

-K

Knowing When it is Time to Leave

Undoubtedly you have all been there, the moment when you realize you are doing something that just isn’t working.  What you do in this moment I think determines whether you believe in free will, it certainly determines what you are willing to accept into your life.  You could stay right there, waiting, thinking, “Whatever life has in store for me is clearly supposed to be here somewhere”, or you could say, “Sorry, not working, I choose to leave.”  By now, you know which one I invariably select.

Thus, despite having just decided to stay in Palm Desert for a month, I chose to leave.  Being back in Seattle wrenched my heart more than I anticipated.  The combination of dear friends, high thread count sheets, bone china, wet streets, and the plethora of people under sixty convinced me that I needed to return home as soon as possible. 

But not before enjoying some much needed friend time.  

Oddly, two out of my three conversations with friends involved bi-sexuality.  Life, apparently, would like me to deal with sexuality right now--these talks coming so soon after my education about polyamory.

The second conversation reminds me of why I don’t write fiction:   I was out with a friend and had told him about Nick.  For those of you who don’t know Nick, Nick is the name I have given to my next life partner (along with a long list of requirements, let’s face it I am pretty spoiled.)  Bi-sexuality came up due to the adorable waitress who, despite me trying to get my friend interested in, seemed to be more interested in me.   It really is too bad (particularly in this case) but women just don’t appeal to me.  I realize that if they did, my chances of finding a suitable partner would increase dramatically. 

In due course we left Adorable Julia and headed to another venue.  Shortly after arriving, our new waitress came up and said, “Hi, I’m Nickie, I’ll be serving you tonight.”

I mean, come on, that is just one hell of a perfect moment in time.  My actual life reads better than most fiction.

Later that night, enjoying a scotch and my glorious city view, I simply could not believe I had to leave.   But fly back I did.  I cancelled the rest of my stay in Palm Desert, packed up Beagle and the noses and hit the road.  We left yesterday, everyone heaving a sigh; Opus and Wurzig’s were laden with resignation, Beagle’s and mine with anticipation and River’s with joy.  No one lives in the moment better than River and she loves nothing better than a comfy bed in a moving car.  About an hour into the drive a feeling of complete euphoria came over me—I was free again and had no idea where I would be for the next three weeks.

Driving on one of my favorite sections of California highways, 101 just north of Ventura, I looked to my left and saw a camper next to the ocean and knew that’s where I wanted to be.  And that is where you find me:  Sitting in the Emma Wood State Beach campground just outside of Ventura, California (site pictured above.)  Both of Beagle’s doors are open, the ocean breeze is blowing through, I can see the waves breaking out the back door and the sun shimmering on the water out the front.  This is why people flock to California.  What is not to love?   As an added joy, this campground is blissfully empty.

On our morning walk along the coast we were entertained by a seal, then a crane of some sort and then kept pace with a pod of dolphins on our way back to Beagle.   I had a moment of longing for Seattle where a lady greets me every morning by listing the animals she has seen along the shore.  But I doubt I will rush back up as planned (if you think I change my mind a lot on the blog, you should see what goes on in my head.)   With adventure back on the table, sunshine in my eyes and the anticipation of Christmas with family only three weeks away, I might just decide to hang around for a few weeks.

-K

PS:  Palm Desert did teach me two things:  (a) I learned that saying, “I am going to lay in the sun” provides all the accomplishment I need in order to feel good about lazing around for an hour; and, (b) I firmed up the age at which I will exercise my right to leave Earth and check out what is behind Door #2.  The ultimate expression of free will.  To which Sam would reply, “Not if you die first.”  Determinists are so smug.