The day began with all the jittery gusto of an over caffeinated, relocated expat hoping to sit down and actually accomplish something. The list of “to does” and
“what I hope to accomplish today” was long, intimidatingly so, but the caffeine buzz was in full effect and the day still young. The bed room, where the magic happens, or more accurately where I hope it will happen (soon), was the first to receive the treatment: new sheets, new pillow case, and a general tidying up. This was done with the utmost of sincerity, as the woman of my dreams is going to approach me the on beach any day now; walking ever so slightly on her toes, giving her goods just that right amount of shake, that classy shake, promise an erotic liaison, and then complement my love-making skills profusely while preparing a tasty bowl of Cinnamon Toasters (that’s generic for Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and that shit is expensive). That was two off the list already, and it wasn’t even 9am. Clean bedroom, dream big. Check and check.
The bathroom: not much – because I can aim. And sit at night.
Next came the kitchen, and the Mt. Kilimanjaro pile of plates in the sink that have been accumulating ever since Mexican night. I briefly considered calling it the Mt. Everest of plates, but soon realized, after the cursory poking and prodding, that the snowy peaks of the Asia Minor giant don’t support the sheer variety of specimen growing in my sink, and naming if after such a man killer wouldn’t be scientifically accurate. Half an hour later, and an audio tour of the 90’s best, the sink was trying valiantly to sparkle. In hindsight, using hotter water and a little more elbow grease would probably save myself the embarrassment of explaining the “Pump Up the Jam” marathon to the neighbors.
The real work of the day finally got underway with a faint tinge of fear haunting the air,while the fact I’m slowly and deliberately running out of money sank home. Nothing is such a strong motivator as the thought of peanut butter and jelly every day, all day, to write another 10 minutes. Someone once said it takes a wise man to know when he’s beaten, but no one ever accused me of being wise. The next two restless, unproductive hours were spent berating myself for the inability to think, and for what I did think of having nothing to do with anything. The boredom and frustration with the situation had set in, settling just over my left eyebrow, driving a deliriously massive wooden stake into my brain, making fuzzy shapes drift to the fore. When the chance pizza bagel swam before the screen I knew it was a lost cause, and rose from the computer hungover and broken from such feeble attempts at greatness.
Lost and disoriented in my apartment, one thing, amongst the white noise of resumes, applications, phone calls, appointments, and the plummeting balance in my bank account, became clear. The day was stunning: hot, clear, little wind, and the water sparkled a brilliant blue. Pacing the generous 3 feet between the kitchen counter and couch the sudden urge to wander the Central Coast of California, and reconnect with the land of my youth, took hold. It was with great excitement that I drove to the local Walmart (I know, I know), and purchased a sweet smelling tube of SPF 30 for the day’s adventures. Having thought only so far as the sunscreen now clutched in my left hand, the time to contemplate the next move arrived with the appearance of my truck. Now, sitting behind the wheel, half surfing the radio waves, half applying the sunscreen, I thought about what it was I wanted to find.
I’ve been gone for about 6 years, with a third of that time spent living over seas, in places like Kosovo, South Africa, and most recently Kyrgyzstan (with a little traveling thrown in to keep it interesting), and the rest of it was spent in Portland, Oregon. The first thing you need to know is I love the sun, LOVE IT, but the sun doesn’t exist up there. Its like they all got together for this massive, one-off town hall meeting where they decided to scorch the sky like in Highlander 3. They should’ve kept the sun and just put up with the robots in my opinion. With that being said, the first place I wanted to head was the beach, more precisely Pirate’s Cove. I never spent much time there except for a couple occasions in my teens drinking beer with friends in the cave. The rumor, or what I thought was a rumor, was that the actual beach is a nudist beach. Well, they say there’s a little truth in everything, and let me tell you those people weren’t scared to bare all the facts. Nudity isn’t really a big deal, I see myself naked everyday, which can or can’t be good for the self esteem depending on my recent ice-cream consumption, and going topless is a common theme in other parts of the world. For a moment, and I mean a brief moment, I considered going down for the full monty, but decided against it after seeing the, ah, caliber of people coming and going.
Next came Avila Beach, and Port San Luis. The drive is beautiful, and it felt great to have the windows down and the music up. One of the first things I did when my mom and I moved down here back in the mid-90’s was go to a birthday party for my cousin’s boyfriend, right there on the sand. All I really remember from that night is not liking beer, and then not caring whether I did after a few more trial cans. The morning after was one of the first times in my young life that I truly, deeply, earnestly asked myself why the hell I did that. There’s nothing like watching the sun come up from the shores of a beautiful beach while you throw up all over the breaker rocks to let you know you had a great time. That summer turned into a perpetual ingestion experiment.
Who’s changed their opinion of me? Holly cow. These are the first things that popped into my head people, it was my first summer here, ever, and this my first summer here after being gone for 5 years, so there are some parallels, except less beer involved this time around. A lot less beer.
Pismo Beach, my newly adopted hometown. What can you say about this place? They have clams, and Bugs Bunny always, and I mean always, gets lost trying to get here. Since I’ve never lived in downtown, its going to take some exploring before I can really make a judgement. On that note I turn you all over to some insightful, gorgeous, amazing, rocking…oh you get it, pictures from my travels: