Route 101

My dear friend has doomed me.

Perhaps that is a bit mellow dramatic – but the mood suits the pentameter of my day. Early morning flight stuck on runway for over an hour, now the pilot, in his slow southern drawl advises us the flight maybe bumpy. Bumpy?! That description always gets me; a bumpy ride conjures images of pot holes, loose gravel and the desecration of blacktop from too many winters of road salt and rough plowing.

I digress. Clistecole, in an offhand remark a few weeks back tossed out how glad she was my autumn was filled with travel. A new destination every week it seemed; she thinks of me as a “…damn fine travel writer…” High praise indeed from a gal that keeps up two blogs (check sidebar for Leatitia and Sacred Foods), I promised to blog the journey from SFO to Monterey, the nuances of the South Bay’s fine vintages and the never ending search for a gym, plan friendly eats and a new trail to walk.

These are the statements that shape us; the offhand comments from those who know us best- and who dare to state our truths. Those truths that stir our souls deep despite how we may try to quiet them.

So, en route to Charleston, SC, I shall recount, for my dear friend and any of you who care to brew up another pot of coffee (or tea) the last journey. Writing for my daily bread is about snippets of jargon, convincing people they need to buy. Writing to recount, to meditate, to share, to dream is the privilege of time.

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I am not a patient woman; those who know me casually scoff at this. “You, impatient?” they shriek and comment on my zen attitude and my perennial profession “it will be what it needs to be”. That last phrase is borrowed from another great friend never afraid to hold the mirror at a stark angle and say LOOK! She is a Caribe gal transplanted to the wilds of NYC some 20 odd years ago; she’s still on Island time and is the best hand with the spice jar I’ve ever know. I am her humble student when it comes to Zen, and with this in mind I decide to rent a car upon arrival at SFO. I’ll drive the 2 hours to Monterey. After all, I reason, I love a grand drive; it’s relaxing, rejuvenating and gives one time to think deeply.

I also decide on this course because I will surely HURT someone while sticking in an airport for 3 hours waiting to connect. Besides, it’s even money and this is a work trip, so off to the Hertz Counter I go. With ruthless efficiency I’m on Route 101 South headed to San Jose a mere 25 minutes after landing. Having tossed my bright orange carry-on into the trunk with the laptop case, I’m cruising in a Ford Focus with tight rack and pinion steering. Immediately, it brings back memories of my first car, a black Ford Escort. Bought 3rd or maybe 4th hand the steering was still tight; my current Honda’s steering is loosey goosey: it promises to be a good ride.

The lyric cities and towns jump out from the green road signs: San Mateo, Santa Clara, San Juan Batista… the lullaby caresses memories of itchy wool school uniforms and the marvels of St. John the Baptist. Funny, if St. John had his say, I don’t think he’d agree with his lauded place in the Catholic Cannon. I think he’d shrug and shake his head and nod a curt, ‘I was just doing what was asked of me’. Even his name JOHN denotes a practical nature. He’d be at home in these rolling hills, brown and scraggly; are they burned from the heat or is the scraggle a protector?

California, from Californox, hot as an oven, Senora Maria’s Cuban accent washes into my conscience mind – four years of high school Spanish in those wool skirts and this is what I recall. Californox – the conquistadors gave the area this name, later California, because the Earth here was hot and parched and reminded someone of his Momma’s oven back in Spain.

The hills continue to roll past, undulating and causing me to feel grounded; even ensconced in the tiny car. If my Mother knew this is what I was driving she’d lambaste me – “You should have gotten a bigger car. That looks like a roller skate for a giant”. The scragglier hills remind me of buffalo, the lighter hide giving way to thicker natty brown fur. Though fur to keep the animal warm through a frigid plains winter; do the dense brown patches serve the same purpose here? Do they protect the farmland below from burning in this oven? Maybe it’s the reverse, and the rich dark brown ensures the tender roots don’t freeze in a sudden cold snap.

Further south now, past the exits for Stanford and the fabled university, I see new, unexpected signs, Garlic. Yes, garlic the kitchen staple of my mother, my grandmother, my great grandmother and undoubtedly every matriarch in the line. I open the windows expecting the air to be pungent, astonished that this miracle of my Italian heritage grows on trees… but the air is slightly sweet and tangy. Not at all what’s expected, but bright in its own way. I don’t put the a/c back on for the rest of the drive. `

Somewhere between garlic and cherry trees my husband calls. He dozed off upon returning from the airport and didn’t hear the phone ring. He is pleased to know I’m more than half-way there and sans hands free kit, I cut the call short and muse on the nature of post 9-11 travel. I texted: “landed SFO, w call from car” the moment we were cleared to use portable electronic devices such as two way pagers and cellular telephones. Passengers crowded the aisles, jostling for space to get their bags down. A controlled sense of panic; the unspoken rule of flight, GET ME OFF THIS BIRD, lest we tempt fate by remaining a moment longer and the whole thing blows to kingdom come.

We live in an age of ‘call me the moment you land’ and this trip was fraught with a different rhythm than previous forays to bring widgets forth to those who don’t suspect they need them. Marriage has done that to us; made the Alpha Buck and me more aware of our responsibilities to and for each other. In sickness, in health and during endless disastrous gatherings with extended family. I chuckle recalling how I chided him curbside when he hauled my wheelie bag from the trunk, telling me to travel safe. Me laughing that if something goes awry he’d be doomed to attend gatherings of my family without me for at least a year. After all, he should properly mourn me for a year and every other week it seems my own Mother admonishes me to be a good wife. After all he gave up his family for me.

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I’m struck by the Military presence in Monterey. A postgraduate Navel College and a still in use Presidio are joined by a Coast Guard Post. I muse at least I’ll be safe and journey from the hotel to find lunch.

To be continued….