4/16/2013. - Day 21 - Discovered by the Germans in 1904, they named it San Diago...

Orange Ave., Coronado Island

4/16/2013.  - Day 21 - Discovered by the Germans in 1904, they named it San Diago...

My first day in San Diego is hardly productive, or maybe it's just as productive as it's supposed to be.

I sleep in, way in. But it was needed. Later that afternoon I explore Coronado Island for a little sun and shopping. I loved Coronado during my first visit there over a year ago, but didn't have a ton of time to explore. Today is different.

 As has been custom throughout most of this trip, I stash the truck and set out on foot. A random meeting at a crosswalk finds me face to face with Jo-Ann and Beverly, who turn out to be kindred souls to me.

The crosswalk sign blinks a warning not to cross, as I wait in the middle of a four lane road. There is no ongoing traffic in sight. Two ladies wait with me on the median, all of us having made it across the first two lanes. I make a comment to no one in particular that I think we should go for it. We have all hesitated by now though, and likely missed our opportunity, which Jo-Ann quickly points out. She is right. The cars have smelled our fear and are beginning to approach. But the seconds of waiting fly by as we strike up a conversation and continue visiting after we are safe on the other side.

Jo-Ann and Beverly embody true friendship in every meaning of the word and this is blatantly evident in just the mere moments we share together. Decades together has brought them through trials and tribulations, and the experiences they have shared seem to encompass more than one lifetime, as if they have traveled through time itself and managed to live a thousand lives together in just a few decades--all the while supporting and encouraging one another. We chat about everything--from youth, to traveling, jobs, motorcycles, trucks, adventures, boys, and friendship. We cover an entire lifetime of subjects as talk as though we are all old friends. These women inspire in me the strength that was waning a little the last few days, and the assurance that I'm not alone in my endeavors.

Beverly owns a home in Montana, and Jo-Ann, a place in San Diego. They find time to visit one another and have maintained a solid friendship that has stood the test of time and the stress of the busyness of life. As we talk, I wonder aloud if I am a one man wolf pack. Most females have their, dare I use the term "bestie"--and I have begun to worry that I have missed the boat on that. There have been few people who have made it to a status of being "my person," quite a strenuous job, and they have tended to fade away into the distance after a period of time. It's a demanding position, being a "bestie" or someone's "person" and there is a lot of pressure that comes with it.  Also, I don't know that one person is enough to handle all of my randomness and excitement and serious discussions about nothing and silliness. I don't honestly know that I could ask anyone to do that.

I rely mostly on myself and my faith, and a network of friends rather than a single soul to lean on. Still, I see the strangeness in this divergence from mainstream behavior, and I suppose it would be nice to have that one person you could always count on. Perhaps this is why I strive so particularly hard to always be available for my friends in times of need, whether it be night or day, at home or at work, busy or not. I try to always at least be there to listen and offer whatever I can at whatever moment they are in need, because that is what I would want others to do for me. My entire life I have always wanted to be that one person who always says the right thing when you need them too. I want to be everyone's everything in the moment they are in need.

In typing this out, I see several flaws with this quest. The first being that while I always have thegreatest of intentions, I am usually the person who says the worst thing by accident and then feels horrible about it forever. I try too hard, and I am extremely sensitive, always wanting to do the right thing and going around getting my heart broke over silly things. Maybe this blog is a lesson: As I pour my soul into the letters on my keyboard, I am seeing as if for the first time, a bigger picture of my story. I am not meant to have all the answers or give them, nor am I supposed to expect others to always have the answers when I need them. Perhaps, I am supposed to rely more on my Creator rather than turning to human comforts in times of need and remembering only to beg for God's help in times of crisis. It's possible this sudden reflection is a reminder that my faith comes first, and if I can manage that, my troubles and fears and hardships will be taken care of. And ultimately I will devote less time to worry and more time to sharing the joys of life with my friends in lieu of the time we tick away agonizing over the hardships we all encounter.

It sounds so simple and it's great in theory but it's very hard to find the courage to not only believe in this, but to then live it.

Hotel Del Coronado

I make my way to the historic Hotel Del Coronado. When I first saw it, over a year ago, the view was at night and I mistook the festively lit building for a carousel. I was extremely excited as I approached it from afar, anticipating a grand old carousel rotating vintage horses and smiling riders, and boasting old music and the smell of popcorn and the carnival. I was only slightly disappointed when I came upon the hotel and saw it for what it was, because the building itself is truly majestic. On my second trip, it is still light outside and I watch the lucky guests carry their luggage up to the concierge and disappear into the building. It may not be a carousel, but I still find it a bit magical.

From here I drive to Imperial Beach, another favorite from my first trip. I find a place to walk down to the beach and watch the surfers catch the last few waves of the evening as the sun descends, bathing the waves in golden streams that reflect off of the waves like a sparkling chandelier.

Imperial Beach. My favorite <3

I have enjoyed these moments on the trip where I truly have no plan, nowhere to be, no one to meet, and no specific direction. I simply made a spur of the moment decision to come to the beach and sit. No one is waiting for me, no one is impatient and wanting to leave. I don't know if I had a bestie how they would take this unplanned, unstructured, freedom. I also do not know how my future husband is going to cope with my randomness. I pray for him. Well, I pray for him sort of. Sometimes I pray he has enough patience to stand me, and sometimes I pray that he is just as random, whether or not that is a nice to thing wish upon him. I hope he is at least ok with the occasional side trip to the beach to just sit quietly and do nothing but feel the sand between our toes and bask in the last rays of warmth before the sun dips below the surf. I also hope he actually exists and is not in fact a cat.

This blog has now turned into a rom-com. Woof.

 The only other event worth mentioning was an evening trip to Target, and not just any old Target. This was a two story Target. It's official--I've got to live here. Target is really all I need to survive.

Two. Stories.  Two.

I don't know if I have a Jo-Ann to my Beverly. I don't know if I am destined to have a bestie, or "hetero life partner" as my cousin has penned the position. If I am, perhaps like my crosswalk friends, I am supposed to meet them later in life. Or maybe I have already met them but have not put my faith in God, in myself, or in them and allowed them to be there for me. Or maybe I am best with a collection of "bests." I am content with my assorted network of variously talented and unanimously kind and caring friends. I mean, I also hope that someday I run across a man I can tolerate and vice versa; but having truly great girl friends is invaluable. Husbands and boyfriends are useful, but the worth of a good girlfriend cannot be calculated.

In spite of us needing each other, as humans who were not meant to walk alone, I am also embarrassingly proud of my independence. I know that life demands a balance of independence and also allowing others to help us in times of need. But I also think that we have to be completely comfortable in our own skin before one can add all those other characters and steps that make up our ever changing lives. We should be complete individuals in our own being, and then supplement our lives with all the rest of that stuff. That's a hard thing to do because it can be very uncomfortable being alone and just trying to figure out who we are. I think a lot of people try to skip that and look to others to fill in the blanks. But it's a quick fix. As usual, the hardest, most challenging way is also the best way. Kind of like how it's harder to eat vegetables than chocolate but vegetables are better for you? Such a cruel reality.

In this trip, I've had a lot of time to really be uncomfortable in my own skin, find out where my limits are, push them, and then sit back and wait until the uncomfortable turns into the comfortable, and the fear turns into experience. And in these tense moments, I can choose to have faith that things will iron out smoothly, or I can worry and fuss over the wrinkles and make a much worse go of it than necessary trying to straighten everything out.



In the end, I'd rather just go along with the whole thing, wrinkles and all. The journey has sometimes been on the path less traveled. I've had more than my share of wrinkles and even had to patch a few holes along the way--but I think it's better that way. After all, I can arrive on time, prim and proper and neatly pressed--
or I can arrive a little late, a little wrinkled, with a few smudges from unexpected adventures, and have a bit of a story to tell about how they got there.

4/15/2013. - Day 20 - This ain't no disco. And it ain't no country club either. This is L.A.

 Until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard...

 4/15/2013. - Day 20 - This ain't no disco. And it ain't no country club either. This is L.A.

All I wanna do is have a little fun before I die...
This morning starts off amazing because I get to Skype with my mom and my little sisters. They are eagerly showing me their outfits for the day, presenting for my admiration their new books and toys, and singing me their favorite songs. They are beautiful. I spend a bit too much time talking about their favorite colors and the ABCs so I'm slightly rushed to breakfast and checkout. I regret nothing about overindulging in Skype time with my favorite people.

I am becoming fluent in talking to strangers in the hostels, so I make a few friends at breakfast. Steph is from Australia and she offers me a smile and an open seat in the crowded kitchen. I have to inquire, due to the surge of Aussies I have recently met, as to whether or not they all made a plan to rush the West Coast together. We laugh and exchange stories with one another over the meal.

Breakfast is winding down as Steph departs, and before I am finished a young man takes her place. He asks where I am headed (which I have come to understand does not mean someone is going to stalk you--rather it is an understanding that we are all gypsies of a certain nature and this question is a casual conversation starter). I explain that San Diego is my destination for today but I plan to travel the southern states and then move to the east coast. Said stranger then states, "Isn't it a bit unusual for a girl like you to be traveling alone?".  A girl like me. What does that even mean. You have been sitting here for maybe 45 seconds. He catches my incredulous expression and pauses to add, "of course that implies several things that we don't need to get into."

No please, enlighten me as to the stereotype I present given you have had only as much time as it has taken me to lick the syrup off of my plate to evaluate me. Kidding. But seriously, tell me.

I ask what exactly a "girl like me" is. He cleverly answers, "a good looking girl, well educated."

Right. I am wearing a flannel shirt and have my glasses on because I was too lazy to bother with my contacts. We are going to skip over that first part and then assume the glasses have earned me the well educated appearance. I have to laugh.

As I wash my breakfast dishes, I realize I'm late for checkout. I make a mad dash to the counter to make my departure official, and then make my way to the parking lot. Parking has become the bane of my existence, but I have made friends with the man who owns this particular lot and he and I have agreed on a $20 per night fee. Woof. It is costing me more to park my vehicle than to it costs for room and board in the hostels. I am going to start sleeping in the truck.








Hollywood is a bit overcast today but it's still warm and my weather app promises sunshine later. I wish there was an app for parking spots, with filter options for price and distance. This morning I am going to Runyon Canyon for some hiking.  It takes about five seconds to find the gates to the park and another twenty minutes to find parking. The signs read something like, "No parking 7:01PM to 6:59PM. Closed days that end in Y for street cleaning." One side of the street is closed one day from certain hours, the other side is a different day and different hours. I can't handle this. It's honestly too much work to try to figure this all out and I'd probably risk a parking ticket if I wasn't going broke.

oh good, this looks safe

Honestly, I need some sort of legend to decipher this parking system. I might just park on someone's lawn because I'm fairly certain it will take quite a bit of time for them to find a tow truck that is big enough to tow the pickup yet small enough to maneuver this labyrinth of streets, and by the time they come to remove me from the front yard of one of these homes I'll be long gone.  I am beginning to understand the psychology of the cyclists. They are a population of individuals so desperate for parking spaces that they are willing to stuff themselves into spandex and risk their lives cycling through rush hour traffic just to avoid the severe inconvenience of parking. Clearly the frustration of this situation is getting to me if I'm willing to try to see the cyclists' perspective on life.

Runyon Canyon is above Hollywood and starts off as a nice flat trail. Then comes a fork and I can see I have a big decision to make so I ask a local to unravel the mystery of the two trails. She indicates that this trail (I can't tell which one she is pointing at) is less steep and paved and this trail (again, ambiguous pointing) is shorter but steeper. Great. #Thanksforyourhelp. #Istillhavenoideawhereimgoing.

I decide on the trail that most of the people seem to be going on. I think she said this was the steep trail and I'm looking for a bit of a workout so it seems like a good choice. Up above me at the height of the canyon I can see others walking and running and it seems they are extremely far away. Of course, when you see something like that, all you can think is "how did they get up there? I want to do that!". Something you should know about me is I have the mind of a super athlete. I aspire to run and jump and climb and go faster and higher and all that. And I have the body of a fuzzy caterpillar that isn't built for stamina, hibernates in the winter, and curls up when it gets scared. This creates a bit of an issue as there is a severe disconnect between the aspirations I have in my head and the ambition to follow through.

Anyway, I'm hiking up and it feels like I'm climbing straight up the side of a mountain. My calves are
burning and I'm being passed [uphill] by runners as I stagger along trying to simply continue moving forward. The sun has chosen this exact moment to peek its head out of the clouds and now I feel like I'm in Death Valley instead of Runyon Canyon. I am now also reflecting on my dramatic tendencies...

The trail winds through the canyon and the farther I go, the higher and higher I am and soon I am almost as high as all the people I watched from the very bottom and wanted so badly to be like. I'm not sure how this happened as I almost have an asthma attack just watching the runners continue to bound straight up the trail like mountain goats, seemingly without any effort. I pass a girl who has rolled her tank top up (probably just because she thought it looked cuter because I don't think it had anything to do with being tired) and is walking down the trail with her exposed amazing abs and great stomach muscles. I'm really really hot and sweaty so I roll mine up too, hoping there are abs underneath. There are no abs underneath. There is mushy white flesh slick with sweat, but it's so hot that I'm leaving it this way. In addition to my indecent exposure, I'm wearing the pants with no button as a reminder of why we don't eat eleven marshmallow bunnies and then drink two Frappuccinos. They are rolled up to my knees. I basically presenting myself as some sort of hillbilly/athlete poser. It is blazing hot. I don't care.

I reach the top, or the top of this trail. The view is awesome and it's nowhere near as hot as the bottom or middle sections of the canyon. It's actually chilly and windy and I can cover up the missing button and ab-less stomach now. After taking in the view and catching my breath, I begin the descent on a separate trail and come to an aggravating realization. The trail that I was so proud I had completed and followed all the way to the top was the EASY trail. The trail I am on now is more like a thin sandy goat trail carved into the rock and running straight to the bottom. It is steeper, and logically would be faster, especially if you fall and roll all the down. Which would be unfortunate as the vegetation here includes cacti.




I am not as sure footed as these other gazelles and goats running up and down the trail, so I am tip toeing down in my tourist outfit complete with Keens. A man wearing only tiny athletic shorts flies by me and continues running down the trail, leaping over rocks and other obstacles as he goes. Running. Running down the sandy slippery goat trail. My mind is blown. He must have spikes and/or some sort of adhesive gorilla glue helping him with traction. Again, I secretly want to be him and simultaneously want to curl up like a caterpillar at the thought of it. My aspirations and reality are a paradox.











I make it to the bottom and find my way back to the pickup. The hike was well worth the parking effort and the sun has decided to stick around for a bit. I navigate to Rodeo Drive to see the sites. I was almost that person who says "Where is Roh-dee-oh drive" until my mother corrected me. She has the most random knowledge. She was also quietly embarrassed for me. Now I saw "Roh-DAY-oh" drive like a seasoned Beverly Hills local.





Having marked off those sites on my to do list, it's now time to hit Santa Monica Blvd and get down to the pier.  I'm blaring Sheryl Crow on the radio and singing at the top of my lungs. I have closed the windows to avoid the embarrassment of the cliche lyrics, but I'm elated. I hit Ocean Avenue and am again sporting the crazy grin that says "I'm at the ocean and I LOOOOOVVVVE IT." I despise myself for being such a stereotypical tourist.











There are the shops of downtown Santa Monica, the pier with it's carnival (including a carousel) and beach, and the sun has blessed us with brightness and warmth and I am in love with the city. I managed to avoid anything beyond window shopping but did take a front seat on the roller coaster on the pier. Twice.

 

My unhealthy obsession with carousels continues...

    


 There are less people here dressed in scary outfits but I did see a man wearing a banana hammock, balancing on one foot on a large ball, and holding a snake in each hand. I now cannot unsee said man. I'm getting sunburned despite my liberal application of sunblock so I'm kind of worried initially about his exposed cheeks getting crisped. But then I realize he is a very dark African American man and I don't think he can be turned any darker so he is probably safe from charred cheeks. He is still a creepy street performer holding one of my worst fears in his hands so I avert my eyes and dart away.









I continue on Ocean Ave, this time singing Yellowcard because I am again, a very typical tourist/lyricist who cannot help myself. It's already late afternoon but I'm too curious about Venice Beach to skip it and make for San Diego just yet. The sun is still out and I take some time to journal while watching the surfers. A random guy offers to buy me a drink. I'm so clever in these situations (reference the incident with the guy from the Minneapolis bachelorette party) that I respond, "Oh, I don't drink. I'm sorry!" and walk away. I could have said you can buy me a milkshake, but then we'd have to revisit the pants button situation. Just a missed opportunity.




I'm finally on the road to San Diego. I'm insistent on taking the Pacific Coast Highway but it is now rush hour and after an hour or so of the scenic route and just a few miles progress, I'm opting for the freeway. While stuck in traffic, I did have the opportunity to observe a man playing on his steering wheel with drumsticks and jamming out for the duration of our entrapment. He didn't even stop to put a hand on the wheel when we inched forward, but continued drumming away and bobbing his head to the beat. I made a mental note to start carrying a white board and dry erase markers, so as to be prepared for happenings such as this and be able to then write, "We are meant to be--here's my number" and display it to potential suitors such as this. Humor gets so many bonus points. And humor in traffic gets additional bonus points.

Upon getting to my hotel in San Diego, I end up driving around the building five times looking for the door I am supposed to park by, and then try to determine which bags are essential and must be carried in. I finally arrive at my room after ascending 13 million steps, carrying a dozen bags, and really needing to get in to use the bathroom. The key card isn't working and I'm desperately trying it at all angles and then the doorknob turns, the door opens, and a man answers the door. Wonderful.

Awkwardness. Apologies.  I retrace my steps, dragging everything along with me back down the stairs, into the truck, and back to the front desk. I explain that they have double booked that room and leave out that I really need to use the bathroom and try to be empathetic instead of annoyed throughout the ordeal. As I find my way to my new (and now upgraded) room, I'm nervous as I try the new key card. This time I am successful and find an empty room. And I deadbolt the door to guard against any other surprises or unplanned roommates. Goodnight San Diego. Stay classy. And don't wake me up til at least 10:00AM.

4/14/2013. - Day 19 - Hollywood Blvd. Made it up Muhlholland Dr. And then evaded local law enforcement...

4/14/2013. - Day 19 -
Made it up Muhlholland Dr.
And then evaded local law enforcement...














This morning started with a mini exploration of Hollywood in search of a church for Sunday Service. Last night I tried to map out local Lutheran Churches, but it was hard to narrow it down. I decided to just start driving, and I ended up getting lost and finding this one--McCarty Memorial Christian Church- and was awed by the building alone and later charmed by the congregation. Other morning attendees were still scurrying in so my timing was perfect and I joined them for the service. As I walked through the doors, the first person to greet me and welcome me was from South Dakota, ironically. The congregation was very warm and friendly, and the service was wonderful. Many of the songs were familiar from my time at summer camp at Lake Metigoshe when I was in junior high, so I hardly needed my hymnal. At the end of the service, the entire congregation joined hands to pray and it was truly beautiful. I felt so comfortable and welcomed in this congregation and thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

After that I set out to explore Hollywood Blvd. It should be noted I harbor a serious fear of street people in costumes, much like you see in Vegas. This is really confusing because I love theme parties, and I love Halloween and dressing up; but people walking the streets in costumes dressed as movie characters, celebrities, etc. freak me out.

Of course, not even a block into my sightseeing safari, a "spiderman" approached me and asked if I was here to model or act. I said neither, and responded further that I was simply exploring. He then asked if he could walk beside me. I provided him with an explanation about my fear of costumed people, which he ignored, and then resigned myself to the fact that he could walk beside me if he wanted whether I liked it or not. There is no law that says costumed figures can't walk on the same sidewalk as social workers from North Dakota. In response to his request to accompany me, I finally responded, "Sure, but I'll probably stop soon to do some shopping". This hopefully implied "don't wait outside the shop for me."

Spiderman babbled on as we walked and I was desperately searching for a legitimate store that I actually had interest in to duck into and loose this tail. There were masses of people on the streets so I didn't feel I was in any real danger, it was just my severe fear of those in costume that was hindering me at that moment. I finally found something of interest and thanked Spidy for the conversation and headed inside. I stayed long enough that I figured he had moved on, peered out the display window to make certain he was gone, and then continued on my way.

 Hollywood is really a spectacle in itself, with no rhyme or reason to the building style. One block may have a fancy theater, and the next may be rather run down, and the subsequent block may be set up like a palace, followed by a block of modern clean cut buildings. Of course tucked in between are all sorts of souvenir and gift stores galore. It felt as if I was moving through movie sets with each building and block that passed. There were tons of people about-- walking, selling various items, and working as creepy costume people. The sky was a bit overcast, but it was still warm temperature-wise.






I passed over the walkway of stars with the names of the famous carved inside, saying the familiar names to myself as I went along.Despite the crowds, which I sometimes find overwhelming and containing, I felt free. Hollywood is a constant buzz of activity and excitement, but I felt the real excitement was getting to see and experience all of this on my own. There is some pride in this adventure--partially in going it alone, but also in no longer feeling afraid to go it alone. There is something to the phrase "the only thing we have to fear is fear itself." In the beginning, I was very nervous and scared, though scared of what I don't know.

As the days and weeks tick by, I have dropped not only my structures and plans and schedules, but my fears and inhibitions. I can truly feel a transformation from feeling constrained to the margins of living in a small town, to being able to spread out, be myself, and break free from a cookie cutter mold to which I had been trying to squeeze into for so long. We spend so much time on the "shoulds"--who I "should" be, what I "should" do--it's elating to finally just let go and be what I am, what I was created to be, whatever that may be.

Not even by yourself. Good rule of thumb. 

When I returned to the hostel, I found one of my roommates, Agata, inside the room. We exchanged the day's activities thus far, and then decided to go explore Mulholland Drive together. As we made our way towards the twisting and winding roadway, we caught fantastic views from above the city skyline and stopped for a few photos. Then we continued to wind our way up Mulholland.

Somewhere during this drive we also hatched a plan to make it up to the Hollywood sign, or at least get as close as we could. This involved driving up some very step and crooked roads, many which displayed signs warning us that there was no access to the "Hollywood Sign" and instructed us to turn around.




Being young and adventurous (and maybe a little nervous) we continued. I made an executive decision to stash the pickup in a residential area and suggested we hike a little ways up towards the sign. After a few minutes, we reached a small clearing that was fairly cluttered with signage warning people not to park, hike, climb, or breathe near the sign. There were cars parked, people hiking and climbing, and of course, breathing, all over the place. I made a valiant attempt at one path, which I deemed a straight shot to the sign. It was too steep though, and halfway up I had to turn around when a helicopter flew over, much too close for comfort, and whipped dirt and debris up. Agata was not impressed and is not into climbing up treacherous terrain just to see a sign. She will use the zoom feature on her camera.

One sign was not enough.
Neither was three.

I couldn't settle for this--I needed to get a bit closer. We stopped a few hikers to inquire as to what the best course was for decreasing our proximity to the sign. Taking their instruction, we finally found a path that took us up high enough and close enough that I was satisfied with the picture taking location. We performed our tourist duties and then descended the trail, making our way back to the clearing of a thousand warnings.


Halfway down the trail, we began to hear sirens and subsequently a megaphone from a police car. The voice was telling everyone to move their cars and get away from the area, and reminding us that obviously there are signs telling us that we were not to be here in the first place. The public service announcement  finished with another command to basically get out.

Now I have encountered two fears in one day: costume people, and police in uniforms. For some reason, police uniforms creep me out and I hurriedly tried to explain this to Agata, while advising her to keep silent and still. We were hidden in the cover of the foliage on the path and were far enough from the clearing with the warning signage that we felt we would go undetected. We waited with bated breath for the exodus of fleeing tourists and the subsequent departure of the annoyed police officers. When the sounds subsided, we continued cautiously to the clearing, and finding it empty, made our way back to the pickup. I was a nervous wreck and tried to pretend I was not afraid-- but Agata got a good chuckle at me for my irrational fears.

As we drove back to the hostel, we swapped life stories. I explained my trip in all its grandeur, proudly telling her of my independence and adventure. Agata nodded in understanding, paused, and then asked what I was running from. She speculated a job gone wrong, a dream that died, or was it a boy? I answered that it was none of those things, but rather I needed space and room to breathe. And I needed to get away from some memories for a bit, maybe of a boy... Maybe from all of those things... I was tired of seeing sad children and seeing their parents in court and subsequently at the grocery store that night. The dreams I had when I was in college were completely obsolete, and the relationships I envisioned had gone up in flames. I told myself this was not a reason I left, but to be perfectly honest, sometimes after something breaks you apart so much, you need a change of scenery to rebuild yourself into something more beautiful that what others tore down. I reflected on this before answering further, and then offered to Agata that the trip has been in the back of my mind for some time, but a bad breakup probably spurred me into action. That situation probably helped me realize I was walking down the wrong path and needed to change something. Sometimes things that seem negative can be the catalysts for things that shape us in such incredible and unexpected ways. I explained further that I also think more than running away from anything, I am running towards something better, escaping the comfortable to learn about myself outside of my comfort zone. And maybe realizing that getting too comfortable can sometimes stunt our growth.

We returned to the hostel with a little time before dinner. The hostel was hosting a taco dinner and later providing some entertainment from local comedians. In our down time before dinner, I seized the opportunity to write a bit. I want to share everything that is happening, but I feel I must balance this with experiencing everything as well. I try to make time for a little writing every day, but remind myself that there will always be time to write. While I want to take small moments to capture my exact emotions, thoughts, and feelings in real time as they happen--I only use small windows such as this. Now is the time to live in these moments; recording them can wait.

Dinner was mediocre and the promised "beef tacos" were quite suspicious with regard to their meat ingredient. I speculated it was likely horse or dog because I know what beef looks like. After all I'm from North Dakota, where we name our calves and then butcher and eat them and then do it all over again next year. This here on my plate, this was not beef.

After dinner a couple of us walked to Starbucks before the comedy presentation. We strolled Hollywood Boulevard at night, slurping Frappacinos and picking out names in the cement stars that we were familiar with. As we walked, there were many street people in costumes and I stuck close to the pack because at night I find them EXTREMELY scary. A few tried to talk to us and we ignored them and walked on. One particular individual, dressed as Johnny Depp from Alice in Wonderland, was rather persistent. I squished myself into the people walking in our group and I hollered towards him, "Sorry but I DON'T LIKE PEOPLE IN COSTUMES!"

He made creepy eyes and responded in an equally creepy voice, " What costumes?" AGHHHHHHH. As I hurried to speed walk away, I caught something out of the corner of my eye, up above me. I looked up to find a spiderman perched 10 feet up, somehow latched onto the brick side of a building. I freaked out and screamed, "That is not fair, you cannot surprise people by hiding up on walls and then startling them. Not fair. NOT FAIR!" That's it, I'm done. We are walking back. No more costume street people with creepy accents and outfits lurking at the corners of buildings or up on the sides of walls. No. More.

Later we attended the comedian event. It was honestly terrible and out of respect we stayed long enough not to hurt anyone's pride and then departed for some sleep. I have planned a full day of enjoying Santa Monica tomorrow and am then heading further down the coast for my beloved San Diego. <3

4/13/2013. - Day 18 - The Big Sur, the sea lions, Oh, and can you say "Hi" to the queen?

4/13/2013. - Day 18 - 
The Big Sur, the sea lions, 
Oh, and can you say "Hi" to the queen?     

                                                                                                                            Two roads diverged in a yellow wood 

And sorry I could not travel both

And be on traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair

And having perhaps the better claim

Because it was grassy and wanted wear

Though as for that the pass there

Had worn them really about the same

And both that morning equally lay

In leave no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

- Robert Frost

I am awake later than I wanted but sleep is so good after so many years of disrupted sleepless nights. I connect with the backpackers in the kitchen so they know I am alive and kicking (and serious about taking them along with me) and go about getting my belongings together. I stop in the kitchen to see how crowded it is in hopes of making the hostel signature pancakes. Suddenly, Syndrome swoops in front of me and seizes the pitcher of mix and commandeers the griddle. This is OK. I have a few other odds and ends to do before we take off, so I make a point to set up my plate and juice glass beside the pancake station, signaling that I am returning and I am next, and I leave the kitchen. I'm passively dealing with this situation. For now.

I come back approximately 10 minutes later, and Syndrome is STILL working on his pancakes. All 12 of them. All 12 fluffy golden golden circular pancakes. And he has been waiting for my eventual return. He is a meticulous stalker and he is painstakingly detailed in his culinary creation as well. I collect my plate and juice glass and stand formidably near to both Syndrome and the griddle so that when he removes his pancakes it will be evident that I am next to begin my breakfast preparation--and so it is obvious that he is abusing the allotted time for having control of the pancake facilities. But Syndrome has done his evil villain homework and is a step ahead this morning...

As I clutch my dishes and stand waiting for the pancake station, he casually begins to scoop his pancakes from the griddle, and in doing so, turns to me in a calculated movement and inquires with a deep and sinister grave voice "Would you like some pancakes?"... I can honestly say that I had to fight very hard to contain my shock and not allow my facial expression to give me away. Syndrome is dressed in what appear to be navy stirrup pants, a hiking jacket, and wild hair. Somehow I come up with, "oh that's OK. I'm making some as soon as you are finished." There are a few tense seconds that pass and Syndrome looks as if he is about to flip. A brief rage passes across his face, but then he regains control and his facial muscles relax and he retreats, with his huge stack of perfect pancakes.

DID THAT JUST HAPPEN!?!?!? I'm pretty sure there was no real danger involved, but no sir, I would not like your stalker special pancakes. Social worker's intuition sent my creep radar on red alert during that exchange. We social workers are [supposedly] a good judge of character and those might not have been specifically tainted pancakes, but there was something not right about that dude and his uncomfortable villain likeness and stirrup pants. Next, the man from last night who was spooning ice cream directly from the container strikes up conversation. He appears much less villainous, and I bite. Within seconds, however, he is talking about magic and then indicates that I should check out his "celestial" website because he "thinks I'll really enjoy it." I thank him. But I think to myself that it sounds very sketchy and I will certainly pass on that world wide web adventure. After preparing my own pancakes, untouched by evil villains, I rally the backpackers and we pile into the pickup and head for the Big Sur. Syndrome keeps watch as we gather and pack up the truck, but does not intrude further.

Rick and Tyla are my road trip buddies for today and they are from England. Rick is in back checking the map for points of interest. We pass several of them before we realize we should be looking a little closer. He is also monitoring the highway for state parks where they can camp next and at which point they will ultimately depart my company. Tyla sits in the front and chats with me about England.

We pass a sign for boar crossings shortly out of Caramel. I have never seen a boar crossing. I warn the Brits to be on the lookout for wild boars. A wild boar to the front of the Ford could severely hamper our plans for traveling the Pacific Coast Highway without interruption. And I don't have a grill with to prepare them for dinner, thus a dead boar equals nothing more for us than a dented fender and famine.

We continue along our route and talk about England and the comparisons and contrasts with the states. I learn that the Queen of England is simply a figurehead and has no real power or duty other than to be a diplomat and provide tourists with entertainment. Many Americans have asked my companions to tell the queen "hello" when they return. I find this odd, as do Rick and Tyla. We joke that they will send her greetings next time they are on Facebook chat with Her Majesty. Maybe I can add her on Skype.

Lots of young people from overseas engage in backpacking and overseas travel-- and it seems quite sparse here in the U.S. I am not sure if we are more fearful, or feel more obligated to dedicate ourselves to the work force immediately, or purely lack interest for exploring. The international folks I have come to know on my journey frequently take trips in their youth and have dubbed their travels "gap year," meaning you take a year off from school/work/reality to travel and discover.  I am taking a gap something, though I am not sure what it is yet.


The PCH is beautiful. For the most part, it is a winding ribbon of a highway that cuts into the edge of the cliffs high above the crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean while making its way along the West Coast. On one side there is solid rock; On the other there is a sheer drop. At some places along the way, there are large bridges where the road is simply a pathway perched atop a giant structure of concrete. I am both anxious about driving on what seems a risky roadway, and simultaneously awed by the spectacular view. The Brits are the primary beneficiaries of this drive, as they have the freedom to look around and I must focus on the task of driving.

We stop prior to a major construction area to take a few photos of a particularly aesthetic scene where the view of one large section of the highway is completely unobstructed, showing a cement bridge structure rising up from the crashing waves and stone below.  Not wanting to pass up a photo opp, we pull over and get out to perform our stereotypical tourist duties. Rick is too close to the edge for my comfort so I need to close my eyes several times to avoid screaming in fear of him falling. After we have captured the appropriate amount of images, we return to the pickup and the backpackers make comments as to whether or not I am too scared to continue on as the driver due to my previous behavior. I inform them I am not frightened of driving off of the highway; I am simply frightened of them falling off of a cliff because they are too close to the edge. And besides, the highway has guard rails.

As we continue along PCH, we discover that much of the highway is under construction. This means the narrow roadway is even more narrow and more creepy. There is also an area where a new tunnel comes through the rock and winds along the jagged cliffs overlooking the ocean below. We are stopped frequently where the construction has reduced the road to one lane. This allows for extra scenic viewing time for me as the driver; however, it also allows a clear view of the surface underneath the road being worked on. The Brits comment that it appears the entire highway has fallen away underneath the temporary roadway and they can see all the way down the side of the cliffs from their vantage point on the passenger side. Thank you young British teenagers for providing me with additional anxiety.

After about an hour or so of driving, Rick
declares that they have arrived at their destination for the night, a state park off the PCH. We exchange goodbyes and they set off to explore and find a camp site. I fondly remind them to say hello to the queen.

After the Brits are gone, I am left to my own thoughts again, always a dangerous situation. I reflect on how quiet it is traveling alone. Sometimes I enjoy the silence and time for reflection and other times I think it is quite nice to travel with others and sit back and listen to their stories. This trip has been rather unbalanced in that aspect and I did not notice much until Rick and Tyla had come and gone. I am reminded that we are not meant to travel this life alone, but rather we are meant to live in fellowship with others, to be surrounded by community to help us grow and learn and evolve. On this trip especially, I have already been blessed with the amount of diversity in my newly found acquaintances and the opportunity this presents for us both to exchange stories and gain insight into each other's worlds.

I wish that I could somehow share with you the spectacular views from the remainder of today's drive down the PCH. My own words, no matter how eloquent and descriptive, could never capture the true beauty of that highway as it weaves along the rocky coast, high above the shoreline. The picturesque views of the waves crashing below me, the beautiful wildflowers and succulents that connect the roadway to the rock beneath, and bridge the conquered civilized world and the wild waves. These are indescribable and there is no way to fully depict them here that would do any justice. Having physically seen their beauty, I am certain I am inept at writing in such a way that would allow you to see through my eyes.

I continue along the highway until the roadway comes to an area where it is nearly level with the sea. Along this stretch there are several areas where there are trail heads nestled along the highway. At some points there are fences that extend the length of the highway and these too have trail heads that can be accessed by going through a gate-like opening in the fence. I pull the pickup as far off the highway as I can and make my way to one of the trail heads, across the field of succulents towards a beach concealed from view from the highway. The path to the beach leads up a small crest of land. As I ascend the crest, I find myself directly above the beach, and stunned by the scene below.




A strip of shoreline extends below the crest and dozens of sea lions lay sleeping scattered along it. Beyond them, is a small rocky area with a few pools between the rocks where a other sea lions frolic. There is a well worn sign that requests I keep an unspecified "safe distance" from the seals, and displays a red circle with a line through it with a picture of a human petting a seal. In my mind, this converts to: Keep a safe distance away; the safe distance is not petting the seals.









I decide that I need to navigate through the sea lion minefield so that I can watch the other sea lions playing in the rock pools more closely. I begin to tip toe through dozing sea lions, some oblivious to my presence, some keeping  watchful eye but largely uninterested. There are a great deal of them, but not so many that I can't maintain at least a 7 foot distance as I pick a trail through them. I finally reach the rock area and am amazed as I sit on the rocks and the sea lions dive and play just a few feet from me in the water.




This is an absolutely surreal situation, being able to observe nature in such an intimate setting. The sea lions dive and play in the pool at my feet, floating to the surface with bobbing heads and bottomless eyes. There is an awkward moment where they seem to take notice of me, all suddenly staring directly at me with those huge dark eyes. I quietly say [more to calm myself than to command them] "stay down where you are please" to the floating giants. I am slightly second guessing my interpretation of safe distance as they float there, staring at me. I wonder about backing up as they can likely get onto the rocks where I am sitting quite easily...

Considering I am a good half mile from the road, and am wearing flip flops (bad decision) on slippery wet rocks, it is likely best I retreat since no one knows where I am and I don't feel like slipping to my death/getting eaten by sea lions with very little chance of being discovered. The pansy in me wins over and I start towards the sandy beach.

A problem presents itself immediately. The number of sea lions on the beach area has increased significantly in the short amount of time since I last crossed. Additionally, a number of sea lions are now making their way in from the ocean, and a few are also trekking back to the water. There is traffic. There are tons of sea lions. The tide is coming in.There is no path.

I am unsure what degree of danger a sea lion poses to a 20-something female on foot on a beach. I mentally make a note to start researching local fauna prior to entering their habitat. I am fairly certain they are awkward on land, cannot necessarily grab me with their flippers, but can probably tear me to shreds with their teeth. There is a small opening in the path which I start for. I make a run for it just as a giant sea lion bursts from the beach and slides into the water. I managed to get out of his way but the other sea lions have seen now taken note of my presence.

There is still a small path between them and the water and if I time it right, I may be able to sneak through between waves. There is still a lot of seal traffic coming in and out of the water and I am trying to respect them from a safe distance while also trying to hold it together and not become their midday snack. I make a run for it when I see a small opening--but a medium sized seal spots me and there is not much room between him and the water. He is not sleeping, he is not oblivious to my presence, and he is not feeling friendly. As I am trying to tiptoe by, he roars loudly and starts towards me baring his teeth. Crap. The only viable option I see here is to run towards the water and go around him. A clever friend of mine points out after I relay this story to her that running "into his natural habitat" was not the best choice, but at the time it was the only choice. As I dash towards the water the opening for a dry route gets smaller and smaller. The oncoming waves rush towards me and drench my lower half. I am safe from the sea lions. I am also soaking wet. I consider this another near miss.

Not dead. And NOT friendly.

Because I am on vacation and I really don't care, I take off my pants and hang them out the back window to let them flap dry as I drive. I have officially labeled myself as an out-of-towner/redneck. I am driving a pickup with ND plates, carrying a motorcycle, with pants flapping in the breeze.

The pants-less journey continues South, as I come upon Hearst Castle. I was unsure if I would arrive at a decent time to see this incredible structure, and indeed as I enter the visitor center (now with pants back ON) I see the last tour of the day leaving and preparing to climb the hill up to the castle. The visitor center is quite comprehensive in its information and there is plenty to see despite not being able to actually tour the castle itself.

Hearst Castle, view from afar.

Today's journey comes to an end as I make the final stretch to Los Angeles. I enter the city in the dark and drive to the heart of Hollywood which will be my home for the next couple days. There is a parking lot directly across the street from the hostel, where a man gives me the great deal of $20 to park for the night. Fantastic. I hate parking. Prior to this trip car seats were the bane of my existence. They have now been replaced with parking in urban areas.