Pacific Grove
Today was good.
Apart from the continual disappointment of Futons as a way to sleep and the sleeping bag failing to cover my toes, today was in fact excellent. We walked down to breakfast, trying to take advantage of the outside before the rain came in, then drove up to Del Monte Center to get various bedding at Macy's, which included a proper comforter for guests (in response to the aforementioned toes problem). And then the rain rolled in, light but driving, blessing the land. I heard someone say it was "pouring buckets," which means they have never actually seen it pour buckets, but the rain was good. We went cheese tasting in Carmel, which I am much better at than wine tasting, and they were playing "Time in a Bottle." And we took refuge and lunch in the little English Tea house, and had scones and tea and Welsh Rarebit, since the weather was right for it. The "scones" were virtually cornbread, which was very strange, but the whole experience was delightful nonetheless.
After the rain, after we got home, I needed to go visit my bay. The sun came out, the wind was fresh, the sky was washed clean and the puddles were delighting children, who were out in force due to the aforementioned uncharacteristic sunshine. Usually the clouds form up at David St. So I took my leave and made the walk down from Lover's Point to the Aquarium. That path. My path. I've traveled that path since before I was born. There were no otters out today but the tide was low and the rocks were purple with barnacles and occasional children. Lover's Point. Lover's Point to the Aquarium and back. I think it's a mile and a half. I don't care. And the wind in my face and the sun and the cyprus and the rocks seeming to glow in the slanting light and the haze rolling in and giving everything a dreamlike quality. The coprosma that got me mentioned in botanical papers. The bench where we fed the squirrels. The ravine where I collected rumex and the secret beaches and coves where I gathered glass from the sea. The smokestacks of the Aquarium rising high between the pines. The cyclists and joggers and lovers and families. The dim faint outline of the Santa Cruz mountains across the bay. The gently surging waves and circling birds. The artists and photographers. I didn't go into the Aquarium - I hadn't brought any membership documents - but I helped tourists with photographs and put my hand on the kelp logo, lingering before heading back. And the outside of my skin was cold and tingly all over, and the air smelled like surf and seaweed and wet pine trees and distant wood smoke. And this is mine this is mine this is mine this is mine this is mine. Lover's Point to the Aquarium and back again.
And I took pictures. All the pictures. For when I miss my bay and my ocean and my rocks and my aquarium and my terrible blackberries and the west coast slanting sun and the fog rolling in and the far off lights of the squid boats. Enfolded in this scrap of paper / is the land I grew up in...
Apart from the continual disappointment of Futons as a way to sleep and the sleeping bag failing to cover my toes, today was in fact excellent. We walked down to breakfast, trying to take advantage of the outside before the rain came in, then drove up to Del Monte Center to get various bedding at Macy's, which included a proper comforter for guests (in response to the aforementioned toes problem). And then the rain rolled in, light but driving, blessing the land. I heard someone say it was "pouring buckets," which means they have never actually seen it pour buckets, but the rain was good. We went cheese tasting in Carmel, which I am much better at than wine tasting, and they were playing "Time in a Bottle." And we took refuge and lunch in the little English Tea house, and had scones and tea and Welsh Rarebit, since the weather was right for it. The "scones" were virtually cornbread, which was very strange, but the whole experience was delightful nonetheless.
After the rain, after we got home, I needed to go visit my bay. The sun came out, the wind was fresh, the sky was washed clean and the puddles were delighting children, who were out in force due to the aforementioned uncharacteristic sunshine. Usually the clouds form up at David St. So I took my leave and made the walk down from Lover's Point to the Aquarium. That path. My path. I've traveled that path since before I was born. There were no otters out today but the tide was low and the rocks were purple with barnacles and occasional children. Lover's Point. Lover's Point to the Aquarium and back. I think it's a mile and a half. I don't care. And the wind in my face and the sun and the cyprus and the rocks seeming to glow in the slanting light and the haze rolling in and giving everything a dreamlike quality. The coprosma that got me mentioned in botanical papers. The bench where we fed the squirrels. The ravine where I collected rumex and the secret beaches and coves where I gathered glass from the sea. The smokestacks of the Aquarium rising high between the pines. The cyclists and joggers and lovers and families. The dim faint outline of the Santa Cruz mountains across the bay. The gently surging waves and circling birds. The artists and photographers. I didn't go into the Aquarium - I hadn't brought any membership documents - but I helped tourists with photographs and put my hand on the kelp logo, lingering before heading back. And the outside of my skin was cold and tingly all over, and the air smelled like surf and seaweed and wet pine trees and distant wood smoke. And this is mine this is mine this is mine this is mine this is mine. Lover's Point to the Aquarium and back again.
And I took pictures. All the pictures. For when I miss my bay and my ocean and my rocks and my aquarium and my terrible blackberries and the west coast slanting sun and the fog rolling in and the far off lights of the squid boats. Enfolded in this scrap of paper / is the land I grew up in...