Gloom
Hey, here are those misty trailer shots I forgot to include in the last post:
After we snapped these, it was time for our first experience on the legendary Pacific Coast Highway. Only problem was that the day was wet and cloudy and depressing as hell. Gabby was tired from our night in Stephen King’s horror trailer and she wasn’t much in the mood for any sort of scenery. I, however, was determined to find our way to the coast to try and salvage what we could of the disagreeable day.
The GPS refused to get me to the 1 so I had to just go old school: trace my finger along the map and eyeball it. I felt like god damn Davy Crockett. A true frontiersman. The world was suddenly big and dangerous and exciting. On our way down the 101, we came across a sign that said “Scenic Alternate” and so I chortled as I spun the ship’s wheel in a westerly direction.
It turned out to be the Avenue of the Giants, a majestic place that we were both pretty glad to have experienced. Mighty redwoods towering over lush green forests in the misty morning.
Some big mamas, them Redwoods are.
This genuinely scenic route eventually took us out to a tiny little town that consisted of a school, three stores, and a drive-through café where we purchased a fantastic pistachio muffin. The owners were kindly and interested to hear our story.
When we finally came to the point on the map where the road forks into the PCH I sneered and pointed a finger toward the sea like Blackbeard himself. Then all of a sudden we were winding up another damn mountain. On a narrow, unforgiving road. Then we lost service. Then the GPS started drawing a blank. I had no choice but to ride it out and hope I made the right move. Curving around sharp turns on some slippery mountain pass in the fog, an incredibly unamused Gabby as my co-pilot. California Dreamin’ on a shitty rainy day.
Once we’d cleared the Himalayas I saw the coast and a sign for the PCH. I breathed a silent sigh of relief.
“See? I told you we were going the right way.”
The view was…ghastly. Mist and clouds and stormy seas. Don’t get me wrong, there’s a certain dark charm to that sort of thing, but on this particular day it felt more like we were being mocked by the universe than anything else.
What’s that old joke…
How do you make God laugh?
Tell him your plans.
It began to feel like a big waste of time. We’d probably be nearing San Francisco at this point had I just followed the GPS. I tried my best to stick with it, as if glorious blue skies and a brilliant, shining sun were just around the next bend, but it grew tiring. I threw in the towel in Fort Bragg where we stopped at a Taco Bell to pee and regroup.
On the way in we made a choice all defeated travelers lower themselves to at some point in their hapless exploits: get Taco Bell breakfast and eat it in our van like the pathetic wretches we were.
The true walk of shame.
The woman at the counter was tall and authoritative looking, almost certainly the manager of the establishment. She seemed positively smitten with Gabby, making a small joke out of every little thing she said, smiling sheepishly with her eyes lowered to the ground like a bashful schoolgirl afterward. Gabby is amiable and kind, so she laughed and went along with it. It was harmless enough. Until I took to the counter.
The woman’s smile faded. She suddenly took on a shade of standoffishness. Cantankerousness even. I noticed she had a little bit of food on her lip. I gave her my order and asked if they had bottled water, to which she paused, raised her brow, and with a condescending glare said, “I guess I can be that nice.”
I’m not sure what that even meant, but I brushed it off as another attempt at a small joke that simply flopped. We’ve all been there. Myself more than most, I’d imagine. Then as she was ringing everything up I looked out the window at the cruel grey afternoon and asked, “Is the weather often like this around here?”
I was only wondering if our luck was as bad as it seemed. I know northern California is a different world compared to its more glamorous southern parts, but this was a real gloomy, windswept bastard of a day that seemed uncharacteristic of anywhere on planet earth, let alone a place known mostly for its sunshine. Well, I guess I was wrong.
This snappy old bag looked at me like I was vomit. Like I was the digested remains of a Crunchwrap Supreme splattered around the rim of the men’s toilet. Like I was Harry Potter and she was Uncle Vernon and I’d just asked for a hot air balloon filled with Bertie Bott’s Every Flavored Beans for my birthday.
Image via Psychologytoday.com
Casual weather conversation? Big mistake, buddy.
“Well, it is the middle of the fall, isn’t it?” she asked as if that meant anything at all to someone unfamiliar with local weather patterns.
“I mean, I’m from New York,” I offered.
“And I’m from Chico…been here about a year…” she shot back.
For reference, Chico, California is a landlocked city less than 200 miles east of where we were and Long Island, New York is 3,000 miles further east than that. I’m not a meteorologist but I’m willing to bet living in one of these places leaves you more capable of an accurate hyper-local forecast for Fort Bragg, California than the other.
I didn’t have much of an answer for this, I just gave her an uncomfortable, “Ah, okay,” and stepped back for the next customer to come to the counter.
An interesting experience to say the least. In moments like those you think you know what you would do. You think maybe you’d swiftly snap back with something witty and send the whole restaurant and kitchen into an uproar, cackling and exchanging hi-fives as you smirk and shake your head in pity. Really though, they just catch you off guard and make you say, “Ah, okay.” People are strange.
We walked back to the van laughing and set out on our way toward San Francisco, this time on a more direct route. Before we were back on the 101, however, I needed to cross those god forsaken mountains again. One more little barb from a clearly contemptuous universe.
