The Shining Sea

My trip from sea to shining sea is finally completed, though the sea wasn't shining when I got there. I decided to reach the Pacific at Carmel because it's a beautiful spot, but also because the only tentsite available in all of California was not far up the road from there.

Carmel Beach on a cold September afternoon (yesterday).

The campground was up a mountain east of the bay, and though it was only 2800 feet high, it was well above the overcast that robbed the color from the Carmel/Monterey area.

My tentsite at Fremont Peak State Park, overlooking the overcast covering Monterey and Carmel. From above, it is truly the "shining sea" that was missing at the beach.

I will eventually get more details and more pictures put up on the trip blog. One surprise of the whole trip, however, was how my "wheels" attracted people and started conversations. It has been a better ice-breaker than a cute puppy.

Shortly after I parked the bike and began assessing the best placement for my tent, one of the young ladies from the neighboring site came over to chat, curious about the bike, of course. Soon, the other two girls in the party came over to chat. I wanted to get set up before sunset, so they invited me over for cocktails during "cocktail hour."

All three were in their mid-20s. One is a grad student in Spanish, working her way through school as a belly-dancer. She wants to be a language teacher. The second is a mother of 2-year-old twins, taking a much-needed break from them with her girlfriends. The third is a recent transplant from Florida working in a large corporate office.

What makes this worth "writing home about" is how quickly they decided I was more than an old quy with a cool bike. Most young people care little what us old folks have to say, but this group couldn't stop asking questions. I felt like a teacher trainer and a grandfather at the same time. It was lots of fun. Their questions faded away as the campfire turned to embers, and as I walked back to my own tentsite I realized how long it had been since anybody had asked my advice about anything at all except flying an airplane. I actually felt useful for an hour or so. It just might be time for me to move on.

This morning I woke up on the warm mountaintop, broke camp, and as I was getting ready to pack up and descend back into the cold valley another young gal in her 20s came over to chat. She was there with her husband, but he hadn't gotten up yet. Her uncle has a Goldwing and he travels around a lot. She grew up in Michigan and went on many road trips with her family when she was little. She actually enjoyed them because the kids in her family were "trained." Look out the window, no whining, get out of the car when it stops, etc. I chuckled thinking about our one big family road trip, which went surprisingly well. We compared notes on the Blue Ridge Mountains and I slipped in the normal complaint about brown California. She said she was also trained to say that California is not brown, it's "golden." Another delightful young lady.

This road trip is now done, but there are more to come. I didn't meet as many interesting people as I had hoped, but that was my fault. I was just going too fast. I did a six-week trip in two weeks. Next time I'll slow down. Meeting these 4 young ladies, two from Missouri, one from Florida, and one from Michigan, was a great way to cap off a wonderful ride across the country.

This morning, I rode into Monterey to revisit the old stomping grounds. I had breakfast on Cannery Row, which is now just a big tourist trap, nothing like when I went to school there. I planned to ride around the language school, but it is now secured like any other Army post, and has been since 9/11. It was quite a disappointment.

I proceeded to Alvarado Street, most of which is changed completely. One thing hardly changed though, is the bar in which I turned 21. Back then it was called "My Attic." It was a quiet little bar, patronized mostly by couples over 40 and 5 or 6 of my Chinese classmates. No other military guys ever went there. Mac, the bartender looked and sounded a lot like Broderick Crawford, a TV star of the time. He was like our grandfather and the other patrons were like our aunts and uncles. It was an amazing family. On payday Mac would collect a dollar from each of us, and at the end of the month he would host a picnic at a local park where we could enjoy our "family" even though we were broke.

Broderick Crawford

The "My Attic" building is still there, though I'm sure it has gone through dozens of versions of the neighborhood bar. It was a punk bar when I came to Monterey for a convention in the 90s. Now it is a live jazz music club, and I promised myself I will come back up soon to enjoy some jazz where my "family" used to hang out.

"My Attic," now called "Monterey Live"

When we graduated from the Defense Language Institute up the hill, my friends and I had a plaque made for Mac, declaring him the best bartender in the world. It wasn't for the drinks he mixed, but for the home he made for us.

"My Attic" has survived all these years because it has been placed on a state historical registry, most likely because it's where I celebrated turning 21. Or because it took in a group of young students far from home, and treated them like sons.

A clink of the scotch glass to Mac, the best bartender in the world.