The day in question is the 17 of the August in the 2006. But before I say anything about what happened on that day, I must first tell a little story, which isn’t really relevant to said day in question.
When I was in 8th grade, I was in an advanced math class which involved my taking a math class in the high school before my middle school was even open for business. My sister was a senior in high school that year, and it just made sense for me to get a ride with my sister, because she drove to school—plus I didn’t want to ride the high school bus while I was naught but a puny eighth grader (this was my actual logic). My sister wasn’t always pleased with this aspect of our relationship, and I didn’t have an alarm clock. But wait, you say, what does the one have to do with the other? Well, her chosen method of waking me up at that ungodly hour was to take the pillow out from under my still-sleeping head, and proceed to pummel me about the head, face, and neck with it, until I was able to fend her off, which is to say when I was awake. The minute amount or relevance comes in right about here, but with some prefacing. It was the morning I was to leave my sister’s, and I was certain that since she got up before I typically did that she would have to find some way of waking me. I mentally prepared myself the night before for the pillow-beating of a lifetime, but much to my shock and... well, amazement, I received no such thing. I was awakened rather politely, if I’m absolutely forced to use an adverb.
Good-byes were said, and my sister left. Further good-byes were said, and my brother-in-law left. Then I took a shower and began packing my various belongings. I took a load of stuff down to my truck, brought my truck up to their complex, and then packed some more. One of the last things I packed was a tupperware-like container filled with cookies that had been made the night before. They would come in handy along the way, and I must say they improved with age (to a point). I got all my stuff out of the apartment, except for the ice cream sandwiches I was pained to leave behind (I knew I couldn’t eat them fast enough, and that my cooler couldn’t keep them cool enough). I closed the door behind me, and made my way to my truck. Then I drove across the street (literally) to the gas station. After filling the tank, I metaphorically hit the road, and headed for the 134. It was easy to find. The traffic was bad. Then I took the 405 south, and as I recall, the traffic was worse.
I stopped at the Getty art museum and rode a little train from the parking garage to the museum. What is the difference between a train and a tram? It might have been the second one, now that I think about it. Anyway, I rode the track-bound vehicle to an arrangement of stationary buildings, and proceeded to view an introductory video, then proceeded to view art. I felt a little weird about the art. I felt a little torn (my dad will no doubtedly read that and at least think, but probably say, ‘that must have been painful...’) about the art, because it was neat, but I felt that I would have been more interested in it if I’d known a little more about it to begin with. I felt like I was just dutifully looking at the art to say that I looked at it, but really I just wanted to go see the photography exhibit. Don’t get me wrong, there were some really awesome pieces that I did stop and admire (I even read the information tags on a few!) but I just didn’t feel the connection that few of my art-viewing compatriots exhibited. After a while I stumbled upon a neat terrace sort of thing. I’d call it a deck, but that just doesn’t have the right connotations in this context. I think of people having barbeques on decks, this seems... different. From the terrace I’d found, I could see the cactus gardens, oh, and downtown L.A.
I walked from one building to the next, and found yet another terrace. From this one, I could see what I feel I have no choice but to call the hedge-pond. It was neat.
Right near there, and a little to the right (from my perspective) was a nice hill. There were some kids on the hill having a grand old time rolling down it. Here’s a photograph of their youthful exuberance. Exuberance is a silly word. Exuberance.
After I took those photomographs, I had but one more exhibit to view, and it was the featured exhibit about two artists who engaged in much collaboration. I don’t remember their names, but I’m certain that if I looked in the right places, I would be able to find out. I am not going to look in the right places at present, so consider yourselves on your own, if you care to know. It too, was neat. In the central courtyard was a large, flowing piece of rock/water art. It was fountain-riffic.
After that, I went back into the main building, viewed other viewables, namely the gift shop... and then went back outside to the staging area for the tra/m/in. There I saw a large skeletal sail-like structure. It was odd, but very much picture-worthy. There you have it:
I rode the rail-bound vehicle back to the garage, but while on it, couldn’t help but notice an odd couple across from me. It was a man who looked about thirty-five or so, and a woman(?) who looked about fifteen. I wasn’t sure of their relationship at first, but then noticed the arms-around-waists-and-such, and heard them telling stories to their neighboring passengers about other places they’d been. I do not recall any rings, or anything.
I got back to the garage and couldn’t help but notice that my poor truck was probably 10 to 15 years the senior of any other vehicle in the vicinity. I found that odd, too. It was also the only one with out of state plates in the vicinity.
Then it was back on the road, the 405, to the 10, and then the 1. I figure that, since the 10 emptied on to the 1 in Santa Monica, I was basically ending my Route 66 journey just where I needed to. I hadn’t seen any signs saying ‘Begin Historic Route 66,’ and felt that I needed no signs that stated ‘End Historic Route 66,’ either. I started in Chicago, approximately where it did, and I ended in Santa Monica, approximately where it did. I was satisfied with it, and blame any troubles I had on the rarely-useful guidebook I had. If any of you don’t want to buy a Route 66 guidebook, I seriously recommend the one by Tom Snyder as the one not to buy. Seriously.
When I passed through Malibu, the thing that stuck out (and still sticks out) in my mind was that I believe the sign said the elevation was 13. I thought that was an interesting number to reach, when considering the town (if town it can be called) must reach well above that height as well. It made me wonder just how official elevations of towns, cities, and various other municipalities are reached.
Further up the road, I saw something I’d seen once before, but this time they had greenery. Last fall, two of my sisters, my mother, and I took the coast highway up to the Hearst Castle, and along the way I noticed these fields of lengthy gray lumps. I naturally assumed that they were speed bump farms. Apparently I was wrong, because this time as I passed them, their surfaces were white, with greenery protruding. They must be growing something out of the speed bumps! I’m so glad they’ve found another use for them, I’d always wondered about how speed bumps must feel, always just sitting there, knowing their only purpose in life is to slow things down. It must be really exciting for them to take an active part in the growing and furthering of things. Here’s a picture:
After that I got back out to the beachside road, and what did I see? A massive gathering of all manner of recreational vehicles. It was like a mechanized army of leisure. I’m sure that, if properly organized, the machines and their operators could have taken something significant over. Something like... a stadium parking lot. The line of vehicles basically goes off as far as the eye can see. Plus, and I believe this to be significant, it took me quite a long time to figure that it was worth taking a picture of, and by the time I finally did, I thought I saw the end of the line, was wrong, and then got back into picture taking mode. So, long story short, I had passed by rather a large number of vehicles (even when compared with the number in the photo) prior to the pictured assortment. Have a look:
I stopped in a town called Lompoc, I believe, for to buy sustenance and such. There was a Von’s, and I restocked on things like granola bars and breakfast bars. I headed back out, had a difficult time not so much finding the freeway, but finding a way back onto it. The way that I went was under construction and thusly blocked off, the road I was on directed me into a business park/strip mall sort of thing with no obvious freeway access, so I backtracked and found an alternate route. Once back on the freeway, I too my last significant photo of the day, and it’s rather a whimsical one, I’m afraid. Rest assured, it’s not because of any whimsy on my part (other than the whim that got me to take the picture), but on the part of whoever it was that chose road names:
Later that evening, I found myself in the thriving metropolis of San Luis Obispo. And man, was it confusing. I tried, I really tried to stay on the 1 or the 101, whichever it was at that point (I know it was the 1, I’m just not sure if it was the 101 also, if you see my point). They had the whole downtown section blocked off to certain directions of traffic, and weren’t allowing any left turns. So, I missed my turn, dodged pedestrians pretty much continuously until I’d driven the requisite 30 or so blocks (or so it seemed) until I was finally able to make my much anticipated left turn. I just had one more left turn, then a right turn, and then I’d be right back on track. Unfortunately, things were not as simple as right and left turns, and there were no signs (unless I just didn’t go far enough—which I find very hard to believe). So, I found myself at a gas station, putting gas in my truck, in the dark, contemplating the night’s sleeping arrangements to come. I was confused, and maybe a little nervous, but I drove around and tried to find my way (after a lengthy call to the parents). After further driving and an insurmountable inability to find California Highway 1, I decided to take U.S. Highway 101 North for a while. Just before I found the needed on-ramp, I saw a cheap-looking motel. I thought to myself, “hey, I needed an affordable place to sleep, why don’t I check this out.” I did check it out, and the door was locked. There was a button to press for after-hours service, which I pressed, and a little man with sleep in his eyes came out to the presumably-bullet-proof-glass window, and I asked him how much for a night. He told me forty, and I thought to myself that I’d stayed at better places for less, and forgetting my desperation, told him no thanks, and sorry for the inconvenience. As I turned away he said, “How much you pay?” I said, “25 or 30.” He came back with, “35, plus tax?” in his cute little accent. Once again, I said no thanks, and turned away. My alternative would turn out much less expensive.
What was that alternative, you ask? Well, it involved sleeping in the back of my truck in, where else? A Von’s parking lot, in Atascadero. I was a little creeped out at the proposition, but I was pretty much out of luck any other which way you look at it. So, I parked my truck at the outskirts of the parking lot on a hill overlooking the main road. I climbed in back and put up my curtains, when a motor-home rolled up and tried parallel parking in the four or five spots next to me. Often I would find myself sitting up and checking out my curtains to see if anyone suspected/took notice of me, but eventually I was able to put my paranoias to bed, so to speak, and go to sleep. It was a fitful, interruption filled kind of sleep, but it got the job done.
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