Left Coast Cowboys

Two years ago, I took my niece on a cross-country roadtrip to celebrate her graduation from college. She was content to let me plan the whole trip, but there was one place she was insistent that we visit: Graceland. I wasn’t enthusiastic.

You see, I’m too young to remember the vibrant, rock ‘n’ roll Elvis. By the time I was listening to popular music, he was a fat, washed up, druggy joke. I did have one brief glimpse at his impact on the day of his death (see this earlier post.) But all in all, he’s not a star I would go out of my way to learn about.

Boy, did Graceland change my mind! Well, in the beginning, it was all that my snarky self expected — weird, tacky and filled with people who were taking it all waaaaay too seriously.

A surprisingly small Graceland. It would be the smallest home in your average gated community.

The first odd thing you notice about Graceland, is that everyone who works there is Black. I mean EVERYONE from the ticket taker to the tour guide to the concession stand and gift shop operators to the maintenance people. With the psuedo-Tara facade of the place, it gives it the feeling of a strange plantation.

The next thing you notice is how small and relatively modest everything is. The house is less impressive in size than anything you’d see in a mid-range gated community. And the outbuildings, such as Vern Presley’s office and the guest quarters, are pretty much the architectural equivalent of double-wides.

The Pool Room: just one example of Evis's terrible White Trash taste.

Then you get inside. Holy gold lame with a cape! This has got to be the apotheosis of White Trash Taste. We’re talking purple shag carpeting ON THE CEILING, ceramic monkeys, gold flecked mirrors on the walls, fake wood paneling. (Our pictures on Flickr can’t even do it justice, but view ‘em anyway here.)

Something happened during the tour — and I think it was due to the excellent self-guided audio tour that features Elvis, Priscilla, Lisa Marie and various famous people talking about Elvis. But it was most certainly the video monitors set up at nearly every point in the tour showing him in performance. In fact, after awhile, I had a hard time concentrating on the tour as I was riveted by his performances. (Luckily you can stop, start and replay any section — and you can take as long as you want on the tour.) I’ll tell you what we learned: Elvis was an amazing performer!

At Graceland, Elvis is still in the building. Note the TCB (Takin' Care of Business) logo. It's everywhere.

But he was also an incredibly sad individual with a tragic stunted life. Listening to Lisa Marie describe him playing around in go-carts and shooting off fireworks with his friends, you realize, he never really grew up. And Lisa Marie seemed not to have a connection with him as a father, but only as a “presence” who changed the energy in a room when he entered and electrified audiences on stage.

There were points in the tour where Aleana and I were practically in tears.

But the videos pulled us out of it. Now I’m a huge Elvis fan and my next Amazon purchase will be the deluxe special editions of his “68 Comeback Special” and “Aloha From Hawaii”.

Our post-Graceland blue mood was lifted on Beale Street by these friendly Shriners.

It was tough to shake the mood after that, so we headed down Beale Street — and straight into a club featuring the worst Elvis impersonator in the world. I think he was trying to be “The Native American Elvis” as his blue jumpsuit featured turquoise beads and he said he was Chocktaw. He also said he knew Elvis personally, but then everyone in Memphis of a certain age tells you they knew Elvis personally. However, after Graceland, we felt we, too, knew the King.

To quote Paul Simon:

“And I may be obliged to defend
Every love, every ending
Or maybe there’s no obligations now
Maybe I’ve a reason to believe
We all will be received in Graceland”

My Skywatch post. See more skies from around the world at the Skywatch site: http://skyley.blogspot.com/

Once I get behind the wheel of Old Paint, it seems it’s hard for me to take my foot off the gas. So I’m already thinking about what my next roadtrip will be. Several things are going to govern the choice of my next destination:

1) The economy. After the blow-out at the Hotel Bel Air, I probably should concentrate on a trip where maybe I can camp or stay in a Motel 6.  That might preclude Andy. Too much business travel has left him unequipped for KOA.

2) Time. We’re coming up on planting time and, before you know it, I’ll be back at harvest time. Long-time readers will remember what happened then. Because we’d planted five different varietals that all had their own ripening schedules, I ended up living at the ranch with two terriers for more than six weeks. Andy was starting to sound like one of those suspicious husbands who vaguely puts off friends with the old, “Uh, she’s on a long trip.” Some people were ready to examine his Range Rover for bloodstains. 

3) Commitment to California. After more than twenty years of living in this state, I’m embarrassed at the number of areas I HAVEN’T seen. The Year 2009 will be The Year of Traveling Californian.

So then, using the above criteria, my top choices for roadtrips are:

1) The Santa Barbara wine country. Somehow, I never seem to get to this part of the coast. I’ve been down to Hearst Castle and up from San Diego as far as LA. But Santa Barbara always seems to get skipped. Added Bonus: FOUR Missions to check off my list. Those would be San Luis Obispo, Santa Inez, La Purísima Concepción and Santa Barbara. I’m not sure how practical it would be to drag Andy to more than one Mission. He doesn’t share this obsession to see all of them. We’ll see. I may have to leave him at a winery or two while I get in touch with my inner Padre.

2) Lassen Volcano Park. Did you know we had loads of volcanos here and not just of the extinct variety? I’ve heard of it, but, as I’m embarrassed to say, I’ve never been further north in California than Mendocino, so I haven’t seen them with my own eyes. Apparently even further north, we have lava beds.

3) Yosemite. I’ve been there, once twenty years ago for a weekend and I did a quick drive-through with my niece as we ended our cross-country roadtrip. Time to give this place the time and attention it deserves.

4) Channel Islands. Did you know we have a herd of wild buffalo? Apparently a movie company once let loose a few for a movie shoot, then left them to their own devices. I want to see them. Apparently, the sea life is fascinating around there. Andy, as a diver, will love it. Me, I’ll stick above the waves with the buffalo.

5) Joshua Tree National Park. Somehow I always missed this, even when I went down to Palm Springs. Plus there’s the morbid desire to see where Gram Parsons’ manager performed that botched cremation on the the singer.

Anyone else got any good suggestions? Because my window of opportunity is closing fast. Not too many months from now and my only roadtrip option will be heading up from the barn to the wine processing area with two yapping terriers.

NOTE: The photo at the top of the post is actually of the road leading into Texas’s Palo Duro Canyon taken during a cross-country roadtrip two years ago. It’s my entry to Skywatch. See more fabulous pictures of the sky posted by participants around the world at the site: http://skyley.blogspot.com/

I should have roadtrips out of my system after our epic trip down the Central Valley to San Juan Capistrano and back. But it took me less than two days of doing chores to hop back in Old Paint and head for the open road. It sort of came under the category of chores since I’d been directed to Santa Cruz Hydroponics for the best selection of organic, non-GMO seeds and starts. So off I went down Highway One, known in these parts as the Cabrillo Highway after the Conquistador who first explored the California coast.

It’s amazing how quickly after you leave the city limits of San Francisco that you find yourself in the most rural environments. After breezing through the surfer-oriented town of Pacifica, I started passing large organic farms with familiar names. I’d always assumed that most of the organics we buy at the farmers’ market come from the Sonoma area, but Western San Mateo County seems to have miles of great farms — most of them organic.

One of the best was a large berry farm whose farmstand advertised home-made pies and jams. 

This place is definitely worth a stop.

They sell loads of pies, cakes, jams and goodies. Also organic cotton products.

The store is on the Honor System. But the pie makers can see you.

I chose a jar of Olallieberry Jam because I’d never heard of an Olallieberry. Then I took a quick detour for lunch in Half Moon Bay.

I couldn't pass up the chance to taste the Lobster Roll that was named one of the "Top Five Sandwiches in America" by NBC's Today Show.

Okay, a sandwich in California made of Maine lobster violates all my principals about eating local -- in a big way.

But the verdict? Surprisingly, I found it the BEST Lobster Roll I’ve ever had. And I lived in Maine and ate in lobster shacks from Biddeford to Bar Harbor. What put it over the edge: the lobster was warmed and dressed with a butter sauce. And the cole slaw was homemade.

Once in Santa Cruz, I swung by Mission Santa Cruz, so I could check another one off my list.

Sadly, there is little left of the original Mission. A cathedral from 1890 stands on the original spot and a replica of the Mission church is across the street.

Then a quick drive-by of Natural Bridges State Park.

I also started looking for particularly Santa Cruz-y kinds of things. Santa Cruz, as you may know, is one of those places like San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury where the Sixties have never truly ended. And I say that meaning it’s a good thing. Here’s a case in point:

The Homeless Garden Project trains the homeless to be organic gardeners and makes money as a CSA program.

How come their fava beans are so much further along than mine?

The Homeless Garden Project isn’t just for the homeless. They have classes and lectures and they welcome visitors to the farm at any time. Sometimes I just love how innovative Californians can be.

Finally my stated destination.

The good folks here sold me certified organic seeds, gave me some free tomato plants and organic compost tea.

They urged me to come back in two weeks when they’ll have loads of organic, non-GMO starts. Then I turned Old Paint to the North and West and headed back up the coast.

With a few brief stops to view some wildflowers.

The parasailers and surfers were out at the many beaches I passed.

Even though the Cabrillo Highway runs on top of some very high cliffs, there seemed to be Tsunami Evacuation Routes everywhere. Who knew?

Just one last stop, the General Store in the tiny town of San Gregorio.

Inside you'll find clothing, housewares, a library, a pot bellied stove a bar and more. A whole town center in one building.

That's it. But in the words of our Governator, "I'll be baaaack."

And tomorrow, I knuckle back down to work.

One of the highlights of the trip, the unscheduled stop at San Antonio de Padua, the one Mission that still looks much as it did in Padre days, thanks to its isolation.

Call me an unrepentant English Literature Major, but I always like to have a theme to my roadtrips. I strive for some contextual symmetry, a narrative line, a hero’s journey. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. I’m not sure it did this time. But I always hope a trip sends me back home with a slightly different perspective. Or, at the least, exposure to something new. I do believe this trip accomplished that objective. But then, if you travel right, a trip always accomplishes that.

The germ that became this roadtrip started with a whim to see the swallows return to Mission San Juan Capistrano on the traditional St. Joseph’s festival day. Looking at the map, I noted, that on the way back, we’d be passing close to the Crystal Cathedral of televangelist Dr. Robert Schuller and Hour of Power fame. That gave the trip a vaguely religious flavor. Adding the Getty Museum to the itinerary fit right in, as you could say we’d be worshipping at the Altar of Art. At that point, I started calling the excursion, “The Get Religion Roadtrip” or the “Come to Jesus Tour”. Buck Owens’ Crystal Palace could be shoehorned into the theme if you look at Buck Owens as one of the founding Saints of Modern Country Music (and I do). But a stay at the Hotel Bel Air and the drive down through the Great Central Valley just didn’t really work into the program, although they were things we didn’t want to miss. The Nixon Library, which was a last minute addition, didn’t seem fit in anywhere.

We had our perceptions of Richard Nixon realigned at the Birthplace and Museum. It's heavy on the accomplishments, light on the scandals, but the man did preside over a lot of powerful history and did play an active role.

An unscheduled discovery, the beautiful Mission San Antonio de Padua, the most authentic of all the Missions in my book, tipped the balance toward the religious elements. But I’m still not sure this was really a themed trip. However, if we focus on what we learned or rediscovered, “JACKPOT”. Here are some of the highlights and our advice for anyone thinking of following our tire tracks:

We tried to keep an open mind at Dr. Robert Schuller's Crystal Cathedral.

*If you are in Northern California heading to Southern California, at least once, you have to take a route down through the Central Valley. Yes, I know the Coastal Route is spectacular and filled with sights, I’ve done it many times. (At least from Mendocino to the Hearst Castle and from LA down to San Diego. For some reason I always have missed the chunk between San Luis Obispo and LA.) But back to the Central Valley, it doesn’t have a wealth of what you’d call sights, but it’s something to see in and of itself: a massive agricultural bowl ringed with mountains that looks, when you are driving I-5, like you are in an ancient dried inland seabed. With the vast majority of our food coming from there, and the residents paying a high price for that bounty in terms of pollution and other byproducts of agribusiness, it’s almost something you have an obligation to see. Bonus: if you get off the freeway in any small town, it’s amazing how friendly and nice the residents are in a “Howdy Partner” Western kind of way. As an Eastern transplant, used to the steely-eyed suspicion of small town New England, I’m still amazed, more than 20 years later, at the frontier friendliness of the rural West.

*Do your research, but be open to having your mind changed. Or at least to looking at things in different ways. I included the Crystal Cathedral as an architectural point of interest. I wasn’t planning to comment on the politics and religion of Dr. Robert Schuller. However his appalling artwork did earn my censure and I quickly looked up his website to see if he was spending an equal amount on relief efforts and charities. Maybe he is. I couldn’t find any evidence and I was ready to condemn him for wasting money on self-aggrandizement. But I drew myself back and looked at him through the lens of history. Many of the great cathedrals of Europe were built and filled with priceless artwork as the villagers around them suffered grinding poverty. The builders believed that glorifying God was more important in the long run than handing out crusts of bread. Agree or disagree, Robert Schuller is following a tradition that dates from the end of the Dark Ages. We just left it at that. (Although we felt completely comfortable mocking his excruciatingly bad statues. At least the Medieval, Renaissance and Baroque eras gave us Chartres, Michelangelo and Caravaggio.)

Storyteller/performer Jacque Nunez was a highlight at Capistrano. But in general, the Native side of the story at the Missions is always worth seeking out.

*See the Missions. See every one you can. They are all different. I have a vague goal to hit all of them and so far, I’ve counted down a pitiful seven out of the twenty one. Really sad when you consider that four that I haven’t seen — San Rafael, San Jose, Santa Clara and Santa Cruz — are right on my doorstep. The Missions, to me, are the best introduction to California history as Spain, Native Americans, Americans, Gold Rush immigrants and others all seemed to leave their marks on the Missions.

*LA Freeways are just as scary as you’ve heard. Don’t attempt them without a GPS. Ours helpfully told us which lane to get in for the inevitable point where your freeway merges and diverges into one or maybe three new freeways. We’d still be circling LA without our unit. Tune it to the British female voice (we call her Emily). Her calm and slightly snooty tone keeps you more centered than you would normally be in the situation.

*The Crystal Palace is definitely worth a trip from anywhere around LA, for the food, for the music and for the Buck Owens and other Country memorabilia. The Filet Mignon was one of the best I’ve ever had. The biscuits and Squaw Bread were fantastic. If you can’t hit a night with a headliner, Buck Owens’ son Buddy Allen and the remainder of the Buckaroos do a bang up job.

Unexpected bonus at Capistrano: completely recreated kitchen gardens of the Padres. I'm totally ripping this off for Sonoma.

*Talk to people. Some of the memorable characters who added to our understanding of the places we saw: the gentleman at the Frosty King Drive-In in Buttonwillow who took time out, when he saw our maps and guidebooks, to tell us about the history, geology and points of interest in the area. Juan at the Capistrano Trading Post (across from the Mission) who told us where we could REALLY see the swallows. (Under the I-5 overpass down by the creek.) Also Franki, an artist and docent who was a wealth of information about Mission San Antonio de Padua.

*Have a travel playlist. As I mentioned in this post, ours was full of Buck Owens (natch) and those influenced by him. As well as any songs that originated from or captured the spirit of The Central Valley, LA or Southern Coastal California. Get the music right and you’re in the right frame of mind to experience the place.

Even though the LA Times reporter who interviewed me wrote that the swallows didn't return, they were there. And we certainly saw them all the way up the Central Valley. Here one of the little guys sits on the cross above Father Serra at Mission Capistrano. (Photo copyright MOM.)

*Pick a good traveling companion. One who’s attuned to experiencing the trip “between the sights”, one who is ready to take that unscheduled turn off and one who can roll with the punches when things don’t go according to plan. Mom filled the bill nicely. She was fascinated by the Central Valley scenery and indulged my desire to pull over to the side of I-5 and photograph every tumbleweed, oil derrick and orange grove. She encouraged the 22 mile detour to San Antonio de Padua which turned out to be the highlight of our trip even though it had to pre-empt the Steinbeck Center. And she’s still laughing over the horrible roach-infested motel we were originally booked into in San Clemente. (That adventure here.) There WAS that ugly scene over the chicken fried steak, but we’ll allow her one slip up.

The Big Moral? Just get out there. Go somewhere. Do a little research, but be prepared to find your preconceptions are wrong. Talk to people. Take detours. Expect and embrace the unexpected.

And get the music right.

NOTE: Here’s the link to the LA Times story where I’m interviewed as a Swallows Pilgrim. The reporter couldn’t find any swallows, but she obviously didn’t ask over at the gift shop, follow the Indians or drive back up the Central Valley. That’s where the swallows were.

The last day of our roadtrip started with a near fight. See Mom was born during the Depression, she knows the value of a dollar and she doesn’t waste food. So I indulged her when she carted the remains of her chicken fried steak out of Buck Owens’ Crystal Palace. I figured there was plenty of time to talk her out of taking it in the car. But Saturday morning when she brought it out of the motel refrigerator and started loading it into Old Paint, a confrontation was necessary. Suffice it to say, the chicken fried steak was left in Bakersfield, but for the hours long drive back up to San Francisco, it kept being mentioned.

Mom: “Are you hungry?”
Me: “A little.”
Mom: “Sure would be nice if we had that chicken fried steak now. . .”

Our route home led back up I-5, but the itinerary was loose. We’d traveled down I-5 and we thought we’d go up it a bit, then figure out where to veer off. At some point, we decided we’d swing by the Steinbeck Center in Salinas and headed off that way. That led us into very interesting territory, land I thought looked more like the High Plains of Texas — complete with tumbleweeds and oil derricks. The Prius, Old Paint, performed like a champ as we cruised out of Bakersfield with Buck Owens tunes cranked up.

Surprisingly (at least to us) a lot of the lower Central Valley is big oil country. These are the Lost Hills oil fields owned by Chevron.

I found this area strangely beautiful with miles of plains and large mountains in the distance. But then I'm a big fan of the High Plains country of Texas.

A giant tumbleweed threatens Mom and Old Paint.

Closer in to the mountains and we entered wine country.

Then, as we veered off I-5 and headed toward Salinas, Serendipity took over. Which is often the best part of a roadtrip. That point where your plans go a bit askew and you wind up seeing something you didn’t plan on, but in the end makes the trip.

The exact spot where the Rebel Without a Cause entered immortality.

Our first brush with Serendipity was the point where Route 41 met Route 46. Suddenly, a sign informed us that we were at the James Dean Memorial Intersection, the exact spot where Dean entered immortality. There is only a small plaque, the monument is in the town of Chalone in front of the Post Office. But the intersection is enough. It’s as eerie as the famous crossroads of Highway 61 and Highway 40 in Mississippi where Robert Johnson supposedly sold his soul to the Devil. You can feel, even in the daytime, that a tragedy took place here.

The Eagles said it best: "James Dean. James Dean. You were too fast to live. Too young to die. Bye Bye.

From that point, the Serendipity just kept happening. In fact we were giddy with it. So when we saw a small historical marker telling us the Mission of San Antonio de Padua was 22 miles off on a side road, we said, “What the heck”. I have a vague goal of eventually seeing all the historic original Missions of California. Since I’d been able to check off Mission San Juan Capistrano off my list, I thought, “Wouldn’t it be interesting to get a two-fer.”

After a short while, it seemed as if maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea. We drove out for miles into seemingly nowhere. Then we passed a sign saying we were entering Fort Hunter Liggett, which we later found out is the largest US Army Reserve Command post with over 165,000 acres. All we knew at the time was that there were a lot of tanks  and rifle ranges pointing at the road and we observed to each other hopefully that maybe on Saturday they wouldn’t be shooting. More miles into rifle ranges and we finally came to the base gate where a friendly  MP let us in the gate. Of course, I hedged our bets by identifying Mom as the widow of a decorated veteran of two wars. (Turns out, if you have a piece of picture ID and a valid insurance card, they let you in.) So you drive on and on for six more miles and there, in the middle of a wide open field of oaks is the third Mission founded by Father Junipero Serra, this one started in 1771.

Want the real Mission experience? San Antonio de Padua looks and feels much the same as it would have back in the 1700s.

This is Franki. She's an artist in her own right (see her website at http://rakusculptures.com) and she mans the information desk at San Antonio. She's a wealth of information about the Mission.

For my money, if you can visit only one California Mission, this is the one. Why? Because at Mission San Antonio de Padua, you’ll get the closest to the real experience of what it was like for the early California Padres. While most California Missions are now in the middle of built up towns, you can’t see anything but fields and oaks from St. Antonio. If there are few visitors and no cars, you can imagine you are back in Alta California. Add to that an incredible museum which covers both the Padres’ experience and that of the local Salinas Indians, as well as beautifully intact buildings, the wine-making rooms, original grapevines and fruit trees planted by the Padres, and this is a very special experience. Even better, the Mission is conducting some innovative programs such as retreats, including an Artists Retreat, where you room in the Mission and recharge in their unique spiritual environment. (I couldn’t help thinking this would be a brilliant place for a Yoga retreat. Quick, someone plan it.) Find out more at the website.

The center bell was the first one cast in California. The olive tree to the right was planted by the original Padres. Mission San Antonio is full of such treasures.

The exhibits are heavy on the Native experience. And apparently, this was one of the few Missions where the Indians actually had a positive experience. Which is always a big plus in my book.

Although Mission Capistrano was the first Mission to produce wine and olives, San Antonio was right behind them. Surprisingly, this olive press from the 1700s isn't much different form the first wine press Andy and I used at Two Terrier Vineyards.

The original burnt brick arches are still standing. And the countryside is pretty much unchanged from Padre days.

With the day waning and having spent so much time at the wonderful Mission San Antonio de Padua, we hit the road for San Francisco. We took a quick turn through Salinas, both to pay homage to John Steinbeck and to James Dean who appeared in the movie version of East of Eden. Lovely town and worth a visit on our next roadtrip. As the thunderclouds rolled in and the rain pelted down, we rolled into San Francisco.

We only had time for a drive-by in Steinbeck's home town. But it looks to be worth a return visit.

It’ll take us several days and several posts to process all we saw, so expect more about our roadtrip. But we’re calling this a huge success. We saw everything we expected and wonderful things that we did not. And even if Mom didn’t quite “get” Buck Owens and even if that chicken fried steak had to stay in Bakersfield, she was a willing and able participant in a truly epic roadtrip.

Thanks, Mom, for flying Wing Man.

(For anyone who doesn’t get the reference, the title of this post refers to the song “The Return of the Grievous Angel by Gram Parsons, the rocker who was greatly influenced by Buck Owens and introduced his music to the Rolling Stones and other rock musicians who incorporated his guitar licks. See my post on Gram Parsons here.)

More pictures from this day’s adventures here.