Driving the PCH

I just flew in from San Francisco, and boy, are my arms tired! OK, now replace “flew” with “drove” and “arms” with “butt,” and you’ve got a good picture of how I feel. That drive would count as torture in other, more civilized nations. But forget that! I’m not here to complain about the drive. I’m here to tell you about my trip to Paris on the East Bay—San Francisco!

We left at 4:30 in the morning, hoping to watch the sun rise over the Pacific Ocean. In retrospect, that was a stupid move. We headed north on the Pacific Coast Highway, a long and winding road trafficked mostly by out-of-state gawkers. We were from out-of-state; we had come to gawk; that made the PCH perfect for us. The drive lasted more than ten hours, but was well worth it.

There wasn’t much to see at first. Leaving Yorba Linda, you have to make your way through a tangled spaghetti of roadways, freeways, parkways, highways, byways and skyways and lots of other –ways. Plus, it was dark. The first two hours of the trip went by in a blur of headlights and taillights. We passed by Los Angeles without any trouble. Even the notorious L.A. traffic subsides at five in the morning.

The sun came up in the east, as it traditionally does, and we finally realized why so many people brave the twisty pretzel that is the PCH. The Pacific coastline is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. It makes my top five list, with a bullet:

1. My face, every morning, in the mirror
2. The Pacific coast
3. Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”
4. Cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory
5. My face, every evening, in the mirror

Why are beaches so dang pretty? When you actually break it down, they don’t seem all that special. Beach=sand+water. So what’s the difference between the Pacific coast and, oh, I don’t know, a kiddie pool sitting next to a sandbox?

I think it’s the sheer size of the thing. Bigger isn’t always better; for proof, look up “Bradley, Shawn.” But the vast expanse of the Pacific gives the coast a grandeur all its own. Everything is magnified to gargantuan proportions. You stand on the cliff and look at the rocks below, and it takes a few seconds to register, Hey, those rocks are the size of my house! Each frond of kelp is big enough to supply a lifetime of sushi. The Pacific coast is nature, super-sized.

We drove a little above the recommended speed limit—3 miles per hour on the straightaway, 2 on the curves—so that we could get to San Francisco before the end of the decade. Now and then we stopped, sometimes for a bite to eat, sometimes to simply admire the view. And sometimes to use the bathroom, of course. Those are few and far between on the PCH. You can pull over to the side of the road and run off into some vegetable field, of course, but that seems to take away from the rugged beauty of the scenery around you.
The first stop was for gas. The second stop was also for gas. Again, in retrospect, that was a stupid idea. We ate breakfast at Starbucks, one of the few businesses as established in the west as it is back home in the east. The west has In-N-Out and the east has Chick-Fil-A. The west has Albertson’s, the east, Food Lion. The west has El Pollo Loco. The east has Long John Silver’s. But Starbucks, like God, is with us always. Unlike God, Starbucks also serves a mean mocha frappe latte with espresso sauce. I don’t know my coffee. Does it show?

We also had the pleasure of visiting Gorda, a little seaside community with a population of five (Mike, Bridget, Cal, Jose, and Betty). It looks like something out of Middle Earth, a tiny hobbit town cut into the cliff wall. Attractions included a couple restrooms, a convenience store, and an unattended espresso bar. We didn’t buy anything, but if we did, I think we would have doubled the town’s income.

Gorda came right before Big Sur. Big Sur—originally named Tiny Sur, until the California Board of Tourism decided to go for the gusto—is one of the nation’s largest surs. A sur, according to dictionary.com, is “a town in S Lebanon, on the Mediterranean Sea: site of ancient port of Tyre.” Yeah, I’m not sure what to make of that either. Regardless of what dictionary.com says, Big Sur is a big, rocky promontory jutting out into the Pacific. It attracts sightseers the way potato salad draws flies at a picnic.

But really, who could resist something like Big Sur? It’s one of the most impressive sights I’ve ever seen. I felt like I was standing at the edge of the world. Fog was rolling in off of the ocean, clinging to the cliffs and beaches below us. The water was rough; waves smacked endlessly against the rocks, throwing up little jets of foamy white spray. I looked out to the horizon and saw nothing except for more fog. Behind us stood the rocky hills that dominate the California coast. We stood alone on a sliver of land between ocean and mountains. Alone, I guess, except for the dozen or so tourists clicking away on their cameras. Not that I can criticize them for that. I took plenty of pictures myself.

Everything after Big Sur was a little uneventful. We veered away from the Pacific coast into the farmlands of northern California. There were many green things growing on the side of the road; please don’t ask me to name them. I’m lost when it comes to plants. I can’t tell an artichoke from an asparagus. The only crop I can identify is tobacco, and that’s because I spent ten years of my childhood driving past huge fields of it every day on my way to school. No tobacco out here, though. That’s more of a red state crop.

We passed by Monterey, home of John Steinbeck. In honor of the grittiest writer not named Hemingway, we stopped for a moment to ponder the bleak and hopeless situation that confronts America’s poor.

The leader of our convoy took this opportunity to lead us on one of his favorite drives through the mountains. Unfortunately—and unbeknownst to us—he usually negotiates that drive on his bike. A car is somewhat larger than a bike. I spent most of that drive alternatively admiring the scenery and praying that our driver didn’t sneeze at the wrong second and send us over a cliff. Scenery sure was nice, though. The path ended up going through a redwood forest. Even in the midst of mortal terror, I found time to admire the massive trees looming over us. It reminded of something out of Lord of the Rings. I kept on the watch for an orc ambush. Thankfully, none was forthcoming.

That’s enough for the first installment! Next: Stanford, and our first day in San Francisco!