Goodbye Lonely Planet

Almost exactly three years ago, after writing and posting my travel stories for several years, I came across an item on LonelyPlanet.com stating they were looking for travel bloggers. At the time I was in Puerto Vallarta writing a daily column and quickly sent out an email to LP. A few days later, I was one of the new, “Lonely Planet Featured Bloggers”.  What a thrill that was! Even though my first three years of living in Vietnam had been prior to the start of the LP Blogsherpa program, now a much wider audience would have direct access to all those stories and others to come.

An email the other day informed all the Blogsherpa writers that sometime in December the program would be eliminated and our posts will disappear from the pages of LP.com. Now all those lovely tales from writers traveling and living in places far and near will no longer be available with just a click on a Lonely Planet destination page.

My story about Building a Boat in Mui Ne, won’t be found on the Vietnam pages.

 

The one about the Puerto Vallarta Botanical Garden will also disappear.

 

There are the stories from Hoi An.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And Ho Chi Minh City.

 And the one about the Golden Gate Bridge turning 75 this year.

I will miss my LP readers and miss the oportunity to share my stories with such a large audience.

Happy travel to all.

Kate

The Golden Gate at 75

I grew up directly across the bay from the Golden Gate Bridge. On most days I could look out and see its vibrant orange towers spanning the entrance to the bay, yet I had never stepped foot on its hallowed concrete and metal. May 27th will mark the 75th anniversary of that glorious feat of engineering. The other day, not wanting to fight the massive crowds that are sure to be there for the celebration, I decided that it would be a good time to visit.

The weather was un-San Franciscanly hot; I knew that temps would hit close to 80 degrees. It rarely gets that warm in the middle of the summer, let alone in the spring. Accordingly, I set out in my lightest summer clothing.

Getting to San Francisco is a quick trip under the bay on BART, (our subway), but finding the right bus to get from downtown to the bridge was quite a task. I trekked up and down Market Street and then over to the Ferry Building in hopes of finding the correct bus stop. I had found bus route numbers on the internet, but where they stopped remained a mystery to me and everyone else I asked. By that time I found the correct corner, (30 or 40 minutes later), it was hot enough that I was actually getting a bit sweaty; rather unheard of in San Francisco, but very welcome.

The bus ride out to the bridge is not for the fainthearted. Going on Golden Gate Transit was supposedly faster than on the Muni bus lines, but I have my doubts. Yes, it took me to the bridge, but the driver had to take time to explain the bus options to every person, (mostly tourists), who got on. If you want to continue your trip to Sausalito, pay more now, then after you cross the bridge, take the ferry back. Or if you want to wait for Muni, it’s a dollar cheaper. I do applaud his willingness to help people out, but it added a ton of time to the trip. One would think that in San Francisco there should be a quick, downtown-to-Golden Gate shuttle, especially since they encourage you to use public transportation.

And although it took forever for the bus to get to the bridge, and I was wondering why in the heck I had thought this would be a good idea, all bad thoughts were quickly forgotten as soon as I gazed onto that magnificent structure. It truly is breathtaking.


How wonderful! The Golden Gate Bridge on a splendid day! But then I stepped off the bus and swore; it was freezing! It doesn’t matter how many weather reports one checks, it will always be cold on the bridge with that wind blowing in from the ocean. Then again, that meant that there was no cloud cover and I had picture perfect views of the bridge.


Stepping onto the walkway I tried to avoid the bicycles flying by on my left. I shivered and knew I had keep my head down, battle the chill and get to the first tower of the bridge before stopping, in hopes that I would find shelter from the frigid gusts. Wind whipped through my thin cotton shirt and I gave up on trying to wear the hat I had brought. Once at the first bridge tower, I moved into a protected section and again felt the glorious heat of the day.

It really was a magnificent day and I thought about the men who had built this structure when the weather was never this good and the winds were often much stronger. How did they do it? And that was back in 1937!


What really struck me was that the width of this great structure appeared so small when you are actually standing on it. I could have leaned out and touched cars going by; there just isn’t that much space between the walkway and road. And if there’d even been a small break in the traffic, I am sure I could have run across to the other side. And speaking of safety issues, there aren’t any suicide barriers on the bridge. It wouldn’t be difficult to take a swan dive into the waters below.

Although the bridge is only 1.7 miles, this was not the day I would walk the entire length. It had taken too long to get there and although I could practically see my house as I stood on the bridge and looked over to the east bay hills, I knew it would be an arduous return trip. That and a bum knee sealed the deal as I trudged back to try and find a bus stop. Again, there was no clear indication of how to return to the city center so I just followed other tourists and/or flagged down a passing bus. I seriously considered hitch-hiking but just at that point the correct bus pulled up.

From where I am now sitting in my living room, I can almost see the Golden Gate. (If just a few trees were cut down, I could see it.) Now when I look at it I see it in a different, eye-level perspective, and recall what it felt like to walk her mighty span. It took me a few years to get there and I am so glad I finally did it.

Kate

Best Urban Park

It has to be the most beautiful urban park in the San Francisco bay area; Mountain View Cemetery, situated in Oakland California.

My days of cruising cemeteries in the US for the sheer macabre value of it all ended back in high school. I have visited ones overseas for their historical significance, but never saw much reason to drop by their more modern counterparts in the US. But when I had a third relative interred at the park, I took a more careful look.

How could I have missed such a glorious setting with its 226 acres of winding roads, beautifully arranged tree lined streets and sparkling fountains? It is a landscaped wonder designed by Fredrick Law Olsen, (he of Central Park fame), and dates back to 1863.

“Olmsted took a unique approach to Mountain View Cemetery. His park cemetery integrated the Parisian grand monuments and broad avenues. Olmsted also drew on a popular philosophy of the times, American Transcendentalism, to help shape his vision of the cemetery.” (mountainview cemetery.org)

One honestly feels as if they were in some European grand garden, transported back to a time when it was only man and nature. Situated on rolling hills, with what feels like miles and miles of small roads branching off of the main, fountain lined artery, it is a perfect spot for communing with nature.

On any given day you will find joggers, ladies pushing strollers, people walking their dogs, artists sketching or painting, and even children from a local day care having a picnic.


Many famous Californians are buried there. Charles Crocker’s massive tomb sits on Millionaires row, which, but the way, is where I would like to build a small cottage. Walking by his final resting spot you’d think you were on a lovely, narrow city street, surrounded by greenery, where cars have been banned. In front of you lies a spectacular view of the San Francisco Bay. Looking either to the left or right, you see nothing but green rolling hills, trees, and your peacefully resting neighbors.

Every time I go I find some place new to explore; some other bit of historical interest. There is the Civil War Veterans area, ringed by cannon balls of the era. There are beautiful chapels, amazingly elaborate crypts from a bygone era, and an overall peacefulness that belies the fact that you are actually in Oakland, CA.


It is easy to explore either with a map provided by Sunset View or just by turning up a road that looks interesting. (you can drive to most places, or park your car and walk.) Guided tours are offered twice a month.


For me it has become a place to get away from the commotion of the city; a place to clear my head, drink in nature, and maybe even commune with some souls from the past.
http://www.mountainviewcemetery.org/index.html

 

Kate

Betting on the Ponies

I’ve only ever been to a race track twice before in my life and that was eons ago. I grew up within spitting distance of Golden Gate Fields but somehow managed to not become a horse racing enthusiast. Sure, I try to watch the Kentucky Derby every year when I am in the US, but never thought much about the track just down the road. One reason is that this tracks location can often be a rather chilly place.
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But then, just when I think that the non-summer we’ve had will turn into a freezing cold fall, we get hit with record temperatures. And for some reason I became aware of an ad announcing Dollar Sundays at the track; $1 parking, $1 entrance, $1 beer, and $1 hotdogs. Where else was I to go on such a beautiful day but down to the edge of the San Francisco Bay where I knew it would be perfect weather and a new experience.
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Getting my bearings was the first order of the afternoon upon entering the grounds. Even though there seemed to be a fair amount of people milling about, the place is so huge it felt deserted. I strolled around exploring the venue and the patrons. I had a preconceived notion that it would be filled with scruffy, die-hard gamblers, sipping beer and checking their racing forms. The only part of that that I got right was the racing forms.

I was surprised to see groups of college kids and families with strollers and just a regular crowd one would find anywhere. In fact I only saw a few people who could fill in as Hollywood extra racing-bums.

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A spectacular, manicured, green oasis covers the area inside the track; little lakes with fountains and ornamental flower beds. At one point I asked one of the women in the gift shop if the area was ever used. Apparently, it isn’t. A friend told me she thinks it is a bird sanctuary which would make sense considering that on the other side is a massive, dirty freeway.
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Finished with getting the lay of the land, I decided it was time to get down to the task of placing a few bets. Down in the paddock, (one of the many new racing vocabulary terms I picked up that day), horses were being led around while studious folks glanced back and forth between their racing forms and the horses. I wasn’t exactly sure the way this whole thing worked so I asked a man next to me. He also knew nothing about it. That was something I would find throughout the day; lots of newcomers like me who didn’t have a clue.
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At least I did know that I should pick a horse and place a bet. The last time I went to a track I was with a friend who would look at the parade of critters, point to one, place a bet, and win. And win almost every time. I studied the horses and decided that number two looked awfully cute so I scurried off to place a bet.

A whole line of self-service betting booths were available but I needed to talk to someone. I stood in line and was helped by a lovely gentleman who explained that the cheapest bet was $2. I was very proud that by the end of the day I could walk up to a window and, like a real pro, say $2 to win on number 7.
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The fist horse I bet on came in dead last, and in two other races I also didn’t fare very well. I soon realized that I should quite picking the pretty ponies and look for something a bit more significant, if only I could figure out what that was supposed to be.
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I paid close attention to whoever was leading the horses around the paddock and how they related to their animal. I loved the guy who whispered sweetly to his charge and the other guy who was massaging his horses tongue. I figured a good connection in the paddock just had to result in a winner. I was very impressed by the women who lead around her hose, simply because she was the only gal down there. I saw that the trainer for this horse was also a woman and then found out the jockey was a woman.
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Kayla, from what the ladies next to me said, is Australian and had been racing in the US for a few years. Obviously, the sisterhood thing meant I had to bet on her. She didn’t win, but did come in third.
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Realizing that I had already lost $10, I decided it was time to go up into the grandstands and check out the high dollar betting and dining areas further up. You have to pay $2 to get up there but the door person said she would refund the money since I was just going up for a quick look.
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The dining area is glassed in and each table has its own little TV so you don’t even have to look at the track. I wandered into another area and this is where the place really started to get bizarre. There are several rooms of varying sizes, filled with large and small screens and a bar. Inside each, where there is no view of the track, people placed their bets and sipped on martinis. I didn’t get it; it was such a glorious day and they wanted to stay inside and look at a TV?

One of the rooms had a view that was not of the track but yet quite sensational. You could see almost from one end of the bay to the other, the Golden Gate Bridge smack dab in the middle. (Which is why they call it Golden Gate Fields, I presume.) Having been out of the sunshine for too long I headed back down stairs, down an escalator, collected my $2, and went back to the track.
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I did like standing right at the edge next to the track even if it did scare the hootie-patooties out of me. I like horses from a distance and cannot imagine why anyone would want to ride one, let alone be aboard a ton of solid muscle running hell-bent, shoulder to shoulder, around a track. Being that close just confirmed my belief.
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It was also quite sobering to see that in every race, the riders are followed around the track by a speeding ambulance and pick-up truck. I learned that this is a race track law. Unfortunately, just a few weeks ago those emergency vehicles were needed. A young jockey, Michael Martinez was seriously injured in a spill. I was glad to see that donations were being collected at the track and that the whole racing community is supporting him.
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I kept discovering other parts to explore. It turned out you could walk right up to where the jockeys sit before their race begins, although there is a security guard to keep people out. I asked the guard if I could ask the jockeys if I could take their picture.
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One of the jockeys waved me over. He pointed to another rider and said, “Take his picture. He’s the famous one. He’s a model”. I said something about all of them looking good. He replied, “You should see me with my clothes off”. A magnificent day and a flirting jockey; what more could a gal ask for?

I’m already planning my next trip to the track. October 2nd is Secretariat Day with a free cap giveaway. Providing the weather holds, I’ll be there.

Kate

Mare Island Naval Shipyard

Mare Island sits on the east side of the San Francisco Bay. Growing up, it was the place my father spent occasional weekends as a reservist with the US Navy. Which is probably why no one I was acquainted with ever knew much about it; the general public doesn’t get entry to military bases. Up until recently, If someone had asked me about the Island I might have said that it was a naval base or maybe it had been closed. The Mare Island Naval Shipyard was officially closed in 1996.
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A few weeks ago when my friend asked if I wanted to take a trip to the island as she had a college class she was attending. Huh? A private college on a closed naval shipyard? I was up for it.
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Just driving through what had once been a guard station at the entrance to the island was a bit bizarre; but it was nothing compared to the rest of the experience. I’d entered a surreal world of abandoned buildings and roads. Sort of a military base ghost town.

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It was more than a bit freaky driving down long, palm tree lined, wide streets with barely a soul or car in sight. Brick buildings dating back to late 1800’s, empty deep water docks, scores of sprawling buildings whose past usage I could only guess about. It felt as though I were on a Hollywood back lot. And, it turns out, there have been films shot there.

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A few places, like the Officers Club, still had their original signs up and some had been converted to student housing for the previously mentioned college. Others only displayed their building numbers. If I hadn’t been by myself, I might have tried to gain entrance to a few; curiosity was at an all time high.

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One massive block long building, that was nearly as tall, clearly was some sort of assembly plant as the inside was an empty shell. I know this because I got out of the car to peer in the windows. (there may have been a sign or two warning to steer clear because of hazardous PCB’s or something along that line.) Just as I put my camera up to the glass fronted entry doors to get a few interior shots, a giant wind came up rattling what felt like the entire building. I was then sure that it was a ghost town.

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I drove on and on, no traffic and no people. I would stop in the middle of a street, get out, take a few pictures, and continue on my way. Somewhere along the way I realized what I was doing and took to pulling off the road before getting out. And the more I explored the more I wished my dad was still around so that he could tell me what everything had once been.

I didn’t have a map so relied on the few posted signs. One led up the hill to the golf course; once the exclusive turf of officers and now open to all. I don’t play the game, but the views of the San Francisco Bay may be a reason to take it up.

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Going back down the hill I noticed an area with massive eucalyptus trees and what seemed to be housing. I headed towards it.

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St Peter’s Chapel was the first stop. Built in 1901, it is filled with real Tiffany stained glass windows. Worth more than a small fortune, it is only open on certain days for tours. This looked like somewhere I would come back to but what really caught my eye was just around the bend.




I’d stumbled upon Officer’s Row; massive mansions lined a wide boulevard, each sitting on large lawn surrounded by giant trees. I froze. Never had I seen anything so magnificent. I’m a traveler; houses interest me but don’t compel me to move in. This time I was smitten. I wanted one of those babies and from the look of it, they were empty and just waiting for me.

Strolling up to the first one I saw a sign saying “available” and a number to call. I walked up the stairs to the large front porch and then to the glass windows. Inside was even more mouth-watering house; paneled walls, hardwood floors, built in window seats, and a splendid fireplace. I was literally drooling thinking about living here..

Looking down the street were at least another ten of these beauties. I later found out that the biggest one, the Captains House, is furnished and set up for tours. I still haven’t found out if the others are for sale, rent, or just a big tease.
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I eventually realized that as much as I loved the officer’s mansions, they would be just a taste too big for one person. I started to look for smaller houses. It seemed that many of the big ones had more properly sized out houses, some of which appeared to be occupied. On the street behind these were your basic 1950’s military housing. Not at all tasteful but possibly affordable and I was beginning to get quite attached to Mare Island.

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Eventually it was time to head back, off island surrealism and back into the here and now. The Mare Island Historic Park Foundation does tours and I plan to get there in the near future. http://www.mareislandhpf.org/
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Kate

Ghana x USA, San Leandro, CA

When I saw Robert Reid’s article listing Ricky’s Bar in San Leandro, CA as one of the Top Ten places to watch the World Cup my first reaction was huh? Ricky’s Bar is still around? But since I had yet to find much of anywhere to watch the Cup, and seeing as the US was playing in the second round, I decided to give it a go.
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When searching for places to get your groove on in the San Francisco Bay Area, the city of San Leandro is not at the top of anyone’s list. Possibly not even on any list at all. True, Ricky’s is not that far from where the Oakland Raiders play ball, and it did have a rep for the place players hung out, but I thought that was all in the past. The last time I had been in there was to apply for a bartending job at a time when very few bars, no matter the extent of your skills, were hiring women to mix cocktails and pull beer. I vaguely remember being laughed at and swearing I would never set foot in there again. I broke that vow today and stepped back in time.
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Ricky’s is your basic ‘70’s sports bar; dark wood paneling, dark lighting, framed/signed players shirts and pictures, neon signs, and not a window to be found. Since cigs have been outlawed in California bars, it did not have that familiar, homey, stench of tobacco mixed with beer, but otherwise you’d think it was 1975. That is were it not for the TV screens of which there were probably about one hundred, lining the walls, running along the sides of the three big screens, and sitting on the bar. Not to mention the 3D TV area.
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With thirty minutes before game time, the place was nearly filled to capacity. I found a little niche to sit in where I got a good view of one of the big screens and at least thirty TV’s. I wasn’t quite sure where to look.
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This was a different crowd than the last time I’d watched the US play and I wasn’t sure what the reaction would be to anything. For a minute there I was scared that they might all stand up when they played the Star Spangled Banner. They didn’t, but they did applaud at the end.
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With the game under way I began to notice that although everyone seemed to be watching, they didn’t seem to be involved. They kind of acted like people watching a tennis match. When Ghana scored at 5 minutes I was just about to jump out of my seat when I noticed that no one else in the entire place was moving and quickly reigned in my enthusiasm.
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Yes, I am American and yes, I was rooting for Ghana. I like it when these countries that have precious little prevail in sporting events, especially when their entire country is backing their team.
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The first half was enough for me at Ricky’s and I was off to another place just down the road, this one an English Pub. It was sheer heaven to get out into the hot, sunny mid-day weather. One does not take sunshine for granted in this part of the world. Just two days before it had been 50F/10C and the sun never did break through the fog.
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I was just pulling into the parking lot of The Englander Sports Pub when I heard an eruption of screams from patrons sitting in the outdoor areas. Team USA must have scored. When I got inside I saw that the score was still 1x0 Ghana, but that the fans here were hooting and hollering at every touch, pass, kick, and foul.
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People lined up five deep in front of the bar watching the line of TV screens above all those taps of beers and booze. Two rooms branched off either side with more rows of TV’s. It looked as if one room led into yet another, but about all I could see were bodies. There was no chance of finding a seat but I didn’t care; it was simply so wonderful to be amongst the football enlightened. The place virtually shook when the US scored.
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Being kind of short and starting to get a bit mashed by bodies, I went back to the entrance and peered into the two outer viewing areas. I turned my head when I thought I heard people chanting for Ghana and quickly made a beeline in the direction of the small group standing outside and at the back of another room with a big screen. I had found the Kenyan contingent who were rooting for the last African team still alive in the Cup. I was home.
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It has been said, called out one of the self-appointed leaders,
.It has been said, replied the group of about twenty,
It has been said,
.It has been said,
That David beat Goliath,
.That David beat Goliath
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As soon as one chant finished, another would start; There is a story…..
Or more simply a call and reply of Eh, eh, Ah, ah,……
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Someone arrived with a vuvuleza and immediately a chant started with
Vuvuleza, ah, Vuvuleza, oh….
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All this was accompanied by dance steps, shoulder shrugs, and laughter. Everyone was super friendly and was pleased I had joined their small band. When I told one woman I was from the area she asked “but from what country originally?” Said I was American but always pulled for the small countries. Three young women from Venezuela cheered and chanted like they were born in Ghana.
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Every now and then a USA,USA,USA chant would go up in friendly defiance of all the Ghana noise, and would always end with smiles. I was pleased to see that even the most ardent US fans were truly enjoying the rhythms and singing of the Ghanaian supporters.
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All of this continued throughout the entire second half, overtime, and after the match had finished. I didn’t really want to leave all the fun of my adopted friends, and told them I’d be back for the next match. They thanked me for supporting Ghana; I thanked them for letting me join in. We shook hands, hugged and the lady I had spoken to at the beginning said, “Thank you for supporting the small countries”.
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This is definitely the way the World Cup should be watched.
Kate

World Cup 2010, Berkeley, CA USA

Here’s the deal; if you are American and have never experienced the World Cup outside of the US, you just have no idea what you’re missing. Conversely, if you have watched the World Cup in any other place in the known universe, you simply cannot imagine how low-key it is here.
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I can’t say that I watch much football at all during a year, or even during three years. But every four years I turn into a football maniac and watch as many of the World Cup games as work schedule and time zone permits.
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I’ve reveled in World Cup fervor in South America, South East Asia, and in the Middle East. But this year, unfortunately, I’m in California and know darn well that I’m missing out on all the camaraderie and universal joy that is going on in every other corner of the world. So as not to get overly depressed I have made it my mission to seek out like-minded fans and take part in whatever bit of World Cup insanity that I can find.
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Growing up in the US at a time when the term soccer mom had yet to be invented, I knew very little about the game. It was all baseball and football and girls weren’t even allowed to play. But then I spent two years in Brazil as a Peace Corps Volunteer and I was turned. Never again was I much of an American football fan with its slow pace and constant stop of action.

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It was tough when I first returned to the US back in the day before cable, not that football/soccer had much of a following here. One could only watch the World Cup on the Spanish station, with its grainy picture and poor reception, and that was only if you lived in someplace like California. It has been a long hard road, but we have now arrived at the point where ESPN not only has full coverage and analysis but tons of promos for the 2010 Cup.

My viewing preference in the US, however, remains with Univision, the Spanish language network of choice. Their announcers call the play at a million words a minute, as compared to ESPN/US broadcasters who talk about the weather and their fishing trips rather than give play by play commentary. Even if you don’t understand Spanish, just hearing the excitement and enthusiasm of the announcer adds so much to the game. There are those who watch the game in English and then switch to Spanish when a goal is scored. No one can outdo a Latin American yelling Gooooooooooooool!!!!!!!!

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Now that the US has sorted the coverage problem, the next obstacle is to find those fans. Sure, I can watch in the comfort of my own home on a nice, big, HD TV, but it just doesn’t satisfy the soul. I watched the first hour of game one before I had to head off for work where I found that no one was even aware that the World Cup had begun. I felt so alone and disconnected.

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Today, I headed out to Brennan’s restaurant/bar to catch the 7am match between Argentina and Nigeria. This in itself, places opening early to show the games, would have been unheard of not that long ago. And after seeing the measly crowd of about six people who’d shown up, I’m wondering if they will continue this for the entire month. I knew the 11:30am game would be crowded as it was USA vs. England, but was off to another part of town to see what was on offer.

I’d found out about several restaurant/bars near the University that were going to be World Cup headquarters. The first one I walked into had no seats available, although it was not that crowded. I walked down the street to choice number two that lacked any type of fun atmosphere. I ended up in a place called Raleigh’s on Telegraph Ave., just a few blocks from UC Berkeley.

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The place was jumping; tons of mostly university students, two big screens, and lots of TV’s. It took a bit of doing, but I was able to snag a chair and park myself in good viewing distance of one of the TV’s.

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I was sitting with people who had grown up playing soccer, understood and loved the game. I had never before been with a group of Americans watching the World Cup and was thrilled at their screams and yells and boos. When team USA scored the place exploded; people jumped up sloping beer and high-fiving each other. An impromptu chant of USA!, USA!, USA!, ensued. It warmed my heart. I would never have believed it possible that a group of Americans could love the beautiful game as much as the rest of the world.

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California may not be my dream destination for watching the World Cup 2010, but it just may not be as dismal as I had expected.

Kate

Mad-Crazy Waves

It’s been over a year since I’ve been down to the Monterey Bay Peninsula. As always, I wondered what made me think that the two-hour drive to get here was too labor intensive.

I had been forewarned that it would be a busy weekend what with the AT&T Pro-Am golf tournament at Pebble Beach, the holiday weekend, and Valentine’s Day. But I have a free place to hunker down in solitude, and miles of shoreline to traipse upon, and with sunny skies in the forecast nothing was going to deter me once I committed to the journey.

Right before I left home I heard on the news that the Mavericks Big-Wave surfing competition, held in Half Moon Bay, (about halfway between San Francisco and Monterey), was a go for 13 Feb.

Each winter, during a waiting period typically set for sometime between November and March – if and when conditions are perfect, and giant swells roll in from far across the Pacific – The Mavericks Surf Contest® is held. On just 24 hours notice, two dozen of the surfing community’s bravest and most skillful souls assemble to confront the thundering mountain of salt water many consider to be the most dangerous wave Mother Nature has ever concocted. http://www.maverickssurf.com/

I was thinking that it would be fun to drive down to witness the 50 ft waves and the 24 lunatic surfers but knew that although the waves would not be as massive along the Monterey Coast, they certainly would be impressive. And impressive they were.

One can walk along beautiful coastline trails from Pacific Grove right into Monterey Bay, or ride a bike or tool along in a car on the small winding drive; it is stunning. I tend to drive for a bit, pull over, then start walking. Yesterday, I was pleased to find that the air was a little nippy, but the sun was out and I knew I would soon warm up. The problem was that I stayed cold for longer than usual because I kept stopping to stare out in amazement at the spectacular nature show.

I don’t ever remember seeing something quite so dramatic as those huge, 15 ft waves, rolling in one after another and crashing down on those incredible rocky shores, foam bubbling up nearly to the trails, all of it beneath a brilliant blue sky. I kept screaming in delight at every giant wave curling and breaking. I walked and watched and shared my excitement with others along the path. Back in the car I drove towards Monterey and then strolled along another section of the Pacific coast until I decided I needed a meal on Fisherman’s Wharf.

Back in the day, maybe 20 years ago, it seems you couldn’t miss with any of the restaurants on the wharf. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be the case anymore. I had been craving Fish & Chips; probably because I had recently seen Gordon Ramsey working his magic at a F & C tavern on TV. I was hungry, it was starting to get crowded, so I stopped at the first place that had outdoor dining. Disappointed does not quite convey the quality of the food. It was dreadful. I would have been better off getting something from the frozen food aisle in the supermarket. More disheartening was that I rarely eat out and when I do I have memories of what my food should taste like. When I get rotten cat-food, for which I have paid good money, it sucks.

As I left the Wharf planning to get back to the seaside, the fog snuck in. Time to go back home and tune in the Olympics. Seeing as they are being held in the same time zone as California, one would think that we’d have the best coverage. Not quite. As usual, NBC has decided to broadcast live to New York and let us view their limited coverage after the fact, and at hours when children and a good many adults are in bed.

But I had plans for Sunday, which included heading out to the AT&T Golf thingy. I looked it up and found out I could park for free in downtown Pacific Grove then catch a shuttle into Pebble Beach and back for a mere $15. (This is actually the only way I think you can get into Pebble Beach during Golf Days). I didn’t want to pay to watch the folks hit the balls, but thought I could get some good photos and maybe a fun story out of the trip. But then I read the fine print that said cell phones, cameras, and food were not allowed in and would be confiscated. If you can’t carry a camera, how can you take pictures of Pros and Celebs? It would be another day on the shoreline.

Sunday maybe was even better than Saturday, but this time the beach trails in PG were off limits. It seems that someone in Carmel, just down the road, thought hanging near those bone-crushing breaking waves was a good idea. Not. Still haven’t found his body. However, there was also a 10K charity run underway so that cars were not allowed on the road making it a fine, quiet place to walk. I did a repeat of the day before and headed back towards Monterey, which turned out to be a mistake.

As beautiful and warm and sunny as the day was, there were just way too many people for it to be enjoyable. Then I remembered where I was and it had been years since I had walked around the Monterey State Historic Park, which is right downtown. In fact I had only ever been in a few of the well preserved, clearly marked, old Spanish and Mexican buildings.

Apparently, no one else had thought of doing the history thing on Valentine’s Day; I had the streets mostly to myself. I dropped by one museum to get a map and found out that almost all the historical buildings in Monterey and, in fact, the state, have been closed due to budget cuts. The few places that are open in Monterey are so because they are run with city funding.

Colton Hall is the building where “the signing of California’s First State Constitution occurred on Oct 13, 1849 and on Sept 9, 1850 California became the thirty-first state.” (Colton Hall Museum, 11/07) I actually got goose-bumps when Donna, the docent, told me I was standing on the exact spot where this took place.

From there I followed the Path of History, designated by little yellow circular plaques embedded in the sidewalk, over to the Royal Presidio Chapel which was erected in 1770 and has been in continual service ever since. In 2009 a major renovation project was completed. Seeing at it was Sunday and mass was just finishing and a baptism was about to start, I found lots of helpful people to give me information.

I was especially excited to learn about the stone relief of Our Lady of Guadalupe that adorns the niche above the church entry. I recently returned from Puerto Vallarta where Our Lady is the city’s patron saint, and was fortunate enough to observe the 12 day celebration they have in her honor. I sort of felt like I knew the gal. This particular rendition of her has been on the front of the chapel since 1794. In 2007 it was removed for conservation purposes. After a long process, it was restored to its original incarnation and replaced in its home.

Walking inside the chapel, looking at the colours, designs, the alter and the pews, I felt like I was back in Mexico. They have truly done an incredible job. A really interesting aspect is the small, plexiglas covered sections in the wall that let you see some of the original painted frescoes.

Back outside in that magnificent spring weather I continued to meander around cute, downtown Monterey. I promised myself to get up to speed on my history before my next, more extensive visit to this part of town.

And I am already making plans for the next Maverick’s event.
Kate