Wine Tasting

Miles: 315.3
Location: Grover Beach, just south of Pismo Beach in Central California.

Went wine tasting. It was good. I didn’t drive. That was good. Sentence, three words. Three words good. Right now the other five people in this house are all packed in the kitchen, making dinner. The ingredients going in are excellent; it remains to be seen they can compensate for having five (argumentative) chefs to make a meal for six people. Oooh, it’s complicated.

By the time I got up this morning (6:30), Mikie was heading out to go fishing with Art, who was already long gone (He gets up at 4:30, and he’s retired. How messed up is that?). When questioned by the distaff about what he would do with any fish he caught, he said, “It’s all catch and release.” Since none of us believed that he would catch anything, we were prepared to take him at his word.

When he showed up 45 minutes later with two fish in his bucket, No one seemed surprised that the “and release” part of his plan went out the window as soon as he managed the “catch” part. It seems Art decided that he would clean and eat the fish rather than buy a lobster for the big seafood dinner we were planning for the evening.

We spent the afternoon in the Templeton area visiting wineries. Had a lot of different wines, some very good, others not. We stopped by the pier to get our seafood but lobster season ended last week. We got a ton (… well, OK, 5 pounds) of shrimp and a load of clams as well. Dinner was good, and the wine drinking continued apace. Fun was had by all. Fell asleep watching Amazon Women in the Avocado Jungle of Death.

Hmm… A relaxing day, but not really the kind of entry that’s going to keep you glued to your set, is it?

Day 1 – Happy Birthday to me

Miles: 315.3
Location: Grover Beach, just south of Pismo Beach in Central California.

I’ll not bore you with the details, but let’s just say moving out of a home you’ve occupied for ten years is like when you’re a kid and the snow is melting, leaving some really good mud to squish way down in, only to discover that you can’t get your boot out. I never knew how many clothes I had, especially since I don’t buy clothes very often at all. Triska’s last legacy.

The problem was exacerbated when I was told that the boxes I had packed to ship to Prague were too large. They didn’t really seem that large to me, but then no one asked me. Suddenly I had even more crap to take care of – I had already taken three large garbage bags of clothes to Goodwill. The break wasn’t as clean as I wanted it to be, then, as I must go back to take care of a few boxes, and some other junk. If I had stayed another day I could have got more of it done, but I was getting antsy to get out of there.

So, finally, on the road, car loaded with new luggage poorly packed, I almost missed the turn to go north on 5, driving on habit. Yesterday I was imagining that the moment I drove away to be one of euphoria or excitement, but instead I felt nostalgia, melancholy and just plain tired. I couldn’t help but think how much I had liked living in that house, and in San Diego in general. I stopped off at the Chevron on Birmingham and I wondered how much two twelve-packs of Sheaffer would cost these days. Certainly more than $9.10. I was not tempted to drive by the Emmadome multi-sport complex; I just jumped back on the freeway and rejoined the stop-and-go traffic.

LA was LA. I regretted moving out of range of KPBS, but then I found other stations. North of LA, when the scenery becomes spectacular, it was dark, but the drive from there on up was pleasant. Got a little lost finding the house (East Grand is west of Grand, which made me think I was going the wrong way, so I turned around and then I was going the wrong way.)

Got here just in time to have a single Birthday Guinness before it wasn’t my birthday anymore. Bushed, I went to sleep.

So the trip did not have that Hollywood “Vegas, baby! Vegas!” opening scene. It started in a contemplative mood, as a sequel might, which is perhaps more appropriate.

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