Sunday 5th July 2009 – So That Was the Pacific

The good people of San Luis Obispo like to have a clean town. They designate 'No Parking' from 3am to 5am throughout the town centre, so that the streets might be cleaned. I have not yet got the nerve to park out-of-town for a sleep-over, so I find a public parking lot and carefully check the signage. It looks OK.

I am wakened at 4am by the sound of activity. It sounds like there are tow trucks about. Sleep is out of the question. A small truck arrives to sweep the car park. The driver seems to do everything: he waters the plants, blows out the gutters, then drivers his tiny pickup-sized sweeper truck all round the car park. He has to manoeuvre round me.

It is obviously time to move on. In the movies, it's the sheriff who runs you out of town. Here, nowadays, it's the street sweeper.

Dulcie immediately takes me to her beloved 101. It's too dark for it to matter, so I go along with her.

Before long, a Rest Area pops up, and I grab the opportunity of a few more hours before it gets too hot. There is a large truck parked up, obviously carrying food. The backup compressor engine is droning away. A very thoughtful driver, who wants to make sure the birds don't waken us. The heat eventually wakens me: if only he would let me sleep in his nice air-conditioned trailer.

I stop off in Santa Barbara for breakfast.

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Santa Barbara is obviously a very rich place: all the women are thin; all the cafes boast WiFi. The bus-boy asks if he might take the umbrella. I assure him I need it. Then it occurs to me that it is early, it's a lovely morning, and I have my hat, so I relent. The ladies who receive it are grateful. It is nice to spread a bit of happiness. I expect they left a nice tip.

Unfortunately, when I come to use the laptop, I can hardly see the screen; I must learn to think ahead. But it a nice place just to look at the world, and the grateful, thin ladies.

There is a long queue for breakfast places, so I don't linger too long. I stop off at the beach for a (probable) last look at the Pacific. This beach is on the other side of the railroad track. There is a row of off-shore drilling platforms dotted along the horizon. There is a young man on his cell phone trying to persuade all within earshot that he is a movie producer. The ladies here are not only thin, they are almost naked, so I concede he is possibly not trying to impress me.

As I make my way back to Rozzie, I hear that lonesome whistle again. The Amtrak rumbles by. Again, I'm on the wrong side of the tracks: I don't have my camera. Of course, here it's not the 'Empire Builder', here it's the 'Pacific Surfliner'.

Here's the track:

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I give in, you'll just have to imagine the train.

From where 101 starts to hit the conurbations of LA to where I finally get off Interstate 210 at San Bernardino is around 70-or 80 miles. The road is a continuous vast swathe of concrete. I am in an 80mph traffic jam all the way. This is what it must be like to be a gadarene swine.