Dear friends, Wishing you a very Happy Holiday from New Rochelle, New York, where we are enjoying a brief respite from our cross-country adventure.
It's freezing cold here, but who cares when you're under a real roof!? Yes, we have at times questioned our sanity in taking this trip, but we do expect to return with renewed vigor to part II of our travels.
Over the holiday, we will catch up with some posts that never managed to get written.
In the meantime, we wish you, your families and friends a Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, Happy Kwanzaa, etc, and of course a happy, healthy and prosperous 2010.
Try as he might, Daniel couldn't stay away from DIY - or bedmaking - for long.
During our two-week stay-cation in Santa Margarita Lake, he designed and built bunk beds for the Airstream. This has totally transformed our life inside the trailer: Sophia, who sleeps on the top bunk, now has her own room, Barbara will have her own room when she comes to visit, and during the day, we have a whole new place to put stuff!
Thanks to the Santa Margarita Lake KOA for letting him borrow the drill!
It’s now been almost two weeks since we arrived at our campground, the one at Santa Margarita, for almost two weeks.
The KOA staff now feels like family (they said they feel the same way), and we’re getting the monthly rate.
We’ve lost track of the days and were surprised to find out last Friday that it was the weekend. Once we found out, we got excited. New people! Kids for Sophia!
There was a decent influx of new campers, and the ones we became friends with was a big group of university friends reuniting from all over California. Spread across four or five of the cabins, they numbered thirteen adults, four or so babies and two kids aged 5 and 9.
Meeting them on our morning walk to the showers, Sophia and I were immediately invited to join them in the evening. Which we did, after watching ‘Shrek II’ on the computer.
They were all really cool, telling us about themselves, how they met, what their couple/family/friend formations were….and apple pie.
I got on really well with one of the girls, Krystyn, who had taken here older daughter out of school to spend three months with her husband in Switzerland. Now that she has a new baby, she's on extended leave from work. Hopefully we'll all meet up in LA.
One guy in particular could not understand what we had been doing for the last ten days. Once pressed, we couldn’t really say.
We’ve been doing lots of laundry, working on Sophia’s birthday party invitations and our Christmas cards, and getting our car looked at every couple of days.
The fuel pump has been replaced, with the mechanic saying the other new one we got before setting off from New York may not have really been new. He also replaced some other, smaller parts, so the ignition is working really well. Today, he’s trying to figure out why we get occasional misfires, and why the ‘service engine soon’ light sometimes goes on. This, they are doing for free, since we’ve become such good customers.
Given today’s torrential rain, they even dropped Lulu and I off at the local Starbucks – to give updates, they call Daniel and send me email updates. Sophia and Daniel are back at the campground working on building bunk beds in the Airstream.
We’ve explored the area quite a bit, visiting nearby San Luis Obispo, Paso Robles and Atascadero – this last one we now know like the backs of our hands, and people are starting to wave at us.
Yesterday, we could no longer ignore Hearst Castle, the Mediterranean pastiche dream home of publishing magnate William Randolph Hearst. Set up on a rugged mountain overlooking the Pacific, built tirelessly by the architect Julia Morgan and home to many a glamorous party back in the day, it was pretty impressive.
With a very theatrical lady as a guide, the tour was 1 hour and 45 minutes long and followed by a highly produced movie on a giant screen. We would have liked to hear more salacious anecdotes about all the Hollywood people, politicians and titans of industry who hung out at the place, though. Here are some photos.
We do have to get a move on, however. There is beautiful coast to explore, Santa Barbara and its vineyards to visit, and friends waiting for us in LA.
The day before Thanksgiving, we were in a charming café with terrible food, watching Glenn Beck, a talk show host on the Fox Network. The episode's main premise was that the Founding Fathers of the USA had originally meant the country to be based on ‘Life, Liberty and Property,’ but that this last theme had to be changed to ‘Prosperity’ because of the slave issue. He then went on to echo some conservatives’ view that the Constitution and other historical documents have been misinterpreted, and as such, require new study. Beck was very concerned that the Pilgrims, whose arrival and eventual flourishing Thanksgiving commemorates, would be very upset if they had seen their ideals trampled upon by the Democrats in general and Barack Obama in particular. America, he continued, is a country of individuals, whose allegiance is to themselves and their families, and reliance on the government for support will only weaken the nation as a whole. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tea_Party_protests
In contrast, we felt pretty good about America. Laura and I have both spent many years living outside the country, so it was nice to be back.
Thanksgiving is a flexible holiday celebrated across religions (though you don’t have to bring God into it if you don’t want to) and cultures, so everyone’s welcome to garnish their thankfulness and meals with whatever they please.
The main thing is to stop for a day, to give thanks for all the nice things in we have in our lives. With no gifts or cards.
Oh, and you get to stuff yourself as well, since it’s also a harvest holiday.
Laura brought a delicious selection of cheeses, which she garnished with dates and the crispiest crackers. We wrapped lots of food items (wild Alaskan salmon, sweet potatoes, garlic and onions, chestnuts) in tin foil, and Daniel cooked all of these to perfection in the campfire. I made wild rice and tried to emulate Olivia’s amazing Brussels sprouts, which are cut into strips and sautéed with loads of garlic and seasoning.
We drank wine, tore off Kalamata olive bread, and all was well. Once it was dark, and we were roasting marshmallows, Laura looked at her watch and was shocked to see it was only 6:15.
That’s the thing when you’re camping in winter – it gets dark suddenly and you think it’s bedtime, but it’s always way earlier.
Once we had retired back inside the Airstream, Laura suggested we revive the American custom of going around the table and saying why we’re all thankful.
I started, saying I was thankful for this year off, an amazing opportunity to spend serious time with my wonderful husband and beautiful daughters.
Laura said thanks for the chance to study again (she’s pursuing a Masters in Spiritual Psychology and an eventual Doctorate in Relationship Counseling.
Sophia said thanks for the marshmallows.
Daniel declined to participate in our sappy tradition.
Laura, a great university friend, drove up from LA with her dog Claude to spend Thanksgiving weekend with us in Santa Margarita, which is just inland from California’s Central Coast and just north of San Luis Obispo.
This was our first time hosting a guest, so we were excited.
We cleaned the Airstream until it was spick and span, and most importantly, found a campground that would accommodate a tent, a dog and an extra vehicle on our site.
It worked really well, Laura and Claude staying in a tent a few feet from the trailer and all of us having meals and activities together.
Sophia and Claude became bosom buddies, and Laura helped entertain both girls. We went on hikes, visited a wine tasting room and all caught up.
Their visit also served a practical purpose, since Daniel’s mom Barbara will be joining us for 3 weeks or so in January and February. We still haven’t figured out the sleeping arrangements – the weather is much colder than we had anticipated, and our tent too difficult to assemble day in, day out if we make a lot of stops.
So one night, we tried out an alternative sleeping plan. Laura, Claude and Sophia slept in the Airstream, while Daniel, Lulu and I slept on an inflatable mattress in the back of our car (the backseat folds down).
That turned out not to be a viable solution, so it’s back to the drawing board.
Big Sur, the hump protruding from California after Monterey Bay, is amazing. It’s basically a wilderness area sitting on top of prime real estate along the Pacific, with a surprisingly low population and shockingly high cliffs.
Sadly, the perfect clear and water is too dangerous to swim in (let alone reach), so visitors must satisfy themselves with azure fantasies.
We had hoped to spend Thanksgiving at Big Sur, but so did lots of other people so all the good places were booked up.
Having attempted to stay at one campground, which can only accept reservations ten days in advance owing to a precarious entry bridge over the sometimes swollen Big Sur River, we had to go. The staff was friendly, but the place was a Big Disappointment. Sitting in a dark forest with no means of disposing of sewage or water, the campground felt a million miles away from the startling beauty of the Redwoods and coast.
So further south we went, on towards San Luis Obispo and the Central Coast.
We can’t believe it’s December. Not only is my monthly Sagittarius horoscope ready for viewing online, but it’s almost Christmas!
Not that you can really tell here, just inland from California’s Central Coast. It freezes at night (we found ice on our picnic table this morning), but during the day it can get really warm. Yesterday in Atascadero, we actually needed an ice-cold horchata.
Today, Sophia cracked open her (first of two) Advent calendar, and by the time she opens window 18, she’ll be four.
Later this month, we will be cheating on our road trip: flying to New York for two weeks over Christmas, and joining my family for the holidays.
We can’t wait.
My friends Soo-Hyun and Joseph have graciously agreed to keep the Airstream in their driveway and be guest camping bloggers in our absence, starting in two weeks’ time.
Swearing is satisfying. If something goes wrong, or you hit yourself in the head (something that happens quite often in a seventeen foot trailer), it feels so good to shout – or at least utter – a swear word.
Until you hear your almost four-year old repeat said word (or words).
So Daniel and I are working on new ways to swear, since silence just isn’t an option.
“Darn it!”, “Oh F”, “Shoot”, I say, while Daniel experiments with the rather hilarious “Golly gosh”, “Oh fiddlysticks” or “blimey”.
Now Sophia’s learned those ones, hopefully having deleted the others. Sometimes, when it’s just Lulu around, we allow ourselves the real thing. It feels great.
We’ve now spent more on repairs to our car than the $5000 we spent on the vehicle itself. This is despite having spoiling the darn thing, replacing all manner of oils, plus windshield wipers, brake pads and rotors, tightening up the steering (“removing the play”, Daniel says that's called), new drums. And now we’re replacing the fuel pump for a second time. There’s more, but we can’t remember the details right now.
Right now, the car is at Mike Howe’s Automotive in the neighboring town of Atascadero. We have a courtesy car, a white Toyota Camry – the same exact one my friend Katie Gleason’s family had in high school, automatic seatbelts and all.
Daniel had to sign something saying he was insured to drive it, which may or may not be the case.
So we’re extending our stay at the KOA campground at Lake Santa Margarita, which is a quiet, rural place nestled among sudden, rounded hills covered with that soft, native Californian grass.
Our site has plenty of space, and actually, we have the run of most of the campground since aside from a few Montana snowbirds, we are the only residents.
As soon as the Thanksgiving crowds dispersed, all manner of birds – from hummingbirds to sparrows to hawks – took back their rightful land.
When it gets dark, we hear a yelping of unknown provenance, the screams of coyotes, the hiss of something that might be a raccoon or bobcat, an unknown yelping and a mysterious thumping, galloping sound.
By day, we’re having a whale of a time entertaining ourselves. I’m working on the blog and reading (Vanity Fair from a month or two ago and ‘America and Americans’ by John Steinbeck; Daniel’s doing sketches and watercolors; Sophia’s working on painting and song performances (delivered from a giant tree stump); and Lulu is getting very close to crawling – she managed to move herself about two feet the other day.
This may sound surprising, but it’s only the second time we’ve had time to stop and relax since we started out in the Airstream in Iowa. We are on an extended holiday, yes, but being on the move all the time is exhausting.
This break is great, and perfectly timed since we have nowhere to be until the morning of December 15. We’ve been here nearly a week, long enough for the staff here to give us a night free of charge (thanks, KOA!).
We’ll send photos once we retrieve the camera charger from our (hopefully repaired for good) car.
After eschewing yet another RV Park(ing lot) – this one just outside San Francisco in Pacifica, costing $51 for a spot next to the highway with a hook-up we couldn’t reach - we decided to flee an overcast sky and head south.
Passing countless state parks, dramatic winding turns and beaches populated by surfers, we didn’t stop…until we saw signs for Jam Tasting. How can anyone skip Jam Tasting?
This one (are there others?) was at a café at the all-organic Swanton Berry Farm that served up strawberry shortcake, berry compotes, whole pies, cauliflower soup and coffee – all customers had to do was take what they wanted and leave payment in a box.
Only in California.
So we took refuge from the ocean wind, jam tasting and enjoying a sweet snack, together with surfers, families and couples.
Our next stop was Santa Cruz, a delightful, offbeat university town down the coast from San Francisco and on the northernmost side of Monterey Bay. I had visited on two previous trips to San Francisco – once to visit my high school friends Justin and Ben, who were students at the University of California Santa Cruz, and once to go to the amusement park with my friend Laura and her friend Aaron. So we took Sophia to the amusement park, which is right on the boardwalk overlooking the Pacific. She rode the ancient merry-go-round twice before venturing onto other kiddy rides in a helicopter and racecar. She screamed with glee, and so did we. Sad to go, we sought solace in the pastel pink-and-blue sunset punctuated by tall palms.
Olivia and her Canadian husband David, together with their nine-year old Alfie and three-year old William are in San Francisco for a year or so while David works on a movie project for DreamWorks. Olivia’s on sabbatical from the same company, looking after the kids and working on a screenplay about a LA, a woman and trees…it sounds really cool.
Very kindly, they offered to put us up for a weekend at their amazing house in Bernal Heights, on the side of a massive hill just above The Mission neighborhood and overlooking the whole of San Francisco. So even staying inside – watching the monolith-like fog overtake the metropolis or the reflection of the sunset on glass skyscrapers built to outlast earthquakes - you are really doing the city.
Snug on this vantage point, we enjoyed three days and nights of really delicious food, quite a few bottles of wine, lots of catching up and the sound of three-year olds mostly playing very nicely together. Alfie, for his part, sat with the grown-ups and was a delight. At night, we got to sleep in real beds(!) in a house(!), which was beyond wonderful.
We ventured from the house a few times: twice to the bottom of the hill into the Mission, and once up the hill to a park at the summit and then over the other side to Bernal Heights.
San Francisco is a beautiful city, full of fine food from all nations, overflowing with sophisticated people and plenty of arts, music and culture. Sitting between the Pacific and the Bay, and further beautified with all species of warm weather trees and flowers, the city forms an odd microclimate with a temperature that only varies by about twenty degrees year round. So it is neither hot nor cold, just something in between.
The Mission is a great melting pot of a place, serving as a point of landing for the city’s many immigrants. Full of lively restaurants serving ultra fresh food from all of Latin America and beyond, the neighborhood also has lots of small galleries, excellent bookshops and cool clothing boutiques.
San Francisco and trailers don’t really go together. After a spectacular entrance into the city, across the majestic Golden Gate Bridge from Marin County and up the main (mostly flat) drag of Van Ness, things got dramatic.
For anyone who’s never been to San Francisco, those hills are serious. We’re talking gradients of 15% and cars that have to park pointed out onto the street to stop them from sliding down.
Our own ascents and descents were accompanied by the sounds of tha-dumps (the trailer), violent churnings and squeaks (the hitch) and general clatter (our belongings inside the trailer).
Daniel looked increasingly worried.
Luckily, having already crossed the Rockies, we knew how the car’s gears worked.
That didn’t stop the general public from rushing onto the street to watch us drag the Airstream up Bernal Hill and then partly back down it at what looked like a near-vertical angle, as we approached the home of my friend Olivia Mole.
Londoner Olivia spent a summer in Pelham, New York, living with the Rowlands (who seem to directly or indirectly have introduced us to much of northern California) when we were both 18. We met again in London, once I had moved there, and then she relocated to LA to take advantage of a green card she had won and pursue a career in animation.
At the crest of the rollercoaster-like hill, Daniel suggested I run to the bottom to photograph the truck and trailer’s descent – for your enjoyment, dear reader.
Having done this and hugged Olivia, who had been watching the spectacle of our arrival out various windows of her house, I turned around to see the Airstream caught in a tree – and hear the scratching of twigs and gnawing of large branches against its lovingly mirror polished surface.
Face fallen, Daniel couldn’t go forward or back. We all looked up to the sky for divine intervention. Amazingly, it arrived immediately, in the form of a saw wielding lady named Jill.
“The people who live in front of this tree and the one over there are renters, I do this all the time,” she said, casually. “The city collects garden refuse once a week”, she added, indicating towards the green bin she had thoughtfully wheeled with her.
And she started sawing. Once she had gotten the most offensive large branches down, she handed over the saw to Daniel, who worked on the medium sized ones. Then Olivia and I finished off the smallest ones, to facilitate Daniel’s painful reversal up the giant hill.
After a meticulous parking job and unhitching, we all giggled nervously and kind of decided to pretend nothing had happened.
Having stayed four days in Sonoma County, one of California’s most famous wine countries, we naturally had to check out Napa Valley, surely the state’s premier vineyard region.
Arriving in Calistoga, we checked into the Napa Valley Fairgrounds RV park, which at $40 a night was rather reasonable for an upmarket, spa-centric area. Most, if not all counties in California seem to have fairgrounds that host agricultural and commercial events, and these usually have an adjoining RV park offering basic bathrooms and showers, water and electric hook-up and WiFi (which may or may
We escaped our parking lot home in minutes, anxious to start the trek down the Silverado Trail. This route and the larger Highway 29 to the west are the main arteries of the narrow valley, which is home to hundreds of wineries.
Traveling off-season, we were among very few fellow tourists, but boy are those locals feisty! If you don’t drive fast – at least 60 miles an hour – they get mad: tailgating, honking and shaking their fists if you fail to keep up the pace. It is really hard to read those tiny winery signs at 60, and pulling a trailer down an unfamiliar, smallish, curving road at that speed is probably not recommended either.
But living among tipsy tourists must understandably get annoying, and they probably want the place to themselves for the winter.
We were, though, treated to an extremely tasteful display of autumn colors, as row upon row of vines neared harvest. This maturity, set against the bluest sky and two ranges of small mountains, was very calming indeed.
Wine tasting probably isn’t the best activity for young kids, so during our three-day stay we sampled just two wineries.
At one end of the spectrum was Casa Nuestra, a very rustic feeling place that encouraged picnicking, didn’t mind Sophia running around with the vineyard dog, Trigger and played NPR’s ‘All Things Considered’ in the background. Coinciding with us was a giddy foursome from Cleveland that extolled the place’s simplicity (and comparatively lower prices). Chattily, they wanted to know everything about us and when they left, we all got hearty hugs and well wishes.
From my last visit, about ten years ago, I didn’t remember Napa Valley being so stingy. Now, visitors are generally charged $10 for a tasting, which consists of six or so of the teeniest sips of reds and whites. This charge is deducted against any purchases, presumably discouraging visitors from running rampant free of charge through the valley.
Daniel and I shared a tasting, just in case we didn’t want to buy a bottle. Perhaps sensing our lack of commitment, our server - who was very nice and then later very helpful with things to do in the area – gave us ever smaller droplets to divide between us. Or was that our imagination?
The second place we visited, Paraduxx, came highly recommended by our friends The Rowlands, who we visited at Chico, in northern California. Managed by Perrin’s close friend Jenny K, the lady herself gave us a personal, knowledgeable and unrushed tasting, even taking time to coo over Lulu and chat with Sophia, who sang loud songs next to hushed lunchtime tasters.
“It’s so Ibiza”, Daniel noted. Owing to the warm autumn day, we and the other visitors had been shown to the winery’s back garden, which features endless vine views, comfy bamboo furniture and even chill-out music. Inside, the furniture is very modern – stainless steel and black leather.
Another highlight was the generous portions, accompanied by yummy cheese and crackers to help us distinguish the different wine flavors.
Despite its relative youth, Paraduxx, a label belonging to the larger Duckhorn group, seems to have been a favorite of George W Bush’s White House, having been served three times at state dinners.
At last, we have met people like us: a couple with a young child and a baby, traveling cross-country and off-season in a recreational vehicle.
Having relocated from France to Montreal several years ago for a job opportunity, Virginie and Arnaud, with their eight month old son Baptiste and almost two year old daughter Olivia, the time seemed right to take advantage of a second parental leave to cross Canada and return to Quebec via the USA.
They bought an old Dodge Ram for about 4500 Canadian dollars and had reached Bodega Bay on the Sonoma coast, where we overlapped for a night. After San Francisco, they planned to head east towards Las Vegas, with a view to returning to Montreal by January.
They came over for a drink, bringing with them some rather delicious smoked salmon acquired further north.
We compared notes, and seemed to have traveled an almost identical route down from Vancouver. They said they had even seen us a few days earlier, at a vantage point for elk viewing.
The kids all played merrily, Sophia and Olivia bonding over some building blocks my aunt Gretchen had given us, and Lulu and Baptiste removing toys from each other’s grasps.
Sadly, we bid our new friends adieu the next morning.
It's not a widely known fact that Daniel is one-quarter American. It's not something he mentions freely.
His mom, Barbara, was born to an American mother and British father, dividing her childhood between the two countries. Strangely enough, she spent her high school years in Bronxville, New York, about ten minutes from Pelham, where I grew up.
So that means she has relatives in the US. One, Sandra Chelnov, has been in touch to say she's following the blog and that we should visit her if we ever find ourselves in Buffalo.
Another, Connie Bruce, is living just north of San Francisco in Mill Valley. Daniel's aunt Janet gave us her contact details just as we were driving down from Napa Valley to San Francisco - impeccable timing.
Connie told us stories of her youth, Barbara as a baby (Barbara's mother was her favorite aunt), the legend of a couple many generations ago who traveled to Syria as missionaries, also filling us in on her own adult life and family.
Interestingly, most people in the family have a strong connection to art and artists.
She showed us all around her apartment complex, introduced us to her cat Buttercup and then treated us to a yummy lunch in Sausalito.
Hopefully, Barbara and Connie will be able to reunite when Barbara joins us in the US at the beginning of the year.
Over the summer, my childhood friend Dave McRobie found me on Facebook. Once we connected, he said to look him up if we were ever in northern California.
Which of course we would be.
Dave lives with his wife Jaime and their two-year old twins Hazel and Avery in Sebastopol, which is in Sonoma County, 56 miles north of San Francisco. Both East Coast transplants, Dave and Jaime have no plans of ever going back.
The only complaint, registered by Dave, is that the weather is TOO good. "This is going to sound weird," he confided in us, "but having sun every day of the year can be a bit much". We felt really bad for him.
Extremely generously, they said we were welcome to park up outside their house on Sunset Avenue (How cool is that to live on Sunset Avenue!) underneath a redwood tree. So we did.
It was great. We hung out in their house with them and then retired to the Airstream at bedtime. Neighbors stopped by at all hours to say how much they liked our rig (everyone in California seems to call trailers 'rigs') and have a look inside. A couple asked how much we had paid, most said it had always been their dream to own an Airstream.
It turns out that sleeping in a trailer on the street is illegal. A policeman stopped to tell us so one morning. "Great rig," he said. "I won't tell anyone you're here, but one of the guys could stop you, and if it's overnight you'd have to get out. Just wanted to warn you." He paused to have a look inside. "Wow, how much did you pay for that?".
Luckily, no one kicked us out.
Sebastopol is great. Ten miles from the coast, close to all sorts of agriculture and wine country, it's ideally located. Everything is organic, and everyone is green. It seems like the perfect place to raise kids, and it's not pretentious. It's hard not to be healthy there.
Oregon and northern California are filled with hitchhikers. Young ones and old, some with dreadlocks and some without, with luggage running from backpacks to suitcases to (seriously!) a pack tied onto a stick. Everyone seems to do it, along local roads and highways, in the city and out in the middle of nowhere.
Occasionally, a half-hearted sign warns drivers not to pick them up.
After seeing such spectacles for several hundred miles, we had to get in on the action.
Right on the outskirts of beautiful, slightly hippy-dippy Mendocino, California (dubbed Spendocino, apparently, so we tried not to stay too long), we saw the perfect hitchhiker for us.
"Stop, Daniel, it's a pregnant girl with a cat!!", I shouted, waking up Lulu.
"Oh my God, we've got to pick her up!", he responded, looking vainly for an appropriate turnaround.
We drove all the way back into the town, before performing a rather elaborate U-turn.
A hundred yards before we could collect her, a small red car covered in left-wing bumper stickers cut us off, scooping up the girl and her cat before she could even see us.
Spirits broken, we were now determined to have a Hitchhiker Experience ("Claire is brutal, she only wanted it for the blog", Daniel would later tell a friend).
So we picked up the next guy. Dreadlocked, bearded and patchouli scented, he was a pretty good bet.
I moved to the back seat between the girls, so he could sit with Daniel up front.
We grilled him.
He told us of his upbringing near Sacramento, his travels around Hawaii, Central America and Asia and of the party he had been to the night before to celebrate the 40th anniversary of a hippy commune. "All talk and no action", he said of the hippies.
Eight miles later, he said we had reached his drop-off point.
At Westport, California, we paid our record campground fee: $48. Considering the lack of Wi-Fi, showers timed to last four minutes and the fact that there's no valet service, that's pretty steep (but not as steep as the entrance down into the park!). The most we had ever paid before was $31.
Complaining aside, there was one major plus: the campground is right on the beach, right on it. We spent the night listening to the mighty Pacific crash up against the shore.
And then the next morning, which was gloriously sunny, we spilled out of the trailer and joined another family in walking down the perfectly formed beach, selecting shells and fishing.
Slow off the mark in leaving the majestic redwoods of Jedediah Smith, we had to stop earlier than expected - in Trinidad, California, instead of further south.
As winter sets in, night falls in minutes. This is no good when you've got a trailer, as it becomes much harder to read signs, navigate steep gradients and dirt roads, or make judgements on how suitable/scary a campground is.
Frightened off by the completely empty Patricks Point State Park (which cost $35 with no hook-ups...which is standard for California state parks), we opted for the first private place, Azalea Glen RV Park and Campground.
And boy, did it work out. As soon as we arrived, we met up with a very well traveled lady, Danika, and her super daughters, Freya and Solveig, ages 7 and almost 4. Within minutes, Sophia had run off with them to their trailer. She ended up staying for a snack, game of dress-up (princesses, of course), TV and dinner.
Daniel and I hoped she wouldn't mind coming back to our family later on.
Come back she did, together with her new friends. Bringing a bottle of wine, they stayed for drinks and more dress-up.
We were so sad to leave. They gave Sophia a souvenir of an awesome necklace made of huge purple beads. Sophia had so much fun she gave them a pair of her beloved princess shoes.
Northern California greeted us with two days of torrential rain, forcing us to spend one afternoon trawling around Crescent City for things to do. So we petted sharks, held starfish, watched a sea lion perform tricks and sucked on sea anemone (well, another lady did do that) at the charming but rather kitschy Ocean World. And then attempted to see 'Where the Wild Things Are' - we had to leave and ask for a refund since they left the lights on DURING the movie.
Finally, we got to see the Redwoods, at Jedediah Smith Redwood State Park. To say these trees are giant is no understatement, since they regularly measure over 300 feet tall and 20 feet around.
The sun burnt through the heavy mist, allowing the very occasional beam of light to reach the forest floor. We all craned our necks out the window to catch a glimpse of the treetops and smell the fresh, wet scent of the forest, as the car bumped along the park's dirt road. Taking photos of the redwoods is really difficult - one, because getting the whole tree into the frame is a major challenge, and two, because without a car or person in the photo, there's no perspective.
To whom it may concern: We are a family of four traveling for six months across America in an Airstream trailer. We had been anxiously awaiting our arrival to the California coast, but have found the camping facilities to be sub-par, and very expensive.
The cheapest camping we've found was outside the fence of a trailer park in Santa Cruz - the park itself was full, but the owner offered us an ad hoc spot outside the fence, together with an extension cord, for $25. That's about the most we had paid for any camping before reaching California. The bathroom looked like it hadn't been cleaned in a month, but the WiFi did work.
Which is an improvement upon the WiFi access advertised by many campgrounds we've encountered. "Oh, the signal must not reach your site." "Oh, our WiFi is really low-tech". "Oh, most people just sit outside the office to get a signal [in the cold, dark night, sitting on the ground?]".
Here, people want a lot of money - we're talking $40 at the minimum - to stay in parking lots with nary a tree, inches from other RVs. In some of these, RVers are expected to have extra-long sewer pipes, electrical cords, water hoses, etc, since to save money, the amenities are located on the wrong side for trailers.
In one place, we had to ask neighboring campers to plug us into their rig, since our standard issue cord couldn't reach our own slot's outlet.
Children are not allowed to ride bikes in these parking lots -- something about more expensive insurance policies, apparently.
Bathrooms have been grotty as a rule, with some places (costing $45, $48) even demanding that guests PAY for showers (only 25 cents or a dollar, but still!).
And what are we supposed to do with dirty water at campgrounds that have neither sewers nor dump stations, where washing dishes is banned in bathrooms and no separate sinks are provided? Are guests supposed to pollute the rivers?
We understand that the California economy, something like the world's eighth largest, is teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, but these examples were all private campgrounds.
We wish that coastal campgrounds could follow the lead of the best campground we've seen so far on our trip - one located inland, below Mount Shasta in northern California. Mountain Gate RV Park had the cleanest, most sparkling bathrooms, a welcoming staff that practically broke out into song, a playground, its own trails, a rec room stuffed with TV, sofa, movies and games...AND...get this, a complimentary continental breakfast (coffee, pastries, toast, cereal, juice, etc). Not to mention special events like pumpkin carving for Halloween and a Thanksgiving dinner.
And guess what? Guests are so blown away by the thoughtfulness of the owners that they do their very best to treat the campground as if it were their own home.
All for under $30.
Complaints off our chests, we must congratulate you on having the most breathtaking coastline we've ever seen, offering hundreds of miles of eyepoppingly beautiful beaches, towering redwoods, dramatic craggy rockiness, mountains surely carved by God himself and the most azure water anyone could hope for. Thanks also for maintaining Highway 1, that road is nuts!
Lulu is now six months old. So we had to have a party. As soon as we arrived at the KOA in Crescent City, California, we all dressed for dinner: Sophia in her favorite dress (a gift from Cesar), Lulu in a dress given to her by Shelly, Daniel in his black velvet dinner jacket and me in my orange sequin-stripe tunic. And all of us adorned with jewelry and hairclips. Accompanied by BBC Radio 2 on the computer, we sang and danced, ate penne with broccoli, parmesan and pinenuts, salad with avocado, tomato, albacore tuna, sweet onion and butterbeans, and drank delicious California syrah (lemonade for Sophia). Lulu had stage 2 organic summer vegetable babyfood from Safeway. It was fun.
Well, we've finally made it to the Pacific. Despite having arrived on the West Coast some three weeks ago, we hadn't seen the sea. Our first glimpse came at Florence, Oregon. Long overshadowed by its neighbor to the south, Oregonians are understated people who are quietly proud of where they live. That way, the state's citizens - who we were told number fewer than the inhabitants of Brooklyn - get the whole place to themselves. We drove the length of the state twice - one and a half times on Interstate 5, and then the final half down US Highway 101 along the coast. The latter is by far the superior option, allowing drivers to gasp at the spectacular seashore. And at the adjoining sparkling freshwater lakes, towering primordial forests, Sahara like dunes and rivers teaming with life. Plus, the food and drink are fantastic! Nice cheddar (yey, finally!), good microbrews, amazing coffee, plentiful seafood and tons of orchard fruit. We loved it, despite the daily - and nightly - torrential downpours. We would have stayed, but we were worried about ourselves and the Airstream becoming waterlogged. We all need more Gore-tex.
Our car is moody, and that's at the best of times. Its favorite trick is not to start when you turn the ignition. But now we know that you have to try three or four times, sometimes hitting the accelerator instead of the brake to get things going. We think it objects to wet weather and also nighttime, maybe.
That said, it's gotten us across the country and up and down half of the West Coast.
We get it looked at every couple of thousand miles, to check that everything's working all right and to see whether anyone can figure out the ignition thing.
No one can.
Not even Oil Can Henry's, the best car-fixing place ever.
An Oregon-based business, Oil Can Henry's is staffed by men in bow ties who look like butlers and call you 'sir'. All that's missing is a fake British accent.
We had no idea.
When we pulled up to the company's Florence, Oregon branch, a rather rotund butler greeted us, handing us a newspaper ("for your enjoyment, sir") and a menu of treatments, including some combo deals.
"It's like a nail salon, for men!", exclaimed Daniel.
When it was our turn, we pulled into an immaculate garage and parked next to a video screen split in four showing a commercial for Oil Can Henry's (there seems to be a company academy, where butlers take classes and then graduate, all standing in a row!), the company logo, the chief butler next to our car and the junior butler working underneath our car - from a sort of basement level.
I read the paper, while Daniel looked over the menu, helpfully guided by our businesslike butler. They went through the list of oils - from basic to premium - performed tests on various fluids, the results of which were reflected in color marks indicating how badly they needed replacements, opened up everything that can be opened up on cars and tested the lights. We were offered two kinds of new windscreen wipers.
Meanwhile, the butlers sang observations and orders to each other, all communicating from their different levels, behind and in front of the car, and next to computers.
I asked Daniel if he thought they would break into a chorus and dance when it came time for us to leave. "Oh no, it's too masculine for that", he responded.
It was a dizzying experience. We all felt more beautiful afterwards.
We spent $240. We are kicking ourselves for not taking a photo. Because then it would have been 100% worth it. Even though the car's still not starting that well.
We spent an evening and part of the next day in Seattle, so we didn’t see that much of the city. We met two locals: my friend Laura’s mom Roberta, who lives in neighboring Kirkland, met us for coffee; and a really nice waitress at the fun, 24-hour Hurricane Café. She gave us the lowdown on Seattle: its music heyday is over, but the city is still thriving – and Belltown, the neighborhood where we were staying: the main going-out area, and also lots of prostitutes. It seems like a really clean, outdoorsy city that enjoys views of water, islands and mountains. Kind of like Vancouver. The people look city-ish, like they’re rushing around and doing important things. Well, compared to us, everyone is generally doing important things, like work. Lots of girls have tattoos, everyone is really into coffee (in one place, I was refused a plain drip coffee: “we don’t serve dirt”) and Bill Gates sponsors stuff. Like the amphitheatre at Seattle’s Olympic Sculpture Park, which is basically a free, landscaped outdoor museum overlooking stunning Puget Sound and centering around a huge, ship-like Richard Serra piece called 'Wake'. Here's a link showing all the pieces. http://www.seattleartmuseum.org/SAMcollection/code/emuseum.asp?style=browse¤trecord=19&page=collection&profile=objects&searchdesc=WEB.Olympic%20Sculpture%20Park&newvalues=1&newcurrentrecord=1
Claire – On maternity leave from career as editor of monthly finance trade magazines, and occasionally a freelance translator. Half-American/half-English, raised in the suburbs of New York, has lived in London for almost nine years.
Daniel – Furniture designer/maker based on London’s Columbia Road flower market, for ten years, also an aspiring painter and DIY supremo. On one-year career break to reconsider options. English by birth, but mother is half-American and spent part of her childhood in Bronxville, New York.
Sophia – 3.5-year old spitfire who loves school, singing, swimming and being a big sister
Lulu – Born May 8 of this year, a model baby who eats, sleeps and gurgles.
Special guests – American, British and international friends and family who drop in along our trip to see whatever part of the country they fancy. They’re welcome to travel in the car with us and sleep in an adjoining tent.