America the beautiful

The words we now sing as “America The Beautiful” were written by Katharine Lee Bates. Bates was a woman in 19th-century America, and lived for a quarter century with her female companion—what in that time and place was called a Boston marriage. So we can confidently say that she was not a fully equal citizen of the country she wrote in praise of.

This is one of the reasons I am fond of “America The Beautiful.” So much of U.S. history is about those who were, and are, not fully included or treated shamefully—women, African-Americans, the Native people of North America. Yet Katharine Lee Bates wrote my favorite American patriotic song, and she wrote it in praise of what, to me, are the best things about America:

“O beautiful for spacious skies, 

for amber waves of grain;

for purple mountain majesties

above the fruited plain!”

I’ve never really been a fan of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Something about the cheering at ball games when rockets and bombs get mentioned. The anti-protest folks may disagree with me here, but I’m not convinced a single American soldier ever died for the anthem (or the flag, for that matter). “America The Beautiful,” on the other hand, manages to celebrate the country accurately, even ways in which it could be improved. Here’s the seldom-sung final chorus:

“America! America! God mend thine every flaw,

confirm thy soul in self-control,

thy liberty in law.”

Why am I going on about this here? Because when we got to Yosemite, one of the national parks that charges an admission fee, we bought an “America The Beautiful” pass. For US$80, or less than the cost of driving into three fee-charging national parks, up to four people in our vehicle now have access to all the parks for an entire year. And because Americans’ attempt to preserve wilderness represents the best of the country, we intend to get as much out of America the Beautiful as possible.  

Together with Ben’s family (our parents would be joining us via a flight to Salt Lake City), we embarked on an epic road trip north from Arizona to Montana. Or in American Indian terms: from the Navajo Nation to the Blackfeet Nation.

We booked our camper van back when we were in Malaysia in January. It was the cheapest option we could find, but still amazingly expensive compared with our experiences down under. We knew each Escape Campervan was hand-painted with a different design, but not until we picked it up did we know which one we had.

There were cowboys on the other side. We weren’t sure how sensitive it was to pick up this vehicle and immediately drive it north through Indian lands, though I don’t think the western scene was meant as a disrespectful portrayal. In any case we were soon distracted by signs for Horsethief Basin, a “Colt Sale,” and “Protect our guns.” Not, you will note, “our children.” Oh, and a boat called “Boobie Bouncer,” possibly the tackiest name in a land where there is lots of competition.

If you’ve never traveled around the western United States you probably still have an image of it. The landscape has been in so many movies and television shows, westerns and otherwise. It changes as you rise from the hot, flat desert to a rainy elevation with pine trees. East of the Grand Canyon, nothing much rises out of the soil but the odd butte. 

In northern Arizona we ascended along a highway that passed through canyon walls. We stopped at a gas station near Lake Powell, a reservoir that sits on the Arizona-Utah state line. In the same way that I find bars in Nevada nostalgic, I was strangely pleased to see Big League Chew on sale at the counter. Big League Chew is a brand of shredded bubblegum that comes in a pouch. It is obviously meant to make children feel like they are dipping tobacco with the major league baseball players. As such, I’d expected it to be long since banned, like the Kinder Surprise candy eggs which contain small toys thought to be a danger to children in the U.S. Unlike, say, assault weapons.

We spent our first night in Kanab, Utah. There’s not much to say about that except that we managed to put the camp bed down successfully. This van was not a Hi-Top so you couldn’t stand up inside, but the bed was surprisingly comfortable. That’s because it was a proper bench seat, with seat belts, on which up to three additional passengers could safely sit. When folded out it was like a hide-a-bed, and one of the more comfortable ones I’ve slept in. Among other things, it was long enough to accommodate tall people. Maybe it’s an American thing.

Kanab, I have since learned, is a charming town whose surrounding area was one of the most heavily filmed in the Western movie era. We didn’t make it to the charming part, but stopped on the first strip of main street coming up from the south. Chains, mostly. But we got our rest for the night and were up early the next morning heading north.

We were taking the scenic route again, through our second national park, Zion in Utah. You are going to get tired of hearing this, but Zion is beautiful. We only took the road through it (with frequent photo stops) but it winds spectacularly through the canyon, down and out to the west. And this is only one corner of Zion National Park.

One of the things we loved about our camper van was that it was so compact. The refrigerator was a solar-powered drawer, easy to pull out and sort through the contents (our other campers had vertical standing fridges which could be awkward). And the removable camp stove in the back could be used anywhere, other than in the rain. We just stopped in the national park and T. cooked bacon and eggs. Breakfast in Zion, which sounds like a Bob Marley song.

I cannot tell you how much I’d been looking forward to this particular adventure. I am a lucky individual in that my siblings, grown up, are my best friends (when we were children it was quite a different story). Various versions of the Knowles family, like revolving bandmates, had had big American vacations in 1987, 1997 and 2007, and I’d been fortunate to be involved in all three. It was a year late but now here seven of us were, headed for more national parks with our America the Beautiful passes in hand. 

First, though, we had to get to Wyoming. It was smooth going north along Interstate 15, where I could drive for hours without T. having to be awake to give directions. Somewhere further along, however, I became confused. I can drive or I can navigate, but I’m not good at doing both at the same time. And T. was awake, but couldn’t find her reading glasses (I think they were in the back somewhere). In desperation, I pulled into a Burger King. Inside there were only a couple of customers and the staff were all chatting behind the counter.

“Excuse me,” I said, “but can I ask: Where am I?”

A young man, made up kind of like the guy in Human League, told me kindly that I was in Heber City, Utah. I acknowledge Heber City here because although we didn’t stay or spend any money, I felt welcome just the same.

It is pretty ridiculous how much I was looking forward to Idaho. For one thing, I needed the bathroom. We were in Idaho only briefly, where a state highway runs for less than a mile along the Wyoming state line before becoming 89 again. That is to say, we drove the entirety of Idaho 61. Stopped long enough to take a picture, though.

And then we were in Wyoming, and I looked out eagerly for Smoot. Smoot is a small community along Highway 89 which we could have easily missed, only I remembered seeing the sign for it back in 1987. I don't know what Smoot's population was the first time we saw it, but it was immortalized in this song, as created on the spot by my mother, Gracie:

“Oh I’m driving to Smoot

’Cause I’m missing your snoot.

You big old lug

I want to look at your mug.

So if you’re crying just hush

Till I see your mush,

Oh I just can’t wait 

To rub your old bald pate.”

Maybe you had to be there. In any case, I sang hello to Smoot and then, at last, we were rolling into Thayne, where Ben & co. had stopped for the evening. They’d directed us to a campground on the outskirts of town. The office was shut (it was nearly 8:30 by now) but there were still a couple of grassy sites available.

The only trouble was that it was now pouring down rain. T. said she wasn’t prepared, given the lateness of the hour, to wait it out until she could stand at the back and cook on the little camp stove. We had a decision to make. Shell out $42 for one of the rainy campsites (a bit stiff, I thought) or for twice as much, grab a motel room that advertised itself as “Nice”?

We opted for the motel. It was lovely. Given that it was Sunday and Thayne is a small town, most establishments were shut, but a helpful gal outside the biker bar told us the other bar in town would serve us pizza. We had a couple of beers in the Pines Bar to wash down a frozen pizza. It was so hot when heated up that we both burned our mouths, but it didn’t matter. The rain had stopped and we had a good night in Thayne.

In the morning we saw three truckloads of the Budweiser Clydesdales rolling down Main Street. We rendezvous’d with Ben, Elizabeth, and Maisie at the Village Market, a surprisingly nice grocery store for such a little place. Their vehicle would prove nearly as easy to spot in the coming weeks as our van, because they had a bright orange kayak strapped to the top of it.

And so we were off for the last couple of hours’ journey to Grand Teton National Park. The drive itself continued to be gorgeous, especially in the Bridger-Teton National Forest.

I may have given the impression in an earlier post that camping in National Forests is always free. Monetarily that is not always the case, although camping on public lands is free in the sense of being open to all. If you find a site, it may only have a composting toilet and there may be a fee on the honor system, but you are always welcome to camp there.

The point is, there is always someplace to camp, even if we didn’t take advantage of it. We would be camping for the next twelve nights: four each in three of the greatest national parks America has to offer. 

T. calls these "fingers of God."

How to choose the best travel insurance

I’m taking a brief time out to deal with the topic of travel insurance. As unlikely as it sounds, I have a strong recommendation in this area, as our experience has been really good. Needless to say, travel insurance is vital. Wherever you live and however long you are going to be gone, you don’t want to have to deal with a medical or other emergency out of pocket when you’re far from home:

If you can’t afford travel insurance, you can’t afford your trip.

There are a few considerations when choosing an insurance policy, such as whether you are going on one long trip or multiple shorter trips; whether you have children to cover; and whether you will be undertaking inherently risky activities (like rock climbing or scuba diving). No one company is going to be the best for everyone, because your answers to these questions will be different. 

The article below is an excellent summary of the issues and review of the best insurers from a U.S. perspective. I recommend reading it even if you aren’t based in North America, as it clearly spells out what you should be looking for, and answers questions in a clear way.

For us, based in the U.K., we chose TrueTraveller and I cannot recommend those folks highly enough. They know about long-term backpacking and offered a competitive price. I had to choose the “extreme” package of coverage, since I was going to be trekking at high altitude (Mt. Kilimanjaro!) But more importantly, when we actually needed to contact TrueTraveller, they got back to us right away and were very helpful. When we had a claim to process, they were back to us within days—not weeks—and actually compensated us for more than we expected.

You rarely get that kind of experience with an insurance company. I have no hesitation in recommending that Europe-based travelers look at TrueTraveller to see if their policies are appropriate for you.

Best Travel Insurance of 2018

On not visiting San Francisco: California to Arizona

Having outdone herself with breakfasts, Juliet packed us sandwiches and sent us on our way north. If you’ve never had the pleasure of driving Highway 1 along the California coast, don’t miss it.

A year ago, a dreadful landslide rained mud on this iconic highway, and a section of it is still closed for repairs. To get around this and make our way to Big Sur, Juliet recommended a detour on Highway 46 East (vineyard country) and then take the Jolon Road up to Nacimiento-Fergusson Road, which winds (seriously) through the forest to rejoin the coastal highway. I ended up stopping at a general store—the only establishment on the Jolon Road—to ask if we were headed in the right direction. The woman there said she gets this all the time. “But don’t worry,” she said, “if I were in the city I’d be just as confused as you.”

We were indeed headed the right way, and I bought a lemonade in gratitude. Wikipedia helpfully informs us that “Nacimiento-Fergusson Road is the only road across the Santa Lucia Range in the Central Coast of California, connecting California State Route 1 and the Big Sur coast to U.S. Route 101 and the Salinas Valley.” The road starts at an army training base, but the folks there just waved us through. From there on we were in the National Forest. We weren’t camping but just so you know, all public lands in the U.S. (such as National Forests) are free to camp in. Marvelous option.

Eventually T. careened down towards the sea and we resumed our clifftop drive via Big Sur to Monterey and San Francisco. We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge to the tune of “San Francisco (Be Sure To Wear Flowers In Your Hair).”

But we weren’t stopping in San Francisco. We were headed for Marin County, north of the Bay, and the home of T’s oldest school friend, Bernie. (Not to be confused with cousin Bernie of Donegal.)

From our blog posts, Bernie had deduced that we like hiking. So the first thing she did was take us on the Tomales Point Trail in Point Reyes National Seashore. 

I have never seen so many wildflowers before. They were so profuse that at some points they threatened to swallow the unmaintained trail!

The seashore is also a haven for tule elk, and we saw lots of them.

Tule elk

The views on this hike were unparalleled, but it was nearly ten miles long! T. let it be known she would not be hiking that many miles again. Good to know for future national parks.

We meant to return to San Francisco and see the city, and there is one reason that we didn’t: Aunt Eunice. I wanted to visit my great-aunt, who is 96, and instead of becoming tired as one might legitimately expect a nonagenarian to do, Aunt Eunice just kept telling more stories! Instead of returning in the evening, we were out having dinner with her and her son Jim (visiting from Sydney!) 

“I told [Uncle Dick, her late husband] that I didn’t want a cochlear implant,” Aunt Eunice said. “I didn’t want to have anything in common with that talk radio personality—Rush Limbaugh!” She and Uncle Dick, as it turned out, were all set to be missionaries in China, but never made it to the mainland because of the communist takeover in 1949. Instead, they went to Hong Kong, Taiwan, Bhutan, the Philippines, India, Nepal, New Zealand, Britain and Europe, Japan, Canada, Alaska, and all over the U.S. She told us all about these many trips. In fact, out came a 30-year-old road atlas, along with Aunt Eunice’s advice on the routes we could take from northern California to our next destination.

I never knew this before either, but when she was a young woman, Aunt Eunice worked in a machine gun factory in Detroit. The original Rosie the Riveter, almost. She is my last living link to those who served during the Second World War. (Our family just lost my great-uncle Richard, a U.S. Marine veteran.) Aunt Eunice is a mind-blowing legend. She’s looking forward to her 97th birthday and, apparently, to our next visit, when she hopes her favorite Italian restaurant won’t be so busy!

It would be hard for any attraction in the Bay Area to top this. But Bernie outdid herself. She and her friends Shirley and Florence took us on a tour of Napa and Sonoma wineries, which was scrumptious. At Wellington’s, where T. tried some port (not liking other wine), the Zinfandel vines date from 1882. No wonder they are so “gnarly.”

Sonoma's mission of San Francisco Solano

There were a few American citizens in the car, but I was the only one with a native accent. Nonetheless, Bernie pressed on to that most American of experiences: the county fair. The first thing we came upon was a pig race! It was the sort of thing you had to see to believe, though I’m unsure whether a pig race is up to Marin County’s usual animal standards. Hot dogs and funnel cakes filled out the county fair experience.

Portion size: entire pig

The featured performers that night were the Beach Boys. We couldn’t hear them very well because all the nearby space already had people in it. But at least two of the Boys were originals, including Mike Love.

It was Canada Day, and three days before U.S. Independence Day. In honor of this, the county fair was setting off fireworks—otherwise banned in such a parched place as California. I’ve never been that fond of fireworks, but New Year’s Eve had been a damp squib, where we went to bed in advance of an obscenely early flight out of Bangkok, and I woke up at midnight to indistinct booms. The show over the water in Marin County was about the best I’ve seen.

The five of us couldn’t leave the fair without riding the carousel.

Despite all this effort to stay out late, we still sat in traffic on the way out. Bernie made up for this with ’70s British pop music and some wicked seat dancing. What a fun group.

Like everywhere else we’ve traveled, with the possible exception of Budapest, we could go back to the Bay Area. And we will. But for now, we had a deadline and I was impatient to see my family in Phoenix.

In a decision strongly seconded by Jim and Aunt Eunice, T. did not take the fastest route, back via LA, but turned towards Yosemite National Park.

Don Pedro Lake, on the scenic route 

The last time T. and I visited Yosemite, it was May, a month we foolishly thought was spring. Snow fell while we were there (we were in a permanent, but unheated tent) and we had to leave by the one road not requiring snow tires or chains. This time, the high road through the park was open, and we were able to drive through the Tioga Pass, elevation 9,945 feet.

Half Dome

Tenaya Lake

Shortly after turning onto U.S. Highway 6, we saw a sign saying 3,205 miles to Provincetown, Massachusetts.

Yes, it’s true. Today’s Highway 6 begins in Bishop, California, behind a gas station, and ends at the tip of Cape Cod. Isn’t that amazing? If we stayed on Highway 6 we’d go through states I’ve never visited: Colorado, Nebraska, Rhode Island. And we love Provincetown. We’re forever hearing what a great road trip “Root” 66 is, but who ever hears about poor old Route 6? It’s another trip we’ll have to do someday.

But not today. Today we were taking state highways that went from California to Nevada and back again, and going as far as we could go towards our destination. The place we ran out of steam was Beatty, Nevada.

There isn’t a whole lot on U.S. Highway 95 except Beatty, until you get to Las Vegas. And much as we’d have liked to go to Bally’s and crash the Golden Crown Literary Society convention, T. was too tired to drive anymore. It had gotten dark and we’d already seen one coyote crossing the road. Besides, the pleasures of Nevada beckoned even in Beatty.

I’m not sure I can convey how welcome a Motel 6 and a 24-hour diner are, when one has been on desolate state roads for hours and hours. The thing about the United States is that they are so vast. There are so many miles of desert emptiness; it’s difficult to get across to someone who grew up outside North America. The tacky chains that uglify most American towns are, at that point when you are running out of gas and energy, exactly what you want to see. 

T. played some bar poker and I admired the cigarette machine. Don’t get me wrong. I have never smoked in my life, and despise cigarettes. But there is something fascinating about the way the state of Nevada has remained stuck in the past. People smoke in bars, which doesn’t happen many places in the world anymore. I don’t like it, but it does feel like temporarily stepping into my past—a time I enjoyed.

The next morning we were on the home stretch, fortified by a Denny’s breakfast. The two best things about America are both to do with coffee. One is half and half (I’ve never understood why England, a country with a dozen different kinds of cream, cannot produce this) and the other is the bottomless cup of coffee. Picture this: You order a coffee, and by the time your breakfast comes it is gone; but instead of not having any coffee with your food or having to pay four dollars more, your cup is instead magically refilled by the waiter or waitress. If you are North American, you may not realize that this wonder is unique to our part of the world. Cherish it.

Along the way to Phoenix we saw red flowers on the branches of all the cacti, which we don't normally see at the time of year we visit. On our arrival my sister was not there. She and her family were on their own leg of vacation with our aunt and uncle in Chicago. The cats, however, were home.

As was my brother, his wife and daughter, and their dog.

These days Nugget is thrilled to see us, especially T. This was not always the case. He’s a shy dog and spent years whining and hiding under the coffee table whenever “new” people (us) arrived, until one memorable day when we dog-sat and T. threw a ball for him all day. Ever since then, she has been his favorite auntie.

Actually T. is like this with pretty much all animals, and kids as well. The next day, the actual Fourth of July, my brother's family threw a party. Because this is summer, a time when Arizona is uninhabitable, the only way to party outdoors is in a pool. Fortunately Ben has one. All the friends' and neighbor kids naturally glommed onto T.

Afterwards my brother, sister-in-law, niece, T., and I each had a sparkler and sang what patriotic songs we knew ("You're a grand old flag," etc.) 

We did actually see my sister before leaving town, not just stay at her place. Since our last meeting, Rachel has quite an accomplishment to show off: Ashley and her daughters Kenzie and Claire. (What is it about girls in this family?) We were eager to meet all of them and brought the girls souvenirs from Bangkok and Siem Reap. Claire in particular seemed taken with hers.

Before leaving Rachel’s (temporarily) I should say that I am quite proud of an accomplishment of my own: I picked them all up at the airport. This is a bigger deal than it sounds. Phoenix’s international airport, Sky Harbor, is so infamous for its confusing signs and lane changes that people who have lived here all their lives still complain on TripAdvisor about it. Sky Harbor is all the more deceptive in that it exists on Phoenix’s straightforward grid system, between 24th and 44th Streets. But I have never before driven there without sailing blithely into the wrong terminal or out of the airport on my first go-round. Getting into the parking garage, and that nearest to their gate, was an achievement of the first rank as far as my life is concerned.

Welcome home!

We just guessed on souvenirs for Kenzie and Claire. Ben and Elizabeth’s daughter, Maisie, we have known from birth, so we had a better idea of her style. She seemed quite taken with this silk sleeping bag liner from Vietnam (handmade at a cooperative for people with disabilities in Hoi An).

We had two weeks of camping ahead of us, and as it turned out, Elizabeth told us Maisie slept with this every night of the trip. But that’s a story for another post.

On not seeing Dolly Parton: Los Angeles

We arrived in the mainland U.S. at LAX. It was a pleasure not to have to clear customs there, just proceed as domestic passengers. I admit to feeling a twinge as the Hawaiian Airlines staff said “Mahalo” to us. Wouldn’t be hearing that here in the lower 48.

As some of you will be aware, it was the World Cup of soccer this summer. We sensed the atmosphere right away after getting our rental car and stopping for a quick breakfast at McDonald’s. I don’t recommend the breakfast, but there was a TV on and it was playing the Mexico game. Mexico did quite well in the group stage, shocking Germany, and to watch them play in the company of La Brea residents was like being at a home match. 

I can recommend the car rental at LAX. It was the smoothest process I ever remember, probably because we did it all ourselves at a kiosk. Normally I don’t like being forced to do everything myself at a kiosk, but rental car people always spend so much time trying to talk you into duplicate insurance or upgrades you don’t need, and it’s wearying after a long trip. This time (with the help of a worker standing nearby to answer any questions) we just walked out and picked the car we wanted from a row of compact cars. The first one we got into, we couldn’t figure out how to adjust the driver’s seat—surprisingly common in these newfangled vehicles. Normally this means a time-consuming trip back to the rental desk for help, but this time, we just climbed in the next car and drove away.

We stopped in Hollywood and visited Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. The attraction for us was not the movie theatre, but the Walk of Fame and historic foot (and other) prints left by stars.

Also there was a character who apparently walks around every day selling toilet paper with Tweeter printed on it. We declined this, but I did appreciate the T-shirt he was wearing: “Not anti-American, just anti-stupid.”

Driving is the thing in California, and we didn’t have to camp this time, because our accommodation was arranged. We are blessed to have a series of cousins and friends along the coast of the Golden State—the goal was to see as many as possible! First stop was to visit my cousins Adam and Alma in Pasadena.

Adam and I go way back in traveling terms. He joined my family on an epic 1997 road trip, including (with my dad, brother, and me) a descent to the river at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, and back up to the South Rim, in temperatures that reached 125 degrees Fahrenheit. Good times. Now, with his beautiful wife Alma and daughters Camila and Victoria, he was our host and guide to his hometown, LA.

It is a curious fact that a surprising number of children call us Aunties, none of whom are my niece. Camie and Ria are among these. They are delightful girls, but have their dad’s competitive streak and the family penchant for card games. Adam traces this back to our great-grandmother, the formidable Gi Gi, who was not only a whiz at pinochle but ran a motel in Las Vegas around 1960—wish I had those stories! In any case, Camie and Ria kept the games of Old Maid and Go Fish going, and were sure to note when either of us lost.

We’d flown the redeye from Honolulu so were pretty tired, and the family had plans that evening. But they set us up at a members’ evening at the Huntington Library, one of Pasadena’s most significant locations.

We walked around the gardens and started to listen to the outdoor concert. But this summer series is less about hearing the music and more about enjoying one’s picnic. Some of these folks had quite elaborate basketsful!

The next afternoon our cousins took us on a walking tour of downtown LA. We saw the Broad (rhymes with road) art gallery, which had far too long a line to get in, the concert hall and the playhouse. For sustenance, there was Grand Central Market, which has been bringing together old and new cuisines in Los Angeles since 1917.

It was Sunday, and when we got to the Catholic cathedral a special mass was about to start. It was “in recognition of all immigrants.” Immigrants are such a part of America and especially Los Angeles, but lately, it seems that we are “everywhere spoken against,” like the early Christian church. 

Especially under siege are the group nicknamed “Dreamers”—people brought to the U.S. as children, who know no other home, but who through no fault of their own have no legal status nor any path to legal status. At a time when the federal government seems maddeningly unable to address a single issue, it was heartening to see the community of Our Lady of the Angels pulling together behind their neighbors. 

Outside the cathedral there was a protester against Pride Month. “LGBTIQ is a deadly sin!” his sign proclaimed. While of course I disagree with this belief, I admit to being impressed that an opponent could keep up with the latest string of letters. I’ve long since been with the writers Nicola Griffith and Kelly Eskridge, who use “quiltbag” to cover the multitude of identities we celebrate during Pride.

At least Dunkin' Donuts was on our side.

Ever since Mauritius, our brother-in-law Paul had been urging us to get up to a rooftop bar. We didn’t manage any of the skyscrapers in Asia, but the dress code is more relaxed in California. Alma knew a place called Perch, where even kids are allowed except on the top floor.

T., Camie, and Alma

Here as in so many places, the flag patches on my daypack drew people’s attention. “I like your Tanzania flag,” a woman said to me, and indicated that the guy she was with was from Tanzania. It’s a favorite of mine too (the country, not just the flag).

It was then that I didn’t see Dolly Parton. LA is all about star-spotting for some, and we were at the beautiful Biltmore Hotel, where the LA Press Club was meeting. Adam and T. saw Dolly Parton hustling past with her retinue. It is not clear to me why East Tennessee’s most famous native was at the LA Press Club, but in any case, I was in the bathroom. Of course. 

But who needs Dolly when you can meet Frankie? Another cousin of ours, Frankie is making her way in the singing business and doing a fine job of it, as attested by no less than Olivia Newton-John and Taylor Swift. T. and I were tickled that she found time to meet us for lunch the next day. It is more than Beyoncé has managed to do.

Ladies who lunch

Ria helped with the pancakes.

Speaking of lunch, I feel that I’ve never eaten as much in a few days as I did in Los Angeles—at least on these travels. Alma made an amazing brunch, and we had some gorgeous foods in restaurants (tomatillo salsa, anyone?), but we normally just don’t eat out that much. And U.S. portion sizes are out of control. Short rib (Korean) tacos one night, lemon ricotta pancakes at the Alcove the next morning? I feel like I never get a chance to get hungry in America, which is not a natural way to eat. But it all tasted really good!

The day we were in Hollywood, it was too foggy (or smoggy) to see the famous sign on the hill. Alma was determined to rectify this, so took us to the Griffith Observatory. 

The observatory has featured in films and has a cool telescope poking out of it.

We finally got our pictures of the Hollywood sign. And of Los Angeles wreathed in its equally famous smog.

It was so lovely having family wanting to entertain (and feed) us. We weren't done yet, but the central coast was calling, so the next day we took off towards Ventura. As soon as we could, we got the 101 going north, detouring to Highway 1 wherever possible. This is the scenic route that can take you all the way up to San Francisco, if you have enough time. It took us through little communities still advertising “chop suey” and other things that haven’t changed in years.

We saw a lot of state troopers, but I’m not sure what you’d have to do to get pulled over by the highway patrol. One driver was stopped in the middle of the road, just to take a picture. I didn’t get a picture of him.

Our goal was Grover Beach, the quieter neighbor of Pismo Beach, and my cousin Juliet’s house. Juliet is Adam’s sister and has three amazing daughters of her own. The youngest, Autumn, was kind enough to lend us her room for a few nights. She was busy preparing cupcakes and succulents to sell the next morning.

Longtime followers of my blog may recall that when she was very small, Autumn was found to have a Wilms’ tumor. She and her parents and sisters went through a tough time of kidney surgery and chemotherapy, but you would never know it now. It was not that many visits ago that Autumn was solemnly telling T., “I had cancer, you know.” We are all so thankful to see how healthy and active she is today.

Lindsey

Autumn’s older sisters, Sage and Lindsey, made us feel welcome too. As at Adam and Alma’s, there was lots of activity in the kitchen.

We were happy to be joined at supper by Juliet’s partner, Thomas. The next day, we went for a long walk on the beach. “June gloom” had set in that morning, and it was a bit cool, but the beach was unspoiled.

T. Juliet, and Sage

The girls all had various friends coming and going. We were with Autumn and Scarlet when the sun came out that afternoon. Juliet took us to Morro Bay, the beginning of the scenic highway we would take further north. We saw a sea lion and several sea otters.

Then we enjoyed some quality time (and food, naturally) in downtown San Luis Obispo. In the evening we were treated to dinner by Juliet and the girls’ dad, Jeff. In all our comings and goings T. had never actually met Jeff before, so it was great to see him after so many years. Jeff and Juliet are both terrific parents raising wonderful daughters. The Italian food was pretty out of this world, too.

When we left for northern California, Lindsey said, “Thanks for coming.” Thanks to all of you for having us!