Spectacularity 2.

The next morning, after I packed up and drove back down the 19 mile steep, twisty, guardrail-less road (which wasn’t as scary going down because I was hugging the mountain side instead of the cliff side) I got back onto Route 50, or this being California, should I be calling it THE Route 50 or maybe just simply, THE 50?

Let me just say right here that there are many things that annoy me about California (it is not my favorite state) and one of them is the way Californians have to preface their highways with the word THE. Nowhere else in the states is this done, to my knowledge, so I figure that it’s just one more way that Californians try to segregate themselves and their state from the rest of us.

So anyway. I had about 150 miles left on Route 50 (or THE Route 50)(or THE 50) until the coast and the Pacific Highway (or, in California-speak, THE Pacific Highway)(or simply, THE 1). My plan was to get to the coast and turn left towards San Diego and along the way find a cheap motel or campground somewhere around Santa Cruz or maybe Monterey. A kind of light day driving to celebrate the end of my East to West journey.

And, of course, none of that happened.

What did happen was that I was able to get around the south side of San Francisco with fairly light traffic (for California) and go from a brilliantly blue sky morning into the marine layer fog of Pacifica as I turned onto THE 1 which is another thing that annoys me about California. Not THE 1, the daily marine layer over the coast. Miss Carol and me have been to California many times over the years and I’ve always wondered how anyone can wake up in a good mood when it’s foggy and damp every single morning.

And, while we’re on the subject, if it’s foggy and damp every single morning from the cold ocean air blowing in over the land why don’t things rust in California? In Knott’s Island on the East Coast I can lay awake and listen to things rust. Fucking California.

But, to give the California coast it’s due, the Pacific Coast Highway (I mean, THE Pacific Coast Highway) is spectacularly beautiful.

And I would get to find out just how beautiful it was because I got to drive a huge portion of it that day. Santa Cruz and Monterey were no-go’s, they had grown like weeds since the last time Miss Carol and me visited. So I drove. On and on. And every campground I passed had a sign posted stating that it was FULL. So I drove. On and on. Ever southward, the spectacularity gradually being replaced with a diminishing hope of finding a place to stop because one of the things about THE PCH is that, once you get on it, you can’t get off it. There are no exits pointing you to different places. So I drove. On and on.

Finally, in San Simeon, while I was on the phone with Miss Carol hoping she could find me a place to stay for the night, I saw a motel with a vacancy sign. I hung up on Miss Carol, swerved into the parking lot, skidded to a stop, and as I was walking towards the motel office a woman posted a hand written NO VACANCY sign.

I went in anyway and said- you’re kidding, right?

And the lovely woman behind the desk said- no, I’m sorry, I just had a reservation for our last room.

And I said- Just out of curiosity, what are your rooms going for?

And the lovely woman behind the desk smiled and said- $400

And I said-

And the lovely woman behind the desk smiled and said- plus tax

So I got back onto the stupidly spectacular PCH and headed south. While I drove I called Miss Carol back to see if you could help and just as I was telling her what had happened at the motel I saw a sign for San Simeon State Campground and after I turned in, another sign told me that the RV sites were full but the camping sites were not. I pulled up to the gate and was told that they had one campsite left and I said that’s perfect because one is all I need.

$35.