Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
Billy caught a plane at Monterey Airport this morning, and returned home to Los Angeles for ten days. I am probably not the only person in the universe who feels that every time someone I love boards a plane, I may never see them again. I particularly don't like saying goodbye at an airport on September 11th. And I am certain that on that front I am not the only one who feels so.
Eleven years ago, I was getting ready to go to a pilates session when I switched on the radio in our master bathroom. It was tuned to 89.3 KPCC, one of our local NPR stations which is based at Pasadena City College. Like everyone else who turned on the TV or radio that morning, I knew almost instantly that something wasn't right. I called out to Billy who was in the kitchen, inquiring whether he was watching the TV in the kitchen. He was not. Turn it on, I called out. Something's going on.
Within minutes we each knew something had happened in NYC. And within the next few minutes I emailed my friend, Max, who had begun a new job uptown in Manhattan just the day before. Max, Check in, was what I wrote. How many people emailed, texted, and left voice mails like that on that day? Max emailed me back that he was safe. Then, I sent similar emails to all of our friends who travel for business. Where were they? Were they safe? They all were.
I never did pilates that day, though I did drive there. In most crises in my life I have initially operated under the delusion that if I act like everything is ok, everything will be ok. Though this has never proved true, I still seem to fall under the spell of that failed magic -- that staying on track will turn back the hands of time and reverse the damage. I have a strong belief that this will work. This never works.
I was probably acting under a similar impulse after I left Monterey airport today. I went about normal business for the next two hours until I got Billy's call that he had landed safely: I drove back to Carmel, stopping at Bruno's for a Monterey Herald; I returned to our home-for-the-month, and made myself my second mug of Scottish Breakfast tea; I read the paper. Then I walked into town and went to Carmel Belle for breakfast. Erin, who works there, greeted me and I told her that Billy had just left. We'll take care of you, she said, and I believed her. Billy called. I celebrated his safety with one more cup of tea, a poached egg, and two huge slices of toast with butter and a lot of very good blackberry preserves. I ate it all. I deserved it.
I have about one hundred hours of solitude ahead of me until my two fristers, Lydia and Debra (known here as LOL and DG - see blogpost Sisterhood of the Traveling Scarves, available here and now!) arrive on Friday. Being on my own is a mixed blessing -- the most challenging part being that you have to be open to what it feels like. At times it feels lonely; at other times I feel absorbingly self-centric in my own little Carmel universe -- like when I indulged in the toast this morning. Days are productive and fun. Nights are, well, dark. The house creaks, then is deafeningly silent. I still sleep only on my own side of the bed. When I wake up in the morning, I just have to make the bed on my side. It's weird and a bit ghostly.
But this time alone allows me the luxury of undisturbed reflection; time to ponder some personal issues. It provides the focus that I usually lack in my hurried life in Los Angeles. As my pace slows, my mind clears. Then time moves much the way it is supposed to, and so does life; neither getting away from me as they often do when I am at home. Here, I shop daily for the ingredients that will comprise my dinner. I walk to the beach and into town, and I write a lot: in my journal; emails to my fristers and Max; here on my blog. I breathe. Tomorrow, I will begin to make plans for the upcoming weekend with Las Chicas. But before their arrival on Friday -- one hundred hours of solitude, mas o menos, commencing on this day of remembrance for us all. Thank you for reading my blog. Pray, love, remember . . . Shakespeare.
Showing posts with label KPCC. Show all posts
Showing posts with label KPCC. Show all posts
September 11, 2012
December 20, 2011
I'm Dreaming of a Carmel Christmas
Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
Not surprisingly, for those of you who have been following along (seriously, what is wrong with you?), launching ourselves on this trip to Carmel was not easy. We have issues. We have Mom issues. We have business issues. And, increasingly, we have issues getting ourselves organized for travel, and just about everything else. Adding to the stress of this is the fact that we are staying in Carmel for six weeks. SIX WEEKS! Yes, you (and I) read that right.
It all started last year in the little house we have rented since 2005. We arrived in early January, picked up the keys, and entered the house. I immediately became excited, as usual. It was the start of our month-long stay, and the stress of getting ready for it was over. We stowed all of our gear, then hied ourselves over to Rio Grill for our first celebratory martinis of the trip. All was well. Then, something funny happened. A couple of days into our stay, I started to feel discontented with the house. A few days later I remarked upon this to Billy. And guess what? He thought maybe it was time for a change as well. We asked the rental agency to email us a list of other homes for consideration. We thought that we might step down, from three bedrooms to two. We perused the list but didn't find a thing that we liked.
A couple of weeks later, while Billy was back in LA, I went online and started looking at other available rentals. I found one that looked good and drove past it on my way home from Safeway later that day. Called Billy. When he returned that weekend, we walked over to look at it. It was on the opposite (south) side of Ocean Avenue, not far from both the Carmel Mission and Mission Ranch (Clint's place, where we often go to enjoy cocktails on the patio at sunset). As we were walking by it, we noticed a man in the driveway removing his golf clubs from the trunk of his car (which had Minnesota plates on it). Approach and inquire. No, he wasn't the owner. He and his wife had just commenced a two-month vacation rental at the house. We told him that we were interested in renting the house the following year. He talked to us about the owner, and about the house and about . . . you know what? It didn't matter what we were talking about. The point was that I was going to stand there talking to this very nice man until he invited us in to see the house. I know this fact is not pretty, but there it is. And, finally, he did. Mission accomplished, but now Billy and I were both suffering from house-lust.
We talked about the house all the way back to our rental house, and I broached the subject of Christmas. My mom was stable then, but family holidays were pau (see previous post for definition of this Hawaiian word. Oh, never mind, it means done, finished, over). I not only saw us at this house, I also saw us celebrating Christmas Eve at the Mission. I have never been to a Christmas Eve midnight Mass. Could my first be in Carmel, at the lovely Mission Basilica with the awe-inspiring acoustics and choir? Billy, who, if caught at the right time, can operate out of the creed happy wife, happy life, and who, not incidentally, loves Carmel just as much as I do, immediately agreed to a six-week rental which would get us in before Christmas, if the property was available. When we phoned the owner, he told us that the time was fine, and that 800 thread-count bed linens would be on the beds by then. He requested that we send him a deposit. And, the deal was done.
Now, I should let you know that, even though I insinuated myself into being invited into this house, we were not overly nosy about it. We took a quick spin, in and out in less than five. So when we arrived here Saturday night, just a few minutes before midnight, we discovered that the house wasn't exactly what we remembered. It was better.
But, back to the getting-on-the-road part of the story. Sparing you details, let me just write that Saturday was a heinous, evil day. At one point, I dissolved into tears in front of my mother's caregiver. Throughout this really miserable day, I kept thinking . . . if we could just GO. Our rental wasn't to commence until Sunday the 18th, but we knew the house was ready for us. I had suggested to Billy that maybe we could drive up Saturday night. If we arrived that night, at 12:01, it was Sunday, right? Billy was working all day, but he thought it was possible. On Friday, I didn't think so, but by Saturday afternoon, I thought that, just maybe, we could do this.
Billy arrived home just after five o'clock, and at exactly 5:59 we drove down our driveway. We tuned our radio to KPCC; Prairie Home Companion was just starting, and we were on our way up Highway 101, the former Camino Real mission trail, towards Carmel. It was a miracle.
We stopped at In and Out in Santa Maria for animal-style burgers and fries. Then, back on the road. At eleven o'clock we turned off onto Highway 68, and a short while later came down Ocean Avenue into town. The first thing we saw was the enormous tree which is at the top of town, on the median of that street. It was decorated in red, green, and white lights, with its trunk wrapped in red lights. And all the other trees and shrubbery on that street divider all through the town's center were draped in white fairy lights. Ooohhhh look! -- we both exclaimed. Bruno's Market had Happy Holidays in lights on their roof. Many of the storefronts were trimmed with white lights. It was magical.
Although we were tired, we drove down to the beach, then wound our way back through town. We picked up the Monterey Herald, a Carmel Pine Cone, a Carmel Magazine, and a few real estate magazines (Billy) from a newspaper dispenser/stand. Then, we found the house.
We didn't get to sleep until 1:30 that morning. But when we awoke on Sunday, we were in Carmel, in this beautiful house, and we were mostly unpacked. Billy took off for a long walk, and I made it to 11:00 Mass at the Mission. It was the fourth Sunday of Advent. The altar was filled with poinsettias, and carols were sung with the choir. We had arrived.
Being in Carmel, calls to mind Dickens' A Christmas Carol. After coming from a nightmare day in LA, then waking up here, in this village next to the sea, I want to cry out -- God bless us everyone! But instead, I will wish you a happy and merry holiday, be it Hanukkah, Christmas, Solstice --whatever you celebrate. And, once more, in this holiday season, I thank you for reading my blog. Merry Christmas!
Not surprisingly, for those of you who have been following along (seriously, what is wrong with you?), launching ourselves on this trip to Carmel was not easy. We have issues. We have Mom issues. We have business issues. And, increasingly, we have issues getting ourselves organized for travel, and just about everything else. Adding to the stress of this is the fact that we are staying in Carmel for six weeks. SIX WEEKS! Yes, you (and I) read that right.
It all started last year in the little house we have rented since 2005. We arrived in early January, picked up the keys, and entered the house. I immediately became excited, as usual. It was the start of our month-long stay, and the stress of getting ready for it was over. We stowed all of our gear, then hied ourselves over to Rio Grill for our first celebratory martinis of the trip. All was well. Then, something funny happened. A couple of days into our stay, I started to feel discontented with the house. A few days later I remarked upon this to Billy. And guess what? He thought maybe it was time for a change as well. We asked the rental agency to email us a list of other homes for consideration. We thought that we might step down, from three bedrooms to two. We perused the list but didn't find a thing that we liked.
A couple of weeks later, while Billy was back in LA, I went online and started looking at other available rentals. I found one that looked good and drove past it on my way home from Safeway later that day. Called Billy. When he returned that weekend, we walked over to look at it. It was on the opposite (south) side of Ocean Avenue, not far from both the Carmel Mission and Mission Ranch (Clint's place, where we often go to enjoy cocktails on the patio at sunset). As we were walking by it, we noticed a man in the driveway removing his golf clubs from the trunk of his car (which had Minnesota plates on it). Approach and inquire. No, he wasn't the owner. He and his wife had just commenced a two-month vacation rental at the house. We told him that we were interested in renting the house the following year. He talked to us about the owner, and about the house and about . . . you know what? It didn't matter what we were talking about. The point was that I was going to stand there talking to this very nice man until he invited us in to see the house. I know this fact is not pretty, but there it is. And, finally, he did. Mission accomplished, but now Billy and I were both suffering from house-lust.
We talked about the house all the way back to our rental house, and I broached the subject of Christmas. My mom was stable then, but family holidays were pau (see previous post for definition of this Hawaiian word. Oh, never mind, it means done, finished, over). I not only saw us at this house, I also saw us celebrating Christmas Eve at the Mission. I have never been to a Christmas Eve midnight Mass. Could my first be in Carmel, at the lovely Mission Basilica with the awe-inspiring acoustics and choir? Billy, who, if caught at the right time, can operate out of the creed happy wife, happy life, and who, not incidentally, loves Carmel just as much as I do, immediately agreed to a six-week rental which would get us in before Christmas, if the property was available. When we phoned the owner, he told us that the time was fine, and that 800 thread-count bed linens would be on the beds by then. He requested that we send him a deposit. And, the deal was done.
Now, I should let you know that, even though I insinuated myself into being invited into this house, we were not overly nosy about it. We took a quick spin, in and out in less than five. So when we arrived here Saturday night, just a few minutes before midnight, we discovered that the house wasn't exactly what we remembered. It was better.
But, back to the getting-on-the-road part of the story. Sparing you details, let me just write that Saturday was a heinous, evil day. At one point, I dissolved into tears in front of my mother's caregiver. Throughout this really miserable day, I kept thinking . . . if we could just GO. Our rental wasn't to commence until Sunday the 18th, but we knew the house was ready for us. I had suggested to Billy that maybe we could drive up Saturday night. If we arrived that night, at 12:01, it was Sunday, right? Billy was working all day, but he thought it was possible. On Friday, I didn't think so, but by Saturday afternoon, I thought that, just maybe, we could do this.
Billy arrived home just after five o'clock, and at exactly 5:59 we drove down our driveway. We tuned our radio to KPCC; Prairie Home Companion was just starting, and we were on our way up Highway 101, the former Camino Real mission trail, towards Carmel. It was a miracle.
We stopped at In and Out in Santa Maria for animal-style burgers and fries. Then, back on the road. At eleven o'clock we turned off onto Highway 68, and a short while later came down Ocean Avenue into town. The first thing we saw was the enormous tree which is at the top of town, on the median of that street. It was decorated in red, green, and white lights, with its trunk wrapped in red lights. And all the other trees and shrubbery on that street divider all through the town's center were draped in white fairy lights. Ooohhhh look! -- we both exclaimed. Bruno's Market had Happy Holidays in lights on their roof. Many of the storefronts were trimmed with white lights. It was magical.
Although we were tired, we drove down to the beach, then wound our way back through town. We picked up the Monterey Herald, a Carmel Pine Cone, a Carmel Magazine, and a few real estate magazines (Billy) from a newspaper dispenser/stand. Then, we found the house.
We didn't get to sleep until 1:30 that morning. But when we awoke on Sunday, we were in Carmel, in this beautiful house, and we were mostly unpacked. Billy took off for a long walk, and I made it to 11:00 Mass at the Mission. It was the fourth Sunday of Advent. The altar was filled with poinsettias, and carols were sung with the choir. We had arrived.
Being in Carmel, calls to mind Dickens' A Christmas Carol. After coming from a nightmare day in LA, then waking up here, in this village next to the sea, I want to cry out -- God bless us everyone! But instead, I will wish you a happy and merry holiday, be it Hanukkah, Christmas, Solstice --whatever you celebrate. And, once more, in this holiday season, I thank you for reading my blog. Merry Christmas!
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About Me
- Bronte Healy
- California, United States
- Once, I came up with this brilliant idea (well, I thought so, anyway) that the key to happiness was to concentrate on three things -- to choose three interests, then focus and funnel your energy into that trio. I was an English major in college and have always written in some shape or form. So, my first choice was writing. I've always kept journals, and have also written plays, novels, poetry, and shopping lists. I do have a day job. It deals with numbers (assets and finances). Go figure. I went to college at a California University. I live in California, Los Angeles, but not downtown. No children, and sadly, between dogs at the moment (dog person, not a cat person). Enough info? I was going for just enough to not be a cypher, yet not enough to entice a stalker. And, I started my blog after being dragged, kicking and screaming, to do so. Blogs! Read about ME here, right? But I have been advised that this is a way to write regularly, and to put your writing OUT THERE. So, here goes. My name is Bronte Healy. Thanks for reading my blog.