More Than I Had Bargained for (standard:travel stories, 5424 words)
Author: Rick	Added: Dec 26 2002	Views/Reads: 4067/2666	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
It's about a trip I took last year to southern California (I live on the east coast). It's not a travel guide, or even particularly descriptive of that part of the country, but rather focuses on the situations I found myself in while traveling alone.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

hotel gym and pool both days after the conference.  I figured I would 
at least get a cardiovascular workout and do something different after 
sitting in a lecture room for eight hours.  It felt GOOD.  With heart 
pumping and sweat pouring down, I once again experienced that addictive 
endorphin rush.  This vacation was going to be my opportunity to 
jump-start my workout routine without the pressures and complications 
of work and home life.  In other words, no excuses, just do it, man! 

Wednesday escape from SD.  I was getting entirely too restless to wait
until Thursday to head north.  After a flurry of phone calls, 
arrangements were in place for hotel check-out, rental car pick-up and 
check-in at the Crescent Bay Inn (in Laguna).  With the conference 
ending at 4:30 PM, I figured to have plenty of time to drive to Laguna 
Beach in daylight. This change would get me started on the real 
vacation getaway almost a full day in advance of my original plans. 

I made a few more professional acquaintances on this final conference
day, traded a few business cards, shared some work/family experiences 
and challenges and once again felt comfortable with speaking up during 
the lecture Q&A periods.  However, it was becoming increasingly obvious 
that no really satisfying human connections were going to be made in 
this type of environment.  This reinforced my decision to blow out of 
town and change the scenery. 

The car rental agent warned me of heavy traffic going north on the I-5
freeway during rush hour and estimated two hours to get to Laguna 
Beach.  There were some slowdowns around La Jolla and then again 
getting off I-5 to Route 1 (the Pacific Coast Highway or PCH), but I 
managed to make the trip in a little less time than his estimate.  As I 
approached Laguna, I got my first glimpse of the ocean waves crashing 
on the shore and my heart jumped.  I had to drive right through the 
downtown to get to the Crescent Bay Inn which was a good thing because 
I immediately recognized (from my reading) the Main Beach with its 
basketball courts. 

I met Kathryn, the motel manager, while checking in at the Crescent Bay.
 Accommodations were simple but the neighborhood (along the PCH, the 
commercial backbone for these coastal communities) at the north end of 
town seemed nice enough.  I went back downtown to walk around, gain 
some basic orientation plus find dinner.  An extended walk along the 
main drag immediately revealed several distinct classes of people: (1) 
older upper-crusty vacationers and residents driving VERY expensive 
vehicles, men wearing polo shirts, women in heels and waxed legs and 
tons of make-up, (2) young lovers on honeymoon or young well-to-do 
families with kids, (3) local high-school surfer punks, (4) Hispanic 
working class.  There seemed to be few singles or middle-class.  
However, it is probable that the latter don't spend much time in this 
tourist section of town.  I was determined to find some decent healthy 
food and, after a long walk, settled on a place right across from Main 
Beach.  I had a huge salad, which was good, but the piece of 
chicken-topped pizza was rather stale, after sitting in their rack all 
day.  My walk indicated that this town offered nearly everything I was 
hoping for: surf shops, artsy gift shopping, nice restaurants, even a 
cyber-boutique where I could check e-mail.  I returned to the motel, 
optimistic that the coming week would fulfill my basic expectations and 
that Laguna was a decent enough place to spend some extended time in. 

Orienting in Laguna.  Still experiencing a bit of jet lag, I awoke quite
early on Thursday, found coffee and a muffin at the Circle-K across the 
street, and made it downtown by 8:00 AM to shop for some specific beach 
and basketball items and a few toiletries.  After discovering that most 
shops do not open until at least 9:30 or 10:00 AM, I decided to drive 
north on the PCH to see if I could at least find a Wal-Mart or other 
general merchandise shopping, away from the ritzy tourist shops.  I 
passed through Newport Beach and went as far as Huntington Beach 
without finding much.  I realized that all these towns along the coast 
south of LA are similar in terms of catering to tourists and the 
multitude of rich residents who can afford to drive a Mercedes, 
Corvette, Jaguar or Lexus.  On my return drive, I managed to find a 
pharmacy where I bought a basketball, a pair of cheap sunglasses and 
some shampoo.  I also stopped at a surf shop for the first time and 
bought a backpack to tote my things in.  I checked out the wetsuits 
($88-300+ !) and chatted about them with the kid behind the counter.  
After considerable wavering, I finally decided to buy one back at a 
surf shop in Laguna that had a 20% off sale sign. 

Back at the motel, I determined that I had everything I needed to go
back to Main Beach to shoot a few hoops.  The public bathroom at the 
beach afforded a convenient spot to change clothes prior to venturing 
over for basketball.  There was a free court (this was fortunate, since 
I was not ready for an intense game just yet) and I just shot some 
baskets while the Pacific surf pounded right in front of me.  I 
suddenly felt really good: workout endorphins flowing, sunshine, 
beautiful surf.  No commitments.  California, man.  In arranging this 
getaway, this is what I had hoped for.  Plus, there was the prospect of 
many more good times ahead. 

The afternoon trip to the discount surf shop featured a pair of high
school-aged guys (“yeah, like totally...”) at the counter to help me 
pick out a wet suit.  I chatted with them about water temperatures, 
indicating that I was used to the cold water of Cape Cod.  It seemed 
that a “spring suit” (cut off above the knees and elbows) would be 
adequate even though most people are apparently still wearing full 
suits at this time of year.  Paying less than 80 bucks for a Rip Curl 
(good brand name), I left the store satisfied that I had found a good 
deal and was one step closer to taking on the California surf. 

Taking Kathryn's advice, I ate dinner at the nearby Chinese place, by
myself, of course.  I once again ordered large quantities of beer along 
with soup, appetizers and a garlic chicken dish (too many onions).  
Back at the motel, I zoned out to TV and feel asleep early. 

Basketball and surf.   Once again did my coffee/muffin routine from
Circle-K on Friday.  Weather was still cloudy, but the springtime 
“marine layer” of clouds and fog is typically supposed to burn off by 
mid-day in southern California.  I headed downtown looking to play 
basketball again. 

After a few minutes of informal shot practice and warm-up, I got
involved in a 3-on-3 half-court game with four black guys and a white 
guy.  They were bigger, stronger, younger and certainly better than me. 
 Nevertheless, I committed to giving it a try.  Everyone was easygoing 
and understanding of my shortcomings, but my real problem was that I 
was completely winded within a few minutes.  We lost the first game 
15-zip, mainly because I could not adequately guard anyone.  Midway 
through the game, my defensive assignment was changed from the bigger 
white guy to a slender fair-skinned black guy.  This did not help much 
because he had an excellent outside shot.  I was able to prevent him 
from driving to the basket a little better than the white guy, though.  
After the first game I took a much-needed breather while everyone else 
looked like they were just getting warmed up.  I gave it one more game 
even though I was wiped out.  Our team did a little better this time, 
going ahead early by a score of 6-1.  I tried to make up for my awful 
offensive skills by hustling on defense.  I even grabbed a rebound and 
broke up another play.  I took about four shots that day and missed 
them all; also had several turnovers via bad passes.  We lost by a more 
respectable score, something like 15-10.  By this time, other new guys 
were hovering around the court to join in.  I indicated that I was “out 
of gas” and just sat on the sidelines for a few minutes.  This gave me 
a chance to strike up a conversation with Wayne, one of my teammates 
who was also resting.  He was interested in my story (where I was from, 
how I got here, type of work, etc.) and mentioned that he knew people 
from Boston through his church choir. 

I stopped for a burger at a Husky's on the way back to the motel.  Also
went to an upscale grocery store where I picked up some food for the 
room, including a nice prepared salad and a package of stuffed grape 
leaves for dinner that evening. 

I once again returned to downtown later in the afternoon.  On each of
these downtown jaunts, I nearly always made WebWave (the 
cyber-boutique) one of my stops.  This gave me a chance to check 
Genzyme and Yahoo e-mail and generally feel “connected” to my regular 
life.  The high school kid at the counter was very nice and, like many 
others, was very interested in the fact that I was on vacation from 
Boston.  A bit of early tourist season novelty, I suppose. 

I had just a few beach items remaining on my shopping list.  Stopping at
Ralph's (a grocery store chain), I found a discount rack where I picked 
up a beach towel and some water shoes.  As it approached 5:30 PM, the 
sun FINALLY came out.  I saw this as my first opportunity to head to 
the beach, so I returned quickly to the motel, packed my wetsuit and 
towel into the backpack, pulled on my Speedo and walked down the path 
to the shore.  I was pleasantly surprised at how good the waves looked, 
having anticipated that this part of the shoreline would only be a cove 
or inlet with small waves.  The wetsuit went on with no problems and 
within a few moments I was finally catching waves and body surfing 
alongside several body-boarders, most of whom seemed to be high-school 
age or even younger.  I decided not to overdo it and got out of the 
water after about 20 minutes. 

I lingered at the beach for a while doing some people-watching and
snapping a few photos.  Crescent Bay is a really beautiful little spot. 
The sea lions sunning themselves on some rock outcroppings make 
themselves heard and noticed.  A large number of gulls were also 
sharing these rocky little islands.  The sun was low in the sky.  I 
recognized the rarity of moment; no schedule, obligations or 
commitments.  I could do anything, or nothing.  This was the reason I 
wanted this trip.  Doing nothing was feeling good. 

Back at the room, I enjoyed a leisurely dinner of salad, grape leaves,
cheddar cheese and chocolate chip cookies.  The California cable TV 
line-up and news were a welcome change from home.  Companionship was on 
the way tomorrow in the form of my old college roommate and buddy, 
Adam.  Weather forecasts were promising rising temperatures. 

Adam's weekend visit.  I had gotten smart and purchased a supply of
muffins during the previous day's grocery shopping; Saturday morning 
only required me to drag over to the Circle-K to get coffee.  Headed 
downtown for what was fast becoming a pleasant routine of checking 
e-mail at the cyber-boutique followed by basketball.  This time, 
however, things were a bit busier and more intimidating at courtside.  
Maybe this was because it was now the weekend.  The “younger, stronger, 
bigger and better” ball-players were already on the court doing some 
light shooting.  Indeed, a dad and his very young son were more or less 
induced to leave. 

One of those big guys saw me taking shots with my ball and said, “Hey,
were playing a rough game of 21...feel free to join in anytime”.  Yeah, 
right. (21 is a game where every person plays for themselves.  This 
means you must fight everyone for a rebound, and if you manage to get 
one, you must defend yourself against everyone as well.  If you manage 
to get past these obstacles and actually score, you get to go the free 
throw line.  Eventually someone reaches 21 points and is the winner.  
Also called Rochester in some circles.)  I watched for a few minutes 
and recognized immediately that I had no chance.  Being somewhat 
comparable in overall skill makes it fun.  This did not look like fun.  
So I packed my ball and moved over to the beach volleyball court. 

This sport looked much easier and the people playing were not that great
(especially the women, to be frank).  Furthermore, the people on the 
court at that moment were trying to play 2-on-2 which is nearly 
impossible for decent volleys (too much court for each person to 
cover).  So, I sat at the sidelines for a few minutes assuming that a 
bigger game would get organized.  Instead, I felt as if I had invaded a 
private clique of beautiful people with perfect tans.  Everyone knew 
everyone else as well.  This was the California scene that I really 
wanted to avoid.  So, I did not hesitate to leave the beach altogether, 
though somewhat depressed.  I had a few hours to kill before Adam 
arrived so I walked the main drag in hopes of finding some inspiration 
for gift shopping for my loved ones.  I ended up at a place called 
Sageman, a store specializing in imported clothing and drums.  The 
proprietor was easy to talk to.  He was yet another “not born here” 
transplant (originally Pennsylvania, with a stop in Martha's Vineyard) 
who had gotten got tired of cold winters and had moved to California 
back in 1978.  His stuff was nice and not too expensive.  Aisles of 
silk dresses and rows of djembe drums filled the little shop.  Good 
vibes all around.  I resolved to return with clothing sizes and buy 
some stuff here. 

After a quick bite to eat on the way back to the motel, I used the
remaining hour before Adam's arrival to check out Crescent Bay Beach.  
The seals and gulls were out on the rocks again.  The body-boarders 
were doing their thing.  A few more snapshots.  Still a half-hour to 
kill.  Should I use this time efficiently and run down to buy my own 
body board?  Or, I could just stay here at the beach and do “nothing”.  
That's what I did without a speck of guilt.  This is vacation.  Don't 
worry, be happy.  Need to get good at chilling out. 

Adam was waiting in front of the hotel.  So great to see him again.  He
was told that there were no rooms.  We went up to my room and spent a 
little time catching up on things.  Our conversation continued downtown 
at the Laguna Beach Brewing Company, a local, slightly “yuppified” 
watering hole, where we sat at the bar with and a nice selection of 
micro-brews on tap and sports on the TV. 

After returning to the motel, the manager gave Adam a room that they
apparently do not rent too often; it smelled like cooking gas but was 
otherwise quite comfortable.  We decided (without explicitly stating 
so) to not be too ambitious about getting out; it was plenty of fun to 
just sit around and talk.  I indicated to Adam that there was a decent 
Chinese place within walking distance, if we got hungry.  After a 
while, we walked down to the local liquor/deli shop and picked up some 
beer, Jack Daniels, ice, potato chips, and nuts.  I had other snack 
items in the room including some crackers and cheese. My room was by 
far the better spot to settle in with our various consumable vices.  We 
ended up spending the entire evening talking, listening to my limited 
selection of CD's (mostly jazz) and getting drunk.  It was excellent 
and certainly a welcome change from soloing. 

The Unexpected, and a change of plans.  On Sunday morning, we went
downtown and grabbed a big hot breakfast at a spot close to the beach.  
I think we were both feeling talked out as well as somewhat hung over.  
Adam needed to hit the road early to get back for Lena's Sunday school, 
but I took directions to his house; they were having a barbecue that 
afternoon for Sara's birthday.  Before leaving, we drove along the PCH, 
listening to a Toast tape that he had in the car.  It was highly 
amusing (really awful in some parts) and required little editorializing 
on our parts to effectively share in the memories. 

After Adam took off, I set to trying to find a place to buy a boogie
board.  The closest place was a surf shop about half a mile from the 
motel.  No luck there, but the proprietor gave me a good tip to go to 
the hardware store right downtown.  This store had a limited and 
inexpensive selection of boards; I paid only 15 bucks for a decent one. 
I was now ready to hit the surf. 

Back at Crescent Bay, I packed up everything including wet suit, towel,
etc. and headed down to the sand.  The beach itself was not crowded 
yet.  The waves looked excellent and there were body-boarders in the 
water grouped together in the best spots.  I chose a mid-beach break 
not far from my towel.  My first couple of runs were good, but some of 
the waves were looking quite large and rather intimidating.  There 
seemed to be a choice between going for the big waves in deeper water 
and just riding the shore-break in shallow water. 

As my comfort with the water grew, I increasingly went in deeper and
waited for the bigger waves.  This waiting game consisted of riding up 
over swell that was not ready to break, for the sake of choosing the 
best wave for one's distance from the shore.  The problem is that as 
the wave pulls up, the surfer is also strongly drawn up this wall of 
water.  If you miss the rideable portion of the wave and are drawn to 
the top, you run the risk of dropping a significant distance with 
little control.  If the wave breaks near the shore all at once (rather 
than curling continuously left or right), that drop puts one in contact 
with the sand at high speeds. 

I found myself in precisely this situation with very little warning. 
The wall of water flipped me over and I hit the bottom face-first.  It 
felt as if a boxer had hit my head with a solid punch.  I was easily 
tossed around a little more in the pounding surf before it receded, 
leaving me on the shore holding my head with my board tether twisted 
around my ankle.  As I got to my feet, another wave came along and 
knocked me over for good measure.  I once again struggled out of the 
surf and sat down on the board a safe distance from the water.  The 
blood on my hand indicated some injury to my face, although the extent 
of it was not clear.  My right eye was throbbing and was closed.  I 
managed to get back to my towel and pack where I sat for a few moments 
with the towel over my head and face, ashamed of what I must have 
looked like. 

With no quick recoveries in sight, I packed up my stuff, donned by
oversized Ray-Bans and walked back to my motel room using only my left 
eye.  As I entered the room and approached the mirror, I prepared 
myself to see a serious wound of some sort...WOW.  My right eye was 
completely swollen and black.  In fact, the entire eye socket was black 
and swollen and I had an abrasion on my forehead where most of the 
blood was coming from.  This was serious.  I struggled to open the eye, 
just to determine if it was functioning.  To my relief, I could 
actually see out of the eye, but it was much too painful to keep it 
open.  I started to wash the injured area off, but quickly decided that 
a shower would be more efficient since I had sand in my hair and 
everywhere else.  Also, to shower off the sand would be helpful if I 
was to be sitting in an emergency room for many hours. 

Traveling alone can put you at the mercy of strangers.  With my Ray-Bans
on, I approached Kathryn at the front desk and explained my 
predicament.  The sunglasses really covered the injury quite well; not 
surprisingly, she looked rather shocked when I removed them.  Her 
husband, Al, drove me (in my rental car) to the hospital.  I hadn't 
eaten anything since breakfast with Adam and so was also slightly 
carsick by the time we arrived. 

Al was certainly friendly.  He made easy chit-chat type conversation
which helped me focus on something other than the injury or my 
increasing nausea.  He was black and originally from Detroit.  
Apparently there was little love lost between him and his roots.  He 
still has some family there and has only returned a few times in 15 or 
so years.  He was yet another classic example of a “not-born-here” 
transplant who made the decision that laid back sunny California was an 
easy choice over a cold eastern city.  In Al's case, I could imagine 
that rejecting Detroit was not difficult. 

On the other side of town, we pulled in to the hospital and I recognized
it as a place I had passed a few times on PCH but hardly took any 
notice of. (How unsuspecting I was that I would ever have to remember 
the location of the hospital!)  Consistent with the standard of living 
in Laguna, the place was clean and fresh and had the look of a 
well-supported community institution.  Al dropped me off at the 
emergency room and offered to wait for me.  I was quite relieved to be 
out of the car since my nausea (mostly from lack of food) had reached 
critical proportions. 

The hospital personnel were nice enough as I went through the usual
check-in and initial evaluation.  In the semi-dark and extremely quiet 
examination room, I had to wait a fairly long time for each step in the 
process.  I ate the Clif bar I had grabbed on my way out of the motel 
room and reflected on the accident and the potential effects of this 
injury on my life.  All sorts of scenarios were possible...partial 
blindness, eye operations, cracked skull and/or face, whiplash...broken 
nose(?).  I also beat up on myself for being a bit too adventurous and 
deciding to travel alone.  An innocent sounding attempt to find the sun 
in California had now turned into a mess. 

The boredom of the examination room was broken for about ten minutes in
order to have x-rays taken of my head.  I then endured another long 
wait until the doctor arrived.  His preliminary assessment was not so 
bad; no broken bones and even my nose was not broken.  The eye looked 
okay but he emphasized that I needed to see an ophthalmologist to 
confirm that there was no permanent injury to it. 

After several hours in the emergency room, I was sent on my way with
several prescriptions.  True to his word, Al had waited for me.  He 
continued in a most accommodating way to chauffeur me around to several 
pharmacies.  We finally got back to the Crescent Bay Inn late in the 
afternoon, about 5 hours after the accident.  The main challenge now 
was to figure out how the heck I was going to get home.  With my right 
eye useless, I could not drive back to San Diego.  This is where being 
alone was turning into a major disadvantage.  I even contemplated 
waiting for a few days in Laguna to see if I could regain enough sight 
in my right eye to drive.  I was advised by my dear wife that that was 
a stupid idea. 

The rearrangement of my travel plans was not a trivial task.  I spent
most of that evening, sitting on my bed making many, many phone calls 
while trying to keep my eye shut.  Changing flights was relatively easy 
as was the limo from Logan.  However, getting to the airport was 
another matter altogether.  I would have to abandon the car in Laguna.  
To my surprise, the need to abandon a car was not a very common 
situation for the rental company and so the help they could offer was 
limited.  They could not send a car driver all the way from San Diego 
to Laguna.  They did agree to tow the car out of their LA office.  The 
only practical way to get back to San Diego was to take an Amtrak train 
from San Juan Capistrano which was a good 20 miles away. 

The Journey Home.  On Monday morning, my home quest started with a long
and exasperating taxicab ride to the train station.  The driver needed 
gas and had to make a major detour to find a natural gas station.  (I 
found this to be a bit annoying since taking the PCH would have been 
much more direct and probably would have taken half the time.)  In any 
case, I made the train, but had to schlep all my luggage.  To hide my 
ugly injury, I kept my oversized Ray-Bans on that entire day. 

The train ride turned out to be quite nice and rather interesting.  It
followed the coast and, taking a seat on the right hand side, I had a 
view of the ocean and the vast stretches of beach in San Diego county.  
Once again, there was time to think.  The beaches were so beautiful and 
yet, knowing nature's power first-hand seemed to put a damper on this 
lovely view.  Being late April, there were still very few people on the 
beaches, much less in the water.  However, a few pockets of surfers 
were out there as well as occasional dog-walkers.  Passing through 
Oceanside, I saw the excellent access that Camp Pendleton personnel 
have to the beach.  I devised a super-low budget trip that would 
consist of taking this Amtrak train up to this area, camping out, and 
surfing every day.  File that idea for future reference.  In my present 
state, though, it would have to be distant future. 

Avis did agree to pick me up at the train station in San Diego and drive
me to the airport.  I dragged my luggage out to the street and had my 
first practical use for my cell phone on the entire trip.  After a few 
calls to remind them, they finally arrived with a van; I felt some 
relief in successfully making it back to the airport. 

In the terminal, found my way to the gate and boarded the plane with my
shades still on.  They remained in place for several hours into the 
trip.  I finally removed them as the sun set and the light in the plane 
became more limited.  The flight became an opportunity to reflect on 
this minor disaster...the “end-game” after the convoluted return trip 
now seemed more certain; rest at home for a few days, another doctor 
visit, but no guarantee of a full recovery with minimum long-term 
physical damage.  I stare at the view outside my homeward jet, a sky 
gradually filling with a deep orange and purple sunset.  The lure of 
the ocean waves and personal freedom were the catalysts for a mid-life 
adventure which I hoped to not repeat in quite the same way, for this 
one was indeed more than I had bargained for. 


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