Monterey is simply stunning, and no work of art could encapsulate its true essence. You can stroll around aimlessly for hours and not feel that you're wasting time, and it's not just the alluring architecture that makes it such an agreeable amble. It's the feeling of the place; it has this quaint way of making even the most experienced travellers feel at home, and there's an air of high spirits which only make Monterey brighter still. How can you paint a feeling, or describe an 'air'? You can't, which is what makes this particular location on epic journey such a fantastic place to be.
You don't have to be a maritime enthusiast to enjoy Monterey, but it does help to understand that the city probably wouldn't be so flourishing without relying somewhat on it's seafaring traditions. I took a morning stroll towards downtown and within five minutes, I knew that the bay was geographically close. I passed 'The Otter Inn' and an assortment of other bay-side hotels that embraced a similarily oceanic reference in their name. This was alike for restaurants and cafes too; the Sardine Factory going all out to demonstrate just how naval they really were.
The city is extremely lucky, not just to be beside a bay, for which it owes half of it's fame to millions of little salty water droplets, but to one man called John Steinbeck: one of the most prolific writers of the century who penned The Grapes of Wrath among many others. He was actually born in Salinas- I wonder what he would make of it now?- but lived, for most of the Great Depression, a few blocks away from Monterey. It was this city that actually inspired his first literary success: Tortilla Flat.
I was slightly surprised to see no statue, cast iron book, or other literary themed monument for Steinbeck on my stroll, though I did come across Edward Ricketts, a content looking gentleman, who immortalized 'Doc' in Steinbeck's Cannery Row. I shall be walking down Cannery Row, which is not to say I will be treading down the binding, but down the pedestrian path which after the book's immediate success, was renamed.
If you're not equipped with a small scaled map, then walking from the hostel I am staying at- the delightful HI Monterey- to downtown can become confusing, as there's perhaps only a couple of definate routes you can take. In an act of foolish confidence, I decided to depart from one of these certain routes, and venture north into a suburban neighbourhood, with the optimistic ambition to chance myself on an alleyway that would lead me to downtown. I unfortunately didn't take into account the considerably tall wire mesh fence that bordered the neighbourhood and the Presidio. Now, San Francesco's Presidio is a wonderful unrestrained oasis, self-governed by nature; Monterey's is much the opposite, managed by the army, and bounded with large metal gates, and security personnel. What could possibly be so enigmatical here in Monterey that requires such a strict arrangement of protectionn? I found myself, not searching for a hint of downtown, but peering into the front gardens of these picturesque coastal detached establishments. These charming blocks really are in keeping with the city's natural tranquility, and each one is individual in their approach to achieving wonderful aesthetics. Some are painted light pink- just something coastal properties are famous for doing- and some use traditional flowering schemes. And they're all really looked after, which despite the fact that getting to downtown from their driveways must take a considerable wedge out of their day, it's surprising that these residents have the time to slip on their green fingers.
Monterey, like San Francisco, likes to surprise its visitors- and perhaps it's residents- with spontaneous and unmarked high graded hills in its streets and avenues; the trek up is difficult in locomotion, but upon reaching the summit, you can see why these properties go for anything $500,000 up; the views of the bay are wonderful.
I crossed the Presidio, by way of walking back down to the road I had so short-sightedly diverted from, and continued along a very narrow pavement that made me wonder whether it was intended for pedestrians at all. Downtown, I suppose, is best entered through the State Historic Park, because you saunter through 'Old Monterey' before heading into modernity. But I would recommend this place anyway, because it is an encompassment of serenity. You walk under arches, passing white bricked buildings, around ornamental fountains, and there's always an open doorway to yet another equally beauteous segment. Terracotta pots await passing visitors, and I got a sensation of deja vue; this place reminded me so much of the Greek Isles. I stood, amazed at the quality of its mediterrean reflection.
Further on, it all became much clearer. Though it reminded me of the Greek islands, for which I have devoted a serious volume of the British Summer Time to, these gardens here in Monterey take a Spanish theme. It was Captain Don Gaspar De Portola, army of King Carlos the third of Spain, who founded Monterey on June 3rd 1770. His statue stands before the Portola Hotel and Spa, which on another visit, looks welcomingly pleasant to grant a stay.
From then on, the Spanish motif never really left eyeview. At least every street in Downtown has something particularly Spanish about it; whether it's shape and colour of building, or just something micro like rooftop design or the presence of a terracotta ornamental display. With wanderlust, I lost myself in these surroundings, and then brushed myself with luck in stumbling upon the road that would lead me to El Estero Lake. I had to take two takes at the McDonalds building which for the first time in my travels, both here and Europe, has conformed to the ambience of the rest of the city in which it resides.
El Estero Lake, geographically, isn't something that warrants a day trip to Monterey for, as it isn't extremely large (it took me under half an hour to walk its perimeter) and doesn't necessarily hold uphold anything remotely unique, but it is an amiable setting for a picnic, or something equally relaxing. One of the first exhibits of interest I came across were a selection of irrecoverable misshaped trees; one barely making it off the ground.
The lake, a former salt-water lagoon, was restful apart from the ripples created from the bird take-off, and the paddling boats which seemed to be moderately busy today. Needless to say, I passed the opportunity to spend $20 to float aimlessly around a body of water that I could just as easily see from the bank. Along my circle of the lake, I came across Canadian Geese once again, a popular sighting here I'm informed.
Bordering the lake on the western side, is something of international interest though I'm still shocked it still gets even local affection. The Denace the Menace Park; a captivating landmass I'm told, but from my brief walk around, it looked no different to any other park I've visited. Granted the name is unique, but I had a good scrutinise, and I couldn't spot Denace anywhere. In addition, there was no red and black colour scheme; probably the only aspect of the menace I can still remember! It was in 1950 that Hank Ketcham created the rascal, and two years later, he spearheaded the construction of a special playground, though why in Monterey I really don't know. I wondered just how much the youngsters playing on the various platforms, swings, and tunnels, really cared for the park's name? Filby Park doesn't necessarily possess originality but it never stopped me from spending hour upon hour down there as a kid.
I did some more wandering, and then found myself staring at Trader Joes (it's a supermarket) and decide to dedicate the next hour or so to buying the necessities. I don't know much about Trader Joes, but if I know one thing, it's nothing like Safeways. Trolleys aren't provided; you have to result to using a small basket, which numbs the arm and with every product added, makes you more lopsided. The wooden checkouts, and the fancy handwritten item tags may be alluring, but the excitement of having your cabbage rolled along plywood, or reading each product's price tag for no reason other than to chuckle along to the various attempts at comedy, doesn't outweigh the fact that it is almost impossible to move around. You simply have to conform to each other's shopping habits because in a single filed line down an aisle no wider than a telephone box, the only times you can stop to basket something is when the shopper in front of you also stops to buy that exact same item. In this respect, I don't know why they don't just have the receipts ready to go!
It suddenly occured to me that since Alaska, my scholarship has been void of any musical performance, so this afternoon, it was time to put this complete disregard of melody and rhythm to right. I headed down to the First Presbyterian Church; attractive in design, with a mixed feel about it. The wooden pews and stain glassed arched windows seemed to naturally bond with the neon-pink lighting and the Windows 98 desktop that I found myself sitting beside. The Jazz concert was impressive; that observation, though, defines understatement. Although I normally judge anything like this on whether my foot taps along or not, a witty and unsuggestible method for an up and coming critic, the selection of tunes were very fine, and some even have made it on to my 'Must Download' list; an achievement I reckon any band should aspire to obtain. With the last note sung, and the last chord rung, I headed back in dusk towards the hostel. A splendid day, once again.
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