The short but necessary bus ride to downtown worked up an appetite, and with 45 minutes to trifle away before the proceeding journey, I chanced myself upon a very agreeable looking cafe, named most originally, Peets Coffee and Tea. Almost instantaneously upon another unpolished entry with my weighty luggage, I felt so very out of place. Every customer (and at just 7:00am, it was evidently espresso rush hour) looked so well attired. They sat, well groomed, in an entrepeneurial fashion, sipping their beverage, attending to their daily newspaper browsing session with as much formality and gracefullness that is usually only displayed in opulent 15th century hotel staff. One lady was garnishing her morning brew pondering her way through a rather thick Organic Chemistry hardback. This really wasn't the place for travellers, and it would only become more apparent as I stepped to the counter to place my order.
If you find genuine enjoyment in the excessively ritzy routine of ordering a hot beverage at a classy cafe, then please empathise, for once, with someone who doesn't. I really don't know how these places enjoy good business because they spend at least half a day establishing the intricate requirements of just one customer's drink. In the UK, if you order a cup of tea, you get a cup of tea. Here, and thus so this morning, if you order a cup of tea, you get a menu, boundless in available variants. Then comes the awkward process of scanning column by column, searching in desperation for one just called "Normal Tea". Of course, there isn't one, but row after row are the most arcane flavours that most often or not tell nothing of the actual taste that will eventually meet your tastebuds. Is 'Gunpowder' a teabag filled with a concoction of chemical explosives? Is the 'Ancient Trees Pu erh' just a sachet of wood shavings lightly embellished with the decomposing centipede thrown in for aftertaste? What abstract list of ingredients did 'Russian Caravan' compose of? How enjoyable was 'Pumphrey's Blend' and was it more or less satisfying than 'Lung Ching Dragonwell'? Was the 'Darjelling Fancy' truly deserving of $10.45 and by what means did the 'Darjelling Extra Fancy' make itself, well, extra fancy? And was $15.45 for this superior Darjelling simply daylight robbery? Bombarded with too much choice and weary a queue behind me was forming like a film on still water, I requested once again a 'Plain Tea'. She took this to mean an 'English Tea' which on any other day I might have found insulting. Just when I prepared to quickly execute payment and take my seat, I was dutifully yet needlessly asked in what container would I prefer my chosen beverage. I feared she would pull out another long list of potential possibilties and I would undergo another frenzied rush through the available options, from 'Snare Drum' to 'Mexican Hat', 'Hollowed Redwood Trunk' to 'Miner's Glove' but instead I was presented with just two: "Teapot" or "Takeaway Cup". Foolishly though, I didn't oblige and instead requested a mere "Mug". "So you want a ceramic mug, Sir?" she confirmed, but by this point I really wasn't interested in the material, engineering, pattern or shape, and simply nodded. I eventually took to my seat, pleased that after so much questioning, I ended up with what any British person would call a 'normal' cup of tea.
I left the cafe feeling revitalized and within moments was shuffling onto a bus, dispensing of a few dollar bills into a feeding machine (it literally eats money) and found my place on an available row of seating. The journey to Salinas wasn't eventful; we made our exit out of Monterey by way of the most meandering and time-consuming route, and found ourselves cruising amidst large mono culture expanses. By this point, the Sun was shining admirably over the landscape we were journeying through; solid blue sky encompassed us from every angle, and the scenes from the window looked as if they had been edited for a holiday brochure. By the way, why do they insist on presenting a city, like Seattle, which arguably encounters more deluge than splendor, with the most exotic looking weather? It's inaccurate and furthermore, diminishes the radiance from those locations that do genuinely experience such effulgence.
I wanted, and I really do mean this, to enter Salinas and immediately change my whole perspective on the city; after all, my last visitation brought nothing but woe. I stepped off the bus, and made my way towards the Greyhound Station, and felt no more motivated by my brief excursion along one of its major transport arteries than I did a few days ago. For a location deeply rooted in history- Steinbeck was born here- I saw no effort in making it the least bit attractive. Herds of youths with a day of aimless street strolling planned congregated on a street corner, hoods upturned in the most disagreeable fashion. Surely the hood does nothing but restrict view, and thwart audio. I edged towards a dimly lit Greyhound Station; the door, upon countless trying, was securely locked. Two young girls, who between them must have contributed generously for 'Extra Large' clothing over the years, asked where I was heading, as if accounting my desired travelling would somehow open the station doors. I didn't offer an answer, and instead ventured into another cafe, not to go through another harrowing experience of beverage purchasing, but to probe as to when the Greyhound would be so kind to open its door.
At 9:00am sharp, the doors were freed of their fastenings, and I made a hasty entrance, eager to obtain my ticket and get out of Salinas. I put on a deliberative rush to the ticket box, in what I found an equally disheartening station, that for once fitted in so well with the city. Festive music filled a very vacant station, though I realised that no 'tidings of comfort and joy' could doctor the dreary or better the bleary. We left Salinas moments later, and I was satisfied in the knowledge that wherever I was headed, it would promise to be more welcoming than Salinas ever could be.
We found ourselves shuttling through an open valley, corraled the undulations of rolling green hillside. Fingers of interlocking spurs made this stretch appetizing, whilst in the foreground, I would occasionally spot the odd herd of cattle, always looking so inappropiately placed, but it was delightful nonetheless to see something other than human construction occupying this large landscape.
Weaving our way through the valley, in the kind of way that brings about new views from new angles, I excited in soaking up yet more of California's naturalness. If we did enter settlements to pick up a few travellers, or to dispose of some, then they were no more than pinprick size dots on what otherwise was a spacious and almost limitless landscape. At one little stop, I watched as an oriental tried to board with his bike, but then ran back with it to a nearby shop, and re-emerged seconds later with a delapidated piece of cardboard, that he then devoted great effort to wrapping around the mechanism. I don't know if he is just one of those with a constant source of energy, but what is it with orientals that make them feel that it is required to run everywhere. Granted he didn't want to miss his coach, but surely running across a car park with a bike isn't in the slightest bit comfortable. Needless to comment, he didn't look in the slightest bit out of breath; testamony of a life on the run, no doubt.
It brought to me great satisfaction to find the coach now on route along the coast, and my vista had now manifested into one of seamless ocean. The spirit-lifting grandiose of a twinkling Pacific was only sometimes punctuated by the odd Palm Tree or the likewise, but other than that, it seemed like it was just me and the water; in any country, to obtain that feeling is an achievement.
I watched as the signs indicated less and less miles to Santa Barbara, and finally we were there, pulling up into a transit yard, and I was within seconds, re-acquainted with my trusty luggage. Eager to get my next ticket, I entered through two very well furnished doors, into what was perhaps the most grand of Greyhound Stations I have ever stepped afoot in. Of course, this was a large oversight on my behalf, as I approached the lady selling tickets, and halfway through the dealings, she informed me this was the train station; the Greyhound was across the road. I left, disheartened for the second time today, and stared across the car park. It certainly looked like a Greyhound Station; dirty on the exterior, and no more appealing on the inside either. The station staff were Spanish and so I embarked, once again, on a conversation through the unpenetrable gates of a strong language barrier, though, I feel it was unrequited. In other words, he could understand me, but I found it almost impossible to comprehend him. "So esta leugo, si senor Greyhound?" he either asked or stated, I really don't know. "I'm sorry, I just want a ticket to LA," I insisted. "Senor, esta huego, mi senor leugo, Greyound, casa muego Pass." I began to reach the doors of impatiency. "Look, I don't...." He dismissed me, and turned to his colleague, equally incapable of assisting me. I tried again: "Excuse me, I really need to get this ticket before Saturday morning..." But he threw another few pages of the Spanish dictionary back to me. "Esq cu esta lingo, Satday...umm...luego Greyhound...si no more Pass". I relinquished the battle, and very slowly and equally very angrily demanded; my head now leaning over the desk. "One greyhound ticket, Saturday Morning, 9:30am. I'll pay with card."
They got the message. I obtained the required documentation, and re-assured myself that I would never have to go through another experience like that again, on this trip.
No comments:
Post a Comment