I had been to Monterey once before, when I was just a wee lass (I think, in fact, that Carmel was the inauguration of my irrational, hysteria-inducing fear of crabs, but that's another story for another time). And what I remembered of it was white sands and rocky coastlines and barking sea lions. Not much has changed. Except that now my soul delights in these things more than ever before.
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| November in Point Lobos |
Jason and I have become masters at packing a lot into a few short days (hotels are expensive and school keeps cropping back up at the end of every vacation!) and we are skilled roamers. Luckily, the hotel at which the conference was held was situated in just the perfect location for roamers like us (they should perhaps use this on their website, but I guess that might attract the wrong sort). The hotel, The Portolla, is just west of downtown Monterey and sits pretty much right at the end of Fisherman's Wharf. As soon as we checked in, we set out in search of clam chowder and a really amazing view of the great P.O. It only took us about three minutes to find both.
But first, we stumbled upon California State Historic Landmark #1. Anyone who has read the post on my other blog about Yuba City knows that I have kind of a curious fascination with these California State Historic Landmarks because there are hundreds of them and some of them (like the one in Yuba City) are downright dumb. Besides, there are signs up and down the freeways out here faithfully attempting to lure you off the beaten path toward these historic landmarks, whether for the sake of historical appreciation, or just so that all the money the state invested into the signs is not for naught, I haven't yet figured. For me, anything that lures me off the beaten path is welcome and enticing, particularly if it has to do with forgotten history, or California. So it should come as no surprise (although maybe it still does) that I have wondered, many times in my life, in fact, where on earth California State Historic Landmark #1 actually resides. The fact that I was not even looking for a historic landmark, but just some lunch and peace of mind, made the discovery of The Old Custom House even more delightful. And then, also, well, like most everything that's pointed out to you in Monterey County, it's all wrapped up in Steinbeck lore, for which I am a hopeless romantic (read: sucker).
Fisherman's Wharf reminds me, vaguely, of something out of Mitch Albom's Five People You Meet in Heaven, except it's not disconcerting or eerie in any way, just carnival-esque. Yes, it is basically a tourist trap, as is to be expected. But it's also a wooden structure going out into the Pacific Ocean, surrounded by water and boats and gulls and pelicans and sea lions, so if you just avoid the souvenir shops (who wants to go in when you could be out in that anyway?), the tourist-y-ness is no skin off your nose. It's mostly restaurants, and almost all of them have clam chowder tastings out front and many also have oyster bars. We got a tip from a local and ordered clam chowder-to-go in a sourdough bowl. Seven dollars cheaper than if we had ordered to sit, which was doubly lucky for us anyway because we wanted to be out in the wind and water. So we curled up on a worn wooden bench facing the water, kept company by several curious, and willing-to-eat seagulls and one lounging sea lion who was on this wooden ramp several feet above the water line. I have no idea how she got there, unless at high tide. But she seemed quite comfortable and only looked at us lazily out of her warm, watery, cow eyes when Jason knelt down to take her picture.
There are waiters from the restaraunts on the wharf standing outside, sometimes feeding people clam chowder, but almost always calling out to people passing by: "One table left inside. Get it before it's gone!" "Best clam chowder, delicious specials. Only two seats left inside." It's like they're selling wares, except they're selling tables to sit at, which, I think, is what makes everything seem so world's fairish. There are also several little whale-watching company's that operate off the wharf. They were seeing Humpback Whales, Orcas, and various dolphins while we were there. There are five or seven different whale species in abundance around those waters at various times of the year, which is just amazing.
There are also lots of small fishing companies that take people out on the water to fish. From the roof of a restaurant at the end of the wharf, we watched a fishing boat returning, with just dozens of gulls and pelicans swarming around its decks, feeding on the scraps of fish being thrown overboard. It was a sight to behold.
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| A Fishermen Memorial statue... |
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| ...with a seagull on top |
We spent the afternoon at Point Lobos, climbing around the sand dunes and rocks and watching the sea lions blend in with the rocks and roll in and out with the tide. We came across this AWESOME pebble beach. Approaching it from above, it looked like sea glass...an enigma that I am still trying to convince myself and Jason actually exists. But when we climbed down onto the beach, past the sign that warned us not to bug the sea life when it came to shore (bugging being defined as loitering within 50 feet), we found that the dazzling sparkles we had seen from above were not glass, but pebbles, worn smooth and soft as marbles from the forever-tossing of the sea. It was a geology lesson before our eyes because you could obviously see that the pebbles closer to the water were smaller and rounder and the ones farther up the shoreline were bumpier, less seasoned. They rolled and tossed and sparkled and begged to be touched and I could've spent hours running my hands through the chilly water, across those scintillating pebbles. Point Lobos truly feels like a world of its own, somewhere on the edge of our own. Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island was inspired by the coastline terrain around these parts. Alive with chill and wind and surf and marine life, layered by rocks and dunes that lead to the ocean on one end and to small Pine forests on the other, it's the kind of place that lets you really breathe, that dazzles in its intricate, functioning, pulsing, competent simplicity.
Pebble Beach!
We chased the sunset to Carmel Beach, but this cold, grey fog rolled in and covered the sun before it had the chance to dip below the horizon. The sunset was lost, but not the beauty. Carmel is a lovely beach with dogs romping about all over the place. It was C-H-I-L-L-Y, but we strolled down to Pebble Beach Golf Course and climbed the bank onto the green (I have no idea if that's what it's actually called, golf-wise). We also wondered around a little bit in downtown Carmel, grabbed a cup of coffee and finally headed back to the hotel.
We planned on grabbing dinner and then visiting a jazz club because I had read that there is some good jazz in Monterey. We sadly never made it to the jazz club...another visit is in order for that. But I did get to meet Jason's research partner for his poster presentation and her husband. We went to dinner with them at Sardine Factory on Cannery Row, which was expensive, but delicious. I got to try sardines and abalone chowder (which tastes like really rich, delicious, wine-y clam chowder) and dob, all readily available off the coast of Monterey and all delectable (especially the dob!).
The next morning was Jason's poster presentation. So he set up his station and then I met him downstairs to listen to a few research presentation talks and look around at some of the other posters. I won't wax golden about how proud I was, or about impressive I thought his poster turned out, but it was all very fascinating and thrilling.
Because we still had much exploring to do, and Jason's poster didn't need much supervision, we spent part of the day wandering around downtown Monterey. Here's what I love about it: amidst all the normal, modern-day buildings and businesses, there are intermingled, still living and breathing with the city, these old adobe buildings that belonged to city officials and founders of the fishing city. They have little placards out front, describing who they used to belong to, but many of them are easy to miss. Monterey doesn't partition off its history, relegating it to obscurity. It lives within the city and is touched by passersby. And it is beautiful.
In search of a wine shop, we stumbled, first, across a small museum shop attached to the adobe homestead of a ship's captain who settled in Monterey and married a Spaniard. They're family was instrumental in much of Monterey's early development. There was a gorgeous barn out back and a small garden on a deceptively large property behind the home.
The lady at the museum sent us down the street to the Monterey City Hall. It's been an official building since the founding of California and it's where the state constitution was written. You can see signed documents and other historical artifacts inside. There was a sign-in list on which each member had to write his name, age, place of birth, and the city he had traveled from. The men represented cities all over California, most of which I recognized, which was delightful. Many had been born on the East Coast, a couple in England, Scotland, and France, and a handful in different places in California. They ranged from 23 to 56. Their handwriting was intricate and swirly and capable and beautiful. You get such a feel for what a different time it was just by looking at that paper.
A poem on a pedestal in a park just next door to the City Hall reads:
It's gentle, heartfelt appreciation made me feel nostalgic for a place and time I never knew.
The lady in the city hall was quick to inform us that the Monterey City Hall is owned by the county, not the state which "is why it's open on a Sunday." She also directed us to a tiny building just behind the City Hall, the old Monterey County Jail...
The placard says:
This one says:
The opposite side of the aisle had cells that had more solid doors with only a small window in each. I think these must have been for the greater security of more severe criminals. We read about one bandito who was arrested for the murder of five people in some kind of feud. He initially escaped to Los Angeles, but then was caught and brought back to Monterey for trial. Somewhere in the months that he waited for his sentence, someone broke into the jail, tied up the guard, and hung the bandito. He was described as a young, handsome, romantic man of 23 who had worked hard at building up his tough reputation. That jailhouse, too, seemed a living reminder of the differences in our times.
We ate a delicious lunch at Cannery Row, another tourist trap, of course, but I have since learned that there are a few interesting historical buildings that we missed right around there...a good reason to go back, I guess. The restaurant we ate at (expensive, as it seems are all things in Monterey) was at the end of the world. We sat at a window over the water and watched the birds fly by and felt the pounding of the waves against the pile-ons beneath us. We ate the best clam chowder I have ever tasted. We did NOT buy tequila shots:
It wasn't until the last possible moment that we found my favorite place on the whole trip. We had heard that Pacific Grove had a lighthouse and a coastline, which was good enough for us. We didn't get there until close to sunset, but driving down the sweet little downtown area - with an independent bookstore and coffee shop - we knew we would have traded it in for the downtowns of both Monterey and Carmel. Much to my dismay, we made it to the lighthouse about 9 minutes after they had closed. But Pacific Grove was a delight nevertheless, the best-kept secret of Monterey that we discovered. The wind was cold and whipping along the water and against the rocky, rugged coastline and the waning light, it was an awesome and magnificent sight. The lighthouse, against that backdrop, and in that weather, seemed like something out of an L.M. Montgomery novel. We bundled as best we could and walked along the sand-line long past the time that our noses grew numb from the cold and our eyes watered from the beating wind. It was wild as the moors from Wuthering Heights and epitomized the greatness of God and eternity. The words of "How Great Thou Art" came to my mind without my thinking about it, and it seemed they thundered in my ears to the music of the wind and surf. Hosts of pelicans flew overhead, unruffled by the severity of this grey, vast, magnificent world. If Monterey wanted to leave us with a lasting impression, twilight in Pacific Grove could have succeeded single-handedly...
It seems fitting to close this description of our adventures in Monterey with some words from the late, great John Steinbeck whose own heartstrings were intricately intertwined with all that we saw. He wrote in Travels with Charley: "A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us." Here is my little Mazda 3, waiting ready to warm us up beside the wind-swept sea.
-R.E.A.
In search of a wine shop, we stumbled, first, across a small museum shop attached to the adobe homestead of a ship's captain who settled in Monterey and married a Spaniard. They're family was instrumental in much of Monterey's early development. There was a gorgeous barn out back and a small garden on a deceptively large property behind the home.
A poem on a pedestal in a park just next door to the City Hall reads:
In the mantle of old traditions,
In the rime of a vanished day,
The shrouded and silent city
Sits by her crescent bay.
The ruined for on the hilltop
Where never a bunting streams,
Looks down, a cannonless fortress,
On the solemn city of dreams.
Gardens of wonderful roses,
Climbing o’er roof and wall,
Woodbine and crimson geranium,
Hollyhocks, purple and tall,
Mingle their odorous breathings
With the crisp, salt breeze from the
Sands, where pebbles and sounding sea-
Shells are gathered by children’s hands.
Women, with olive faces,
And the liquid southern eye,
Dark as the forest berries
That grace the woods in July,
Tenderly train the roses,
Gathering here and there
A bud – the richest and rarest –
For a place in their long, dark hair.
Feeble and garrulous old men
Tell, in the Spanish tongue,
Of the good, grand times at the mission,
And the hymns that the father’s sung;
Of the oil and the wine, and the plenty,
And the dance in the twilight gray,
“All these,” and the head shakes sadly,
“Were good times in Monterey.”
Behind in the march of cities,
The last in the eager stride
Of villages born the latest –
She dreams by the ocean side.
-Daniel O’Connell
1930
It's gentle, heartfelt appreciation made me feel nostalgic for a place and time I never knew.
The lady in the city hall was quick to inform us that the Monterey City Hall is owned by the county, not the state which "is why it's open on a Sunday." She also directed us to a tiny building just behind the City Hall, the old Monterey County Jail...
The placard says:
Adobe jail built by Walter Colton, used 1849-1854
Quote from Colton’s Three
Years in California, 1946.
Wednesday, August 5.
We have in one apartment of our prison two Californians, confined for having
robbed a United States courier, on his way from Monterey to San Francisco, with
public dispatches. They have not yet been tried. Yesterday they applied to me
for permission to have their guitars. They stated that their situation was very
lonely and they wanted something to cheer it. Their request was complied with;
and last evening, when the streets were still, and the soft moonlight melted
through the gates of the prison, their music streamed out upon the quiet air
with wonderful sweetness and power. Their voices were in rich harmonly with
their instruments, and their melodies had a wild and melancholy tone. They were
singing for aught they knew, their own requiem.
This one says:
From the Monterey
Weekly Herald, January 16, 1975.
On Tuesday last there
arrived on the streamer Constantine two lads who were apparently prepared for a
grand hunting tour through this section. They were aged respectively about 12
and 14 years, and from the number of shooting irons, and amont of ammunition
they carried it was evident that they intended to make a lengthy stay among us.
Refusing the offers from the coaches for a free ride, they gathered up their
traps and marched down to the wharf and from thence to town. About this time
Constable Barnes received a telegram from San Francisco directing him to arrest
and detain them, until called for, which he did. The boys slept two nights in
the jail and their spirits were pretty well tamed. One of them had $200 in
coin, a fine English fowling piece, a silver mounted pistol and hunting knife,
and both were provided with satchels filled with ammunition. The father of one
of the boys arrived on Wednesday and took them back to the city the next day.
Out of respect of the parents, who were highly respectable residents of San
Francisco, we withhold the names of the boys, hoping in future that they will
profit by the lesson taught them.
The opposite side of the aisle had cells that had more solid doors with only a small window in each. I think these must have been for the greater security of more severe criminals. We read about one bandito who was arrested for the murder of five people in some kind of feud. He initially escaped to Los Angeles, but then was caught and brought back to Monterey for trial. Somewhere in the months that he waited for his sentence, someone broke into the jail, tied up the guard, and hung the bandito. He was described as a young, handsome, romantic man of 23 who had worked hard at building up his tough reputation. That jailhouse, too, seemed a living reminder of the differences in our times.
We ate a delicious lunch at Cannery Row, another tourist trap, of course, but I have since learned that there are a few interesting historical buildings that we missed right around there...a good reason to go back, I guess. The restaurant we ate at (expensive, as it seems are all things in Monterey) was at the end of the world. We sat at a window over the water and watched the birds fly by and felt the pounding of the waves against the pile-ons beneath us. We ate the best clam chowder I have ever tasted. We did NOT buy tequila shots:
It wasn't until the last possible moment that we found my favorite place on the whole trip. We had heard that Pacific Grove had a lighthouse and a coastline, which was good enough for us. We didn't get there until close to sunset, but driving down the sweet little downtown area - with an independent bookstore and coffee shop - we knew we would have traded it in for the downtowns of both Monterey and Carmel. Much to my dismay, we made it to the lighthouse about 9 minutes after they had closed. But Pacific Grove was a delight nevertheless, the best-kept secret of Monterey that we discovered. The wind was cold and whipping along the water and against the rocky, rugged coastline and the waning light, it was an awesome and magnificent sight. The lighthouse, against that backdrop, and in that weather, seemed like something out of an L.M. Montgomery novel. We bundled as best we could and walked along the sand-line long past the time that our noses grew numb from the cold and our eyes watered from the beating wind. It was wild as the moors from Wuthering Heights and epitomized the greatness of God and eternity. The words of "How Great Thou Art" came to my mind without my thinking about it, and it seemed they thundered in my ears to the music of the wind and surf. Hosts of pelicans flew overhead, unruffled by the severity of this grey, vast, magnificent world. If Monterey wanted to leave us with a lasting impression, twilight in Pacific Grove could have succeeded single-handedly...
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| "The Progression of Freezing Roya" |
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| "The Progression of Incorrigible Jason" |
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| We stumbled across a placard in the sand (by that point, my fingers were too numb for me to take a picture) that had a picture of Steinbeck's friend, Ed Ricketts, a marine biologist and character in several Steinbeck novels basking on these very rocks. His original lab was in Pacific Grove. |
It seems fitting to close this description of our adventures in Monterey with some words from the late, great John Steinbeck whose own heartstrings were intricately intertwined with all that we saw. He wrote in Travels with Charley: "A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us." Here is my little Mazda 3, waiting ready to warm us up beside the wind-swept sea.
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