The Five Senses of Pillar Point, Princeton CA

Inspired by a warm, sunny Autumn day (the kind Californians brag about) and armed with the keys to a rental car, I drove south on Highway 1 for a late afternoon adventure. I stopped at the Pillar Point Harbor in Princeton, just north of Half Moon Bay, and savored the scene on the docks as fishermen sold grateful customers their fresh-caught fish straight off their boats.

I SAW:
White and blue painted fishing boats trimmed with orange rust; three sea lions slipping through the water; a sea otter swimming playful circles around a white buoy;

a clam spitting streams of water out of the sand in rhythm with incoming and outgoing waves;

a cheerful, bright yellow boat named "Sunshine".




I SMELLED:
Seagull guano; salty seaweed; chunks of cod deep-frying in rice oil.

I TASTED:
Salty, creamy chowder loaded with chewy clams, Diet Coke slurped on the beach at sunset;








peppermint, molasses, and green apple salt water taffy.

I HEARD:
Seagulls squawking for scraps of bread; customers and fishermen haggling for best fish prices; small recreational planes landing at the nearby airport; boats signaling their arrival in the harbor with their deep horns; sea birds dragging their feet in the water as they took off flying;

17 pound frozen tunas thudding against a metal scale; hoses spraying salt water off of decks; puttering boat motors; fishermen warning each other of the whereabouts of the Fish and Game warden.

I TOUCHED:
Weathered wooden railings held together with rusty nails; woven wire crab traps; rough barnacles clinging to dock pillars; smooth ahi tuna steaks resting on crushed ice; ragged ropes.

For other Five Senses blog posts, see:
Five Senses of Pescadero
Five Senses of Haiti
Five Senses of San Francisco's Presidio
Five Senses of Chinatown

The Five Senses of Pescadero

While driving down the coast from San Francisco to Pescadero…

I SAW:
Skinny tow-headed teenagers lugging surfboards to the beach; pelicans flying in formation; bicyclists hugging the shoulder of the road; bright yellow kayaks in the harbor; a tall blue heron hunting for lunch; driftwood forts constructed on sand; fat lizards sunning on driftwood; hovering Red-Tail Hawks, coyote scat, coastal wildflowers.











I SMELLED:
Coastal sage; fennel; eucalyptus trees; salt water marsh; beach BBQ’s; fresh baked cinnamon bread.
I TASTED:
Cream of artichoke soup; crusty sourdough bread; olallieberries fresh off the bush; succulent tender flounder sandwich; peach-apricot jam.
I TOUCHED:
Sun-dried crab legs; empty snail shells cast away by satiated sea birds; gray feathers; hot sand; a bench made out of driftwood; Indian Paintbrush flowers; thorns on berry bushes.
I HEARD:
Scurrying lizards; Jethro Tull singing “Thick as a Brick”; elephant seals barking; farm workers hoeing around plants; seagulls squawking their warnings; waves crashing through a natural bridge in the rock.

Road Trip to Pescadero

As a city-dweller without an automobile, I often yearn for the freedom of open roads and a day-long adventure that will supply me with a steady stream of simple pleasures. So on a recent Friday I gassed up a borrowed car, pressed the radio buttons to a classic rock station, and shrieked to Styx’s “Come Sail Away” as I put the car into gear. “I thought that they were angels but to my surprise, they climbed aboard their star ship and headed for the skies….” 70's rock and roll was so dramatic. With the Pacific Ocean on my right, and wildflower-dotted hills on my left, I headed south on coastal Highway One past small beach towns with pleasant names like Pacifica, Moss Beach, Montara, El Granada.

After an hour of driving, my legs needed stretching so I pulled over to a parking lot to explore the Pescadero Marsh Preserve- an area I have passed on multiple occasions but haven’t taken the time to explore. The marsh is a low wetland of brackish water, which I learned is a mix of salt and fresh water. Over 68 species of birds live in the marsh, but they must get a kick out of giving birdwatchers a run for their money because all I could see with my binoculars were white herons and blue herons (which I can see in Golden Gate Park five minutes from my apartment).






While the marsh didn’t have much action (that I could see), it was peaceful and pretty with a winding channel of water meandering through the grasses and reeds. A larger river curved its way around sand dunes and fed into the ocean. Seagulls and other sea birds stood in groups on the river bank, facing the same way and squawking like banshees whenever anyone or anything approached them. Driftwood of all shapes and sizes was scattered on the sandy river banks, and some enterprising explorers had built simple driftwood forts large enough for 2 people to sleep in.
After hiking through the wetlands and tiring of the uneventful bird watching, I got in the car and headed further south. Fields of artichokes stood between the road and the sea and it was visions of artichokes that motivated me to turn left onto the road that leads to the small town of Pescadero.

Pescadero is an old Portuguese town that was founded in 1856. Pescadero means “fish seller” and I assume that after California’s initial Gold Rush of 1849, San Francisco grew so large so fast that those who were disenchanted with gold mining moved south of the big city to fish for seafood to sell to San Franciscans, and ended up planting agricultural crops (like artichokes) as well. In all of my reading about California Gold Rush history, it is clear that the people who sold things to the gold miners usually made more money than the gold miners.

Pescadero’s current population is 643, which must triple or quadruple each day as tourists swarm in. There’s not much there—a couple of general grocery stores, a few artisan shops that sell the works of local artists, and Duarte’s Tavern.

Pronounced by locals as “Do-arts”, Duarte’s Tavern was founded in 1894- so about 40 years into the life of the town. It isn’t cheap but it has delicious food and fantastic pie, as evidenced by the fact that everyone who was leaving the restaurant was also lugging along 2-3 pies to go. I took a seat at the counter and was ignored for a while by my brusque waitress, who daily deals with demanding tourists and cranky old timers- like the one sitting next to me at the counter. This man- who appeared to be one of the town’s founders from 1856-- ordered a slice of pie and a cup of coffee, then complained bitterly when he was presented with a bill for $9.74. He paid with a $10 bill and departed, giving the waitress just cause to roll her eyes over her whopping 26 cent tip—which was probably a decent tip in 1856, but not so much in 2011.

My lunch started with a bowl of cream of artichoke soup, perfectly accompanied by steaming hot sourdough bread and unsalted butter. That would have been enough but I also ordered the flounder sandwich, earning the title as the juiciest, best-cooked fish sandwich I have ever eaten.

Craving more exercise than a lap around the tiny downtown, I got in the car and drove south to Swanton Organic Farm. Stopping first at their strawberry fields, I chatted with the attendant who was sitting behind a make-shift table with a scale, and was reading an organic chemistry text book. Since no one else was around, he seemed glad to have some company so I listened to his animal facts about the nearby barking elephant seals and the pelicans(in the 1960’s pelicans almost became extinct because pesticides ran from the crops into the ocean, contaminating the fish they ate and affecting their reproductive systems).

But since I can get strawberries at my own farmer’s market, I drove to the olallieberry patches. Families with children fanned out amidst the berry patches, and the kids alternated putting one berry in the communal container and one berry in their mouths. I happily strolled the well-tended rows while berries practically leapt into my Tupperware.

After paying for my U-Pick berries, with visions of the jams I will never get around to canning, I shifted the car into gear with my purple stained hands and drove north up the coast towards my San Francisco home.

The Five Senses of Haiti

In Haiti…..

I touched: A whole goats’ head wrapped in cold plastic in the refrigerated meat section of a grocery store; a tattered deck of cards; a farmer’s worn machete; a handful of tiny planting seeds; conch shells lining the top of a wall; banana leaves slick with rain; rain drops sneaking through a tin roof onto my bed; rough wooden carvings; calloused hands and leathery cheeks of countless Haitians; a non-electric iron that grows hot by inserting pieces of charcoal inside.












I smelled: Small charcoal fires in cinderblock houses; pigs wallowing in mud; grilled chicken at a street stall; trash rotting in the streets; shared chunks of watermelon in a crowded van; Caribbean ganja; propane stoves; homemade meat turnovers being cooked at a street stall; incense; trucks sputtering exhaust; sulfur flats where President Duvalier used to dump the bodies of his enemies; freshly woven shopping bags.


I saw: mangroves lining the coast; a Benedictine monastery nestled atop a hill; cars and trucks crushed by earthquake debris; chartreuse lizards clinging to walls; trees heavy with fruit; armed men piled in the back of United Nations Land Rovers; piles of sticks prepared to make charcoal; flying fish skimming the sea like skipped stones;fridges turned horizontally to be re-purposed as ice chests from which to sell cold drinks; children bathing in rain puddles; scraggly dogs searching for scraps; children dancing; cock-fighting rings; the sun setting over Florida; men and women donning cheap shower caps to walk in the rain; coffee and manioc plants, street art on public walls.












I tasted: Madam Antoine’s delicious homemade donuts; dried breadfruit chips; fresh mango; Haitian rice and beans; hot coffee from beans hand-ground by the neighbor next door; homemade peanut butter; tangy lime juice sweetened with sugar cane; Prestige Haitian beer;
manioc dumplings; fresh passionfruit juice; conch meat with hot sauce; goat meat; spaghetti for breakfast; spicy hot tea with ginger and anise; sugar cane peanut brittle; hot chocolate with spices; chaka stew (beans, veggies, milled corn).



I heard: impassioned preaching and singing from outdoor tent churches; children singing and playing drums and wind instruments at school; gentle rain on a tin roof; roosters who start in at 4am; children chanting “blan! blan! blan!” (white!) whenever we went by; the soothing waterfall next to Carla’s house; goats bleating for food; a dot-matrix printer spitting out receipts; cats meowing in the night.
Mesi, Haiti. Pita. (Thank you, Haiti. See you later. )


For other Five Senses posts, click on any of these:
The Five Senses of Tanzania
The Five Senses of San Francisco's Chinatown
The Five Senses of San Francisco's Presidio

Sacred Space- Josephine's Retreat

In 1924, wealthy Palo Altons Frank and Josephine Duveneck steered their Model T Ford towards the mountains and discovered a magical valley called Hidden Villa. Understandably enchanted with the place they purchased it and raised their family on the land where children could climb trees, race leafy boats in the creek, and chase chickens, goats, and pigs around the pasture. The valley looks like this:
With so many children, farm hands, house helpers and endless projects afloat, Josephine—a contemplative like myself- needed a place to hear herself think. So her ever loving husband Frank built her a small cabin on a hill overlooking the valley and dubbed it “Josephine’s Retreat”. It looks like this:
After decades of raising children, founding a school, and running summer camps at Hidden Villa, the Duvenecks donated the land to a nonprofit organization dedicated to educating people about environmental issues and sustainable living. The space is now a 1,000 acre organic farm, outdoor education program, hostel, and summer camp.

Most months Josephine’s Retreat can be rented by the public. It’s a 10x12 foot one-room cabin with a comfortable bed, a kitchenette, and a deck with spectacular views of the valley and surrounding mountains. This is the view:
Near the cabin there are heavy oak trees, fragrant bay trees, Adobe Creek, lupines, bunnies and deer, and occasionally an illusive bobcat and fox can be sighted.

At dusk, all the day-trippers go home and the only sounds are the rushing stream, hungry goats bleating their demand for dinner, and uncountable birds singing their unique tunes. And the frogs, oh the frogs… at night the frogs start up a blaring symphony chorus of “ribbits” and then inexplicably they all stop as if instructed by a mysterious froggy chorus conductor. They observe a multi-measure rest note, then resume.
In the cabin there are three guest books dating from 1995 onward, which is when the cabin was remodeled and opened to the public. Reading the guest book is like reading a novel full of comedy, tragedy, and fairy tale. People write of returning to Hidden Villa in middle-age after spending the summers of their youth there as campers or camp counselors. Couples write of meeting as staff at Hidden Villa and renting Josephine’s Retreat on their anniversary to reconnect and make love on hallowed ground. Women write about being in remission after a difficult battle with breast cancer. Writers and artists write of coming there for inspiration.

Hidden Villa and Josephine’s Retreat are sacred space for me. I’ve stayed at Josephine’s Retreat four times and the solitude, natural beauty, and peaceful spirit of the place is always the perfect setting for praying, recalibrating my priorities, and daring to dream about what I want my life to look like.

I envy Frank and Josephine for all they accomplished, as well as the legacy of Hidden Villa that carries on long after they have died. When I was there last weekend I found the remains of a blue robin’s egg on the deck, which I took as Josephine’s assurance that all of my ideas, desires, and dreams will also be hatched in their time.

Hope Is the Thing with Feathers

I love the poem where Emily Dickenson defines hope using a bird as a metaphor:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all.

Mustangs Roaming the American West

I spotted a wild herd of at least 25 Mustangs roaming the California coast between Santa Cruz and Hearst Castle. Clustering at the best vista points, they cling to the cliffs overlooking spectacular bridges constructed in the 1950’s. They are playful and beautiful-- their bodies gleaming in the California sun. Symbols of freedom and adventure, the Mustangs roam unfettered throughout the American west, wind blowing past them as they race up and down the coast. They travel to isolated areas, embracing the wonders of the natural world and invoking the pioneer spirit. Mustangs are slightly domesticated and are one of the most splendid means of transportation known to man.

I speak, of course, of the Ford Mustang convertible. Highway 1 is rife with them. Blue ones, yellow ones, black ones, red ones. And there are only two combinations of people riding in them:
1) middle-aged man/woman couples indulging in a mid-life crisis
2) four or five screeching young women indulging in a weekend bachelorette party

A Ford Mustang convertible can be rented from rental car companies for the reasonable cost of $85.46 per day—which is a small price to pay for roaming the coast looking like the coolest cat in town.

Why California Doesn’t Suck

YES, California has…
Earthquakes
Wild Fires
Heinous State Budget Deficit
A Legislature that Can’t Get the Job done
The Governator
Atrocious Education System
Insane Traffic and Congestion

BUT, this is why California doesn’t suck:
Big Sur, California Coast, Highway 1
I rest my case.

Easing Into Sweet Silence

I knew I had eased into sweet silence when I woke up in the middle of the night thinking “what the heck is that infernal racket?” And really it was just a deer walking on the gravel in my garden.

At the monastery where I spent my silent retreat, every retreatant has their own simple room with a single bed, a desk, and a rocking chair. The desk faces out a window overlooking the retreatants’ private garden, and the garden overlooks the mountains, fog, and the Pacific Ocean.

As I lounged in my garden, a stellar jay hopped from branch to branch in the fig tree. Two hummingbirds whizzed by, playing follow the leader. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the Morning Glory creeping up the fence. The faint sound of barking sea lions echoed uphill from the seaside. Various birds chirped, cheeped, screeched, and twittered. A bee buzzed happily as it drew nectar from a Sticky Monkey Flower.

In San Francisco my ears are continually assaulted by the sounds of Muni rushing down the tracks of Judah Street, automobiles racing to the next stop sign, sirens, neighbor’s parties, and homeless couples yelling at each other on the sidewalk “I’M NOT DRUNK!” (Note to the clueless- pretty much every time you find yourself yelling “I’M NOT DRUNK!” to your significant other, the chances are that you ARE drunk)

I know a lot of fabulous people who intensely dislike silence. Silence provides the opportunity for unpleasant thoughts to be heard in their heads. Silence makes people feel lonely. Silence feels uncomfortable and unfamiliar. But I crave silence. Immediately upon arrival, I sat down in my garden and eased into the silence like it was a fur-covered La-Z Boy recliner. The chorus of animal and insect voices resounded, but believing in this proverb, I kept my mouth closed:

Do not speak unless you can improve the silence.

Wildlife Welcome Wagon

In the absence of human contact and communication for my 5 day retreat, the local wildlife stepped up to fill the void. I mean, they really rolled out the welcome wagon. In the first 10 minutes in my private garden a plump, 6-inch long lizard scurried along the wooden fence and stopped 2 feet in front of where I was sitting. She tilted her head to better cock one eye at me, and I held my breath to stare back. After a 5 minute stare-down, apparently determining that I had passed muster to sit in her garden, she went on her way.

Then a whole family of rowdy quail invaded my garden like they owned the place. They are the California State bird, so I guess there is some entitlement. The head quail stood apart and watched over the covey, with her “plume” (that funny squiggly thing on top of her head) waggling her pleasure or displeasure. The babies rushed madly about the garden, tossing small sticks and leaves in the air like women at a 75% off clothing sale.

When the sun made a downward turn towards the sea, the bunnies came out. Little grey bunnies with white tails. They tentatively nibbled grass, noses twitching, ears perking at minute sounds, eyes on the lookout for circling hawks. They occasionally stood up on their back legs to peer at me from 4 more inches of higher ground. But try as I might, none of them would let me scoop them up and give them a big hug and kiss on the nose.

The deer came fashionably late to the garden at dusk. One-by-one they strolled by my fence, peering curiously into my room before heading downhill to graze for the evening.

By this time it was starting to feel like that scene in Cinderella where all the mice and birds run about gleefully singing,
“Cinderelly, Cinderelly,
And we'll make a lovely dress for Cinderelly!”
By day's end I half expected this enchanted place to produce a talking mouse who would start sewing me a ball gown.

Pets Taking a Dirt Nap

I'm assuming this is a parrot- and it's the oldest animal in the cemetery at 51 years old

a bunny
It would take Frodo a very long time to get that damn Ring if he was a turtle
Not just a lizard-- that's Mr. Iguana to you.
a fishy
a kitty (20 years old!)
And my favorite.... a couple of GREAT hamsters!

Five Senses of San Francisco’s Presidio

I’ve always found the Presidio to be quite daunting with its maze of roads, trails, and cream-colored military buildings—it’s inevitable to get lost there. But with a long 4th of July weekend upon me, I desired to explore a place that most tourists and San Francisco locals wouldn’t bother with. So I parked at the top of the Presidio, secured a map of an outdoor installation called “Presidio Habitats” and wandered solo around the mountain while throngs of people strolled the waterfront below me.

I was wrong to avoid the Presidio for so long. It is a City treasure with tranquil woodlands, well-kept trails, sweeping vistas, indigenous wild flowers, unusual glimpses of the Golden Gate Bridge peeping over at you, military and San Francisco history, and delightful secret community gardens. If I owned a car, I wouldn’t mind living in one of the houses in the Presidio. The reclaimed officer’s quarters are surrounded by manicured lawns, tall palm trees, and living there appears to amount to peaceful, natural living in the middle of a metropolis.

While exploring the Presidio...

I SAW: clusters of Cypress trees illuminated on one side by the sun; eight foot high yarrow flowers; Chinese porcelain vases secured high in a tree for screech owls to nest in; bright red Indian Paintbrush flowers; remnants of abandoned concrete bunkers; the crisp, clean, deceptively shiny leaves of poison oak; a hummingbird flitting about a community garden like it was a two dollar Vegas buffet.

I SMELLED: wispy stalks of wild fennel; the energizing aroma of a grove of Eucalyptus trees; the salt air wafting off the water at the Golden Gate.

I TASTED: smooth sweet leaves of Miner’s lettuce; the first sun-warmed blackberries of the summer season.



I HEARD: birds flitting about in the dried grasses of a bird sanctuary; the long horn blasts of tugboats and container ships communicating their next moves; massive treetops straining and creaking in the breeze; wind chimes hung by tomato plants in an attempt to keep birds away.

I TOUCHED: the long stringy bark of a Eucalyptus tree; the smooth, red, hard trunk of a Madrone; the flaking, gray bark of a Cypress tree; soft airy “snowballs” floating from long thin stems; the fuzzy “pea pods” of a purple flowered bush; pine tree branches laden with dozens of heavy pine cones.

More Frolicking, Please

Frolic: (def) to play and run about happily

Yesterday I spent a few hours at Hidden Villa, a place that I have come to recognise as sacred space for myself. I strolled through the sunny garden, trying to ascertain the difference between rhubarb and red chard. I breathed in the aromas of various herbs and at least 5 different types of sage, and crawled around on the ground until I could pinpoint which plant was smelling like chamomile. I made friends with the pigs, the cows, the sheep, and the goats. I yanked leaves off a bay tree and tucked some in my pocket for making red pasta sauce later. I admired the chickens, the green valley, the compost pile, the butterflies.

And after a scrumptious picnic lunch savored beside a frisky stream, I frolicked.


I tromped through the middle of the stream, not caring that my jeans were getting wet. I ducked under poison oak branches dangling dangerously over the water, and listened to the crunch crunch of my Tevas on pebbles. I searched for newts, tiny fish, and the illusive Giant Pacific Salamander. I was happy and carefree, like I used to be when I was a kid searching for crawdads in a stream near where I grew up.

Lately life has been about Responsibilities and Duties and Shoulds. So to spend a few hours frolicking and exploring with child-like wonder has been good for my soul. And while having an afternoon of frolic is somewhat akin to eating one pistachio nut and having to stop, I trust that my Creator will happily point me to the whole bag of pistachios (or the pistachio factory) with perfect timing and grace.