Ten days in California.

Day 1:
6 am Rapid to the airport. I drank coffee, browsed a pile of magazines and intermittently slept, drooled and woke with a neck cramp. Hybrid car rental fiasco (expired licenses and an attendant who played dumb for us-thank you) and then brief beach excursion on the 3rd Street Promenade in Santa Monica; palm trees and pastel stucco baked in the sun. We were obvious tourists on the beach in our street clothes. Surprised by actual waves and got wetter than I intended--tried to remember the last time I was at the ocean--left with sand scoured toes.

Later on, crazies at Venice Beach: smooth jazz bicycle rider, chair drummer, a choir of droning singers, face-painted teens; the homeless seem softer here than in Cleveland. We had dinner at Fig Tree's Cafe.

Day 2:

First, out for coffee; then, two jazz dance classes at The Edge separated by a lunch date with Chris at Cafe Audrey. Dinner at Leonor's Mexican Vegetarian Restaurant in Studio City. Then on to the Frolic Room and another bar for some drinks: a brandy side car and then a glass of Chardonnay.

Day 3:

Coffee, Ralph's for picnic supplies (oranges, avocados, tomatoes, pita, hummus, apricots) then Malibu Beach for sun, waves and thieving seagulls. The view from my towel was peppered by surfers on one side and gulls, cranes and storks on the other.

Day 4.

Hit the road for Yosemite National Park. Drove through the Mojave Desert. Tunes. Silence. The air was dry and when we stopped for gas the desert surprised me with its silence. Pink bathroom with handwritten signs reminding me to conserve electricity and water and turn out the light thank you very much.

We arrived at Tuolmne Meadows in time to start a 5.8 mile hike to our campsite at Glen Aulin. We were amateur, but plucky. The last mile was lit by crappy flashlights. I arrived cranky, my hiking companion was kind.

Day 5

Woke up in a chilly tent and percolated coffee slowly to drink on sun-warmed rocks as we looked at picket pins. On the hike back to Tuolomne Meadows to camp for the night, I dangled feet in a stream. Dipped in-too cold- briefly. We celebrated our daylight arrival with porter and noodles. I kept thinking of Gary Snyder poems.

Day 6

We de-constructed the campsite and drove to other side of Yosemite for a system-shocking mass of tourists and buses and taco stands. Walked a mile to Mirror Lake. There was no lake. California is in a drought. Left for San Francisco, but spent the night in Oakley. Wandered and debated over dinner and then settled on Asian fusion at Silk Road. We toasted to "vacillation as a means of adventure". Met a couple of Amtrak workers at the Fat Lady's Bar.



Day 7

Hangover from tequila, lemon drop, beer, wine train-wreck inspired by the Amtrak employees. In to San Francisco after a slow start of juevos rancheros and search for decent coffee. Perused the Mission (great murals). Dinner in the Tenderloin (Pho) and then an art gallery opening. Drinks and a little dancing at Levende.

Day 8

9am class at the Yoga Tree, a good reminder to tend my personal garden as I wondered how my vegetables were growing back in Cleveland. I missed my cat. We searched for perfect Mexican food. Buena Vista Park, Haight and Golden Gate Park meander. Cyclists! Fisherman's Wharf then bookstore to finally read some Gary Snyder.




Day 9

Twelve-hour ride down Highway 1. Breathtaking views. I kept thinking, "this is America?". Felt small and recognized and reconciled my generally land-locked life. Late arrival to Los Angeles for Chris chat and sleep.

Day 10

We volunteered to be bumped from a flight as a means to finance future travel. Four hours of reading, lolling, handstands, downward dogs and way too much airport food (purchased with an airline voucher). It was raining in Los Angeles when we left. I joked and said that LA was crying because we were leaving. I was ready to go home.

I bought four magazines today in preparation for plane travel to and from California: Yoga, Utne Reader, Mother Earth News and Tricycle. I feel both guilty and excited about my purchases. I am a former (recovering?) magazine addict.

I used to be ridiculously obsessed with magazines and my subscriptions included, but were not always limited to: Utne Reader, US News & World Reports, Time, Newsweek, Knitting, Mother Jones, National Geographic, The Smithsonian, Dance, Contact Quarterly and Jane (before it became stupid)—plus a slew of literary, art and design magazines and random zines I would buy intermittently.

Managing to avoid a career in journalism, I have regulated my appetite for mags. I now allow myself the pleasure only at airports and beaches; compartmentalizing my desire. Since I live in a land-locked state and no longer go on tour frequently, my magazine consumption has truly been restricted.

My thoughts are salivatory and my fingertips anticipate flipping those glossy rags, but a rule is a rule and I’m making myself wait until I get to the gate.

Cleveland comedian, and good friend, Micheal Ivy had a week-long gig MC-ing at Pickwick and Frolic in August. I met Ivy when he was a chef, and I was a server, at Parker's New American Bistro. In between making sorbet, chocolate souffles and apple tarts, he would scribble in this tattered notebook he kept at his station. In between spacing out and getting yelled at by the executive chef, he would make fantastic deserts.

At the time, I was a full-time modern dancer and he had dreams of becoming a comedian. So, we'd talk about the difficulties and rewards of a "career" in the performing arts.

He left Parker's to pursue his goals. He started with some contests at the Bassa Vita Lounge, helped to create aone productions, performed at comdedy nights at Rockstar and submitted videos on TBS's comedy website. He has been paying his dues and networking for at least three years. Needless to say I am thrilled for him and impressed by the way he has helped to grow the local comedy scene.

Thanks for the laughs!