Travel-blog, Day 3

Day three found me waking up with a slight headache and a desire to go back to sleep. However, we had places to go and people to see, so I denied my baser instincts and arose.

One thing I quickly learned to appreciate once we left Portland was how much better Portland's water supply is than that of anywhere else in the world (at least, as far as I can tell). Salem's water is certainly not on par, but once in California the quality dipped tremendously.

At the Lucia Lodge we'd had nasty water with some lemon in it to try to mask the grossness (to no avail).

In Santa Barbara, Stevie T had a too-small Brita which couldn't keep up with my tremendous thirst (I'm known by many as the thirstiest man alive), and so I ended up drinking not-entirely-unpleasant-but-too-warm-for-my-enjoyment water in small bits from the filter jug.

I'm always thirstier after drinking, and usually thirstiest after micro-brews, which tend to dry me out to an unnatural degree. So, by the morning of day 3, I was parched, and I ended up spending the rest of the day trying to catch back up.

For breakfast, we all headed into downtown Santa Barbara to eat at a place called the Cajun Kitchen, where I had a fantastic omelet and some grits. Grits seemed to be more popular the farther south and east I went, and I found myself wondering what the hell grits actually are. Whatever they are, they were tasty at the CK.

After breakfast, we said adieu to Stevie T and started heading out of town. As we drove out of SB, the ladies looked at all of the neat spanish-tile roofing on the buildings and declared their appreciation for the look of the place. It was splendid, but to be surrounded by such beauty all the time would dim my appreciation for it, so I'm grateful that I merely get to visit.

After Santa Barbara, we made our way to the Los Angeles metroplex to spend a couple days at Joe's place. On our way, we were shocked to run into a traffic jam. On a Sunday.

Only in LA.

While driving down the random network of freeways and highways that connects the town, I was reminded of my appreciation for LA on-ramps and off-ramps, which require you to come to sudden stops and make sudden racing starts while maneuvering at right angles to the traffic that you wish to merge with. Crazy.

We also noticed that the further south we drove, the worse the situation was for relying on turn signals. I tended to don the "when in Rome" attitude, while JLowe silently cursed under his breath at each particular transgressor who failed to indicate for him. Whatever your approach, it truly is staggering the lack of courtesy in the people of California, at least where signalling a lane change (or a turn) is concerned.

You wonder what these people think that control in their car is for. Sure, on the end of the stick is the headlight control, or the wiper control, or the cruise control. But have these people ever noticed that the stick moves up and down, and when it does a funny clicking emanates from the dash, and little arrows flash as if to advise them of some message being sent? In California, do the cars even come with these contraptions? Judging from the nigh-unanimous refusal to signal any change in vehicular travel plans to fellow drivers, I'd have to assume that, along with emission control standards, the California legislature has also dabbled with standardized car equipment in their state.

Anyhow, we eventually made it to Newport Beach, home of The O.C. and of Joe's palatial estate.

Upon getting to Joe's apartment, we all decided to sit around for a bit and vegetate, for a welcome change from the sitting that we'd done in the Element for the last two days. Joe was watching the Dodgers as they beat up on some hapless foes, and I took advantage of the chance to catch up my travelogue with the day's thoughts.

While pondering the signal question, I decided to ask an authority on what the deal was with the California plot against mid-drive courtesy. Per Joe, the steadfast disinclination evidenced by all Californians is the result of "an unwritten rule," which I assume means a subliminal message put out during In'N'Out commercials with the Governator saying "Dooon't seegnahl! Vote fo Ahnuld!" That would explain at least two mysteries, would it not?

While hanging out, we met Joe's roommate, who is a rather large, somewhat brutish looking chiropractor. Although it was probably more a matter of an overactive imagination than an accurate perception, the fellow (named Kevin) reminded me alot of the next-door neighbor, Lawrence, from Office Space. He was really, truly that big.

After chilling for a bit, we headed to Huntington Beach, if for no other reason than to find JLowe some sunglasses, as he'd forgotten his in P-Town. As we walked around, we saw some street musicians, Joe's weird lower-leg hairlessness, and the Huntington Beach Surfer's Walk of Fame. I also bought a new wallet.

After, the ladies, JLowe, and I found a local Target store and bought supplies for the next couple of days in town. Then, dinner at the Cheesecake Factory, where I officially destroyed any progress I made during the course of my South Beach dieting. At the Cheesecake Factory, they serve you what The Missus referred to as true "American-sized" portions, and our server, a rather odd lady, had truly "American-sized" man-hands that more-than-readily handled our plates.

After dinner, we headed back to Joe's for beer and movie time. Although the girls sacked out right away, and Jeff made it only into the first 5 minutes of "Sideways" before joining them in slumber. So, it was Joe and I, like in the old days, staying up late, watching movies, drinking beer, and remembering the good old days. And then, finally, off to sleep, where it took an extra five minutes to accomplish unconsciousness as I had to listen to Lady Lowe's exquisite snorting.

Day 4 will be fun.

Catch ya later.