California is a state of mind, especially mine on this trip. When I return home there is much work-work to do as well as my very large, largest, giantest, hugest ever new project (I rather like speaking Trumpian; it saves time trying to match adjective and noun and meaning). My California state-of-mind here and now is as follows; get up early (normal for me), write for awhile, read and nap a couple hours from 8 until 10, shower, go out for a nice winey lunch at one of my son’s hundreds of favorite San Diego eateries, shop a little (maybe Nordstrom’s, REI, or Barnes and Noble), come home and hang out, eat some more, watch a movie, eat Cinnabon ice cream, go to bed early and read. I would not want to do this for a long stretch of time—even I need more exercise than that—but for three or four days every spring…YES.
Tomorrow we will probably do LA, MOCA and Watts Tower; then it’s up to Oakland and granddaughter-time. It’s true, I always talk about California and how much I love it, while living in New Mexico and claiming Minnesota as my home. My California love is true, although probably not as deep as had I been born here, or moved here when when I was younger, or been somewhat successful in film, or as desperate as Pa Joad. At my age the best I can do is spend a few days pretending I’m a Nancy Reagan ladies-who-lunch pal before returning to the salt mines of Albuquerque.
We all enjoy life more for having those sweet places that are out of reach most of the time—the better in which to luxuriate when they come around. And with favorite people it’s well…throw in those superlatives.