Yes, this travelog story took place last month. However, we’ve learned from the greats (like friend and guru Sherry Ott) and even fancy mags that travel stories rarely publish promptly for a variety of reasons. In this case, those included some technical difficulties, COVID-19 disruptions, and a related, gnarly case of what psychologists are now discussing as mass indecision-inertia.
Having disclaimed THAT…Pictured above is my daughter jumping for joy just to be by the ocean during spring break last month. In California, you’re often close to a beach, since the coastline stretches for 840 glorious miles. Our trip of Great Expectations became, indeed, the best of times, the worst of times. We somehow accomplished our BreakAway’s ambitious itinerary. But the corona crisis and angst chased us around every palm tree.
You’d hardly suspect that Long Beach hosts nearly half-million residents. I don’t see them; I notice quaint neighborhoods (with about half-million self-care shops), charming architecture, and a classic Cali vibe overflowing with flowers and greenery like these bird of paradise—precious soul flora for us Midwesterners.
Thanks to a dear aunt who moved there in 1960, I’ve been visiting occasionally throughout my life. In fact, her house was the last stop of a most epic breakaway—a 4-month RTW extravaganza. Upon arrival that day, she informed me that my beloved grandma had passed away the night before, as if waiting for my return. It rained the entire stay, like tears from heaven, which inspired this “The Sky is Crying” post.
Seeing my aunt again this time around was a great treat, and also sparked memories of childhood summer stays featuring Disneyland, Angels’ games, and all that SoCal has to offer a giddy kid. The smell of the sea and happy faces at the beach transported me, for fleeting moments, into a 6-year-old again. Long Beach was an idyllic place to spend an extended summer vacation, and now strikes me as a splendid place to grow old.
With people (and colleges and sights) to see, neighboring Seal Beach and The Pacific Inn provided an ideal launch-pad location for eating well and wandering the peaceful seashore and village. Strolling there feels like iconic California on sense-surround, from the chirpy birds to a world of aromas wafting from the many eateries.
Sadly, in what would soon become a pattern, we were among the last guests at my favorite Seal Beach restaurant, Walt’s Wharf. They closed down shortly after our late-night feast. And, after 50 years of making delightful, delicious meals and memories, this local treasure is unlikely to survive Corona’s crushing wave.
We knew before arriving that The Virus would show up in various ways, from nervous airplane passengers to omnipresent Purell. But we also were somehow blessed and blissed; our timing could not have been luckier. One week later, we would have missed the shops, the salty souls surfing, and the hippies jamming for tips under a full moon.
The Pacific Inn and its tiny lobby became a bustling gathering spot for people waiting to board cruise ships which were stuck in Long Beach Harbor because of possible Corona cases among imprisoned passengers. A friendly, retired couple from Michigan held court for hours in the lobby, chatting and reading while keeping another night’s reservation ready JIC. (It came in handy.)
Late (late!) that evening, an impossibly jubilant (drunk) group of 8 would-be sailors arrived with enough luggage to sink a boat. They were ecstatic to land the last available room after waiting all day at the port. How all 8 of these wide-bodies slept in their 2 queen-size beds…we’ll never know. But from the sounds of it, the party was sleep-optional!
As metaphorical darkness kept surrounding us, a guy began to wonder…as our week winds down, will the California to-do list be do-able? will our plane allow us to board? What is our Plan B? Yet despite the chill of pandem-onia in the air—or perhaps because of it—we focused on relishing every moment of being…Away.
Up and early one morning, we drove through SoCal’s crazy traffic using the time-saving HOV lanes (that move at speeds that would make Germans jealous) to visit 2 of the 5 Claremont Colleges’ excellent schools—Pomona and Pitzer. Pomona (nearly $70K; 8% acceptance rate) won me over and made me long to be 18 (and smart and rich and lucky). Perhaps my enthusiasm, if not youthfulness, radiates from the embarrassing dad-on-campus picture.
Next-door Pitzer College (not much cheaper; a smidgen easier to get into) was founded in the 60s and reverberates California’s legendary liberal leanings. The grounds have been converted to dessert foliage and thus get high marks in environmentalism. The dorms are all attached in an open, communal design. The curriculum is what-you-make-it (literally) with a student body that knows its ABC’s and PC’s.
My first impression during the Pitzer presentation was true love. And some details, like this famous “Free Wall” piqued applause and evoked eras of when expression was refreshingly artistic rather than screen-centric. But by the end of the tour, I realized I’m probably just not evolved enough. So I made the difficult decision not to apply (as their most evolved student ever, age-wise). And, if asked, might encourage my daughter to consider carefully as well.
Our timing remained fortuitous. All 5 Claremont colleges ceased tours and info sessions the following day…and sent students home within the week. The pizzeria that served our sumptuous lunch? Shuttered the next day. Scary? Yes! Nonetheless, getting sick or stuck—so far from home—was simply not on the itinerary.
So we carried on and managed to create a most enjoyable time, never mind the burgeoning worry trailing us like a sick dog.
We seemed to know, on some level, that the airports would soon go quiet. That the street life would turn off. And that it might be months—years?—before we were able to manage a faraway BreakAway again—something we’ve done as a way of life since my daughter’s birth. To have this time, even amid the worry, was precious and priceless.
Life can be mercilessly…uncertain. Which is all the more reason to—as the old bumper sticker preaches—”Don’t postpone joy.”
So I again hearken my Grandma who in both good and bad times would cheerfully chirp (and a Seal Beach boutique echoed), “Count your blessings.”
COMING NEXT: Cruising SoCal Before Corona…On to LALA Land!
1 kid, 5 islands, 69 days
Here's my son’s blog from an '08/09 BreakAway in the Caribbean.
1 planet, countless cultures, 120 days
In 00/01, when the internet was a pup, I went RTW and posted these words and pics en route.
