A Week in Cali

It hardly seems to make sense, does it? Why would I take off for Colorado from Los Angeles if my son lives just an hour south of LAX, in Oceanside? Why not spend that first week stateside with him, and then head to Colorado?

Because he was not ready for my visit. He did not coordinate any extra time off work because he didn’t know exactly when I was arriving (if you remember, I didn’t know when I was leaving China, either!). And, Woody and Liz were having company over the second weekend I was to be stateside and would not have been able to accommodate a visit with me at that time. It worked out better, schedule-wise to visit Colorado first and California second.

So, for the one time on this trip, I had to backtrack. I bought a round trip ticket into Denver and Back to L.A. It was rather pricey - $278. But totally worth it, seeing as I got to spend quality time with everyone on my list.

So now, with Denver behind us, we are on for a week in Cali. Oceanside is as familiar to me as Dallas is because of the many times I’ve visited there. Camp Pendleton was home to my daughter and her family for over 5 years. Many is the time we roamed around Oceanside, the community just outside the base perimeter. That is where Darrell and his lovely girlfriend Samantha make their home. Jennifer and her brood have since moved on to Tampa, and we’ll be visiting with them, too. Later. Much later.

Darrell had grand plans for our visit. He wanted to have a luncheon to introduce me to his coworkers. He wanted us to go hiking and hit the dog beach. We were also going to walk around downtown L.A., around the fashion district and the historical part of town, like the fruit market and the civic center. I was most looking forward to the hiking. It would feel good to get a good stretch on my legs after the long plane ride stateside, and the long bus rides to and from Denver. Unfortunately we didn’t get to hike. The car started acting up and we worked on it. Well, he worked on it and I looked on. I didn’t want to ruin my manicure.

Wait… did I say the dog beach was part of the plan? The DOG BEACH??? As in: a beach for dogs?

Why yes, that is exactly what I said. Just south of Oceanside, in the sleepy community of Encinitas there is a beach dedicated to the joy of dogs. At this beach dog owners bring their dogs to commune and socialize, to play in the water and to chase toys, to ride the waves or just walk peaceably along on the soft sand. The one and only stipulation is that all dogs are to be on a leash. The lifeguard, for this beach does have a life guard per se, sees to it that no dog is off its leash for more than a minute or two. He even has a red ATV at his disposal so that he can quickly ride up to any offending dog owner and inform them of their rule infractions, should a dog owner have the temerity to unleash their dog. Maybe he is actually a leash guard instead of a lifeguard. Semantics, maybe? But that is not the question.

The question is: How can any dog enjoy his day at the beach if he is constantly leashed?

I asked Zeva, my furry granddaughter. She was not able to answer me. She is just a dog, even if she is very smart.

But Samantha did. She told me that all the dog owners who frequent that beach think keeping their dogs leashed on a beach dedicated to dogs is a stupid idea and every single dog owner resents it. As she spoke I looked around and saw all breeds of dogs playing, walking, socializing and generally having a good, if restrained time. Dog fighting, dog breeding, any type of negative dog behavior you could imagine was not taking place on this beach. I have to cast my vote with all of the other dog owners, especially after taking my turn in the water to play with my Zeva. It was aggravating to be limited to 10 feet of leash when playing ‘get the water’ with my furry granddaughter.

Let me tell you: that dog loves water. She loves splashing in it, chasing it, swimming in it, biting the waves and jumping over them.

She did not always love water. According to Samantha, Darrell had to throw the dog into the water repeatedly in order for her to first grow less afraid of it, and then to tolerate it and finally to love it. Zeva now loves water and tackles waves bigger than she is. She snaps at them and prances through them. And then she goes and throws up because she drinks too much water while playing in it.

Well, that just did not sit well with me, what Samantha said. You see, earlier in the week, while my brain was still fogged by that 37 hour bus ride from Denver, I said something unintentional. Let me tell you that story.

Darrell had shown me a neat trick on my first evening there. He took a tennis ball and, standing on the balcony of his second floor apartment, challenged Zeva to go fetch the ball. He then threw it down to the parking lot below. Zeva flew down the steps and along the walkway, ears laid back and tail streaming behind her, fetched the ball, came running back up the steps and put it neatly into her master’s hand at his command. I was impressed. I wanted to see if she would do the same for me so I asked if I too could throw the dog off the balcony.

The response was immediate and deadpan: I was never to be left alone with the dog, for fear that I would throw her off the balcony.

What I meant was: Could I throw the ball of the balcony so that the dog could fetch it?

Neither Darrell nor Samantha wanted to take a chance on me abusing their dog. They made good on their word: I was never left alone with Zeva again.

So, when Samantha told me at the dog beach later that week (when I had my wits about me) that Darrell repeatedly threw the dog in the water, I was highly offended. “OH, SURE!” I exclaimed. “It is OK for Darrell to throw the dog in the water to teach her how to swim, but I want to throw her off the balcony to teach her how to fly, and suddenly you get all moral and judgmental!”

We laughed until we cried and that became a running joke between us. Of course, I would never do anything to hurt that beautiful creature, let alone throw her off the second floor balcony, and both Darrell and Samantha know it. I love my furry granddaughter.

The rest of the time spent with them went by much too fast. Yes, we did go visit downtown L.A. and walk around, and Darrell did introduce me to some of his co-workers. We did have lunch, but it was just the two of us because everyone else had to bow out at the last minute. They got busy at work, they had doctor’s appointments, they… just got busy. I understand. I did get to meet several of the people he works with though, and that was my pleasure.

One interesting facet of that luncheon was that I drove a car for the first time since leaving America last year. Darrell rode to work with a buddy and left me his car keys, along with directions on how to get to his work. He owns a VW Jetta – a stickshift, no less. Very peppy little car and very fun to drive. That was the car I drove into Vegas last year while he slept beside me (see Viva Las Vegas entry, posted August of last year).

Interesting to note: driving is like riding a bicycle. You never forget how. No sooner had I depressed the clutch and started the engine, adjusting the mirrors while doing so, did that old feeling of being behind the wheel come back. It felt like I had never stopped driving. I even resented the traffic, like I used to in the old days.

As it turns out, it was the only time I drove anything during my travels across America. Lisa did offer to let me drive her truck, and Jennifer left me her car keys in case I wanted to go somewhere. Marjorie and Chuck left me a set of car keys too. I just never felt the need to drive during the whole time I was in the States.

How strange, no?