It's been eleven days since I touched down on the West Coast. It has been, in a word, AMAZING! I've seen pictures of, and movies about, Southern California, but seeing it in real time with me own eyes is another thing altogether. As I write, I'm looking out over our street, Avenida Palizada. It's not the quietest neighborhood, but neither is it boring.
Every night about 8:30 we hear the familiar metal rattle of a skateboard whizzing down, and then up, the street. Our deck overlooks a lovely pinkish stucco apartment building with magnificent palms, ficus (the same kind you might have in your home, but on steroids) and two beautiful stained glass windows that are exceptionally pretty at night when lit from within.
Catty corner to our apartment is a house that regularly has wet suits tossed over the railing of the deck. It caught me off guard at first...it looked like a couple of folks had had too much tequila the night before and passed out.
Can we talk about surfing? It's the sport of the gods. Every day since I've been here, I've walked on the man-made path that winds up and down the coast, with the San Clemente Pier as its center. There are always little black dots of surfers waiting, waiting, waiting for that perfect wave. One of these days I'm going to ask one of them what it is that they look for as they scan the approaching waves. They'll be floating, floating, floating, riding out most of the waves when all of the sudden, they turn around (facing the shore) and start paddling like mad. Once the wave starts to crest, they hop up on their feet and start the ride, darting to and fro, cutting and, if they're lucky, ride the wave pretty close into the shore. It takes a great deal of patience, I'm guessing some pretty amazing core muscles and finesse. (Side note: if you get a chance to see "Soul Surfer" watch it. Great (true) story about a very talented, courageous young surfer from Hawaii.)
One of these days I'll post about the people. Variety, as they say, is the spice of life.
The adventure has not been without its anxious moments. The night before I left Kate and Tyler were over to bid me adieu and have one last meal together. We were all sitting downstairs and Tyler grabbed his laptop and in no time was staring intently at it. I asked him what he was looking at and he said, nonchalantly, "Washing machines." What? Why was he looking at washing machines. Turns out it was because he was using our washing machine, which had inconveniently decided to overflow. "Great!" I thought. Just what I needed. Phone calls were made, solutions suggested and tried. Nada. Apparently the "I've got enough water, stop" sensor had failed.
But that's just the tip of the damned proverbial iceberg.
On Saturday, Ron and I were walking from our apartment to the pier/ocean (about a five minute walk). I had pretty much literally just placed one foot into the warm sand when my phone rang. Kate. I was excited to tell her what I was looking at.
She was hysterical. I couldn't understand what she was saying. Every third and fifth word was intelligible. Apartment. Dark. Smoky. Wet. Everything. Ruined.
After spending the morning and early afternoon with Tyler scouring the Rivermarket Antiques, she had arrived home to a darkened apartment that reeked of smoke and had about two inches of water on the floor. She immediately called the fire department, gotten her two kitties out and into her car and then she called me.
Long story short, they think the fan in the bathroom shorted out, caught on fire, dropped onto her bathroom floor, igniting a twelve pack of TP. It got so hot that the toilet cracked, hence the flooding. Although the fire was confined to the bathroom, the smoke and soot damage was pervasive throughout. Unless you've lived through it, you cannot imagine how much damage smoke and soot can do.
Kate spend the next three days cleaning literally everything she had. Six bags of clothes were tossed. High school art projects were unsalvageable. A chair that had been in our family for fifty years...ruined.
Bless her heart. She had to settle with her apartment complex, sift through all of her belongings to see what could be saved, find a new apartment, move her stuff into the storage unit for two days, wash all of her clothes (sometimes twice) then move into her new apartment and go binge shopping at Ikea to replace a bunch of stuff.
Never had I wanted to be there for her more. My heart ached for her. It was difficult for all of us. But, after a few teary phone calls, Kate was on it. Nine days later she's in her new apartment, still finding vestiges of soot in some places, but for the most part settled.
Here's a picture of her bathroom. It could have been worse. So much worse. Had the fire not progressed as it did, the whole apartment probably would have been torched. In the chaotic days that followed I calmed myself by thanking God that it wasn't worse.
Amen and amen.
