If there is ever a new plague that wipes out 75% of the population, I think I would move to California. Other than being too crowded, this state has it all! Well, the plague thing AND they would have to lower gas prices…ok, and provided you with bags to carry your purchases out of the store. And, I guess it would be nice if it rained once in a while. You know what? Fuck California.
I made my way to the coast, drove through Big ol’ Sur…
where I fed a chipmunk a little chocolate cracker…
Whereupon a much larger chipmunk came charging out of the underbrush and attempted to wrestle it from him with standard human bully tactics. The little guy made a break for it and got away with the bounty. The larger chipmunk then turned to look at me. He knew I had the goods. I dug my fingers in the little foil pouch to get him one. But, apparently I was not quick enough and the cheeky bastard advanced on me.
When I failed to extract the tiny cracker quickly enough, and the advance of the wild animal did not slow, I had no choice but to jettison the entire package and beat a hasty retreat to The EM-50 Phantom Rambler. I never would have guessed I was afraid of chipmunks. I am learning so much on this trip.
I stopped for the night in Monterey. Sleep came fitfully, interspersed as it was with dreams of crazed, plague-carrying, attack chipmunks.
When I finally arose and checked my map, I discovered that I was not far from the town of San Jose. Cards on the table, I might never have heard of this place were it not for that old Burt Bacharach song.
I Googled “things to do in San Jose” and, shockingly, there was something – the fabled and gabled, Winchester Mystery House.
The widow Winchester, whose husband had been William Wirt Winchester, rifle manufacturer, had inherited his fortune, lock, stock, & barrel (heh) that left her rich beyond the dreams of avarice. So, she did what we all would do if we ever came into such a windfall – she consulted a psychic.
Brief detour for a second…remember Dionne Warwick? She sang all of Burt Bacharach’s songs, then later did the Psychic Friends Network thing. One of her hits was, “Do You Know the Way to San Jose” that I referenced a short while ago. Connection? Certainly. Creepy? Without a doubt. Coincidence? Please.
For those of you who may not know, the psychic told Sarah Winchester that, tough break, she was being haunted by the spirits of all who had ever been killed by a Winchester rifle.
You must understand that spiritualism was very big during Victorian times. People really believed this stuff. To give you an idea, they looked upon it then the way people nowadays look at, oh say, Climate Change – it all fit and anyone who went against the grain was a heretic of this wholesome religion.
Mrs Winchester, for reasons unknown, decided that she would fool the ghosts by building a weird house. She had a team of carpenters work round the clock for decades adding on to some old farm house she had bought.
There are 160 rooms, 13 bathrooms, 6 kitchens…and some other stuff. Like, stairs that lead to nowhere. Doors that open to a wall, or to a straight drop of about 10 feet, windows built into the floor, cabinets that open onto a whole room or into nothing at all, and, my favorite – secret passages.
I paid way too much for a tour of the mansion (no pics allowed, naturally) and for a behind the scenes tour of the grounds. Besides the prohibition on photography in all its forms, they also do not allow food, drink, or gum chewing. But, they do make a really big deal about how they deign to allow BOTTLED water on the tour, like they are doing you the biggest favor in the world. Personally, I think they used to ban that too, but, when you take the tour, just on the inside of the house you walk about 1 mile. I think somebody stroked out from dehydration and this is their attempt to limit liability.
For me, the big mystery was not why some eccentric old rich lady built an odd house – clearly she was trying to confuse the ghosts that were following her. The big mystery was the maintenance guy that I followed…
If there is this big deal about not allowing any food, where the hell did he sweep up all of these orange peels from? Why oranges? Why so many? And, why doesn’t he look more perplexed by the appearance of this giant mound of orange peels?
Also, why do they sell little Eiffel Towers in the gift shop?
Mysterious indeed.
The day was still young enough for me to make my way up the coast to Fog City – San Francisco. I drove through the city to the world famous Pier 39 at Fisherman’s Wharf. ..then drove a couple more miles looking for a parking space.
I took to my feet and hoofed it back to the pier…
I saw boats and sea lions…
…and people. Gobs and gobs of people.
I wandered the pier, the big attractions are:
- The aquarium. A showcase of the wonders of the denizens of the deep and how God’s creations extend and adapt to reach every square inch.
- Seafood restaurants, where they cook said denizens and serve them with butter.
Anybody who knows me, knows that I don’t like seafood. Grosses me out. Except tuna fish.
What they don’t know is why. I blame science.
A teacher once made me look at a drop of water under a microscope. Ever since that moment, when I look at the ocean I see a giant drop of water, teeming with oversized bacteria. From flounders, to sharks…just weird bacteria. Gross.
I kept going and finally found The Chart House Restaurant. Way too fancy for my tastes, but, what the hell, I could treat myself and make some snobs uncomfortable. In I went.
I sat at the bar. Apparently, rich folks can better enjoy their status when given some scale. The restaurant provided an excellent view of Alcatraz. ..
I found it to be in poor taste. Suddenly I felt conspicuous. The bartender came over and did a little kow tow before taking my order.
Not wanting to appear to be a tourist, I played it cool while my mind raced about what the most San Franciscan thing I could think of was and how to incorporate it into my order…China Town? No. The Golden Gate Bridge? Nope. The 49ers? Nuh-uh. Homosexuals? Not even close. Hippies? I was getting lost here.
Finally, I blurted out, “I’ll have an order a Rice-a-Roni, my good man.” in my best rich-guy voice. I have discerned, from hours of television as a child that, “my good man” is how wealthy folks say, “please”.
I think he was a transplant. He didn’t seem to know what I was talking about and recommended the prime rib. I nodded. He asked how I wanted that cooked. I said, “Chicken fried, my good man.”
A few minutes later he came back and said that the chef would not do that and, it actually got ugly when he mentioned it.
My first beer had taken hold and I was much more relaxed. I decided to throw out all my old ways and embrace something new. I ordered the lobster bisque in a bread bowl and slurped it while gazing out at the prison.
My thoughts were of the lovely Trixie and how very much I wished she was here.
Once sated, I stumbled drunkenly back to my home on wheels, crawled into the back and napped until I felt the panic of sobriety wash over me. I drove until I was clear of the city, then slept some more.
And so I ramble on.