VOLUME VI, CHAPTER 8

courtesy NASA

THE GREAT SNEAKER RUN

December 10-17, 2011

Jeanine has survived the tenth annual “Absolutely Last Thanksgiving I’m Having For Everybody” despite the oven’s idiosyncratic thermostat that left the turkey raw after 3 hours and despite my having to take the annual sugar-free cheesecake directly from the refrigerator to the garbage disposal. The crowd thinned out a bit this year: two grandkids were between loves and came unescorted, another went to her other grandma’s, and one was tending his wife’s sheep in Norway, a circumstance that occasioned some thanksgiving—he has had his share of troubles and it’s good to see him settling into a life, even if it’s half a world away. One girlfriend declined, citing previous employment, and her daughter had a fight with someone and decided at the last minute to stay home and pout. So the Children’s Table was pretty small.

We have also survived the replacement of the dishwasher—a minimal inconvenience since we hadn’t used it for the last year—and the washing machine. And the fence that blew down in the epic windstorm. And our attempt to navigate around all the fallen trees in Pasadena the day after said windstorm. And Monday the electric company intends to shut off the power all day, for “planned maintenance.”

All of which is by way of noting that we are leaving town to sit and watch the ocean and breathe slowly in Carlsbad for a few days. It just worked out that our anniversary happens while we are down there, which saves me from having to find another gift. Just a coincidence, honest. It’s also (almost) just a coincidence that one of our [i.e., my] favorite guitarists, Jeff Linsky, whose concert here in Covina this week had to be cancelled, will be appearing in Carlsbad while we are there. I say almost because I had to juggle the dates a teeny bit to make that happen, but nobody needs to know that. The rejiggered schedule has us going on Monday, a day for which the local weatherman predicts up to an inch of rain. No matter: we’d much rather watch the rain come down on the ocean than on our patio.

The rain actually let up just as we got to Carlsbad, at least enough to permit a stop at the outlet mall so Jeanine could buy enough shoes to shame Imelda. All white sneakers.

We have an honest-to-God oceanfront room—nobody comes to Carlsbad in December—complete with the roar of the surf (it doesn’t really sound like the freeway). None of this “ocean view if you stick your head out the window and look waaay over there” for us this trip. We did see the sun over the water for a few seconds before it disappeared behind a wall of—Look! There it is again! Oh, wait, never mind—grey.

The thunder of the waves is only slightly muffled by the thunder of the rain and the occasional thunder of the thunder. If we get lightning over the water tonight, I might even get out the camera.

The heater/air conditioner is very modern-looking, with a nifty little remote control so you don’t have to get out of bed to adjust it. You can push the little “sun” icon for heating or the “snowflake” for cooling, and the up or down buttons to set the exact temperature you want. Which is unrelated to the exact temperature you get. The unit responds with an LED display of “H” or “C” and pumps out a minor gale of cold air, regardless of the setting. Now I know why there is a space heater in the closet. The management offered to bring down an additional heater--it’s a big room--or move us to one of the rooms off the ocean, where the salt air doesn’t ruin the heaters. I told him we would rather be cold and keep the view. So far.

The space heater didn’t look like much, but it was surprisingly effective. Kept the room at a temperature comfortable enough to walk barefoot on the carpet. So you can go to the bathroom at three in the morning. And walk on the unheated bathroom tile. And shriek loud enough to rouse three floors of vacationers. I slept in my socks the rest of the night, just in case.

The next morning was foggy, and it was cloudy most of the day. In the afternoon it cleared just as promised, with just enough clouds left for what may have been the most magnificent sunset ever. I say “may have been” because we didn’t see it. We abandoned our oceanfront posts to drive out to the Hyatt to hear a piano player (the guitarist’s wife, as it happens), following the directions on her website. The directions were spot on, her actual presence less so. Seems she had neglected to mention her plans to the management, so they had made other arrangements. We’re going back tomorrow—they confirmed that Jeff is playing—and hope to do better with the valet parking than a dollar a minute.

Jeanine was not all that disappointed to get out of there. She is more socially aware than I, and thus more uncomfortable when she feels underdressed. She assures me that the Hyatt (or anyplace with a thirty-foot ceiling in the lobby) is not the sort of place where one wears tennis shoes to high tea.

For a while I thought we might spend 4 days at the beach without actually going on the sand, but this morning it’s clear and warm (well, warm for December) so we maneuvered around the construction (construction’s what you do in December if you own a beachfront inn) and walked on the sand after breakfast. As good as standing on our balcony, plus sand in the shoes and the whipped-cream remains of the waves rushing up to soak your ankles if you’re not vigilant. What could be better than that?

One of Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum books later, the sun went down. While the sky was still pink I looked out and saw a man hunched over at the water’s edge, moving in and out with the tongue of water as it advanced and receded. After a few minutes he turned around and I saw he had a camera in his hand. Some weirdo.

Jeanine changed into one of her new pairs of sneakers—quite elegant—and we went back to the Hyatt, this time for Jeff Linsky. He was actually there. In fact, before his scheduled gig, he was accompanying his wife, Lisa, who was also there, playing for two hours before Jeff went on. Just like yesterday. Seems the hotel personnel knew she played on weekends, but everybody forgot that this week was different.

When Jeff moved into the lounge and began to play, he disappeared. People were talking and drinking and paying no attention to the genius in the corner. He was outstanding, as ever, but nobody but Jeanine and I noticed. Hotel lounges are black holes for musicians. It’s a hard life.

I hate this part. Time to pack up and go inland, i.e. home. I got up a little early so I could watch the ocean for a half-hour while Jeanine was getting ready. Eighty percent of the world’s people live near the ocean, and I don’t understand the other twenty percent. I don’t get Kansas. Sitting on the balcony, I realized I need to revise my online dating profile: I don’t really like long walks on the beach. This may be partly due to the fact that it’s becoming more difficult to walk on sand, but also when I’m walking I have to pay attention to where I’m going, and I tend to get distracted looking at beachfront houses that aren’t mine. I can’t just stay still and watch. I could stand in one place on the sand, I guess, but I’m happiest on a second-floor balcony, just looking and listening. I can do that for a long time. On a sunny day, I could spend all day just watching the ocean change color from dawn to dusk. It does good things for my body and spirit. If I lived at the beach I would make a point to spend thirty minutes every day just sitting and looking. I could set the alarm to make sure I got my full thirty min…oh, wait.

©2011 michael grossman. all rights reserved.