We found out from one of the locals dining next to us how to find the Pacific Coast Highway and, after stopping to get a good driving map of the state, we drove along the waterfront of La Jolla and continued on northward, toward Santa Monica. We drove through a string of beach towns, all a little touristy but most still charming and quaint. Some I remembered from visiting Nicole several years ago. We pulled over at the marina in Oceanside, right outside of the marine base at Camp Pendelton. It was a pretty little cove full of boats. I got out and snapped a few quick pictures.
For lunch, we pulled off the road in Laguna Beach to make some sandwiches (see post, "A few notes about Rocinante," for more details of that dining experience). We parked in a row of metered spots at the top of a park overlooking the ocean, and after lunch, I took a short walk to see the beach and the large rocks jutting out from the breaking waves. There were people there, walking on the rocks and playing in the sand, and I wished I could have been one of them, but there wasn't time; we had to keep moving. I was thankful for at least having a few minutes to myself in the sun on such a beautiful, warm day and remembered everyone back at home in freezing winter temperatures.
We were trying to get to Santa Monica for the night, so we kept on driving, stopping for a bit in Venice Beach to see all the "weird people" who my dad had seen featured on Jay Leno. He stopped two of the first people we saw, and here is what he said, almost exactly: "Excuse me. Do you live here?" They said no. "Well, we just got here, and I've heard there are a lot of weirdos here. Do you know where they are?" They sure didn't, especially since this was their first day there too, and they had just arrived from Italy! What a great first impression of Americans! As we walked off, I told him they probably thought he was one of the weirdos. He asked another couple a few minutes later but phrased it slightly better, and they pointed us to the boardwalk.
It was true, though, the place was full of weirdos. It was like some real-life circus side show. There were a lot of shiny, overly muscular, overly brown men parading around in speedos, and my favorite was the really old one with high-top black sneakers from the 80's, a huge mustache, and bones around his neck. He stood forever outside of a junk store holding a boombox with the antanae raised. There were basketball courts, paddle tennis courts (?), and a parking lot with one little section devoted to shirtless men hovering over their SUVs spraying them with bottles of cleaner to make the shiny even shinier. Then we saw some really crazy looking dude with all sorts of things fastened to him, rolling around on skates, playing some kind of electric-sounding guitar. Alien sidewalk art that you couldn't take a picture with unless you gave them money. Surfers. Bicyclists. Runners. Girls walking their little dogs and a man sitting in a lawn chair in the middle of the boardwalk oogling and yelling out things like "Hey honey, you looking fine today, and I like that little pet you got there too. Come on over. I got a little something for you over here." This was like the extreme sport version of people watching.
Since there was no place to park for the night in Santa Monica, we had to go a little further north, to Malibu. We stopped at a seafood market on the way into town to pick up something for dinner and found a nice campground right on the edge of the Pacific. My dad grilled while I washed our clothes in the campground laundry room. It was a great night to be outside. The day had been in the 80's, but the night was cooler and the Santa Ana winds were blowing a warm, brisk breeze over the cliffs.
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