Mission San Luis Rey, and mission San Diego de Alcala

Monday morning, Michael came with me to San Luis Rey.  He took me around Oceanside a little bit, showing me where he swims in ocean races, and where the best Mexican food is.   

 This mission is the largest of them all, though I seem to remember hearing that claimed somewhere else before.  Its huge white walls rise to a three tiered bell tower, then a high blue some, and a red cross. There are two blue domes with red crosses, one in front on the bell tower, and a bigger one over the crossing.  

  It’s the only remaining mission built in cruciform, and in the big dome’s oculus there is a little lighthouse where they used to hoist lanterns to light the pilgrims way. 

 They also have the oldest pepper tree in California,  

 and some really cool looking statues carved out of brick.    
Michael walked around with me for a bit, but didn’t stay for mass. I thanked him, and hugged him. I really hope I can visit again sometime. The mass was said by a Franciscan, the gospel was about Lazarus being raised from the dead.  
I spoke to the skinny old lady selling candles at the back of the church. She was really energetic, and had that old European beauty, like she was carved out of wood. She told me she’s dying of pancreatic cancer, and almost cried. I hugged her. I thought she could have easily made it to 100.
I walked to the Camino Real, much more established at this latitude, and hiked to Carlsbad by about 6pm. At a stoplight I met a guy about my age on a skateboard. He had a red beard, and was pretty white. He eyed my backpack, and I his skateboard. We were both traveling the same direction, and at that proximity it’s hard to resist conversation. His name was Evan, and he told me about the three months he spent driving a van around New Zealand with his girlfriend. Apparently so many people have this idea that there is a car buying season and a car selling season. He walked me all the way to the beach and along it for some time. The tide was high, and we had to clamber over the rocks in front of the beach houses to stay dry. Still, some more energetic waves got us up to the knee at some points. On the stairway back to the street we met a third character playing guitar to the ocean. Evan bought me a can of beer. 

  I watched a handful of kids playing in the waves, jumping and screaming and generally being dramatic, then I said goodbye to Evan and continued my walk. Within an hour I joined the other joggers, dog walkers, and surfers watching the sun set from the beach in south Carlsbad.  

 I alternated walking and watching. There was a low haze, but we could still see the dim orange outline of the sun as it fell slowly behind the ocean.  

We were all stopped, standing there on or above the beach watching the sunset together, and I felt a great sense of human brotherhood. Here, I thought, at least here we can all stop and turn together to the sea and the sun, and for those few minutes we were all united. What’s more, I knew it was not just the people on this beach, but people all up and down this coastline for thousands of miles were stopping with us at the end of their day and opening the windows of their souls to the same light. I wanted to say or do something, some signifying act to acknowledge our connection, with the sun, with each other, but I stayed silent and it was just as well.  

I thought that the old sun worshippers might have sung a hymn, but we have no such songs.
I fell into conversation with a guy standing nearby. His name was Kenny, he was about 50, Italian, skinny, and a chain smoker. He tells me he’s a Barber. He was stranded in Carlsbad, but, providing he could get someone to buy him some gas, tomorrow he wanted to drive to San Diego. He had food stamps, but no cash. I told him if he walked with me, I’d buy him some gas, then maybe camp on the beach and catch up with him in the morning. He talked most of the way, about how loving and forgiving God is, and how we are so blessed and have all we need, how cheap his truck was and how he had the free time to make this trip, about how this was the farthest south he had ever come before, and that he was maybe thinking about going to Mexico. We ended up walking several miles, well past dark, to a shell station where I bought him a gallon of gas. He was so grateful he said if we could find a Ralph’s he would buy me some dinner. We didn’t find a Ralph’s, but I paid for in-n-out and he said he would get breakfast. 

After burgers he began the long walk home and I slept by the beach in a the arms of a spreading eucalyptus.

We reunited in a parking lot next morning. His truck is a blue Ford F-150, late 70s probably, with a white camper shell and a lumber rack, on top of it he had a bike, a broken surfboard, a toaster oven, two tires, a strong box, and a set of shelves. Everything is amply tied down and bungee corded. Hard to miss. He boiled water in a Dr Pepper can with a blow torch, and made coffee. We got some breakfast and some cases of water from Ralph’s, and we stopped again at the Shell to make sure we had enough gas to get to San Diego. I bought exactly 5 gallons of gas, it was exactly $16. We were all ready to hit the road: Kenny was on top of the truck tying down the broken flap of surfboard, i threw my backpack in the camper and went inside to use the bathroom. When I came out, he was gone.
I know what you’re thinking: “geez how long were you in the bathroom?” But it wasn’t long. I waited a few minutes thinking maybe he went around the corner to check the tires, or maybe as a joke. I called him, he didn’t answer. I tried a few more times, eventually he turned off his phone.
  Throughout this trip, whenever I have set my pack down and walked away for a second, a part of me always thought “somebody might try to take my backpack!” And immediately another part of me says, “God, please let somebody take my backpack!” When I discovered that it had actually happened, I was so relieved I just laughed for nearly a half hour. It was finally done, it took the whole trip, and I couldn’t do it for myself, but I have finally been liberated. Luckily, I was left with exactly the items which I will describe. To wear: athletic shorts, wind pants, t shirt, rain shell, beanie, socks, and crocks. In my pockets I had my phone, my wallet, an orange lighter, two plastic spoons, a headlamp, some receipts and scraps of paper, a wristwatch, and a rosary. Talk about traveling light.  

I figured there was nothing left to do, and my last destination was at hand, so I walked out of Carlsbad by the beachfront road and was picked up by a guy and his girlfriend in town for a concert. They only took me a few blocks, but they said they might catch me after lunch as they continued towards San Diego. I walked past Encinitas, Solana Beach, and Del Mar before they picked me up again. His name is Sam, and her name is Ashley. They’re from opposite ends of Montana, and both in their twenties. They said they were going to meet some friends at the beach on the way down, and if I joined them, they would take me into San Diego afterwards. It was high time I swam in the ocean, I hadn’t gone to the beach at all really this whole trip. It took about an hour to find a nice beach without too many crowds, but once we did, the relief was palpable. We all three swam in the turquoise water, into the burning liquid orange sunset, riding waves, hollering. There were a handful of people out, about as many surfing as on the beach, but still plenty of room. Their friends arrived, all hippies, and I found out a little more about Sam: He owns a medical cannabis dispensary in Spokane, and his business has almost tripled in the past six months. Hundreds of thousands of dollars this guy makes. Doesn’t seem fair somehow. And yes, his girlfriend is gorgeous.
They wanted me to come with them to their concert, a jam-grass band called Cheese, but I had to decline. It was tempting, but I needed to find somewhere to sleep, and I wanted to be near the mission. They brought me to the middle of the city, and gave me a phone charger.
I walked five miles in the dark, hungry, cold, tired, wondering how I was going to stay warm tonight since my sleeping bag was gone. I passed several thrift shops and wished I could get some less goofy clothing to bolster my credibility with the natives, but they were all closed for the night and I didn’t really need clothes anyway. It’s a pilgrimage, not a fashion show.
  I made it to Mission San Diego at around 2am and fell asleep on a bench. I only slept a few hours before waking up stiff and freezing, almost unable to move. I started walking to get the blood moving again, and with hopes of finding something to keep me warm. I saw in the moonlight, on the roadside, a collection of bags and articles stacked neatly together as if waiting for someone. I thought they might belong to some homeless person, or maybe they were donations for a nearby thrift shop. it didn’t really matter; I picked through and found a rug just big enough to roll up in. I took it knowing that I would be up again early, and that it could be returned before the owner even noticed.
I slept again on the steps of the mission, wrapped pathetically in my zebra print rug, trying hard all night to keep covered but never quite able to close the gaps. 
At 6 I got up and brought the rug back, but the collection it belonged to had moved on. I folded it neatly and left it where I found it, hoping it might be recovered, and feeling like I had just robbed a poor man.  
The mission was still closed, but the side gates had been opened for the early mass. I wandered around for half an hour or so in the blue early dawn, seeing much the same things I have been seeing for weeks: white adobe walls, carved wooden doors, red tile roofs, gardens of flowers and succulents, statues of St Francis, and Mary, and the crucifix. These features have been often duplicated, by restaurants, by hotels, by train stations, etc., but it doesn’t make the missions feel cheap or seedy, it still feels authentic, timeless.
  The interior was much like any of the others; a narrow nave, tall ceilings with large beams, wooden pews, darkly painted portraits of the saints hanging between the stations of the cross, Mary and St. Joseph flanking Christ. The altar and the walls were not as ornate as other missions, but I kind of liked the plain colors and simplicity, it reminded me that I wasn’t here for the decorations.
I didn’t stay long after mass was over, but made my way into the city to try to find a train back north. Everything I walked by last night looks so different in the light of day. From here it is just sitting in trains and reflecting over what just happened. I have already passed several familiar towns, seen places where I met people, and been reminded of a night I spent camping only blocks away tucked into some inconspicuous corner of a garden or park. These past five weeks have flown by, but then I can’t believe how much I’ve done.
 I have constantly had to remind myself “I am a pilgrim first, everything else comes second,” but now, as I reflect, I find it hard to say exactly what that did. What have I shared with these people I’ve met, these friends I’ve made? Only a few moments or a few hours out of our whole lives, but these meetings will not soon be forgotten. What have I seen of the cities, of the land, of the culture? Only minuscule samples, a cross section, a snapshot, but still more than I could have imagined. What has come of this time, what great final lesson, what secret wisdom, what mysterious strength has come from this undertaking? I can’t say.  I feel stronger, but would I notice if I grew in patience or fortitude? I have a better idea of what the coast looks like south of Santa Cruz, but am I better prepared to navigate my own life?

Mission San Juan Capistrano

   
 On the train ride I met a couple, Tim and Elaine, who asked me to join them for a drink once we got off in SJC.  They took me to a bar in an old train car where we drank gin and tonic and talked about adventure, getting old, and family drama.  They left to celebrate with the crowds and I to find a bed.

San Juan Capistrano was packed with people there to celebrate the return of the swallows, though, as a girl in the coffee shop assured me, the swallows haven’t returned for years, it’s just an excuse to get drunk on Main Street.  I had just made my last meal on dry fruit and almonds from my backpack, so I didn’t really feel like eating that again. I walked around looking for a cheap dinner, but the Mexican grill was packed with people dancing to live music, plus there was a over charge, and the Italian restaurant was $30 a plate.  I ran into Tim and Elaine again, and Tim gave me $10 or the cover charge.  Nobody asked me for cover, so I used it to buy a burrito instead.  The band was too loud to hear anybody talking, but I tried to smile and be friendly as I watched all the people.  I met several drunk festival goers who had no reason to befriend me except for the obviously hilarious spectacle of my huge backpack.  Some lady who worked in real estate (I know because she gave me her card) started introducing me to everybody.  I don’t know if even she knew them, but they mostly just kept dancing.  The burrito was delicious, but it just made me tired, and I wasn’t about to spend time and money prolonging my reason for being crammed into tight quarters with a bunch of strangers, too drunk to get this old, so I slipped out and crossed the street to the mission.  I slept in the basilica garden, right under the bell tower, huddled up against the wall.

I woke to the bells ringing at 6:30, packed up, and went to coffee to wait for 7:30 mass. I brushed my teeth in their bathroom and had some tea.  The woman behind the counter seemed to like me, but I had no time.  At 7:15 I went to mass in the mission.  I had forgotten that it was daylight saving time again, so I was an hour behind, but I had also gotten the wrong mass time, so I was only 15 minutes late.  It was a traditional Latin Mass, and the house was packed.  It took me most of mass to get past the front door, and I still couldn’t hear much of what was being said.  After mass, some of the men met me at the door and I explained myself.  They walked me to the street and gave me directions to St. Michael’s Abbey where I have a friend I want to visit.  As they all parted ways, one of them invited me to breakfast with them at a bar across the street, Hennessey’s.  

“Just like Catholics to hit the bar after Mass.” I joked.

“We just get breakfast and coffee” he assured me, but I think he misunderstood. I got bloody Marys and Eggs Benedict.

I ate with four gentlemen usher of the church, and we talked about this n that.  I of course got plenty of questions and congratulations.  One of the men, Michael, said that he could drive me up to St. Michaels since he lives in that direction.  They bought my breakfast, something I’m going to miss after this trip is over.

At Saint Michaels, Their mass was almost over, so we waited outside.  Michael met a couple coming out, and seemed very happy to see them.  He later told me that they used to sit together in mass, and the husband was his mentor in a way when he became an usher.  

I asked one of the priests if Frater Jude was available, it took some time to find him, but he came out excited and hugged me like a long absent brother.  During lent, they do not receive visitors, but he got permission to speak with me for a few minutes. We spoke briefly, I explained my trip in as few words as possible, he laughed and congratulated me, and asked me to pray for him.  Apparently he’s having a hard time of it right now.

Michael said I could stay with him in Santa Anna, so we went back to his house and listened to reggae music.  His neighbors came over to meet me and we talked about my trip, the Catholic Church and mystical experience.  At one point someone said, “The church isn’t magic, but it is magical.”

Mission San Gabriel Arcangel

  In San Fernando, I called Carroll and asked him to give me a ride back to Pasadena.  I know that’s cheating, but I didn’t want to backtrack for another two days, and I don’t think it’s necessary to artificially prolong this trip just so I can end in San Diego on Easter.  I spent one more night at the big empty house.

I planned to leave before ten the next morning and make San Gabriel around lunchtime, but things never go as planned.  That morning I had the feeling in the back of my mind that I had forgotten something important.  I checked on all my chores and deadlines, and discovered that a job application deadline was about to expire. This is not something I wanted to miss, so I spent the morning putting the whole thing together (with a little help from my mom, since I was only working with an IPhone).  

I left the house at around noon: frustrated and rushed.  I had also left my walking stick, my sword, and my hat in Carrolls car which he took to work, but I didn’t want to waste another day.  I waked south towards L.A. expecting to make it in a couple of hours, but I got stopped by a rain shower at about 2:00, and I stood under the awning of a Chinese restaurant while the rain swept in.  A Chinese couple poked their heads out of the door to see the rain.  When they saw me they beckoned me in out of the rain.  The restaurant was dead, except for a handful of Chinese men in the corner.  The couple brought me some tea, and resumed their leanings behind the counter, talking in low tones and watching the rain.  They said I didn’t have to buy anything, but I was freezing, and hadn’t eaten yet, so I got some fried noodles: homemade, fat, and pretty spicy. Something like spaghetti in the final reckoning.  The couple were sitting in a booth across the restaurant absorbed in their phones.  I went over and asked if they would mind some conversation.  Their names were Lisa and Leon.  I asked them how they liked living in LA, and they said there were too many Chinese. Lisa’s English was pretty good, as it turns out she had gone to college in Kansas.  Leon Wanted to learn to speak English better, but he says he can go all week without having to use English because everyone he comes into contact with speaks Chinese.  They asked me what is the appropriate attention for a waiter to give the customers.  In China, People expect their waiters to be silent and not make eye contact, but here they are supposed to smile and make conversation, they didn’t really know where the line was.  I asked them why they left China, and they said Chinese are corrupt, selfish, and superficial.  I wondered why they came to Southern California.  They also couldn’t understand why the N word was so taboo when black people used it all the time.  I told them there was nothing to understand, just make sure not to use it.  The rain let up, and I left them.

  I reached San Gabriel around sunset, paced around looking for a spot to sleep, and ducked into a tea bar to charge my phone.  It was the only thing open.  My first impression was that it was cheaply furnished, and that everyone was Chinese.  I saw one black guy, and one white guy, both there with Chinese dates.  I didn’t stay too long, because they were getting busy and I was occupying a table.  As I got up, I asked the waitress if there was a coffee shop I could visit in the morning.  She was visibly offended and just said “I have no idea.” 

I slept next to the mission, behind some shrubs, between the buttresses.  In the middle of the night an old Mexican man poked me awake and asked me what I was doing there.  I said I was a pilgrim here to see the missions, he said I could stay, and if the cops came, just tell them Manny said it was ok.

  I woke up early, as happens when you sleep outside, and found a coffee shop to write in.  I picked this place because they roast their own coffee, but it was terrible.  I lost track of time, me it was noon before I got back to the mission.

Mission San Gabriel was founded in 1771.  The church is built of cut stone and mortar rather than adobe, and has some distinctly moorish characteristics such as tall capped buttresses, geometric designs, and horseshoe arches.  There is a large collection of religious paintings in the museum, including the oldest existing religious paintings done by native Americans, a stations of the cross series which is very detailed.  One legend tells of the party sent out to found this mission: The missionaries traveled up from San Diego in search of a good place to build thGabriel Valley, and as they were deliberating where to put the church a band of Indians came as if to drive them away.  One of the priests took out a painting of Our Lady of Sorrows and presented it to the Indians.  They were so struck by the beauty of the painting that they offered the priests signs of friendship, and that was the beginning of the mission.  In the early years of a mission, before they learned each other’s languages, religious art was the primary avenue for transmitting the faith to the natives.  The missionaries brought with them paintings and statues, and used sign language to try to give some impression of what they meant.   In time, the natives began producing their own religious art.

I calculated that if my pilgrimage was to last the duration of Lent, then I would have two weeks to see three missions.  On the other hand, if I pushed my schedule, I could try to be home by St. Patrick’s day.  I checked busses to San Juan Capistrano, and found one leaving from my block in three minutes. I looked up to see the very bus stopped at the light in front of me, and the stop was just the other side of the light.  I haven’t had to run with my pack on yet, though I’ve gotten pretty much used to the weight, but at that moment I knew I had to run to catch that bus.  I ran straight through a garden, past two wedding parties taking photographs, and right through traffic, my bag squeaking and bouncing all the way.  I passed the bus and waved my arms wildly at the driver as I neared the bus stop.  His light turned green, but I was almost there, still running and waving and shouting.  We reached the bus stop at the same time, but he drove right by without any sign of acknowledgement.  I watched the bus in disbelief as it rode off into the distance, the number was right, I just hadn’t made it to the stop in time.  I wasn’t too worried, I ate and drank and made myself comfortable for the hour it took for another bus to come round, then I rode into Union Station in downtown LA, bought a ticket for the next train to San Juan Capistrano, which was only 9 minutes away, and ran again down the corridor to my platform, barely making it onboard in time before the doors closed and the trip was underway.

Remedial Post: On Native Mistreatment.

An old friend, whom I respect and admire, checked me on my last post.  Specifically, on how easily I appeared to accept one historian’s complete dismissal of native abuse at the missions.  She was horrified that I (or anyone) would flatly deny the inhuman treatment the natives received at the hands of settlers, and, true to form, sent me several links and articles about mission cruelty. She’s perfectly rightful do so.  Frankly, if I was trying to categorically deny crimes committed by the Spanish against the Indians, or to propagate some nefarious misinformation out of loyalty to a secret society, or really if I tried to make any claim in support of which I boasted no authority, or provided no evidence… well, I’m just surprised nobody else has brought it to my attention.  With that said, I should clarify what actually transpired in my conversation, how I understood it, and leave you to argue among yourselves. 

I asked him what the fuss was about, meaning, what would lead us to think in the first place that natives were enslaved or abused at the missions at all?  Now, anyone is free to say that religion is its own form of oppression, or that European occupation of the New World devastated the existing culture, or that soldiers with guns intimidated the natives, I can understand all these points, but these are seperate questions.  My question was simply “What is all the fuss about mission cruelty?” 

Granted:

1. None of us were there.

2. The records were kept by the Spanish.

3. I am only reporting this man’s response.

His short answer was “nothing” (seems dismissive, but he was on his way out, and seemed impatient to leave).  He further explained (I paraphrase), “None of the typical events which people use to illustrate native mistreatment in early California happened on the missions during the mission era.”  In other words, California’s early history is full of beatings, battles, murders, displacement, enslavement, oppression, dehumanization, and genocide, but it is a gross misrepresentation to say the missions kept the natives as slaves, or that it was common practice for priests and soldiers to rape native girls, etc.

The trouble is, this is exactly the opinion most people have (I’m talking about people whom I have spoken to on this trip, and a few friends): that missionaries were just corrupt European officials in a now obsolete religio-political order of the Spanish empire, who led armies into virgin lands, forced the natives into slavery to build their fortresses and grow their food, who killed and raped at will, and effectively operated as rich, new-world dictators while their military support lasted.  I’m not trying to be facetious, that’s just what I imagine from their descriptions.  To say this never happened to the natives at all would be incorrect,  but what the gentleman in the archives said was that there is no reason to say that this was the practice, or worse, the intent of the missions.

As I said, none of us were there, and for all we know the old gentleman could be wrong. He could be wrong as easily as any other source, it’s just not clear what really happened.  Why is there such a difference of opinion on the facts?

 It’s possible this man wants to defend the Catholic missionaries because he is himself Catholic (e.g. “We must preserve the unspotted reputation of Holy Mother Church at all costs!” Though I don’t know if the church has ever really had a spotless reputation, nor that it would really matter), but the opposite possibility –that post-Christian historians are willing to defend the native minority group (everyone loves an underdog) and blame the church (rich white bastards) simply because they themselves are post-Christian– is no less likely.  I’m not taking a side here, nor do I think we’re really as polarized as all that, but if it’s wrong to believe a historian who says the Franciscans were not tyrants, then what of believing the historian who calls them monsters?  I want to say that the same thing can be applied to the Romans, Saxons, or Mongols (who showed much less trepidation about raping and enslaving the conquered), but few people have such lingering feelings about what bastards the Vikings were.  

So, to be clear, he wasn’t denying that the natives were mistreated by the Spanish, the Mexicans, or the Americans.  He didn’t say that the missions were little slices of heaven.  He only said that the really notable examples were not related to the mission program, and that tyranny at the missions has been greatly exaggerated.  You can weigh his account against others, you can doubt his integrity, or you can question his sanity (he is, after all, a Catholic), but that’s what he told me.  

I know that being religious doesn’t exempt you from sadism, lust, inhumanity, greed, self worship, or any other evil that humans can conceive.  Argument aside, the worst allegations may be true, of the missions, of the priests, of the whole undertaking, and if it is, and we have evidence for it, then we need to own that and make it right.  But I will not say that I “know” the missions were slave camps, that the Catholic Church is just a corrupt political parasite, or that Junipero Serra was a tyrant without the same basis of evidence.

Mission San Fernando Rey de Espania

  Slavery has come up a lot recently.  Many people, when I mention my errand, remind me that the missions were just forced labor camps in disguise.  Of course, the man on the street is free to make whatever claims he likes without evidence, but neither am I ignorant to the reality of human failure.  Either way, the possibilities have been bothering me.  

I met Leon yesterday morning, drinking on a remote bus stop, wrapped in knotted blankets, his helmet of dreadlocks tucked under an enormous beanie, surrounded by a small audience of trash bags, paper bags, shopping carts, takeout containers, clothes, and various roadside flotsam.  He couldn’t possibly have been carrying it all with him, but sitting there in the dust and sun he looked – in a twisted, tribal, post-apocalyptic way – like an aristocrat surrounded by luggage on a train platform.  He was quite lucid (it was still early) so I asked his advice on where I should sleep.  He suggested the hills north of the freeway, unless I had open food containers, in which case the coyotes would give me trouble.  He also reminded me that we were coming into rattlesnake season, and I should keep my bag zipped up all the way.   So, basically anywhere was fine.  I asked him if he needed anything, he said no.

I was reminded of Ted Cass, another homeless man I met in San Raphael.  Ted was a recovered alcoholic, 20 years clean, living on the streets because his house had burnt down.  Besides his luggage, he could have passed for a college professor, or a wealthy retiree. Khakis, collar, v-neck sweater, glasses.  He compared addiction to slavery, and when I asked him what made him quit he just shook his head grimly and said, “rock bottom.”

I looked back at Leon. He didn’t seem too bad, downright cheerful, but if it took Ted 40 years to hit rock bottom, I wondered what that would look like for Leon.

Carroll gave me a waterproof bivy-sack to cover my sleeping bag, which holds heat in better and keeps the rain out, but because it doesn’t breathe really well it gets kind of clammy inside. He also gave me a new pair of sunglasses (orange). As I was helping him pack up to move, he offered me an old straw sombrero with “Chevy’s fresh Mex” embroidered on it. I politely declined, but The next day I came across it again as I was brushing my teeth and thought, “who am I kidding?.” 

There were alarms last night. They went off two or three times, and lasted for hours.   I was also restless about snakes coming into my sleeping bag, but I don’t think they are quite so numerous as my imagination led me to believe, so I came out of the tree.  

I walked about seven miles through city neighborhoods.  The residents seemed unimpressed.  I guess I’ve started expecting people to ask what I’m up to, especially considering my new hat, but I hardly got any acknowledgement. 

I walked  past a golf course and into La Tuna Canyon where I finally stuck my thumb out and cought a ride.  There was plenty of shoulder, but Ron just stopped his dust-brown Taurus in the middle of the road, so I got in quickly.  He thought I was cheating to hitchhike, but I argued that it would take too long without.  Even so, the truth is I hitchhike mostly to get off my feet.  Ron has never been religious (though he believes in the golden rule) but he appreciated my trip for his own reasons.  He didn’t want me to pray for anything particular, but he said something interesting as he dropped me off.   
“Just, next time you do something nice, or give somebody money or something, just think of me.”  

What could that mean?  He didn’t want to ask God for anything, but he still wanted me to remember him in connection with some charitable act.  Was it for my sake, or for God’s, or maybe to make a small deposit on his soul?  Notice he didn’t only say “pay it forward” but “mention me when you do.”  

I found the Mission overrun by schoolchildren, many speaking excitedly in Spanish.  The lady at the gift shop told me as she took my money that the church was being used for funeral services today, and wrote 11:30 to 11:50 on my map.  I was confused.  

“You men there’s a funeral from 11:30 to 11:50?”  

“No,” she said, “the only time the church is free today is from 11:30 to 11:50.”

Don’t take this to mean that the church has a vibrant parish life, it is not a parish at all.  There is still Mass on Sunday, but there is no resident priest or office.  It is effectively a museum.

I walked around the grounds waiting for 11:30 to roll around.  The kids had funneled out and the grounds were more or less deserted.  A screen of bamboo, oak, and cypress separated the city from the grassy mission grounds. I followed a fence along the old stone aqueduct up into a shady stand of trees where the water came bubbling out of a raised stone cistern.  Standing on the edge of the water, not twenty feet from me a grey falcon waded in the water, dipping its head to drink, but always watching me out of one eye.  I watched him for as long as I could stand motionless, but eventually I had to shift, and he flew into a tree. 

I checked the church at 11:37 to find the funeral still in full swing, some lady talking serenely about his career in manufacturing. I didn’t want to bother anyone, but the church was almost empty, so I decided to just slip quietly in the back.  Of course, the door made a horrible grinding noise as I opened it, and everyone turned around to glare at me.  I just tried to look mournful, and took a pew with the bereaved.  I sort of forgot that I was wearing bright red shorts, but nobody said anything.  People will wear anything to funerals these days.

I wanted to avoid interrupting any funeral services, so I thought I would wait for this one to end, then take a few pictures before the other one set up.  I had no idea the other family was literally waiting in the wings with an oversized portrait of their own, and would begin occupation even before the first family had completely left.  I had to go in with my bright red shorts once again, my second interrupted funeral in ten minutes, to snap some hasty photos over the heads of grieving ladies, and retreat outside before anyone said anything.

I had no idea that Bob Hope was burried next to mission San Fernando.  The church exits right into the Bob Hope Memorial Garden, so I really didn’t have a choice. The pamphlet doesn’t say anything about Bob being Catholic, and it may have been his wife’s doing, but it’s a pretty specific grave site, and over the couple’s headstone there is a sculpture of the holy family at rest during the flight into Egypt.  

I suddenly realized that the only way back into the mission was through the church.  I asked the security guard if there were another way around, but he only spoke Spanish.  So, once more, I paraded my red shorts and hiking boots through a sombre church. 

On my way out, the lady at the register asked if I had seen the diocesan archives.  I had no idea there were any diocesan archives, but followed her directions to one of the old buildings to see what I was missing..  It was a small library, maybe thirty feet square, full of rare books, glass cases of reliquaries, and paraphenalia from high ranking church authorities and foreign dignitaries.  A walk through was about all I could fit in, but I know several people who could have spent a lifetime there.  There was an ancient woman sitting with her head down, stuffing envelopes in the middle of the room.  I assumed she saw me come in, as I made no special attempts to be quiet, but right as I was about to leave she got up as if startled and directed me to sign the guestbook.  I told her I already had, and she looked confused.  I asked If I might direct my questions to her, but she got flustered and started talking about several things at once.  She eventually said I could ask the Monsignor my questions after he got off the phone, since he was the official historian.  I only got a couple of minutes with him, but I asked him what events people are referring to when they say the missions were slave camps.  I’ve tried to ask anybody who has that notion what makes them say that, but they have nothing concrete to bring up, so what’s all the fuss about?  

“Nothing.” He said.

I had expected something more in the defensive.   

“You mean there were no conflicts?”

“I mean that the missions, as missions, never mistreated the Natives, but the mission era didn’t last that long.  There were plenty of abuses during wartime, or the gold rush. 

That’s about all I got out of him. He may have been right or wrong or he may have just been telling me what he thought I wanted to hear. He may have thought I was a journalist, an activist, or a terrorist, but that’s what he told me and he’s about as good a source as it gets.

There’s no easy way to explain the past few days.  Adam drove me to Pasadena where Carroll is living in a giant four-story house with his cousin and another roommate.  Carroll’s uncle is getting ready to sell the house, so it’s completely empty of all furnishings except for some mattresses, a couch, a television, and littered what clothes and personal possessions three 20-year-old men live with.  There was no toilet paper.  They had to be out by the end of the week, so I helped them move a few light boxes and stuff during the day.  At night, we would congregate in the long open front room, drinking cheap beer and telling jokes and stories.  I slept late these mornings, and spent the days alone mostly; writing, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, stretching on the sunny patio, playing music, reorganizing my backpack as if I could somehow make it easier to carry.   Carroll’s roommate Ruben has a white husky/wolf mix named Lucy who he leaves in the house while he’s gone.  You can hear her howling upstairs when he’s gone sometimes.  Ruben moved all his stuff out on Monday and Tuesday, and left for Mexico this morning for ten days.  He left Lucy behind for Carroll to take care of, but Carroll has to move out too, and has nowhere to take her.  I planned on leaving Tuesday, and could have, and should have, but Carroll had the day off and I stuck around to spend time with him.  We mostly talked about friends and things we shared in common, we also talked about our plans, and about girls.  We smoked too much, and drank beer all day.  We dropped his cousin David off to record music and ended up at Ralph’s to buy cheese.  Carroll and I both love cheese, and it just seemed like the right thing to invest in for dinner.  We each picked out a good one, and we got frackers, French bread, salami, and olives.  There were no chairs in the house, so we ate it reclining in front of the fireplace with Miller light and whiskey.  We tried to record some music intermittently throughout the day, but we didn’t know how to operate the program, so it took forever, and we didn’t get much done.  

Today I woke up to an empty house again, and forced myself to leave.  It’s so easy to stay at a house like this, where nobody expects anything of you besides maybe some light cleaning up after yourself, where time and the rest of the world seem not to exist the same way because your surroundings are so simplified and unchanging.  It reminded me of so much time spent idle at friends houses during my teens. 

I walked through residential neighborhoods of Pasadena, west, back toward San Fernando.  I made it twelve miles today, and I’ve found a good camping spot near a coffee shop, in a thicket between two freeways.  

Mission San Buenaventura

  It’s easy to write about people you don’t really know –strangers, bums, random encounters– because you can say what you want without fearing any backlash; for being unflattering, or for telling too much.  When you write about friends, family, or anyone who might be identifiable it becomes much harder.  

  I got to Mass at mission San Bonaventura right in the middle of the homily, and stood in the back of the crowded church listening to the Indian priest talk. Mother Theresa served the poor, he said.   These are not the kind of poor who just can’t afford things, but the kind of poor who have no things. Can we imagine that? Could we spend one day with nothing, sitting in the dust without anything to distract us; unclothed, unfed, unoccupied?  What would we see?  Mother Theresa said that when she came to America she encountered a new kind of poverty much worse than physical want: a spiritual starvation.  People with full bellies, but empty hearts; people with the world at their fingertips, but still grasping at straws.  

  What is it we’re doing so wrong? I don’t know, but I think if we ever did get our heads screwed on straight and actually think up a perfect society, it would bear a striking resemblance to what the Popes have already recommended.  

  This was the ninth mission chronologically, and Junipero Serra’s last.  It was founded in 1782, two years before he died. Like Santa Barbara, it has its back to the mountains and it overlooks the sea. It is the only mission to have had wooden bells, a sound which I’ve never heard, and can’t really imagine.  I spoke to a woman outside the church who said nothing particularly interesting, and we went home.  I’ve noticed the Eucharistic wines are very good at some of these churches.

Mission Santa Barbara, or La Misión de La Señora Bárbara, Virgen y Mártir

  Apparently the cops did come last night.  Shaun, on his way out, found them combing the park for homeless campers.  Apparently someone had telephoned the police to report suspicious persons entering the park with large backpacks, and not exiting.  I don’t know the details, but somehow he got them off my scent.  

I broke camp before daybreak and walked quickly into town.  I found a coffee shop and wrote for a while, but my back gets sore if I sit too long; what I really needed was a bar. I went across the street to Durf’s Bar and Grill, right as they opened at about 10 am and spent the majority of the day writing again.   It was quiet for a few hours, then some guys came in for breakfast and sat right next to me detailing all their sexual exploits at the top of their lungs.  It was fascinating.  They tried to trick me into buying them shots, and couldn’t understand why I would want to travel in California.  They left without paying.  

I wrote late, and only made it back to the mission an hour before they closed.  I met some people who were also walking the mission trail – actually walking it, but in installments– a week at a time, over several years.   The mission is very much a museum, and handfulls of people walk aimlessly through the courtyard taking pictures and checking their phones.  I decided to just take the remaining hour at the mission rather than try to come back again tomorrow, and I got permission to stow my pack in the parish office.  

  
 Mission Santa Barbara sits on a hillside overlooking the ocean.  The whole city of Santa Barbara is basically built on one great gradual slope, only a few miles wide, running from the Santa Ynez mountains and foothills down to the palm lined beaches of the Pacific Ocean.  Vegetation is abundant, and the majority of buildings are markedly influenced by Spanish and Moroccan architecture.  

  
   These pictures are of the county courthouse, an especially Moroccan example.

 The tour was pretty simple, I might call it streamlined.  Visitors pass in one direction through rooms of artifacts and explanatory plaques (much like the other missions), then are guided by rope barriers through a part of the gardens and cemetery, finally entering the church through a side door.  

  It’s hard to give a fair impression after seeing so many missions, but there were some remarkable sculptures in the church:  
The risen Christ with Mary Magdalene by the tomb,   

Saint Francis of Assisi,  

  
 and Saint Claire of Assisi. 

 In the front were large paintings of the Coronation,  

 and the Crucifixion.  

  I’ve noticed some of the missions mention the influence of Vitruvius architecture, but at best nothing more than “his style is the model of the Roman temple,” or “featuring proportionality and order.”  Not much to go off of, but the Classical influence is evident.   
 I went back to the office for my backpack, and found a willowy doe-eyed girl behind the desk.  I asked her if she could tell me anything about Saint Barbara.   

 She answered that Saint Barbara was a virgin princess in Asia Minor who, during her father’s absence, had a third window installed in her tower to signify the trinity.  Upon his return, her outraged father had her beheaded, and was immediately struck by lightning.  She is considered the patroness of protection from sudden deaths, such as lightning, and explosion.  This young lady behind the desk had also recently played Saint Barbara in a film production, so I guess I asked the right person.  I asked about mass times, she said there were none until Saturday night, but stations of the cross began in half an hour.  Soup would be served after.  So, I went to stations of the cross, and met a bunch of lay Franciscans. At the long wooden table in their dining hall, I told them all about my pilgrimage, at which they congratulated me warmly and offered me a second helping of rolls and minestrone.  My conversation revolved mostly around the mission, and I was directed to a docent named Dean Wood.  When he found out my sleeping arrangements, or the lack rather, he offered me his spare room.  He used to teach Chemistry and Biology, but is retired and now volunteers at the church.  He lives alone, but has family within visiting distance.  Next morning he took me into Mass, and I stayed on for a monthly meeting and discussion group.  It reminded me a lot of the discussions I used to do in college; we split into teams and answered some questions, highlights delivered by spokesperson to the whole room at the end.  It was kind of nice to discuss with a group, but in the end, it was just us and our opinions.  

I wrote for awhile at a coffee shop before getting ahold of some old school chums in Ventura: Carroll and Adam.  Carroll is having a spot of bad luck with his car, so Adam picked me up with his friend Evan, a hella good rapper.  We drank rolling rock and listened to Evan rap like Eminem, 50 cent, & Hop Sin, then he just freestyled for days on anything we threw out at him.  Extremely tallented, but he’s not really doing anything with it.  I told him to get up and make an album, for his own sake if for nothing else.  It doesn’t get much lazier than a rapper who won’t even record.  

From the Mountains to the Sea: I which I procure some necessary items, meet a French couple in a tavern, enjoy a fire, sleep in a hamoc, descend from the mountains, and am directed by a Buddhist to camp among the rich.

The foot traveler has a unique perspective on his surroundings.  The car, even the bike, travel too quickly to allow for that slow pace of approach so necessary to obsorbtion, while foot travel puts you at ground level with your habitat.  Stopping, for example, becomes much easier, as do conversations, and turning on a dime for sudden detours.  The danger, of course, is bodily injury, either getting hit by a car or twisting your ankle, etc. and being pursued by a fast animal.  This last one hasn’t happened yet, but I have heard coyotes howling almost every night, and seen a few signs warning of mountain lions.

I left as early as was convenient, after coffee is what I mean, venturing out of the quaint village of Solvang, across the plains, and climbing into the wooded hills. I knew today would be a walking day, 20 miles by dark was my goal, so I tried to set a good pace from the beginning.  Walking down the road with my pack, I felt like a character in an old world fantasy, the kind where characters undergo much journeying, meet strange characters, see marvels, acquire useful items, learn magic.  I couldn’t help but compare myself to the protagonist of a popular game, a Lincoln green clad youth who travels throughout the land, slaying monsters in ancient temples, castle dungeons, woods, and deserts.  I had engaged no monsters, at least none I could recognize.  I came to a spoon in the road, which made my brain twitch for a second. It was ornate. I picked it up thinking “someone should wash this.”

The road began to narrow, and I was forced into the trees running beside.  It slowed the going considerably, but I had to walk along with traffic over bridges, and as often as traffic stopped I would return to the clean, even asphalt.   A little while later, I found a brightly colored kite with about 50 feet of string still attached. I thought it would increase my visibility, make a good warning to drivers coming around the corner, and it was light, so I took it along.

The roads got steeper, and I found a steel walking stick.  Probably a surveying tool of some kind, but it was sturdy, and helped my balance and speed.  I tied the kite to the front like a great multicolored shield, and resumed my pace.  All I needed now was a sword.

An encroaching hill forced me to cross, and on the other side I found my weapon.  It was a slim black radio antenna, with the tip broken off, about 24 inches in length.  It was strong, hard to bend, and sprang back to shape with vigor.  “Ha,” quoth I, “this sword and a quick eye will defend me from any beast or blackguard.” And stowed my rapier behind the shield.

I walked about 15 miles before the dark came.  I finally came to a car stopped at a scenic outlook, and a middle aged man taking pictures.  I broke the ice with some discerning comments about cold colors, and the available light, then he politely asked me if I wanted a ride somewhere.  That’s a kind soul, not even waiting for a man to ask.  His name was Terry, and he said he had to warn his wife first.  I was introduced to Ava, obviously European, bright, poised, and youthful, extremely classy, but too well bred to make me feel like anything short of an old friend.  I remarked that I hadn’t seen any Danes in Solvang, she said she was Hungarian, I said that was an excellent compromise.

Terry said they used to go out to a place nearby called The Cold Springs Tavern, famous for their cider.  This was over forty years ago, which seemed far too long ago for people of their youthful appearance.  I told Terry he must be doing something right, and asked how he managed to land such a lovely European woman.  He said he was hitchhiking.  I thought he was joking.  The story goes, her roommate and best friend, also named Ava, picked Terry up and introduced them, there was chemistry.  Turns out all three of them have the same birthday, same year and everything.  I offered to buy them a commemorative drink, but they had to drive to LA, and they politely declined.  I was dropped off after dark, and hid myself a few minutes to change into something more suitable for dinner.

Down a winding one lane road we found the Cold Spring Tavern: an old stagecoach stop tucked under the trees in a corner of the Santa Ynez mountains, just inside Los Padres National Forest.  It is an ancient, wooden structure with a low ceiling, old carved wooden doors, exposed beams, small windows, and very dim lighing, as if from gas lamps.  It is heated solely from a wood stove in the middle of the dining room, which was frequently fussed over by a hurried man.  It smoked a little.  I was reminded of a hunting and fishing cabin I have seen on the shores of Silver Lake.  I ate two baskets of bread with too much butter, and ordered venison sausage stuffed mushrooms, and a liter of porter.  You can just imagine how I enjoyed dipping the accompanying cheese-toast in the mushroom venison jus.

A young couple came in half an hour before closing time.  I could tell they were foreign because they had that slightly awkward, quiet trepidation upon entering the establishment; also they spoke French, a dead giveaway. They heard me telling my story to the bartender, and asked me to sit with them.  We exchanged stories.  Maude was a Lawyer, Thomas a crane operator. Both had saved up to take a sabbatical year and make a tour du monde.  They began in Africa. They had seen me on the road earlier in the day, and wondered if I wanted to share a campsite they had already paid for.  My perfect luck!  I also procured some leftover lentil vegetable soup from the staff, and their kind wishes.  The waiter had done a similar walking pilgrimage in Mexico, 18 hours overnight to the virgin of Guadalupe.  He commended me, and in a small way, we were brothers.  Maude wondered if it would be appropriate to ask for some firewood, I said we could probably get five pieces and that would be the perfect amount.  I asked the waiter who said we could each grab one.  That’s three.  “Four would be a nice round number.” I said, so he let us take another.  Four.  “And, one more for kindling,” I said. He assented. Five.

What I didn’t understand was that Maude and Thomas were camping back at the lake, a good ten miles in the wrong direction, but it didn’t matter.  I could still make Santa Barbara the next day.  At the dark empty campground, Thomas and I set up the fire.  Men building fire together crosses all bariers.  He showed great attention to detail, and had the resourcefulness to scavenge some more wood and kindling from nearby empty campsites.   Something about his method made me think him an artist, or really a cook. There is some overlap.  He doesn’t speak English, but he understands it well.  I’m sure he is more frustrated by it than others are.  In no time, we had a fire blazing brightly in the concrete hearth, and I found some whiskey which I shared around.  I took it with water, Thomas drank it straight, and Maude sipped courageously from Thomas’s cup.   Maude is a petite blonde with fine features, and quite chatty.  I was glad for the juxtaposition between her and Thomas: she so bubbly, but level headed, and Thomas the strong silent type, but obviously thinking.  At one point we were on the subject of fishing.  I said something about it being especially good for men to go out and meditate in silence over some repetitive motion.  Maude shifted a little, but said nothing.  I told them that fire is like caveman television.  They liked that.   They strung a yellow hammock for me between a tree and the roof rack of their Audi, but Maude joked that the morning would probably find me curled up in front of the fire anyway.  As we went to sleep, she yelled from the car, “you look like a big banana!”

I slept half the night in the hamoc, but the curve seemed unnatural, so I stirred up the coals and returned to the earth in front of the fire. “Truer to form,” I thought.  I was the first up, and ran through the big empty campground scavenging fuel.  I warmed the soup to share, but they had Madelines and juice.  Also, Maude has discovered Reese’s peanut butter cups, and mourns all the years she has wasted without them.  They gave me their leftover burger, which I took apart and grilled – onions, tomato, melted cheese, toasted bun – it was a beautiful breakfast. They persuaded me that the roads through the pass were too narrow to walk, and drove me to Santa Barbara. It’s hard to meet such great people only to part so soon. We exchanged contacts, and hugged goodbye on the street.

Even though I’m in my home state of California, I’ve noticed marked differences in climate and country. From the dry valley plains, to chilly port cities and soggy beach towns; from vine-lined hills and cheerful oak copses of wine country; to mountain canyons and tropical rainforest. Now I’m on the Spanish riviera, the Mediterranean city of sun and stucco, Santa Barbara, filled with flowers, backed by lush mountains and fronted by the shining sea. It’s got an old-world style with plenty of old rock work and grand big villas, but without the crumbling fragility of great age. Life just bursts from all the seams here. Big shady trees which I don’t recognize grow abundantly along with the ubiquitous Palm, and leafy green plants sprout generously along the sidewalks, often sporting bright red, orange, and purple flowers.

The majority of that day, Thursday, was spent writing the Santa Ynes piece in a coffee shop. As evening began to close in, I thought I had enough time to stop by a thrift store and try to find a better hat. The one I have is too small, and it says NY on the front, so people keep thinking I’m an East coaster. As I picked through a Goodwill –full of things either unremarkable, or quite remarkable– a guy came around the corner and instantly fell to congratulating me on being evidently on the road. He looked like he worked in landscaping. He was tall, lean, about 25 or a little older, with wide clear eyes, a thin face, blonde ponytail, short beard, cammo pants, and a bandana on his head. He immediately reccomended a sweet camping spot out behind the mission where he said nobody would ever bother me. He showed me on my map, and I left without buying anything.

As I stood scowling on the corner, waiting for the tiny map to wake up, he walked by and asked if he could just drive me up there. What hospitality! His name was Shaun, and he took me on a scenic loop over the city through the ritzy hillside neighborhoods of Adobe villas, Skilled masonry, and costly landscaping. Shaun writes some himself, but currently studies alternative healing arts such as Qi Gong, acupressure, and massage. He’s mostly a Buddhist I think, but he talked effortlessly about God and prayer and truth, and everything he said was agreeable. We parked about a block behind the mission, and walked into the wooded park. My backpack attracted some attention from locals unfriendly to campers. Shaun said this was quite a rich neighborhood, and we should try to throw them off our trail. We walked up and down under through the tall grass along a dry creek bed, crossed, and climbed some ancient looking stone steps up a steep hill To about the level of the treetops. i followed him down a path running along the hill under the high wall of the villa above, and we came to a circular clearing, about twenty feet in diameter, overlooking the park, with the mountains behind, and a good view for the sunrise. It had a curved rock retaining wall against the hillside and flowering bushes grew right up to the rocks lining the downhill edge.

Above us, two white bearded men watched our progress. When we stopped, I with my backpack, they shouted down to ask if we were going to camp here, I felt compelled to honesty, and they had no objections. They came down to investigate. The first was a man named Kent, eighty at least, short, slight of build, with wide, watery grey eyes, a thin close beard, and a bright red nose. His frame was straight, and he walked with a green bamboo rod about seven feet long. He had a slow, dream, breathy way of speaking, but he was quite alert, and his face very expressive. His friend was Bill, also about eighty, but over six feet tall, bald, but with a much fuller beard, and great bushy frowning eyebrows which arched over steely eyes. Kent invited is up to see his home, and I hoped for a warm bed with servants, or at least some expensive port. Bill accompanied us up the hill, through the garden gate, and up to the fountain, but left us before we reached the house. Kent had made his fortune in Architecture, and bought the house, a castle really, with no utilities – no water, no electricity, no modern plumbing – paying less than the price of a cottage. It had been on the market for 12 years, its only inhabitants being birds, bats, and the occasional squatter. Now it was a beautiful 2 story Mediterranean stucco villa with probably 5 acres of grounds for horses, garden walks, and a small field ready for sowing. He expressed a wish to hire someone willing to cultivate it, at which Shaun and I both started salivating. We had just reached the porch, and Kent had just invited us in to tell him more about what we thought he should do, when a sharp woman in a simple blue dress came to the door and shooed us off, saying it was dinner time, and dragged the protesting Kent after her, shutting us in the growing dark. We were dumbfounded. It all came and went so quickly. We were bums, then we were hobnobbing with the fabulously wealthy, about to inherit an estate, and now we were bums again. Trespassing bums for all we knew. Was the wife a harpy? Was Kent a senile old man who was just filling our ears with whispy fantasies? Who was Bill? And did Kent even have the authority to let me sleep on the hillside? Shaun and I slowly retreated backdown the path to the woods, confused. He wished me luck and left me in the complete darkness. I made my bed away from any falling rocks, and fell asleep hoping nobody had called the police.

Mission Santa Ynez: In which I hitchhike to Solvang, replenish at a smorgasbord, discover warmer sleeping methods, and rethink my whole approach.

   I had only walked five miles or so out of La Purissima before a blue Prius pulled up behind me.  Those things are so quiet, and I was already a little disoriented from the road, so I was startled to turn and find it right behind me.  The driver was a kind, beautiful woman of probably thirty, or a little over.  

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to pick up hitchhikers?” I asked.”

“My parents used to pick up hitchhikers all the time, so I’m used to it. You can also vibe someone out pretty well if you get a good look at them.”

Her name was Amy.  She was soft spoken, but conversational; serious, but smiled readily; relatively unornamented, but with sparkling hazel eyes, short dark-blonde hair, and beautiful tan legs.  She wore khaki shorts, and a neat, blue-and-white pinstripe shirt. Seersucker maybe.  Her car was free of clutter, clean, but with the signs of daily use.  This might be  the sunstroke talking, but she was just charming. 

  I always try to respect the boundaries of the people I meet, especially women, especially when they’re doing me a favor, especially in close quarters.  It’s like making sudden moves around wild animals, you have to tread softly around a woman; but here you’re the wild man, and if they spook, you get set free.  I assumed she was married, but who can tell.  Besides, but this just wasn’t the time for that sort of conversation; hard enough even with lots of time, even if you’re not a dirty beggar.  She dropped me off right at the foot of Junipero Serra’s statue. I thanked her for her company, trying to be casual.  

If you’re headed down Mission Drive in old Solvang, and you pass through all the Danish architecture, Mission Santa Ynes will be the last building on your right. At the edge of the parking lot, the land drops off precipitously into a flat field of a few acres well below, then continues east up the valley, and rises steeply into tall wooded hills.  I followed the edge of the slope past the mission and into an adjacent park, where I spied in the hillside an open ledge, possibly an old road, running into a stand of trees and cacti.  It was out of sight, and provided an unbeatable view east, toward the sunset.  It was here I planned to return after a good meal.  

I had been living on nuts, fruit, jerky, and granola for a few days, but I needed real replenishment after all that walking.  I told all the strangers I met that I would only have one meal in Solvang, and I wanted it to be a good one.  There were some pub grills, and shine see food, but what I really wanted was some Danish food, or at least something Germanic.  It was finally a group of three young gentlemen I found in the park (a sickly white guy, a fat and happy Mexican, and a tall Arab in sunglasses, all clearly stoned) who directed me to Bit o’ Denmark, which had a buffet.  The decor was much fancier than I had anticipated, but the place was almost empty.  Besides the salad bar, I feasted on brown bread, pickled herring, pate, meatballs, Danish sausage, sweet and spiced red cabbage, and roast duck.  Also Carlsberg Elephant, a Danish beer worthy of any Viking horn.  Amazing.  I could almost hear my body thanking me for real nourishment.  It has been shown by scientific study, as well as long experience, that beer makes an excellent sports drink.  It replenishes and nourishes, it begins to hydrate, it’s a painkiller, and its wholesome, golden drinkability restores the parched throat and the weary soul. 

I returned to the ledge and made camp.  My sleeping arrangement has been just to throw the sleeping bag on the ground, maybe wrapped with a tarp if the weather bodes inclement, and just let the chips fall where they may.  Staying completely dry is not really the issue –the tarp is not so much waterproof as water repellent, and you’re bound to accumulate some amount of moisture from the dew– however the wind can really chill you out if your heat is not contained.  Bearing that in mind, I put one tarp on the ground and laid some clothes out on it.  Then folded it in half to about 5′ x 3.5′. Then I laid my sleeping bag out, and put a full 7′ x 5′ tarp over the whole thing, leaving my head exposed, and weighed down the corners.  It worked like a dream.  It kept a nice warm pocket of air around me and let the wind slide right over.  I’m getting downright comfortable out here. 

In the morning I went to the mission and heard Mass.  You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve forgotten what the sermon was about.  I talked to the Priest, who asked me to pray for people not to get so distracted by politics that they forget the one thing necessary.

Mission Santa Ynez was founded in 1804, as a connection between Santa Barbara and La Purissima Concepcion, and to evangelize the Chumash natives of the Santa Ynez Valley.  An 1812 earthquake devastated the mission, but it was rebuilt and became very prosperous.  Mexico’s independence and the Secularization of missionary properties began a long decline, until an Irish priest, Fr. Alexander Buckler, began restoration in 1904.  Twenty years later, Franciscan capuchin Friars came and continued his work.  It was the sight of California’s first seminary, College of Our Lady of Refuge (defunct as of 1881), and it is still a parish church, and a Franciscan monastery.   

The museum has little overhead speakers in all the rooms, which explain the different displays at the push of a button.  These speakers, however, continue into the church.  I’m sure they can be turned off, but I just imagine some mischievous child interrupting mass with a droning electric voice: “if you look to the left, you will see a recovered statue of St. Anthony…” a recording which parishioners have no doubt heard hundreds of times.  

The fountain plaza and garden are small compared to some, and the lawn wraps around back to the cemetery.  The interior of the mission quadrangle has been mostly built over into by the monastery, offices, etc., so it’s only about a third of what it was, but what’s left is still beautiful.  

I finished at 11 am, and decided not to stay another night in Solvang, even though I had plenty of time.  I realized that I have been rushing through the missions, have maybe taken this head start thing a little too far.  I have seen two thirds of the missions in only half the time allotted, but at this rate I can afford to slow down, think more, walk more, and I only need to average about ten to fifteen miles.  I think I’m giving short shrift to the missions, to the writing, to the pilgrimage itself.  I think I’m stressing myself out by hurrying, by trying too hard.  By my old schedule, I’ve felt rushed through the missions, rushed through the writing just to get back on the road, but I don’t need to do that and by continuing that habit I’m only compromising the original spirit of the pilgrimage.  So, I’m picking good camp destinations at fifteen miles or so, and walking until dark.  Santa Barbara is too far to walk today, but a good halfway point looks like a place called Cold Spring Tavern, an old stagecoach stop in the middle of the woods on the edge of Los Padres National Forest.  I walk now, hoping to make it 20 miles in 8 hours (a good march), have dinner at the tavern, and sleep there in the merry woods.