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?