So I am tired and terrified of handling Highway 1 any more. We touched it a fair bit north of LA. Okay it IS beautiful but it is precarious and one bad move will land me into the Pacific and its been 8 hours I have been behind the wheels.
I am looking for Big Sur.
It turns out to be a bit of an anticlimax as the Big Sur is more of a region than a single place with high streets, banks or shops.It is not even a hamlet but all of a sudden we got swallowed by the sudden sharp Santa Lucia Mountains around us. The air turns cold and we are engulfed by the orchids and the reparian woodlands. So, this Henry Miller and Jack Kerouac's Big Sur nests in 90 miles of coastline between the Carmel River and the San Capafero creek. We have a long way to go yet, just to Monterey Bay, leave aside San Francisco. We stop at a petrol station. It is charming with its old pumps and a ramshackle air about it.
Jane helps me refuel. She is happy in the country with her blue top and jeans (they are always various shades of blue or purple). Jane likes blue or purple tops. Like she likes her eggs. Later that night she orders an enormous foo yang on top of the many things we order at the bustling place in Chinatown that can barely finish. I am relieved to have finally made it to San Francisco.
Few days later we talk of Jack Kerouac's works as we walk to the museum of the Beat Generation on Broadway in the North Beach District of the city. Just across is the bright and impressive City Light Booksellers where Kerouac, Ginsberg & co hung out. A traditional Chinese band plays sombrely on the footpath. I take photos. The museum looks like a seedy brothel at first sight. The chap selling tickets at the entry booth is more car salesman than Kerouac. He wears a red shirt. We walk in feeling there will be something that will find their own form for us as we explore. The place seems oddly littered with a bunch of inauthentic things thrown together. We walk out feigning intrigue but thoroughly unimpressed. I do not buy the Kerouac T shirt.
Happy 2011!!
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