Eureka!

I have arrived, I think--as the name of the town where I'm spending the night is called EUREKA!

I found a great room--with two queen beds and a jacuzzi.  That and an Oregon cod dinner are refreshing my energy big time.

The drive here was beautiful with sea coast, sequoias, and giant redwoods.  There is no way to capture the beauty with photographs, of course, but I did stop along the way and try.  I drove for what felt like hours from Fort Bragg to Eureka, following the advice of a waitress to take Highway 1.  It was a long curvy slow road, tight switchbacks, average speed 15 mph.  I thought, frankly, that it would never end.

I might as well report that there are days on the road when a driver would like a companion, a navigator, a road pal.  Today was one of those days.

Then at dinner, there was a couple at the bar, the kind of magazine-pretty woman and handsome man who (quite obviously)  are just starting out on their road.  She loved every single thing about him: his belt loops, his hair, his earlobes--and he (though glancing from time to time to the TV screen and a football game in progress)  seemed to adore her just as much, listening intently to every word she spoke, stroking her hair, her jeans.  They were the kind of couple you see in public places that evokes "Get a room!"--but I'm quite sure they've done that already and will again after seafood and drinks.  The Sea Grill was packed, and every diner in the place was drawn to their electric energy, trying not to stare, probably scouring their memories for similar moments in their own lives, before they got married, before they grew old.

Every day has its high point.  Mine today was stopping by an apple orchard on Highway 128 after stopping by a pot store.   (Yeah, I thought so too--but it wasn't marijuana; it was actual pottery; the California pot, however, was evident along the same stretch of road.)  The potter and I were talking.  "It's always hard to know when you've arrived," I said, "And this is my day to decide: do I go on or turn around and head for home?"

"As long as you're loving the road," the potter said, "It doesn't matter how far you go."

She told me about the apple orchard and here's the high point: just getting out of the car and smelling apple cider cooking! The smell was delightful.  I walked around and handled jars of apple products and finally decided to buy a jar of apple apricot chutney.  The apples were displayed in apple crates, and guests were invited to sample, then pay on the honor system for whatever they liked.  These are the same apples we see at Central Market, of course, but seeing them displayed, smelling them being cooked down into cider, right there in the orchard was a beautiful sight.

By the time I reached the quaint seaside town of Mendocino, the water a brilliant turquoise, I felt my energy lagging.  A combination of the altitude, a cold, and the effects of the steroids that have reduced my leg pain--I noticed that I was feeling a bit fuzzy-headed and lonesome and road-weary.  This, too, is part of any journey, and the thing is to ride it out, ask it what it's about, what story it's trying to tell you.

"I'm just telling you to slow down," it said. "You don't have to do everything you planned; there will be other times."

"But what if there are not?" I asked back greedily.

The last time I took a trip like this--an open-ended solitary trip--was six years ago; now here I am (so suddenly it seems) two days before my 65th birthday and dealing with pains in parts of my body that I wasn't even aware of six years ago.  The "grace period" of youth is over; from here on out, it's going to take real attention to keep the body in traveling shape.

For miles and miles, there was no cell phone coverage, no conversation with another person.  It gave me time for reverie, conversation with myself.  I decided not to decide where to go from here just yet, to have a good meal, a hot bath, and then think about that tomorrow, just like Scarlett.