In our hotel, The Clement, there was a staircase leading down to the main lobby which had been made to create the illusion that you were walking underwater. Sarah called it the "magical staircase." I appreciated the creativity of it and I thought the effect was kinda mesmerizing. Colors shifted and danced on the walls like an abalone shell in the sun, and hanging directly overhead, on the lower landing, was a jellyfish chandelier.
If you laid beneath the big jellyfish it actually felt kind of sinister though. Like it might sting you and eat you if it became aware of your presence.
I pawed through the leavings outside of room 224 looking for anything that looked untouched and delicious enough to pilfer. I'm a class act.
Slim pickings.
So I took their sprig of rosemary and tucked it behind my ear which, I think you'll agree, lent kind of a jaunty air to the adventures that would follow.
For some reason it also made me feel a little like Caesar as well.
I found the door out onto the "ocean view terrace" off of the second floor, but at night the ocean was just a black field beyond the far railing. I could hear it sloshing against the pilings though and I could smell it too. I love the smell of the ocean. I leaned against the railing for awhile and did my my best to catch an "overheard" from the group sitting around the fire pit (upper left) but they were talking too softly to hear anything, although occasionally they would burst into riotous laughter, which piqued my curiosity. It looked nice though, sitting around a fire while the ocean lapped against the pilings, talking, laughing and nursing a drink. I'm glad it was just Sarah and I on this vacation, after all that was the point, but for just a moment as I watched and tried to listen I wished that we too had brought some friends along to share the time with.
Leaving the terrace, I made my way down the magic staircase, out through the lobby, past the front desk where I nodded to the concierge, who called out "Have a good evening, sir," before slipping outside onto Cannery Row. Cannery Row, immortalized in Steinbeck's classic of the same name, is not the blue-collar place it once was. It is now a tourist mecca. During the day throngs of tourists pass up and down past its shops and eateries, which allowed for some of the best people-watching I have enjoyed in a long time. People interest me more than just about anything else, and there were some of the finest, most interesting homo sapiens there for me to watch.
I stopped to snap a picture of city lights on the far side of the bay.
For the most part everything along Cannery Row had closed up for the night, but music was throbbing and spilling out into the street from "Sly McFly's." I stepped into the doorway just long enough to snap a picture of the people dancing. The smell of alcohol hung over everything and everybody seemed a little warm around the edges. There was lots of laughter and back slapping going on. One lady, with curly brown hair, high heels, leopard print pants and a leather jacket, was standing around the corner, leaning against the building and crying softly. I asked her if she was okay, and she said "Yeah, I'm fine." I kept walking. I have no doubt there would have been some grade A "overheards" at Sly McFly's if I had hung around but it really wasn't my scene.
Just before heading out on my walk, Sarah and I had been sitting in the hotel's hot tub when a couple of drunk, twenty-something girls had come into the pool area. I think they might have jumped over the wall. Anyway they stripped down and started skinny dipping in the adjacent pool. I said "Sarah, that girl's naked!" Sarah made me close my eyes and turn my head in the opposite direction (which was entirely unnecessary, by the way) and then yelled "Hey! Girls! Get dressed already! What do you think you're doing?" Sarah is kind of a bull dog like that, and is also a law and order kind of girl which I appreciate. Once Sarah confronted them, the girls beat a hasty retreat and, in so doing, they accidentally grabbed up my shirt with their stuff. So now I'm down one undershirt. Anyway, the reason I tell that story is that as I walked along I noticed that there were lots of drunks out and about. So when I discovered this hole in the sidewalk (below) I became concerned that one of them might accidentally step into it and break their ankle.
It was definitely a hazard.
I found the heavy iron post that slides into the hole in a nearby flower bed. I figure somebody probably removed it to drive alongside the restaurant, and had forgotten to put it back when they were done.
I set things to right, and instantly felt better about the situation.
Directly behind our hotel there was some sort of art gallery with a pretty courtyard. I found a homeless man sleeping there. Sarah had spent some time reading in the courtyard earlier in the day and a homeless man had approached her and advised her of his intention to sleep there that night, but when I pointed out the man to Sarah in the morning she said it was not the same man. The presence of so many wealthy people engaged in leisure activities alongside homeless people and tramps also engaged in leisure activities (but of a different sort) was an interesting sight to ponder.
From outside, I sat and watched people mingling and dancing at a second-floor dance club not far from the hotel. As I watched I noticed some bouncers forcibly ejecting two men of unknown South (or Central) American origin.
The bouncers seemed nervous that I was taking pictures, and, in fact, after the guys had been expelled their leader confronted me. "Hey man, why you taking pictures?" he asked. "Oh, it's for my blog." He looked at me, with a jaunty sprig of rosemary tucked behind my ear, like he didn't know quite what to do with me. I had the distinct feeling that he wanted me to leave so I said "Hey man, I liked the way you handled that. I was a police officer for a while and I can see that you guys really know how to handle yourselves." That seemed to pacify him, and I quickly made my exit while he was still cool with me.
One of the guys being expelled kept yelling over and over "I know djooo!" which is exactly what people would often yell at me when I was dealing with them as a police officer. I wonder what they are trying to communicate by aggressively saying that over and over. Are they saying they're gonna come find me later and mess me up? Or what? I never understood it. The other thing that they would often say while I was arresting them or moving them along, which was different but also had a similarly ominous feel to it, was "You don't know who I am!" Both are kind of threatening in a vague sort of way. It was nostalgic for me to listen in on their drunken exchange though.
Along the bike trail behind the hotel somebody had written "GOD LIES" into the dust of an old abandoned train car. Earlier in the week as Sarah and I were walking past we had noticed the blasphemous piece of grafitti and Sarah had artfully changed it to read "BOB LIES."
I stopped outside of Jose's Bar and Grill and listened to a man talking to a female employee who was out of sight doing something work-related. I assume the man was not an employee because he was just leaning up against the building talking to the girl who was busily working. I got the impression that he liked the girl, but that she was just trying to get her work done so she could go home. I can't be sure that was the case, but that was my impression as I looked on. I think she may have even been annoyed with him because she would respond to what he was saying only when she absolutely had to and then only with short, clipped responses. As I walked away I heard him say, "I actually saw them in concert once. I had really good seats. Most people think they're kind of R&B, but I think they're in a class all by themselves." The girl just mumbled "Uh-huh."
There is art everywhere in Monterey. A lot of scultpures and a lot of murals. I really liked this one painted on what was left of an old cannery wall right in front of the ocean. I think it was brave to put this painting in a place where it could be so easily defaced.
Lying in the sand in front of the mural was an abandoned baseball cap belonging to one "Alex B." The hat was in good shape so I assumed that it had been lost or forgotten there and not intentionally left behind.
I took it back up to the street where Alex B. might find it as he was walking past in the morning. "Ahhhh, my hat!" I imagined him saying.
Then I flip-flopped my way back to our room at the Clement.
Up the elevator.
Down the hall.
And into room 393.
