My final rush

The nothingness of inner California is reassuring. Well, it’s not reassuring per se, but the idea of being just a sharp turn away from the Pacific coast, and just a few hundred miles from major cities – and what cities! – definitely is.

August 12. We decided not to drive on California Highway 1 – thus avoiding Big Sur, Carmel and Monterey – simply because it would have set us back another night. Certainly not because we had had enough Kerouackian experiences during the trip.

Our very last meeting with the Pacific Ocean was in Santa Barbara, city of breeze and sun, and also plagued by whiny Italian tourists. I really don’t understand them – and not because of their compulsive need to always be so fking recognizable even from a mile away. What I don’t get is their grumpiness, the impression they give of being on a trip not of their own free will but because history has required them to. And they whine about everything: the heat, the cold – the latter usually being the awesome California breeze, which would obviously send them back with pneumonia should they decide to shed those jeans and wind jackets in favor of some more summery clothes.

Little did I know (although I should have imagined, or simply remembered) that San Francisco would be similarly afflicted by herds of people who should never be allowed to carry passports.