150th BIRTHDAY

I should be so lucky.

After our medium-and-low brow careening around the NW, it was time for a little more refined fare.  Fortunately, the annual Paderewski Festival in Paso Robles was on again, and this year it is the old boy’s 150th birthday.  We went to this last year and had a great time, and our revisit was even better.

Once again we attended with some of our oldest friends, Paul, Chuck, and Alice.  Paul and Chuck are from fraternity days eons ago.  We introduced Chuck and Alice 40 years ago, and will celebrate that anniversary with them in Hawaii next Spring.  Paul’s house in San Luis Obispo was our base of operations (thankee, Paul!).  We raided and almost wiped out his front-yard orange tree for fresh-squoze juice each morning, but I’ll spare you any photos of the pecan waffles or the three-cheese omelets we whipped up.  Mainly because I forgot to take any.

Thursday night’s opening performance took place at the Mission San Miguel, the 16th mission built in California.  The original was founded in1797, but burned, and this one was completed in 1821.  The interior painting is all original.  Not sure what the rayburst is all about, but it is different.

The music at this event was eclectic, and was performed by the Paso Robles High School Band and various iterations of its Concert Choir, the best of which was its more experienced members forming the Las Voces Celestiales.  Also on the bill were the highly professional, Los Angeles-based “Midnight Winds” (flute, oboe, clarinet, bassoon, and horn).  As you might suspect, the performances ranged from sublime to “well, that’s not bad for a bunch of high school kids.”  They played everything from Cirque du Soleil music to spirituals to Scottish folk songs to, hey, Paderewski!  We enjoyed everything.  Must have.  I dropped a twenty in the donation bowl on the way out.  I have reformed my skinflint ways.

Before the performance we had dinner at Chico’s, which is truly a gem of a small restaurant tucked away on the main square in Paso.  We ate there last year, and the quality hasn’t fallen off.  The chef is the owner, and that’s always a good sign.  Seafood is his specialty, and he knows how to do it right.  And, the wine list is local and very reasonably priced.  Do give him your business if you’re in Paso.  Actually, we liked it so much, and wanted to try other dishes, that we went back on Saturday night as well.

Friday night’s music fare was not just eclectic, but downright bizarre.  It was billed as a Polish jazz concert and was held in the “Barrel Room” at the Cass Winery outside of Paso.  Boy, use your GPS for this one.  Those country lanes are confusing in the dark, and signage is invisible.  The featured performers were Krzesimir Debski, pianist and jazz violinist, and vocalist Anna Jurksztowicz. 

(Photo courtesy of Peninsula Reviews)  Hey, I can’t stand in the aisle to take a shot like this guy did!

I didn’t have a spasm at the keyboard, those are the right spellings.  There also was a guitar session- musician from Los Angeles, who quite obviously had not had time to rehearse with them.  Now, before I get to the fun, all three are very talented, and the headliners have performed all over the world.  But some of their shenanigans had me shaking my head in disbelief. 

First, the music choices frequently had nothing at all to do with jazz, or at least not my experience with it over the decades.  I mean, they had a couple of classical piano pieces by Paderewski, film-score music with words from the Egyptian Book of the Dead (I’m not making this up), theme music from some Polish T.V. shows, and, finally, some actual sorta-jazz stuff, sung in Polish.  It wasn’t that I couldn’t understand the words, as that is no barrier to enjoying music, but during one song the vocalist took her forefinger and started blubba-blubba-burbling her lips.  Say, WHAT?  It wasn’t scat singing, like Ella, rather something completely incomprehensible and unmusical.  But she was having a good time while the audience sat with stunned looks, not knowing whether to laugh or cheer.  Nervous applause won out.  Then, in another number, while wildly sawing on the electric violin, Debski threw back his head . . . and . . . started . . . YODELING!  Yee gods and little fishes!  What the hell passes for jazz in Poland?  I’m sorry folks, but this concert was fodder for legions of new Polish jokes.  It’s a shame, too, as both performers were technically very polished.  Debski is internationally known and has won many awards.  It was just the material selected that made no sense.  And, of course, the blubbering and the yodeling.

Well, all this was enough to drive one to drink, and what better place than wine country?  Well, maybe beer country, but that’s another story.  We spent an afternoon touring several wineries, where Paul was known on sight, and shamelessly used his “club member’s” discount when we found something we liked.  Um, we found a few.

 

The “Gala Concert” was the public finale of the festival, on Saturday night in the ballroom of the Paso Robles Inn.  No smirking on this one.  It was incredible.

The artist was Jonathon Plowright, a British pianist, Gold Medalist at the Royal Academy of Music, Fulbright Scholar, and first prize winner at the European Piano Competition.  The guy’s got chops. 

The reviewer of this concert described his technique as a “lovely controlled elegance.”  That pretty much describes it.  I’m far from qualified to judge these things, but Chuck is, and he was mightily impressed by the performance.  Loni and I just drank it in.  He did Paderewski, of course, but the second half was all Chopin.  On top of his incredible talent, he was a very engaging guy, and spoke for a while introducing the music.  I think I’ll look for some of his recordings (on the Hyperion label).

The actual finale of the week’s events was the concert given by the two Polish youngsters who had been brought over on a musical exchange program for this festival.  Ten-year-old (!) Marian Michalski, and fourteen-year-old Barbara Doroszuk.  He’s a ham of the first order, and loved sporting the black Stetson that he had been given.  I think it was sitting on his ears.  She’s much shier, and undoubtedly will break any number of hearts along her way in life.

Both of them were excellent at the keyboard.  I am constantly amazed, not only at the mature technique of these kids, but how anyone can memorize all that complicated music.  This event was a private one, by reserved admission only, and pretty much limited to those who had purchased costly VIP tickets.  We had not, but our friends (who had) overheard a VIP couple the night before say they were not going to make this event, and sweet talked them into “donating” their tickets to us.  Well, all right!  We definitely enjoyed posing as Richard and Karen ---ski, including scarfing their yummy brunch served outside on the patio. Thanks!

This was held at the Pear Valley Winery outside Paso.  We didn’t sample any wines, but the setting was beautiful.  The vines have all been harvested now, and are beginning to turn fall colors.  A gorgeous end to a great five days.

 

TURAS AR DEIREADH

Slouching southward, we found ourselves in the not-so-scenic stretch of mid-northern I-5, and we’d had enough by the time we reached the small community of Williams, essentially due west of Yuba City.  Not a lot of RV options here, but the Almond Grove Park sounded bucolic.  Well . . . it was rustic.

 

. . . can you see the rig?  Look closely, it’s there amid the clutter.  As you can see by the sign, this really is a long-term residence park for mobile homes and trailers without wheels.  They only had four or five spaces for overnighters.  Spanish was the predominant lingua for most of the tenants, and we ended up being parked immediately adjacent to the opening to the laundry, which was the social focal point.  As this was my birthday (no gifts, please), we just settled in, put the antenna up, and Loni worked her magic.

 

The rig might be small, but it cooks just fine!  This morning, we had made a stop at Trader Joe’s in Redding and picked up all the fixins.  Yum.  A very nice birthday indeed.

The next morning we maneuvered our way out of the close quarters and headed west through the hills and farmland to Clear Lake, which neither of us had ever seen.  It’s actually a rather large body of water, lined completely around the edges with rustic and modern cottages, motels, and camps.  Reminded me of east coast lakes where the city dwellers flock in the summertime.  Alas, none of these took in RV’s, so our destination was the Konocti Vista Casino on the northwest shore, boasting the “only casino with lake frontage.”  Well, yeah, sort of.  It did have a little bay with boat docks, but is that a sheen I see on the water?

 

Yeah, real inviting.  Not quite sure what the swamp boat was doing in these parts, other than making a tremendous racket when the owner started it up and motored out.  It was the only craft in the whole harbor.  We wandered around the place a bit, and generally got a depressed feeling about it all.  The liveliest spot was a trailer in the parking lot they had converted into a smoke shop, which seemed to be doing a good drive-up business.  Guess taxes on tobacco are less on the res.  The casino itself was tiny, and totally depressing.  Smoky, only two gaming tables, with the rest all slots, and a collection of the saddest people we’ve seen in a long while.  Grim is the best description.  We did the 30 second tour and got out of there.  The adjacent RV park, however, was just fine.  Flat, good power, and even an effective wifi signal. 

They were on low season rates, so it only cost $20.  That building at the rear is the casino.  I suspect that in the summertime this place is much more lively.  We enjoyed the solitude.

The next morning we set sail for Santa Rosa, seemingly just down the road a ways.  That’s true, but we were still on the other side of a mountain range from Rte 101, so we went south on SRs 175 and 29 as far as Calistoga, then turned west on an unnumbered (at least on full-state maps) little gem of a road.  Hmmm.  Warning signs that no trucks allowed with over 30 ft from kingpin to axle.   Hmmm.  Buses not recommended.  Well, it’s a little gem if you’re on a scoot.  The GPS was having conniptions trying to portray the route.  It looked like a constipated python.

There were stretches that looked even more hilarious on the Garmin, but we didn’t get a camera on them in time.  Too much swerving and full lock turns.  Some heedless semi had ignored the warnings and had been pulled over by Smokie about halfway through the twisties.  I’m guessing he was causing havoc trying to negotiate the hairpins, and they’d have to run traffic breaks to escort him the rest of the way.

We didn’t clobber anything, and made it without incident to Santa Rosa, our last stop before our stay in the City with our kids.  We basically have been just marking time the last few days, as we weren’t supposed to arrive before Friday the 5th.  Santa Rosa is home to the Sonoma County Fairgrounds, which has a big RV park and is on the Passport America scheme, so we paid all of $12 to stay there.  We hadn’t made reservations, so we were shocked to find the place virtually full.  They had only two spots left as there was a “reunion” of some travel club which had taken up over 60 spaces.  Almost all big Class A’s, so once again we were dwarfed among the behemoths.

  However, we did spot another Lazy Daze among them, and we had a nice talk with Carolyn and Shirley from Woodland, WA.  They had been with the club on a trip to the Maritime Provinces.  Later that day, another Lazy Daze pulled in, this time it was Mary Lou from SoCal.  We’re hoping she’ll become a first time guest at one of our SoCal Caravan Club outings.  I think that makes our total “sightings” of LD’s on this trip nine.

We hadn’t known it before, but Santa Rosa was the home town of Charles Schulz, the creator of “Peanuts.”  There’s a museum here dedicated to Schulz and his creations, and it was pretty neat.  We offloaded the scoot, made our way across town, and were greeted by the original “no respect” kid.

They allow photography only in the main lobby area, so there’s a lot of stuff I didn’t get to record.  In the lobby they had a crystalline Snoopy, and a wall mural that was made of individual 4-panel comic strips, where the night scenes (“Great Pumpkin,” etc.) form the dark areas.  Pretty cool when you alternate looking at it up close and from a distance.  By happenstance, we were there at closing when they began a charity reception which was attended by Schulz’ widow.  They didn’t throw us out, so we mingled for a while.  If you find yourself in Santa Rosa, this is a worthwhile stop.  Unless, of course, you just can’t stand “Peanuts.”

Despite being in a good-sized city, the only stations we could get over-the-air were a PBS and three Spanish-language ones.  No networks at all.  California is slowly evolving into a Quebec.

Friday at last.  Off down 101 and the awaiting E-ticket ride through San Francisco.  Our RV park is in South S.F., and the only way to get there is to go right through the City.  Hello, Golden Gate.  Damn, these lanes are narrow, and RV’s have to keep in the right lane, next to the concrete.

Actually, we planned our transit so we would go through right around noon, so the traffic would be at its lightest.  For the most part, it worked, but it’s always a thrill nonetheless.  Move over, bus!

We found the RV park with ease, mainly by ignoring our GPS and following the written instructions in the park guide.  Dora would have led us into big trouble had we listened.  We settled in, paid the highest rate ever for an RV park ($45, but still a bargain in this area), called our older son, John, to let him know where we were, and sat back to wait for him to pick us up after work.  This park, which until recently had only long-term tenants, was built in the 1950’s, and the bathrooms haven’t been updated one iota.  In a word, use your rig’s facilities!  To be fair, now that they are somewhat catering to overnighters, they are embarking on erecting all-new facilities over the next year.  It didn’t matter to us, as all we wanted was a secure place to park the rig.  We would be staying at John & Meghan’s place.  It’s the top floor of a 100+ year-old Victorian, at the crest of a hill with a dynamite view of the City.  Here’s a portion:

And here’s the full panorama:

This is looking east, with the Oakland hills in the distance on the other side of the Bay.  It’s just as pretty at night.

We had the perfect end to our two months on the road.  John, Meghan, Mike, and Alia treated us to a fabulous birthday dinner (thank you all!), this being one of those “milestone” jobs.  We went to a terrific post-impressionists exhibit at the DeYoung, and finished by groaning for mercy at Mike & Alia’s brunch on Sunday morning.  There is nothing better than family.

Sunday afternoon, we took off from the park just after 1:00, down to Gilroy, smell the garlic, then over the Pacheco Pass to I-5.  We didn’t want to compete with the Sunday traffic over the Grapevine and into L.A. at night, so, with rain starting to fall, we made it as far as one of our favorite campgrounds, the Buena Vista Aquatic Recreation Area.  It’s just to the west of I-5, due west of Bakersfield and just east of Taft.  We pulled in after dark (daylight savings had ended the night before), inexplicably were charged only $21 despite the posted rate of $38, and settled in to complete silence.  There were only four or five other rigs in the entire place, which is huge and sprawling.  Our final chore the next morning was to dump tanks, then take on just enough rip-off-priced gas ($3.45 for regular) to get us over the hump, and we cruised through light traffic (timing is everything) to home.  Well, our other home.  What a great trip!  Thanks for riding along.

VEGGING ON HOME

This has been a great trip.  Oregon and Washington have lots to be proud of.  Wonderful scenery, interesting museums, good food and drink, and RV parks that provide, in most all cases, good value for your buck.  Oregon, especially.  We got mighty spoiled having electric hookups almost everywhere we went.  I think we only dry camped a total of five nights.  So much for getting any use out of my expensive new battery monitor. 

One of the best deals we got was the Tri City RV Park adjacent to Myrtle Creek, OR.  We left Silverton and motored south on I-5.  Unlike through most of California, I-5 is a very scenic drive through Oregon.  Our only concern was that this was a Saturday, and homecoming for Oregon State against Cal Bezerkley.  We thought the freeway might back up as we were going to pass by that exit about an hour before game time.  We did see plenty of cars sporting orange and black doodads passing us by on their way south, but there was plenty of exit lane at the Corvallis intersection, and it was no problem. 

We didn’t need to go far, and I wanted to catch the college games in the afternoon, and the pros tomorrow.  So we opted to get off at Myrtle Creek.  The park is fairly new, but like most parks has its collection of semi-permanent residents arrayed around the perimeter.  For the most part, this bunch seemed to be a step up from a lot we’ve seen.  The park was on the Passport America plan, so we stayed 2 nights at $14 each.  Not bad for excellent restrooms, intelligently laid out utilities (the sewer was remote from the water/elect), an excellent cable with hi-def stations, and dynamite WiFi.  The surrounding area was basically industrial, but that was visible only along the road, and not from the spaces.  In fact, the general view was fine.

There was some entertainment provided by the locals.  One was set up next to the restrooms, with a classic old trailer with a new, red paint job.  He had a matching red pickup. 

The owner was a classic himself, but in a different sense.  He was the epitome of the popular pejorative of “trailer trash.”  A skinny guy with a monk’s bald dome matched to a fringe of long, dirty, stringy hair that hung down to his shoulders.  When he stood, it seemed each part of his body was at an angle to all others.  Smoked like a chimney.  I first noticed him standing in the open doorway of his trailer, hawking a lungful onto the concrete pavement.  Then his woman came out.  Your worst nightmare of a way-past-her-prime (if ever she had one) biker moll, dressed all in black, hair to match her guy’s (but not bald on top), and sporting at least several teeth.  He spent much of the weekend zipping about on one of those electric carts like they have at supermarkets.  Don’t know why, because he could walk just fine.  In fact, he walked his Husky/Malamute, which was about the biggest one I’ve ever seen, and had to use his legs strongly to restrain the beast.  It sure is nice to be able to take all this in behind your darkened, panoramic windows.

We vegged all weekend, cheered Stanford on to victory against Washington, then headed south Monday morning, enjoying the last of Oregon as we passed through the Siskiyou’s and by the last of the Cascades, including  the Fuji-like cone of Mt. McLoughlin.

  Sure wish we had had weather like this (it was in the high-70s) when we tried to view Mt. St. Helens.  We finally had to bid goodbye to the Northwest, and crossed back into

 

We still had some scenery left, as Shasta was out in full glory, sporting a ton of new snow from the recent storms.  Now, that’s a “Welcome” sign if ever there was one.