FROM WILD TO MILD

By CHRIS BUNTING

July 19, 2005 --  LIKE all good things, the lap dance had come to an end.  
        “We’re closing up, baby,” my stripper said through her pierced lips.  
        I settled my tab and stumbled out to Tijuana’s Avenida Revolucion, where a full moon outshone the neon of the dingy strip.

        My unemployed buddy Jagjeet and I headed down to the border, joining the migrant workers' 5 a.m. rush hour commute. We staggered back to our seedy San Ysidro motel in a haze of cigar smoke, Corona and cheap perfume. By the standards of the late Hunter S. Thompson, we were prudes, but Thompson wasn’t doing the driving on one of the most daring and diverse road trips I’ve ever undertaken - a journey along the western coast of the United States into Canada where surfers, hippies and loggers all manage to share real estate.

        Jagjeet was the driver. I, armed with maps of California, Oregon, and Washington, would navigate. And the wickedly curvy Pacific Coast Highway and Highway 101 were the paved beasts we’d attempt to tame in less than a fortnight in our Toyota Corolla, never looking back.

        Sure, it would have been a lot easier just to take I-5 all the way up. But in our mission to exchange the sleaze of Baja for the class of British Columbia, why not take the scenic route?

          
        SOUTHERN CALI (DRIVE TIME: 3 DAYS)  
        In sunny San Diego, we felt Mexico’s presence everywhere, from the radio stations to the food. Snaking toward the coast on the freeway, the most eye-catching thing we noticed were the yellow caution signs alerting drivers to watch out for fleeing illegal immigrants.

        Well, maybe the second most eye-catching.  
        Driving through the most popular of San Diego’s acronym beaches, PB (Pacific Beach), we spotted the prettiest (and blondest) people in the world who’d wear skimpy bikinis and bathing suits to a funeral if they could. Here, just going outside requires serious time at the gym, beauty salon and plastic surgeon.

        We wandered PB’s bustling beach walkway dodging passing skateboarders and keeping a close eye on the drunken sun worshippers holding beers in one hand and hurling horseshoes with the other. When the sun began to set, we made sure to catch it from the Lahaina House located right on the beach; it’s always as packed as a frat house before dark, and just as sexed up.

        Before crashing at our friend’s place, we headed over to the Sinbad Café on Garnet Ave. and shared a hookah. The flavored tobacco is tar-free and as smooth as anything you can breathe. Pomegranate was our favorite.

        If PB is ruled by the beautiful its quieter neighbor OB (Ocean Beach) is under the aegis of retired hippies and bikers (we saw more than one Hells Angels rolling around in wheel chair). OB’s pier is a great place to people watch, but we noticed a strange phenomena: Hispanic fisherman standing on one side, and Asian anglers on the other as if some kind of understood apartheid existed. The café near the end served up a mean lobster omelet, but watching a beautiful manta ray being reeled in and left for dead made me lose my appetite.

        Driving further north along the coastline, we hit the foo-foo community of La Jolla where every other shop is an art gallery and teenage girls proudly display their breast implants. We parked along the coast and checked out “Children’s Pool”, a man-made alcove where seals swim up on shore to the delight of onlookers. Apparently, the city tried to close off public access to the area in order to allow the seals safe harbor from human interaction, but wealthy residents quickly put the kibosh on that.

        Passing straight through the ultra-yuppie beach communities of Solana Beach and Del Mar - where a 60-year-old white guy rolled up next to us in his Lexus blasting 50 Cent - we escaped to the most schizo (in a good way) city in San Diego County, Encinitas.

        Here, rich hippies slap “Friends don’t let friends eat meat” stickers on their Mercedes’ bumpers and escape from the office to meditate in the gardens of the giant Self Realization Fellowship Temple during lunch hour.

        On the way out of the city we stopped at the indie music shop Lou’s Records to sample CDs like punk remixes of 80s hits before buying them. By now, anything other than the Garden State Soundtrack would do.

         With the sun shining at a pleasant 90 degrees and after passing one surf shop after another, it was time to find a beach. Carlsbad’s gets all the attention but we found San Clemente’s sands to be much more inviting, despite the railroad tracks that run through them. The parking is metered and there’s a strict ban on dogs, alcohol and fireworks. The result is a clean beach filled with 20-somethings, parents reading National Geographic under umbrellas and - best of all - hot female lifeguards.

        Having had our fill of Laguna Beach and the rest of south O.C. on primetime TV, we muscled past the yachts and Bentley dealerships to the northern part of the county only to find a strong candidate for the ugliest city in Southern California: Huntington Beach. On land, there are unfinished development projects, RV parks and giant dirt mounds. Seaside, there are giant oilrigs that mar the view of the ocean.

        So we hit the accelerator - nearly running run red lights - to escape the eye sores only to stumble upon HB’s best kept secret, Huntington Harbor, just north of the beach. This hidden community off the PCH is home to cottages and mansions that sit on a series of canals where neighbors visit each other via boat or kayak. I love you again, Surf City.

        Continuing on the PCH, the clues that we had left Orange County and entered Los Angeles County were anything but subtle. Bars on the windows, beeper shops, smoggy air and songs from homegrown celebrity Snoop Dogg on every radio station collectively welcomed us into Long Beach. And sadly, we lost the view of the Pacific only to have it replaced by Los Angeles’ giant refinery.

        We found our way into the south bay city of Redondo Beach soon enough, home of the giant municipal pier, which is less a wharf and more a giant, multi-storied mall on stilts that sells toe rings, shark jaws and tee-shirts. Local fishermen hate it but we quite liked the cheap pizza slices and beer we were able to eat on the pier while using the quarter-operated telescopes to spy on passing sailboats.

       Doing the best we could to leave L.A. before dark, we blazed through Santa Monica until we hit the tiny, 21-mile strip town known as Malibu. On our right sat the Santa Monica mountains. On our left, residential cliffs spill into the Pacific (as do homes during mudslide season).

        The whole place made us feel claustrophobic and the lack of celebrity sightings was disappointing. The three or four motels along the main strip offered us rinky dink rooms from $120/night and up to match the city’s snobby “don’t stop, drive through” attitude. So we obliged, and slept 20 miles up the road in Oxnard whose nightlife revolves around a Del Taco. 

        We woke up and drove one town over, thrilled to stumble upon Ventura’s revitalized downtown area made up of hip furniture boutiques, antique shops and cool Irish pub Dargan’s. The “Retarded Children” and “Child Abuse and Neglect” thrift stores donate their proceeds to specific charities. Who says Southern California doesn’t have a heart?

          

        CENTRAL AND NORTHERN CALI (DRIVE TIME: 4 DAYS)  
        Surrounded by dry, yellow hills, Highway 101 next led us 30 miles north to Santa Barbara, where we found our way to its long, bustling downtown strip. Practically needing a machete in order to negotiate its jungly sidewalks lush with trees, bushes and flowers, we wandered aimlessly among the shop-a-holics. But the decision to visit the Botanical Gardens and the beautifully restored Mission Santa Barbara (built in 1786 and the only one still under the control of Franciscan Friars) was much more satisfying.

        “Sideways” fans neither of us are, but we took highway 154 into the Santa Ynez Valley - the second largest vineyard region in the state after Napa - just to give the now much-hyped region a fair shake. Unfortunately, we never did find a tasting room.

        No worries, whatever pinot we weren’t able to enjoy, we’d make up for it with beer and whiskey in San Luis Obispo 100 miles away. SLO is the quintessential college town (home to Cal Poly and Cuesta students alike) packed with bars, pizza joints, lo-fi underground college radio (91.3 FM) and lots of surf spots. Our flirty female bartender at Bull’s Tavern (Chorro St.) served us up Jack and Cokes in giant beer mugs. We washed that down with a steak at McClintock’s Saloon and Dining Hall in nearby Pismo Beach.

        Off the highway in San Simeon, we found a Vista Point where 40 or so giant Elephant Seals were barking and bashing up against each other, even drawing blood, on the fenced off beach bellow. According to the placards, they were simply “training” for real combat. Brutal, yet beautiful.

        I must warn you: Even the most staunch California hater will fall head over heels for Golden State after driving the next stretch of Highway 1 that snakes around the steep cliffs of Big Sur. Its lack of guard rails making it even sexier. We timed our drive just so in order to witness the sun melt into the vast Pacific Ocean during its setting which stained the sky a pink and orange hue that lasted well after 9:00 pm.

        Too late to hit up the 17-mile drive and the aquarium - Carmel and Monterrey’s respective highlights - we landed in the surfer/skateboarder capital of Northern California, Santa Cruz.

        With its UC campus that has a banana slug for a mascot, it’s one of the most free-spirited communities on Earth and one of the most expensive American cities to live in.

        After arriving at night and checking in to our National 9 motel (WiFi, baby!) on Ocean Street, we visited our pal who’s a bartender at the beer and wine bar 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall as well as a semi-professional beach soccer player. He introduced us to Soju, a 23% alcoholic Korean rice wine only sold domestically in California and New York, and an excellent vodka substitute.

        Even with a massive hang over, we couldn’t skip out on Santa Cruz’s Beach Boardwalk amusement park (plus, the giant 25 oz. Fosters you can buy and drink along the boardwalk serves as great hair of the dog). We found 50 ride tickets laying on the ground so we had to ride its classic wooden roller coaster, The Giant Dipper, more than once.

        The next day we passed through San Francisco’s gorgeous Golden Gate Park and over the majestic red iron Golden Gate Bridge on Highway 1, arriving in Stinson Beach, a little sea-level beach village of 750 people in richy rich Marin County.

        Unlike its snooty neighbor, Bolinas (whose residents takes down the city limits sign so outsiders won’t stop over) it’s a welcoming community very proud of its Shakespeare festival. We stopped over at the Parkside Café, ordered a couple bacon cheeseburgers and dined on the beach. The water’s cold but it’s a decent enough surf spot for those not ready for the harsher waters of Pacifica.

        On the Sonoma Coast State Beach near Jenner, known for its secluded caves and long shoreline, we found a dolphin carcass that someone had surrounded with sticks as a makeshift tomb. Animal lovers abound here, folks.

        Speaking of Northern California left-leaning, hippies, the unincorporated rustic town of Mendocino (where “Murder She Wrote” was filmed) is really the last place up the coast where you’ll find any. We drove downtown to grab some pizza at the Mendocino Bakery and walked it off with a hike down forested Russian Gulch which offers up a perfect view of the ocean.

        We then drove 10 miles into Fort Bragg and pulled up a stool at the North Coast Brewing Company, formerly a morgue, which has plenty of stouts to die for like PranQster Ale and Old Rasputin.

        The next morning we high-tailed it to Leggett, the first of many small logging communities along the highway that want you to pay to drive through its tree trunks. We noticed plenty bear, bigfoot, and Indian statues carved out of redwood trees for sale in the area.

        Being kitsch addicts, we had to stop at the amusement park Confusion Hill, off the highway in Piercy ( you can’t miss its giant totem pole). It has a house where “gravity seems to be confused” and other optical illusions. The Japanese tourists ate it up. We also had to travel the Avenue of Giants, running parallel to 101, which is lined with massive redwoods. One in particular, the “Immortal Tree,” has survived lightning, floods, even lumberjacks over the past 1,000 years.

        Eureka earned the distinguished title of being the last city along the coast before Victoria, BC, where we saw an African American - no joke. But besides its diversity, the seat of Humboldt county has other charms. The minimalist Blue Lake Casino, off 101 on Hwy 299, is where my uncle, whose fishing boat was docked at the boatyard, took second place in a poker tournament.

        Eureka’s Tip Top Club might be the closest thing to heaven on Earth for men with its card tables, video games, pool tables, internet access, a fireplace, and go-go dancers. Er, so we heard.

        At this point, we were so close to Oregon, we could smell the beaver. Should we keep driving until we cross the border or explore Crescent City, famous for being ravaged by a tsunami in 1964 that killed 12 people and supplying 275-acres for Pelican Bay State Prison?

        Straight to Oregon it was - although not before an eagle-eyed CHP officer stopped us for speeding.  
          
        OREGON AND WASHINGTON (DRIVE TIME: 2 DAYS)  
        We were spooked a bit by all of those tsunami-warning signs after leaving the border town of Brookings, but it turns out they were here before California’s last batch of earthquakes. So we just enjoyed the newly re-paved Highway 101 and marveled at Oregon’s interesting stone bridge designs - there’s not much else to do along the coast which, unlike California, has more one-horse, lumberjack towns than beaches or major cities and nothing other than trees for scenery.

        The lighthouse and boardwalk at Coos Bay are definitely worth a stopover. However, make sure there isn’t a car convention or kite festival nearby as was the case when we arrived. After nearly eight hours on the road, we couldn’t find a motel vacancy in the entire town. The “concierge” at a Motel 6 warned that we wouldn’t be able to find a room in a 100 mile radius and scolded us for not having booked three months ago.

        Next door in North Bend we found the same absence of lodging. Considering Jagjeet was minutes from falling asleep at the wheel and killing us both, we decided to camp out in the car one night, illegally, by the city’s docks. Unfortunately, my friend’s eardrum piercing snores forced me out of the car to seek shut eye elsewhere. Drawing on some latent hobo tendencies, I curled up on a park bench.

        The next day, we found our way up the highway to Dunes City where pine trees grow out of giant sand dunes. Had we any money, we would have rented a dune-buggy to explore the terrain. Continuing up 101, we discovered the tiny city of Seal Rock. It doesn’t have much to offer save for a 20-foot wooden Japanese Chef standing in front of a Sushi restaurant. We tried for a photo op but our camera was dead.

        Infantile? Absolutely, but it was mandatory for us to pull over and pose for goofy photos next to the street signs in the nearby town of Beaver (Dave’s Beaver Service was our favorite). A better use of our time was exploring the Tillamook’s County Creamery Association cheese factory (apparently their cheese is quite famous, according to my dairy fiend of a friend). You can tour the place, buy a shirt or do what we did - shamelessly gorge on free samples.

        Located right before the bridge to Washington, Astoria is easily the liveliest city on Oregon’s coast, maybe because it’s where “Goonies” and “Short Circuit” were filmed (local movie theater marquis won’t let you forget that). We ate pizza bathed in tobasco sauce at Fultano’s and hung out at the only bar open that Sunday night, Lattitudes. Though not exactly racially diverse, we did spot one transsexual and one white rapper on site. The “[bleep] the DNC” graffiti in the bathroom was both telling and amusing.

        Driving into Washington, we immediately understood why the grunge movement began here with its drizzly summer clouds and geographical attractions like Cape Disappointment and Black Lake.

        Exploring the town of Ilwaco, we got an all too strong Twin Peaks vibe: Logging trucks ripping through the streets, saw mills billowing smoke into the air, the sweet smell of Douglas Firs agent Cooper so adored, and stop lights swaying in the cold, whistling wind - pretty much everything but a hot, naked dead chick washing up on shore. This vibe stayed with us throughout the state.

        Heading up to Long Beach, home of the World Kite Museum and Hall of Fame, we got a taste of Washington’s raised consciousness after passing by a Super 8 motel whose marquis displayed the famous philosophical paradox “This Statement is False” - nice.

        Driving highway 101 another 50 miles north up to Willapa Bay, we learned a new word: slough. It refers to the sludgy, muddy swamps we had been passing over. But it’s in the bayside town South Bend where we started really seeing Washington’s signature topography - cleared forest land.

        Aberdeen was the first large industrial town we had seen in a while-lots of creature comforts like psychics, tanning salons (often doctor-prescribed up here) and gun stores. A Kurt Cobain memorial may or not be here (we saw a sign for it without an address), but it was the giant draw bridge near the end of town that was worth a 20 minute stop.

        We took a detour from 101, now a boring inland road at this stage, and checked out Lake Quinault in Olympic National Forest (an actual rain forest) where the world’s largest spruce tree is rooted down.

        The last stop we had in Washington was Port Angeles where we’d catch a quick 90 minute ferry to Victoria, B.C. The reality that we’d finally made it to Canada suddenly hit us making the breezy ride across the Straight of Juan de Fuca seemed bittersweet. Success was near, and yet so was the end.

              
        BRITISH COLUMBIA (DRIVE TIME: 2 DAYS)
        We were only able to spend a quick night in squeaky clean Victoria (enough time to swig a few LaBatt’s and dance to Blind Melon remixes with local Canucks at the Lucky Bar) before we jumped right back on a ferry early the next morning bound for Vancouver.

        Arriving in a big city, with our maps shredded to near confetti from overuse, was something we hadn’t done in a long, long time - and it was actually refreshing despite the familiar bad smells and horrible traffic that came with it.

        We ended up pulling into the parking garage at the classy downtown Fairmont Hotel Vancouver, intent on sipping its famous tea amongst the wealthy as proof that we had indeed grown as human beings, evolving from lewd skirt chasers in Mexico to commonwealth decadents that would make our parents proud and our friends hate us.

        However, it turns out the Fairmont only serves their tea and scones on Saturdays and Sundays between 2 and 4 pm.         It was 6 p.m. on Wednesday. Crickets.
       Oh well, off to the girls of Seymour Street where we belong.