There’s nothing more rejuvenating and soothing to the soul than a trip to the beach and a walk along the water. My darling husband and I love to take mini-vacations to Lake Michigan, which is only a few hours’ drive away for us. Looking out at that seemingly infinite expanse of sparkling, blue water, I could be in California staring at the Pacific Ocean. As you’ll read below, there was a time when I thought I had to leave my home state of Michigan to find such pleasures and aquatic treasures. You, too, may feel the need to pull up stakes and leave the comforts of friends, family, and familiar territory behind in search of your dreams. My California adventure got off to a rocky start, and your explorations may, too. But it’s all part of the hero’s journey, part of the excitement of being an adventurer. Life may be a “beach” at first, but have faith. Soon you will thrive.
Please enjoy your next excerpt from
by Kristi Lynn Davis
When I announced the impending move to my Midwestern friends, their response was, “Are you crazy? You’re moving to California with all those weirdos?” They were sincerely scared for me, worried I’d end up practicing naked yoga, consuming tofu and wheat grass juice, and shaking a tambourine at the airport with the Hare Krishnas. I left with slight trepidation, wondering if they might be right.
Mom and I repacked my possessions, this time into my new Ford Escort. With my precious pet fish in its fishbowl, wedged between the seats, we ventured west. It was California or bust. In the Rocky Mountains, we nearly did bust. My underpowered and overloaded car labored up the steep, snow-covered roads at a maximum of thirty-five miles per hour, semi trucks whizzing dangerously past. I kept a vigilant watch for runaway vehicle lanes on the downward slopes, as I never knew if my brakes were going to work. My poor, gorgeous, royal blue fish sloshed about so violently in his fishbowl that he turned a pale, deathly gray. I would have thought it impossible, but my fish appeared to be seasick! Eventually, a blizzard forced us to stop for the night. Hotel staff and patrons pointed and laughed as I carried in my fishbowl wrapped in a pillow to keep the traumatized little passenger from turning into a frozen fish stick.
When the snowstorm abated, we continued on to Las Vegas. The casino scene was smoky, seedy, and swarming with slimy people. “How can anyone stand this place?” I asked my mother. Even the one-armed bandits and cheap, all-you-can-eat buffets weren’t enough to entice me into staying any longer than absolutely necessary. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
It was such a relief when we finally reached our destination: sunny Del Mar, California—a charming, little, tourist town situated on two square miles of picturesque Pacific coastline. At the sight of the sparkling, blue water, a wave of peace and calm washed over me. “Ah…freedom, hope, and new beginnings!”
Since my last visit six months ago, Cindy had moved from La Jolla to Del Mar. Her four-unit apartment building, surrounded by palm trees and built on dramatic bluffs bordering the shoreline, sat smack dab on prime ocean-front real estate. How on earth did she score such a superb top-of-the-line location? I quickly discovered how: Her abode was a bit on the ramshackle side and clearly in need of repair. I was tempted to hammer in a few nails on the spot. We knocked on the door of the weathered wooden building. “Kris! Mom! You made it!” Cindy squealed as she hugged us. “Come on in. You can put your stuff in my room.” Cindy shared her two-bedroom apartment with another young woman, and now I was adding all my belongings to their already cramped space.
“I call this place ‘The Crap Shack,'”Cindy chuckled, as my eyes scanned the scuzzy interior. Her jesting only slightly softened the blow of the shocking sight of my new living quarters. The grungy, brown living room contained two shabby sofas—one placed on the floor in the usual manner conducive to sitting and the other propped up on its end, leaning against the wall, as if she was saving it as back-up in case of a couch emergency. In addition, a towering, ceiling-high, ratty, dirty-beige carpet-covered cat scratching-pole stood in the corner.
This place was a pigsty (or catsty), thanks mainly to Cindy’s roommate-—a quiet, pencil-thin, plainly-pretty PhD student from the University of Southern California—and her two cats. To call her a slob wouldn’t do her justice. She was the slobbiest slob I’ve ever seen. You could not walk through her bedroom without scaling mountains of clothes and junk. Even her bed was completely covered in rubbish, and the bathroom shower curtain could have served as a science experiment, growing mold and an assortment of fungus in its thick layer of grime. I envisioned the roommate twenty years down the road as one of those crazy cat ladies you see on the news, with forty-seven cats and a condemned home filled with their feline feces. She had started her collection with two pets we nicknamed “Psycho” and “Pee-Pee.” Psycho was afraid of everyone but her owner and would run around like a maniacal scaredy cat. Pee-Pee would climb into your clothes and urinate on them. We had to make sure the closet was shut and the door to our bedroom locked at all times.
Pee-Pee also preferred to whiz on the stove while you were cooking or on your leg when you sat down to eat. When he was in a good mood, he’d walk up to you and vomit a hairball, but that was about the friendliest he got. He just didn’t want us in his home. As if that weren’t disgusting enough, the living room became infested with fleas from the cats. We had to sprinkle Borax everywhere to combat the little buggers. It was all I could do to keep from crying. What was this recurring problem with cats? Had I been a cat-abusing dog in a previous life?
To make matters worse, my fish died not long after settling in California, because the public drinking water he was swimming in was so bad. He disintegrated before my very eyes, more chunks falling off him every day. Distraught, I called a San Diego pet store for help. “How often are you changing the water?” the man inquired. “Every few weeks, like they told me when I bought him in Minnesota,” I replied. “You need to change the water every few DAYS here, Lady,” the man replied shocked at my mistreatment. I made that fish endure motion sickness, the frigid cold of Colorado, and the oppressive heat of the desert, only to be placed in toxic, flesh-eating water. I could have done that poor, little guy a favor and simply flushed him down the toilet before I left Michigan.
I started feeling buyer’s remorse. You know, like when you make a big decision such as moving across the country with no job and no home of your own, and you get there and your beloved fish dies and you end up living in a hell hole? Even a good night’s sleep eluded me, because the sound of the ocean waves crashing on the shore was so loud. This wasn’t what I thought I was buying when I purchased a one-way ticket to Cali.
Fortunately, my life situation was about to change again, and this time for the better. First, after a few weeks I became used to the sound of the waves and even learned to take comfort in their tidal rhythm. Then Cindy made a discovery.
Cindy had been searching the want ads of the local paper for jobs, since she was currently out of hers, having bailed on grad school. “Kris, there’s a notice for salespeople for an art gallery called Intarsia Gallery. It’s at The Plaza, which is great, because we can walk there if we want.” The Plaza was a three-story, high-end, open-air shopping plaza that had opened in the heart of the main street, Camino Del Mar, just after I arrived in town. It was a heavenly, peaceful shopping and eating oasis overlooking the ocean.
The art gallery was just as magnificent. Tucked away on the top floor in the back of the building, it was a classy, eclectic boutique that housed everything from faux Southwestern Indian pottery waterfalls, to unique jewelry dripping in amethysts and silver and turquoise, to colorful hand-painted silk clothing. Cindy and I both got hired there, and with careful counting of our pennies, eventually earned enough change between us to move to a very nice one-bedroom apartment a few blocks away from Le Chateau du Merde. “Au revoir cats! Au revoir fleas!”
Grab a hat and some sunscreen and venture out to see what the world has to offer. There may be sunny days by the seashore and dark nights in a Crap Shack, but your willingness to explore will take you from surviving to thriving. Thanks for reading.
Jam on,
Kristi
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