So what this all means is that I suspect that this journal is really, at the heart of it, nothing more than a glorified version of that diary I kept when I was ten. Sure, I’ll probably continue to write about the odd philosophical point, and I certainly will continue to offer my naïve impressions about what the world of Gaia is about. But really, that’s only so much “adult” window dressing for what is essentially a childish activity. You may therefore imagine me lying face down on my bed, feet kicked up in the air, colored pen in hand, selecting the very best sticker I can find to adorn the following entry:
Well, that’s not such a bad sticker, is it? That’s Lake Gregory up in the San Bernardino Mountains, northeast of the Los Angeles basin, high above the smog. We have some friends who have a cabin up there. The other day they called us and said “Hey, we’re looking at a thermometer here, and it’s saying sixty five degrees.” Lying in pools of perspiration as we were, we needed no further prompting. Stuffing Puppy in the backseat, we headed for the hills, dodging LA traffic the whole way.
The traffic thinned, and the fog thickened as we headed up, soon turning into what the English call a “soft day” and Californians call “rain”. We sadly had to give our original plans of strolling about Lake Gregory a miss, and instead we headed out to the local restaurant for dinner (singular demonstrative pronoun intended). It was the sort of place that requires one to pass through the bar/poolroom before reaching the actual dining area, which was an odd assortment of tables stuffed into an area not much larger than our California sized apartment. Still, the service was worthy of a multiply-Michelin-starred joint. cheese_whine I think I counted three waitresses attending to us, one of whom seemed to be an owner. Of course, in Michelin rated restaurants, the waitresses typically do not take orders with one hand whilst holding a pool cue in the other, but I think it added to the charm of the place, as did the menagerie of rusty farm implements hanging from the ceiling. I must admit, I wasn’t brave enough to sit in the chair underneath the scythe, leaving such antics to the seven year old son of our friends. He seemed to think it was rather jolly, and only giggled at me when I reminded him about the possibility of earthquakes in California. The bravery of children!
Now, I should say I rarely eat typical American sized meals. My stomach just isn’t that large. If I have a salad and split a plate with Oxbridge, I am usually more than full. But when in Rome, and all that, so I went ahead and tucked into the chicken soup (clearly homemade), crusty roll with lots of butter, green beans with more butter, big baked potato with sour cream and the obligatory chives (and probably still more butter), and finally the main entrée, a half-rack of “baby back” ribs slathered in a sweet, smoky sauce. domokun I have no idea what a baby back is, but I do know that the rack was so tender it fell apart when I tapped it with my fork. Oxbridge went for the local fish and chips (requiring the helpful wait staff to find him vinegar), and I couldn’t resist nibbling at his plate as well. A few happy hours later, a very round Virginia accompanied her friends back to the cabin.
Our friends have a dog about Puppy’s size, and they’re just absolute best friends. Unfortunately, the rain prevented them from too much play outside, and eventually concerns about property damage dramallama dramallama forced us to separate the disappointed two. They did get a bit of a wander outside, though, which pleased Puppy to no end. Not for the first time, I felt a bit of guilt over the fact that we live in the city. Dogs really prefer the countryside with its open spaces and interesting smells. But in a way, so do I. But the city has its own rewards for humans (like employment, for one), so stay there we shall. And I like to think that Puppy would prefer to be with her family, even if it means that she spends more time on leash than she and I would like.
The dogs dealt with being confined to the cabin by sleeping, but humans have other resources. We all sat down to a friendly enough game of poker, including our friend;s boy (who isn’t half bad, although a tad “loose” with his raises). Fortunately for our bank account, Oxbridge is a skillful, admittedly merciless, player. Me, I love cards, and am not half-bad at Blackjack and Whist. But when it comes to poker, I am hopeless. I get a good hand, and I think “Whee!”, followed by a usually futile attempt to scrunch my face down into some measure of impassivity. As the gentle reader is no doubt aware, I like to chatter on. A game that rewards players who keep their feelings to themselves is not one I could ever be good at.
Just about even, financially speaking, we rolled into bed at some absurdly late hour, to wake to a grey, drizzly dawn. Outside, we could see misty strands of fogs whipping about the tall trees and mountainside. Inside, we busied ourselves with hot tea, dogs and gossip. Maybe the next time we visit, we’ll get to wander the lake. I even shocked the boys by insisting we go fishing next time (I haven’t since I was twelve, but all this Gaian fishing has got me interested. Although I made it clear that I refuse to kill and clean my victims xp ). There’s lots we can do in the hills, and I’m glad our friends live there. But I’m even more glad for our friendship. That morning, watching the rain bead across the bay window, I was more than happy to be doing nothing more than taking my morning tea with people (and dogs!) I care about. heart
Not a Country Girl, But Willing To Try It On For a Weekend,
V.
