Highway one
From Joshua tree national park we take a hot windy drive over to the Californian west coast, towards Highway One. From vantage points we overlook Palm Springs through a hazy cloud of pollution that really shouldn’t be there. The brume has drifted southwards from Central California and obscures the distant landscapes that should be visible with the naked eye.
With less than forty thousand miles on the clock, our Treehouse van still has that sheen of new car newness about it. The leather seats of the interior still exude a calf like whiff which drug our senses, annexing dopamine, bringing smiles to our faces whenever we drive it.
We pass through a giant wind farm that utilises the heavy winds across the Southern Californian landscape, generating some electric provision for a power thirsty nation. Blustery gusts blow us about the lanes of the freeway, needing some work to maintain our orientation (any way the wind blows indeed). Treehouse’s 4.0 litre engine has enough oomph to get us away from danger and manoeuvres well at speed.
On the road we decide to replace the Ipad that was stolen from us in Peru.
We stop at a Walmart and ask a sales representative to point us towards their ipad section.
“Ipad section?” Replies Walmart lady looking extremely confused, as if we have asked her something infuriatingly
difficult to comprehend.
“We don’t have an ipad section”.
The lady clearly has never heard of iPads or iPad sections.
She clumsily points us in the direction of tech accessories swatting us and our ridiculous request away.
We trundle around the accessories for a while, pass an aisle and find THE IPAD SECTION (I deploy a tut to end all tuts. Seriously, you should have been there). Displaying only a slim variety we decide a better bet might be to get to a Best Buy store instead. Upon arrival at Best Buy, we weigh up the many ipad flavours and decide on an ipad mini, opting for a 16 gigger with a retina screen. A perfect size and weight for travelling about and logging on where wifi is.
We get back on the road and for a couple of hours stop at Santa Monica pier (it’s in Santa Monica). The pier is large and replete with traditional and contemporary fairground rides. In effect is a big wheel, a roller coaster, bungie trampolines, the obligatory gaming arcades, a helter skelter, alongside many fairground games and booths designed to gobble our dollars. Overly talented buskers (X-factor finalist worthy) tout their vocal wares through portable mini PA systems, charming the seaside crowds and selling CDs. Other dishevelled (insane) looking buskers widdle and riff on electric guitars, performing to crowds of seagulls who are mean with their spare change. A Zoltar machine (presumably licensed) from the movie Big, (starring Tom Hanks) draws our attention and we drop a coin into the slot. Through a tinny lo-fi speaker, Zoltar lays down an audible wisecrack but spits out a printed fortune telling ticket foretelling a vague and non-committal future. This is clearly a soothsaying relative of Zoltar rather than the wish granting one as seen in the big screen, film version.
Observing the signature lifeguard huts on the beach in Santa Monica feels like being in an episode of Baywatch. The ghosts of the red swimsuits pan in front of us as the sun sneaks towards the horizon whilst nobody is watching. Some Santa Monican men decide to invoke the groin fashions of the past and run up and down the beach in speedos, referring to lap times displayed on their body worn fitness trackers. Perfectly sculpted, ripped Californian body types traverse the sand, in full contraposition to the American stereotyped body shape. Santa Monica exudes wealth and an ideal of American seaside towns. You can’t help but want to stay forever. We leave after two hours.
We lay down the challenge and race the sunset up Highway One to the beaches of Northern Malibu. We pull the van into a majestic, sun drenched spot called Thornhill broome and drink it in. A boothed state patrol officer takes our thirty five dollars and allocates us a spot next to a large crowd of techno blasting peeps who are destroying the woofers in their cars at the party end of the beach. We furtively sidle away from the angry Distort-O-Deathbass™ and get a spot next to a gang of super welcoming, super polite, super beer sharing peeps. The band Weezer is rocking on the car stereo.
“Beverly Hills, that’s where I wanna be”…
Michael, the first of the Adame brothers introduces himself, points at a beer cooler and says:
“Help yourself buddy”
I thank him for his generosity and congratulate him on his choice of music. We get chatting and as he takes an interest, we show him round the Treehouse van. He introduces his brother David who is equally sociable and brings a Mr. party edge to the evening. More friends, wives and girlfriends show up bring a veritable ensemble of cooking, camping and incredible hospitality to our stay in Northern Malibu. The gang take over a large section of the beach with multiple gas stoves, beer coolers and Gazebos, all present and correct. We watch the sunset and cook chicken and tortellini pasta in Treehouse’s kitchen area. A perfect sunset adorns the beach and allows us to see it at its very best. The gentle sound of waves smother the shore line, contributing as if in direct conversation, interspersing our chat.
As night falls, the gang are well prepared with fuel for the fire. Multiple oversized wooden palettes are ignited which keep us warm into the evening. (The fire is actually hot enough to melt glass, I lose a bet with David on this fact) Though we try to resist, good friend of the gang Ike, shares a giant bottle of tequila with us, deploying as many shots as we can handle (which is not many). Lucy is gifted a skirt steak taco which is apparently divine.
Through the light of orange flame, conversation trickles into the events of our trip which feel great to recount to people. The stories give us a traction which keeps the conversation flowing alongside beers and tequila. Eventually we move onto dissecting the existential multilayer linear semiotics of Sharknado and what has gone wrong with Tara Reid’s face?
The next day we rise to a beautiful summerlike morning (it’s November the 15th). I close my eyes and feel the warm on my cheeks as the sun reflects off the sea. We stumble off last night’s tequila and begin with a nice cup of tea on the beach. Sand between my toes, we go and drink the tea with our new Californian buddies. They invite us to stay another night and take a trek over the mountains behind Thornhill Broome, but we have to decline, needing to get northwards and some miles behind us, our days in the van already depleting.
We pack up our gear, shake and thank the owners of many hands for the incredible hospitality and badass company for our night on Thornhill broome beach, David and Michael Adame and co. lodged firmly in the memory banks.
As we leave Thornehill Broome I look seawards, see the crashing surf and say to Lucy:
“I would really like to see a seal swimming right now”.
Proving we are actually the center of the universe, a seal instant pops its head out of the water, takes a few breaths, a nose at our brightly coloured van and goes about its morning business.
“Get in universe, we’ll take that! Suspicions confirmed.
