I am not exaggerating when I say the area along the Pacific Coast Highway near San Simeon is one of my favorite places on earth. Even though the road, officially known as California State Route 1 but more commonly referred to as the PCH or Highway 1, offers an abundance of beautiful locations along its impressive 659-mile distance, from the stunning beaches of Dana Point in Orange County to the magical redwood forest near Leggett in Mendocino County, there’s good reason the area in and around San Simeon will always hold my top spot.
Growing up as a media obsessed child, it felt as if everything I was watching included the scenic vistas and seaside roads (which are often better described as cliffside) that are characteristic to much of the PCH. In every movie and television show, from Beverly Hills, 90210 to Innerspace, along with every other car commercial ever made, I seemed to find them. They called to me before I even realized what they were. Yet it wasn’t until the fall of 2005, more than three years after I’d arrived in Los Angeles, that I finally decided to explore the PCH for myself.
I had just made it through one of the most hectic periods of my burgeoning career in “the industry,” when Bob and Harvey Weinstein decided to give control of Miramax over to Disney (which had owned it since 1993), and start a new entity they aptly named The Weinstein Company. At the time I was working for Miramax, and decided to remain there despite being offered a position at the Weinstein’s new studio. However, there was a period during what came to be known as “the transition” when many of us were working for both. The four floors of our West Hollywood office building had been split up, and over the course of each day I was making my way from the Weinstein controlled fourth floor to the Miramax controlled third while tending to my many responsibilities, both new and old. It was an intense few months, and after spending another month helping to get my department and the “new” Miramax up and running, I realized I was in dire need of some time away. Since my birthday was right around the corner, and it fell on a Thursday, I knew I would be able to escape for a long weekend. It didn’t take me long to decide that I would use the opportunity to finally drive up the Pacific Coast Highway.
Early that Friday afternoon, after nursing a hangover for much of the morning, the result of a big Miramax reunion at historic Barney’s Beanery the night before coupled with the fact that it had been my birthday, I got on the road and headed south on the 5 Freeway towards Dana Point. There I caught the PCH, and started making my way north, with no plans other than the fact I hoped to make it to San Francisco before the weekend was through. I snaked my way past Crystal Cove State Park and Huntington Beach, both of which offered picturesque views of the Pacific, and subsequently discovered, to my dismay, that much of the of the PCH south of Santa Monica veers inland, severely limiting the scenery along the way. I braved congestion through Long Beach, Redondo Beach, and Manhattan Beach, before finally finding myself in a traffic bottleneck nightmare near Los Angeles International Airport. After clearing it, I took in the crowds of Santa Monica and the comforts of Malibu, another beautiful stretch of the PCH, and one I’d seen on both the big and small screen too many times to count. My recognition made it seem as though I was finally arriving at the coastal road I’d always anticipated, except soon after I passed Magu Rock, a mesmerizing outcropping that juts into the sky just north of Malibu, it became clear to me that the PCH might not be anything like the continuous costal road my imagination had created. I found myself veering inland once again, and it wasn’t long before I discovered that the 101 Freeway and Highway 1 merge just north of Oxnard. They stay that way until San Luis Obispo, except for a nice break in the middle where the PCH separates and heads into the hills near Vandenberg Air Force Base, before meeting the 101 again just south of Santa Maria. In the time before smartphones, it was clear I hadn’t done enough homework. Actually, I have no memory of doing any homework. I don’t think I even consulted a map, outside of punching my destination into Mapquest, printing out the results, and letting them blindly lead me to Dana Point.
As I completed that first day’s drive, my hangover starting getting the best of me, more than frustrated with the shady little motel I’d found near San Luis Obispo because every reputable place I’d stopped at was sold out due to parent’s weekend at California Polytechnic State University, I was painfully aware that I had spent over eight hours traversing a road that, for the most part, wasn’t anything like what I’d expected. So, that night I drifted off in a state of pent up anticipation, trusting that the next day I would actually find the highway I ‘d been imagining since I was old enough to sit too close to the television and be told by my parents that my blindness was imminent.
After leaving San Luis Obispo the next morning, I finally reconnected with the coast at Morro Bay. It was such a relief to once more see the deep blues of the Pacific, and the moment I spotted Morro Rock in the distance, a topographical feature that to me looks uncannily like a giant partially buried an island-sized boulder in the bay, I started to get excited. A second later that excitement left me with the “burping” sound of a billion pieces of Tupperware being closed at once, as I was directed inland yet again, the Pacific disappearing from my view. And while I found the journey to be immensely beautiful, I was still dreaming of the Pacific Coast Highway, still hoping for it, like a kid hopes for all toys and no clothes on Christmas. It was an idea that years of moving pictures, no matter how cropped, edited, or misleading, had reinforced, so I was a bit surprised, and perhaps a little irritated, by the fact that I couldn’t seem to find it.
I can still remember the feeling I got after passing the quaint small town of Cambria, rounding a shallow curve in the PCH, and crossing into San Simeon for the first time. At first, I didn’t trust what I was seeing, but soon found myself lost in the overload of beautiful things. When I noticed Hearst Castle, William Randolph Hearst’s real-life equivalent of Citizen Kane’s “Xanadu,” nestled into the serene rolling hills in the distance like a desert mirage, I was immediately drawn to it. I pulled off the highway into the parking lot as if the choice was inescapable. By the end of my visit, after experiencing the awe-inspiring coastline from the castle’s extraordinary perch, and its hodgepodge of impressive art and architecture, my love affair with San Simeon had begun. It only grew deeper and more pronounced the farther I moved up the PCH, where I finally found everything I had envisioned, and so much more. From San Simeon all the way to Monterey Bay, the most impressive stretch of road I’ve ever had the good fortune of navigating, it grew. The mark it left on me is still palpable almost fifteen years later, and I’m still met with the same feeling every single time I round that curve. It saturates my being like a salve whose main two ingredients are tranquility and centeredness, and after applied I can almost feel life’s stresses rising off of me like a mist. It’s the very reason the area along the Pacific Coast Highway near San Simeon is one of my favorite places anywhere.
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The feeling had already overtaken me. I think even before I left Paso Robles I could sense an inkling of it. Driving through the hills along Route 46 was like a shot in the arm, and the view from the scenic overlook like a shot to the soul. As I moved towards the coast, the Pacific coming into finer detail by the second, the feeling only strengthened. By the time I arrived at the PCH I was positively swimming in it, and I hadn’t even reached San Simeon.
Once on the Pacific Coast Highway, I headed north, although my first destination was not San Simeon, but rather Cambria, the charming small town just south of it. If ever I was to move to this part of the world, I’m sure Cambria is where I’d live. Even though the town of Astoria, where The Goonies is set, is in Oregon (and where I would pay my first visit in about a week), Cambria has always reminded me of the “Goon Docks.” I think it has more to do with the impression I get from both watching the movie and visiting the town, because while they are somewhat similar in appearance, they are by no means identical. Yet, every time I see the warm, inviting houses that dot the hillside, or walk around West Village, the stretch of Main Street that serves as Cambria’s downtown, I feel like, at any moment, Mikey, Mouth, Data, and Chunk might speed by me on their bikes. To me they somehow fit there. But no matter my odd associations, Cambria is one of the most agreeable little hamlets you could ever hope to come across.
I found a parking spot in West Village on Cornwall Street just east of Main Street, knowing the parking was most likely very questionable where I was headed. On foot I continued up the narrow streets that move into the hills, on my way to a place I had discovered during my last visit with my former fiancée, on New Year’s Day 2017. Wandering around downtown Cambria, we had used the convenient little public restroom that sits not far from where I had just parked, and I discovered a sign that read, “Nitt Witt Ridge 600 Ft.” I’m almost embarrassed to admit that, because of my sometimes adolescent sense of humor, it amused me − probably too much – and set my imagination alight. Immediately, I pictured an outcropping with a sheer drop-off and precarious footing where mouth-breathing yokels in the 19th century kept plummeting to their deaths. Despite warnings from both loudly whispered legend and slightly concerned men and women, people just kept arriving. They wanted to see, had to see, whether or not the rumors were true. Once they did, a similar fate would befall them (pun intended), thus growing the legend, and the body count, of Nitt Witt Ridge. Needless to say, I wanted to go there immediately.
After some discussion, my former fiancée and I decided to postpone our visit until after we found a place for lunch. We had been searching for one when I discovered the sign, and were finding the options to be very limited. We loaded into her car, and as we headed towards a restaurant I know near Moonstone Beach, my mind’s eye provided yet another vivid picture, this time of what outcropping would look like today − only slightly visible at an awkward angle from a “viewing area,” further protected by a mass of fences, warning signs, a moat, and the Bridgekeeper from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. It was probably my brain’s attempt to diminish my enthusiasm for Nitt Witt Ridge, but my supposition did not have the anticipated effect. If anything, my desire to see it grew. But I didn’t fight the issue. I said nothing as we made our way out of town. Though in her car on the way my impatience got the best of me. I pulled out my phone, and searched “Nitt Witt Ridge” on Google. I regretted the decision immediately.
It never occurred to me Nitt Witt was a person, and Nitt Witt Ridge his personal creation. In an act of perfect cosmic one-upmanship, reality was even better than what my fertile (or infantile) imagination had cooked up. In 1928, an eventual eccentric named Arthur “Art” Harold Beal, who also went by the names “Captain Nitt Witt” and “Der Tinkerpaw,” purchased two and a half acres on a hillside in Cambria for $500, and spent the next five decades using nothing more than hand tools to construct his own Shangri La. Built mostly from found objects, including natural materials sourced on his property and from nearby forests and beaches, along with literal garbage found around town, where Captain Nitt Witt was a trash collector in the ‘40s and ‘50s. Over time he used his self-taught engineering skills and ingenuity to build his “poor man’s Hearst Castle.” Everything from beer cans, toilet seats, and old television sets, to stone, seashells, and pine trees were used in its construction, along with actual pilfered elements from Hearst Castle, where Art is said to have worked for a time. The property itself is now a California Historical Landmark, and naturally local legend has grown up around the man who built it. It’s said he liked to sit atop an old toilet positioned on his roof, in various stages of undress, and converse with those passing by below.
I wanted to demand we turn around, head back to Nitt Witt Ridge, but I was too hung over and hungry. Plus, I didn’t see what difference an hour would make. I never considered that after lunch, and our planned visit to see the wildlife at Elephant Seal Vista Point, that our fatigue and overwhelming desire to get on the road would lead us to postpone our visit for another time. Over a year later, and I still hadn’t been back. Which is why, the moment I reached Cambria, I headed directly for Nitt Witt Ridge.
After climbing the hill and arriving at the front gate, I found only a sign with “Next Tour” spelled out in what looked like electrical tape to greet me. At its bottom right was a clock face with two adjustable arms, which were currently set to read two o’clock. I pulled out my phone to check the time, and sighed when I realized it was only just approaching ten after one. I expected a self-guided tour that would start whenever I arrived and paid the admission fee, granted it was sometime during their operating hours, not this formal and frustrating turn of events. Just behind the clock and the ramshackle front gate was another sign, as if whoever had placed it there knew exactly what I was thinking. It firmly proclaimed “No Trespassing.” A few feet away, an “Info Box” hung from the front fence, just above the property’s mailbox. I took the few steps to reach it, and discovered a stack of informational leaflets tucked inside. I pulled one out, and there, in plain black in white, it read, “The next Spiritual High will begin at the time that the sign on the chain states.” So not only had I discovered that the tour has an unintentionally tacky name, but that I would have to wait close to an hour to take part in the next one.
For the second time it was my hunger that dictated my departure from Nitt Witt Ridge. I was sure I could get over to Moonstone Beach, and finish the lunch I had packed for myself, before two o’clock rolled around. So, I tromped down the hill back to my car, and had picked out a spot with a beautiful view of the Pacific well before one thirty. As I ate, however, the serenity of San Simeon started to overpower me, and soon I decided that I couldn’t leave without a quick stroll down Moonstone Beach Boardwalk. It was too beautiful a place, on too gorgeous a day. And what would it hurt if I took my camera? I had some time. But before I knew it, my iPhone displayed 1:50, and there was no way I was ever going to make it back in time for the next tour. Despite the sense of calm, and dozens of pictures, I had to show for the deviation, I wished I’d just stayed put and eaten in my car from the shadow of Nitt Witt Ridge.
I considered my options. The realist in me was telling me to play it safe, head back to Nitt Witt Ridge, and wait there. But that meant wasting close to an hour − the very thing I had previously been trying to avoid. San Francisco was still at least five hours off, which left me about three hours to spend in the area. With such limited time, squandering a second was most definitely out of the question. I knew that if I did a little planning, and then stuck to my plan, I would be fine. I decided that the elephant seals were my best option. Not only did I always love paying them a visit, but also the excursion would allow me to drive through San Simeon, and further up the coast. After a quick search online, I learned there were still three more opportunities to tour at Nitt Witt Ridge − at two, three and four PM − leaving me more than enough time to pop up the PCH and see the seals. With my plan in place I was on my way, completely unaware that the long arm of Murphy’s Law was already rearranging the pieces.
The drive up the coast was absolutely breathtaking. If the Pacific Coast Highway hadn’t been closed ahead, I would have happily continued all the way to San Francisco. It was the best weather I’d seen there since the summer of 2012, when my cousin Andy paid me a visit from upstate New York, and after a few days exploring Los Angeles, we drove up the PCH to Monterey, at one point staying in a cliffside cabin at the Lucia Lodge, just north of Big Sur. The experience is almost quintessential to that of a drive up the Pacific coast. Even though the facilities themselves have seen better days, and the food in the restaurant was bland, overcooked, and overly expensive, the views more than made up for all the other shortcomings. The next morning was one of the most memorable of my life, as I’m sure it was to my cousin, waking up to the surf crashing against the rocks, the golden sun poking through a gentle fog. Stacked against the post-industrial towns in the northeast, where we are from, makes it seem almost like another planet.
Elephant Seal Vista Point was absolutely packed when I arrived. I pulled into the parking lot and waited patiently for a space. Everywhere I looked people were crowded up against the fences that separate the parking lot from the beach, and crammed all along the viewing boardwalk. I’d seen it almost as busy on previous visits, but for some reason that day it had an almost carnival-like atmosphere. I couldn’t wait to get out of my car and see what all the fuss was about.
The moment I opened my door I was greeted with the chattering of a few hundred human spectators, mixed with the guttural burp-like growls and high-pitched squeals from what was likely twice as many elephant seals. I headed for the boardwalk, and pushed my way to an acceptably less crowded spot towards the end. As soon as I stopped moving and faced the sea, the breezy and carefree carnival atmosphere I’d detected was instantly replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread.
Picture, if you will, the four distinct varieties of elephant seals on the beach that afternoon. First, and by far the largest, are the adult males. They can weight up to four tons, grow to the approximate size of a Smart car, and have distinctive protruding trunk-like noses. If their weight and size alone didn’t make them formidable enough, they also have lower teeth that resemble tusks, and can be used to impale their rivals. Next, about a third the size of the males and lacking the distinctive snouts, are the adult females. Unlike the males, which tend to be islands unto themselves unless a challenge is afoot, the females gather on the beach in large groups called harems, under the “protection” of a beach master. Thirdly, peppered throughout the harems and easily identifiable because of their tiny size and deep black tone, are the newborns. And lastly, also in the harems, noticeably smaller than the adult females although roughly the same shades of gray, are the pups.
In maneuvering down the viewing boardwalk, I admit I was, in many ways, on autopilot; thinking about getting to Nitt Witt Ridge on time, when I might make it to San Francisco, and reminding myself that I still needed to book a hotel there. I had seen the seals so many times I really wasn’t expecting anything new or shocking. But just as I reached what would become my spot, pleasingly less crowded as it was, I noticed that each and every eye in the vicinity was focused on the same thing. I followed their collective gazes to the alcove just below where we stood, trying to find what demanded such rapt attention. As I turned my head, I tensed with anticipation. “This must be something absolutely mind-blowing,” I thought to myself. What I eventually found was two female elephant seals facing off, and not even in a decidedly unique way. “What is up with these noobs?” I wondered. I knew where to look for a good fight on this beach, and this certainly wasn’t it. Then I heard a little girl innocently ask her mother, “Why does the mommy seal want to hurt the baby seal?”
I was caught completely off guard by the question, and glanced over at the girl who had asked it. She looked upset, and gravely serious. So, I shifted my attention back down to the beach, and was astonished by the complete failure of my powers of observation. I had been just slightly less dense than the universe a second before the Big Bang. I began to wonder the same thing as the little girl: Why was this female elephant seal attacking a newborn pup no more than a fifth her size, while its mother fought desperately to defend it. I felt absolutely helpless. Watching a grown seal peck at a defenseless pup, as it lay exposed in the sand was nerve-racking enough, but the moments where it looked as if one of the adult seals might simply roll over onto the infant were just as stressful. Elephant seals aren’t built for land, after all, and even when a rival is not batting them around the adults look entirely clumsy on the beach.
“Mommy!” the little girl said, frustrated with her mother’s lack of response. “Why does the mommy seal want to hurt the baby seal?”
Curiosity got the best of me. Without realizing what I was doing, I found myself watching the mother as she searched for an answer. It was obvious she had no idea what to say. As if sensing me, she suddenly looked in my direction, meeting my gaze in what felt like an ambush. I quickly turned away, but I could still feel her eyes on me, even though I made a conscious effort not to look again. I did, however, listen closely for her answer.
“She’s not trying to hurt the baby seal, honey,” the mother said almost flippantly after a few seconds, but offered no further explanation.
“Ohhh! That was a close one,” a twenty-something hipster said loudly to his girlfriend, after the aggressive female seal managed to grip the pup in its mouth and almost snatched it from behind its mother. As the tension mounted, for the cub, the little girl and me, I found the momentary courage to take another quick glance. It was obvious that the little girl understood everything that was happening. I could see her confusion, and her anger, both of which seemed to have more to do with fact that her mother just had just lied to her face.
“Mommy!” the little girl demanded yet again. Her plea drew my eyes like a tractor beam. Before I knew what was happening, her mother had looked up, and once again our eyes locked. Except this time I inexplicably lost the ability to swivel my own head. Even though I tried, I remained frozen mid-gaze, like a meddlesome deer in headlights, which I’ll admit was probably more than a little disturbing to the girl’s mother. I began to feel like the predatory elephant seal that was in attack mode just a few short yards from where I stood, horrified at the situation my innocent curiosity had created.
This time the little girl’s mother broke eye contact first. “Okay, it’s time to go,” she said tersely, grabbing her daughter by the hand and moving towards the parking lot. The little girl immediately began to fight her.
“No!” she screamed, trying valiantly to hold her ground.
“It’s time to go,” her mother insisted, picking her up and heading down the boardwalk in what can only be described as a light sprint. I could hear the little girl’s temper tantrum escalate the further they moved away from me. I felt horrible, as if I robbed the poor girl an experience that would have become the inspiration for her future career as a marine biologist. The feeling didn’t last long, however. Just as quickly as they disappeared, I suddenly regained the ability to move my head. Relieved, I started turning it from side to side, to test its capabilities and make sure it was in full working order, when I caught sight of the hipster guy’s girlfriend, who was now eyeing me with what I took to be absolute disgust.
I immediately went into fight or flight mode, and even though I would have preferred to explain what had happened from my perspective, I found myself clumsily retreating down the boardwalk, in the direction opposite the mother and daughter. As I went, for good measure, and because it made my entirely innocent faux pas seem absolutely nefarious, I bumped into each and every person I passed along the way, barely managing to eek out an “excuse me” with each offense. I could feel the hipster girl’s eyes on me the entire time, then those of each person I collided with. I was absolutely mortified.
When I reached the end of the boardwalk and couldn’t go any further, I hid behind a group of people, out of sight of the hipster girl, and all the other judgmental eyes. Hoping it would somehow provide extra cover, I pulled my camera to my face, and as nonchalantly as I could, started snapping pictures.
“Look Cody,” I heard from someone directly behind me not two minutes later. “Two beach masters are fighting.” The voice was obviously an adult female, but I dared not turn around.
“Thosh aren’t beesh mathers,” I heard a much younger voice say dismissively and with absolute confidence, through a very pronounced speech impediment. The voice sounded male, but I couldn’t be sure. “They’re too shmall.”
I hesitated for a moment, debating whether or not I was going to indulge my curiosity once again,
“You sure they’re not beach masters, honey?” the woman’s voice chimed back in after a brief pause.
“No, mom!” Cody shot back, as if embarrassed by her question. “They are too young. Look at their shnouts. They are practi-shing for when they’re older, and big enough to fashe a real beesh mather.”
I was helpless to resist my own nosiness.
I zoomed my long lens out as wide as it would go, and started panning the area in front of me, searching the frame for what these disembodied voices behind me were discussing. From their direction, and the loud grunts I could hear coming from the beach ahead, it only took me a few seconds to find the two male elephant seals facing off less than 50 yards from the end of the boardwalk.
“That’sh a beesh mather,” Cody said after another pause, sounding more than confident that he was pointing out one of the alpha male elephant seals who controlled one of the handful of harems on the beach.
I zoomed my camera out once again, searching for this new scene. I panned back and forth, a bit more frantic with each pass, but wherever this beach master was, he eluded me. My urgency multiplied tenfold when I heard a younger voice, this one distinctively female and sounding slightly concerned, ask, “What’s he doing to the other seal?”
“Uh… He’s a…” I heard Cody’s mother uneasily stumble for an explanation, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I lowered my camera and scanned the beach, desperate to find the beach master, and figure out what Cody and company were seeing.
“He’sh mounting her,” Cody answered plainly, just as I was finally able to locate the beach master who was in the process of clumsily shimmying into mating position with one of the females in his harem. She looked rather perturbed with the whole situation.
“What’s mounting?” the female voice asked, and once again I became a helpless puppet to my curiosity, which deftly took control of all my motor functions. For the third time that afternoon I found myself turning so that I could, at long last, get a look at the group that was presently shielding me from the previous one I somehow managed to offend. There I found a little girl, who was about the same age as young lady I had earlier encountered, standing next to a woman in her thirties, who stood next to Cody. He was an awkward pre-teen, with wire-framed glasses and hair coiffed in a style that resembled a rather unfortunate hybrid between a bowl cut and mullet. Behind the three of them, and oblivious to what was going on just ahead, was an elderly couple, and a man in his thirties. They all seemed to be part of the same extended family.
“He’sh preparing to mate with…” Cody began to answer, and my rapt fascination with the unfolding situation on the beach that afternoon distressed me to the point of terror. I could almost see the order of events, which would end with me being removed from the boardwalk through mob consensus, like Cersei Lannister being led through King’s Landing. “Shame! Shame! Shame!” Suddenly, I felt the urge to leap from boardwalk, and head for the sea. I could most definitely swim for Hawaii, I decided.
“They’re making friends,” Cody’s mother quickly interrupted, and the moment I heard her voice, I snapped back around. “And playing,” she told her daughter in a cheery matter-of-fact way, as if it was all the explanation required. I held my breath for the inevitable follow-up question, but none came. With the matter seemingly settled I raised my camera again, hoping it had the power to protect me from the insanity of this place, and started nervously and indiscriminately snapping pictures.
From my previous visits, I understood that the mating and birthing cycle for northern elephant seals takes place primarily between October and February. Yet, it never occurred to me that this one would coincide with the peak of mating season, which had hit its apex about ten days before, appropriately, or maybe ironically, right around Valentine’s Day. It seemed odd to me that so many people with kids in tow would show up to watch seals mating. To be honest, it seemed odd to me that so many people in general would show up to watch seals mating, but I myself was there. Did that make me odd − or odder – considering all of my other shining moments from that afternoon. My thinking might seem entirely puritanical, but in fact it’s quite the opposite. When you consider the lengths many parents will go to protect their children from the truths of nature, both harsh and harmless, it’s a wonder they showed up at all. I had personally just witnessed two separate examples of this phenomenon, and while I applaud these parents for their possibly forward-thinking ideals, I had come to worry about the follow-up questions their precious little ones might pose in the moment, or sometime later that night. The thought elicited in me a powerful urge to warn all the mommies and daddies about the uncomfortable and perspiration heavy evening that most certainly awaited them.
It took a good ten minutes before I felt comfortable enough to head back towards the parking lot. Cody and his family left before I did, and once they were gone I didn’t see many familiar faces in the crowd. With my camera acting as my safety blanket, I headed back down the boardwalk, shooting pictures as I went. When I got to the spot where I watched the pup attack, I made sure to steal a glance, and found mother and child were still there. I had been picturing the worst, and was deeply relieved when I saw them. They both appeared unharmed. The best I could tell was that their attacker had moved about fifteen feet away, thankfully with no pups in her immediate vicinity this time.
I made it back to Cambria around a quarter to three, and once again found a spot on Cornwall Street, this one just a stones-throw from Round Up Pizza n’ Grub – my favorite restaurant in town. I find its western themed interior, which includes a menu-board made up to look like a covered wagon – a real canvas cover at the top and wheels at the bottom – quite enjoyable in an ironic sort of way, but the real reason for my love isn’t necessarily what you might expect.
In the summer of 2009 my friend Aaron and I landed at the Pizza n’ Grub for dinner, after a long first day of sightseeing in the area. He had been visiting from Toronto, and I was understandably insistent that no trip to California could ever be complete without a stop in San Simeon. So one Friday night that August, we left Los Angeles and embarked on a weekend road trip up the coast. The very next evening we arrived at the Pizza n’ Grub. That night, at one of the wooden tables in the wood paneled dining room, in the shadow of a mounted deer’s head and other assorted antlers, we got into a discussion about movies and television, as is usually the case. It wasn’t long before I began to demonstrate my passion for the topic through what was a sometimes-liberal use of colorful vocabulary. I wasn’t loud, just impassioned. I thought nothing of it, since the only other patron in the restaurant was the man at the next table, who sat with his back to me, directly behind Aaron. Not once was there a clearing of the throat, a disgruntled glancing turn, or any other gesture that might demonstrate disapproval or displeasure. For forty-five minutes this conversation went on, without so much as a deep sigh.
“You need to watch your language!” the man suddenly and quite unexpectedly exploded. I froze mid-sentence, my whole body tensing. Just past the man, who was now turned in his chair so I could see the homicidal rage in his eyes, I noticed a little boy across the table from him. He had been just out of my sightline. I was immediately horrified by my oversight.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, genuinely regretful. “I didn’t see him there.” By this point the two young men working behind the counter were closely watching our exchange.
“It doesn’t matter,” he scolded me. “This is a family place!” I was dumbfounded by his rebuke, and wondered why he had let his irritation fester for so long. At any point he could have gotten up and moved to another of the many unoccupied tables in the restaurant, or given me some indication of my mistake. “That language might be okay where you’re from,” he added, “But we’re decent people around here.”
It was at about this point when my horror turned to hatred.
Instead of attempting to behave like a civilized adult, this man chose to impugn my decency. So the conversation had been peppered with the occasional F-bomb, and some other questionable terminology usually avoided in polite conversation. So what? That certainly didn’t make me an indecent person. It made me a passionate person, and possibly a more interesting person. Besides, he was the one who had rudely interrupted my enthusiastic defense of Lost’s fifth season with his vicious outburst. The authoritarian!
After that, Aaron and I ate quickly, and were on our way towards the exit within just a few minutes. The man eyed me the entire way, looking as if he was trying to melt my brain using only his squint and furrowed brow. As we passed the counter, I stopped.
“I’m sorry,” I said to one of the young men behind it. “You know, for the language. If I caused any problems.”
He grinned knowingly, shrugged his shoulders pragmatically, and said dismissively, “We talk like that all the time.” His coworker, who stood just behind him, smirked and nodded.
That day I swore undying allegiance to everything that is Round Up Pizza n’ Grub. Even though I haven’t eaten there in years, it will remain my favorite restaurant in all of Cambria, now and for eternity. With customer service like that, how could it not?
It was around two-fifty when I arrived back at Nitt Witt Ridge, and I was confident in the fact that I would finally be able catch a tour. For ten whole minutes I waited patiently, examining what I could see of the outside of the house, and wondering what I might find inside. I was more than excited by the prospect.
Three o’clock came and went. I didn’t see, or even hear, another human being anywhere in the vicinity of where I stood. I assumed that my tour guide was just running late, so for ten minutes more I waited calmly. Finally, at ten after, I decided to call them. I found a phone number listed on Trip Advisor and dialed, though instead of an actual human being with useful information, I got a recording − one that incorporated the word “trash” about four hundred times more than was absolutely necessary, but was otherwise less than helpful. It gave me the same information I had gotten from the web: Tours start every hour on the hour, and run until five. It seemed the self-appointed “trash talker” from the recording had decided against showing up to “talk trash” as his message had promised. I was so frustrated by twenty after three that I finally gave up, and stomped my way back down the hill in a state approaching hissy. Maybe it’s me, but I feel like the people who live closest to Nitt Witt Ridge see this kind of behavior all the time.
To this day, I still haven’t taken a tour of house. I’ve had the option, but decided against it. Yet, if anyone ever asks me what I thought of Nitt Witt Ridge, I’m going to take a page out of its owner’s handbook, and with a great big smile respond, “I can’t decide whether or not it was trashy, or just plain garbage,” and leave it at that.
Back in my car, I started lamenting the thoroughly anticlimactic end to my day. The sum of it was entirely unsatisfying, and by then the prospect of doing anything else seemed unlikely. My chance to visit Heart Castle had come and gone, and it was too late in the day for a hike at Fiscalini Ranch Preserve, so I headed back to Moonstone Beach, desperate to let San Simeon do its work. As I wandered along yet another boardwalk, this one much more relaxing and less likely to produce awkwardness, I watched the sun begin to fall towards the horizon. My blood began to cool, my spirit replenish, and before long, as I always do in this part of the world, I found my center again. It was just like old times.
Dislocated 