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Full Circle Can you go home again?
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I RODE THE FOUR HUNDRED MILES
HOME under blue sky, past calm seas and bare mountains. Winter in Southern
California is full of contradictions. White-yellow sun burning through
thin blue air. Short cloudless sunsets. Bikinis and sweaters. Bare feet
and fur-lined hiking boots. Cool ocean breezes and white-hot sand.
Encinitas, Oceanside, and San Clemente give way to Orange County, Los Angeles, and Hollywood, all running together to form a dark spot on the map of California, leaking inland like an ink spill. This area is choked with cars, and despite its proximity to the coast, the smog is inexorable, unyielding even to the ocean breezes that clear the wide sand beaches of Santa Monica. Highway 1 winds along the cliffs and beaches of the west coast of North America. It crosses the border from Baja California, Mexico, into the United States, and crosses another border into Canada. Here in Malibu, traffic was slow. Parked cars and pedestrians. A sea-soaked, bikini-clad brunette stuck at the double yellow lines, dogs running after sea gulls, sun-bleached surfers dodging traffic, longboards under their arms. All the while I watched the highway patrol car in my rearview mirror. He'd been tailing me for miles, speaking into his radio. The sun glinted off his mirrored aviator glasses, and then he flipped the switch that turned on the flashing red and blue lights . . . . . . read the rest of this story in American Borders - the book |
