Once **it happens, it keeps on happening November 19 - 25, 2001 about a rather good Thanksgiving celebrations, and a mishappen trip.

	Size of the turkey has caused some panic and commotion. How to deal with it?

	Our guests thoroughly scrutinize every technological step of the cutting up.

The whole week started innocently enough, even quite comfortably. Sid's employer announced a "shit-down", mine did not, so this year we swapped our roles -- I was leaving for work like out of a hotel, with disorder in my wake, while someone else took care of cleaning up, buying food, cooking dinner, etc. For some reason, Sid did not find being a "housewife" particularly exalting. To spice it up for him, I did not fully close this flap on my car's tank, and subsequently passed through an automatic car wash. Sid got the task to visit Tony and arrange for certain blacksmith-grade work to be done, so that Cecilia would not need to drive around with a flapping ear on her side.

The rest of my three-day working week passed without incident, for turkey we were invited to, and consequently we did not need to wade through rioting food-shopping crowds, nor did we need to compose stuffing or cook cranberries. American Christmas never impressed me much -- Santa Claus, a red-nosed reindeer, carols playing since mid-November in every store -- Thanksgiving seems to me a nice holiday -- whole families get together and wait until a turkey is roasted. I think that any bird under thirty pounds would be considered offensively small -- such a mountain of meat is being roasted for hours and hours. Meanwhile, people drink, talk, and eventually - often during their waiting, if a merciless host had prepared appetizers and snacks -- get awfully stuffed. But, if you visit Kren's at Thanksgiving, consuming food is a necessity, for California wines are strong.

	Madeleine assumed a strategic position and is tasting the turkey. Tomas is watching, melancholically.

	Everybody arrived for the feast. Starting from left, clockwise, Petr, (invisible) Madeleine, Martina, Tomas, Sid, Zuzka, and George. I am taking the picture, Smudla is milling under the table.

Also strong was this year's team -- only Kren's there were five to be counted (six including Smudla); beside George, Martina, and Madeleine, there was George's brother Petr with his wife, Zuzka. "Adopted orphans" were three, that is, Tomas, Sid, and I. Our celebration ran along well established rules -- guests were lullabied by several glasses of wine, later the whole company moved into the kitchen, where the main part took place -- cutting up a turkey. A big roast can tire several mighty men, and the others check the quality of the work right on the spot. Madeleine, for example, did not leave her strategically located place on a barstool next to the turkey and frequently "sampled".

The rest of the evening is fading into haze, I only remember that concerns were raised, whether Smudla, who begged so much that he received a piece of everything (including a steamed pear with raspberries), actually conked under the table. That, however, was not his plan, and once he finished resting in a "carcass" position, jumped up on our heads again when we were leaving. We stumbled all the way to our home and took to bed immediately. We had a plan to leave for a three-day trip to Joshua Tree and we had to thoroughly sleep our drunkenness off.

	This is a picture Sid took out of a balloon in April 1999. Notice the pre-bulldozed "streets" of the planned town.

To our great surprise, we were taking off already at eleven in the morning (!!!). Stopping in Monterey for lunch, we left 101 freeway at Paso Robles and took byways to California Valley. The valley is extremely large and practically devoid of people. A landscape with low grass tends to convert to desert. Water that is found here, is too salty to drink. This might have saved California Valley from invasion of civilization. A huge town was planned here, its streets are even marked on maps that we have in our computer for our GPS, but to this day only cows and sheep graze on the town blocks, amongst scattered, lonely ranches.

	... and this is how I, a "ground level" person, photographed California Valley, and its Soda Lake.

Soda Lake lies about in the middle of the valley. As the name suggests, it is a salt lake. The surface looks like frozen, but those are actually white, salty rims of mud. South of the lake, the road turns dirty, so once again I enjoyed rallyeing. It's fun with our all wheel drive, but still before every turn, I had to slow down a bit, lest to crawl through it sideways like a crab.

Running easily out of choice in this middle of nowhere, we gladly accepted a hamburger dinner, and Sid drove for several hours into the night. At ten p.m., we arrived to Yucca City and began to search for lodging. Found none. We drove on to Joshua Tree and Twentynine Palms. Nothing. The worst thing was probably the fact that hotels/motels did not even bother to turn off their VACANCY signs (as is the useful custom here), and so tens of desperate pilgrims drove from one motel to another. Eventually one receptionist told us that she called around for some people before us and found nothing in a four-hour circle, reaching Kingman in Arizona, Las Vegas in Nevada, Palm Springs in California, across the mountains. We were quite shocked -- exactly a year ago, we slept in Twentynine Palms without a problem, Joshua Tree National Monument was almost free of tourists, and it was Thanksgiving, too. Now, Americans really are afraid to fly, and so everybody went out on a road trip on this extended weekend. Joshua Tree is a National Park closest to Los Angeles and so it became a destination of nature-hungry city dwellers.

	There are beautiful clouds in the sky, and an airplane with a glider in tow is getting ready for this (unsuccessful) takeoff.

Glumly, we recounted our options -- keep driving around, in a dwindling hope to still find something (there are few towns and long voids between them), overnight on our own somewhere in the desert and risk an early wake up call by the local police/rangers, drive up to a National Forest around Bear Lake, which we don't know and in which even our GPS did not show any side roads (which means there was no place to hide -- forests are usually impassable), turn back home (that was what my upset Sid kept yelling, and that /you know what/ all these /you know what/ motels and that he's driving back home, but we already spent twelve hour behind the wheel, and traveled over half California) or simply retrace our own route back, perhaps to Soda Lake, and try getting a place to sleep far from a National Park.

	A storm is coming to the desert

We eventually landed at a completely horrible Bombay Star in Victorville -- some ninety miles from an entrance to Joshua Tree National Monument. No time to play heroes, it was freezing outside, our wagon registered some 700 miles on that day, a bed under a roof was just what we needed in that moment.

Reviewing our bathroom in the morning, I had the feeling that if I did not wash I'd be much cleaner than if I entered this disgusting shower enclosure and touch these faucets. We opted for returning home anyway -- to drive for two more hours back to Joshua Tree, to press with the other crowds in the Park for remaining few hours before sunset and repeat our lodging experience for another night, did not look like an acceptable solution. Only Soda Lake captured my mind, and we could commit some hiking there in an environment that does remind you of down town.

	No, this is not weather for driving into a wasteland on dirt roads (soon to turn muddy or outright flooded). The sun is still shining, but you can see first drops on the lens.

Our experience and extortion of the previous day turned us into two grumbling zombies, but we were still not giving up. When Sid glimpsed a sign on the side of the road announcing sightseeing glider flights, we gladly turned in the direction given. At Great Western Soaring School, they offered us flights within fifteen to thirty minutes, and we went to watch the little planes. Funny clouds rolled in the sky, Dawn, a pilot of the tow plane, described dreamily how beautiful it is up there. Alas, a cross wind was picking up strength, and soon even a layman that I am became clear that its direction of right angle to the only runway is not the best thing. During the next takeoff, both the tow plane and the towed glider were swept to the side by a strong gust, and the tow plane began to swerve dangerously, few feet above ground. Glider disconnected and sadly dropped back to the desert, tow plane recovered and disappeared in the clouds. Sand and small rocks flew through the air now, gliders on the ground needed crew to stay inside and several more people to hold their wings, lest they would turn over. Once the gliders were secured, Dawn landed with her tow plane, and that one, too, was fastened securely to the ground. It became clear that a) we won't see Joshua Tree, b) we won't find accommodation, and c) we won't be flying.

	There is one real castle here in California. This is the closest they let us approach it

After another half an hour driving west, dark clouds started to overshadow our expedition. Literally, and mentally. It did not take long and I suddenly began to sympathize with Czech policemen who harass you with little details like mudflaps on your car. To pass a truck with a trailer during a rainstorm, and you can be sure it has no mudflaps, feels a little like falling into Niagara Falls. An hour later I sadly dropped the idea of Soda Lake. I would have been difficult to hike in the midst of all the mud and cold rain, and the road that leads to Soda Lake from south, is dirty for many tens of miles. There are steep slopes from both sides, with soil baked over eight months of dry California summer. It results in flash floods, at least at the beginning of rainy season. The soil does not soak up water, which flows freely, taking away houses, roads, crops -- water comes, does quick damage, and disappears. I did not desire to experience all that in person, especially not in a far away, deserted California Valley. We had no choice but to stay on paved, populated road and try to reach the ocean coast. So I fought through two more hours of Niagara falls, which demonstrated several surprising phenomena. For example, the frequency of windshield wipers in a rainstorm does not affect the windshield as much as it affects the stability of my stomach. I also discovered that even with all wheel drive, one can solidly hydroplane (which may have been influenced by our well worn-out tires), while our wagon clearly mastered muddy tongues washing out of fields and hills.

	A few days of rain turns dried-out Pacific Coast into an English landscape.

Our way to Santa Maria on the coast literally "drove" me nuts. Sid promised to finish the rest and I ordered a burrito and Bohemia beer at Maya Mexican Restaurant, with the feeling of a miner after a tough shift. I recognize Mexican beers only to the extent that they seem generally more drinkable than their American counterparts. We ordered Bohemia once just for the name, and found it not bad at all.

Rain was not as fierce on the coast as it was inland, only showers came and went, and sun was occasionally looking through the clouds, creating interesting light. A bright green grass grew on hills around us -- with clouds, sun, and grazing cattle and sheep, one could suddenly seem transferred to some place in England in the spring. Especially once a castle appeared on a remote hill.

	Showers and storms on Highway 1

Yes, you're reading correctly. We in California, USA, have a real castle. William Randolph Hearst inherited a quarter million acres from his mother, and used them for "rough camping" with his friends and family (necessary equipment included separate sleeping tents and dining tents). In 1919 he wrote his architect, Julia Morgan: "Miss Morgan, we are tired of camping out in the open at the ranch in San Simeon and I would like to build little something..." By year 1947, Enchanted Hills® were turned into a residence with 165 rooms, 127 acres of gardens, terraces, pools and pathways. Hearst died in the year 1951, and the Hearst Castle was donated to California state in 1957. How and why a rich family growing poorer and poorer did not sell the castle, all valuable art collections, and the land, but gave it all away to the state instead? I don't know. All websites seem to omit this detail.

	California is known for its reds, colorful sunsets. This one was quite different.

The castle is open to public. Well -- you may drive up to a parking lot, five miles below the castle. There, you may purchase a ticket, board a bus going to the entrance. So much for theory. Its implementation on this Saturday looked like this: Next available tours #1-3 -- Sunday 8:40, next available tour #5 -- November 30, next available tour #4 -- April 4, 2002. Okay, it's a holiday, and of course, WE could not get anything right, in the sense of the title of this chapter.

From Hearst Castle, we continued seventy miles northwards on Highway 1, all the way to Monterey. Number one is a scenic road. It follows the shape of the coast, curving beautifully along cliffs over the ocean. Especially if you catch a sunset. This one was heavily covered in clouds, but that gave it a peculiar deep blue color. Finally we could say, all was good in the end -- but for this on attraction, practically across the hill from our home, we drove 1,100 miles!!!

There's one consolation left, and that is: we discovered many places we can now pick for our next trip, once the rains go away (and national holidays, too ). Thanks to the changing weather, we have seen our California landscape in an unusual light.

Copyright © 2001-2008 by Carol & Sid Paral. All rights reserved.