Day 16: I AM SO BEHIND

Who’d have thought that a couple of incredibly long nights paired with the arrival of El Jefe for a leg of our trip topped off with a dash of a helluvan evil head cold would throw me into a total blogging tailspin?

Ahem.

After arriving at Hearst Castle after its closure the previous night, Earl and I gave it another shot on Tuesday morning. I booked the tour online for 9:20, which meant we needed to be there at 9:10, which meant, of course, that we didn’t arrive until 9:22 because there’s oh so much traffic in San Simeon, CA.

There’s no traffic in San Simeon. I have no clue what made us so late, although I’m guessing it involved mine and Earl’s one lingering daily argument over tooth brushing and the whole getting ready process: I think she should put on clothes other than pajamas in a timely fashion, she begs to differ.

I usually win, but sometimes victory is slow.

Anyway, Hearst Castle. It’s essentially a museum for the collections of newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst. Where most people might collect spoons or porcelain figures or Shopkins, Hearst collected…grander things.

Like fireplaces and tapestries.

And ceilings.

And who needs wood paneling for rooms when you can import choral stalls and their paneling?

Nope, guests were not to sit in the choral stalls. They were, instead, to make themselves at home in cherubically patterned comfy sofas and chairs.

For dinner, everyone sat around the grand table, a powerful mace positioned strategically behind Mr. Hearst’s chair. The china and silver would have been the finest around, no doubt, right?

Nope. San Simeon was the Hearst family camping ground before William built the castle. He wanted that same experience even in this house. The silver was mismatched camping wear. The plates were nothing special. The napkins weren’t linen. And the ketchup is just right there in the middle of the table in the bottle—no fancy condiment boats here.

William Randolph Hearst was weird, but at least he did him. Grandly.

We spent way too much time there and still didn’t see it all. I’d like to go back, though, if for no other reason than to see the castle when it’s not surrounded by scaffolding. I don’t want to think about what it’s costing to reroof the place.

Realizing that it was quickly closing in on lunch time and I really wanted to go more than 10 miles that day, we boarded the bus for the 5 mile journey back down the winding driveway to the visitor’s center.

I was focused on getting to our next stop, but there’s a reason I relate to Dug in “Up.”

Squirrel!

Or, rather, sea lions!

Earl kept asking me, “Are they dead?” Then one would start slogging over the others in the pile and the whole group would groan and complain. A few yards into the ocean, a few pairs either fought or mated—who knows. But it was astounding to me that you could just pull off of the highway and there are all these enormous creatures stacked on the beach, in their wild and natural habitat, right there.

I had to be dragged away from the boardwalk by my child. Should that not have been the other way around?

The trip to up the PCH to Santa Cruz where we cut across to San Jose would have been so much shorter if cameras had never been invented.

Somebody lives in a house atop that island. I want that house.

San Jose was home to our second real stop of the day, the Winchester Mystery House. They don’t allow photos in the house and…I don’t really know why I didn’t take pictures outside. Probably I was too perplexed by the house itself. Sarah Winchester bought an 8 room farmhouse in San Jose around the turn of the 20th century and started building on it. She built and built and built, crews working 24/7/365, until her death in 1922 when everybody passed out from exhaustion.

There are doors to nowhere, stairs to ceilings, windows in floors, rooms with one entrance but three exits. It’s a study in madness, wealth, and grief, and it is fascinating.

But it wasn’t our last stop of the day. I was determined to get to Sacramento before we stopped for the night. Earl was determined to see The Golden Gate Bridge.

We did both.

I refused, refused, to go across the Bay Bridge because double-decker bridges are not my thing, and the nav got irritated with me. We took Hwy 1 up from San Jose to San Fran where I further annoyed the nav by detouring to Lombard St., determined to drive down the curves (which was awesomely fun). We stopped for a quick pic at the waterfront, and although the bridge was hiding, Ghirardelli was in glorious golden hour view.

And look! A seagull!

We chanted, “Mine! Mine! Mine” all the way back to the car, then switched gears to the “Full House” theme song as Earl made sure we were in the exact same lane the Tanners were in when they cross the Golden Gate in the opening credits.

A photo stop was necessary, if cold. Because OOSH!

Back in the car and on the road, the bratty nav in my car (whom I’ll call Velma) took us across the Richmond Bridge. Which is a double-decker bridge.

I did not have a panic attack. But only by the skin of my teeth.

Two detours through the ‘hood later (Velma was in fine form that evening, I tell you), we arrived in Sacramento, where the bridge we needed to cross was closed and we had to detour again.

When we finally, mercifully pulled into the hotel, I promised Velma that tomorrow would be better.

I might have been fibbing.