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Posts Tagged ‘Mark Zero’

What A Strange Thing to be Alive Beneath Apple Blossoms

Thursday, March 21, 2013 @ 07:03 PM  posted by Mark

Evidence of Spring from around my bungalow. The title of the post is from a poem by Kobayashi Issa, altered slightly to fit my foliage:

“What a strange thing!
to be alive
beneath cherry blossoms.”

Thanks, Little Bee!

A bee working on an Anna apple blossom.

The desert blooms are wild.

Snapdragons and stockflowers are blooming.

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It’s Always Sunny on the 110

Tuesday, March 19, 2013 @ 06:03 PM  posted by Mark

The whirring rush hour drone of rubber, metal, and asphalt on the 110 Freeway through Los Angeles sounds like a perverse free jazz experiment, complete with weird discordant tones, unexpected modalities, and crunching rhythmic noise that describes velocity better than a speedometer. It’s the quintessential sound of Los Angeles, a revving, manic, jackhammer crag so constant that it fades immediately into white noise and then, as you stop listening with your conscious mind, reverberates easily into the deepest fissures of your brain until it seems almost eternal, the harsh metallic gurgling of industrial creation, of a century’s handiwork, of the world we’ve made.

Photo by Scott Harrison, LA Times.

The 110 used to form the last leg of Route 66 before it found the Pacific Ocean, a bevelled undulating road that symbolized adventure and freedom as easily as it snaked along the hills of South Pasadena, Inglewood, and Los Angeles itself. Now, this historic stretch of asphalt is just a minor, often inconvenient, workaday commuter artery from one side of smog-heavy L.A. to the other, the adventure and freedom that it once promised now just a cloud of brown industrial particulates hanging in the sky overhead as you bank through suburban strip malls to the high-rises and hospitals downtown. But on a motorcycle you can still capture an inkling of the exhilaration that Route 66 once offered, a faint insinuation of the way things used to be, of the great escape to the Endless Summer rhapsodized in the surf songs of the Tornadoes and the Cool Jazz of Gerry Mulligan and the Beach Boys’ exuberant odes to fast cars and bottle blondes.

There’s no safety lane on the 110, no pullout, no emergency call boxes, just six narrow lanes of roiling traffic routinely exceeding the recommended speed limit by fifteen miles an hour: it’s not the most relaxing, carefree ride, especially not on my old upright warhorse, a Honda Nighthawk. More than once I’ve wished for more top-end power, a lower center of gravity, more weight, greater leverage, but this bike has gotten me from sea to shining sea a few times, and whether it’s a product of trust built on experience or just myopic sentimentality, I believe this bike is still the only machine that can really give me the kicks of Route 66. Because, after all, it’s not the ideal you want on this stretch of the 110, it’s not the perfectly tricked-out crotch rocket photo-op: what you want here is the sheer effrontery of careening metal, the daily encounter with a million statistical probabilities. It’s the whiff of freedom mingling with hot rubber and dust.

My girlfriend thinks I have a death wish: I could take Interstate 5, she says, which is relatively straight and wide. I could take surface streets, which are prudently, manageably slow. I could get a car, for God’s sake! But the primary allure of the 110 is not the continuum of risk but the confrontation of possibilities: it’s the groove, the dip of your shoulder as you counter-steer through the bend at Wilshire; it’s white-lining through stalled traffic above Dodger Stadium; it’s the moment when you accelerate through a cloud of burnt-oil exhaust around a broken-down ’75 El Camino below Fair Oaks Boulevard and the ugly sound of grinding and knocking and cursing from all around you is perfectly counterbalanced by the weightless feeling of your own centrifugal force, and the blood-orange California sun peers around a knoll to wish you good morning. It’s occupying the tension between notes in L.A. junkie icon Chet Baker’s ultra-reserved rendition of “I Get a Kick Out of You,” while all around you commuters in square metal compartments spill coffee and shout into cell phones and try to arrange their coiffures into increasingly improbable shapes.

Before space travel became boring, when a website was where a spider lived, when few of us could even afford air travel, Route 66 meant freedom and adventure: as recently as forty years ago, the world still seemed big and you could still discover something along the side of the highway that you weren’t expecting, something that was outside of your vicarious media experience, something that wasn’t necessarily grisly and wouldn’t necessarily put your eyewitness account on the evening news. The thrill of the road was the thrill of change, of open vistas into a future you hadn’t yet imagined; and though the congested, urban, thoroughly known Highway 110 from Pasadena to the Pacific is just the ghost of the wide open 66, when you’re riding a motorcycle that ghost still breathes the life of urgency and fun into this road, it still haunts the hyper-real fantasies of digital Hollywood with the decidedly less glossy analog theatrics of daily motion in SoCal’s commuter jungle.

This stretch of road illuminates the mulish contradictions of Los Angeles itself: beyond the Spielberg dream factory endlessly recycling America’s mythology of beauty and wealth, behind the beaches where golden-bronze flesh stands in for haute couture, beneath the palm-lined sun-bathed pavement of Sunset Boulevard, there is the reality of a desiccated, earthquake-splintered desert where mudslides and brush fires are almost as frequent as movie premieres. Los Angeles is a city of harsh realities hidden beneath projected images of bright fantasies, and for every little old lady from Pasadena, there’s a dead man’s curve. Nowhere is this more evident than on the 110, where blind on-ramps and palo verde-shrouded corners and twisting corkscrew curves are the rule rather than the exception and the thrill of the ride grimaces at the specter of imminent catastrophe. This is a ride where the best and worst aspects of commuter culture collide every day and the road itself is only half of the exhilaration.

On two wheels, even in the ultimately insupportable asphalt ecology of Los Angeles, you can still find space in-between the Corporate Fantasia of Hollywood and the Urban Riot Reality of Watts, you can still carve out a piece of the pre-millennial past for your own momentary enjoyment: just take a high arc across lanes on the curve below the Santa Monica Freeway south and when you right your bike out of the bank, you’ll crest a hill and find yourself suddenly and all at once firing into the infinite horizon and golden promise of California’s Endless Summer. But don’t take your eyes off the road: there’s another bend just ahead.

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Chartres: Unification of the Sublime and the Mundane

Wednesday, December 28, 2011 @ 07:12 PM  posted by Mark

Chartres in Noonday Fog

When I arrived at the Cathedral of Chartres, after an hour and a half on the train, I looked up and thought, great, another Gothic relic exactly like the thousand others I see every day walking around Paris. But Henry Adams did write a whole book on this cathedral, and he said that you have to sit with it and feel what it was like to inhabit this space in the 12th century, when it embodied a worldview that unified the mundane and the sublime through religious mystery. Since this is one of the most beautifully preserved buildings of the middle ages, with almost no reconstruction done to it since 1194, it’s possible to use it to imagine your way back through the centuries as people would actually have seen it, right from the beginning. And it is supposedly one of the most beautiful buildings ever built anywhere, according to people who have seen a lot of buildings in a lot of places.

So I walked around it. Walked inside it. Climbed the bell tower. Walked around it again. Went inside and sat down. And the thing that isn’t apparent at first blush slowly emerged, that this church is so simultaneously rococo in its flourishes and so symmetrical in its design that the beauty of its order and the sheer audacity of its ornamentation create a space that is at once soothing, harmonious and overwhelmingly energetic. Most of its stained glass windows glow with multifarious colors and surprising details (almost two hundred separate windows depicting nearly 12,000 scenes have survived intact from the 13th century, and some date from the mid 12th century), and the nave in particular is so pleasing to the eye in its arches and vaults that it became difficult for me to look away (I spent an hour trying to leave the chapel). Afterward, I roamed the town, which was charming and quiet, with the River Eure running through the village center, and I stumbled upon the less famous Gothic church in Chartres (St. Pierre), which is even older, built around 1000, though much less spectacular. After a late lunch/early dinner, I went back to the main cathedral and circled it a few more times, accidentally attended a mass in an underground chapel on one side of the church and then headed back to Paris as the tower bell chimed the official end of the day.

It was a bitterly cold day, and even at noontime the highest towers were shrouded in fog, giving the feeling that the cathedral was literally emerging from the mists of the late middle ages. The combination of delicate beauty, perfect symmetry, audacity, innovation of design, the sheer mass of the cathedral, and the labor required to build it offers an experience that approaches the sublime.

Since the day was so foggy, there wasn’t enough light to make the stained glass glow enough to come through my little pocket camera lens, but here are some pictures of the environs. I’m pleased with the eerie glow of the cathedral in the mists and artificial light at the end of the evening.

View from the Old Cloister

Chartres from the North Tower 1

Chartres from the North Tower 2

The Nativity Inside: Catholics Love the Blue-Eyed Jesus

Above the Crypt

The River Eure downtown

The Cathedral from Town as Night Fell

Disappearing into Darkness

The Heartbreaking Grace of Claire-Marie Osta

Wednesday, December 28, 2011 @ 12:12 AM  posted by Mark

From the Joyful First Act of Oneguine

I attended Tchaikovsky’s ballet “Oneguine,” choreographed by John Cranko, on Christmas Eve at the Palais Garnier. The venue, of course, is magnificent, from the florid ornamentations and plush red velvet of its balconies and box seats to the refreshing ceiling mural by Marc Chagall. The acoustics of the hall are superb, and the orchestra of the National Opera of Paris played almost flawlessly, so the setting and accompaniment of the ballet were second to none.

Here’s a brief clip of the hall: The Chagall Ceiling and Balconies of the Palais Garnier

The narrative of the ballet is adapted from Pushkin’s verse novel Eugene Onegin, a story of romance, unrequited love, duels of honor and, ultimately, heartbreak, as the heroine Tatyana is forced to give up her love of Onegin to remain faithful to her husband. The performance I saw on Christmas Eve was mesmerizing, as the dancers delivered the cathartic power of Pushkin’s story with grace and strength (the stars were Claire-Marie Osta, Benjamin Pech, Mathilde Froustey, and Josua Hoffalt). Though the following clip can’t do justice to the magic of the performances or the stellar sound of the orchestra in the hall, it at least gives a taste of the ballet. Unfortunately, no video is available of the third act, in which Tatyana breaks both Onegin’s heart and her own in order to keep her honor.

Video excerpts from the First Two Acts of the Ballet Oneguine

This performance reaffirmed my belief in the cathartic power of art, and the otherworldly grace of the dancers conjured a beauty beyond the power of words to describe. I am normally not effusive or sentimental, but this company, the orchestra and the amazing hall combined to make a magical evening.

A Charming Christmas Eve

Sunday, December 25, 2011 @ 11:12 AM  posted by Mark

The Champs Elysees and rue de Rivoli were packed with nervous last-minute shoppers on Christmas Eve, so I avoided the crowds and headed for the back alleys of Village Saint Paul in the Marais, where the atmosphere was calmer and more genial. I had a few last-minute gifts to buy myself before attending Tchaikovsky’s ballet “Oneguine” in the evening, so I strolled toward a lovely anglophile bookstore called the Red Wheelbarrow. Holiday cheer filled the air, and there were a few quiet little surprises for la veille de Noël. I captured a couple of them.

One of thousands of Christmas tree displays around town.

A charming anglophile bookshop in the Marais.

Champagne was flowing at the Red Wheelbarrow.

Penelope, the charming owner of the Red Wheelbarrow.

Here’s a brief video clip of an intriguing Christmas display in Village St. Paul:
Christmas display Rue St Paul

Bouquinistes on the Seine. Occasionally, you find a treasure here: today, I discovered an old copy of Denis de Rougement's "La Part du Diable."

And finally, before heading back to wrap gifts and dress for the ballet, I stopped by the Hotel de Ville to see their charming Christmas pyramids:

The charming lights of the Hotel de Ville.

Ice Skating in Front of the Hotel de Ville

Thursday, December 22, 2011 @ 07:12 AM  posted by Mark

Every winter, the City of Paris sets up an ice skating rink in front of the Hotel de Ville, and you can rent skates all day for a mere 5 euros. Ice skating within a stone’s throw of the Seine in that beautiful plaza makes the holiday seem magical, even if they insist on playing mediocre disco on the sound system. Follow the link for video:

Ice Skating to “I Will Survive”

Or just look at the pretty pictures:

Ice Skating in front of the Hotel de Ville

The Ice is a bit carved up, adding an amusing degree of difficulty.

Golden Rings

Saturday, December 10, 2011 @ 11:12 AM  posted by Mark

File Under Socialist Wedding Gifts

I recently got a new wedding ring (someone else’s), by accident, in the Jardin des Tuileries. I was walking along, minding my own business, when a little old woman, tottering toward me, suddenly bent down to the ground and scooped something up. She approached me and said, “Excuse me, sir, you dropped your ring,” and she held up a shiny golden band. This is a fairly common scam in the tourist areas of Paris: somebody “finds” something you dropped, you say “no, that’s not mine,” they say, “well, you should keep it anyway as a souvenir, and by the way I don’t have enough money to eat, and you just got this stroke of luck, maybe you could share your luck with me and give me some money.”

That’s more or less the way this encounter went, except that the little old woman didn’t ask for money. I said,” No, it’s not mine,” she said “well, it’s a man’s wedding ring, much too big for me, what am I going to do with it, just keep it.” I put the ring on and it fit like a charm! “Really?” I said. “Sure,” she said. “Have a nice day.”

I looked around to see if someone was coming up to pick my pocket, but it was just me and the old woman. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

As I was walking away, however, the woman came running up behind me and said, “You know, come to think of it, I don’t have a place to stay tonight.” I rolled my eyes, took the ring off and tried to hand it back to her. “Forget it,” I said. “Take the ring back.” And now, instead of begging some more, the woman became intensely angry. She refused to take the ring back and instead started cursing me and then gave an impassioned speech about the injustice of the world and how unfair it was that some people have vast riches and some people starve on the street, and there was no logic or merit in the distribution of wealth and so on. I’d met a socialist revolutionary old woman street gypsy.

Most people, I think, would simply have walked away, but the longer she talked, the more I found that I agreed with the woman. The world is unjust! So I told her I would give her all the change in my pocket. Sometimes, this can be as much as eight or ten euros, as one often collects one- and two-euro coins throughout the day in Paris. Unfortunately, on this particular occasion, I had only a measly sixty centimes, which I offered to the woman.

She took the money, counted it, and spat. “What am I going to do with sixty centimes?!” she yelled. She had a point. It was quite bad luck, but I wasn’t about to take my wallet out in a tourist area while being harangued by a gypsy, and anyway, she was getting on my nerves. So I offered her the ring back, and she refused and kept yelling!

I turned to walk away, at which time a very dapper Parisian man wearing a sleek gray suit and expensive overcoat came up and started explaining quite forcefully to the woman how interested the cops would be if they found someone in the Jardin des Tuileries yelling at people, and the two got into a huge fight. I sauntered away and crossed the pedestrian bridge in front of the Orsay Museum, holding my hand up to the sun, admiring my new quasi-golden band/quasi-shower curtain ring. Whatever else you might say about it, it fits perfectly!

The Jardin des Tuileries

Scene of the Crime, the Jardin des Tuileries

Christmas Tree in Front of Notre Dame

Friday, November 25, 2011 @ 11:11 PM  posted by Mark

It took 18 hours for the City of Paris to set up the Christmas lights on the massive tree in front of Notre Dame. Blue, as we know from the great prophet Saint Elvis Presley, is the color of Christmas.

Notre Dame with Christmas Tree

The Forgotten Peninsula: Baja California

Wednesday, October 26, 2011 @ 11:10 PM  posted by Mark

Baja California, Mexico, a thousand-mile desert peninsula pointing southeast from California like a withered finger, boasts a political past as rich and strange as its interior territory is desolate. Despite its formidable terrain, harsh climate, and nearly barren soil, Baja has been conquered and re-conquered by the Spanish, Americans, and Mexicans, claimed by corporate-sponsored guerrilla privateers from the United States, and annexed by anarchist revolutionaries from Mexico’s mainland. All of its conquerers eventually gave it up for lost except the Mexicans, who, like inattentive dinner guests stuck with the check, got saddled with Baja when everybody else excused themselves and never came back.

Though the Mexican government recently completed the paved two-lane Benito-Juarez Highway, linking the northern and southern sections of the peninsula, Baja remains in large measure an isolated outpost, a struggling desert frontier, a less fortunate stepsister to Northern California’s Cinderella.

“Of poor shrubs, useless thorn bushes and bare rocks, of piles of stone and sand without water or wood, of a handful of people who, besides their physical shape and ability to think, have nothing to distinguish them from animals, what shall or what can I report?” —Father Johann Jakob Baegert, Priest of the Society of Jesus, in a 1772 report about Baja.

With Father Baegert’s admonition in mind, I set out for Baja California. Early one January morning, I rode south out of Los Angeles on Interstate-5 to San Diego.

The San Diego-Tijuana border crossing, even though it’s the most popular one, should be avoided at all costs, unless you want to participate in one of Tijuana’s tourist or “sin” industries. Driving in Tijuana is like materializing into a 1975 driver’s education film that keeps jumping off the school projector’s sprockets. The often-unmarked streets are difficult to navigate, and, around the border crossing, the streets are usually too congested to navigate at all.

As a vastly better alternative, take California Highway 94 east, about forty miles, to the Mexican town of Tecate. Beyond being an easier crossing, the road itself is a thousand times more interesting than the jammed parking lot-thoroughfares of San Diego and Tijuana. California 94 is a rural route made for cycling: it loops and dives through the northwestern foothills of the Sierra de Juarez Mountains, where horse ranches nestle into deep mesquite groves and the road finds and follows one black mossy stream after another. Every few hundred feet you encounter an unexpected switchback or an oblique S-curve hidden behind the overhanging branches of a manzanita or an oak tree, and the sheer suppleness and surprise of the curves makes for a magnificent ride. The profuse gray-green chaparral vegetation and the thoroughbred horses trotting to and fro behind white board fences contrast so starkly with the endless pavement of San Diego that you feel as if you’ve entered an entirely different world.

After forty miles of bobbing, banking and weaving along 94, I turned off onto Highway 188 into Tecate, pleasantly exhausted from the abundant twists and turns. The border was practically deserted when I crossed, and the crossing itself was merely a formality (neither the Mexican nor the American border patrols bother themselves much with motorcyclists). Be advised that you’ll need Mexican auto insurance and tourist cards if you’re going to travel south of Ensenada, or if you plan to stay longer than 48 hours, but these documents can usually be acquired at the border with little difficulty. Note also that motorcycle permits are different for Baja than for the mainland Mexican states, so it’s important to call a Mexican consulate ahead of time if you have any concerns (though Baja’s requirements tend to be lax compared to the mainland’s).

“The Spaniards thought they would find rich gold and silver veins in [Baja] California, as well as rich and productive soil.  Since they found neither and were forced to live off the provisions they had brought along on their ships, all of them soon lost courage and turned back.” — Father Baegert

I crossed into Tecate at just after noon and decided to stop at a cafe for some lunch and a bottle of the town’s namesake beer. Tecate produces both Carta Blanca and Tecate beers, at the encouraging rate of 1200 cans per minute from the Cerveceria Cuauhtemoc-Moctezuma, the town’s biggest building. This brewery flourished as a whiskey mill during American prohibition and then was converted to beer production when prohibition was repealed, after which it promptly went bankrupt and had to be rescued by the Mexican government.

The brewery offers daily tours (with complimentary beer tastings) starting at 10 am, but you need a group of at least 10 people before the brewery officials will open their doors. If you’re determined to go but can’t afford an entourage of 9 other people, you can just show up in the morning and try to look like you belong to a group that already has reservations (people in Baja tend not to be sticklers). Failing that, you could get drunk, punch the SAP function on your tv, and watch the opening credit sequence to “Laverne and Shirley” fifteen times in a row, and you’d get the general idea.

I sat down to lunch in Tecate at La Escondida Restaurant, just a block off of the town’s central plaza, Parque Hidalgo.  Parque Hidalgo, a town square in the old Spanish colonial tradition, was once the site of an anarchist revolution. In 1911, during the general upheaval in Mexico that deposed the despotic government of Porfirio Diaz, an anarchist named Ricardo Flores Magon directed a small band of foreign mercenaries and armed Mexican intellectuals to march on Tecate (notably, Flores Magon himself didn’t participate, but simply engineered the proceedings from the United States). The “Magonistas,” as the anarchists were called, took the town without a fight and raised the red Liberal Party flag over Parque Hidalgo. The Magonistas then pushed west to Tijuana, where they took over that city, again without a fight, and declared it the capital of the independent “Republic of Baja California Sur,” while curious American spectators looked on from the San Diego side of the border. Flores Magon arrived in Tijuana in person shortly after the victory and began setting up a provisional government for his new country. Unfortunately for him, most of his troops then left, as they were foreign mercenaries who had no interest in Mexican politics as such. When the Mexican Army got wind of this insurrection six weeks later, they marched north to combat it, but found no Magonistas other than Flores Magon himself and a few of his bohemian friends. Flores Magon fled and the anarchist government folded, thus ending the world’s shortest-lived revolution outside of a Bugs Bunny cartoon.

After a few carne asada tacos and a Tecate beer at La Escondida, I was ready to hit the rode again. I suppose I should mention that my eventual destination was the fishing village of San Quentin, about 120 miles south of Ensenada, although my selection of that goal contained about as much forethought as Ricardo Flores Magon’s anarchist revolution had. Mostly, I just liked the sound of the name:  San Quentin.

Say it out loud. San Quentin. See? That’s how decisions are made in Baja.

From Tecate, the only highway south is Mexican Highway 3, which links up with the Benito-Juarez Highway (Mexican 1) at the village of El Sauzal, just above Ensenada. The distance from Tecate to Ensenada is about eighty miles, which I figured to cover fairly easily in the afternoon. This turned out to be wishful thinking.

The Sierra de Jaurez Mountains around Tecate reach a height of 4500 feet, and Mexican Highway 3 traces a torturous graded route through this range down to the Pacific Ocean. Conceivably, this road could be as fun as its sister road to the north; instead, Mexican 3 is California 94’s doppelganger, its murderous twin: Mexican 3 is barely wide enough to accommodate two cars side by side, much less the caravans of freight trucks and buses that barrel around its curves at precarious speeds. There has been no grading of the mountainsides at all except beneath the asphalt itself, so that the lip of the road is also frequently the edge of a canyon or the beginning of a steep slope into a desert valley below. And even this wouldn’t be so bad if the road weren’t strewn with rocks and pocked with helmet-sized potholes. Although the views of the rugged mountains and, toward El Sauzal, the panoramic vistas of the Pacific Ocean are breathtaking, it’s nearly impossible to enjoy them since you’re constantly preoccupied with the oncoming transport trucks taking up half your lane, the craters in the asphalt right at the edge of the canyon you’re about to daredevil into, and the snakiness of the route itself, which, unlike its benign and entertaining northern counterpart, here seems plainly malevolent. To make matters worse, on the afternoon that I happened to be tooling down Mexican 3, a bank of deep black clouds had formed over the Pacific and had started moving inland to meet me, which it did just outside of the village of Sordo Muda.

The rain fell in spits and splutters, a cold winter rain whose frosty accompanying wind found its way under the sleeves of my jacket and down my neck and beneath my helmet. Combined with the truck traffic and my general fatigue from the day’s ride, the rain tempted me to stop, but I simply couldn’t find any lodging around Sordo Muda, so I pressed on. The rain continued just long enough to slick up the oil in the road, but even as the brief shower relented, the black clouds continued to press lower overhead, and the sun hid behind them. It was growing colder by the minute, and by the time I reached Guadalupe, about fifty miles south of Tecate, it was time to stop, dry out somewhat, and get a second wind for the remaining thirty miles into Ensenada.

Guadalupe is a tiny farming village which contains the ruins of the Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe mission church. Almost nothing is left of the mission, which is notable for being the last Spanish mission church built in the new world, in 1834. The mission was destroyed in an indian uprising just six years after it was built.  Guadalupe is also distinguished by its population of Russians. In 1906, Pofirio Diaz granted permission to a group of about 350 people from what is now eastern Turkey to live in Guadalupe. These Russians, who had fled the repression of the Czar and hoped to improve their lot in Baja, established a poor farming community and gradually intermarried with the locals. Their history is commemorated in the Museo Comunitario de Guadalupe, where you’ll find artifacts like samovars, clothing, and old photographs, along with turn-of-the-century farm implements.

After wandering around town long enough to regain my composure, I was ready once again for the carnival stunt driving of the Mexican 3. It was almost four o’clock, and I realized that I’d have to punch up my dawdling pace if I expected to make Ensenada by nightfall.

The wind was kicking up and storm clouds still loomed above the road, and the inclimate weather had slowed traffic. Just outside of El Sauzal, Highway 3 begins plunging rather steeply toward the sea, through deep mountain gorges whose walls completely block out the sun. Between the gulchy terrain and the storm clouds and the rapidly approaching evening, I soon found myself riding in near-darkness, and it became increasingly clear that not only was I not going to make it to Ensenada that evening, but I might not even reach Highway 1. A rutted, pock-marked canyon highway, slicked by rain, with no banks or guard rails, dominated by massive trucks whose drivers would sooner submit to police questioning than stay in their own lane, is not a road you want to risk after dark. I started looking for likely stopovers.

There were none. Every couple of miles or so along Highway 3, you’ll find a strip of rickety buildings masquerading as a village, usually containing a poorly-stocked market and a couple of shacks, but almost never a gas station or lodging. As the sun sank, I felt as if I’d entered a worm hole of accelerating time: the sixty miles from Tecate had taken longer than any two hundred miles I’d ever ridden.  I was utterly exhausted from the ride, and I finally decided to throw in the towel.

I pulled off of the highway onto an unpaved road, bumped and slithered and fish-tailed half a mile away from traffic, and pitched my tent in a fallow field. Luckily, I managed to heat and eat my Ramen noodles before the rains came.

“On one occasion, I had to spend three consecutive nights in the field.  Because of a particularly bad stretch of way that I did not care to traverse in the dark, I had not been able to reach my house…”— Father Baegert

* * *

The night passed uneventfully (unless you consider sleep deprivation an event), and in the morning, I finished my trek out of the mountains to El Sauzal, the Pacific Ocean and the Benito-Juarez Highway (Transpeninsular 1).

The most important thing you should know about the Benito-Juarez Highway is that, around population centers (about every ten miles or so), you’ll encounter a series of completely unmarked speed bumps about half again as high as the speed bumps in your local supermarket parking lot. Realize: you’re cruising along at highway speed and suddenly, there in the road in front of you, is an unpainted hump of asphalt. You only have to get airborne by surprise once to learn to moderate your speed and adjust your Dick Tracy Ultra-Vision Goggles toward the road’s surface.

North of Ensenada, Highway 1 clings precariously to the coastal mountains, sometimes seeming to dip almost into the ocean itself, but as you enter Ensenada, the road widens and moves inland toward the city center. Ensenada is a smaller, grayer version of Tijuana with a population of about 250,000 and the largest ratio of mariachis to pedestrians in the western world. It is Baja’s third-largest city, a seaport that provides commercial shipping for the huge ranches and farms to the south and east, and it’s also a major tourist destination for gringos from Southern California. From 1882 to 1915 Ensenada served as Baja California’s territorial capital, and it played a part in two of the futile revolutions that have regularly visited the peninsula.

After the Mexican-American War concluded in 1850, a contingent of American industrialists argued that the United States settled for too little in the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, that we should have annexed Baja California along with Alta California and the rest of Mexico’s northernmost possessions. In 1853, William Walker, a pro-slavery adventurer, led an army of mercenaries into Baja in order to claim it as an independent state and open it up to exploitation by American business interests. Walker sailed south with his army to La Paz, which he overran; he then declared himself head of the new “Republic of Sonora and Lower California.” When the Mexican Army appeared, he fled with his troops to Ensenada and then declared that the new capital, before attempting to fight his way across the peninsula to Sonora. Failing that, he then escaped overland to the United States. Sixty years later, Ensenada would again be taken by revolutionaries, this time the Magonistas, who would repeat Walker’s spectacular failure.

Today, the most popular attraction in Ensenada, a giant ocean blowhole called La Bufadora, gives you an idea of the character of the region as a whole. Out on a craggy point, off of a road marked by glaring signs from the Benito-Juarez Highway, La Bufadora is a v-shaped rock crevice through which the incoming tide forces minor explosions of ocean water and foam. This is a slightly more violent version of the “tidal waves” you made by scooting back and forth in the bathtub when you were six. La Bufadora is surrounded by taco stands and touristy souvenir booths, in case you’d like to commemorate your visit to this heroic hole with a t-shirt.

“Of all places we have touched since our departure from England, [Baja] California is least capable of supporting its inhabitants.” — Woodes Rogers, English sea captain, 1710

South of Ensenada, the Benito-Juarez Highway peels a little inland and runs through mile after mile of farmland, mostly tomatoes grown for winter sale to the frostbitten northern cities of America. The farms survive solely on irrigation and pesticides, since the lack of sufficient rainwater prevents sustained natural cultivation in Baja: the unnatural, irrigated lushness of the vegetation here attracts desert critters in swarms.

The 120 miles from Ensenada south to San Quentin are largely uneventful, which I took as a great relief. Traffic fluctuates maddeningly between open throttle and school-zone speeds, and the pattern of small towns with speed bumps every ten miles continues, but compared to the disquietingly adventurous slowness of Mexican Highway 3, the oscillating pace seems almost agreeable. Whereas it had taken me all afternoon to travel the sixty miles from Tecate to an empty field the day before, it took just under three hours to make it from Ensenada to San Quentin.

San Quintin is primarily a fishing port, but it has gained increasing prominence recently as the center of the agricultural region of the Plain of San Quentin. Its official population is 20,000, though this figure includes a variable population of migrant workers, and there were nowhere near that many people in town when I passed through. It’s more than a village, however, with several adobe hotels, a fair selection of restaurants, pristine beaches and prime clamming spots. Notable among the hotels is a bed and breakfast called Rancho Sereno, which offers a free pitcher of margaritas on check-in.

The center of local night-life is a restaurant called Molino Viejo, which has good views of both the bay and the huge flocks of geese that winter on the beaches here. Molino Viejo is built among the ruins of a failed 19th century English settlement, whose colonists could not coax the barren soil to produce sufficient quantities of wheat to support them (even now, with high-tech irrigation systems, the land bucks at cultivation, and parts of the aquifer around San Quentin have been sucked so dry that sea water has trickled in from the ocean).

I arrived in San Quentin late in the afternoon, poked around for a while, and then, on the advice of a palatero (a vender of fruit-ice from a hand-pushed cart), I headed a couple of miles north to find a suitable seaside campground. Outside of San Quentin, the highway darts away from the ocean, so that half a mile of dunes separates the Transpeninsular from the beach proper. There are dozens of sandy unfixed roads in this area, criss-crossing one another without apparent plan or direction, taking odd turns and following paths that are completely counter-intuitive: as far as I could tell, there wasn’t a single road that led directly from the highway to the beach, and I spent more than half an hour spinning out in the silty sand, galumphing over crabby patches of fountain grass, and fighting to stay upright, without ever spying the Pacific. I dumped my bike once, dodged two snakes that I didn’t pause long enough to identify, and accumulated eight pounds of sand in each shoe. Finally, as the light was beginning to fail, I crested a dune and found myself staring at a beautiful creamy brown beach, as the bottom rim of an enormous burnt-orange sun just met the sea.

I found a little wind-swept knoll behind which to pitch my tent, and I parked my bike and set up camp. For the remainder of the weekend, I strolled hither and yon enjoying the pounding of the surf, cruised for miles in both directions along the wet-packed beach at low tide, and watched dozens of local clammers in black wetsuits troll the surf and harvest mollusks into old yellow buckets and wooden crates.

Mostly, though, I sat staring at the sea, drinking occasional cans of Tecate, thinking about William Walker and Ricardo Flores Magon, the blundering revolutionaries. After failing to take over Baja in 1853, Walker recruited another army of mercenaries. In an attempt to curry favor with the American South, he declared himself pro-slavery and then led his army in an invasion of Central America. He conquered and proclaimed himself president of Nicaragua and then invaded Honduras, which was then a British possession. The British Army, not known to suffer fools, captured and executed Walker in 1860.

In 1912, Ricardo Flores Magon was arrested for violating the United States’ neutrality laws and was sentenced to two years in prison. He got out and was arrested again for sedition in 1916, and after serving that sentence, he was arrested in 1918 for violating the U.S. Espionage Act. He died under mysterious circumstances in Leavenworth in 1921 while serving his final prison sentence. Ironically, in 1945, the Mexican government interred Flores Magon’s body in its Rotunda of Illustrious Men in Mexico City, and the man who had spent his entire life cursing the existence of the Mexican state now lies in Mexico’s political Hall of Fame.

I wondered what it was about this peninsula that had inspired such diametrically opposed and equally incompetent ambitions: Walker had wanted to establish an ultra-capitalist slave state in Baja, and Flores Magon had wanted to found a radically egalitarian anarchist state here. In theory, Baja must have seemed equally adaptable to either ambition; in practice, it accommodated only much more modest ones: some unsustainable agriculture, subsistence fishing, and the production of 1200 cans of Tecate beer per minute, to help ameliorate the misfortunes of the other industries.

“All reports which deal favorably with [Baja] California, her wealth, fertility, or other things necessary to make life comfortable, belong to the category of false reports, regardless of who their authors are.” — Father Baegert

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Herman Melville vs. the Melville Family viz. the Whale

Wednesday, August 11, 2010 @ 01:08 AM  posted by Mark

At the site Melville’s Marginalia Online, which chronicles the books known to have been read or owned by Herman Melville and all of his family members, a search reveals that Herman owned and marked up at least a dozen books on whales and whaling. None of his family members was known to have owned or read even one.

Could anything be lonelier than an unshared interest in whaling?

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