Cleaning Santa Cruz

I was raised in Orange County California.  I was long gone by the time it became known as The OC.  For the most part, the orange groves that dominated the area were long gone before I even left.  That was 1985.  I can’t imagine there being a single orange tree left in this concrete county.  Four car garages, ten lane highways, and drive thru Gaps & Starbucks scour this oasis nowadays.

In the United Snakes, I’ve noticed that ‘From Concentrate’, and ‘Not From Concentrate’ orange juices have begun to taste the same.  I will even go so near to say that the supposed high end OJ’s like Odwalla and Naked have all been coaxed into hiding truths and cutting tasty corners for profit and the like.  It’s not fresh squeezed if it’s been sitting in plastic and/or glass for however long.

Truth be told, I can’t remember the last time I had a satisfying, mouth watering orange in the US.  Dry and Mealy come to mind.  All Peel, No Deal.  Wherever I go, there they are.  Bionically neon orange in color.  Giant in size.  Way too expensive.  Crap to eat and probably bad for you in the end.  Just an observation.  Not the oranges I grew up on.  Certainly not the oranges worth writing about.

The best orange juice in my town of Santa Cruz comes from Taqueria Vallarta of all places.  It’s the best orange juice because you get 24oz of fresh squeezed juice for something like three bucks.  I guess that’s a good deal.  Maybe it ain’t.  Regardless, some young Mexican fires up a stainless juicer and actually squeezes oranges into a cup.  My cup.  It takes like ten oranges to make the 24 ounces.

The canopied Nissan for this coastal colony sells 25 oranges for $1.60US.  You can hear him on the loudspeaker a mile away.  He wears a cowboy hat even though he is full blown indian.  His oranges are more greenish/brown than they are orange.  None of them are giant in size.  None have stickers claiming organic.  A film of dirt covers every single one.  Each orange is earth temp.  Pesticides.

I have been here a month and have cut into over 100 of this gentleman’s oranges.  Every orange, and I mean every single one, is just a gusher of honest nectar.  All equally as sweet despite how they may appear to my threatened eye. Cut in half, they are as orange as a setting sun.  Three little oranges can make a 12 ounce glass no problemo.  Same as it ever was, same as it ever was…

We played three sets of doubles and changed partners each time.  Everybody won one set, while one special athlete won all three.  OK so these characters are all a bit older, but damn serious about their tennis.  I have this athletic trick I use on most folks that wrestle me into competitive athletics these days.  Been doing it for years now.  In a nutshell, I nonchalantly go about the sport at hand pretending that winning isn’t everything.  And it isn’t.  Or is it?

Brad and Dan drove away around 11am.  They lead busy lives in Puerto Escondido.  I don‘t lead anything, so I decided to stay.  Rick offered up an outdoor shower, and asked if I was interested in some french toast.  Music to my ears because this man was starving.  I really shouldn’t say starving, but I was on fumes.  One doesn’t typically need to eat as much food down here on a regular basis, yet every so often you run the tank empty because of that.  There I was.

Rick is a cool guy and a good man.  He’s 58 and a self professed Hermit.  He looks and acts like a Jew from New York, yet he’s neither.  He is from the back country of Northern BC.  Safe to say he likes his space.  Probably why he is a professional astronomer.  Things finally just got too frigid for him in Northern Canada, and the tropics came calling.  He bought himself a hectare and drove all his belongings down in a huge trailer.  He hasn’t put a shirt on ever since.

I sat down at his piano and supposedly played music to his ears.  He fell prey to my simple rhythms.  I played Tiny Dancer, Georgia, Under Pressure, and my hip-hop version of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.  Among many others.  He just couldn’t get over it.  He then went on to play some guitar and tickled some real ivory of his own.  A polished pro w/ both instruments.  I knew right then and there that it would be hard for him to part with Old Blackie.  My mind went upright.

At 3pm he invited me to stay the night.  At 5pm I ran thru the thicket, stayed high and tight to the barbed wire fence, hopped over and around some big rocks and cactus, and found myself on the deserted playa.  Nobody around.  Not a thing.  I took real caution in the ocean because that’s what smart humans do.  The shore here is a bit rocky and the surf was quite powerful.  I gathered about 15 unique Unicorn shells and brought them back to the house as a stupid gift.

We hit tennis balls until sunset and then shared a beer with Mr. Gomez.  Rick offered up a leftover Pork Chop with beautifully prepared carrots and potatoes.  It was money.  After dinner, we primed ourselves for some music collaboration.  We followed that up by eating Tostitos and viewing an amazing documentary on Woody Guthrie and Leadbelly.  We ended the night by watching the 1969 US Open final(on grass at Forrest Hills mind you) between Rod Laver and Tony Roach.

I slept pretty well on the blow up air mattress, considering it didn’t hold a nick of air.  I still managed some fitness work down at the playa early in the morning, as Rick played singles with a European guest named Paul.  Paul had taken the 7am bus to Santa Elena for 14 pesos and then the 50 peso taxi from the highway.  I took note that Paul showed up with an ice cold six pack.  At 10am, I snagged a ride back to Puerto Escondido with some stud named Wild Bill.

I told Rick I’d be back sooner than later.  He said anytime amigo.

Dude.

Woke up, got out of bed, dragged the wax comb across my board.  Made my way outside and put on sunscreen.  Somebody spoke and I attached the keys to the nylon chord that comes inside the pocket of standard board shorts.  I put twenty Pesos and my ear plugs in that pocket.  I closed the wooden door, unlocked and locked the iron gate, and I was officially gone surfing.

The action was high.  Roosters still going berserk.  School kids walking to school.  Old, well dressed Indian Ladies coming out of thin air.  Loose dogs and puppies everywhere you look.  I was dressed up as the 3/4 naked, fluorescent Gringo, half whispering subtleties like Whizah, VeunoDia, A Dioooss, Hola Hola, and the unlike.  It’s a puzzle that nobody can quite put together.  Not even me.  The 20-Something Chicas peering out of their concrete holes giggling.  Love and laughter was everywhere.

It was now Monday morning, Valentines Day 2011.  It was 7:30am.  Exercise enthusiasts and bait fisherman up and down the entire beach.  I made the mile walk down the beach in about 10 minutes.  I rested and stretched by Yoga Antonio to admire his insane postures.  While I was out in the water, it appeared as though the half dozen Federalis marching the beach had stopped by YA to do the same.

The waves were small, yet big and powerful enough to where I had to ditch my board a few different times.  The wave action at Zicatela happens quickly and in shallow water.  My duck dive to wave ratio was about 10 to 1 this particular morning.  I made about six waves.  The water was very warm.  The chilly offshores were in full affect like always.

Got out around 9:30 and ran myself home.  The hot sun was out like clockwork.  I stopped and bought a couple of fresh goodies from the Swiss Bakery with my 20p.  A Chocolate Volcano and a Vanilla Croissant.  Hot out of the oven.  Thought of my friend Goony G from La Jolla and his abilities to wolf down bear claws apre’ surf.  So I wolfed those down during the remaining 300 yards of my walk back to my estate.

Hosed off, spent some QT with Pita and Lucy, and then headed high up to the rooftop palapa.  I needed to confirm plans for a mini road trip south to Santa Elena.  Confirming anything is NOT something one typically does in these hot tropics.  Plans and arrangements mean very little here.  I had no choice though.  If I played my cards right, I stood a solid chance of absorbing a 100 year old Upright Piano before I was to head back to The States.  Went to work.

At 1pm I ran barefoot to my local Jamba Juice.  No shoes, No shirt, No worries.  My papaya, pineapple jugo and my jamon y queso Torta was delicious.  It was also only$2.50 US.  I ran home in and out of the shade.  I bought a coco de agua popsicle steps from my door.  Twenty cents for that cool me down.  I took a nap.

Snapped up and caught a Collectivo to Dan’s Deluxe Cafe.  Hugh offered me up a cup of coffee as I waited for Dan.  It was my only cup of the day.  I ate a fresh Veggie Burrito too.  It was 6pm and the sun was setting.  Dan came home and confirmed the trip to Santa Elena.  We were to leave at 6:30am Tuesday morning.

The purpose of the trip is to play tennis on Rick’s custom tennis court and scope out his antique piano that he has schlepped down from BC.  Dan has gestured that there may be a nice spot in his popular cafe where I’m thinking A Star Might Be Born.

Hopped back on a Collectivo and headed back to my Estate.  Took a quick outdoor shower, ate a ripe banana, began some computer chess, and started hydrating. Big day tomorrow in so many ways..