A very belated post on the Easter weekend travels that rounded-out my California journeys for the month of April.
I was Laguna Beach bound, and not only that, headed in the direction of a holiday weekend with my boyfriend's family. You could say I felt a little anxiety, but nothing crazy. Mostly I was just excited about getting to see a place never visited before, and more than that, seeing a place that was like a second home to Itule.
My plane was 45 minutes late to depart, which was the first time in my life I was thankful for it. I was running an hour behind at the office and would have almost assuredly missed the flight on my own doing. Note: taking a 6pm flight on a Thursday - not a brilliant idea.
By the time I touched down in Laguna, everything was dark, but it was just breezy enough I could smell the beach. We arrived at our hotel, and immediately ventured out in search of food options still available at 10pm, only to discover Jack in the Box was our only option. We walked along the PCH back to our room, food in hand, and with the utmost caution I placed each foot securely on the sidewalk. The last time I eagerly carried Jack in the Box, the results weren't so good.
Happily full of cheap chicken nuggets, we cracked open our ocean window and drifted off to the rhythm of the waves. The California air felt a lot different than the desert nights I was used to, and the next morning I woke up ready to take in Southern California.
And take in Southern California we did. Breakfast at a dive cafe owned by a penguin-obsessed hippie led to a most leisurely jog along the PCH, a rooftop lunch offering panoramic views of the Pacific (whales and dolphins, no big deal), a fancy French dinner with the whole family and night out at the Sandpiper. And the locals that grazed this lazy beach bar were anything but lazy. One gentleman in particular, dubbed The Running Man, made his place in the corner of the dance floor and at the sound of the drums, sprinted in place the duration of the evening. If it was a song he really liked, he'd flip his head side to side, sweat flinging in each direction instead of trickling straight down to expand the damp circular area that already surrounded the man. It was like a Laguna Beach version of a snow angel. A sweaty, hippie, beach sweat circle snowman.
Our final day fell on Easter, and at 8:15 am, I found myself outside a small Catholic church. It had been over 10 years since I'd attended a Catholic service, and I was actually looking forward to it. We arrived almost 45 minutes early, and the previous service was still taking place. They let out, and we beelined it inside to find our seat. Filling almost an entire pew, it was a good thing we arrived so early. Ten minutes til nine, there were Catholics lining the walls of this little church.
The sanctuary wasn't huge and daunting, but rather had it's own quirky character, which I liked. The service began with the homily. I was trying to follow, but I felt like the Catholics along the walls were beginning to stare. I wondered, should I stand up and give them our seats? No, they didn't plan ahead, that's not our problem. Back to the homily, which the priest was now bringing home. He spoke about some sort of bloody hike, and before I knew it, I was fixated on the family directly in front of me. The youngest of this beachy surf family would not leave his mother alone. This little boy was tugging on, of all things, the earlobes of his mom. Nonchalantly, she'd cup her hand around her right ear to thwart his odd efforts, and he'd snake around to the left to massage the other lobe. This started to weird me out. Why was he rubbing ear lobes?
Back to the service. Homily - done. It was time for the next hymnal. The music director rose and with the grace and posture I would expect from a prima ballerina, slowly extended her hand outward and into the air. I guessed that to be a gesture for us to sing. Odd, that she was conducting us. As we started in on the first verse of How Great Thou Art, I took note of her seriousness, the way in which she enunciated each note, and the library spectacles rested upon the tip of her nose. Her hair was red, tussled and tied back. She was probably mid-40's, and something about the way her cardigan was unbuttoned just so made me wonder. It was like she was playing the part of the good Catholic music director, miming what she had seen on TV perhaps. And was that a pencil holding her hair up?
Service let out before I knew it, and I'd successfully scoped out and determined the life story of pretty much everybody in the congregation, including the wallflowers who didn't plan ahead (Which played into their stories, obviously.) It was safe to say I thoroughly enjoyed that Easter service.
Our last supper was done up, and we gathered for Easter brunch at one of Laguna's oldest establishments, Las Brisas. Being Easter, we were greeted by a large bunny costume. This of course, caused me to panic, and like a child, I hid behind Itule. The freaky rabbit, of course, noted my fear and decided to enjoy himself, tapping me on the shoulder and nearly sending me into cardiac arrest. The duration of our champagne-filled brunch was spent on guard, and with one eye on that rabbit at all times. I'm still quite traumatized, come to think about it.
So, was it an Easter to write home about? I believe that's exactly what I'm doing. The town of Laguna Beach gets five gold stars for being completely down to earth and beautiful. And for that matter, so does the company I was graced with.
Our final day fell on Easter, and at 8:15 am, I found myself outside a small Catholic church. It had been over 10 years since I'd attended a Catholic service, and I was actually looking forward to it. We arrived almost 45 minutes early, and the previous service was still taking place. They let out, and we beelined it inside to find our seat. Filling almost an entire pew, it was a good thing we arrived so early. Ten minutes til nine, there were Catholics lining the walls of this little church.
The sanctuary wasn't huge and daunting, but rather had it's own quirky character, which I liked. The service began with the homily. I was trying to follow, but I felt like the Catholics along the walls were beginning to stare. I wondered, should I stand up and give them our seats? No, they didn't plan ahead, that's not our problem. Back to the homily, which the priest was now bringing home. He spoke about some sort of bloody hike, and before I knew it, I was fixated on the family directly in front of me. The youngest of this beachy surf family would not leave his mother alone. This little boy was tugging on, of all things, the earlobes of his mom. Nonchalantly, she'd cup her hand around her right ear to thwart his odd efforts, and he'd snake around to the left to massage the other lobe. This started to weird me out. Why was he rubbing ear lobes?
Back to the service. Homily - done. It was time for the next hymnal. The music director rose and with the grace and posture I would expect from a prima ballerina, slowly extended her hand outward and into the air. I guessed that to be a gesture for us to sing. Odd, that she was conducting us. As we started in on the first verse of How Great Thou Art, I took note of her seriousness, the way in which she enunciated each note, and the library spectacles rested upon the tip of her nose. Her hair was red, tussled and tied back. She was probably mid-40's, and something about the way her cardigan was unbuttoned just so made me wonder. It was like she was playing the part of the good Catholic music director, miming what she had seen on TV perhaps. And was that a pencil holding her hair up?
Service let out before I knew it, and I'd successfully scoped out and determined the life story of pretty much everybody in the congregation, including the wallflowers who didn't plan ahead (Which played into their stories, obviously.) It was safe to say I thoroughly enjoyed that Easter service.
So, was it an Easter to write home about? I believe that's exactly what I'm doing. The town of Laguna Beach gets five gold stars for being completely down to earth and beautiful. And for that matter, so does the company I was graced with.
