The drive down to Big Sur was one of the more beautiful drives I've ever experienced. Once we hit the ocean I couldn't keep my face off the window. We stopped at a California State Beach, touched the water with our toes, and did cartwheels in the sand. Hannah's been driving because neither Weronika or I are very skilled at the ol' manual driving game. A sunset and some giggly texts and calls to our respective vicarious followers brought us to the edge of paradise, with greens and blues that could kill. Our exclamations ricocheted between the closed windows so much that we had to open them, to let them out into the sea air. "Where is the road? Where is the sky?!?" Hannah yelled over the music at one point. We were turned away from two different establishments, most likely for our ramshackle appearances, but finally found room at an inn called Pinewood. A hike up to Buzzard's Roost left us breathless and happy. Redwoods, vast Pacificness, reciting "HOWL" at the top of our lungs, and naps in the sun.
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies!
gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illumnations! religions!
the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifictions!
gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs!
Ten years' animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation!
down on the rocks of Time!
-A. Ginsberg
Our second night in Big Sur brought embarrassed cheeks and barefoot walks across parking lots. We followed a guy who seemed to know the town well, to a ramshackle bar with musicians and a Foosball table. A metal, pierced guy was playing guitar so I joined him - he tried to teach me bar chords and I retreated to playing Wagon Wheel while the girls sang along.
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