I hitchhiked all the way out to Santa Monica one time to see a girl, but she wasn't there when I got there, and I ended up walking along the pier and experiencing the ocean a little before I went home. She was in Northern California somewhere, so I decided to go up there, but I knew I'd have trouble finding her up there, and I didn't, and had to turn around and come home. Hitchhiking all the way.

I remember some breakfast joint in Arizona where a guy offered me a breakfast and I took it. I also remember meeting a folk legend in Carmel, or at least being told that a guy I saw was one. It was Ramblin' Jack Elliot, I believe, but I sometimes confuse different trips. On one trip I saw Big Sur and almost stayed a while. But once I missed out on the girl, I'd gotten homesick and just wanted to go home.

Phones were bad those days. I didn't have one, and didn't know her mother's number, and she was staying at her mother's in Santa Monica, though not at that moment. Thus I had gone a long way for nothing. Santa Monica seemed to have very eerie light as the sunset came down over the ocean and there were shadows on all the light-colored houses. Cars all had their windows shut in spite of the beautiful weather. There was no interaction among people in the street.

The ocean, of course, was awesome. Waves lapped against the beach and I imagined some of the water had made the trip from Asia just to come up on this shore at this moment. I looked for bottles with notes in them. Not many people were out there with me, but there were a few. You would think a beach would be a popular park in a crowded city with traffic choked everywhere. There is, after all, a wide expanse; a breeze; fresh air; nice sand; room to wave one's arms. Freedom. Yet within a few minutes I decided to get on my way.

There was some charm to the place. People were nice, and gave me rides. I didn't stay that much longer than I wanted to. I felt a cultural gulf that is hard to describe. We are, after all, the same people. It shouldn't be all that different.