Sunday morning, sitting on the balcony of our hotel room in San Diego, reading "The Years of Rice and Salt." Hmm, the sun sure is red. Must be a storm brewing, maybe a brush fire nearby. What's this? Ash all over the glass-top table? Gah, we're such slobs. It's a non-smoking room, so it's probably rude to leave ash all over the outdoor furniture. Well, I'll just wipe it down and...hmm...seems to be a lot of ash. It's kind of falling from the sky. What was that? Did the sun just command me to bring him the ringbearer? What's THAT about?
Well, might as well get some breakfast. Down the elevator, across the pool area to the restaurant. Hmm. The pool water is, what's the word I'm looking for? Black. Yeah. That's the word. The pool is fucking black. Funny, I always thought the pool was more of a transparenty-blue color.
Omelette, patty melt, fruit plate. Hmm. The sky sure is brown, even for Southern California. Yeah. Pretty damn brown.
Upstairs, tv on. Oh. All of Southern California is ON FUCKING FIRE. Huh. Better call Liz's grandmother.
"Hi Liz's grandmother."
"Hi Liz's grandmother's granddaughter and grandson-in-law."
"So, I know we were supposed to come visit you, but, uh, 40 of the 80 miles of road between you and us are ON FUCKING FIRE."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. So, are you coming?"
"No, we thought it wouldn't be wise to DRIVE THROUGH FUCKING FIRE to get there, as long as you're okay."
"Oh, honey, we're fine. So, when can we expect you?"
"Well, we'll see, probably sometime after the roads are not on FUCKING FIRE."
"Okay, then, see you soon."
"I wouldn't count on that."
Monday afternoon. 24 hours of room service and "Planet of the Apes" movies which, you know, would normally be, like, my dream vacation. Only my dream vacation is taking place in a fucking chimney. Winds have died down. Fire is threatening every northbound road except the PCH.
"Maybe we should leave," I muse.
"What do you mean 'maybe' motherfucker?" Liz retorts.
On the road. Through San Diego, stuck in traffic in LA, into the Valley. Hey, what's that?
What?
That?
Oh, that? That's a mountain ON FUCKING FIRE next to us.
Hunh, that's something you don't see everyday.
Over the Grapevine to a truckstop bar-b-que place. Great ribs. What's that? Would I like some smokey hickory bar-b-que sauce? Do I LOOK like someone who would like some smokey hickory bar-b-que sauce? Get the hell away from me with that bottle.
Home. Sleep. Awake. Fresh air. Ahhh....
Posted by Jason at October 29, 2003 12:34 PM