There is a place, on
Highway 1 going from San Luis Obispo to San Francisco where, suddenly, roadways
halve and lanes shrink to vanish leaving the traveller, disoriented, to proceed
on a narrow paved strip that runs parallel to the ocean.
Beyond the slope that
crumbles steeply into the waters of San Simeon, sometimes can be spotted the
giant silhouettes of elephant seals, motionless above (and under) a blanket of
dark and grainy sand, whose cries, halfway between pigs oinking and dogs
barking, lazily bounce off cliffs and big waves, sneaking into tiny clefts and
seagull feathers.
On the opposite side,
facing the upcountry, the immense Hearst estate frightfully dominates from atop
its hills, same as a greedy bird of prey’s nest safe among inaccessible and
dangerous peaks; while the landscape, until a short ago defined by elements easily
linkable to the American collective imagination, abruptly steers towards other
languages, other styles, turning into European; British, as a matter of fact.
With the help of the
fog, here slowly yet relentlessly arising from the ocean, rolling on its indefinite
surface and often spilling barely visible drops onto anything it meets, fields
and valleys all around look unmistakably like English moor, evoking images of
flocks, of vigilant sheepdogs, of cocky shepherds wearing blue, brown or green
coats.
The dark colored
cows, loyal companions of such a trip, have progressively vanished, leaving an
emptiness outside the vehicle now plunged into a thick, whitish cloud, outside
of which it is only possible to sense the idyllic view, echoing animals talking
and brakes screeching.
The road, that has meanwhile
started its climbing towards Big Sur, has gotten winding and unreliable, squeezed
between the precipice into the water on the west and the craggy mountains on
the east, where yellowish bushes stubbornly hang on to, reminding of canes worn
out by a gusty wind.
A few cars,
enveloping the ridge, have already lost their boldness, proceeding cautious and
watchful, as if fearing any time something mean, something evil.
All around,
meanwhile, it has all become deeply quite. A ray of sun, sudden and unexpected,
seems to be able to break the heavy spell travellers feel like tangled up in,
unsuccesfully: after a few seconds the fog shows up again, thicker and more
obstinate than before.
Every form takes on
unreal shades, pressing the imagination into an extremely dangerous realm: eyes
try to dominate the road, while mind wanders, ranging from childhood memories
to very secret fears. That only a late burst of blue skies can wipe out, by
now.
E.M., Santa Monica