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| Mission San Carlos |
I finally convinced Stumpy that life can be better lived through drugs. She took her first Ambien ever (1/2) and slept through most of the night. We awoke to another thrilling blue sky day, and by the time we had had our oatmeal and our first game of crib (She won-the Wily Cager), the temperature had reached sixty on its way to a high of seventy-two. After breakfast, we sashayed into town to begin our touring. First, we visited the magnificent Mission San Carlos, which has been lovingly restored and renewed as an active parish. The school is thriving, the grounds are immaculate, and the whole place had a presence of peace that reminded me of the battleground near Shiloh, Mississippi. I had to reconcile many things as I marveled at the architecture. First, it's hard for me to connect these Spanish missionaries with their bloodthirsty brethren, the conquistadors. Second, the opulence of the place bears little resemblance to the vow of poverty the friars supposedly took. Its quite interesting that Pope Paul II chose to pray at the mission in 1987, after which he officiated an outdoor mass not far away, and as he left in the papal helicopter, he had the pilot do a couple of flybys so he could sprinkle the Carmel faithful with holy thoughts. Not only that, but the place is full of priceless art just like much of Catholic antiquity. None of my inbred Catholic harangue makes any difference, and none of it can explain the absolute holiness that enveloped the place. It's part of the great paradox like me complaining about inequity as I travel the country in top of the line comfort. Leave it to a simply awesome Catholic landmark to ruffle the guilty feathers of my current good fortune. After our time in church, we elected to dine (That's how we fortunate ones describe a turkey sandwich) at the 211 Bistro, a place we found when we rode our bicycles down the California coast about ten years ago. We ate there for the Old Lang Zang of it, but it was quite good nonetheless. And yes, the thirty-six dollar tab was just as overpriced as I predicted yesterday, but what the hey- it's only money. We walked our lunch off with a casual stroll on the public beach beside the rhythmic crashing of sea green waves which lapped the shoreline below the stunning homes of a few of the rich and famous. Fortunate as we are, Stumpy and I figured we could afford to buy the real estate signs, but even then we'd need a loan. The half moon bay, bordered on the north by the Pebble Beach golf course, is quite lovely, and locals wearing capris were letting their dogs run free through the surf. Judy managed nearly a mile before she began to tire, which is excellent. I took her back to the trailer so she could nap. (She's like a combat Marine who needs to catch her sleep when she can). Around five, we drove back to town to buy a mini chocolate bundt cake and joined several hundred of our newest friends to watch a glorious sunset. We are truly among the fortunate few (Anybody got five million so we can buy a house?-we're good for it over time. Oh, and we'll need someone else's nest egg so we can pay the taxes). I won't hold my breath on that request, but I will tell you that it's unnecessary anyway because as far as we're concerned, life is good especially today.
Carved wooden image of our Lord.
Two of about fifty graves beside the church.
Reports are that many indigenous people are interred below the church itself.
All four walls had cases of restored vestments.
Our Lady of Bethlehem, patron saint of sailors, carved in wood, crowned in silver, and dressed in a cloak of speckled gold.
The front half of the sanctuary. The back is again this long.
The casket of the founding father.
A really old cactus bordering the inside courtyard between the basilica and the school.
The library.
The kitchen table.
The formal living room.
Stumpy.
Stumpy's lunch: a chicken baconne served with sweet potato soup flavored with coconut milk.
Two beautiful sights: Stumpy and the half-moon bay of Carmel.
Just before sunset, the clouds marching toward the light.
Like Robert Frost says, "...way leads onto way." Maybe we'll get back to Carmel another day.
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