DNA ON THE LOOSE in BEVERLY HILLS

SPAGO

I had fond memories of Spago. One spring afternoon, long ago,the Hollywood Reporter interviewed me in the Spago garden. They called me “A statuesque, willowy blond…who moves like a ballet dancer and sings like an angel”… They wrote, “Phoebe Legere is destined to be a superstar.”

Now, I limped into Spago wearing the "mummy approved" grey wool turtleneck dress. I looked like a quahog with bunions. Mummy was appalled by the bad paintings, creepy furniture and weird place settings. The worst of it was that every single item on the menu had garlic. Mummy is allergic to garlic and I cannot eat tomatoes. We had come to the worst possible restaurant in the world.

While we waited for a special order Red Snapper to appear, Mummy noticed that the man next to her was eating Chocolate Souffle. She turned her head slightly to the left, and asked, matter of factly,

“How’s that soufflé”

The stranger nodded his head and smiled.

The man was a strikingly handsome.. Very trim, very tan, about sixty.

I realized that he spoke only French.

The man had not understood a word of our conversation about how repulsive Spago is.

Spago turns out to be one of his favorite restaurants.

We talked. In French. Pierre lives in Hawaii and Carcassone. He was extremely well mannered, raffinee et gentile-a happy go lucky, slightly over ripe dreamboat of the best kind.

Pierre was so wonderful I felt like I was being dropped from a great height. I was in free fall – weightless, ecstatic, totally in love. I thought he must be a Duke or a Count. I said,

“Do you wear a suit of armor?”

He said,

“My ancestors did.”

I googled him and found out his métier:

He is a masseur.

Actually, I think I need a massage more than I need a Duke. A foot massage would be awesome.



Mr. Lee brought us home. We were very tired after all the stars, limousines, luxury stores and handsome men.

WHALES, SEALS, MOUNTAIN LIONS, BLADDER INFECTION

The next day we woke up at 4 and drove to San Francisco.
I had a vision of Mummy by the Pacific and I was going see it through.

It was 10 hours of hard road. My bladder infection was better, but the Freeway still gave me “The Fear.” I didn’t know where I was going, I didn’t know where we would sleep, and at least 25 people had told me “It’s too far, you can’t drive it.”

Soon we turned off the Freeway onto Rt. 101 We passed through Santa Barbra.

“Mummy, This is where the Reagans live.”

“I couldn’t stand her.”

We kept driving.

We saw ranches, with long horn cattle, old fences and signs. It was like being in a cowboy movie. The real Wild West! I saw an exit for the Lazy J Ranch. I took the exit. I went to the bathroom by the side of the car, in the sage brush. I told Mummy to keep a sharp eye out for rattlesnakes and Pumas. She corrected my pronunciation. “Poo-ma” Indeed.

After going to the bathroom, I was relieved. I felt like a different person. I was focused. We kept driving. Using Mike’s directions I found Rt. 1. We saw the Hearst Castle, but it looked like a tourist trap. They wanted 15 bucks! The nerve. Mummy said,

“Why did Hearst want to live here in the middle of nowhere? “

“Wasn’t it something to do with Rosebud?”


We kept driving The Pacific was on our left. It was gorgeous. We started to see lookout places to park. We stopped. There was a man in khakis staring out at the sea. He had that hungry, resolute look of a marine biology addict. I said,

“Are you a naturalist?”

He said,

“I am counting seals.”

I said,

“Where are they?”

He said,

“There’s one and there’s one and there’s one by the rock.”

They looked like black men standing in the water.

A friendly young human took our picture.

We drove on. I was terribly thirsty. We stopped to get water at the Whalewatch Café and Country store.

There was a man with a beard and two teeth standing on the porch. He was looking out at the Pacific.

He said,

“There’s another one.”

I said,

“Huh?

The man kept gazing out at the Pacific.

“Do you see the whale”

I looked.

“Where?”

He said,

“Look! Like a puff of smoke. That’s the spout. They are playing. A mother with her baby.”

I looked.

I saw the whale.


We got back in the car. We kept driving. We were on the intensely serpentine one lane cliff drive -the fabled "17 mile ride. "

The 17 mile ride on RT. 1 is the reason people tried to warn me away from the trip. It was like a rollercoaster on the moon. In a Ford Focus. I was clutching the steering wheel. The Focus was gripping pretty well, but it’s all about brakes -

A fabulous death to be sure, but we had reservations at the Ritz!

We drove on.

NEPENTHE
We stopped for lunch at Nepenthe – the only nice place to eat for 100 miles. We climbed three flights of stairs to the open air restaurant. It is 800 feet about the Pacific and you can see for 40 miles: a magnificent view of Big Sur.

In Greek, Nepenthe means "isle of no care," a place to find surcease from sorrow." It also has a bathrooms and food.


There were about 5 Hells Angels waiting in line, along with Grand Hippies, Hippies, and Grandchildren of Hippies. I told the host that my mother needed food and a place to sit down. The "Host" told me we would have to wait 45 minutes for a table. I told them my mother needed a place to sit down right away. [She is so beautiful that people are still jealous of her, even though she is 2000 years old.]

I explained to the Hells Angels about my mother[very old, diabetes,last trip]. The Hells Angels got it.

Then gave a short sermon to the "Host" on the subject of respect to elders

Nepenthe was the only place on the trip where I encountered someone who didn't "get it."

I seated her myself. After she was seated and had some tea she felt better.


We shopped in the Phoenix gift store and saw a Jeweled Green Bed Canopy from India. It would have been perfect for Auntie- but how could we carry it on the plane? I regret that I didn’t ask them to ship it- but I didn’t think of that. All I could think of was “save money” “keep going” “don’t get killed”

We were exhausted. The sun was going down.

We drove on. My plan was to stop in Santa Cruz, where cousin Anne Hemenway went to school, but Mummy wanted to try for San Francisco.

“In San Francisco I will be warm.”

VALLEY SURPRISE

I had been “Twittering” about our trip and Dr. Michael Moon, of California State University told me I should go over Rt. 17 to cut back to Rt 101. and that would take me up to San Francisco.

Rt.17 was not part of the original game plan. Christmas Eve, after 15 Egg Nogs, my brother in law Mike formulated a route for me that would get us from San Fran to LA in 9 hours. Mike laid out a good route, but I saw a sign for Rt. 17 and impulsively I took it.

Mummy knew I was dead tired. It was dark and I didn’t know anything about Rt. 17 except that somebody named @mymoon DM’d me on Twitter and said it was a possible route to San Francisco. Dr. Michael Moon didn’t tell me it was one of the deadliest roads in America. It’s like driving the devil’s tail.


Rt. 17 is a tortuous, twisting nightmare with no shoulder, no exit, no houses…It’s nothing but a black streak through mountains, with Silicon millionaires gunning their Lambos 90 miles an hour. It was drivetime and everybody was hungry. No shoulder, no turn off. I needed to go to the bathroom.



Quoting from Wikipedia.

“Highway 17's combination of narrow shoulders, dense traffic, sharp turns, blind curves, wandering fauna such as deer and mountain lions, and sudden changes in traffic speeds have led to driving conditions that result in a number of accidents and fatalities, leading to the reputation of Highway 17 as one of the most dangerous highways in the state. In the winter months, because Highway 17 crosses a high precipitation area in the Santa Cruz Mountains, the roadway can become very slippery from rain or snow, making the road worse. Some sections of 17 have become so notoriously dangerous that they have attained nicknames among the locals. (For example, Northbound 17 after Summit Road with its sharp turns and steep slope has been deemed "Valley Surprise" for the fact that many unfamiliar drivers hit the median on their way to the Santa Clara Valley.)


When we pulled into Los Gatos, it was 6 PM and pitch black. I had been driving for 11 hours with a one hour break for lunch. I needed to go to the bathroom and I was completely, utterly, heartbreakingly lost.

I saw what I though might be a hotel. I ran faster than Hussein Bolt into the hotel, knocking a bride and her flower girl down as I sprinted to the desk of what seemed to be called the “Tollhouse Hotel”.

“Do you have a room?”

“You’ll have to wait your turn. I’m taking care of somebody else.”

“Mother. Car. Now.”

“Yes we have a room.”

I Husseined it back to Mummy. We negotiated the price of the room down 100 dollars, checked in and ate a Toll House cookie.

Mummy fell asleep immediately. As you all know I don’t have TV and I found myself alone with the joy clicker. Within minutes I located my people: The Discovery Channel.

I watched a program about a tribe that lives in the Amazon. Both men and women pierce their lower lip and insert a bone in the slit. It looks like an ivory beard. They look hot when they are young, before the piercings stretch, but isn’t that always the way.

Then I watched a show about some people in New Guinea. The chief of the tribe took a new wife, a 16 year old, who killed him and ran away with her young lover. The Chief’s old, decrepit wife, in her mid twenties, was distraught. Her children would starve without a man. She cut off her finger and wears it around her neck as a charm.

Good luck dollface.

I looked over at the phonebook. We were in Silicon Valley- land of the super computer. I love f*ckn computers. If you don't believe me just look at my credit card statements for the last 15 years.
I was happy to be alive and we were within striking distance of San Francisco.