Deb Trotter, Cowboy's Sweetheart

I was always intrigued by that song, "California Girls."

I never
really understood the whole surfing thing (surfing in the mountains of
North Carolina? I don't think so!.)  But I couldn't get that image of
those "California Girls" out of my head.

Back in the 60's The Beach Boys (LOVE!) made California Girls a part of the American Culture. Beautiful girls – with shiny hair and tanned, bikini clad bodies glistening in the sun seemed everyone's idea of perfect.

Well,
I am here to tell you, there really is something about California
Girls. My eyes – AND John's (wait til you hear!) – have been opened.

Our trip to California last week was full of California Girl experiences.

Take
Sonoma, for example. Beautiful country. Beautiful girls. One in
particular that I (or should I say, John) will never forget.

We randomly chose a wine tasting at the Landmark Winery. 

And that is where John had his first "California Girl" encounter.

(Actually
she is a Russian Girl, turned "California Girl" – with some name like,
"Natalia" or "Nataliaova" – who could remember her name when she looks
like this?)

John looks a bit smug, don't you think? I wonder why ….

One
hour & a half later – we had reached "wine snob" status, and
Naratova – er, Nataliova Sherzhova Belova Shostakova (whatever) – this
beautiful blond behind the bar with that mysterious, sexy accent – had
convinced "us" to become a member of their "wine club." We'll get a
shipment of 4 bottles of a lovely, reserve Chardonnay this year.

As we exited the room, she smiled at John, winked at him, and said, "Welcome to the Landmark Family!"

Need I say more?

Actually, YES. I DO need to say more. SO …….

The next day in
San Francisco we (once again randomly) chose a restaurant for lunch. A
Middle-Eastern inspired place by the name of Kan Zaman. There were pretty young ladies out front to entice passers by.

Why not, right?

I had NOT planned on the Belly Dancer! (And neither had John.)

Actually,
I didn't take this photograph. It's on Kan Zaman's website. (Our belly
dancer was younger, and had these intriguing rose tattoos all over her
tummy and back. Perhaps a bit less skilled than most, but doing a
pretty good job just the same). Apparently they are famous for their
night time belly dancing shows, as well as their Hookahs. I thought
perhaps "Hookah" referred to some type of special recipe or middle
eastern wine. Or, if you are from New Jersey, it could be a "Hooker."
WRONG. A Hookah is one of those big water-filtered pipes with blended,
flavored tobaccos.

Kan Zaman is especially famous for their Hookahs flavored with apple, pomegranate, melon and vanilla.

And
before you ask – NO, we did not indulge in a Hookah. John was too busy
pretending not to see the belly dancer – which, by the way, is rather
difficult. She worked the room pretty darned well, and when she
returned to our table, she wouldn't leave. She keep coming up to John
while she was doing that belly-roll-thing. I love seeing women do a
belly roll. Especially since I CAN'T do one. I shudder at the thought
of MY belly doing anything other than hiding behind a nice, comfy
pashmina or a western fringed cowgirl jacket.

Anyway, when the
belly roll did not produce a tip, she decided to do the butt wiggle.
You know, where the only thing that moves is the area between your
buttocks and your waist, and those little coins on the skirt sound like
Christmas? What this little Belly Dancer wanted was for John to "tuck"
some bills into her skirt. But all he could do was slink down, stare at
the table, and finally mutter, "Very good."

Very Good?

Bwa Ha Ha Ha Ha HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Truly, every wife should have the pleasure of watching her husband squirm with embarrassment.

He
finally tipped her a buck. But he held the money in his hand -
WAAAAAAAAAY up high in the air. That's man-speak for, "Here. Take it.
And get the hell out of here."

Of course, it could have been different if he was having lunch with one of the guys. But I like to think not

OK. After telling you just a few of our "California Girls" encounters, allow me to add this … please do not get the idea that I think all California Girls are like Nataliyahova (I WISH I could remember her exact name) or Little Miss Belly Dancer (work it, girl!). I have some really good friends in California. Mostly artists. They are beautiful, smart, fun, talented women. Each with her own personal style. When I see pictures of them – or even have the pleasure of talking to & seeing them, LIVE, via my Mac's iChat, right there on my computer screen – I am taken by their charm. Their filmy cotton dresses, handmade aprons, and roses. Or their short, form fitting skirts and funky shoes.

California is a different world – especially when you live in the Wild Wild West. I truly love the whole California Girl thing, but I'll stick to my jeans, plain white shirts, cowgirl boots & hat, and turquoise jewelry.

But I think John might like it if I had a Russian accent and looked more like Natailazerovakova.

Happy Trails!

Posted in Art and Life, Blogs for Artists, Food and Drink, Photography, Travel | 2 Comments »

 

Fog is an odd thing.

Sometimes it frightens me. Sometimes it comforts me.

I love the forboding symbolism of fog, especially in books and movies.

Heathcliff on the moors in Wuthering Heights. Scarlett O'Hara running through a hazy dream, frantically searching. Stephen King's small town in Maine, engulfed by "The Mist," in a gruesome world changed by unspeakable horrors.

And then there was Alfred Hitchcock's movie, "The Birds."

We were there last week, John and I. In Bodega Bay, on the northern coast of California.

There really is a Sandpiper Restaurant. There really are birds. Everywhere. And there really is fog. Like Hitchcock's star, Tippi Hedren. Aloof. Sensuous. Cool. Mysterious.

There really is fog on the marshes. Covering the houses on the windswept hills. Creeping through the streets. And weaving in and out between the silhouettes of the birds.

 

On the southern coast of Big Sur the fog met us again. It would seem somehow inappropriate to me if there were no fog there.

Finally, in San Francisco, we came to know the true nature of fog.

You know, if you have been there, what I mean.

Fog in San Francisco is quite magical.

Like the fog of London. Or the highlands hills in the mountains of North Carolina. The ivy covered stone walled roads of Ireland. The fishing towns of the New England coast.

You can always see the fog coming. Ever so softly.

As Robert Frost would say, "It comes on little cat feet."

But in San Francisco, it comes in a peculiar way. It winds and twists -  and somehow changes the whole city into two different places.

It belongs.

Changing the color of the buildings. The sky. The sea.

The bright pinks. The sad blues. The clear turquoises? Gone.

Replaced by a vague dreamland.

Perhaps you aren't really there at all.

Perhaps you are in another time.

And you like who you are.

San Francisco is a place where you are forced to find yourself.

I've been in a kind of fog myself this summer.

Lost in the mist of life, both good and bad.

Wonderful discoveries. Artistic challenges. The obligation and excitement of success.

One day, pride. The next, guilt.

One week laughter. The joys of being wife, mother, daughter, friend, artist.

The next week, a few tears. Some are mysterious tears that trickle down for no good reason. And some have been waiting for my birthday – to tell me that my next birtday will be a mile stone. 

And so the fog comes. And it goes.

And I am ready to put on my cowgirl boots and mosey on into it in my own way. For the fog of the West leads to my own special dream. And I welcome its mystery, its memory, and its promise.

Welcome, fog! And whether you choose to lift or not, I am ready.

Tags: Artist, Bodega Bay, Cowgirl, Deb Trotter, Dreams, Fog, San Francisco, The Birds
Posted in Art and Life, Blogs for Artists, Books, Photography, Travel | 4 Comments »