14 - Hitchhikers, Artichokes, and Redwoods

Inspired by a true story. See story, and note, below.

The Giant Artichoke (my ’73 Catalina) was cavernous. Bruce and I kept our belongings and cooler in the trunk, leaving plenty of room in the car for hitchhikers. "Thumbing a ride" was open and common in 1978. I often hitchhiked home to Pittsburgh and back, while I attended the University of Michigan; Bruce and I sometimes hitchhiked together. So we were only too happy to return the favor, when the opportunity presented itself.

 From my 1978 journal:

Drove down Oregon coast and picked up two teenage hitchhikers, Kathy and Debbie. Talked about Buddha, relationships, travel, and drugs. They had crystal earrings and a crystal ball that created rainbow dots all over the car.

Picnicked with them by the ocean. They got us high. They crashed on our shoulders, even Debbie on W’s (Bruce’s) lap. Kathy wasn’t feeling well and we got some tea at Fat Albert’s. (I slept through the California crossing.) Drank wine; had cool conversation in restaurant, Kathy doing most of the talking about philosophy. Weird ideas she had, but she was bright and funny.

Sure, obviously, I was smitten; but soon the charm wore off. Bruce and I decided to gently break with our new friends - who otherwise would have probably ridden across the USA with us. So we made a plan:

W and I were cracking jokes and acting subtly obnoxious. We made up an absurd story about deviating from the coastal drive and visiting my childhood friend Mark Burke in Willits, and we dropped the girls off at the Hwy 1 – 101 junction, took 101 to the first exit, and got back on 1. We saw the girls hitchhiking not 100 yards north of us as we returned to the route.

Alone again, Bruce and I stopped by the ocean for a break:

We scaled down a cliff to read, write and take pictures, go wading, crack jokes, admire gulls and rocks, see the fog roll in, and the tide splashing against the rocks.

Returning to the car, we picked up another hitchhiker, a seemingly normal boatbuilder. We told him about our dream of visiting the Giant Artichoke restaurant. (My friendship with Bruce was primarily based on a mutual love of pistachios and artichokes):

Rapped about salvaging crashed boats. He told us 101 was much quicker to San Jose – we were after the Giant Artichoke. After dropping him off, we drove like mad on the freeway including hours of night driving. Got to the restaurant just after it closed, so we ate crepes at the Magic Pan, thus beginning an intense money-spending spree. Went to the Casa Capri in Santa Clara, 21 bucks for a waterbed, a regular double and a single, and two TVs. Saw Dorothy Rae at the organ, but didn’t stay, crashed.

We finally attained our artichoke nirvana the next day, at the San Jose Giant Artichoke:

Awoke, showered, and artichoked down – deep fried, soup, boiled, marinated, gigantic salad, artichoke cake, and beer.

We were not done “artichoking down” (perhaps a very apt term?). A few days later, we were headed for Castroville, about 100 miles south of San Francisco. (Our adventures in SF saved for the next blog.) Castroville was the ARTICHOKE CAPITOL OF THE WORLD, and also had a Giant Artichoke franchise. Once again, we ordered “the lot:”

We ate, bought a case of marinated artichokes, t-shirts and stickers. Took pictures with the Giant Artichoke sculpture. A Lion’s Club member collecting for White Cane Day took our picture:

Filled with artichokes, we drove on south, saw Dr. Tinkerpaw’s trash castle in Cambria, and picked up yet another hitchhiker:

Acey or “Ace” – an ex-con (for possession). He told us stories about his friends who murdered people, his bad fortune (auto accident, hurting spine, arrests), good luck (teenage strength, winning awards). Said he always traveled with a stiletto or derringer. Admitted manic depression and suicidal thoughts. Often said “I” and “and” and left the word hanging. “I ……” “I ……”.

We then dropped "Ace" off at his Mom's. (True.)

My 2018 experiences, needless to say, were a bit different.

For example, my 1978 journal did not even mention California’s sequoias or giant redwoods. Perhaps I was a bit … distracted? So this time, I made sure to take full advantage. I hiked in Redwoods National Park:

I drove the “Avenue of the Giants,” and encountered one of the three remaining no-longer-ecologically-correct-drive-thru-redwoods:

I hiked in the Big Sur, and once getting back on the road, stopped frequently for photos, and captured a spectacular sunset:

I dined at “Django’s Rough Bar” in Ft. Bragg. Tip: if they call themselves a “Rough Bar,” they’re not.

I actually made it to Willits this time, despite being warned by the waitress at Django’s that the road there was a “death route.” But it wasn’t so bad; curvy but well-marked.

By the way - as I was taking the above photo, per usual, I pulled over, left my car idling, and went into the middle of the road to take a quick shot. But here, a drunk guy ambled up as I was snapping this photo, and asked me for money…or maybe artichokes. I didn’t stick around long enough to find out. I got in my car, and hightailed it south.

One thing I didn’t do this time was actually get to eat in the Giant Artichoke. Oh, I made it to Castroville, all right. But when I arrived at 12:30 AM, all the action was downtown. I parked on Main Street, noting that Castroville was no longer the Artichoke Capital of the World, but:

Must have been a heated City Council debate for that one. Main Street seemed a bit seedy, but I heard faint music. I peeked in Franco's:

But I didn't go in. I was drawn instead to a building with blacked out windows and a small sign that read “Nightclub.” As I drew near, a man came up to me and spoke urgently in Spanish. I told him “No hablo español,” whereupon he asked me in English for a dollar. I declined, as I was out of cash. I was hoping to score a quick nightcap in Nightclub with my Visa card, and then retire for the night.

When I opened the door, I was astounded to find a large venue with well over a hundred people, and a Mexican cowboy band with a sophisticated light show, singing in Spanish, with the crowd passionately singing along.

Before I could wander to the bar to ask for a "Piña colada, por favor, with an extra umbrella," I was immediately accosted by a massive bouncer, who TSA’d me with a metal detecting wand and then felt my artichokes before releasing me. Dazed, I checked out the scene.

I decided against the Visa card plan, and after a few minutes, went outside to use the ATM across the street to get some cash. The same man who asked me for a dollar came up again. Either he thought I found cash inside Nightclub, or figured I was softened up by enough alcohol to change my previous response. Whatever, I decided against having him watch me use the ATM, so I turned him down a second time, and left downtown Castroville.

Now this is where things got weird. (No, it hasn’t gotten there yet.) I drove down to the Motel 6 just up the road, but the office was closed. I was exhausted, and decided to take advantage of their well-lit parking lot (“We’ll leave the light on for ya”) and get some shuteye right there. I locked the car, cracked the window, leaned the seat back, and fell asleep.

But not for long. At 2:30 AM, I bolted awake, hearing loud voices arguing - two guys and a woman, two parking spaces away. I heard a trunk open and a man shout, “Where’s the goddamn (something)?” The woman replied, “I told you, I don’t have it!” More cursing, the trunk slammed.

I slid down as far as I could, no longer tired. Tip: you don't need caffeine when you're scared shitless. When the noise finally receded, I started the car and drove off south. There were no campgrounds in the area, so I pulled onto a deserted dirt road next to an artichoke field and eventually fell asleep again, waking at 5:45 to an eerie sunrise. I pulled away, furtively, as if I had done something wrong (which I more or less did), and went to see if the Giant Artichoke was open for breakfast.

It was not, but I took this photo. 

I was not even thinking to put on my 1978 Giant Artichoke shirt, which I had saved for 40 years and brought with me. I went back to the ATM across from Nightclub and finally got some cash (after which my ATM card mysteriously disappeared, for the rest of the trip). I went to the "Missing Hole" and bought a doughnut and coffee, and headed to the Moss Landing Café for a breakfast of fried artichokes and more coffee.

Now I don’t know if you like artichokes, or not. But I will tell you that fried artichokes for breakfast taste pretty much like any other fried vegetable, except you just woke up and had coffee and a sour cream doughnut and you’re wondering why in the hell you drove across the country for this. 

Next: San Francisco, and my unsuccessful efforts to sleep there.

 *Note on the comic at the top of this blog – in Boulder, Bruce and I met a fellow named Steve Jackson, who was inspired enough by our adventures to create a comic strip about us. Except I came to look like Gene Shalit, and Bruce became Brewster. More about Steve when we get to Boulder.